* * *
The cabbie from the train station drove me through Abney Park’s Egyptian-styled gates and down an overgrown lane to a little Gothic pile of a chapel. He dropped me next to a row of crape-bedecked carriages and an ornate, albeit completely black, hearse. The four black horses had enormous black plumes sprouting from their headstalls as if they were some strange, avian form of a unicorn.
A large band of mummers passed me as I headed for the chapel’s entrance. I blinked a few times in astonishment. If any funeral procession could be described as ostentatious, this appeared to be the one.
Captain Rollins would have hated it.
I hurried through the Gothic arch into the packed chapel and spotted Obadiah in his full dress uniform with a band of black crape tied around his sleeve, at the back. I slid into the pew beside him. The casket rested in front of the pulpit, but Captain Rollins’ family had yet to enter. They must have been receiving words of comfort from the clergyman. As if words ever helped.
“I paid a visit to the airfield’s stables yesterday,” I whispered, careful to keep my voice low enough to go unremarked among the other whispered conversations. Besides, I didn’t think my constricted throat would allow me to speak any louder.
“Did you now, lass? And what did you find out?”
“That you hadn’t been there, first off. No one had, not even Mr. Rollins. Only me.”
He frowned. “Young Josiah had other things to keep him busy.”
“More important than seeing to the safety of his ships and crew?” I snorted in derision. “Was he looking into his father’s death?
“I believe it was family business.”
“Ah. The funeral. The mummers were his fault?”
“Those were his mother’s idea, I have no doubt.”
I shook my head. Mr. Rollins hadn’t stopped his mother from hiring them. In my view, that was almost the same as endorsing the tasteless display. And apparently he hadn’t been concerned about the manner of his father’s death. He probably didn’t care how the man had died, just that Captain Rollins had left him his money and business. “So what is your story, Obadiah? Why didn’t you go check on the injured horse?”
Obadiah shuffled his feet and looked down. “I had a few things to see to, is all. What did the stableman have to say?”
Odd that the meticulous chief engineer would neglect something that so impacted the workings of our ship and the company as a wounded horse. But my habit of obedience to the man was too ingrained, and I answered his question without pursuing my own. “The projectile was a shaped, lead pellet, not a simple stone picked off the ground by some street urchin. It penetrated half an inch into the horse’s flesh.”
“Too far to be flung by hand,” Obadiah mused. “Not far enough for a firearm. Not unless it was fired from very far away, in which case the horse may not have been the target.”
“Perhaps a sling shot…?” I began, but at that moment the crowd hushed as Captain Rollins’ family entered, a veritable parade of fluttering black veils, dark suits, and crape.
The blue and green of Josiah Rollins’ uniform glowed amid the sea of the black, with one band of crape about his sleeve, like Obadiah’s. His mouth was set in a grim line; his complexion much paler than when we’d first met. He escorted a short, round woman with deep veiling concealing her face.
The widow, I presumed. How strange to finally see the woman my Maman had, at the least, supplemented, if not supplanted, in Captain Rollins’ heart. Or his bed, at any rate. Due to the extravagance of her veil, I could see little of her beyond the artful droop of her bearing, proclaiming as loudly as shouting how terribly, terribly distraught she was.
Had anyone besides me thought to notify Maman of Captain Rollins’ death? My single, succinct telegram, dashed off soon after landing in London, as I’d had no earlier opportunity, seemed entirely inadequate. How exactly did one let a man’s mistress know of his passing? Perhaps the lawyers took care of that part if the mistress had been granted a legacy in the will. I had no idea what arrangements Captain Rollins had made for Maman, if any.
My eyes returned to Josiah Rollins and his uniform. Why choose that particular attire when, as a son of the deceased, black would have been a more appropriate choice?
And here I was, wearing black like the family I wasn’t—despite Captain Rollins’ and my long association—when I would have preferred wearing my uniform. I was Edmund Rollins’ dear friend and employee, but I was not allowed the privilege of acknowledging either of those connections.
