“Hittin’ past a Snub. Fer shame, lady.”
While she balanced there, a whistle shrilled through the night. “Coppers,” said Emmy. She back-flipped off the railing to the grass below, dodged behind a shrub, and was lost to view. Her voice floated back. “Uptown at the dueling place, that’s yer story.” Her footsteps clattered away, dying faster than Maddie would have thought possible.
Hiram rushed across the pavement. She waved to him from the bandstand and gave a chirp to summon TD. An owl’s twa-too answered her. The feathered predator was circling the tree, its great eyes fixed on one small section. TD? Maddie ran, her parasol waving overhead. The owl veered off with a disappointed snapping of its dangerous beak. The little clockwork sparrow hopped from a twig down to her hat. She touched his beak with one finger and turned to Hiram.
“Did you see a police patrol?”
“Nope. Heard none either. Likely that slippery girl had a lookout primed to distract you so she could get away. She tell you what she wants with you?”
“She sent me back to the dueling academy.” Maddie held up her parasol, feeling along the spokes for damage. A couple of small tears marred the fabric, but the steel tines had maintained their tension. She tightened the weighted tip and tucked the implement under her arm. “Let’s go home. You can show me again how to pick locks.”
Chapter Three
AT MID-MORNING, Maddie stood once more by the wrought-iron railing, gazing up at Madame Lavinia’s Parasol Academy. Twenty-three hours ago she had arrived here in quest of a story, and found only a rich girl longing for the minor adventure of a parasol duel. Yet Emmy Gat had sent her here a second time. Perhaps, when she penetrated to the functional rooms of the establishment, she would spot some anomaly. If not, she would enjoy a brief interlude of exercise with Miss Gauge before retreating to Mrs. Darling’s boarding house to plot her autumn travels. Should she winter in Egypt again? What could she investigate that would be remotely interesting after the adventures of last Spring? Still a quarter-hour early, she entered the marbled foyer and presented her guest card.
“Sign here, please.” The man slid a big book toward her and tapped a bell. “A porter will attend to your requirements.”
Maddie had barely time to glimpse “Flexing Chamber” written two lines up beside “E. Gauge” before the porter arrived. A small, brown-clad woman with precise posture, she led Maddie to a Robing Room, assessed her build, and brought her a blue cotton exercise outfit: bloomers, a loosely-belted tunic, a hair kerchief, and stockings striped with white. Brown, soft boots appeared next. Maddie changed quickly and hurried through the door marked “Facilities,” finding herself in a long corridor tiled in blue, brown, and white. Girls and women moved along it, oddly anonymous in identical practice garb. Some faces looked familiar, in the way of strangers everywhere, but none looked like Miss Gauge. How would Maddie recognize the young woman without seeing her gleaming topaz curls?
Double doors off both walls held nameplates: Gymnasium A and B, Indoor and Outdoor Sports Courts, Aquaticum, Solarium, and Simulacrum. This was not merely a parasol academy but a fully functioning Ladies’ Athletics club, the equal of any such in London or Paris. Smaller rooms labelled Dance (A through D) finished off the side walls. From behind the various doors came thuds, exclamations, orders, and occasional snatches of music. Accessed through the end wall was the Flexing Chamber. This room, Maddie learned on stepping inside, was equipped with padded floors, climbing walls, hanging rings, and a wide variety of free-standing gymnastics aids.
It was also full. Women were vaulting in turn over a triple line of padded horses. High above, a tiny woman whirled gracefully up, down, and around two long streamers of silk, her yellow hair dazzling in the sunlight that streamed through windows near the ceiling. Beneath her, two girls walked on their hands on a balance beam, wearing boxing gloves on their feet with which they were attempting to knock each other off. Maddie made a mental note to try that sport for herself one day, and looked around for Miss Gauge. She soon realized that, in the clusters of identically-clad women, Miss Gauge had a better chance of finding her, the stranger. Accordingly, she occupied an open patch of floor by one wall and eased into the stretching routine taught her by Madame Taxus-Hemlock.
