“This side of the city is called Pest,” said Mina. “Pest is where the business is conducted, where the government meets, where the university is located. And that side is Buda. There you can find the villas and gardens of the nobility. Look, there is Castle Hill, with the palace of the Hungarian kings.” She pointed upriver. Mary could see it, in the distance—a high green hill with a castle complex on top.
“I wonder what would happen if I jumped?” asked Diana.
“You would learn a great deal about gravity,” said Mina in the same calm tone Mary remembered from her childhood. “Most of it unpleasant, I imagine. We’re not in a very fashionable area here,” she continued. “But Vlad prefers it. He says Buda may as well be asleep, and the fashionable area of Pest, near the Oktagon, is too public for him. He would have to socialize with his peers, engage in political discourse—he hates that sort of thing. Here he can be in the city and yet retain a measure of privacy. Come on, we can walk back along the river, but right now we have an appointment with Carmilla’s seamstress. I sent Kati ahead to let her know we were coming this afternoon.”
Váci utca was a narrow, busy street with shops, restaurants, and a church every few blocks. There were a lot of churches in Budapest, Mary thought—certainly more than in London. It reminded her that they had not gone to church in a while—not since they had left for the continent. How long had it been?
“When did we leave London?” she asked Justine, who was walking beside her. Diana was ahead with Mina, who was holding her hand to keep her from wandering off and looking into every shop window. At least she had stopped complaining about not being able to bring Hóvirág!
“Two weeks ago,” said Justine. “Exactly two weeks ago today.”
Only two weeks! How could so much have happened in such a short time? It felt as though they had been gone two years.
“How are you, by the way?” she asked Justine. Amid so much turmoil, it was easy to focus simply on the problems of the moment, or one’s personal concerns. But the last few days had been as difficult for Justine as they had been for her—perhaps more so. Hyde was bad enough, but Adam . . .
Justine smiled wanly. “I’m all right, I suppose. I feel rather the way I imagine you do. I had just gotten used to the Société des Alchimistes, and now there is the Royal Society and its subcommittee with the ridiculous name. But how do you feel, Mary? Miss Murray lived with you for many years. And all that time . . .”
“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” said Mary. She waved away a girl trying to sell her ribbons from a basket. “We’d better hurry—they’re getting too far ahead of us. I don’t want to get lost in Budapest. Maybe if I don’t think about it, it won’t matter very much?”
“I doubt that is the case,” said Justine. “Human hearts and minds don’t work in that way, although perhaps it would be better if they did. You cannot stop either thinking or feeling. When I am troubled, I find the consolations of religion and philosophy—”
“Come on,” said Mary, grabbing her by the arm. “Now I can’t see them at all. Could they have gone into a shop?” The consolations of religion and philosophy weren’t going to matter very much if they got lost in a strange city where they could not speak the language.
Mina was waiting for them at a shop entrance. Presumably, Diana had already gone in? Above the door was written ILONA COUTURE. “This way,” said Mina. “I want to introduce you to Madame Ilona herself. She’ll know exactly how to outfit all of you.”
Madame Ilona turned out to be an older Hungarian woman, tiny and rather like a bird, dressed in a plain but very well-tailored black dress with a white collar and cuffs. She greeted Mina with a kiss on both cheeks. “You wish three costumes, yes? One for la femme, one for the gentleman, and one for the little boy?” Justine and Diana were still dressed in masculine clothing—she must have assumed they were male.
“Three femmes, madame. And three outfits each, with all the necessary undergarments. Two feminine, and one masculine, I think.” Mina turned to Mary and Justine. “That should do, don’t you think? Three outfits for each of you—a dress, a walking suit, and men’s clothes.”
“Is it necessary for us to have men’s clothes?” asked Mary. “I don’t really think—”
“My dear, there are certain things you’ll need to do in the next few days that may require men’s clothes. You will need to be versatile.”
“Well, I don’t want any girls’ clothes!” said Diana. “Why do I have to wear skirts? They always tangle in my legs.”
