“I want to see the ones on guns,” Tigg said bluntly. “House things ent going to help us.”
“Knowledge of firearms wouldn’t help someone who plans to be a chauffeur, I wouldn’t think,” Andrew told him in what he hoped were quelling tones. Young upstart. If he hadn’t been in Claire’s company, he’d have been tempted to cuff the pup. By his age he should have learned to speak to his betters with more respect.
Tigg seemed to be swelling up with some kind of outburst, and again Claire laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Tigg has a particular reason for his interest,” she said. “And I should be glad to expand my knowledge in that area, as well. However, let us begin, as you said, with the mother’s helper, and then branch off into uncharted territory once we are familiar with the basics.”
Unlike similar exhibits in the British Museum, the ones in the Crystal Palace were meant to be examined and explored. His Majesty King Albert was keen that the technologies invented by British minds should be admired by all. Andrew was able to disassemble the mother’s helper and spend an agreeable few minutes bent over it with Claire, whose own mind was so quick to grasp its principles that he suspected he was being led down the garden path.
“You’ve already done this, haven’t you?” he finally said, as she took the loaf-shaped brass housing from his hands and snapped it into place. “You’ve taken one apart already and could probably tell me how it works.”
“With statick repulsion,” Tigg said.
“Very good, Mr. Tigg,” she told him, and he straightened under her approval. Then to Andrew, she said, “I confess that I have, but my companions have not. I want Tigg and young Willie here to know as much as possible. They have ... fallen somewhat behind in their educations.”
As the little boy couldn’t be more than five, Andrew wondered at this, but he wouldn’t contradict her for the world. “Very well, then, let us proceed to larger cells. I believe we’ll find a fine example of a Winchester electrick handgun in the hall of invention for the American Territories.”
Unfortunately they were not permitted to handle the Winchester piece, but a gentleman with an appalling accent and snakeskin boots was happy to show them how it worked. “This here cell replaces the old-fashioned magazine, see, where bullets used to go.” He tilted it out, and Claire and Tigg craned to see the small transparent globe better. “The copper tubing runs from the cell to the barrel to protect the mechanism, see, otherwise the whole shebang would melt.”
Claire’s eyebrows rose. “And the copper itself does not melt?”
“No, ma’am. Copper’s a conductor. So when you pull the trigger, it sets the current free, in a manner of speakin’, and it travels down the barrel and out to your target.”
“What’s the range?” Tigg asked.
“That’s a good question, pardner. Depends on the size of your cell. This here model, why, she’ll zap a fly off the back of a horse from fifty feet.”
Tigg’s eyes widened as he contemplated this picture in his imagination, and Andrew smothered a smile.
“And what of a cell about this size?” Claire curved her hands one on top of the other, as though she were cradling a rubber ball. “What range would it have if the barrel of the piece were about three feet?”
“Ah, now you’re talking rifles, which are a whole other animal. A cell that size paired with a barrel that long, why, it could take that same fly off my hypothetical horse from the end of this here exhibit hall.” He pointed to the exit doors. “It’s the barrel, don’t you know. The bolt gets going in there and nothing can stop it. I hope you ain’t planning to heft one of those, young lady. Purty little thing like you could get herself hurt.”
Claire gave the Territorial a winning smile. “Of course not, sir. I’m merely seeking instruction for my young charges. Now, could I impose upon you to explain a little further how exactly the bolt is created within the cell?”
By the end of the half-hour, the American exhibitor had somehow been convinced to disassemble the Winchester and tell them about it in such detail that most people’s eyes would have glazed over. But Claire Trevelyan was not most people, and neither were her companions. Andrew expected the kind of incisive questioning that Claire gave the man, but the mind of young Tigg surprised him. It was clear that a career as a chauffeur was the best he could do, considering his station—but what a waste of a fine brain. He would no doubt be the kind of driver who would while away his off days taking apart the engines and landaus of his employers and putting them back together again, just to relieve his boredom.
Claire finished her impromptu engineering class by reciting, along with Tigg, the parts that comprised the power cell, and the order in which they were assembled. From memory.
Concealing his amazement, Andrew waited as Claire thanked the gentleman for his kindness. They walked slowly down the length of the exhibit hall, stopping from time to time to examine the electrick cells on a pair of pistols, an icebox, and even on a serving trolley.
“I wonder.” She halted, idly watching the trolley as it trundled from one end of a mocked-up parlor to the other.
“What’s that, Lady?” Tigg’s gaze followed the trolley as well.
“How big a cell do you suppose it would take to power a landau, Tigg?”
Andrew stopped himself from laughing aloud just in time. Not only would she never forgive him, but it would show disrespect in front of her students. Having been in the position of instructor before, he knew how important respect was.
“A right fair size, Lady,” the boy answered. “Size of a mother’s helper, for sure.”
“At least.” Her tone was thoughtful, as he imagined her brain turning over and over under that heap of russet hair and that ridiculous hat. Andrew wished she would share her thought processes with him, outlandish though it might be. Were they well enough acquainted that he could inquire? If only to advise her of the impossibility of such a scheme—anything bigger than household appliances had to be powered by steam. Everyone knew that.
