To Say Nothing of the Dog

by Connie Willis

  “I’ve done this dozens of times,” Terence said, and swung his leg up.

  The gunwale dipped all the way to water level. Cyril, bunched in his blanket, staggered, trying to keep his feet, and the pile of luggage in the bow tilted precariously.

  “I’ve never tipped a boat over yet,” Terence said confidently.

  “Well, at least wait till I’ve shifted things,” I said, pushing the portmanteau back into place. “Professor Peddick, move all the way to that side,” and to Cyril, who had decided to come over, trailing his blanket, to see how we were doing, “Sit. Stay.”

  “It’s all a matter of getting the proper purchase,” Terence said, shifting his grip on the gunwale.

  “Wait!” I said. “Careful—”

  Terence got his leg into the boat, raised himself on his hands, and pulled his torso up onto the gunwales.

  “God himself could not sink this ship,” I murmured, holding the luggage in place.

  “All in the balancing.” He hoisted himself into the boat. “There, you see,” he said triumphantly. “Nothing to it,” and the boat went over.

  I have no idea how we got to shore. I remember the portmanteau sliding down the deck at me, like the grand piano on the Titanic, and then a lot of swallowing of water and clutching at the life preserver, which turned out to be Cyril, sinking like a stone, followed by more swallowing, and the dead man’s carry, and we were all sitting on the shore dripping and gasping for breath.

  Cyril was the first to recover. He tottered to his feet and shook himself all over us, and Terence sat up and looked out at the empty water.

  “‘And fast through the midnight dark and drear,’” he quoted, “‘Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept/Tow’rds the reef of Norman’s Woe.’”

  “Naufragium sibi quisque facit,” Professor Peddick said.

  Terence gazed out at the dark water. “She’s gone,” he said, exactly like Lady Astor had, and I stood up, suddenly remembering, and waded into the water, but it was no use. There was no sign of the boat.

  An oar lay half on shore, and, out in the middle of the river, the professor’s kettle bobbed past, the only survivors of the shipwreck. There was no sign of the carpetbag anywhere.

  “‘Down came the storm, and smote amain/The vessel in its strength,’” Terence quoted. “‘He cut a rope from a broken spar/And bound her to the mast.’”

  Princess Arjumand hadn’t had a chance, wedged under the seat like that. If I’d let her out when she meowed, if I’d told Terence I’d found her, if I’d come through where I was supposed to and hadn’t been so time-lagged—

  “‘At day-break, on the bleak sea-beach/A fisherman stood aghast,’” Terence recited. “‘To see the form of a maiden fair/Lashed close to a drifting mast,’” and I turned to tell him to shut up and saw, behind us, white in the starlight, the gazebo where I was to have returned the cat.

  Well, I had returned her, all right, and finished the murder the butler had started. And this time Verity hadn’t been there to rescue her.

  “‘The salt sea was frozen on her breast,’” Terence intoned, “‘the salt tears in her eyes . . . .’”

  I gazed at the gazebo. Princess Arjumand, unbeknownst in her wicker basket, had nearly been run over by a train, been rolled into the Thames and been knocked in by Cyril and Professor Peddick, and had been rescued each time, only to drown here. Perhaps T.J. was right, and she had been meant to drown, and no matter how much Verity or I or anyone meddled, it was fated to end this way. History correcting itself.

  Or perhaps she had simply run out of lives. I could count five of the nine she had used up in the last four days.

  I hoped that was it, and not my complete incompetence. But I didn’t think so. And I didn’t think Verity would think so either. She had risked life and limb and Mr. Dunworthy’s wrath to rescue it. “I won’t let you drown it,” she’d said. I doubted very much she would accept the course of history as an excuse.

  The last thing I wanted to do was face her, but there was nothing else for it. Cyril, in spite of shaking himself all over us, was drenched, and so was Professor Peddick, and Terence looked half-frozen.

  “‘Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,’” he said, his teeth chattering so he could scarcely recite, “‘in the midnight and the snow.’”

  We had to get dried off and out of these clothes, and there was no other house in sight besides Muchings End. We had to go wake up the household and ask for shelter, even though it meant facing Tossie and having her ask if we’d found her “precious darling Juju.” Even though it meant telling Verity.

  “Come along,” I said, taking Terence’s arm. “Let’s go up to the house.”

