The great coils to either side of her began to hum with electricity, the prelude to the blinding blue arcs of fire and the deafening roar. Her only real concern as she waited for her muscles to lock in place was this: if something went wrong—if the machine malfunctioned or if Santa Barbara experienced a massive power outage or if a tree fell on her in the past, returning her dead body to the present—her friends would never forgive her. And if anything did go wrong, she hadn’t left so much as a note.
14
· EVERETT ·
Washington, DC, 1903
Everett Randolph pulled his scarf tighter around his neck as he approached the back door of The Dappled Pony. Winter was setting in, and he was beginning to question the wisdom of his lifestyle choices. He rapped three times on the kitchen door.
“Good evening, Mr. Randolph,” said the cook, stepping outside. “The mercury is falling fast.”
“I reckon it is,” replied Everett.
“What do you have for me this evening? I’ll take more of those parsnips—”
“Fresh out, Mr. George, but I’ll save you some Tuesday.”
“Let’s see what you have, then.” George approached the hand-drawn wagon and lifted the burlap to inspect the vegetables. “Go grab yourself some coffee before you freeze to death, son.”
Everett didn’t need to be asked twice. He had four stops to go, and it wasn’t getting any warmer now that November was just around the corner.
He sipped the coffee, dark and bitter, and considered his lot. He was no closer to having a job with Langley (he’d tried three more times), and the public pessimism about mankind achieving powered, controlled flight was starting to rub off on him. Truth was, after working five eighteen-hour days in a row just to cover the cost of his shared, bug-infested hotel room and a single meal a day, Everett was considering giving up and crawling back to his father: a modern-day prodigal son.
How he missed a full tub of hot water at the day’s end. He missed other things, too: scented soap, Jennings’s droll proverbs, the cook’s persimmon pudding with hard sauce. He even missed his mother’s remarks at parties as to which nine- or ten-year-old girls would make fine alliances in a decade or so. Well, he missed the days when his mother had been well enough to attend parties and make such remarks.
He downed the coffee in a final gulp and thanked his benefactor. Then, collecting eighty-five cents for the produce, he grasped the wagon handle and was on his way. To keep warm, he jogged down the road to his next destination, the small wagon thud-thudding behind. The cook at his next stop, the Mermaid, was going to be similarly disappointed about the lack of parsnips.
Lost in this thought, Everett wasn’t careful and stepped in a puddle with his left boot, the one with the hole worn clean through. He groaned. The other boot was about to get a hole, too. He would have to see a cobbler.
Everett rounded another corner, minding the puddles with greater care. Because of this, he nearly ran down a boy of six or seven holding a rusted-out tin can in front of him. Everett brought his wagon to a sudden halt.
“Please, sir,” said the boy. His hands and hair were dirty, although some attempt had been made to coerce the hair into lying flat.
“Holy Moses,” said Everett. “Nearly ran you over, didn’t I? Reckon an apple is a fair recompense for such bad manners. What do you say?”
The boy stared at him with large eyes that only got larger when Everett produced the apple, a hardy variety that resisted bruising. In quick order, the apple was snatched and bitten into.
Considering the reed-thin boy before him, Everett felt suddenly as wealthy as a mogul.
“Say there,” began Everett. “You look like a strong young fellow.” This was an exaggeration of the grossest sort. “Do you know the Mermaid, the Rose and Crown, the Liberty, and the Greyhound?”
The boy, his mouth full of apple, nodded.
“What would you say to finishing my vegetable deliveries?” asked Everett. “I’ve stepped in a puddle and would like to retire early today . . .” Glancing at the boy’s footwear, Everett paused. It appeared the young fellow was wearing some sort of women’s dancing slippers—or what had once been dancing slippers. A strip of filthy cloth held one of the shoes together.
The boy, gnawing the apple down to the seeds and stem, was staring at Everett.
“Tell you what,” said Everett. “You finish my deliveries and bring me my wagon and the proceeds, and you can have half the sales.” Then, recognizing that the temptation to keep all the proceeds as well as the vegetables and hand-drawn wagon might prove taxing on such a downtrodden soul, Everett sweetened the pot.
