No Job for a Lady (11 page)

However, there is one more potential story I hope the diplomat will contribute to.

“Don Antonio, do you know who the people in the private car at the end of the train are? A porter told me that they are people of importance.”

He pauses for a second, just enough to tell me he knows something but is not going to reveal it.

“Not really. Unfortunately, being a consul general of Mexico does not make me privy to everything.”

“Really?” This comment comes from Gertrude, heavily seasoned with doubt.

“Yes, my dear, contrary to your belief, I am not kept in the loop of everything. And, of course, there are matters I am duty-bound to keep secret.”

“Are we talking about that millionaire horse buff, Frederic Gebhard, and his lady, Lily Langtry?” Roger asks.

“Lily Langtry!” comes from both Gertrude and me.

“I can’t believe it.” I turn to Gertrude.

“Wouldn’t that be fabulous?” Her face shows the same excitement as is on mine. “She’s so beautiful, not to mention her clothes—they’re stunning. And what a life she leads—famous actress, mistress to Edward, Prince of Wales … well, was—”

“What happened?” I ask.

“Sarah Bernhardt, another famous actress, came along and whisked him away. Gossip is that Prince Edward was getting tired of Lily spending his money and one night at a dinner party, Edward said to her, ‘I’ve spent enough on you to build a battleship,’ whereupon she tartly replied, ‘And you’ve spent enough in me to float one.’”

“Gertrude! Shame on you,” Don Antonio snaps.

“Well, it’s true; at least that’s the gossip. And people say that she doesn’t worry about what people think of her, not even our future king. She says and does as she pleases.”

“How do you know it’s them?” I ask Roger.

“Their trip to Mexico was in all the New York gossip columns, even though they tried to keep it hush-hush. But it’s hard to keep the whereabouts of a couple of their magnitude secret, though no one knows why they’re visiting Mexico. There was speculation that it’s to acquire some prize horse, that being his passion.”

“And Lily’s,” Gertrude adds. “She’s became quite involved in the sport of Thoroughbred horse racing.”

“Interesting.” Don Antonio dabs his napkin to his lips to hide a grin before taking another sip of his champagne.

I can tell by his pretense at lacking interest that he knew all along who the occupants in the private railcar are. Her visiting Mexico would cause a sensation that he could not afford to ignore.

My mind is already wondering how I can devise a way to meet them.

16

Something Roger said at dinner presses at me, but there isn’t any conversation between us as we make our way back to our sleeper. I kept my mouth shut in front of the others, but it nags at me and I’m having a devil of a time holding my peace until we are alone.

Some cowboys are still playing a game in which they fling cards into a hat, but half of them are snoozing. The ones awake silently make way for us. Neither Sundance nor the drunken prospector with the treasure map are in sight.

Roger isn’t saying a word, which suits me fine right now, but the moment we reach the privacy of our compartment, I will jump on him for answers. Ever since he complimented me on going from a factory girl to a reporter, it’s been gnawing at me. How did he know that?

I am very interested to hear his answer and I want to be facing him so I can read his eyes as he lies to me. He thinks that because I’m quiet, I didn’t pick up what had to be a faux pas on his part.

He’s in for a surprise. I am going to drill him about how and what he knows about me. And more important, who he is. He says he’s a New York university scholar, but that would make it a long reach to know anything about a Pittsburgh newspaper reporter.

By the same token, if he is a reporter, he could well have heard of me, because female reporters are so rare. And if that is the case, he has some reason for keeping me from knowing; otherwise, he’d simply say so.

His being a reporter is not what’s bothering me. It’s not like I’m following a hot lead on a story that he might steal. It’s that he might have heard about the impetuous girl reporter who ran off to prove she can be a foreign correspondent. Revealing that I’m not actually on assignment from a newspaper, but trying to prove myself, will close “official doors” like Consul General Castillo to me—not to mention that it would be terribly humiliating.

Once in our little sleeper compartment, Roger starts to bury his head back into his book, but I snatch it out of his hands.

