Gossamer Wing (2 page)

One

UPPER NEW YORK DOMINION

(
SEVEN YEARS LATER
)

DEXTER HADN’T MINDED
the commissions at first. A gauntlet-mounted riding rifle here, a stealthy rooftop periscope there. A dog automaton once, for a terminally ill child with allergies to the real thing.

But this . . . he looked at the leather harness in his hands, hefted the weight and swore at some length before his words regained a semblance of coherence.

“And you say he wants
more
rivets? Does he have any idea how much this monstrosity weighs already? The fool won’t be able to walk half a mile before he buckles under the weight.”

“Aye, sir. But the Marquis’s son claims that Lord Ravensward has one that—how did he put it—is armored with rivets like a million brass nipples, gleaming in the sun. I merely quote, sir. The imagery itself was lost on me.”

Dexter’s sigh spoke nearly as many volumes as his curses had. “If only they didn’t travel in packs. They just incite each other to greater and greater excess.”

The younger man snickered. Taking the harness back from his master, he slung it behind him and hooked his arms neatly through the shoulder straps. Then he broke into a curse of his own as the overdecorated strap continued its swing and caught his unsuspecting cheek a nasty blow.

Dexter clamped down on a grin. “Speaking of buckling, that one could probably do with some revision, Matthew. Perhaps three smaller straps, at intervals down the chest, rather than just the one? It would more evenly distribute all that weight.”

“I agree, sir. May I take it off and begin on the changes prior to mounting and testing the firearm again? My ears are still ringing from the last time.”

“My boy, as long as it’s delivered on time and operational for the toff’s house party, I really don’t care what you do with it in the meantime. I trust you to get the job done.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Matthew sauntered off, the jangling buckles and creaking straps of the fowling harness making a merry din. Dexter shook his head, still baffled at the vagaries of fashion that so complicated his business at times, before returning his attention to a more interesting project.

An air helmet. He rarely touched the production of such a commonplace item these days, but he always handled Lady Moncrieffe’s requests personally.

A monocular telescope was built into one eyepiece of the helmet, with controls that could be worked with the chin or mouth while leaving the hands free. Dexter had spent weeks of his own time on the thing, and frankly felt he had created a small masterpiece. The instrumentation was precise, the optical device providing clear views at a magnification of up to fifty times. All operable by the most subtle wags of the lady’s noble jaw or nips of her no doubt aristocratically white and even teeth.

“In blue,” her initial commission had specified. “Fleece-lined for warmth at a minimum increase to weight or drag. Overall weight must remain below fifteen hundred grams.”

He had made the device per these specifications, which had come to him as usual in the lady’s own elegant hand. It had been delivered to her just over a week ago.

That same flawless penmanship graced the note accompanying the rejected helmet when it arrived back at his workshop a few days later.

Dear Mr. Hardison,

The helmet you provided is satisfactory in its technical particulars. However, when I say it must be “blue” I mean it must be the color of a cloudless sky.

Sincerely,

Charlotte, Lady Moncrieffe

He looked at the helmet, which sat on a mesh-covered framework exactly matching the measurements of Lady Moncrieffe’s head. The helmet leather was a peacock blue that had been the first stare of fashion this season, and at the time of its crafting Dexter thought it was at least a refreshing change from last year’s craze for lilac and peony. It set off the brass nicely too. He’d heard the woman was very fair, and thought the bright blue might suit her.

But sky blue? He couldn’t recall the last time he had received a custom order for anything in such a color. Dexter wondered if it was a particular favorite of the widow Moncrieffe, and it occurred to him that he had no real idea of her coloring other than “fair,” though he knew practically every dimension of her body from the sundry devices he’d custom-built for her. Perhaps she simply looked good in sky blue.

“The color of a cloudless sky,” she had written. For her airship helmet, which she used to see things from very far away while her hands were otherwise occupied.

Perhaps your Ladyship would care to review some swatches
—Dexter began, then put his pen back into its stand and crumpled the piece of notepaper. Retrieving a fresh page, he stared at it for a long moment pondering what he knew of Lady Moncrieffe.

In sum, it wasn’t much more than any member of the public might know, despite four years of correspondence with the woman over a variety of topics, sometimes only tangentially related to the commissions she’d sent him. Dexter had always enjoyed those letters, but had never gone out of his way to meet the woman who wrote them lest his fanciful picture of her be marred by a less-than-stunning reality. It was a game he played with himself, picturing the Charlotte Moncrieffe of his imagination, engaging in feats of derring-do most unbecoming a well-bred widow. From their letters he sometimes glimpsed a sly wit, a hint of cheek, and though the Charlotte in his mind had never worn a particular face, she had developed a bit of a cockeyed smile. Even, on occasion, a coquettish dimple beside rosy lips, as she swashbuckled her way through his mental landscape.

Dexter laughed at himself every time he indulged in this fancy. He was no green boy, and he knew himself well enough to know it was probably best they never meet, as he would almost certainly be disappointed. The widows of his real-life acquaintance never derring-did much of anything, and he’d no real reason to think Lady Moncrieffe was the exception despite her penchant for odd contraptions. He was happier daydreaming on occasion about the mysterious woman with the intriguing commissions, content with only the few facts he’d learned through mutual associates.

What he did know for certain was that she was young, and had been widowed very early in her marriage some years prior. An oft-discussed tragic figure, Lady Moncrieffe still wore mourning for her husband and showed no interest in seeking another spouse. She lived on a vast estate not too far north of New York City, and was rarely seen at society events either in her own county or in the city itself.