She was upside down, with one foot tucked into the wall ladder while the other stretched toward the opposite wall, when something glinted in a sunbeam high above. A slender girl swung on the highest set of rings. The light played with a curl of topaz hair that had escaped from her blue kerchief. Could that be Miss Gauge? The girl swung her legs upward and straightened her arms, holding herself upside down in a near-perfect replica of Maddie’s position on the wall ladder. A twist of her torso sent the rings looping around each other, with the girl twirling between like an inverted music-box dancer.
At the apex of their winding they unwound, spinning her so fast her blue uniform skirts whirled out sideways. She flipped out from the coiling ropes, caught the next set of rings, swooped, and launched herself through the air. Capturing the uppermost of a set of uneven parallel bars, she executed several half and full turns before dismounting, landing two-footed on the floor-mat with a barely audible thump. She walked over to Maddie’s inverted form and held down a hand.
“Good morning, Miss Hatter. I am so pleased you could come.”
Clearly, when out of the constricting garments most young ladies wore in public, Miss Gauge was no shrinking violet. She might prove a less timid duelist than Maddie expected.
Soon they stood in Gymnasium A, amid several sparring pairs. The roped-off dueling rings Maddie had seen from the gallery yesterday were matched by another pair at the far end. Both sets were empty, and only two girls were engaged in activity that approached an actual duel. As this consisted of standing facing each other with feet planted while slowly moving through the Brandenburg Variation figures, it was clear to see why they had not bothered moving into a ring. At that speed, there was plenty of time for any passerby to avoid their parasols. Choosing a spot well beyond them, she stationed herself at a safe distance from Emmeline and raised her parasol to the salute.
Miss Gauge proved competent in the Brandenburg dueling style, but so slow and cautious Maddie was almost ashamed of beating her repeatedly. After a few bouts, she suggested showing her new friend some regional dueling moves from Europe: refined Venetian Formal, graceful Parisian Spring, and precision Hanoverian.
“Note the exact ninety degree angle of the parasol to the floor in this Hanoverian Plant,” she said. “It’s merely considered sloppy form during an actual duel, but for competitions, where all styles are most practiced nowadays, judges carry protractors, and will dock points for any variance. In Parisian, they may call a hold as readily, but will circle you instead, analyzing your positional grace from every angle. A significant cultural difference for two regions in geographical proximity.”
Miss Gauge giggled, mimicking her pose. “I’ll never win points for grace, I’m afraid. Isn’t there a European style where ability to move quickly and adapt to circumstance is prized?”
“Yes. It’s called Hungarian Imperial. It’s not often taught outside of Austria, as it is the most akin to rapier duels of old, resulting in injuries, scars, and even some fatalities. The Empress Elizabeth of Austria, who died last year by assassin’s blade, was its creator. All her ladies-in-waiting trained with her, the better to defend her against those who would do her harm. Sadly, they failed to register the threat of one unobtrusive man with a homemade weapon concealed up his sleeve. It was so long and slender that it penetrated her corset, her ribcage, her lung, and her heart with a single, unnoticed blow.”
Miss Gauge’s amber eyes were wide. “You speak of the Empress as if you knew her.”
Maddie gave herself a mental scolding. In the pleasure of exercise with a congenial companion, she had let her working-class persona lapse. She had spoken comfortably of a woman infinitely removed from the gaze of a humble lady reporter, though not quite beyond the social reach of a
Steamlord’s daughter. She hastily gave a near-truth explanation.
“My instructor in the duel was a distant cousin of Her Imperial Highness. She learned the duel with the Empress. Would you like to see the novice figures for Hungarian Imperial?”
After a few minutes of the basics, Miss Gauge was eager to test them in a mock duel. Maddie agreed, but on condition that their parasol tips be padded to prevent injury. A nearby instructor overheard and quickly provided two hedgehogs—rubber balls covered in fine, floppy spines—that cinched themselves tight when pushed onto on each tip. Emmeline’s was yellow, Maddie’s blue.
“Now you’re ready,” said Maddie. “Remember, Hungarian Imperial is about control. You want to lightly tap your opponent on the ankle, knee, or wrist with your ball. And you must be quick on your feet to evade their return taps.”