“Hey! Give me that.”

“Not until we talk.”

“I was afraid of that. You were too quiet coming back. I knew eventually you would want not just the lower berth but my scalp as well before this trip is over with. Well, you can have my scalp, but not my bed.” He tilts his head forward, offering me his neck. “Go ahead, cut it off.”

“How did you know I had worked in a factory?”

“A factory girl? Ah, my comment at dinner.”

Just as I thought—he’s stalling to conjure up a lie. I can see the wheels turning in his head. He didn’t realize he had slipped up.

“I heard about you through a friend.”

“A friend? I work for
The Pittsburgh Dispatch,
not a New York newspaper.”

“This may amaze you, but news from the
Dispatch
is not limited to Pittsburgh. The paper’s read throughout much of that region. My friend happens to have family there.”

“Really. If that’s true, why didn’t you tell me you recognized my name when I told you it?”

He pulls a face and gives me a narrow look, almost squinting, as if he is trying to figure out who and what I am.

“Who do you think you are? A prosecuting attorney? I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“Mr. Watkins, you can answer my questions, or I’ll have you put off this train.”

That causes a temporary speech impediment for him.

“What?”

“I will tell Don Antonio that you have attempted to molest me. That will not only get you put off the train; Mexican men are so chivalrous, they will probably hang you from the nearest cactus.”

He gapes at me for a moment, once again dumbstruck, and then shakes his head. I can’t tell if he is scared or amused.

“You’re not a woman. You’re a devil in petticoats.”

I give him the most charming smile I can manage at a time when I want to strangle the truth out of him.

“Roger … dear friend … I’ve had to fight very hard in this
man’s
world to achieve what slight success I’ve achieved. Tonight, I found out you are hiding information about me. Whatever you have up your sleeve, I want to make sure I cut off the head of the snake now before it bites me.
Comprende, amigo?
”

“
Sí, señorita.
Now, Nellie, dear
paranoid
girl, I didn’t know
who
you were until I put two and two together when Don Antonio said you were a newspaper reporter. I then realized you must be the girl my friend Sarah told me about. She, too, is quite an ambitious young woman, and she admires you.” He gives me a tight, sardonic smile. “She said she’d like to be just like you, but of course she would probably change her mind if she met you.”

I don’t know if he’s putting a shine on me. There is nothing like a bit of flattery to get across a point, even if he ends it with a cut. But I’m not comfortable with the explanation, though it is possible. News that a young female had been hired at the
Dispatch
had been reported far and wide in the state and had stirred the ambitions of many young women, but fear of being exposed as a fraud keeps the short hairs on the back of my neck up.

“Why do you look like a hanging judge devising punishment?” he asks.

“I haven’t decided if you are telling the whole truth.”

“Why would I lie? What’s the point? You’re right about one thing: Your mother must be quite an independent woman. It shows in you.”

“I want the truth, not compliments, Mr. Watkins, but thank you. Now, next question—”

He puts his hands up. “No more questions. You know what?” He pretends to squint at me, as if he’s trying to get a peek at my secrets. “You’re acting awfully suspicious—like you have something to hide. What did you do, Nellie? Rob a bank on your way out of Pittsburgh?”

Boy, did he hit the mark on that one. But a good offense is the best defense. “That rope they string up mashers with is getting short. I suggest you tell me who you really are.”

“Who I really am?”
He rubs his chin as if in great thought. “Well, my mother and father, the Watkins, named me Roger, which is how by coincidence I call myself Roger Watkins.” He throws up his hands in surrender. “Look. This animosity is getting us nowhere. You’re in Mexico to do stories. I’m here to learn its history firsthand. Why don’t we be friends?”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm what? I don’t understand why you’re not satisfied with this wonderful private compartment. This is paradise compared to having to sit upright for days on hard seats.”

“The problem is that there is always a snake in paradise.”

17

It’s nearly bedtime, but I want to jot down some ideas for my articles. Roger goes back to reading his book and I sit across from him, making notes about what I have learned since I last recorded my reflections in the parlor car.

