The Transatlantic Conspiracy

by G. D. Falksen

  Rosalind had to laugh. “Of each and every one of them,” she said.

  “List them all, if you please,” Alix said wryly. “In order categorical.”

  “I don’t even know how one would do that,” Rosalind replied.

  “Alphabetical?” Alix ventured.

  It almost hurt to smile, but it also felt very good. “Well, aside from driving motorcars,” Rosalind began, “I speak without being spoken to—”

  “How horrible of you,” Alix interjected.

  “I believe in giving women the vote—”

  “Scandalous.”

  “Home rule for all people everywhere—”

  “Even the Alsatians?”

  “Especially the Alsatians,” Rosalind confirmed. “I am a pacifist, I ride bicycles, and I am a proud member of the Anti-Imperialist League.”

  “I did not know there was such a thing,” Alix said.

  Rosalind laughed. “It’s true. Mister Carnegie is a member. We are committed to the defense of the American ideal from the corrupting influences of empire.” She raised a finger into the air. “We cannot have democracy for some and not for all!”

  Across the table, Alix dropped her silver and clapped her hands.

  Rosalind’s face felt hot. Suddenly she was embarrassed at her own enthusiasm. “You’re not making fun of me, are you?” she asked. “I know that I can get carried away at times—”

  “Not at all.” Alix shook her head. “No, I am very pleased by it.” She leaned forward. “So you believe that America should not aspire to be an empire?”

  “It would be the death of our ideals,” Rosalind answered.

  “What about the European empires?” Alix asked.

  “They ought to be abolished,” Rosalind said. “Nobody should be ruled by a king or emperor half a world away in Europe.”

  Alix’s eyes sparkled, as if she was growing more excited with each word. She leaned forward, on the verge of falling from the edge of her chair. “What do you think about class barriers?”

  “I . . .” All at once, Rosalind felt very odd. Alix did seem genuinely interested in her opinions and delighted at her responses, but this made no sense at all. Alix was an aristocrat. Her entire world was built upon privilege and empire. Why would she be happy to hear that Rosalind despised everything her world represented? But even as she posed the question to herself, she could guess the reason: Alix was just desperate for any distraction, any way to avoid dwelling on the death of their friend.

  No matter. Honesty above all.

  “I despise class barriers and class privilege,” Rosalind finished. “And I’m not ashamed to say it. People ought to be judged on their accomplishments, on their conduct and strength of character, not whether their daddy is the third marquis of Such-and-such. And I grow so very tired of Society pooh-poohing self-made men, like there’s something wrong with having earned your money.”

  Alix nodded. “Yes?”

  Rosalind hesitated a little bit, again unnerved by Alix’s attentiveness. The girl appeared positively riveted, more so now than at any time since they’d met. But she continued: “My grandfather was a self-made man. My father more so, obviously. But my grandfather came over from Scotland with nothing, literally nothing, and he worked hard and built himself up until he was . . . well, not rich, I suppose, but wealthy enough. The fact that he did it on his own should be cause for celebration, not a family secret to be hidden away in a cupboard.”

  “Your family is ashamed of your grandfather?” Alix pressed.

  Yes, Rosalind nearly blurted out. But she caught herself. It was true: no one spoke of her grandfather in public. It was as if they pretended that her father had sprung full-grown from the American soil—without parentage, but with enough respectability (or rather, money) to wed her mother.

  “Let’s just say we don’t speak about him,” Rosalind said. “But it turns out all the respectability in the world can’t buy food or pay off one’s gambling debts.” She paused for breath. What was she confessing? And why? The Wallace family secrets weren’t Alix’s business. No, they were meant to be kept hidden at all times, whatever the cost. Because the family’s reputation was so very important. Because Society people were such wonderful company. Because here she was, across from a von Hessen . . .

  “Gambling debts?” Alix looked confused.

  “My mother’s uncle . . .” Rosalind answered hesitantly. “He has a passion for slow horses.” She quickly waved her hands to dismiss the topic. “It’s not important.”