Perhaps Josiah wore his uniform as a statement of intent. A visual way of assuring all who saw him today that he intended to fully take over his father’s position. That Winged Goods in general, and the Mercury in particular, would continue; only the face in the uniform had changed.
I wished I could be equally assured he would pursue his father’s killer instead of ignoring the heinous act as everyone else seemed intent on doing.
* * *
After the service, several of Winged Goods’ captains, plus the odious Lieutenant Whitcomb, bore Captain Rollins’ coffin to his grave. My bonnet feathers whipped in the wind that ensured the London sky remained the blue Captain Rollins loved instead of its more normal putty color.
Obadiah tucked my hand in the crook of his arm as we trailed behind with the rest of the congregation. My throat ached and my eyes burned, forcing me to admit my discomfort wasn’t from an incipient illness. I searched desperately for something to distract me before I made a cake of myself by breaking down in public.
“Where’s the missus?” I whispered to Obadiah as I scanned the faces around us. Many Winged Goods uniforms were present, among them Henry McDonnell and, to my surprise, our ship’s boy, Benjamin Tibbett.
“In the country with our daughter and her husband. They’re expecting a joyful event at any moment.”
“That makes, what? Five grandchildren now?” I said, watching Lieutenant Whitcomb step back from the coffin to join a pretty, young woman I assumed was his wife. Why would a girl so lovely settle for a prig like Whitcomb for a husband?
“Six. Did you forget my eldest son’s latest? A fine, healthy lad he is. Bright as a button.” Obadiah’s craggy face broke into a brief smile before he glanced down at the grave, and his face resumed its solemn lines.
The low murmurs from the crowd stilled as the dark-suited clergyman stepped forward and signaled for the coffin to be lowered to its final resting place.
Josiah Rollins settled his mother at the head of the grave next to the white-haired old minister, stood to attention, and snapped a hand to his brow in a perfect salute. Beside me, Obadiah followed suit, as did the rest of the Winged Goods contingent.
I straightened, aching to do the same, to give my captain and friend the honor he deserved. But the rustling silk of my skirts reminded me of the inadvisability of the action.
In select circles, my presence as a woman aboard ship was known and accepted, if grudgingly, as in the case of Lieutenant Whitcomb. Perhaps the improvements in speed and efficiency Obadiah and I had brought about helped in that acceptance. But outside of that handful of crew members, no one knew that A. G. Everley wasn’t the likely lad most assumed me to be.
According to Obadiah, that situation needed to continue.
I studied Josiah Rollins, with his stiff posture and white face. At our first meeting two days ago, I had been struck by his resemblance to his father. Now, the differences between the two flared in my mind.
Josiah Rollins looked young. Younger than I, perhaps. Far too young in comparison to the other captains who gathered about the open grave. The harsh, straight lines of his mouth hinted that he didn’t smile easily or often, as his father had. His hair, cropped short and dark as the night sky, contrasted with his father’s old-fashioned silver-frosted mane. His slender but well-muscled frame lacked the slight paunch around the middle his father carried. I knew Josiah’s strength firsthand.
He dropped his hand to his side, and his eyes
searched the crowd, perhaps taking note of number of uniforms in the company.
Our gazes met—and held.
I should have looked away, avoided his attention; but I could not. Here was where I saw his father in him most—in the force of personality evident in his clear, grey eyes. I drank in the sight as if stranded in the deserts of the Great Eastern Erg and the resemblance was water.
Grief swelled in my bosom. Unshed tears made my vision waver, but I thought his expression went from surprised interest to cold and distant in the moment before his gaze continued on its search.
I dropped my gaze to the dispirited grass beneath the toes of my walking boots.
How could I endure serving under this man when I had to see that steely indifference in his eyes every day, so like his father’s in every other way?
The minister spoke again, of ashes and dust, the harshness of life, and the impossibility of avoiding death.
Dreary words for a dreary occasion.
I shoved back my sorrow and allowed resentment to arise, a much more comfortable emotion as it implied the possibility of a solution.
