by Rhys Bowen
“You should go and find your own seat now, Queenie,” I said. “Here is your ticket.”
“My own seat?” A look of panic crossed her face. “You mean I’m not traveling with you?”
“This is first class. Servants always travel third class,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll meet you on the platform with our luggage when we reach Dover. And I expect my chaperon’s maid will be sitting with you so you’ll have someone to talk to. Oh, and Queenie, please don’t let the other maids know that you’ve only been in my employ for a day or that you set fire to your last employer’s dress.”
“Right you are, miss,” she said, then put her hand to her mouth, giggling. “I still can’t get the hang of saying ‘my lady.’ I always was a bit thick. My old dad says I was dropped on my head as a baby.”
Oh, brilliant. Now she told me. She probably had fainting spells or fits. I was beginning to wish I’d taken up Belinda’s offer after all. I had gone to see her to tell her the funny story of my new maid, but neither Belinda nor her maid was at home. It had to mean that she had probably fled somewhere warm again. I couldn’t blame her.
A very nervous Queenie made her way down the platform to find the third-class carriages. As I watched her go I pondered on the irony that my maid was wearing a fur coat, whereas I only had good Scottish Harris tweed. Some girls were given a fur coat for their twenty-first birthday. I had been tempted to buy one with the check from Sir Hubert, the one of Mother’s many husbands and lovers of whom I had been the most fond, but luckily I had banked it instead. It kept me in funds for over a year but had finally run out. The thought of Sir Hubert sparked an exciting memory. He was still in Switzerland, recuperating from a horrible accident (or was it attempted murder?—now we’d never know). I could visit him on the way home. I’d jot him a line as soon as I reached my destination.
As I stood there alone in the carriage I realized two things. One was that my chaperon had not appeared and the other was that I had no idea of the actual destination to which we were going. If she didn’t turn up I didn’t even know at which station we were to alight. Oh, dear, more things to worry about.
The hour for departure neared and I paced nervously. I was just double-checking that my jewel case was securely on the rack when the compartment door was flung open and a voice behind me said, “You, girl, what are you doing in here? Maids belong in third class. And where is your mistress?”
I turned to face a gaunt, horsey-looking woman wearing a long Persian lamb cape. Standing behind her was a most superior-looking creature in black, laden with various hatboxes and train cases. Both were staring at me as if I were something they had just discovered on the sole of their shoe.
“I think you’ve made a mistake. I am Lady Georgiana Rannoch, and this is my compartment,” I said.
The horsey face turned decidedly paler. “Oh, most frightfully sorry. I only saw your back and you have to admit that that overcoat is not the smartest, so naturally I assumed...” She mustered a hearty smile and stuck out her hand. “Middlesex,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s the name. Lady Middlesex. Your companion for the journey. Didn’t Her Majesty tell you?”
“She told me there would be a chaperon. She never gave me your name.”
“Didn’t she? Dashed inefficient of her. Not like her. She’s usually a stickler for details. She’s worried about the king, of course. Not at all well.”
She pumped my hand energetically all the time she was speaking. Meanwhile the creature in black had slunk past us and was busy loading cases onto the rack.
“All is done, my lady,” she said with a strong French accent. “I shall retire to my own quarters.”
“Splendid. Thank you, Chantal.” Lady Middlesex leaned closer to me. “An absolute treasure. Couldn’t travel without her. Completely devoted, of course. Worships me. Doesn’t mind where we go or what hardships she has to endure. We’re on our way to Baghdad now, y’know. Dashed awful place, baking in summer, freezing in winter, but m’ husband has been posted there as British attaché. They always post him to a spot where they expect trouble. Damned strong man is Lord Middlesex. Doesn’t allow the natives to get away with any kind of nonsense.”
I wondered how Chantal and Queenie would get along. Our door was slammed shut and a whistle sounded.
“Ah, we’re off. Right on time. Jolly good show. I do like punctuality. Absolutely insist upon it at home. We dine at eight on the dot. If ever a guest dares to show up late, he finds we have started without him.”
