Castle Rouge

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  “My dear friends,” she said, slowly becoming herself again, “Pink is right. This is no social call. We come fresh from Paris, where the populace would be terrified by the rampages of Jack the Ripper-like murders, did they know of them. Godfrey has apparently been lured from Prague to a destination unknown, and this disappearance seems connected in some mysterious way to the Paris events. What I need is whatever aid I ask for, which I won’t know until the need is immediate and dire.”

  The royal faces had grown sober as her words mounted up. Clotilde turned a shocked and beseeching face to her husband halfway through the narrative.

  He patted her hand that rested on his huge forearm like a bear reassuring a child, but he never looked at her. His eyes were only for Irene, which is a powerful testimony to her natural presence even when rattled, and I must say that she rattled rarely. And it testifies to her beauty, I suppose. One can never underestimate the potency of that among certain impressionable men. As Paul Bunyan and I like to say, “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.” And Paul Bunyan ought to know.

  “You shall have whatever you wish,” the current Paul Bunyan in our presence promised.

  I was uncertain which woman he was placating the more, Clotilde or Irene. Perhaps both. Men prefer any concessions they have to make to women to be doubly advantageous.

  There was something unspoken in the room, among the three of them, that I would have given my best sterling silver garters to understand.

  Unfortunately, I could have bent down to take off these scandalous items in full public view and have thrown them down on the marble floor like dice amidst these three at this moment, and no one would have paid me the slightest attention.

  “The Rothschilds,” Irene began, her voice sounding hoarse and unused. She cleared her throat and her voice came clear as the cathedral bell when she spoke again. “Of course the Rothschilds will do all they can to assist me, since Godfrey was looking into matters pertaining to their property.”

  “In Bohemia?” the King was quick to ask.

  “No. In Transylvania.”

  The King nodded, mollified. Apparently he expected to be made aware of the Rothschild actions in his land. The Queen clutched his arm tighter.

  “Transylvania! That is such a wild and backward land,” she complained, “overrun by Gypsies and wolves and superstitious peasants. There is no great city there, like Prague, only crumbling walled castles and hamlets of ignorant peasants. Whatever would the Rothschilds want with property in that Godforsaken land? Whyever would someone as civilized as Godfrey go there?”

  “Such backwaters, my dear,” said the King, “are where vast fortunes are to be made swiftly and without interference. Look at the American wilderness.”

  “I do not wish to,” Clotilde answered. “This is a wild enough part of Europe for my taste. Prague is the last civilized city before the uncivil East unrolls its not-so-magic carpet and controls all the wild wastes of the world.”

  Irene answered before I could rise to my country’s defense. “Your Highness’s Viking forebears were no doubt a bit superstitious and wild, to hear tell. Today’s Scandanavians are known for exporting delicate fairy stories and pastries, but their history was raw and bloody, like that of any nation in the making.”

  “But we did all that during the Dark Ages!” For such a colorless woman she was true-blue patriotic. “You Americans are still shaping the borders of your land, often by conquest. I only remark that Translyvania is a place no one of refinement or culture would care to visit.”

  “I doubt we could argue with you,” Irene answered with a smile, “but since a person of refinement and culture I value very highly is likely there, perhaps not by his own will at this point, there I will go, once I have satisfied myself that no clues to his whereabouts remain in Prague.”

  “Of course you must go whither your husband goeth,” Clotilde replied with what I consider truly simpering and annoying docility.

  Not that I didn’t share her sentiments that anywhere a husband went a wife could and should go, and vice versa. Only there was no need to be submissive about it.

  “I can provide escort,” the King said.

  Irene bowed her head. “That is very generous and may be necessary, but first I need to explore Prague, and particularly this case that one of Godfrey’s letters mentioned. A young woman was found dead in a way that revived rumors of the Golem.”

