Etiquette & Espionage fs-1

by Gail Carriger

  Sophronia tried to put her doubts aside and be sensible. It was more difficult than she thought. “That’s reasonable, I suppose. But kicking?”

  “Well, miss, not to be rude, but you ladies aren’t sooties or soldiers. You don’t have much in the way of arm muscle. You ought to be kicking more; you’ve got more power in your legs, don’t ya? And you’re usually wearing them sharp-toed boots.”

  Sophronia nodded. “Good point. But we’re also wearing lots of skirts.”

  “Could get special boots made with metal reinforcements and attachments,” said Sidheag.

  “Sidheag Maccon, did I just hear you mention designing a fashion accessory?” Sophronia made her tone all-over appalled, but she was thinking, Vieve could do something along those lines.

  Sidheag grinned. Another one of those genuine smiles that made her look, if not pretty, at least less plain. It crinkled up her remarkable caramel eyes and softened her normally harsh features. Sophronia, at that moment, decided that the idea to bring Sidheag among the sooties was a resounding success.

  But then a looming shadow appeared above them and said, “What’s this, what’s this?”

  “Greaser—scatter!” yelled Soap.

  Sophronia and Sidheag did as directed, running hard alongside the sooties down and around the back of one of the coal piles and squeezing into a crevice.

  Soap, who was a noble idiot, intercepted the greaser.

  “He isn’t going to get booted off school grounds for this, is he?” Sophronia asked, her heart sinking.

  “What, Soap? For stopping and engaging in some mock swordplay?” One of the other sooties scoffed.

  “So long as they didn’t mark you ladies as Uptops, the most he’ll get is an ear-boxing,” added another.

  “Greasers like him. He keeps us all in line, and he works harder than any two of us put together,” explained the first.

  Sophronia and Sidheag both let out sighs of relief.

  Sidheag turned to her. “This is fun!”

  “Finishing school’s not all bad, now, is it?”

  “It’s not fair. I’m your first friend here! Why is it you persist in skulking off with Sidheag all the time?” Dimity was clearly trying not to whine.

  “I hardly persist; we only go off once a week or so.”

  “And you two keep giggling together about things.”

  “I do not giggle without purpose. Lady Linette says you should never misapply a giggle. And Sidheag never giggles at all.”

  “Well, it’s definitely not fair.” Dimity was perched on the edge of her bed, looking down at her feet sadly.

  “She’s been helping me with fighting techniques.”

  “I could use extra fight training.”

  “Dimity, you don’t even want to learn. You told me you decided to entirely give over that subject. That you really only wanted to be a lady.”

  Dimity sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Bumbersnoot, who was snuffling around the bed frame looking optimistically for a stray lump of coal or perhaps a small spider he might incinerate, came waddling over.

  Dimity patted him on the head, and he blew a little blast of smoke out one ear.

  Sophronia nibbled a fingertip in thought. “I tell you what—how about you help me with etiquette in court and ball settings? You’re much better at remembering the order of precedence than I.”

  Dimity brightened.

  Which was how Dimity and Sophronia ended up doing extra practice in the evenings. After some initial reticence, Sidheag joined them. Dimity managed to recover from her jealousy and, as a result, attacked the Scottish girl with her customary rapid-chatter teasing, which prodded Sidheag out of her awkward ways. In exchange, Sidheag started showing Dimity some of the easier knife tricks. No blood, of course. Nothing further was said about mysterious late-night jaunts.

  “I don’t feel like I’m really contributing to our little study group,” Sophronia said to Dimity one night before they went to sleep.

  “Don’t be silly, Sophronia; you’re the best of any of us.”

  Sophronia could feel herself blushing. “I’m not!”

  “ ’Course you are. We simply haven’t covered your subject yet in classes.”

  “Oh, really, and what’s that?”

  “You see opportunities. And you learn things and combine them in ways the rest of us don’t.”

  Sophronia contemplated this. “I do?”

  “I wager you’ve made a million connections in that brain of yours that I’ve never even considered. You say things to teachers that I know you’ve never told me. You’ve gone places on this airship I don’t even know exist. Then again, you aren’t always the most ladylike about it.”

