Eros Element (8 page)

Edward flinched from the disappointment in her voice. “That is not my affair,” he said, but he recognized how indifferent he must sound. “If aether is found to be an alternative to coal and steam, brilliant. I won't stand in the way of those who want to invent with it.”

“What if someone steals your ideas to make such an invention?”

“My ideas will be published. They can't be stolen if they're common knowledge. Science isn't subject to patent law.”

Johann shifted and squinted at them. “We've finally gotten to the point where the bloody sun isn't shining in through the windows, and the two of you won't shut up,” he grumbled. He looked at Iris and patted his leg. His gesture must have meant something to her Edward couldn't fathom because the formerly talkative miss pressed her lips together and looked out the window.

“We'll be quiet so you can sleep,” she said.

Edward made note of the signal for his own use should she become too talkative. Or challenge him further on his failure to do anything useful with his scientific work.

Chapter Nine

London, 10 June 1870

Bledsoe's reminder of her tenuous circumstances lanced through Iris, and she hoped Professor Bailey wouldn't see the tears in her eyes. She hadn't meant to wake the detestable musician—she wanted to discover if the professor had any motives more noble than saving his own job and department at the University. Seeing the residents of London always made something stir in her, a feeling she needed to
do
something to help them beyond giving the begging children a few pence, which would help for the moment but not in any lasting or meaningful way.

That mother and child.

The looks of despair on their faces caught her heart more than their pitiful thinness, which seemed to afflict all but the most wealthy in the city. Even they succumbed to the breathing sicknesses inherent in the poor air. Her father had been at a conference in London before he came home and started coughing…and never stopped.

Now she added frustration at the two men in the rail car to her sense of homesickness that grew as the kilometers between the train and her home increased, and of course her grief always simmered beneath the surface. She hadn't counted on her deception keeping her from the forms of grief—the dark clothes, the quiet days of mourning, the tearful yet insincere promises of support from family and friends—and leaving it unacknowledged made her feel unbalanced, her loss un-honored and therefore dishonored. For the first time, she could believe her father's spirit was an angry ghost.

But I'm doing this to preserve what you built for me, Papa.
And to keep all your hard work from falling into the hands of lazy men like Jeremy Scott.

The train slowed and rolled into a coal yard in a deserted area. Iris thought she saw some hints of blue in the gray-brown haze above the train, but she had no desire to go outside. Then she observed something very strange—the maid and the men who must be conducting and fueling the train walking around with long-handled hand-looking devices and looking on and under their cars. The men also had long-barreled steam rifles, which from the glow on the handles had been turned on and primed long enough ago to be ready for immediate use.

“What are they doing?” Professor Bailey asked.

“I don't know.” Iris tried to angle herself to get a closer look at the proceedings, but she bumped her head on the window and rubbed her forehead. A thunk and other sounds above her told her someone climbed on the roof and walked across it. The crack of a steam rifle made her jump.

“Are we under attack?” Iris asked at the same time Bledsoe sat straight and asked, “What the hell…?”

More rifle shots made them all duck and cower below the window line so as not to be easy targets. Iris found her head cradled against Professor Bailey's chest, which felt broader and stronger than she had estimated.

“Miss McTavish, your hair is tickling my nose,” he said.

“Stop complaining or I shall poke you with one of the pins from Bledsoe's friend.”

“That would be worse,” he agreed. “No telling what diseases an actress's pins harbor.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Bledsoe grumbled from somewhere near Iris's bustle, and she became aware of the weight of his head on her hip.

After about twenty minutes of awkward silence during which Iris heard people moving around outside and a few more shots, the train moved forward again. Something crunched under the wheels.

The maid, unencumbered by the clawed device, wheeled a lunch cart into the room, and her eyebrows raised when she caught sight of the three of them on the floor.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Miss, Professor and Maestro,” she said. “What are you doing on the floor? Do you need me to return later?”

“Certainly not.” Iris scrambled back onto the bench she had been sitting on, and the men did likewise. She narrowed her eyes at the maid, who looked like she tried not to laugh at them.

“What were you doing?” Iris asked. Both of the men looked at her, and she guessed they were irritated by her speaking first. It was bad enough her reputation would be at risk for traveling with the two of them unchaperoned, she didn't need to be caught in any compromising positions. Therefore, she needed an explanation to put the situation in context.