  “Oh, not that again!” The King’s ruddy face grew as red as Old King Cole’s. Though he was a young man, barely past thirty, and sturdily made, I could see him becoming quite fat and tyrannical in his later years, rather like Bertie.

  “The Golem is myth!” he went on. “Yet one that does much harm, to Bohemia and the Rothschild interests for that matter. I imagine you will be meeting with representatives of those interests. There was some such meddling during your last visit to my hapless land.”

  “Your Majesty is not suggesting that I am an agent of the Rothschilds—?”

  “No, but you know who is. Damn it, Irene! If Godfrey has gotten himself into some mess because of those banking politicians—”

  “Godfrey is but a barrister, Willie, you know that. And who got Bohemia into a mess last time, if not rescued by those banking politicians and their…assistants?”

  My eyes caught Clotilde’s. Suddenly the King and Irene were talking like old friends, or enemies or…hmmm.

  Clotilde remained clinging to his arm like a sack of Paris silks by Worth, but her pale blue eyes took my measure as a disinterested party. She shrugged ever so slightly, for my eyes only, as if to say we supporting players must keep our own counsel, and our eyes and ears open, while the lead actors hold the stage, but afterward…surely there would be time for a French scene or two between she and I….

  Of course I resolved to cut her out from the herd and have a nose-to-nose with her as soon as possible.

  “You will stay for tea?” the King inquired abruptly. “I will send for the Rothschild representative so you may consult with him here, away from prying eyes in the town. And there are some paintings I have acquired since your last visit, that I should like your opinion of.”

  I had the sense of a spat diverted into a social occasion.

  I was impressed. I was not on spatting terms with any royal persons…that I know of. Yet. But I am young.

  20.

  Of Corsetry and Atrocity

  They were real instruments of torture; they prevented me from breathing, and dug deep holes into my softer parts on every side.

  —A VICTORIAN LADY

  The clothes they have left for me are entirely improper.

  “At least they are clean, as I insisted,” Godfrey said, handing them over with the awkwardness of a good man confounded.

  I find it most bitter that he was abducted with his luggage intact and can remain a gentleman even in durance vile while I have been stripped of every outer vestige and left only my inmost self.

  It is just my ill luck, I understand, but I cannot reconcile it.

  Then I think. Once, when I was young and foolish, and indeed I once was, I had cherished hopes of a sentimental alliance with an ungainly young curate in my father’s parish. I had almost forgotten his name but now I have much time for reflection and the memory returns to me like a favorite book that opens to a signed flyleaf in a familiar hand: Jasper Higgenbottom. He went to be a missionary in darkest Africa, which was entirely appropriate, given the unfortunate elephantine appearance of his ears. But he sang quite well. I had supposed I might perhaps marry and accompany him.

  If I had…I should be poor and holy and wear whatever cast-offs were available to me.

  So…

  I will pretend I am in darkest Africa, although I will not pretend that I am wed to Jasper Higgenbottom. I have outgrown such ambitions. If I were to pretend I were wed to anyone nowadays, it would be…well, I would not so pretend. A woman of my age, past thirty, does not pretend. She accepts.

  So I accept these clothes, tha
t no doubt Godfrey has humbled himself in ways I cannot comprehend to obtain for me. My eyes blur with sadness. Godfrey’s every thought is for my comfort, and by God’s grace I shall be comforted. No woman could have a doughtier champion, and he himself in worrisome captivity! Taken first, and for no more reason than I. For no more known reason than I. I find my jaw setting in a most uncomfortable way.

  Is it possible that I am angry?

  Anger is a cardinal sin, but I think in this instance that it is justified.

  I shake out the garments, more puzzled than before.

  There are several cotton petticoats and a skirt of many yards of fabric, but oddly short. There is a shirt, or blouse, of coarse linen, with sleeves full enough for an acolyte on Easter Sunday. And there is a laced buskin of sorts, like a truncated corset.

