A Gentleman of Means

by Shelley Adina

  A polite knock came at the door.

  “Yes? I am still here, unfortunately.”

  To her surprise, Captain Hayes leaned in. “Are you comfortable, Miss Meriwether-Astor? May we provide anything for you?”

  “The porthole is too small,” she remarked, rather snappishly. “What are you doing aboard? Have you abandoned your undersea command so easily?”

  He laid a hand upon his chest. “You dishonor me. But no, my remit is to see you safely to England. My first officer now has command of Neptune’s Fancy.”

  “I wonder what he will have to say to my father when he returns to the fleet. One is usually allowed last words before one is shot.”

  “Oh, as to that, Neptune’s Fancy will not be returning to the fleet. As you so rightly point out, that would be dangerous for the crew.”

  “So you are stealing the undersea dirigible as well as the daughter? What a callous lot you are.”

  “I should prefer the word practical. The Fancy has her uses and she will serve honorably in the execution of them.”

  “What does that mean? Are you going to use her to sink the other vessels?”

  But he had done humoring her. “We expect to moor tomorrow evening, so we have only tonight to enjoy each other’s company at dinner. Remember, eight o’clock.”

  She turned her back on him. If she had hoped the cut direct would cause him to withdraw, she was again disappointed.

  “And since an airship, unlike an undersea vessel, offers no opportunity for an escape while under way,” he said, “your cabin will not be locked unless you choose to lock it yourself. Good afternoon, Miss Meriwether-Astor.”

  The door closed behind him and she waited, but he was as good as his word. No lock turned from outside.

  She turned back to the viewing port where, far below, she could see the sere, wrinkled outline of the Iberian coast. Her stomach seemed to hollow out with grief. There went her last chance of regaining control of her life, of returning to the people she had come to regard as her friends—or at least, whom she desperately wished might regard her as a friend.

  Where were they going? And once they got there, what would happen to her? Had Alice Chalmers ever received her message? Oh, why had she written that nonsense about trying to reach Munich? How many days would they waste searching the miles between Gibraltar and the Kingdom of Prussia before they concluded they must turn their attention to England?

  Would she even be alive by then?

  For whoever was behind this abduction would have sent a ransom demand to her father, would they not? The fact that she had not been informed of the answer that should have met them when they surfaced at Gibraltar meant nothing. It only confirmed what Gloria had always suspected—her father would not pay a ransom because he did not value her life, and Barnaby Hayes was too kind to tell her so.

  Oh, Dad had said often enough that he wanted her to helm the company after he was gone, but that had only been civility. And a means to keep her busy when she was not fluttering about spending his money in Paris and entertaining her erstwhile friends in London.

  Sending her plea for help to him would have been a waste of paper and a pound sterling. At least Alice might make an attempt—and if even she did not, Gloria had the cold comfort of having told her she had not meant to leave her friends to die in the Venetian lagoon.

  No, the most sensible thing for her father to do was to cut his losses and move on—to marry again and spend the next several years trying for a boy. Perhaps he would erect a memorial to her in one of the squares in Philadelphia.

  IN MEMORIAM

  GLORIA DIANA MERIWETHER-ASTOR

  AN ORNAMENT TO SOCIETY

  Hmph.

  The gong sounded and Gloria realized she had been standing here woolgathering for an hour, at least. Not that it mattered. She had nothing to change into, and no inclination to regret it. She straightened her spine and prepared herself to spend yet another dinner sparring with Captain Hayes.

  And wondering how on earth a man so amusing and charming and unfailingly kind could be such an utter villain.

  *

  The nameless, featureless airship dropped out of the clouds as it circled closer to its destination, fighting a headwind that swept toward it from the east. At the large viewing port in the main saloon—which, being furnished only with the bare necessities, had not much more than a spectacular view to recommend it—Gloria gazed down at the ground. A hawk stooping upon its prey could not have concentrated with more energy as she attempted to spot even one recognizable landmark.

  They had definitely arrived in England—that much was obvious.

  The rolling hills patchworked by harvested fields and stone walls had a calm, provincial beauty that she had never fully appreciated before. Roads meandered like threads across the countryside, punctuated by jewel-like towns, church spires, and dark folds of forest whose autumn colors were nearly finished. Far to the north lay a sheet of silver, turning slightly pink in the setting sun.

  The sea. In the north.

  That could not be. In her mind’s eye, Gloria examined one of the charts pinned to the wall of her father’s office in Philadelphia. The country spooling out below the ship was far too well-behaved to be northern Scotland. No, this was definitely England, so to the right would be—

  —Bristol. With a sigh of satisfaction, Gloria felt the world slip into its proper place as the heavy vapor from the city’s steam engines created a smudge below them like a second cloud. The map in her memory superimposed itself upon the landscape. That was no sea, but the Bristol Channel. If that were so, and they held their course, within ten minutes they would fly directly over Bath.

  When her prediction proved correct, Gloria fought down a whoop of triumph at the sight of the Royal Crescent and the Roman steam baths as they passed below, and schooled her face to impassivity. It was fortunate she did, for a lightness in her body told her they were losing altitude, which meant the ship was coming in for a landing slightly to the east of Bath.

