I emerged a changed man...changed so much, in fact, that I passed the ultimate test. When Rogers, the keen-eyed major domo, saw me in the hallway, he ejected me from the premises, believing I was a stranger.
Out on the street, I stopped in front of a clothiers shop and examined my reflection in the plate glass front window. What a change I saw there!
My silver goatee was dyed black, as were my eyebrows. A false nose, bulbous and scarlet, covered my true, aristocratically aquiline one. Two enormous warts bulged from my face--one on the left cheekbone, the other on the point of my chin. A bushy black wig concealed the close-cropped silver stubble of my natural hair.
Instead of a black business coat and trousers, I wore a ragged gray jacket with holes in the elbows and threadbare gray pants. Topping it off, I wore a battered brown cap with a mangled visor.
I nodded with satisfaction and adjusted my posture, slouching and jutting my chin forward. My camouflage was perfect, ready for the hunt. If I, on another day, had seen me coming, looking like this, I would have thought it was a factory laborer approaching, or a beggar.
Or a street sweeper. In other words, the master of disguise had created the perfect appearance for the role he had chosen to play.
Slipping around to the rear entrance of the Wanderers' Club, I retrieved the push broom that Rogers always kept by the door. Grinning, I ran off down the alley, making my escape before Rogers could find me out.
*****
This time, as I dared not hail a cab, the trip across town took considerably longer. I knew no cabbie would stop to pick up someone who looked so unlikely to be able to pay his fare.
Fortunately, as I am always in peak physical condition, the exercise in no way left me winded. I returned to the street outside my home as composed and energetic as I'd been upon setting out that day.
And so I began my charade. My concealment, as they say, in plain sight.
Taking care to remain stooped over, I pushed the broom up the street and back down again, sweeping layers of soot into piles at either end. Always, I kept one eye on the front door of my home, waiting for Bess to emerge.
I felt certain she hadn't come forth yet, as her morning chores and toilette typically occupied several hours. But I presumed she would soon poke her head out of her burrow to sniff the air.
I waited at least an hour, all the while clearing more soot from the street. Fortunately, no one seemed to take an interest in me. No one seemed to notice this dawdling sweeper taking far too long to clear one solitary block of sooty cobblestones.
Finally, as I reached one end of my track and turned for another pass, the front door of my house opened, and Bess emerged in the late morning sunlight. She wore a burgundy dress, black gloves, and an exotic black hat adorned with deep green and blue peacock feathers.
Closing the door behind her, she walked down the front steps to the street and started toward me. Another woman, Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan from three doors up, called out a greeting from her own front stoop and bustled down to join her.
Smiling and chattering, the two of them set out together, looking well-festooned and resplendent. They walked right past without giving me a first look, much less a second.
As I turned to follow, beginning the hunt in earnest, I wondered where these two were headed side by side. For one fact stood out in high relief in my mind as their blithe conversation drifted back on the mid-Spring breeze.
Bess despised Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan. I had never known the two of them to go anywhere together, let alone spare a civil word for each other.
*****
Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan led me on a winding course through London. Always, I took great care to remain discreet, to maintain a sizeable distance between us and not attract undue attention.
After a walk of nearly an hour, they reached their first destination--a tall, brick building with pale green shutters--and strolled inside. I had made preparations for just such an eventuality, constructing my disguise in such a way that it could be converted to a new configuration. All I would have to do is slip into a secluded alley, discard the jacket and wig, turn the cap inside out, and I could pass for a common repairman who looked only a little like the street sweeper who'd just gone by. In other words, I could become someone respectable enough to follow Bess into her haunts without being turned away at the door.
At least, that was the plan. I intended to blend in, and in so doing, gain access to vital surveillance.
Unfortunately, blending in would not be easy. As I was about to thread an alley and revise my disguise, I got a look at the brass plaque mounted to the right of the brick building's front door.
FEMALE PROTECTION SOCIETY. That was the name of the place. I'd heard of it but had not visited it before.
And with good reason. NO MALES PERMITTED ON PREMISES. Those words were engraved on a second brass plaque mounted on the other side of the door.
Though a lesser man might have been discouraged, I remained determined to forge ahead. Surely, repairmen would have to be admitted on occasion to do the kind of work beyond the grasp of women.
Scooting down the alley, I changed my disguise as planned and strolled out on the street, straightening my posture. As I approached the front door, a dark-haired woman in a black dress glided past and rapped once with the heavy brass knocker mounted there. The door opened, and she sailed inside, glancing back over her shoulder but once in my direction.
Startled, I paused in my tracks as she disappeared from view. For in that single glance, I had recognized the woman. And the mystery of this puzzleventure had magnified a thousandfold.
What on Earth was Countess Calypso doing here? Why had one of the most notorious evildoers in all of Britain come to the same place at the same time as my own dear Bess?
Clearly, it was more critical than ever that I get inside.
Shaking off my startlement, I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and moved forward with confident purpose. Taking hold of the knocker, I clapped it twice against the wood of the door and waited.