  The boots are the oddest part of the ensemble. They are low-heeled, of red-dyed leather embroidered fancifully all over the leggings. I am enough a maker of fancy-work to admire the skill that has decorated their gaudy surface.

  The stockings are striped red and green. Oh, dear. And will at least not be seen.

  Of course there are no civilized undergarments. I regret my Belgian laces sacrificed to the fire, but they were ruined beyond redemption.

  I resolve to think no more on my unremembered journey here.

  In less than an hour, I am finally attired in something more than a nightdress.

  The linen and cotton scratch my skin. I had not realized that fine lawn and silk could be so pleasing. The blouse has no decent collar, but a drawstring neckline, like a shift. I pull the strings taut within an inch of their lives, but still cannot cover my throat. And the bodice…

  Godfrey knocks at the door, and I must open it.

  I step behind the heavy wood to let him enter my quarters. Far behind it.

  He bends to gaze at my incredibly wide but short skirts, which plainly reveal every serpentine embroidery on my boots up to almost my…knees. Of course I am covered by the leather.

  “Boots that Irene would envy,” he pronounces.

  I am strangely relieved.

  “Indeed. She is fond of boots?”

  “She is fond of all apparel,” he says with a grin, “but boots particularly.”

  “Now that is something we have not discussed.”

  “Are you going to come out from behind that door?”

  “I don’t know, Godfrey, quite honestly. No disrespect to the garb you obtained, but it is rather…odd.”

  “It is worn by the Gypsy women who service the castle.”

  “Gypsies! No wonder. I cannot come out.”

  “Why not?”

  “The, um, corset laces. I cannot reach behind to tighten them. I realize that you have performed this service for Irene in the role of husband, but I cannot ask you to perform such an intimate service for myself, who am not even a relation, so I shall have to remain behind the door.”

  Godfrey takes a long step back and appears to think. He covers his mouth with his hand, at least, and looks most cogitative.

  “You are right, Nell,” he says finally. “I cannot help you.”

  Despite myself, my spirits sink. It is my impression that Godfrey can always help anyone with anything, even Irene when she is being her most difficult, which a performing artist can indeed be, especially when she has lost her performing art.

  “I can point out,” he adds, “a purely objective observation. The women about the place do their own laces.”

  “They must have arms as long as an ape, for I have tried for almost an hour!”

  “You may be right about the length of their arms,” he says, his hand over his mouth again, as if he were expecting a cough or perhaps concealing a smile. “But they manage it because the, er, corset actually laces at the front, not at the rear.”

  I take a long moment to reconsider. “Oh. Then perhaps I can come out from behind the door, after all. If you would be so kind as to step into the hall for a moment—?”

  He speedily obliges.

  I wrestle with the annoying corset and finally draw the strings into a droopy bow that wilts at the front of my waist.

  The mirror tells me that this is not much better than before. Much as Irene and her friend Sarah Bernhardt rejoice in going corsetless, I cannot help but feel undressed though dressed, a most bizarre state.

  However, my sole witness is only Godfrey, and he of all people can understand the lengths to which I am forced to go.

  I invite him back in.

  “I must say, Nell, that is a rather charming ensemble. I recall an operetta or two that Irene appeared in during her apprenticeship days. Did she not wear some such garb?”

  “Yes, but she was portraying a peasant!”

  “That might be just the disguise we need to escape this castle.”

  “Disguise? Escape? You have a plan?”

  Godfrey pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his fine gray eyes.

  “My dear Nell, I have thought of nothing else since I found myself abducted to this remote place. I have concluded that climbing free is not possible. Therefore, we may have to escape by subterfuge. Since the Gypsies are the only souls to routinely visit this godforsaken spot, you have just the outfit to make your way unnoticed out of here.”

  “Not you?”

  He looks as uncomfortable as I had felt a bit before. “Not I. I had hoped to climb my way out some moonlit night, but—”

  “But?”

  Godfrey goes to the open shutters and I follow.