“Because if you’re going to be a spy, or even a thief, you need to be able to fool people,” said Mina. “That sometimes means appearing as a boy, sometimes as a girl. You wouldn’t have been able to rescue Lucinda all by yourself if you weren’t dressed as a girl, would you?”
It had scarcely been all by herself! We were right there, thought Mary. We helped too. Diana would never have gotten away from the Krankenhaus without the rest of us.
But Diana said “Oh, right,” and did not quarrel with Mina’s clothing selection again. Which just went to show that Mina was good at this sort of thing—at dealing with girls, including difficult ones. Mary felt a bit as though she were looking behind the curtain of a magic show. Had Mina been as persuasive—she might as well use the word manipulative—at 11 Park Terrace? But perhaps all it means is that she’s a good governess, thought Mary. She had been a good governess—at least, Mina had taught Mary more than anyone else, certainly more than her own mother or father. She should be grateful for that.
Madame Ilona was discussing fabrics with Mina, and a woman in an identical black dress, who seemed to be a shop clerk, was measuring Justine. Then it was Mary’s turn to be measured: around the neck, across the shoulders, down the arm, around the bust and waist, down the back, down from the waist to her ankles. She had never been measured so thoroughly before.
“I have ready an attractive costume for mademoiselle—it will take only a little change,” said Madame Ilona.
“Madame sells ready-made clothing that can be altered to suit the wearer,” said Mina, “as well as making clothing to order. Her husband does all the men’s tailoring. I’ve ordered one dress that can go from day to evening, one walking suit with a shirtwaist, and a man’s suit for each of you. And of course an assortment of unmentionables. Once we’re done here, we need to get you new boots, then hats, gloves, and purses. That should do it, I think.”
“This is going to be very expensive!” said Mary. “I don’t think we have enough money—”
“Neither do I!” said Mina. “But the Count is paying for anything we purchase today. He insisted. Think of it as supplies for the coming . . . whatever it’s going to be. Supplies for the battle, shall we say?”
“But you don’t accept money from him,” said Mary. “You made that very clear.”
“My dear, that is an entirely different situation. I am . . . well, I am not his mistress. I am an employee of the Subcommittee for Bibliographic Citation Format, and I pay for myself, out of my own salary. The three of you are in a different position. You are friends of his goddaughter who lost your possessions through misadventure. It is the duty of a good host to supply you with necessities.”
“That sounds like a lot of rigmarole,” said Diana. “Do you like that word? Catherine taught it to me. Rigmarole.”
MRS. POOLE: It’s nothing of the sort. Miss Murray was exactly right, and I’m glad you had someone there to think about the proprieties. While you could accept such assistance from the Count, she certainly could not—not if she wished to be thought of as a lady!
CATHERINE: The rules about what a lady can and can’t do are bloody complicated.
MRS. POOLE: And that is exactly the sort of phrase a lady should never use.
CATHERINE: Bloody hell. I don’t know how proper ladies manage to do anything in this world.
MRS. POOLE: Miss Murray manages quite well, without cursing or complaining. You could do worse than take her as an example, my girl!
The final step was meeting Madame Ilona’s husband—Mihaly úr, Mina called him—so he could discuss the cut of their masculine jackets and trousers. Then, after saying farewell to Madame Ilona, her husband, and the shop girl, whose name Mary never managed to catch—she could not quite tell which were words and which were names, in Hungarian—they headed up Váci utca, first to a boot shop, then to a milliner’s and haberdasher’s. By this time it was the middle of the afternoon, and they were exhausted. Even Diana walked without speaking, hanging onto Mina’s arm.
“One more stop,” she said, “but I think you’re going to like this one. In London, we’d be having tea right now. You’re not going to find an English teashop in Budapest, so I’m taking you to Gerbeaud.”
“What’s Jerbo?” asked Diana, which was the way Mina had pronounced it.
“That,” said Mina, pointing across the square at a large white building, four stories above the shops at street level, with an ornate classical design. On it was written, in prominent letters just under the top story, GERBEAUD. “Come on, I’m hungry.”