“Hm. Yes?” She looked down as Willie tugged urgently on her skirt.
Tigg took his other hand. “Looks like ’e ’as to take a leak, Lady. Come to mention it, I do too.”
This time Andrew did laugh out loud as Claire turned scarlet and clapped a hand to her mouth. “Mr. Tigg, I—really, I insist that you not—that you—oh, dear.”
Andrew stepped into the breach. “Would you allow me to take them? And on the way I’ll instruct them in the proper expression of such things. Shall we meet again at the ice rink to collect the girls?”
Her color still high, Claire nodded and gave him a speaking look that conveyed—what? Surely that soulful expression was more than gratitude for such a simple favor?
“Thank you. Dear me. Willie, you and Tigg are to go with Mr. Malvern, since I am superfluous in matters that concern gentlemen. I shall attempt to extricate the Mopsies from whatever disaster they have managed to create at the ice rink.”
She marched away, her back straight, her skirts frothing around her ankles with the firmness of her step. What a pretty sight she was. How utterly wasted as the governess of these children. There must be some way to convince her to come and work with him.
James was around here somewhere. Andrew would prevail on him to apologize for whatever offence he had caused, and then together they would bring their powers of persuasion to bear. Now that he had found her again, he would not allow her to disappear. He would have to go a long way to find a woman like this again.
As a suitable assistant.
Chapter 28
Claire followed the direction in her guidebook and located the ice rink in only ten minutes’ walk. What a miracle of technology such a simple thing was—a sheet of ice who knew how many inches thick, kept frozen by marvelous engines somewhere below. Upon it, skaters twirled on rented skates—including the Mopsies, whom she identified immediately by their shrieks of glee as they chased each other like waterbugs on blades.
It was apparent that the purchase o
f needle and thread on the way home would need to be followed by lessons in the homely arts of needlework. From the side of the rink Claire could see a row of lace drooping below the hems of Lizzie’s dress.
Someone cleared his throat quite close to her. “It’s quite a thing, isn’t it, to enjoy the pleasures of January at the end of July?”
Claire’s mouth went dry and instinctively she sidestepped. But there was no escaping him. Lord James Selwyn only followed. Unless she was prepared to make a scene in public, she would simply have to heap coals of fire on his head and be the soul of politeness.
“Lord James.”
“Lady Claire. This is an unexpected pleasure. Though perhaps that is unfair of me. I would expect to see you in few places other than the Crystal Palace, knowing the turn of your mind.”
Hmph. He knew less of the turns of her mind than Rosie the chicken, who was actually quite adept at divining what she wished to communicate. “Yes, we schoolgirls often come here to fill the gaps in our educations.”
He had the grace to pause and look down at her as if he really saw her. “I take it I am not forgiven.”
“That would assume you had engaged my mind enough to offend.”
“You seemed very offended when last we met. Exited my laboratory with precipitous haste, if I recall.”
“Your laboratory?”
“My money built it.”
“Ah yes. Your money.” She hoped Mrs. Morven had taken her advice about the twenty-five percent. “I trust you are satisfied with your new cook and housekeeper?”
“Mrs. Morven? That woman is a gem. A paragon. Her lemon soufflé could be presented to Her Majesty without shame.”
Claire recalled the lemon soufflé with a pang of homesickness—not so much for Wilton Crescent, but for her old life and the little pleasures she had completely taken for granted.
“I’m sure you miss her sadly.”
A presumptuous thing for him to say, but all too true. “Please give her my warmest greetings and let her know I am well.” It irked her to ask anything of him, but if he mentioned meeting her today, Mrs. Morven would be hurt if there were no message. She had sent a tube containing the governess story several days ago, and had received a relieved reply, along with a recipe for melted-chocolate milk—the very drink the governess used to make for Claire in the nursery long ago.
“I shall be happy to tell her,” Lord James said. “May I—”
“Excuse me, Lord James. Lizzie! Maggie!” She leaned over the barrier and waved them down. “Have you enjoyed yourselves?”
“Oooh, Lady, it’s the most wonderful thing, skating is,” Maggie panted. “I can go backward. See?” And she wriggled—resembling nothing so much as Julia Wellesley in a new set of petticoats—and began to move in reverse, her skates carving parentheses in the ice.
Lizzie grasped her hands and together they began to move faster. “Look, Lady! Ent it grand?”
“Yes, very grand.” Claire followed their progress, walking along the barricade. “But I must ask you to return to earth and hand in your skates. The others will be joining us shortly.”
Reluctantly, with fits and starts and several demonstrations of skill, the girls got their skates turned in and their new patent-leather shoes buckled on. And all the while Lord James did not leave. In fact, Claire had allowed the girls’ reluctance to go on far longer than she would have had he not been there, expecting his impatience to get the better of him and drive him away.
What could he be playing at, tolerating the Mopsies with such a fixed smile?
He must be up to something. And in her experience, it could not be good. She must get rid of him at once. For Andrew to find out her secrets would mean a personal loss. For Lord James to discover them would mean swift, certain, and irrevocable social disaster, to the point where she would be received by no one, not even her own mother.