“It's the Clockmakers' Guild, Miss,” the maid said. “They send little toys to crawl into Mister Cobb's and other gentlemen's trains to annoy them but also gather information. We take advantage of the stop for coal to clean 'em off.”

“How do they work?” Professor Bailey asked.

“Some of 'em have cylinders in them like player cylinders, but made of wax, that they transfer information on. It's too complicated for me, but I'm sure Mister Cobb will be happy to explain on his airship. The blast from the steam rifles shuts them down, or we catch 'em with the claws and squeeze them out of shape so they can't move anymore, and the train wheels grind them into uselessness.”

Iris leaned away from the fierceness in the maid's tone when she talked about the devices' destruction. She guessed the woman was more than a maid, perhaps a female guard. They did all sorts of strange things in the Americas. She wasn't sure if the dual roles of the maid made her more fascinating or frightening. Either way, she wanted to know more.

“Now, on to a more pleasant subject,” the maid said. “Are you ready for lunch?”

“It's a bit early, don't you think?” Professor Bailey asked. Iris and Bledsoe both groaned.

By the time they reached the coast and returned to the land of green grass and blue sky, Iris's lower back hurt from maintaining her good posture in the rocking train in spite of having taken a break every thirty minutes or so to walk through the car. She envied the men who could stretch out. The maid disappeared after lunch, so Iris never had the chance to question her further away from the men. It was quite possible, Iris conceded, that her investigations might have ended fruitlessly. A secret guard wouldn't tell her, would she? How far would the perceived sisterhood of women allow her to pry? That the utensils they'd used for lunch hadn't yielded anything to Iris's attempts to read the maid through them made her more curious.

The train slowed and halted at a countryside station. When Iris alighted, the cool breeze and soothing salt smell told her they were near the coast, as expected, but delighted her with happy memories of childhood trips until the fog of grief put a pall over them and the promise of what would never be again.

Professor Bailey stepped out of the train car and onto the platform behind her. He wrinkled his nose.

“What is it?” she asked. “Don't you like the smell of the salt air?”

“I was just remembering…” He shook his head. “Nothing.”

She wanted to ask more, but Bledsoe emerged, rubbing his eyes. “The sun's beastly bright down here, isn't it?” he grumbled. He pulled a pair of spectacles with tinted lenses from his pocket and put them over his eyes.

Iris's corset kept her from the depth of sigh with which she wanted to vent her exasperation. Would the two of them be like this the entire trip?

The maid emerged with Iris's and Professor Bailey's valises, and porters unloaded the rest.

“We're early, gentlemen and Miss. Perhaps you'd like to wait in the station for Mister Cobb's coach?”

“Is it a steamcoach?” Professor Bailey asked. Iris wondered if he was hoping for another Prancer.

The maid smiled at him and shook her head. “No, Professor, it's a simple horse-drawn carriage. The roads down here aren't good enough for the steam vehicles.”

“May as well wait inside,” he said. “It's probably cleaner.”

Bledsoe followed him, leaving Iris standing on the platform with the maid, who had lowered the valises and now stood rubbing her fingers.

“Are you all right?” Iris asked. She was happy to be out of the train car and in the open air, and the platform was shaded by a large tree. Although the air was warm, the breeze from the sea made it comfortable.

“Yes, Miss. I don't know what Professor Bailey has in his valise, but it's heavy.”

“Mind if I try?”

“Go ahead.”

When Iris stripped off her right glove, the maid's brows drew together, but she didn't say anything. Iris grabbed the handle of Bailey's valise and attempted to lift it while trying to read it. She got a sense of the professor's rush that morning, his irritation and resignation. Of course those were the dominant emotions, and she skimmed the surface for the maid's thoughts and feelings. There she found a curiosity to mirror her own and a sense of secrets hidden away. Iris lowered the valise.

“It certainly is heavy,” she agreed in a light tone. “And they say women over pack for journeys.”

“Yes, Miss,” the maid replied.

“I'm impressed by your strength.”

The young woman shrugged. “It's easy to build muscle when you're having to load and unload Mister Cobb's train car. Plus keeping everything steady on a train makes me use my middle strength.”