Why did society force me to stand here with the rest of the crowd, not even acknowledged as an employee, when by all rights I should be with the close friends and family? Blind justice would allow Maman to attend her dear friend and lover’s final farewell instead of remaining across the Channel, perhaps unaware as yet of his death.
Why had Captain Rollins not had the courage to leave his wife and acknowledge Maman? To weather the storms of controversy that surely would arise…and then abate, as all storms must?
The inevitable conclusion stepped to the fore of my brain.
Edmund Rollins had loved Maman, and he’d loved me—or liked me very much. But he had not loved us enough. Not enough to endure the scandal of acknowledging his lover or his female protégée.
And this betrayal struck straight to my heart, more painful than the passive desertion of his death.
I knew the issue was more complicated than that, but fairness was beyond me at the moment.
I dropped my hand from Obadiah’s elbow and abandoned the little huddle of souls around the open grave, weaving quickly through the marble and granite obstacles in my path, aware but uncaring that curious eyes followed and wondered at my abrupt departure.
Paths wandered everywhere in this heavily wooded burial ground, and in my haste to escape the intolerable proceedings, I veered from the most direct path to the churchyard’s gate. I stopped, took a sighting from the sun, and corrected my course.
In so doing, I spotted an outlier also moving away from the group of mourners, perhaps trying to intercept me. Or perhaps the elegantly dressed gentleman was merely attempting to depart early, as was I. I did not immediately recognize him and so had no reason to imagine he was aimed toward me in particular.
And yet, he sped his steps to effect a meeting just as I reached the masking shelter of an overgrown clump of rhododendrons.
“My deepest apologies, Miss Everley,” he began, “for the extreme rudeness of my actions in approaching you without a formal introduction, but I have need to speak to you. You are Miss Amelia Grace Everley, are you not?”
“I am,” I replied. How did he know my name? Or that I would be at Captain Rollins’ funeral? Perhaps he hadn’t known I’d be here, and had merely taken advantage of a chance encounter. He must be connected somehow to the airshipping industry, since he knew my identity. His sharp cheekbones and intense, blue eyes did seem familiar. Perhaps I had seen him on an airfield somewhere around the world, although I could not recall ever hearing a name attached to him.
“And you are…?” I inquired.
He stepped back and bent his slight frame in a charming, if old-fashioned, bow that afforded me a clear view of his crop of wavy, golden hair.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, rising to his full height of perhaps five and a half feet—the perfect airman’s build. If he were a few inches taller, he would make a fine subject for many a silly young lady’s fantasies. I, however, not being silly, did not mind his lack of stature. “Silas Fairlane, proprietor of Falcon’s Flight Transport.” He handed me his card.
Falcon’s Flight was a new entrant into the airshipping arena. A small company, but reputedly well-funded, and rising fast, so to speak. We’d moored by one of its ships in Constantinople. What was a rival airship captain doing at Captain Rollins’ funeral?
“Mr. Fairlane,” I murmured. I declined to extend a welcoming hand.
“I am sorry to intrude upon such a sad occasion,” he said. “But my errand is of some urgency. Perhaps you will agree to accompany me to Gunter’s for an ice, where we may speak undisturbed?”
Obadiah’s gruff voice came from behind me. “I don’t think so, Fairlane. Whatever business you have with Mel… Miss Everley, you may conduct here.”
I thought I saw a spark of something icier than Gunter’s sweets and much more bitter in Mr. Fairlane’s eyes, but it so quickly thawed into warm acceptance I may have been mistaken. “Of course, Chief Engineer Butterfield.”
The man certainly knew much about Winged Goods’ personnel.
“I merely wished to extend an offer of employment to Miss Everley,” Mr. Fairlane continued. “My flagship, the Merlin, is in need of a new chief engineer, and I have heard many tales of Miss Everley’s prowess at improving flight profitability.” He smiled at Obadiah, who had drawn my arm through his and turned me to the gate. “Under your guidance, sir, of course. The offer is open to the pair of you, if Miss Everley doesn’t mind remaining in the position of assistant. You both will be generously compensated if you agree.” He named a sum that made my eyes widen—nearly twice my current salary. I could pay for Maman’s retirement much more quickly.