Not long afterward, as she was leaping over a vigorous ankling attack from her happily excited opponent, Maddie felt the familiar tingle that said she was being watched. She landed lightly and spun into a Reverse Snub, scanning the large room as she turned. Nobody paid obvious attention down here. The gallery? She let Miss Gauge drive her backward, easily parrying the eager swipes at her wrists and knees while her eyes flicked along the rows of spectators.
There! Between two ladies in feathery flamingo-pink hats sat a woman in a tiny bonnet bedecked with crimson silk flowers. Her slender figure, in a ruffled gown of blood-red taffeta, stood out like a hothouse rose among the pastel hues worn by other spectators. She was peering at Maddie through a lorgnette.
Maddie sneaked glances at her between parrying Emmeline’s attacks. What she had thought were hat-ribbons were actually streaks of crimson hair down each side of the woman’s head. Family hair, like the Main-Bearing bronze? That argued a European birth, possibly even English. The turn of the head, the set of the pointed chin, seemed familiar. Someone Maddie had known in some other capacity, when she wore a different name? If that woman thought she recognized either Madeleine Main-Bearing, Steamlord’s daughter, or any of Maddie’s other aliases, she might call her by that name in front of Miss Gauge.
It was time to be gone from Madame Lavinia’s. Maddie devoted herself to nudging her opponent backward, ending under the gallery, well out of the intent observer’s sight. There she called a halt.
As they were leaving the gymnasium, the morning class of languid debutantes began to trail in.
Miss Gauge eyed them scornfully. “Those girls do not know what they are missing by thinking only of looks, and catching the richest husbands.” She led the way in silence to the Robing Room, rinsed and there, in a thoughtful mood, regained her street clothes. Today’s dainty, ruffled walking dress was taffeta in hues from palest to sky blue, with silver lace. Her hat and street parasol matched exactly. When they returned to the reception hall, she said shyly, “I would very much like to hear more of your travels, Miss Hatter. Would you care to join me for morning coffee? Just across the way is a nice little shop.”
Maddie, still pondering the intense interest shown by the lorgnette lady, decided on the instant that she could combine morning coffee with watching for that particular red gown to leave the Academy. A clear look at the woman’s face might clarify any risk of exposure.
“I would be delighted.”
They left the building, but Miss Gauge once again hung back at the door. Her hands trembled as she gripped her parasol tighter. She looked anxiously at the street outside for a long moment before stepping through. Maddie looked around, but saw nothing unusual.
“Are you worried about something?”
“No. Just, well, I’m not often out unescorted.” It was a feeble excuse, weakly delivered. Miss Gauge gave orders to her waiting driver and strode to the sidewalk, but continued to look over her shoulders as they waited for the traffic policeman to wave them across. She paused again on the opposite sidewalk, her back to a tree-trunk, and only after a good look in all directions proceeded to the coffee room. “There. Isn’t this nice?”
The aroma of good coffee, well roasted, curled around Maddie like loving arms. The heady scent of warm croissants kissed her parted lips. Small tables draped in pristine white stood about the marble floor. Fresh flowers graced each one, their motifs repeated on the coffee pots and cream pitchers carried by waiters. Half the tables entertained ladies as graceful and floral as the décor, daintily raising demitasses or patting their lips with fine linen napkins in flower-petal hues. Miss Gauge led her guest to a window table. Of her earlier anxiety, no trace remained. Perhaps she was agoraphobic? Maddie took the seat that gave her the least obstructed view of Madame Lavinia’s Parasol Academy.
“So many human servers,” she observed to Miss Gauge. “Both here and at the Academy. Is there some local custom or taboo against the use of automatons?”
“Not that I am aware of. Society is waited upon by people wishful of earning an honest dollar. Is it not always so?”
“Heavens, no. In Europe and elsewhere, self-propelling tea and coffee carts roll amongst the tables, dispensing your pleasure at the touch of a button. I could not begin to describe all the other automatons that perform routine tasks around homes and in public places. Window-cleaners, for example: they look like giant beetles, crawling across the mansions and commercial buildings, keeping the windows spotless, the downspouts clear, and other chores of that nature. Much safer than sending humans up on ladders or down on ropes.”