  “No,” Alix agreed, “what is important is that you are born to privilege, yet you are angry that your privilege is not shared by all people.”

  “I suppose so, yes,” Rosalind said. She folded her arms and looked away. Then, despite herself, she jumped to her feet and began pacing back and forth. Surely she was making a terrible display and leaving Alix with a horrid impression of her. The girl would likely never speak to her again after that night, and of course Mother and Father would be furious once they inevitably found out what she had been saying.

  But dash them, what difference did it make? Cecily was dead, Inspector Bauer’s men were following her, and she was tired of it all. Tired of holding her tongue. Tired of worrying about what people might think.

  “Think about last night,” she said to Alix. “We here in First Class enjoyed lunch and dinner in opulent surroundings, and then we had a ball beneath the sea.”

  “It was all rather lovely, until . . . until it happened,” Alix said softly.

  “But what about the Second Class passengers?” Rosalind asked. “They’d been cooped up on the train as long as we had, and in much smaller accommodations. Did they enjoy what we enjoyed?”

  “No,” Alix answered.

  Rosalind kept pacing. “That’s right, they did not. They took their meals indoors, on the train, just as they did the day before and just as they will for the entire journey. And were they allowed to go to the ball?” She paused. “I suppose you’ll tell me these are ghastly things to say.”

  Alix rose from her chair and folded her hands in front of her chest. “Hardly,” she said. “They’re not ghastly; they’re true. Rosalind, you may not believe me, you certainly won’t understand me, but I feel just as you do.”

  Rosalind raised an eyebrow. “Truly?” she asked.

  “As God is my witness,” Alix said. “I despise class privilege. I despise empire. They are corruption, Rosalind, and they will be the downfall of us all, just like Rome before us.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Rosalind stammered.

  This was absurd. Cecily’s friend from boarding school: a radical? An anti-imperialist? Alix was nobility. Rosalind at least could look back to her grandfather’s humble origins and find in them a source for her beliefs—however confused those beliefs might be. But a von Hessen?

  “You’re an aristocrat,” she protested. “I don’t understand. Why would you oppose everything that your position gives you?”

  Alix sniffed. “This asked by the daughter of a rich industrialist and a lady of New York Society?” she mused. “I despise my class for the same reason that you despise yours, Rose. What use is the aristocracy now? We do nothing. We dare not contribute to intellectual discourse, so fearful are we that someone might use it against us to threaten our stature. If you think that your life is stifling, Rosalind, you must try mine.” She paused. “Though perhaps our experiences are not all that different.”

  Rosalind sighed and sank back into her chair. “The gilded cage is still a cage. Oh, but look at me. Who am I to speak of such things? And how dare I speak of injustice when I still happily go to balls and spend my father’s money and cross the Atlantic on his train?”

  Alix circled the table to join Rosalind. “That is foolish talk,” she snapped. “What matters is not how you were born, but what you do. You said that yourself. It is true for th
e rich as well as for the lowly. You and I were not born poor. Lamenting our wealth is self-righteous martyrdom. It serves nothing, do you understand me?”

  Rosalind looked at Alix, unsure of how to respond. In truth, she did not understand a thing about this girl.

  “You care about people, Rose,” Alix added. “About people. All people. That is the first step. Next, you must act.”

  “Act?” Rosalind repeated.

  Alix blinked. Perhaps she realized how dramatic she had become, for she backed away and stood by her chair. “I . . . I’m sorry, Rose.” She stumbled over her words. “I didn’t mean to get so philosophical. I’m just in a state over . . . what happened. I should go. It is growing late and I am tired.”

  “What?” Rose stood. “But—”

  “Please.” Alix stepped forward. Then she hesitated and drew away again. “I think we should speak no more about such things while we are traveling. I got carried away. Perhaps when we arrive in New York City, there will be an opportunity for more such . . . conversations.”