  Sophronia remained silent.

  “For example, your two best petticoats are missing. They vanished the night of the play.”

  “You noticed that?” How embarrassing. If Dimity noticed my lack of proper foundation garments, why, anyone else might have as well—Monique, or Professor Braithwope!

  “I always notice clothing. I can’t imagine you sat around all evening in this room alone that night, either.”

  “But…!”

  Dimity lay back on her pillow and sounded self-satisfied. “I know you think I’m only paying attention to the etiquette side of our training, but I can’t help picking other stuff up along the way. I may want to be a lady, but I’m learning how to be an intelligencer whether I like it or not. And you are my closest friend.”

  “So you spy on me?”

  Sophronia could only just make out the movement of a shrug under Dimity’s covers. “I’m not Monique. I’m not going to use it against you.”

  “She hasn’t done anything to me directly since she turned me in.”

  “I know. Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “Yes. I think she’s still trying to get a message off the ship. Luckily, she’s as stymied as I am.” Sophronia felt, rather fancifully, that they were lost forever, floating in the mist. Time had taken on an atmospheric quality.

  “Do you think she knows that we know?”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  The two girls went silent.

  Finally Sophronia said, “You really do care about clothing and fashion, don’t you, Dimity?”

  “Very much. It’s important—even Lady Linette says it’s a method of manipulation. You can dictate what people think of you simply by wearing the right gloves, not to mention jewelry.”

  Sophronia was lost in remembering that second flywaymen battle. “What would you say of a man who went floating in fine evening dress and a top hat with a green ribbon about it?”

  “Run,” Dimity answered instantly. Her voice, normally full of bright fun and mockery, had taken on a completely sober tone.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know about you, Sophronia, but I’m certainly not ready to meet a Pickleman face-to-face. Not yet.”

  “Ah, of course. And what, exactly, is a Pickleman?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “How would I?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting you’re a covert recruit. You seem to be so very much one of us.”

  “That’s kind of you to say.”

  “Careful—wouldn’t want Monique finding out you like it here. She’ll make it her business to get you turned out. Anyway, Picklemen are sort of in charge of all kinds of important things. Not exactly legally, and rarely nicely. They like to collect money and power. That’s pretty much all I know. Oh, and their leader is called the Great Chutney.”

  Sophronia’s eyebrows arched. “Well, if you say so.”

  Dimity sat up, looking worried. “Do you think Monique might be working for them?”

  “No, they’re clearly backing the flywaymen, or employing them. And remember, Monique refused to cooperate. If she were working with them, why the theatrics in the road? Why not just hand over the prototype? Why hide it at my house?”

  “So if she’s not working for them and she�
��s not working for our school, who is she working for?”

  “Herself? Her family? I don’t know—the vampires, maybe? Even the werewolves. Or perhaps one of the teachers is a traitor. We already know she has one of them defending her.”

  Dimity looked nervous. “Are you sure we should be involving ourselves? Isn’t this something for the adults to sort out?”

  Sophronia gave an evil little grin. “I’m thinking of it as training. Besides, if the prototype is at my house, I am involved. Monique involved me.”

  Dimity only nodded. “I still don’t like how quiet she’s been. We should be on our guard.”

  “Agreed.”

  Dimity’s warning came none too soon, for having finally given up on trying to send a message, Monique turned her unwelcome attention once more to being a plonker.

  Sophronia was minding her own business and running late to luncheon, as was her custom. She’d yet to learn the advantage of punctuality. As she told Sister Mattie the third time she was late to household potions and poisons, nothing interesting happened until after an event commenced. Her natural tardiness was compounded by the fact that she was trying to find time for all her classes; extra work in fan languages and how to plan a five-course meal; visits to sooties; and practicing with Sidheag and Dimity when no one was watching. There never seemed to be enough time.

  So she was late to the dining hall, dashing in through the door, when someone stuck out one booted foot and she went flying.