Obadiah shook his head before the other man finished. “Not me. I’m too old to start up a new career with another company. Besides, I’m loyal to Captain Rollins.”
But Captain Rollins—my Captain Rollins—was gone. Josiah Rollins was an unknown quantity, one perhaps not inclined to allow for a female engineer. Or that was the impression Obadiah, and Josiah himself, had given me.
“It is not a question of loyalty, Chief Butterfield, but of opportunity. Miss Everley deserves a chance to advance in her career.” He turned to me with a smile as warm as the day. “Do you not, Miss Everley?”
The knot of resentment that had forced me from the funeral still roiled inside me. “Yes, I do.”
“Melly doesn’t need to leave the company to secure a promotion,” Obadiah said. “I’m thinking of retiring to the country to spend some time with my grandchildren. Tell them stories of my travels while I can still recall the details.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. Obadiah, retiring? He was still in his prime! I studied him, taking in the white of his whiskers and the remnants of his head of hair. I suppose he had aged since he’d taken me under his wing ten years ago.
But if Obadiah left the Mercury, what other force tied me to the ship, or to Winged Goods?
I turned to Mr. Fairlane, with his pleasing face and charming manners. “Who captains the Merlin?” I asked. “How large is her crew? What style of engines does she run?”
Mr. Fairlane gave me a satisfied smile. “The Merlin is a fast packet, specializing in passenger services. Her crew numbers ten in total; myself as captain; First Officer Ward, who also serves as physician; chief and assistant engineers; cook and cook’s lad; two deckhands; and two porters to see to the passenger’s needs.
“We can fly with one engineer for a time, until you find a likely lad,” here he paused and gave me another grin, “or lass to serve as your apprentice. And, of course, the deck hands will help shovel coal.”
A passenger packet. A larger ship, with more regular routes and schedules, where my ability to squeeze an extra few knots from the engines would be more easily recognized. A step up, in many ways, from the Mercury.
Plus, a promotion to chief engineer.
A tempting offer. Sur
ely I could return to Constantinople aboard the Merlin just as easily as aboard the Mercury.
“Give her a day or two to think about it,” Obadiah said as he grasped my arm more firmly, pulling me toward the exit. “The poor lass has yet to recover her land legs.”
“I shall consider your kind offer,” I managed to gasp out before Obadiah dragged me out of easy speaking range.
“I await your answer at our offices on the airfield!” Mr. Fairlane called after us.
“Thank—” I began, and then Obadiah and I were through the Egyptian-styled gates and out on the Stoke Newington High Street on a bright, summer day.
Rosy-cheeked nurses pushed perambulators and herded children into the burial ground, which also served as a park, to play in the rare sunlight. Fine days came all too infrequently, and mothers took advantage of the clear air to prevent the onset of rickets, a common malady in smoke-swathed London.
I dodged a tot in navy knickerbockers pelting like a cannon-shot down the street. “Why did you hurry me away so quickly, Obadiah? Mr. Fairlane’s offer sounded quite interesting. Are you angry I would consider working for a rival?”
He steadied me with a companionable arm around my shoulders. “I didn’t want you to give him any definite answers until I asked you something.”
“What is it?”
We reached the end of the block and both of us turned naturally in the direction of the airfield, far out of sight as it was, as if drawn by magnetism.
We realized what we’d done at the same moment, and Obadiah gave a low, gruff laugh, taking a step back from me. “How long have you worked for Winged Goods, now? Ten years? And all that time, you served under Captain Rollins.”
I gave a curt nod.
“Today was hard on you,” Obadiah said, shoving his hands in his pockets and watching carriages roll past. He looked to be gathering his courage to approach a touchy subject. One concerning personal feelings, perhaps. He’d always tried to avoid things like that.
I nodded, unwilling to allow my voice the opportunity to break.
Fires of Hell: The Alchemystic Page 4