“It’s a pâtisserie!” said Justine, when they had entered through the front door. The room in which they were standing had red velvet curtains at the windows, and small marble-topped tables were scattered throughout. Ladies and gentlemen sat at the tables, drinking coffee or chocolate, eating pastries and cakes on delicate porcelain plates or ice cream from crystal dishes. Across the room was a long counter, also topped with marble, where clerks stood to receive orders. At one end of the counter was a glass case, in which were arranged slices of cake and pastries of various sorts that customers could purchase. There was a great deal of gilding and dark wood.
“Let’s find somewhere to sit,” said Mina. “I’m dying for some coffee.”
They found a table, and then Mina directed them through the menu—them being Mary and Justine, because of course Diana had immediately gone to the glass case, where she was examining the contents as carefully as a judge might examine the evidence in a murder trial.
“If you haven’t tasted Hungarian pastries before—and no, they’re not the same as Viennese pastries, not at all—I suggest we order several slices so you can share and taste everything. For one thing, Hungarian pastries aren’t as sweet, and for another, some of the flavors are . . . unusual, for an English palate.”
“You must choose for us,” said Justine. “Indeed, I do not recognize anything on the menu, except perhaps the Kugler. That’s German, isn’t it?”
“All right,” said Mina. “One slice of Dobos torte, one slice of Eszterházy cake, a Gerbeaud slice—you must have one of those—a Rigó Jancsi, which is the most romantic cake, I think, named after a gypsy violinist who invented it for the princess he loved—and what else?”
“Goodness,” said Mary. “I think that’s quite enough for the four of us.”
“I want one of the cakes with all the layers,” said Diana. She sat down and put her elbows on the marble tabletop.” Mary swatted at her arms, as she might have swatted at a fly. “What? Oh, right. I’m supposed to be ladylike.” Diana put her hands in her lap and sat up straight, with mock correctness.
“That’s the Dobos torte,” said Mina. “I’ll order two slices of that, and coffee all around. Oh, and a krémes—like a Napoléon. That will introduce you to the Hungarian gateaux, at least.” When the waiter approached, she ordered in what sounded like fluent Hungarian—but she assured them it wasn’t at all. And then there was a great deal of chocolate filling and apricot jam and ground walnuts and caramel on top, and sweet, strong coffee that made Mary feel as though she could probably conquer the Société des Alchimistes single-handed, if she were to attempt it in the next half hour.
By the time they were finished—plates scattered with crumbs, coffee cups empty—Mary was completely full and a great deal happier than she had been for a long time. Was it all the chocolate, or sitting here, in a café in Budapest, with Justine and Diana—and with Mina, because this was the Mina she remembered, telling them about the history of the city, from when it was the Roman town of Aquincum to the coronation of the Empress Elizabeth. She had always been able to make history sound interesting—the account of real people living their real lives, and not just a series of dates.
As they left Gerbeaud, Diana lagging noticeably behind—she had eaten the most, and looked the most tired—Mina said, “Before we head back, I want to show you one more thing. It’s not far.” Only a few blocks away, the narrow streets gave way to a park with tall trees. To their left, Mary could see another bridge over the Danube, and the Castle Hill rising above it. How far they must have walked! “There,” said Mina, pointing across the park. “That’s the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. It’s also the current headquarters of the Société des Alchimistes, where they’ll be holding their conference, starting on Monday. Before that, we’ll have to do some scouting—make sure we know where the entrances are, how to get in and out without being seen.”
“And on Monday—what exactly?” asked Justine.
“That will depend on Lucinda,” said Mina. “What state will she be in by then? I hope tomorrow she’ll be able to get up and walk around a little. We need her strong enough for. . . whatever happens.” Her brow was furrowed with worry. “Come on, we’ve been gone several hours. Let’s get back, check on her, and start making plans.”
As Mina had promised, they walked back along the Danube. Most of the way, stone steps led down to the water. Diana ran up and down them, then lagged behind complaining that she was tired and her boots hurt.