  Luckily, they’d learned some tumbling. Sophronia went head over heels, landing in a crouch on one knee with the other bent in what might be considered a mockery of a full court bow. It could have been graceful, except she tore her hem as she tried to rise, tripped to the side, and crashed into an unsuspecting senior girl.

  By that point, the entire school had turned to watch her, and a wave of giggles rippled through the hall.

  Sophronia was absolutely mortified. She’d been trying so hard to learn to at least pretend to be proper and well-mannered.

  Mademoiselle Geraldine said, “Miss Temminnick! Is there a problem?”

  “No, Headmistress.” She could feel herself blushing furiously. It reminded her of the incident with the dumbwaiter and the trifle—only now she cared. Stupid finishing school, she thought, teaching me to care about such things.

  “Where is your poise, young lady?”

  “I seem to have misplaced it on someone’s boot, Headmistress.”

  Professor Lefoux glared at her. “What was that? Excuses? Don’t be smart, young lady.”

  “No, Professor. Apologies, Headmistress.”

  Lady Linette said with quiet firmness, “Miss Temminnick, go back out and reenter the room properly.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Sophronia turned and marched from the room, and then came back in. This time she kept her eyes firmly to the ground, even though she knew everyone was watching her and they had recently had lessons in how to walk with one’s nose in the air.

  She saw a boot twitch as if it wanted to head out and trip her a second time. The boot was of peach-colored kid leather, with pink ribbons for laces and a shockingly high heel. The person attached to it was Monique de Pelouse.

  Monique smiled sweetly at her and then turned and said in a very loud voice, “Isn’t it so intelligent of Miss Temminnick to wear blue? With her complexion, it really is the only safe color. How unfortunate the dress couldn’t be cut a tad more modern, poor dear.”

  Sophronia, stewing gently in annoyance, went to sit at the other end of the table. Why does Monique impose upon us, she wondered, just for torture? I know she’s been demoted, but I’m certain she could still sit with the senior girls. Give them the benefit of her scintillating conversation.

  “Don’t worry, Sophronia,” said Monique, “I’m sure no one saw your gaffe.” At which Preshea tittered obligingly.

  Sophronia didn’t point out that Monique had tripped her, as she knew it would only sound defensive.

  Dimity said, “You’re not usually that clumsy.”

  “No, that’s my role,” added Agatha with a shy smile.

  Sophronia looked down the table at Monique. “You’re right, I’m not.”

  Monique wasn’t finished, either. After tea, distracted by the prospect of a quadrille lesson with Mademoiselle Geraldine during which they had been instructed by Lady Linette to try passing secret messages without being caught by the headmistress, Sophronia and the others neglected to notice that Agatha wasn’t with them. The poor thing wasn’t exactly a friend, but they did try to keep an eye on her, as they might Bumbersnoot.

  When Agatha finally joined them, some ten minutes late to class, her eyes were red. Mademoiselle Geraldine gave her a stern talking-to on the subject of tardiness, which started her crying.

  “Now, dear, there is no use wasting tears on me; I’m not a man. Besides, you are clearly not the kind of young lady to cry with any form or grace. Your skin becomes blotchy.”

  Monique slid into the room gracefully at that juncture and glided to the back of the assembled girls without being observed. She was used to manipulating Mademoiselle Geraldine.

  “Yes, Headmistress,” Agatha replied, trying to stop her tears.

  “No, no, not with the sleeve. Dear, how many times do I have to tell you? You must never wipe any part of your face with your sleeve. That is what a handkerchief is for. And even then we dab. Ladies dab! Where is your handkerchief?”

  Agatha fished about hopelessly in her reticule.

  “No handkerchief, Agatha Woosmoss? What kind of young lady of qualit-tay are you?”

  “I am sorry, Headmistress.”

  Mademoiselle Geraldine turned to face the class. “Ladies, where do we always stash a spare handkerchief?”

  “In our décolletage,” sang out everyone in unison.

  The headmistress smiled brightly, tossing her red curls and thrusting her own substantial décolletage forward as if in agreement.

  “She could stash a whole cotton mill in hers,” Sophronia whispered to Dimity.