  He didn’t budge. “‘Christ, save us all from a death like this,’” he said,“‘on the reef of Norman’s Woe.’ Jabez is going to charge us fifty pounds.”

  “We’ll worry about that later,” I said. “Come along. We’ll try the French doors first. There’s a line of light under them.”

  “I can’t meet the family of the girl I love like this,” Terence said, shuddering. “I haven’t any coat.”

  “Here,” I said, taking off my blazer and wringing it out. “You can have mine. They won’t care that we’re not dressed for dinner. Our boat sank.”

  Professor Peddick came up, squelching as he walked. “T managed to save some of the luggage,” he said, and handed me the carpetbag. “None of my specimens, though, I’m afraid. Ah, my albino Ugubio fluviatilis.”

  “I can’t go up to the house without any shoes,” Terence said. “I can’t be seen half-naked by the girl I love.”

  “Here,” I said, struggling to untie my wet shoelaces with one hand. “Take mine. Professor Peddick, give him your socks,” and while they wrestled with the problem of getting wet socks off and on, I sprinted over behind the gazebo and opened the carpetbag.

  Princess Arjumand, only slightly damp, glared up at me from its depths for a long minute and then swarmed up my leg and into my arms.

  Cats were supposed to hate getting wet, but she settled into my sopping wet sleeves contentedly and closed her eyes.

  “I’m not the one who saved your life,” I said. “It was Professor Peddick,” but she didn’t seem to care. She nestled deeper against my chest and, amazingly, began to purr.

  “Oh, good, Princess Arjumand is here,” Terence said, straightening the blazer. It had apparently shrunk somewhat, too. “I was right. She was here all along.”

  “I do not think it is proper for an Oxford don not to wear socks,” Professor Peddick said.

  “Balderdash,” I said. “Professor Einstein never did.”

  “Einstein?” he said. “I don’t believe I know of him.”

  “You will,” I said, and set off up the sloping lawn.

  Terence had apparently been right about their having drawn the drapes. As we made our way across the lawn, the drapes were pulled back, a faint, flickering light appeared, and we could hear voices.

  “This is terribly exciting,” a man’s voice said. “What do we do first?”

  “Join hands,” a voice that sounded like Verity’s said, “and concentrate.”

  “Oh, Mama, do ask about Juju,” and that was definitely Tossie’s. “Ask them where she is.”

  “Shh.”

  There was a silence, during which we crossed the remainder of the lawn.

  “Is there a spirit here?” a stentorian voice called out, and I nearly dropped Princess Arjumand. It sounded exactly like Lady Schrapnell, but it couldn’t be. It must be Tossie’s mother, Mrs. Mering.

  “Oh, Spirit from the Other Side,” she said, and I had to fight the impulse to run, “speak to us here in the earthly plane.”

  We maneuvered our way through an herbaceous border and onto the flagged pathway in front of the French doors.

  “Tell us of our fate,” Mrs. Mering boomed, and Princess Arjumand climbed up my chest and dug her claws into my shoulder.

  “Enter, O Spirit,” she intoned, “and bring us news of
our missing loved ones.”

  Terence knocked on the doors.

  There was another silence, and then Mrs. Mering called, in a somewhat fainter voice, “Enter!”

  “Wait,” I said, but Terence had already pulled the doors open. The curtains billowed inward, and we stood blinking at the candlelit tableau before us.

  Around a black-draped round table sat four people, their eyes closed, holding hands: Verity, wearing white, Tossie, wearing ruffles, a pale young man wearing a clerical collar and a rapt expression, and Mrs. Mering, who, thank goodness, did not look like Lady Schrapnell. She was much rounder, with an ample bosom and ampler chins.

  “Enter, O Spirit from the Other Side,” she said, and Terence parted the curtains and stepped inside.

  “I beg your pardon,” Terence said, and everyone opened their eyes and stared at us.

  We must have made rather an interesting tableau ourselves, what with Terence’s bleeding stripes and my stockinged feet and our general drowned rat appearance, to say nothing of the dog, who was still coughing up river. Or the cat.

  “We have come—” Terence began, and Mrs. Mering stood up and put her hand to the ample bosom.

  “They have come!” she cried, and fainted dead away.

  “Methought I heard a voice cry, ‘Sleep no more!’”