  She must not be caught parsing out their location, tempting as it was to observe every detail. It was enough for her to know in which direction Bath lay. Bath, and the possibility of losing herself in the busy town until she could buy a ticket on the steam train to London and thence to Claire’s house.

  She gained the privacy of her own cabin moments before a knock came at the door. As the ship settled onto its mooring ropes, she glanced out the porthole and saw a thick stand of maples and elms close by, the last of the red and yellow leaves even now being whisked from their bare branches by the November wind.

  It had been months since she’d seen a proper tree. There were none in Venice.

  She opened the door to find Captain Hayes in the corridor. “Miss Meriwether-Astor, I am pleased to inform you that we have arrived.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.” He offered her his arm and, having no choice, she took it.

  She felt rather clever to be in possession of forbidden knowledge, and was consequently quite pleasant as they disembarked and he escorted her across a wet field to a path through the trees. “Am I to be housed in a prison?” she inquired. “Is this wilderness Dartmoor?”

  “No, and yes,” he said.

  A lie! The wretch, did he think her so simple? This pretty country in no way resembled the inhospitable moors surrounding the prison. Clearly he intended that she believe herself to be some hundred miles to the south and west, in case she took it into her head to send a message or attempt an escape.

  “Goodness. I had not suspected it to look so … civilized. The pictures in magazines are quite different.”

  “Never believe half of what you read,” he said easily.

  Or a quarter of what you tell me henceforth.

  They passed into a wide clearing, and then a view opened up before them that, had she been here as an invited guest, might have taken her breath away.

  A house sat nestled in a fold of the hills,
the golden light of electricks gleaming on the wet gravel sweep in front and the tall pediments before the door. Below it ran a small river, the laughing sound of which Gloria could hear from where she stood. Spreading oaks and the pointed tapers of Italian cypress were visible in the last of the fading light.

  To someone, this was a much beloved and cared-for home. To her, it was yet another series of locks and bars.

  “What a lovely house, and such an appealing prospect, so close to one of the most dreaded prisons in England,” she said.

  For a moment, he hesitated, and then he seemed to catch himself. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? We post a watch for just that reason.”

  She clenched her teeth, and forced a smile. “Am I to be similarly incarcerated here?”

  “I would rather you thought of yourself as a much anticipated guest, worthy of every comfort and attention. Miss Meriwether-Astor, may I be the first to welcome you to Haybourne House.”

  “Thank you, sir. Is it the property of friends of yours?” Or of whomever has engineered my abduction?

  “No.” His smile was that of a man looking on a much beloved face after many years away. “It is my home.”

  10

  As she clocked in, feeding her Stempelkarte into the mouth of the difference engine that ran the administrative operations of the Zeppelin Airship Works, Claire still struggled with the decision that had kept her awake half the preceding night. Should she tender her resignation today, come what would?

  The prospect of spending so much as a month catering to the whims of Messrs. Weissmann & Co., never mind ten or twenty years, was such an appalling one that it threatened to overwhelm even her sense of obligation to the count. She would have to pay back four years of tuition, and move her things and those of the girls onto Athena. Would he accept a scheme of monthly payments—which would include moorage fees—until the girls completed their schooling in June? Or would he wash his hands of all of them and ask her to pull up ropes at once?

  When she arrived in her laboratory, feeling rather ill, she was astonished to find Herr Weissmann standing next to her bench, clearly waiting for her.

  “Ah, Fraulein Junior Engineer. Would you come with me, please? We are expected in the offices of the managing director without delay.”

  “Why? Has something gone amiss?”

  “I assume he will tell both of us when we arrive. Hurry, now.”

  Mystified, Claire snatched her gray laboratory coat from its hook and fastened its horizontal clasps as they walked briskly to the telescoping ironwork of the elevator. What could Herr Brucker want with both of them? Unless …

  Oh, dear. Perhaps someone had discovered her bit of spliced cable and, in the absence of a memorandum documenting the change, had demanded an explanation. She was rehearsing what she might say when she and Herr Weissmann were ushered into the august presence.

  The managing director laid down his fountain pen and regarded her unhappily. “Herr Weissmann, do have a seat.” When Claire looked about her, she observed that the other wooden chair had been removed from the office, leaving her no choice but to stand. “Fraulein Junior Engineer, thank you for coming so promptly.”

  She inclined her head, stiffened her spine, and folded her hands before her. This did not seem to be the moment to insist on a lady’s prerogative to be seated first. Perhaps they were unaware such a prerogative existed.

  “I will waste as little of Herr Weissmann’s time as possible, and come to the point directly. This morning upon my arrival I found der Landgraf von Zeppelin himself waiting in my office, with no fanfare and no notice.”

  Claire’s lashes fluttered with surprise, but otherwise she made no movement. However, a measure of triumph warmed her heart. The count had changed his mind and come to her rescue, obviously having come to the conclusion that she was wasted here. She settled her feet more comfortably in anticipation.