“Businessmen embrace those technologies faster than ordinary people do. Especially people around here.” Miss Gauge waved an encompassing hand. “They try to pretend they’ve had money forever, and live like English nobility from a hundred years ago. Or what we think nobility live like. I’d love to go to England and see for myself. I’ve never left New York City, except to summer at Papa’s camp in the Adirondack Mountains. Please tell me about your travels. And do try the chicken salad croissant. It’s just the thing after exercise.”
Maddie filed the lack of automatons as a cultural curiosity and gave her order to the hovering waiter.
Over delicious coffee and tiny, flaky, crescent rolls stuffed with cubes of herbed chicken in cream sauce, Maddie shared such of her journalistic travels as would not give away her privileged upbringing. All the while she kept her eye on the Academy’s door. Although many ladies came and went amid the rain showers, none was the woman in crimson. Was her interest a mere moment’s curiosity, made noteworthy not by her gaze but by Maddie’s hunt for a story?
At last, Miss Gauge rose. “I must get home or Mama will think me kidnapped. May I offer you a ride?”
“Thank you, but no. I’ll walk you to your vehicle if you wish.” Maddie gathered up her gloves and parasol before following her new friend to the door. Miss Gauge’s anxiety, it seemed, had been lulled by good companionship, for she stepped outside without pausing and raised her parasol against the mizzling rain.
On the high steps opposite, the blood-red gown at last appeared. Maddie stopped inside the café’s doorway. The watching woman was tall, slender, and too far away to be recognized. She raised a hand as if summoning a driver and then looked directly across at the coffee room. Could she identify Maddie standing in the dim interior, wearing her walking suit instead of blue practice garb?
“Miss Hatter,” said Miss Gauge from outside. “Are you coming?”
As Maddie started forward, a burly man yanked Miss Gauge by the arm. A huge hand clamped over her mouth. She was being abducted!
Chapter Four
MISS GAUGE WAS dragged toward the street. A horse-cab pulled up smartly. The cabbie leaned down to open its door.
Maddie lunged at the man holding her friend. Her parasol tip jabbed his meaty shoulder. His grip loosened. Miss Gauge drove her parasol handle into his ribs. He staggered but kept hold of her wrist. As Maddie swung for his ankle, Miss Gauge slammed her elbow up under his chin. He fell against the cab. Released, Miss Gauge leaped out of range.
The man grabbed for her again. Maddie tripped him. As he sprawled face first o
n the sidewalk, his mate dived from the driving seat, straight toward Miss Gauge like a rugby tackle.
“Look out,” Maddie yelled.
Miss Gauge’s parasol popped open. One hand went down. Her feet swung up and her whole body pivoted in the air. The attacker slammed into her extended parasol and staggered. Her neat little leather boot—blue to match her gown—kicked him in the throat. He fell on top of his partner, who had just managed to get to his knees. Miss Gauge landed tidily, with her pretty blue parasol settling into a firm Plant on his back.
“Well done,” Maddie said. “Where is a policeman?”
“No police,” said Miss Gauge. She grabbed Maddie’s hand and ran. Her vehicle had drawn up down the block. The chauffeur was hurrying toward them. She waved him back. “Open the car.”
The chauffeur slapped a plate on the vehicle’s side and the hatch opened. Its owner scrambled inside. Maddie hesitated, checking her hat to ensure TD had not been dislodged. He was there, gripping tight to his ribbon-nest. Good. She climbed in. The chauffeur hopped into his own compartment and, heedless of passing traffic, steamed away with a prolonged blast of his horn.
Maddie turned to her companion. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” But Miss Gauge was holding her left wrist gently with her right hand, and her eyes shone with tears.
“Let me see that.” Maddie lifted the wrist, drew off the cerulean-blue glove, and turned back the ruffle of silver lace. Red welts revealed where the attacker’s fingers had gripped. They overlaid an older bruise, already purplish-grey.
Maddie had seen many such bruises in dueling academies, and inflicted many. Including this one, which indeed she had expected to find from the moment Miss Gauge had Twirled her person instead of her parasol. She laid the damaged wrist carefully on her new friend’s sky-blue lap.
Maddie Hatter and the Gilded Guage Page 2