  Dimity pursed her lips to stop herself from laughing.

  Mademoiselle Geraldine continued, “Show me, ladies!”

  Obligingly, all the girls reached into their cleavage and pulled out squares of fine muslin. Being only thirteen or fourteen, few had sufficient cleavage to fish handkerchiefs out of, except Monique. Sidheag was a veritable beanpole. Sophronia felt her own wasn’t bad. Preshea, of course, was perfect. Dimity said she thought the smaller girl stuffed. “You understand. With rosemary sachets.” Dimity described herself as “lamentably undersized.”

  Sidheag seemed to be having difficulty following Mademoiselle Geraldine’s instructions.

  “Lady Kingair, where is your handkerchief?”

  “Well, blast it. I put it in. It seems to have slipped down inside my corset.”

  Mademoiselle Geraldine fanned herself. “Lady Kingair, there is no need to go into detail. A lady of qualit-tay does not mention such a thing out loud.”

  “What? What did I say?” Sidheag was genuinely confused.

  “Corset,” hissed Sophronia.

  “Miss Temminnick! Not you, too.”

  “I beg your pardon, Headmistress.” Sophronia executed an almost perfect curtsy. This seemed to mollify Mademoiselle Geraldine.

  “She doesn’t have enough to hold it up, Headmistress,” said Monique.

  “Hush now, Miss Pelouse. We do not talk about another lady’s endowments in public. Lady Kingair, my dear, did you put the handkerchief in before or after you laced this morning?”

  “Before; otherwise I forget,” Sidheag answered promptly.

  “Well, you must wait to put it in after. Then it won’t disappear on you. Miss Temminnick, lend Miss Woosmoss your spare, please? Then at least she will have something. Now, ladies, where was I? Oh, yes, the quadrille.”

  Agatha took her place in the set with Sidheag and Dimity. Sophronia stepped in to be her partner and passed her the handkerchief. Agatha stuffed it down her bodice wi
th a muttered “thank you.”

  “Ladies, we begin with the Le Pantalon. And a one, two, three, four. Step forward, salutation to your partner—no, Miss Buss, you’re playing the man, remember? You bow.” The headmistress was making up the fourth in the other set with Monique, Preshea, and a mop dressed in a hat. They were having a much more difficult time trying to pass notes back and forth without her noticing. The mop, of course, was of absolutely no help.

  “What happened, Agatha? Are you feeling quite the thing?” Sophronia asked when the dance permitted conversation.

  “It’s nothing to concern you.”

  “Let me guess—Monique?” While she talked, Sophronia slipped Dimity a small, folded bit of paper. There was nothing on the paper; it was only for technique.

  Sidheag said, “I saw that.”

  Dimity whispered, “Perhaps note-passing is better done during L’été?”

  Agatha said, answering Sophronia’s question, “She’s evil. And not in a good way.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing of import.” Agatha’s face was red. “Not for you, anyway.” The way she said it implied that Sophronia was somehow to blame.

  They moved on from Le Pantalon to L’été. As Dimity had predicted, it was easier to pass the notes, but Agatha kept dropping hers. Every time she did so, everyone had to stop the pattern while she looked under her full skirts to try to find the scrap of paper. It was decidedly not covert. They had to pretend she was lacing her boot.

  At the end of the hour, Mademoiselle Geraldine clapped her hands to get their attention. “That was adequate, ladies, but only adequate. You are to practice the first two sections of the quadrille ten times over this evening. In our next lesson, we will move on to the La Poule, so I expect you to have the Le Pantalon memorized.”

  “Do you think,” Sophronia wondered to Dimity as they left the headmistress’s classroom, “that she realizes she is saying ‘the’ twice?”

  Dimity raised an eyebrow. “Why, Sophronia, are you implying Mademoiselle Geraldine is not actually French? Shocking suggestion.”

  “Any more than Lady Linette is a lady?” added Sophronia.

  “Oh, come now, she could be a lady, you can’t be certain of that. After all, Sidheag is a lady, and no one would ever have guessed that.”