“I see. Will you be accompanying us on our entire journey?”

It seemed a simple question, but the maid hesitated.

“Is something wrong?” Iris asked.

Wheels ground over gravel at the front of the station, and the maid looked up with a relieved smile. “There's our carriage. Your carriage, I mean.” She picked up the valises, and the porters, who had been waiting inside, came back out for the trunks.

Iris, perturbed at the maid's reticence, followed the young woman through the station and to the front. A cream-colored carriage with matching horses awaited them. She was relieved to see the windows stood open because the thought of being stuck inside another vehicle, even for a short time, made her chest tighten.

Edward hadn't been able to shake the feeling that his clothes were soiled after their little sojourn on the floor of the train car. No matter how many times he washed his hands, they felt sticky, and now he added the gritty feeling of the sand that seemed to coat everything in the station. He wanted to rub his palms on his pants to get rid of the feeling, but he would have to wash them again, and he didn't trust the washroom in this tiny station. It reminded him too much of family trips to the coast and the final, disastrous one with Lily when they were to have celebrated their engagement.

“Bad memories?” Johann asked. In spite of having slept for much of the journey, he had dark circles under his eyes.

“Perhaps,” Edward replied. He tried to keep his tone light so his friend wouldn't ask further. Johann knew everything, of course. The entire town heard the story when he and Lily returned. He stopped himself from rubbing his hands on his pants but couldn't help but wonder how Miss McTavish would spin the tale of them all ending up on the floor of the train carriage. No doubt she would find fault in something he did even if she didn't complain about having her head on his chest. Truth be told, he hadn't minded so much, but he wouldn't admit that to anyone.

“I don't trust all this open air,” Johann said. “A small town is better than the countryside. It's too exposed here.”

The arrival of the coach forestalled more conversation. Johann stood and stretched. Edward had remained standing. He suspected the sand on the benches would stay invisible until it clung to his clothes and tried to get in every nook and cranny of his body. Miss McTavish and the maid entered, and the young archaeologist frowned like she was deep in thought.

Everything and everyone were loaded onto the carriage with great efficiency, and it rolled over the shell- and gravel-strewn path. Edward clutched the handle due to the precarious nature of the path along the bluff and the swaying of the cart in the breeze. They turned a corner, and the new angle revealed a view of the town below with the harbor and sparkling sea. And beyond the town, the white bulk of an airship stood, its canvas reflecting the luminescence of the sun like a beacon.

“A dirigible!” Edward exclaimed. “Is that what we're to travel on? Not a boat?” The itinerary had given the name of the vehicle, not the nature of it, and he hadn't dared to hope this disastrous trip would allow him to fulfill one of his lifelong dreams.

Miss McTavish faced him, and amusement turned up the corners of her eyes. “Yes, didn't you see on your itinerary?”

“I wasn't sure.” Now the carriage couldn't move fast enough. He fixed it in his sight, refusing to look away in case it should lift without them. “Will we be on time?”

“Don't worry, Professor,” the maid, who sat on the bench with Miss McTavish said. “That's Mister Cobb's personal airship. He's waiting for you.” The two women exchanged amused glances, but Edward didn't mind if they mocked him. He ignored the exclamations over each new view and the information the maid tried to impart about the seaside town. He fixed on their destination, and when the carriage stopped at the airfield, he was the first one out.

The
Blooming Senator
loomed overhead, its balloon crowding the view of the sky and the bluffs beyond. The last time Edward had felt so small next to a massive object was when he was a child, and his father brought a new stallion named Lucifer to the stable. His brother had insisted they go see it when it arrived. From what Edward recalled, it stood seventeen hands, and as a boy of five, he didn't reach the bottom of its massive chest. The horse had never liked him, had never allowed him near it after that, and he took some satisfaction in the thought that even Lucifer would be dwarfed by the airship's mass.

“It's amazing,” Miss McTavish breathed beside him, and he squelched the impulse to grab her hand and run toward it.

“Have you ever seen something so huge?”

“No. The only dirigibles I've seen were the smaller mail blimps in and over London. I've never seen one big enough for trans-Atlantic travel—they won't fit in an urban airfield. Mister Cobb must be very wealthy to afford it.”