A rectangular panel slid open, somewhat below eye level, and two gray eyes peered up at me. "Yes?" The voice was that of an older woman, in her fifties perhaps. "How may I help you?"
"I've come ta check the coal furnace, Mum." I altered my voice slightly, making it deeper, using an accent I'd picked up among dockhands during my business at the quay.
The woman turned her head, and I saw she was wearing a gray habit. She was a nun, then. "Sorry, no." She shook her head. "You're not on the schedule."
I grinned and shrugged. "Guess the boss didn' cross 'is T's this time. 'At's all right. I won' be a tick."
The nun scowled. "Come back when the proper arrangements have been made." Then, she snapped the sliding panel shut with a vengeance.
"A bum furnace can be a right killer, Mum!" I leaned close and shouted through the door. "Wouldn' wantcher fine ladies overcome by fumes now, would we?"
"Move along!" said the nun.
And that was the end of that.
Briefly, I thought of revealing my true identity and demanding entrée. A businessman of my stature might be able to bully his way past Sister Push-Off.
But that, of course, would mean forfeiting the element of surprise. It would give the women time to cover up whatever secrets waited inside. No, that wouldn't do.
Retreating across the street, I was uncertain what I should do next. I have not found myself at a loss many times in my life, and this was one of those times.
I could not follow Bess inside. I could not espy her purpose in visiting said institution, side by side with a woman she despised.
Because I, the great wandering hunter, master of camouflage, stalker of secrets, had not prepared for every eventuality that day.
*****
My wife and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan were inside the Female Protection Society for nearly two hours. I waited impatiently in my street sweeper guise, clearing soot from the cobblestones while watching the front door, wondering what i
n the world they were up to in there.
Had they come to volunteer, out of the goodness of their hearts, to help women in need? Had they come to make a donation to the shelter? Had they come to visit a friend or relative in dire circumstances? Or did their visit signify some other motivation altogether?
Whatever their reason for coming there, Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan finally emerged. Chattering amiably, they set off down the street. I followed as closely as I dared, listening hard for any revelatory snippets of conversation, any clue to the business they'd just conducted.
But they gave me nothing. Just the usual "And then Mrs. So-and-So said this," and "Then Mrs. Such-and-Such did that." The same old womanly cluckery, babbling on and on with no apparent point save the wasting of time. Only now I knew that the shallow surface of their idle twittering concealed depths that were unknown to me.
It was then I realized that if I wanted answers, if I wished to know their secret, I would have to delve beneath the surface in a way I had never done before. A way that would require incredible courage.
*****
A day later, my mistress, Lady Crenshaw, was having the time of her life. The business we were conducting in her bedroom, to my mind, was quite serious, but she simply couldn't stop laughing at my expense.
I tried my best to ignore her in spite of my compromised position. "Isn't there some way to loosen this...this..."
"Corset?" The mention of the word set off another gale of laughter from Lady Crenshaw. Clutching the back of a chair, she doubled over, eyes pinched shut as the laughter burst out of her. "You want me to loosen the corset you're wearing?"
As Lady Crenshaw continued her bout of hilarity, I looked down at the alien garment wrapped tightly about my midsection. I'd seen corsets on women many times, of course--I'm married, after all--but it was quite another thing to be stuffed inside one myself.
It was, in fact, quite worse than I'd imagined. "Just unhook the thing, will you? It's cutting off my..."
"Circulation?" Lady Crenshaw gave me a look with both eyebrows raised high, just before falling into yet another blast of howling laughter.
I found myself regretting my decision to approach her for help. Yet of all the women I knew, she was the only one I could imagine giving it in these circumstances. She was the only one I could ask without fear of being turned in to the authorities.
Even at that, this wasn't easy. I didn't relish becoming a laughing stock for my mistress. I wished her to see me as virile, not effeminate.
But this work was critical, and there was no other way. If I intended to infiltrate the Female Protection Society, I would have to appear to be a woman. My disguise would have to be good enough to fool the keen-eyed nun at the front door.
And I would have to be ready in less than two hours. I had first followed Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan to the Female Protection Society a day ago. If they returned there at the same time today, they would arrive in one hour and fifty minutes.
Time was swiftly running out. "I really must insist that we get on with this." I raised my voice to command her attention.
Lady Crenshaw's bright blue eyes lighted upon my lower body. "I must say, darling, it's easier to take you seriously..." Fresh laughter escaped between her words. "...when you aren't wearing women's bloomers."
I planted my hands on my hips and blew out my breath in utter frustration. I didn't have to look in the full-length dressing mirror to know I looked ridiculous.
For the first time in my life, I was wearing a corset and bloomers. A pair of medium-sized cantaloupes had been stuffed into the top of the corset, simulating breasts. My goatee had been shaved, my eyebrows plucked, and a layer of white powder applied to my face.
What in God's name was I doing? For a moment, as I stared at my image in the mirror, I entertained second thoughts. I could not escape the feeling that I had somehow gone astray, that I had stepped outside the bounds of rational behavior.
But the feeling didn't last. The clarity of my mission welled up within me. I knew with great conviction that what I did, I did for sound and irrefutable reasons.