I almost reminded her that she had nearly missed the train herself, but I consoled myself that she would not be coming to the wedding with me. I’d disembark and she would travel on to Baghdad where she would boss around the natives. We started to move, first slowly past dingy gray buildings, then over the Thames and picking up speed until the backyards became a blur and merged into bigger gardens and then to real countryside. It was a splendid autumn day, the sort of day that made me think of hunting. Clouds raced across a clear blue sky. There were sheep in meadows. Lady M kept up a nonstop commentary about the places to which Lord Middlesex had brought British law and order and she herself had taught the native women proper British hygiene. “They worshipped me, of course,” she said. “But I have to say that living abroad is a sacrifice I make for my husband. Haven’t had a decent hunt in years. We rode with the hunt in Shanghai, but it was only over the peasants’ fields and that’s not as jolly as good open countryside, is it? And all those silly little people shouting at us and waving their fists and scaring the horses.”
It was going to be a very long journey.
At Dover we alighted from the train and found Queenie and Chantal.
“Dear God in heaven, what is that?” Lady Middlesex demanded on seeing Queenie, who was wearing the spiky fur coat and red hat again.
“My maid,” I said.
“You let her look like that?”
“It’s all she has.”
“Then you should have outfitted her suitably. My dear girl, if you let servants go around looking like oversized flowerpots you’ll be a laughingstock. I only allow Chantal to wear black. Colors are reserved for people of our class. Come along now, Chantal.” She turned to the maid. “My train cases. And I want you to stay with those porters every inch of the way until the trunks are safely on board the ship, is that clear?”
“You do the same, Queenie,” I said.
“I ain’t never been on a ship, miss,” Queenie said, already looking green, “apart from the Saucy Sally around the pier at Clacton. What if I get seasick?”
“Nonsense,” Lady Middlesex said. “You simply tell yourself that you are not going to be ill. Your mistress will not allow it. Now off you go and no dillydallying.” She turned to me. “That girl wants bringing in line rapidly.”
Then she strode out ahead of me toward the gangplank. It was a pleasant crossing with just enough swell to make one realize one was on a ship. Lady Middlesex and I had lunch in the dining room (she had a hearty appetite and devoured everything within sight) and emerged in time to see the French coast ahead of us. We found Queenie, who was clinging to the railing as if it were her only hope of survival.
“It don’t half go up and down, don’t it, miss?” she said.
“Your mistress should be addressed as ‘your ladyship,’ ” Lady Middlesex said in a horrified voice. “I can’t think where she found such an unsuitable maid. Pull yourself together, girl, or you’ll be on the next boat home.”
Oh, dear. I’m sure that was exactly what Queenie wanted at this moment.
“Queenie is still learning,” I said quickly. “I’m sure she’ll soon be splendid.”
Lady Middlesex sniffed. We sailed into Calais Harbor and then we sailed through the hassle of customs and immigration thanks to Lady M and the royal warrants, which allowed us to bypass the long lines and the customs shed. I had to admit she was marvelous—frightening, but worthy of admiration as she chivvied French dockwor
kers and porters until luggage was loaded and we were safely in our wagons-lits compartments of the Arlberg Orient Express.
“Run along now,” Lady Middlesex said, waving Chantal away as if she were an annoying fly. “And take Lady Georgiana’s maid with you.”
I was relieved to find I had my own sleeping berth and didn’t have to share with Lady Middlesex. I was about to come out into the corridor when I heard words I never would have expected to escape from Lady Middlesex’s lips.
“Ah, there you are at last, dear heart.”
I simply couldn’t imagine Lady Middlesex calling anyone dear heart, and I knew her husband was already in Baghdad, so I was brimming with curiosity as I slid my door open. Coming up the corridor, clutching a bulky and battered suitcase, was a middle-aged and decidedly frumpy woman. She was wearing what was clearly a home-knitted beret and scarf over a shapeless overcoat and she looked hot and flustered.