At one point, Mina stopped. “Do you see that building?” she said. “The white one with the geraniums in the window boxes. That’s where Arminius Vámbéry lives, in an apartment—I think it’s on the second floor.”
“That is Van Helsing’s friend, is it not?” asked Justine.
“At the moment. Vámbéry’s great passion is knowledge—of languages, cultures, all the things that make us human. He is one of the few Europeans to have traveled extensively in Turkey and Persia, as far as Khiva, Bokhara, and Samarkand, disguised as an adherent of Islam. He convinced the Hungarian Academy of Sciences to allow the Société des Alchimistes to hold its meetings and conferences in its headquarters, after it was determined the society should leave Vienna. He will ally himself with anyone who promises him more information, greater understanding. He was Vlad’s friend at one time . . . and may be again in the future. But at the moment, he is Van Helsing’s ally.”
Across from the apartment building, an old woman was sitting at the top of the steps that led down to the river, smoking a noxious pipe, with a dirty cap in front of her and a basket at her side that seemed to hold all her possessions. Her clothes were ragged, and she had the stench of someone who had not bathed in a long time, evident even under the stench of the smoke. As they passed, Mina said, “Jó napot, Mária Petrescu. Hogy van ma?”
“Jó, jó,” said the woman, nodding and blowing smoke out of her mouth. Her face was brown and wrinkled, like a piece of paper that had been crumpled and smoothed out. Her eyes, small and dark like apple seeds, watched them intently.
Mina leaned down and said something to the old woman, too low for Mary to hear. The woman responded, and Mina dropped a krone into her hat.
“Come on,” she said. “We need to get out of here. Van Helsing and Seward arrived this morning, and they are staying with Vámbéry. I thought they would stay in the society’s guest house on Castle Hill, but evidently not. I don’t want to run into them here—they would recognize me at once.”
As they hurried back along the street, Mary said, “That woman—you seemed to know her. Is she a spy of some sort? Does she work for the Count?”
“That is Mária Petrescu, and she works for me,” said Mina. “She is what they call here a cigány, one of the Romani people. There is a great deal of prejudice against them—it is difficult for the Romani to find work, so many of them are reduced to begging, but I pay Mária to be my eyes and ears. She’s been
watching Vámbéry’s apartment. He’s planning something, but so far I haven’t been able to figure out what. I don’t have the resources here that I had in Vienna. I just know that he’s going out more often than usual—and not to the university. Also, he’s very careful not to be followed. But where is he going? That, I don’t know. I need Sherlock Holmes’s Baker Street boys, don’t I, Mary?” She smiled, and Mary smiled back before she remembered that she was angry and disappointed with Miss Murray. By that point, Mina was already walking in front, leading them back to Múzeum utca.
Across the street, under the linden trees that overhung the tall metal railings around the park, a peasant girl in an embroidered apron was selling bunches of lavender. Mary wished she could buy one, but she did not want to waste their hellers.
As they entered, the maid she remembered from earlier in the day—Kati was her name, wasn’t it?—said something to Mina in Hungarian.
Mina looked confused. “I don’t understand. What does ‘apáca’ mean? Mit jelent az ‘apáca,’ Kati?”
Just then, on the stairs above them, appeared the last thing Mary expected to see, although perhaps it was not so surprising in a Catholic country: two nuns in black habits, walking down from the second floor. Were they coming to ask for some sort of charitable donation?
“Catherine!” said Justine. “How is this possible? And Beatrice!”
What in the world? Mary looked more closely at the nuns and almost tripped over Diana, who was of course in the way. “Cat! Bea! What are you doing here? How did you get to Budapest?”
“I could ask the same of you,” said Catherine. “We were told, on the unimpeachable authority of Irene Norton, that you had disappeared. We came to find you, and to warn Miss Murray that Professor Van Helsing is amassing an army of sorts, to attack the Alchemical Society if he doesn’t get his way. Dr. Seward says it’s going to be a bloodbath.”
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman Page 54