  William Shakespeare

  CHAPTER 11

  Why the Victorians Were So Repressed—Dearum Dearum Juju Weturned to Her Mistwess—Fish—A Misunderstanding—Importance of Knocking—Introductions—Irish Names—An Amazing Coincidence—More Fish—A Reluctant Departure—Another Misunderstanding—I Go to Bed—A Visitor—A Crisis

  It was actually more of a swoon than a faint. She slumped sedately to the flowered carpet, managing to avoid hitting any of the furniture—no small feat since the room contained a large round rosewood table, a small triangular table with a tintype album on it, a mahogany table with a bouquet of wax flowers under a glass dome on it, a horsehair sofa, a damask loveseat, a Windsor chair, a Morris chair, a Chesterfield chair, several ottomans, a writing desk, a bookcase, a knick-knack cabinet, a whatnot, a firescreen, a harp, an aspidistra, and an elephant’s foot.

  She also fell very slowly, and during the time it took her to collapse onto the carpet, I registered a number of impressions: One, that Mrs. Mering wasn’t the only one who looked like she’d seen a ghost. The pale young man, who must be a curate, was as white as his clerical collar, and Baine, over by the door, was clutching the doorjamb for support. His expression wasn’t one of guilty horror, though. If I hadn’t known better I’d have thought it was one of relief. Or joy. Which was distinctly odd.

  Two, Verity’s expression was definitely one of joy, and in my still time-lagged state I actually thought for a moment that it might be directed at me. Then it hit me that she must not have been able to report back yet. Tossie must have kept the household up again last night looking for Princess Arjumand, and so Verity didn’t know I’d been in charge of returning the cat and muffed it, and I’d have to be the one to tell her.

  Which was unfortunate because, Three, even with a night’s sleep (more or less) and a moratorium on drops, she was still the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.

  And Four, that the reason Victorian society was so restricted and repressed was that it was impossible to move without knocking something over.

  “Mama!” Tossie cried, and Baine, Terence, Professor Peddick, and I all started forward to break her fall and managed to crash into everything Mrs. Mering had avoided.

  Terence caught Mrs. Mering, Baine turned up the gas so we could see what we’d run into, I righted the Dresden shepherdess and the stereopticon I’d knocked over, and the clergyman sat down and began mopping his forehead with a large white handkerchief. Terence and Baine helped Mrs. Mering onto a maroon velvet sofa, knocking over a bust of Pallas in the process, and Verity began fanning her.

  “Baine!” she said, “tell Colleen to bring the smelling salts.”

  “Yes, miss,” Baine said, still looking overcome by emotion, and hurried out.

  “O, Mama!” Tossie said, starting toward her mother. “Are you all—” and caught sight of the cat, which had climbed up my chest in all the excitement.

  “Princess Arjumand!” she screamed and swooped at me. “Darling, darling Princess Arjumand! You’ve come back to me!”

  Darling Princess Arjumand had to be removed from my shirtfront a claw at a time. I handed her to Tossie, who clutched the cat to her ecstatically, emitting a series of delighted screams.

  “O, Mr. St. Trewes,” she cooed, turning to Terence, “you’ve brought my dearum dearum Juju back to me!” She nuzzled dearum Juju. “Was oo awl wost in the scawy dawk, sweetums? Was oo frightened? But Mr. St. Trewes was wooking for oo, wasn’t he? Can oo say sank oo to the nice mannums, darwing Juju?”

  Cyril, standing next to me, snorted loudly, and even “darwing Juju” looked disgusted. Well, good, I thought, this should bring Terence to his senses, we can go back upriver to Oxford, Tossie can marry Mr. C, and the continuum will be restored.

  I looked at Terence. He was beaming besottedly at Tossie. “No need to thank me, truly,” he said. “You bade me find your precious pet. ’Tis what you will. Your wish is my command, fair lady.”

  On the couch, Mrs. Mering moaned. “Aunt Malvinia,” Verity said, rubbing her hands between hers. “Aunt Malvinia?” She turned to Tossie. “Cousin, fetch Baine and tell him we need a fire. Your mother’s hands are like ice”.

  Tossie went over to a long tasseled panel of embroidered damask on the wall and tugged on the tassel.

  I didn’t hear anything, but there must have been a bell somewhere, because Baine appeared promptly. During his absence, he had apparently gained command of himself. His face and voice were impassive as he said, “Yes, miss?”

