I was not yet washed, fed, or dressed, I would send these via the midday post, which would get them to Fleet Street before I could. All I needed was a few postage-stamps.
Searching for these, impatiently I cast aside the papers I had already cast aside earlier—
Until something I had written caught my eye.
A list compiled—heavens, was it only yesterday? It seemed a week ago.
Her chaperones, proud and richly clothed, seem to be of noble blood
The chaperones seemed to wield familial authority over her
They dressed her in greenish yellow; might they be of Aesthetic taste?
Cecily and her entourage took a cab, number ______
She most likely got the fan attending a pink tea—the Viscountess of Inglethorpe’s pink tea?
For a moment, reading this, I stood like a pillar of salt in the middle of my room. Then, “Blast and confound!” I cried, flinging up my hands in despair of myself. “I am a dolt!” How had I let a whole morning slip away while I dithered about bygones? I needed to get to work at once.
I knew now who might be able to tell me where Lady Cecily was imprisoned.
C HAPTER THE F OURTEENTH
I NEEDED TO BE EXCEEDINGLY CAREFUL—THAT IS to say, most thoroughly disguised, for I needed to venture where I knew I should not.
Where I risked being recognised.
And what if, after all, I could not find—
No what-ifs, Enola. Just get dressed.
Easier said than done. The role I needed to take on was that of Lady, requiring a handkerchief-linen camisole and drawers to protect me from my own corset, then the corset itself (not strait-laced, of course, but necessary to support the various improvers, regulators, and enhancers that would carry my supplies whilst providing me with the requisite hourglass figure), then a soft cover over the corset’s hard corded cotton and steel, then several silk petticoats, plus the dress itself—a semi-bustled and pleated lapis blue promenade dress with jacket, suitable for shopping—and its matching hat, embroidered handkerchief, gloves, gaiters, and parasol. Perhaps fifteen pounds of clothing, not counting my best boots.
But that was not all.
In addition to being a Lady, today I needed to be Beautiful, as this was the guise in which I was least likely to be recognised as Enola.
So I had to take my own hair—which, like the rest of me, most unfortunately attests kinship with my brother Sherlock, being of the same dull and indeterminate tree-trunk hue as his—I had to yank my hair to the top of my head and pin it there, then hide it under my ever-so-luxuriant chestnut wig, into the coif of which I had incorporated and fastened my hat. Also I put a fringe of curls across my forehead— de rigueur, as Princess Alexandra wore them—and I applied various disreputable substances to my lips, cheeks, eyelids, and eyelashes as subtly as I could. After much practice, and perhaps because the blood of the Vernets runs in my veins, I am able, I think and hope, to paint my face in such a way that my art is taken for nature’s own.
Then, and only then, was I ready.
Mid-afternoon, and still I had not eaten, but there was no time to do so, for my best chance—not a very good chance at all, considering that there were approximately twenty thousand cabs in London; confound my dolichocephalic head that I could not remember the identifying number of the one cab I sought!—still, cab-drivers waited for their fares at the same cab-stands day after day, so I would begin my search at the same place and hour I had formerly seen him.
One person who might know where Lady Cecily was: the cabbie who had conveyed her shopping for her trousseau, and then, presumably, home.
I would look for him outside the Oxford Street Ladies’ Lavatory.
Which was, most unfortunately, the same place where my brother Mycroft was likely to be looking for me.
Perambulate, I reminded myself as I descended from my own conveyance. Mince along with itty-bitty birdy steps. Twirl your parasol. You’re a
Searching for these, impatiently I cast aside the papers I had already cast aside earlier—
Until something I had written caught my eye.
A list compiled—heavens, was it only yesterday? It seemed a week ago.
Her chaperones, proud and richly clothed, seem to be of noble blood
The chaperones seemed to wield familial authority over her
They dressed her in greenish yellow; might they be of Aesthetic taste?
Cecily and her entourage took a cab, number ______
She most likely got the fan attending a pink tea—the Viscountess of Inglethorpe’s pink tea?
For a moment, reading this, I stood like a pillar of salt in the middle of my room. Then, “Blast and confound!” I cried, flinging up my hands in despair of myself. “I am a dolt!” How had I let a whole morning slip away while I dithered about bygones? I needed to get to work at once.
I knew now who might be able to tell me where Lady Cecily was imprisoned.
C HAPTER THE F OURTEENTH
I NEEDED TO BE EXCEEDINGLY CAREFUL—THAT IS to say, most thoroughly disguised, for I needed to venture where I knew I should not.
Where I risked being recognised.
And what if, after all, I could not find—
No what-ifs, Enola. Just get dressed.
Easier said than done. The role I needed to take on was that of Lady, requiring a handkerchief-linen camisole and drawers to protect me from my own corset, then the corset itself (not strait-laced, of course, but necessary to support the various improvers, regulators, and enhancers that would carry my supplies whilst providing me with the requisite hourglass figure), then a soft cover over the corset’s hard corded cotton and steel, then several silk petticoats, plus the dress itself—a semi-bustled and pleated lapis blue promenade dress with jacket, suitable for shopping—and its matching hat, embroidered handkerchief, gloves, gaiters, and parasol. Perhaps fifteen pounds of clothing, not counting my best boots.
But that was not all.
In addition to being a Lady, today I needed to be Beautiful, as this was the guise in which I was least likely to be recognised as Enola.
So I had to take my own hair—which, like the rest of me, most unfortunately attests kinship with my brother Sherlock, being of the same dull and indeterminate tree-trunk hue as his—I had to yank my hair to the top of my head and pin it there, then hide it under my ever-so-luxuriant chestnut wig, into the coif of which I had incorporated and fastened my hat. Also I put a fringe of curls across my forehead— de rigueur, as Princess Alexandra wore them—and I applied various disreputable substances to my lips, cheeks, eyelids, and eyelashes as subtly as I could. After much practice, and perhaps because the blood of the Vernets runs in my veins, I am able, I think and hope, to paint my face in such a way that my art is taken for nature’s own.
Then, and only then, was I ready.
Mid-afternoon, and still I had not eaten, but there was no time to do so, for my best chance—not a very good chance at all, considering that there were approximately twenty thousand cabs in London; confound my dolichocephalic head that I could not remember the identifying number of the one cab I sought!—still, cab-drivers waited for their fares at the same cab-stands day after day, so I would begin my search at the same place and hour I had formerly seen him.
One person who might know where Lady Cecily was: the cabbie who had conveyed her shopping for her trousseau, and then, presumably, home.
I would look for him outside the Oxford Street Ladies’ Lavatory.
Which was, most unfortunately, the same place where my brother Mycroft was likely to be looking for me.
Perambulate, I reminded myself as I descended from my own conveyance. Mince along with itty-bitty birdy steps. Twirl your parasol. You’re a
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