“I have a pair of boys’ boots as would suit you, with room to grow. They are warm and have thick, unworn soles.” He’d outgrown the boots he’d worn when he left his father’s house two years ago and was always intending to sell them, but thus far he had been too proud to actually sell them. He continued. “And when you bring the wagon round, I’ll let you have the boots on top of your wages. What do you say?”
The boy nodded, and Everett offered a few quick instructions in the art of vegetable salesmanship.
The boy in dancing slippers ran off as if his life depended on it, which it might well, mused Everett, turning onto a different road. He liked this road because it would lead him alongside pleasant front gardens as he made his way to his less-than-pleasant lodgings. He missed pleasant front gardens. Lost in the contemplation of a fine boxwood topiary, he didn’t notice he was the subject of scrutiny.
“I say, Everett Randolph? Is that you?”
Everett looked up. He knew the young man addressing him.
“Marvin Bitterson?”
The two removed their right gloves and clasped hands and exchanged details of their present lives. Marvin, the older brother of Everett’s former friend Joe Bitterson, was now a clerk for a judge in the city, and in short order he made Everett the offer of free lodgings in his basement.
“It’s no time to be living out of doors,” insisted Marvin.
Everett agreed.
“You’ll have a furnace as your roommate, although the durned thing isn’t working at the moment. I say, you were always clever with engines and such. Would you have a look at it and see what is to be done?”
Everett agreed to inspect the recalcitrant furnace, and the two conversed for several minutes before Everett suddenly recalled his appointment with the young vendor of vegetables.
Accepting a card from Marvin, Everett dashed back to his now former lodgings, where he was met by an enormous smile on an undersize boy.
“They gave me a slice of persimmon pudding at the Liberty,” said the boy.
Everett, who would not have minded a slice of persimmon pudding himself, was nonetheless gratified at the course his evening had taken. His new rent-free lodgings meant he would not have to devote so many hours each day to gainful employment. With this in mind, he sent the boy on his way with the entire evening’s take, the vegetable wagon, a sturdy pair of boots, and a promise to assist the boy in setting himself up as “Jonathan Jacobson, Purveyor of Surplus Greenstuffs.”
Then, collecting his few belongings, Everett made his way over to Marvin’s home, where in less than an hour he repaired the furnace. It made a decidedly pleasant roommate.
Now, Everett was once again able to devote some part of each day to improving his knowledge of modern engineering. What was more, after word circulated about the fixed furnace, Everett found steady work as a factotum, doing odd jobs and repairs for Marvin’s deep-pocketed friends.
As November wore on, there were still times Everett felt despondent about the seeming impossibility of manned flight, but at least he was here in the nation’s capitol should Langley make another attempt. And then in early December, something wonderful happened. Everett heard the news that Samuel P. Langley was at it once again.
The banks of the Potomac were colder than ever on the morning of December 8, 1903. Ice floated down the river, but the sun was out, and the wind
was nearly calm. Everett stood among a tightly packed crowd clustered along the Arsenal seawall overlooking the large houseboat and many smaller boats of spectators and reporters; the closer proximity to Washington, DC, had attracted more onlookers than ever.
The day wore on with hours of frantic preparations visible to those who hoped for either success or failure for the brave steersman, Mr. Manly, and his employer, Mr. Langley. Shortly after 4:30 p.m., Everett caught sight of Manly, wearing only long underwear and a bulky sort of jacket, which one reporter speculated must be full of buoyant material. Everett hoped so for Manly’s sake.
And then, at 4:45, the signal was given to release the catapult. Everett’s heart soared; it was the culmination of over two years of supporting himself so that he could be here, today, when surely Mr. Langley would succeed!
The Great Aerodrome shot skyward. What must it feel like to surge so steeply, so swiftly? Everett craned his neck, watching as, for several seconds, the nose pointed straight up. And then, just as suddenly, it came to a stop. Everett’s heart seemed to stop as well. He couldn’t even draw breath. Within seconds, the great wings crumpled, snapped, collapsed on themselves. Everett’s heart seemed to fracture along with the great machine. Moments later, the whole apparatus tumbled nose over tail into the icy water below.