  “Light the fire,” Tossie said without looking up from the cat.

  She’d said it almost rudely, but Baine smiled and said indulgently, “Yes, miss,” and knelt by the hearth and began piling wood on the grate.

  A maid with hair even redder than Verity’s hurried in, carrying a minuscule bottle. “Oh, miss, has the mistress fainted then?” she asked Verity in a brogue that instantly identified her as Irish.

  “Yes,” Verity said, taking the bottle from her. She pulled the stopper out and passed it under Mrs. Mering’s nose. “Aunt Malvinia,” she said encouragingly.

  “Oh, miss, was it haunts that did it?” the maid said, looking apprehensively around the room.

  “No,” Verity said, “Aunt Malvinia?” and Mrs. Mering moaned, but didn’t open her eyes.

  “I knew there was haunts in the house,” the maid said, crossing herself. “I saw one, Tuesday last it was, out by the gazebo—”

  “Colleen, fetch a damp cloth for Mrs. Mering’s forehead,” Verity said, “and a foot warmer.”

  “Yes, miss,” the maid said, bobbed a curtsey, and went out, still looking fearfully around.

  “O pwecious Juju,” Tossie was cooing to the cat, “is oo a hungwy baby?” She turned to Baine, who had the fire laid and was about to light it. “Baine, come here,” she said imperiously.

  Even though he was in the act of lighting a spill of paper, Baine got immediately to his feet and came over to her. “Yes, miss?”

  “Bring Juju a dish of cream.”

  “Yes, miss,” he said, smiling at the cat. He turned to go.

  “And a plate of fish.”

  Baine turned back. “Fish?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  Tossie’s little chin went up. “Yes, fish. Princess Arjumand has been through a dreadful ordeal.”

  “As you wish,” he said, every word dripping with disapproval.

  “I do wish,” she said, coloring. “Bring it immediately.”

  “Yes, miss,” he said, but instead of leaving, he knelt by the hearth and methodically finished lighting the fire. He fanned it with the bellows and then carefully replaced them on the fire-irons stand before he stood up.

&nbs
p; “I doubt we have any fish,” he said and exited.

  Tossie looked furious. “Mama!” she said, appealing to her mother, but Mrs. Mering was still out cold. Verity was spreading an afghan over her knees and arranging pillows behind her head.

  I was beginning to shiver in my wet clothes. I made my way over to the fire, which was burning merrily, past the writing desk, a sewing table, and a small marble-topped table with a number of metal-framed photographs on it. Cyril was already there, dripping onto the warm hearth.

  The maid Colleen hurried back in with a bowl of water. Verity took it from her, set it on the table next to a tall bronze vase full of peacock feathers, and wrung out the cloth.

  “Oh, have the haunts taken her soul?” Colleen said.

  “No,” Verity said, laying the cloth across Mrs. Mering’s forehead. “Aunt Malvinia,” she said, and Mrs. Mering sighed and fluttered her eyelids.

  A round gentleman with a bushy white mustache came in, carrying his newspaper. He was wearing a red smoking jacket and a strange red cap with a tassel on it. “What’s all this?” he demanded. “Got so a man can’t read the Times in peace.”

  “O Papa,” Tossie said. “Mama’s fainted.”

  “Fainted?” he said, coming over to see her. “What for?”

  “We were having a seance,” Tossie said. “We were attempting to find Princess Arjumand, and Mama was calling the spirits, and as she said, ‘O come, spirits,’ the curtains blew open, and there was a blast of chill air, and there Princess Arjumand was!”

  “Harrumph,” he said. “Knew this spiritualism nonsense was a bad idea. Lot of silliness.”

  Colonel Mering seemed to speak in a sort of shorthand, leaving off the subjects of his sentences. I wondered if they got somehow lost in his bushy mustache. “Hysteria,” he said. “Gets women all worked up.”

  At this point, the curate cut in with, “A number of highly respected scholars and scientists are convinced of the validity of otherworldly phenomena. Sir William Crookes, the noted physicist, has written a respected treatise on the subject, and Arthur Conan Doyle is conducting—”

  “Twaddle!” Colonel Mering said, which pretty much completed the collection of explosive Victorian disclaimers. “Cheesecloth and gullible women. Should be a law in Parliament against it.” He stopped short at the sight of Terence. “Who are you? Blasted medium?”