  Herr Brucker regarded her coldly. “He informed me that you had gone over the heads of several levels of management and approached him directly with your dissatisfactions concerning your employment here.”

  She frowned at his impugning her motives for speaking up. “I live in the palace, and in the course of a walk through the rose garden, met him there. Naturally he inquired as to how I was enjoying my work. I did not complain. I merely told him the same things I told you.” She stopped herself before saying, clearly to greater effect.

  “And what was his response to your remarks?”

  “What one might expect. He referred me back to your … leadership and advised me to be patient.”

  Once more his gimlet glare reminded her of poor Herr Grunwald back at school. “He has also advised me to be patient, but I find it increasingly difficult in the face of so obstinate a young lady.”

  Arrogant, self-aggrandizing, and now obstinate. It was fortunate that the people closest to her did not agree with his estimation; otherwise, she might find herself taking these criticisms to heart.

  “I am afraid that I must put the interests of the Zeppelin Airship Works before those of patronage and obligation. Der Landgraf has given me a free hand with the engagement of new engineers; he also gives me a free hand with their dismissal. Fraulein Junior Engineer, please collect your things. As of this morning, you are no longer employeed with this company.”

  Claire stared at him. “No longer employed? You cannot sack someone whom the count has appointed. Does he know of this?” It was one thing to be impaled upon the horns of a dilemma. It was another thing entirely to have one horn—and one’s choice of it—taken away entirely.

  “No, but he will. It is within my authority to let a man or woman go if I determine they are disruptive to the work and safety of others. That, I am afraid, is what my report to him will say.”

  The rage that had been tamped down these last weeks while she tried to balance ambition with obligation flared wildly into life and Claire lost her temper.

  “Then I suggest you include something a little more truthful in your report,” she snapped, enunciating with the icy clarity learned at the silken knee of Lady St. Ives. “I came here this morning with the intention of handing in my resignation. Never in my life have I seen a business so mismanaged, so dependent on patronage and obligation as this one. If I put together every brain in the entire Flight Development Department, I still would not find the intelligence of one of my automatons.”

  His eyes bulged, and he glanced past her, as if about to call one of the uniformed men who acted as security at the main doors.

  “I shall be glad to shake the dust of your laboratory off my feet—and I shall have to, since cleanliness is a foreign concept and no innovations have been made in weeks that might stir up the dust in any case.” She laid a hand on the doorknob, shaking with anger. “I shall inform the count of your actions, of course, when he asks me at dinner this evening. If I were you, I should dust off my curriculum vitae.”

  With that, she swung open the door, swept through it, and slammed it so hard behind her that the secretary sitting just outside jumped practically out of her dirndl.

  Within ten minutes, Claire had returned her laboratory coat to its hook, removed the brass plate bearing her name on her bench, and marched out of the hangar to her steam landau. She could barely sit still long enough to wait for the boiler to heat, but when it did, she piloted it out of the gates at a far greater speed than she had coming in.

  And if a few tears were whisked out of her eyes as she bowled along the Talkirchnerstrasse, it was only due to the wind, nothing more.

  *

  “Sacked?” Andrew gaped at her, eyes wide with astonishment. “They let you go? Are they mad?”

  “They are the equivalent of a horse and carriage, mired in the mud of tradition and hierarchy.” Claire collapsed onto the sofa aboard Athena and pulled the driving goggles from her hair. “I would never have expected this from a company so far ahead of the rest of the world in technology and vision. It is heartbreaking, Andrew. I do not understand how the greatest i
nnovations of the modern age could come from minds as small as those.”

  Andrew got up from his drawings to sit beside her and take her hand. “Clearly there are other minds better occupied in other hangars,” he pointed out. “I wonder what these men believe the charter of flight development to be?”

  “Whatever their belief, they no longer have my assistance in bringing it about. I will make it clear to the count that, despite what they say, I have resigned my post. I do not wish it known among the Royal Society of Engineers that I have been sacked. That would be intolerable.”

  “Quite so,” Andrew agreed. “What now? For I do not for a moment suppose you have left without a plan in mind.”

  For the first time that morning, Claire smiled, and turned her hand so that it clasped his, palm to palm. “I shall form a partnership with you, if you will have me. I have come to believe that I, too, am the sort that must captain her own ship.”

  The smile that broke upon his face warmed her heart the way the sun will warm the coldest dawn. “I confess that when I saw your indecision, I was hard put not to attempt to convince you to do that very thing. We shall be partners in life and in work, and I will be the happiest man on earth.”

  He leaned in to seal this prediction with a kiss.

  “I am likely to be homeless shortly,” she reminded him.

  “You have two homes in England.”

  “But the girls’ education—I cannot pull them from the lycee when they are mere months away from matriculation. We cannot leave Munich until afterward.”

  “Then we will find that farm posthaste, for until we are married, I must continue to live aboard Athena. A landing field must take priority over a laboratory for the time being.”

  Athena. The resolution she had formed on the drive home rose up inside her, and Andrew must have seen her face change, for he sat up, his keen gaze unwavering.

  “Have I said something? Have you changed your mind about a farm?”