“Oh, I’ve had the most awful time, Lady M. Most awful. There were two terrible men sitting across from me on the ship. I swear they were international criminals—so swarthy looking and they kept muttering to each other. Thank God it was not a night crossing or I’d have been murdered in my bunk.”
“I hardly think so, dear heart,” Lady Middlesex said. “You haven’t anything worth stealing and they were not likely to be interested in your body.”
“Oh, Lady M, really!” And the woman blushed.
“Well, you’re here now and all is well,” Lady Middlesex said. “Ah, Lady Georgiana, let me introduce you. This is my companion, Miss Deer-Harte.”
“I am honored to meet you, Lady Georgiana.” She bobbed an awkward curtsy, as she was still clutching the large suitcase. “I’m sure we’ll have some jolly chats on the way across Europe. Let us just pray that there are no snowstorms this time and that none of those dreadful Balkan countries decides to make war with its neighbor.”
“Always such gloom and doom, Deer-Harte,” Lady Middlesex said. “Buck up. Best foot forward and all that. Your cabin is just down there. Why you had to struggle with that suitcase yourself instead of employing a porter is beyond me.”
“But you know how hopeless I am with foreign money, Lady M. I’m always terrified of giving them a pound when I mean a shilling. And they always look so sinister with those black mustaches, I’m frightened they’ll take off with my bags and I’ll never see them again.”
“I’ve told you before, nobody would want your bags,” Lady Middlesex said. “Now, for heaven’s sake go and get settled and then we’ll find the dining car and see if they can produce a drinkable cup of tea.”
As she finished speaking she looked down the corridor and opened her mouth in horror. “What in heaven’s name?”
Queenie was rushing toward us, blindly pushing past people. She reached me and clutched at my sleeve like a drowning person. “Oh, me lady,” she gasped, “can’t I come in with you? I can’t stay down there. It’s all foreign people. Speaking foreign and acting foreign. I’m scared, me lady.”
“You’ll be fine, Queenie,” I said. “You have Chantal, who has traveled on these trains many times and speaks the language too. Ask her if you need anything.”
“What, ’er with the hatchet face?” Queenie demanded. “She gives me a look that would curdle milk. And she speaks foreign too. I had no idea it was going to be so—well, foreign.”
Lady Middlesex faced the terrified girl. “Pull yourself together, girl. You are embarrassing your mistress by making a scene. There is no question of your remaining in first class with your betters. You will be perfectly safe with Chantal. She travels with me all over the world. Now go back to your own compartment and stay there until Chantal tells you to disembark. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Queenie let out a whimper but she nodded and scurried back down the corridor.
“Have to be firm with these girls,” Lady Middlesex said. “No backbone, that’s the problem. Disgrace to the English race. Now let’s go and see if any of these French people can make a decent cup of tea.”
And she strode out ahead of me down the corridor.
Chapter 10
On a train, crossing Europe
Tuesday and Wednesday, November 15 and 16
Thank God Lady Middlesex is traveling on to Baghdad. I
don’t think I could stand her company for more than one
night. Reminds me of a brief and unhappy episode when I
tried to join the Girl Guides and failed my tenderfoot test.
Soon we were sitting in a lounge car drinking what passed for tea—the light brown color of ditch water with a slice of lemon floating in it.
“No idea at all,” Lady Middlesex said. “I don’t know how the French exist without proper tea. No wonder they always look so pasty faced. I’ve tried showing them the correct way to make it, but they simply won’t learn. Ah, well, one must suffer if one has to travel abroad. Never mind, Deer-Harte, you’ll have decent tea once we reach the embassy in Baghdad.”
“And what exactly is your destination, Lady Georgiana?” Miss Deer-Harte asked, taking what must have been her fifth biscuit.
“Lady Georgiana is to represent Her Majesty at a royal wedding in Romania.”
“In Romania? Good heavens—such an outlandish place. So dangerous.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Middlesex said. “I thought I mentioned it to you in my last letter.”
“You might have done, but unfortunately my mother’s naughty little doggie, Towser, found the post and chewed off one corner of your letter. He’s such a scamp.”