  Rosalind shook her head. She was almost tempted to block Alix’s exit. “Alix, I don’t understand . . .” She had been the one going on about madcap ideas, not Alix. She was grateful for a sympathetic ear. She should be the one worried about speaking out of turn. What the devil was going on?

  “I must go,” Alix insisted. She hurried toward the door. “But know this, Rosalind. You are not alone in your thoughts. There are many who wish to make the world a better place.” She gave Rosalind a last look and smiled. Then she was gone, sliding the door shut behind her.

  Rosalind stood still for a very long time. Then she glanced down at the half-finished dinner.

  “What did I say?” she wondered aloud.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Transatlantic Express arrived at Neptune Station ahead of schedule, shortly after breakfast—and Rosalind hadn’t seen a soul apart from a member of the waitstaff. He hadn’t said anything to her, of course, other than what was required of manners; he’d simply cleared her dinner and brought her the first meal of the day: tea, fresh bread, butter, jam, a sausage. She’d eaten alone in her room—in a daze, her mind whirling as the train slowed toward its next stop.

  On the one hand, it was marvelous to learn that she was not alone, neither on the train nor in her political or philosophical views. But on the other hand, Alix’s behavior disturbed her. It couldn’t have been just a way to deflect their attention from the loss of their friend. Perhaps it was the excitement of meeting a like-minded person. She couldn’t have met many, after all. Rosalind hoped that today Alix would be more herself. Then again, how could she be, under the circumstances? Besides, Rosalind didn’t really know the girl. Maybe Alix was capricious like this; maybe it took the trauma of Cecily’s death to reveal her true personality.

  It was best not to think about what she didn’t know, Rosalind decided as she stepped off the train into Neptune Station.

  The place was much like the Brandenburg in terms of its layout. It had the same vaulted glass ceiling, providing a splendid view of the surrounding sea; the same polished brass and marble; the balconies, sitting rooms, and all the rest. But here, to her relief, there was no hint of nationalism. This was a grand homage to the wonders of the sea. The statues and tapestries were of mermaids and fish rather than of eagles and . . . well, more eagles.

  As one of the first passengers to disembark, Rosalind was able to stroll about the concourse in solitude. Erich would be joining her soon enough for their appointed stroll. The few others were from Second Class, probably used to rising earlier. Rosalind did not mind the sparse crowd. She could imagine Cecily gawking at the statues of mermaids, delighting in all the various kinds of aquatic-themed art.

  My friend is dead, she kept telling herself silently. I saw her murdered body. But she couldn’t quite believe it. The entire journey seemed surreal, which was perhaps appropriate given where she was—another opulent palace under the sea—to say nothing of the method of travel itself. But any joy had been wrung from the wonder of it all. Beneath the shiny veneer of this marvel, a palpable madness lurked; it was very real and very deadly. Rosalind half expected to wake at any moment, to find herself back in London, Cecily and Charles with her.

  Wandering back toward the train, she glanced at her reflection in the polished glass of one of the windows. She looked tired, drawn. A moment later, she caught a glimpse of a figure behind her. As she continued on her way, she managed to get a look at him out of the corner of her eye and saw Bauer’s agent—the same one from yesterday, the one masquerading as the librarian—following her at a distance.

  It wasn’t all that subtle, and perhaps that was the point. It was a reminder that this was no dream. This was real, and it was in her best interest to keep her thoughts silent.

  As she stepped away from the train, she was startled to spot Alix and Jacob emerging from one of the First Class cars, arm in arm. They were going for a stroll as well, it seemed. Alix wore a conservative dress colored dark blue and together they looked rather somber. But they seemed unusually . . . well, close. Had Alix spent time with him last night, after she’d left Rosalind?

  Catching sight of her, Jacob raised his hand in greeting. Alix waved excitedly. Rosalind crossed the concourse and met them halfway, below a mural of a seahorse.

  “Good morning, Fräulein Wallace,” Jacob said, giving a stiff bow. “I do hope you are well.” He lowered his voice. “Under the circumstances.”