Yet she had custom-ordered more than one weapon, an array of telescopic and sonic amplification devices, a small steam car and a velocimobile, and a set of equipment for use in mountaineering. And she apparently spent a certain amount of time on an airship, possibly at high altitudes given the need for added insulation. While riding that airship she required the means to view things over a mile away—things on the ground, in other words—while her hands were otherwise occupied.

The color of a cloudless sky
.

Dexter realized Lady Moncrieffe was not being poetic, as he had first imagined. He should have known sooner, because she had never been poetic before. No, she literally wanted the helmet to be the color of the sky, and he suddenly suspected her reasons for that had nothing to do with fashion or whim. All Dexter’s fancies about what the lady did with his inventions—the ideas he’d always told himself were too far-fetched to be anything but fiction—began to coalesce into one undeniable possibility. There were really only so many reasons a person would require the equipment Lady Moncrieffe had ordered over the years.

Dexter Chen Hardison did not like to do things halfway. To create something that would truly meet the lady’s needs, he realized he had a need of his own: information.

The revelation made his return note much easier to write. Three words, in fact, sufficed.

My dear Lady Moncrieffe,

To what purpose?

Yrs, D. C. Hardison

By return mail the next day he received the answer he had already deduced, and it was even shorter than his own message.

Hardison—

Camouflage.

* * *

“PACKAGE JUST DELIVERED,
ma’am.”

“Thank you, Smits. Put it in my study, I’ll open it after luncheon.” Charlotte, Lady Moncrieffe, returned to her cold salmon and travel brochures, only to note that Smits yet stood his solemn, quiet ground at her shoulder.

“Yes?” she asked after waiting a moment to see if he would ever clear his throat to gain her attention.

“Beg pardon, m’lady, but the young gentleman who brought the package insists on delivering it personally. He says he’s to report back to the makesmith on its suitability.”

“Oh!” The smith had sent a boy along with her helmet? Charlotte wasn’t sure whether this boded well or ill. “Well, take
him
to the study then, and offer him some refreshment. I’ll be along shortly.”

Smits vanished on his errand, leaving his mistress alone at the little round glass table in the solarium. Charlotte yearned to dash to the study as soon as he was away. Instead she gave it all of five minutes before rising gracefully from her meal and gliding along to the study as elegantly as if all society were watching her to learn how to behave.

The makesmith hadn’t sent a boy, it transpired. He had sent a young gentleman, as Smits said. With a voice as refined as if he’d been sent off to spend his formative years at Eton, the young man greeted Charlotte and presented his box with a flourish. She was still trying to sort out where on Earth he must have come from when she pulled the contents of the box free from a layer of cotton wool, and finally beheld the result of her commission.

It was perfect.

The helmet was indeed the blue of a cloudless sky, and more specifically the very pale and almost pearly blue of the sky on a clear winter day. The layer of fleece that lined it had been tinted to complement the delicate hue.

The fittings astonished Charlotte almost to the point of breathlessness. She hadn’t thought to request anything other than the usual brass or nickel. It had never occurred to her . . .

“What on earth has he done to the metal?” she gasped, running her fingers over the glassy-smooth matte surface.

The young man chuckled, touching the rim of the ocular with evident appreciation. “Everything he could think of, I suspect. He started by enameling the original brass. But that was apparently too glossy, and added too much weight.”

Every piece of metal, from the ocular device and controls right down to the row of tiny buckles fastening down the back of the headpiece, were the same dull, pale gray blue. No extraneous pieces impeded the helmet’s smooth lines, no decorative rivets or designs tooled into the leather. Only soft blue kid and cool, functional metal. Charlotte hefted the helmet, which seemed even lighter than the earlier model.

“This doesn’t look enameled, and it’s very light indeed.”

“Yes ma’am,” the young man agreed. “He tried a number of other processes before finally rebuilding the entire ocular frame from anodized aluminium. The matte texture took a few tries to accomplish, however. Still not sure how he did that and he isn’t telling, but I know he swore at least one of our metallurgists to secrecy on pain of death.”

The man’s wink was cheeky but not offensive, and it looked naggingly familiar. But how could a young makesmith be familiar?

“I’m sorry, have we met, Mr. . . . ?”

“Pence, ma’am. Matthew Pence.” He sketched a little bow scarcely less cheeky than his wink.

“Matthew—not Sir Paul Pence’s boy?”

“The same.”

“But I thought you were off at Oxford.”

“I was. My parents certainly hoped I would return to the estate once I finished, ma’am, but I finally convinced them my time would be better spent right now working for Mr. Hardison.”

It was not an entirely unprecedented move on Pence’s part. More and more of the young aristocracy, second sons in particular, were turning to the new industrial trades. They didn’t all need the money, necessarily, but all who hoped to prosper in the new century knew that industry would soon outstrip agriculture as the primary business of the American Dominions. Especially now that the war with France had officially ended, and the manufacturers could turn their attention away from battle machines to consumer goods once more.

Still, Pence’s father had inherited and built on a fortune in the import-export line, and one might have expected his only son to study some polite subject at university then return to take over the family business.

“I’m . . . rather handy, you see,” the young man offered in explanation of his aberration from the traditional path.

“Well, you’re certainly in good company. I’m quite sure Baron Hardison’s father never expected his son to become a makesmith either, but he seems to have done quite well in that vocation.”

Matthew’s mouth curled up at one corner. “He doesn’t like us to use his title, ma’am.”

“Of course.
Mister
Hardison. Excuse me, I had forgotten. You may convey my compliments to him, Mr. Pence. The helmet is exactly what I needed.”