“Oh, no,” Everett murmured, his hand flying to his mouth in dismay. As he watched, transfixed, the remains of the contraption broke apart in the river.
“Well, I’ve seen enough,” said one of the reporters at Everett’s side.
Everett stared at the man numbly. Jefferson, he thought the reporter had called himself.
“They want to send me off to the Outer Banks of the Carolinas next week, if you can believe it,” continued Jefferson. “A pair of fool brothers are trying to outdo what fifty thousand government dollars couldn’t accomplish in ten years.”
Everett felt sick inside. He’d heard that Professor Langley and his friends had put up another twenty thousand of their own money. What must they be feeling now?
“The brothers are manufacturers of bicycles, if you can believe it,” quipped Jefferson. “I’ll not be sent to the wilds of nowhere so close to Christmas. Mark my words, only idiots believe man will ever uncover the secret of flight.”
Everett, downcast, feared Jefferson might be right about that, but over the next few hours, he heard the names of Orville and Wilbur Wright upon more tongues than just Jefferson’s.
Recalling the high regard in which Octave Chanute held the Wrights, Everett sought out what information there was to be had about the reclusive brothers. Within two days of Langley’s aerodrome failure, Everett bid farewell to Marvin, to his work as a factotum, and to his beloved furnace-roommate. He now sought only one thing: an introduction to Mr. Wilbur and Mr. Orville Wright prior to the close of 1903.
15
· JILLIAN ·
Le Mans, France, 1908
Jillian checked her pocket watch. She’d “landed” in 1908, within a wooded area beside the racetrack reserved for Wilbur Wright’s aerial demonstrations. According to her watch, traveling and regaining her stability had taken a full minute and a half, which meant that by the time she stepped out of the oaks and shrubs that had hidden her arrival, she had only twenty-seven minutes in which to (hopefully) see Wilbur Wright fly and (even more hopefully) convince him to answer her questions. She was already feeling behind schedule.
Examining the racetrack that served as runway and landing strip, Jillian noted a distinct lack of aircraft. She turned her gaze to the sky. She was making a second sweep from one side of the horizon to the other, head tipped to the sky, when a young man addressed her from the meadow’s edge.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” said the young man. His voice, deep and velvety, seemed to demand her attention. Jillian felt an odd shiver running up her spine—DaVinci would have said it was a ghost passing over her grave.
In spite of the shiver, Jillian pretended she hadn’t heard him. Talking to strangers wasn’t on her agenda.
He switched to English. “Good day, Miss.”
Without quite meaning to, she turned in time to see him lifting a jaunty motoring cap so that the sun struck his eyes, blue and pale as glacial ice, ringed with dark lashes. The effect was stunning. It made her breath catch in her throat. His lips were full and curved into an intoxicating smile. He looked like a star from the era of silent movies—like the signed picture of Hugh Allan her mother had inherited.
Still smiling, he spoke again. “Looking for Mr. Wright?”
Jillian misheard the question as looking for Mr. Right, and the part of her that was tempted to reply absolutely yes was overruled by the part of her that had heard one too many pickup lines at Cal Berkeley. She stared at the speaker down the length of her nose with the self-assurance of generations of Applegates who, although ordinarily polite, could look down their noses when looking down one’s nose was called for.
He didn’t get any less good-looking from that angle, but Jillian managed to turn away. She had a schedule to stick to. Without answering the young man, she strode forward, continuing her overhead search for Wilbur Wright, who was presumably in the sky somewhere.
Underfoot, weeds yellowed and dead crunched beneath her boots and caught at the hem of her costume, occasionally giving her the sensation that someone was stepping on her skirt. She couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder to be sure the blue-eyed young man wasn’t stepping on her skirt, and when she looked, she saw he was following her.