Cowboys are modern knights, a bit dustier perhaps, and I suppose they bathe as infrequently as the armored men on horseback did.

The world of the Aztec and Mayans existed mostly on one crop: corn. But they fed their gods blood in order to get a good crop.

Most Mexicans are rather poor and eat a great deal of corn and beans, while the wealthier class prefer French cuisine and champagne.

And you can easily buy a map leading you to a lost treasure of Aztec gold, but you will find only fool’s gold where X marks the spot.

I like the last item best, but it is so far-fetched that I decide I will mail more serious articles to the
Dispatch
before venturing into the fanciful. I like the tale of the “weeping tree” Don Antonio told us just before we left dinner: After the Spanish massacred a large number of Aztecs they thought were plotting against them, Cortés, his army, and
indio
allies had to fight their way out of the Aztec capital. They suffered many dead and wounded men, and two-thirds of their stolen treasure ended up in the lake surrounding the city as they retreated across the causeway leading to dry land. After the battle, Cortés sat under a tree and wept—most likely for the loss of treasure rather than for his comrades, Don Antonio said.

They called the battle Noche Trist—the sad night. And the tree is called the Weeping Tree. It now stands on the grounds of an old chapel and gets many visitors because it is said that on certain nights you can hear the tree weep and that the next morning water will be at its base—tears from the long-dead Cortés.

The news about Lily Langtry and her wealthy lover being aboard is sensational news, but it is also a story I will try to add interest to by enclosing an interview with her. I have never met or interviewed anyone as famous as the great actress, and it would be such a thrill. Now I just have to figure out how. Another thing to add to my list of things to do.

So far, the best part of this trip is that I have made a new friend, Gertrude Bell.

I feel as if she understands me and thinks what I am doing is the right thing, unlike it being crazy or naïve, as my brothers and Mr. Madden think. It’s nice to have someone in my corner, especially since I don’t have my mother with me—she was my ally. Now I feel like I have made one with Gertrude.

I add more rambling notations about the manners and mannerisms of the people I’ve seen only from the train so far. The
indios
and their clothing appear surprisingly fresh and clean, despite the lowly way so many have to live and work. Along the gutters by the railroad, they can be seen washing their few bits of apparel and bathing.

When I asked a Mexican gentleman in the parlor car earlier about these people, who seem more primitive than many city dwellers, he said many rural people have not assimilated into modern society and that the poorer ones live rather primitively. The homes of many of them are but holes in the ground, with a straw roof. The smoke creeps out from the doorways all day and at night and the families sleep in the ashes. They seldom lie down, but sleep sitting up, like a tailor, strange to say, but they never nod or fall over.

With that description and the one of the Mexican horsemen who charge up at every stop to guard the train, I am very satisfied. I haven’t even made it to Mexico City, and already I have quite a bit of interesting material for articles. This has to help me get a permanent position as foreign correspondent for the
Dispatch
when I return—it just has to, or this insane trip I’ve embarked on will be a waste of time. I can’t let that happen.

I’m anxious to experience something sensational to report, besides Lily Langtry. I guess it would be too much to ask for some bandidos to rob the train without hurting any of us. Crazy thought, I know, but I can’t help wondering how often the train does gets robbed as it works its way across the great arid area of northern Mexico. Towns and villages are usually few and far between, so there would be many excellent places to stop and rob the train.

I jot down another brief notation: Roger? Was he telling the truth when he said he learned about me from a friend? I don’t see a motive for him to be secretive. However, I’m beginning to believe he’s being secretive as to who he is. Tonight at dinner, he cleverly avoided answering Castillo’s question about where the final conquistador battle took place. However, it is possible he just didn’t know and was embarrassed. I would have done the same—but I’m not a university-level scholar of history.

Then there is Sundance. Why is he so interested in knowing what Howard said to me that night?

Another question comes to mind because Roger seems to know each time I speak to the cowboy: Could Roger and Sundance know each other? No, that’s impossible. One is a cowboy, the other a scholar.