“Girls, come along. We will walk this promenade and keep an eye open for Mr. Tigg and Willie.”
“And who might these charming young ladies be?” Lord James’s tone sounded so affable that it must be false.
The girls seemed to realize all at once that this gentleman was not just passing by, but seemed to be trying to make himself one of their party. And for a wonder, they buttoned their lips and regarded him with silent suspicion.
Snouts’s training had been thorough.
“These are my charges,” Claire said with admirable economy. “Margaret, Elizabeth, make your curtsies to Lord James.”
Maggie turned big eyes on her sister that plainly said, Cooooo, a real lordship, before both girls bobbed obediently.
“Your charges?” Lord James repeated. “Do you mean to tell me you are their ... governess?”
“I am.”
“And a fine one,” Lizzie said without a trace of Bow’s bells in her voice.
“We quite like her.” Maggie took her sister’s hand. “We’re ever so hard on governesses.”
Claire struggled not to gape, and then struggled even more with the urge to box their ears for playacting when the moment was so serious. She reached down and took Lizzie’s other hand with rather more firmness than necessary.
“So nice to see you, Lord James. Good day.”
“Just one moment, Lady Cl—”
“Come along, girls!”
“Wait!” he boomed just as one of those silences peculiar to large crowds fell all at once. Reddening, he collected himself. “Please, just a moment.”
If she did not listen to him, he would likely stalk her the length of the arcade. “Yes, my lord?”
He glanced to either side, but people had gone about their business. “I would have hoped for a more solicitous environment to say what I must say, but you are an elusive quarry. It seems I must take my opportunities where I find them.”
“You have something you wish to say to me?” She had quite a number of things she wished to say to him, but not in front of the girls. If one wanted models of good behavior, one must be a model of good behavior oneself.
“Yes. I—well, I—” Flushing again, he chewed the lower edge of his moustache. Good heavens. He was as edgy as a man about to propose. Not that she had any experience along those lines except for what she’d seen in the flickers.
“Cat got your tongue?” Lizzie enquired.
“He’s got something stuck in his throat,” Maggie agreed. “Lozenge?” She held up a hard cherry drop, somewhat fuzzy from being carted about in her pocket all day.
Lord James looked down at them like Zeus from Olympus. “Little girls should be seen and not heard.”
If Claire had heard that once, she’d heard it a thousand times, and every time it irritated her more. Girls should certainly be heard. It was their voices that the world was missing.
“Really, Lord James, I’ll thank you to leave the girls’ upbringing to me.” Her tone could have been chipped right out of the sheet of ice behind them. “As it happens, I’m a great believer in little girls being heard, if they have something to say. Miss Margaret was merely offering to help.”
“I was, wasn’t I?” Maggie sounded very pleased.
“You’re not a nice man,” Lizzie told him, eyes narrowed. “You made the Lady go all frosty. You really don’t want to do that.”
“Great Caesar’s ghost.” Lord James had finally lost his patience. He glared at Claire. “You’re as poor a governess as you are a scientist. All right. I’ll say what I have to say, and that is this. I will offer you a thousand pounds not to take the position in Andrew’s laboratory.”
She could not possibly have heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“All right, then, if you will stoop to bargaining. Fifteen hundred. I know your position, my dear young lady, and that isn’t the kind of sum you can turn down.”
The rage came bubbling up from under her corset and into her throat. Was it possible for a man to be any more insulting? “Isn’t it?”
If she said one more word, her façade would split and she would
scream blue invective at him, right here, right now. The glass above their heads would crack and rain down upon him and it would serve him right for treating her in this high-handed, criminal, cruel manner.
Oh, if she were a lady in society instead of name how she would glory in crushing him to social powder under one kid heel! She would make it so that no one in their circles would receive him ever again. Even the King and Queen would frown when his name was mentioned. If she were—if only—
“Lady?” Maggie tugged her hand. “Look, there’s Tigg and Willie with Mr. Malvern.”
“Mr. Malvern?” James lifted his head like a wolf scenting the sheepdog.
Claire pulled in as deep a breath as she could, feeling her corset cinch her sides like the twin hands of caution and propriety. “Yes. He has been such a gentleman today. We’ve spent most of the afternoon together deepening our acquaintance and he has told us all about locomotives and steam.”
Ever so sweetly, she smiled at him and allowed the girls to drag her away.
Chapter 29
Like the confluence of events that results in a battle at sea, nine people converged at a single point in the cheerful arcade next to the ice-skating rink. The chamber orchestra played “Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes” while the skaters dipped and twirled, vendors called the attention of customers to their hot meat pies and iced drinks, and Lady Julia Wellesley and Gloria Meriwether-Astor spotted Lord James and bore down upon him like two battleships under full steam.
“Lord James, how very unexpected!” Julia trilled.
“Such a pleasure to see you,” Gloria added, then halted in midstep, her skirts swirling forward like foam upon the waves. “Oh, hello, Claire.”
“Claire? Claire Trevelyan?” Her focus on Lord James broken, Julia looked around, her eyes registering astonishment at the number of people who had witnessed her unladylike hailing of his lordship in public. “Heavens, we thought you’d gone to Cornwall.”
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