She was flattered—who wouldn’t be?—but she had no time to spare, not even for handsome young men. She resumed her stomp across the uneven ground, her overhead search interrupted by brief glimpses at the ground to make sure she didn’t twist an ankle.
After another minute of tramping through the weeds, her skirt caught on something that didn’t let go. She turned to free it, but the young man was already kneeling and reaching for her hem.
“Allow me?” he asked. Without waiting for her answer, he loosened the snagged fabric and then looked up at her through the thick fringe of those dark lashes.
Wow. Just . . . wow. “I can take care of my own dress,” she murmured.
The young man smiled at her, and once again she had the impression of staring into the eyes of a silver screen star. His good looks were almost unearthly. Jillian suspected he’d figured that out at least a decade ago.
“Oh, I have no doubt you can take care of yourself,” he replied, still smiling. Then, seeming to collect himself, he stood, removed his right glove, and extended a hand. “Everett Randolph,” he said. “I’m American, too.”
Jillian stared at the outstretched hand for half a beat too long, and Everett, evidently embarrassed, withdrew the hand and put his glove back on. Realizing her manners were appalling, Jillian held her hand out.
This seemed to fluster Everett. He stared at her extended hand and then his glove, and then speaking hurriedly, took her hand, saying, “Please forgive the glove.”
Everett’s grip was solid, self-assured. The feel of the soft, worn leather of his glove against her palm was pleasant. Of course, it also made her suspect she ought to be wearing gloves.
Releasing his hand, she turned her attention back to the sky. Perhaps now that the rules of polite society had been observed, he would take the hint she was busy.
“And your name?” he asked.
Oops. The rules hadn’t been observed, not entirely. Her lips thinned to a tight line. She wasn’t here to play by the rules. Or if she was playing by rules, it was the rules set by space–time. She was on the clock.
“Listen,” she said, “I’m short on time.” Ignoring every Applegate gene demanding that she continue conversing, she strode forward.
“I meant no offense,” said the young man, jogging until he caught up to her.
Her genes got the better of her. “I’m not offended,” she said, putting on a friendly smile. It had been an expensive smile, requiring two rounds of braces, and her mother had
made certain Jillian knew how to use it to good effect. “And I’m not trying to be rude, but I simply have no time to waste.”
Admittedly, she was finding it hard not to waste time staring at Everett’s striking eyes.
“Tuckered out already?” asked Everett. “I promise it’s not a waste of your time, waiting to see Mr. Wright bring his aeroplane back down again. Confident as a swan coming in over a lake, he is. And every bit as elegant.” With that voice, the young man could have made a fortune doing voice-overs in her era.
Jillian stopped and inhaled slowly, the cold air seeming to burn as it entered her nose. In spite of the thickness of the cashmere ensemble, she was already wishing she’d brought a heavy coat. Checking her delicate pocket watch, she noted with frustration that she’d already used up six minutes of her time. She was going to have to reserve three minutes to make a dash back to the woods so no one saw her disappear, which meant she had only nineteen minutes remaining. What if Wright stayed up longer than the three- to five-minute flights she’d read were typical for him in Le Mans? What if he was attempting to set a record? A gust of icy wind blew down the back of her neck, and she shivered.
In an instant, Everett had removed his wool scarf, quickly wrapping it around her neck, lapping the ends with expertise while avoiding all contact with her body. The scarf was soft and still warm from where it had touched his neck.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Stepping back, Everett spoke again.
“I’ve followed the Wright brothers from their very first flight, you know.”
It felt to her as if he was waiting for her to say something. What was she supposed to say? She decided he must be waiting for her to act impressed. How, she wondered, did someone from Aunt Beverly’s day tell a guy to get lost? Or to take back his flipping scarf, already?
As she took another slow breath, she caught the smell of something lemony. Something fresh. Nice. The young man wore scent or washed with scented soap. At the same time her olfactory sense was processing this, another part of her brain was forming a plan. If Everett Randolph really had been following the Wright brothers for five years, maybe he could introduce her to Wilbur Wright . . .
A Flight in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 2) Page 9