“No matter. We’re all here now and we are going to accompany Lady Georgiana to her destination in the mountains of Transylvania.”
“I’m sure there is no need for you to interrupt your journey,” I said hastily. “I trust a car will be waiting for me at the station.”
“Nonsense. The queen specifically asked me to deliver you safely to the castle and I am not one to shirk my duty.”
“But Lady M, a castle in the mountains of Transylvania, at this time of year too,” Miss Deer-Harte said, her voice quivering. “We shall be set upon by wolves, at the very least. And what about vampires?”
“What tosh you do talk, Deer-Harte,” Lady Middlesex said. “Vampires. Whatever next.”
“But Transylvania is an absolute hotbed of vampires. It’s common knowledge.”
“Only in children’s fairy stories. There is no such thing as vampires in real life, Deer-Harte, unless you mean the bats in South America. And as for wolves, I hardly think they can bite their way through a solid motorcar on a well-traveled road.”
Lady Middlesex drained her teacup and I stared out of the window at the twilight wintry scene. Rows of bare-branched poplar trees between bleak fields flashed past us. The lights were already shining from farmhouses. I felt a thrill of excitement that I was abroad again.
“What are you staring at, Deer-Harte?” Lady Middlesex asked in her booming voice.
“That couple across the aisle,” she said in a stage whisper. “I am sure that young woman is not his wife. Look at the brazen way he’s holding her hand across the table. Such goings-on the moment one is on the Continent. And that man in the corner with a beard. He is obviously an international assassin. I do hope our cabin doors can be locked from the inside or we’ll be murdered in our beds.”
“Do you have to see danger everywhere we go?” Lady Middlesex demanded irritably.
“There usually is danger everywhere we go.”
“Fiddlesticks. Never been in real danger in my life,” Lady Middlesex said.
“What about that time in East Africa?”
“Just a few Masai waving spears at us. Really, you do fuss about nothing. You’re just a bundle of nerves, woman. Snap out of it.”
I tried not to smile. It was such an improbable relationship—I wondered why on earth the overbearing and hearty Lady Middlesex had chosen such a simpering busybody as a companion, and why Miss Deer-Harte had accepted a position that took her from one
uncomfortable place of danger to the next.
We approached Paris just as darkness fell. I peered out of the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower or some familiar monument but all one saw through the darkness were little side streets with shutters already closed and the occasional café-tabac on a corner. If only I had money, I thought, I’d go and live in Paris for a while and pictured myself as a risqué bohemian.
The French failings at tea making were more than made up for with a superb dinner of coquilles St. Jacques and boeuf Bourguignon just after we left Paris. Lady M continued her monologue, interrupted only by Miss Deer-Harte spotting another international criminal and reiterating the fear that we should all be murdered in our beds. Toward the end of the meal, when we were savoring a spectacular bombe glacé, Miss Deer-Harte leaned toward us. “Someone is spying on us,” she whispered. “I thought it earlier and now I am sure. Someone was watching us through the door to the dining car and when I tried to have a good look at him, he moved hastily away.”
Lady Middlesex sighed. “For heaven’s sake, Deer-Harte, don’t be so silly. No doubt it was some poor fellow coming to see if anyone interesting was in the dining car, deciding he didn’t want to dine with boring types like us and taking himself off to the bar for a while. Must you read drama into everything?”
“But our doors don’t lock properly, Lady M. How do we prevent ourselves from being murdered in our beds? You hear what happens on these international trains, don’t you? People vanishing in the night or found dead in the morning all the time. I think we should take turns in guarding Lady Georgiana. It may be an anarchist, you know.”
“No anarchist would want to kill Lady Georgiana.” Lady Middlesex gave a disparaging sniff. “She’s not next in line to the throne, you know. I could understand your concern if it were one of the king’s sons, but if someone is spying on us, he is probably a Frenchman with an eye for a pretty girl and wants a chance to meet our Lady Georgiana without two old fogies dogging her every step. I fear he will be unlucky because I have sworn to watch over her like a hawk.”