  So Jacob knew as well, did he? Rosalind wondered who had told him. Had it been Erich? Or had it been Alix? Or had he known all along? Perhaps it didn’t even matter. The train was small, and everyone was bound to find out sooner or later.

  “A very pleasant morning to you as well, Lieutenant,” she said, extending her hand with the warmest smile she could muster.

  Before Rosalind knew what was happening, Alix had swept her up in a tight hug. “Oh, um . . .” she stammered, extricating herself. “And good morning to you, Alix. Are you well?”

  “I am . . .” Alix paused, searching for the right words. Finally she shrugged. “I am very well, thank you. I have been doing some thinking. It is very good for me.”

  “Thinking is very good for a person,” Rosalind agreed cautiously. “And what have you been thinking about?”

  “I cannot say,” Alix answered, sounding pleased. “It is a surprise.”

  Rosalind blinked a few times. “Oh,” she said. “Well, I shan’t pry.”

  But she very much wanted to, as Alix seemed to have completely forgotten about Cecily’s death, or about her grief over it. Rosalind wondered for an instant if the girl had gone mad. But no, Jacob would have noticed. Perhaps he would have even sought Rosalind’s counsel.

  “I must confess, I am surprised to see anyone out this early,” Rosalind said in the silence.

  Jacob chuckled. “Oh, a man cannot be in the army and also be a late riser. It simply isn’t done. I never sleep past breakfast.”

  She smiled a little. He was so boisterous and enthusiastic, almost like a little child. And while she would never utter the thought out loud, he struck her as not terribly bright; but that only added to his childlike charm and sincerity. It was difficult not to feel cheerful around him. Perhaps that was why Alix had sought his company.

  “Good morning, everyone,” a voice called.

  Rosalind turned to see Erich approaching, looking very smart in a cream-colored suit. His expression was appropriately solemn. He nodded to each of them in turn. “Jacob, my friend; Lady von Hessen; and of course, Fräulein Wallace.”

  So at least he had the decorum not to speak informally to her in public. Rosalind had worried about that a little since their time together in the arboretum, about her confession. But it seemed Erich truly was a gentleman. He did not intend to take liberties of any sort.

  “Good morning, Herr Steiner,” Rosalind said.
/>   She extended her hand to him. Erich took it gently and bowed to her, all the while holding her eyes. Rosalind felt a tingle at his touch, followed almost instantly by a wrenching emptiness deep inside her. Cecily should be at the receiving end of that gaze, her hand in his. Rosalind quickly withdrew and looked away.

  “I’m surprised to see you awake this early, Herr Steiner,” Alix said. “I thought that you would still be abed, like all proper gentlemen.”

  Erich tried his best to be cheerful. “Nonsense. If it is a gentleman you want, you should look to my dear friend Jacob. He is the one with the proper breeding. I am but the son of a humble businessman.”

  Jacob snorted. “ ‘Humble,’ he says! I know the old Herr Steiner well. He is many things, God bless him, but humble is not one.”

  “That is true, God knows,” Erich agreed easily. “But still, I am just a man of the people. Of humble origin.”

  “And a lot of money,” Rosalind noted, doing her best to keep the mood light.

  “The two go together very well,” Erich replied in a dry voice. He held her gaze again. This time, she did not look away.

  Alix cleared her throat. “The lieutenant and I had plans to take a stroll around the station before they seat us for lunch.”

  “I am looking forward to lunch,” Jacob said happily.

  “Aren’t you always?” Erich noted with a good-natured nudge.

  “Would Herr Steiner and Fräulein Wallace care to join us?” Alix asked. “A stroll is just the thing for an appetite.”

  “I agree,” Rosalind said.

  As she turned back to Erich, she had the distinct feeling she was falling, as if the world had become an abyss with no bottom; she had no idea what would become of her, of any of them, or if she should even bother to care . . . at least beyond what was happening right now, in this moment.

  “Then it is settled.” Erich held out his arm to Rosalind. “Shall we?”