Gathering up what dignity I had left, I straightened my back and spoke with all the male power at my command. "If you are quite done with your girlish silliness, can we get on with completing this regalia?"
Lady Crenshaw quivered, barely able to stifle her laughter. "Yes, yes, of course. Let us finish your kit."
Clearing my throat, I clasped my hands behind me and nodded. "Let's try on the dress, shall we? The blue one?"
"V-very good." Lady Crenshaw was still quivering. "And then the wig?"
I raised my bare chin, admiring the lines of my newly shorn face. "I should think so, yes."
"And then your elephant gun, please," said Lady Crenshaw.
"Elephant gun? Whatever for?"
"So you can blow my head off," said Lady Crenshaw, "as I am fairly certain that's the only way you'll keep me from laughing myself to death!" And then, with that, she dissolved once more into uproarious hysterics.
*****
I had a strange feeling as I strolled along the cobblestone street in my wig and dress. Not just the excitement of disguising oneself, the anticipation of infiltrating a new territory where one isn't supposed to be.
It was more than that somehow. An extra shiver that came with doing something forbidden, crossing a line I'd never crossed before. The thrill of breaking a taboo that was fundamental to the very concept of my self and the society in which I lived.
I was dressed as a woman, for heaven's sake. And so far, in the many blocks I'd walked from Lady Crenshaw's apartments, no one had seemed to twig to my deception.
Women had smiled politely and nodded as I passed. Men had doffed their hats and bowed. Some had cast frankly appraising looks in my direction.
It was, by far, one of the strangest experiences of my career as a wanderer. For someone who has traveled the globe, crossed into other dimensions, visited other planets, and jumped both backward and forward in time, that was saying something indeed.
One thought dominated my mind: I was dressed as a woman, and no one could tell the difference.
Except my companion, of course, but she'd helped me accomplish this masquerade. "I must say, you're cutting a fine figure, darling." Lady Crenshaw, who was walking beside me, elbowed my ribs gently. "You seem to have something of a natural talent for this."
I chose not to respond to her remark. Her quips could be an annoyance, thought I was glad for her company. Lady Crenshaw had asked to accompany me, saying she was worried I might hurt myself in this disguise. At first, I'd said no, but then had relented on condition of her restraining her laughter. So far, to my surprise, she'd managed to leave out the hilarity in favor of cool detachment.
Mostly. "You might just be making a more favorable impression than I am." Lady Crenshaw let out a little giggle. "After all, you got that strapping young attorney's calling card back there, didn't you?"
I sighed. "Simply the power of suggestion, darling. All we did was set the table, and he filled in the blanks."
"Is that what they're calling it nowadays?" She giggled again. "Cheeky!"
"I only hope I shall be so convincing in there." I gestured with one white-gloved hand at the familiar brick building we were approaching--the Female Protection Society. Three women walked in the front door as I watched, chattering among themselves--none of them my Bess.
"Just like hiding among the rhinos, dear," said Lady Crenshaw. "Act like you belong here, and hope no one notices the horn's a fake."
"Ever the font of wisdom." I smiled at a passing businessman in a black suit and bowler, praying he wouldn't recognize me. The both of us were members of the Wanderers' Club. I'd been known to beat him roundly at snooker and darts, and he'd been known to drink me under the table.
As we drew near the Female Protection Society, two women strode out of a side street ahead of us. Instantly, my heartbeat accelerated, and my palms dampened within my gloves.
"There they are." Until then, I hadn't been sure they'd return to the same place at the same time two days in a row. "Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan. Right on time."
Lady Crenshaw quickened her pace. "Come along, dear."
I grabbed at the sleeve of her red velvet jacket. "No, wait! She might recognize me!"
"The power of context shall set you free. She would never expect to see you here and thus." Lady Crenshaw tossed her head and fluttered her hands. "But if it makes you feel better, I will do the talking."
The shin-high lace-up black boots I wore clattered on the cobblestones. "Slow down! This petticoat is bunching up between my legs."
"The things you say, darling." Lady Crenshaw turned and grabbed my elbow. "I do believe you are positively one of our foremost Romantics."
*****
Lady Crenshaw and I caught up with Bess and Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan just as the panel in the door was sliding open. The nun's familiar gray eyes peered out, darting from one to the other of the four of us in quick succession.
Then snapping back to fix on me. And linger there as my heart thundered at the prospect of being found out.
Just then, Bess cleared her throat and spoke. "We've come for the ceremony, Sister. May we enter?"
The nun's eyes held mine a moment longer, then shifted to Bess. "Has someone told you that patience is a sin?"
Bess shook her head. "I hadn't heard that, Sister."
"Because it is a virtue," said the nun, and then the panel in the door snapped shut. "You'd do well to practice it."
For a moment, I feared she might not admit us...but the door lock cracked open, and the door swung inward.
Bess entered first, nodding to the nun as she passed. Mrs. Whitaker-Bunyan did the same, and Lady Crenshaw crossed the threshold behind her.
Blazing Bodices Page 2