  We looked down together, down on a great green plunge of forest and valley, the gray walls of the castle like some frozen, dirty waterfall barely visible beneath us.

  “I had perceived a route by which I could at least visit chambers on the lower level,” Godfrey says. “See that gutter? And the fenestration running horizontally from it? Then the crack in the stones on an angle, and the window far below? I think I might make my way there.”

  I gaze upon the projected route with horror. I see the slight stepping stones he indicates, but can also see that every step along the way is a possible plunge to instant death far below.

  “It is too dangerous.”

  “So may be staying put.”

  “You really meant to take this path?”

  “Yes. Before you came.”

  “Irene would be furious.”

  Godfrey smiles. “She is good at being furious but she is not here.”

  “I am!”

  “I know. And thus I have renounced the route.”

  I look down again, for a long time. I do not like to think that my presence would hamper Godfrey’s efforts to escape. If there is a choice between which of us must return safe and sound to Irene…it is he. I know that the steel bonds of friendship must bow to the unknown (on my part) steel-and-satin bonds of love.

  So. Would I serve Irene best by allowing my female weakness to keep Godfrey from risking himself to obtain freedom…or by allowing him the freedom to risk himself on his own account, and hers?

  It is a more puzzling choice than the proper way to don a Gypsy corset.

  I realize I cannot decide on the spot.

  I am saved by a knock on the connecting door. Instead of Godfrey, I find a sullen Gypsy delivering dinner.

  It is a manservant, and he winks at me when he leaves.

  Or is it my short skirts and embroidered boots?

  Or my inside-out corset?

  I would never have had to contemplate such mysteries had I gone to Africa as the missionary bride of Jasper Higgenbottom.

  Godfrey and I shared our first dinner in the castle.

  He pulled—I pushed, but not very much—the round table from the center of the room to the window, then dragged two of the heavy wooden chairs over.

  They are carved, high-backed affairs, fit for bishops to sit in. The furnishings of the place smell of mildew and wood rot and dust.

  A battered brass tray held our food, a strange mix of peasant fare and more extravagant bounty.

/>   Yet more thick soup and bread, cheese, beets, some sort of meat stew. And a bottle of red wine that Godfrey assured me was a very fine vintage.

  Since no water was served, I had no choice but to drink some wine in the tall metal chalices studded with bizarre stones.

  Given the princely chair and the drinking material, I felt rather like a Papist prelate.

  Beyond the window, the sky underwent the subtle changes of day becoming dusk becoming twilight. As the setting sun tinted the view rose-red, birds called and wheeled past in the distance like dark embers whirling up a chimney.

  Had our circumstances not been so dreadful, it would have been a rather pleasant repast. There was even some kind of heavily fruited cake for dessert.

  “You look like the heroine of an operetta, Nell,” Godfrey commented in the mellow tone of one who has eaten and drunk well. “Irene would be most taken with your ensemble. I believe she would order a matching one.”

  “Indeed, she relishes dressing me up like a doll in the kind of clothing that is least natural to me. Well, she need only be kidnapped by Gypsies, apparently, and this ludicrous outfit would be hers.”

  “I doubt the Gypsies are our kidnappers. They are mere attendants.”

  “It is not every abductor who has a castle for a—what is that word that Pink used once, so American—a hideout.”

  “You must tell me more of this ‘Pink’ person that Irene took under her wing in Paris.”

  “I do not think that I must, Godfrey, but I will. Her real name is Elizabeth, a solid, old-fashioned name that might give one a confidence about its possessor that is entirely misplaced. She is utterly American and most forward for a girl in her twenties who should know better and besides that she is, well, no better than she should be.”

  He frowned to consider my words while turning the chased silver goblet in the dying light to watch the sunset tinge the pale stones bloody.

  “Can you not be a trifle more blunt, Nell?”

  “We encountered her in a maison de rendezvous! She may have found the bodies of two slain harlots, but she was no different from them, save that she was still alive.”