She was startled, when the diminutive Englishman looked her way, at the appealing brilliance of his sudden grin. She allowed herself a tentative smile back before averting her eyes, trying to look demure and unassuming. Easy to underestimate. Eliza suspected he banked on that quality himself.
“I suppose you’re right. I don’t know why I should trust Matthew, though, even for only part of the race. Not if he wants to win just as badly as I do.”
“I never said anything about trust. You think Van der Grouten trusts the Watchmaker?” Dexter nodded toward the gruff German competitor, who was sitting in stony silence listening to the Watchmaker’s chatter. The Watchmaker’s spider-like vehicle, a gleaming brass contraption of gears and mysterious controls atop several pairs of articulated legs, loomed above the two men, and indeed above the other steam cars. Its inventor and driver, a famously eccentric maker of every type of clockwork except watches, would obviously have the advantage of height. But Eliza privately thought the unconventional vehicle looked unlikely to make it out of New York before falling apart.
“I think Van der Grouten knows the Watchmaker is insane,” Eliza replied. “And I’ve never understood why he calls himself the Watchmaker.”
“Nobody knows.”
They observed the unlikely companions a moment longer. Then Dexter tossed the wrench into the air, catching it neatly and placing it in the proper slot in the enormous tool kit he’d wheeled over to the steam car’s side. “Time to brave the press and win through to the hotel. You’ll need a proper night’s sleep before you set out.”
Eliza didn’t think she’d sleep a wink, but she shrugged off her coverall and obligingly followed Dexter from the hangar, passing Matthew’s car along the way. He looked up as they walked by, and she caught a glimpse of something on his face that stopped her in her tracks. Concern, tension . . . and something that strongly resembled yearning. Eliza turned toward him for a moment, not sure what she planned to say, then covered her confusion by pulling her broad-brimmed hat on as if she’d meant to stop for that purpose all along. The moment flitted by, she waved with her fingertips and received a solemn nod from Matthew in return, then the open door loomed before them and she braced herself for the onslaught.
• • •
WHEN ELIZA TURNED toward him, the sun streaming into the hangar backlit her for a moment, transforming her slender figure into a silhouette of elegant curves. Her hair, which had seemed so securely battened down into its tidy chignon, revealed a nimbus of stray wisps that glowed a hot auburn in the afternoon light.
Then the clouds shifted, the illusion faded, and it was once again Eliza standing before his sun-dazzled eyes. She blinked at him, looking as though she was going to speak, then shook her head and put her hat on. He watched her fiddle with the ribbons, her nimble fingers fixing the bow just so. Then she waved and was gone, following Hardison into that damnable crowd.
He wanted to run after her, explain himself to her until she understood. He wasn’t really so benighted in his views. He knew she was capable, even formidable. He knew there were other women in the race. But none of them were Eliza. None of them made him think of terms like “sylph” or “toothsome.” He hadn’t pulled his hair half out of his head and paced for hours trying not to think inappropriate thoughts about any of those other women. Only Eliza, maddening though she was.
Dexter hadn’t needed to make looking out for her a condition of his support. Matthew would have been her watchdog anyway, whether she wanted him to be or not. For the first time in his life, he had a primal impulse to protect and possess another creature. And the creature in question was not remotely amenable. Nor should he be thinking this way about a Hardison, of all people. He was trying to make his own way, distinguish his own name, not become more attached to Hardison House. The last woman he should be daydreaming over was Dexter Hardison’s cousin, a girl whom Dexter practically treated as a daughter.
“I think I’m going mad,” he mumbled as he watched her go.
“At least you’ll have somebody to talk to on the drive,” remarked the mechanic who’d just approached him.
“I can think of better company,” Matthew admitted, grinning ruefully. “Sorry, Toby. I’m short on sleep.”
“Aren’t we all, guv? But you make sure to get your rest tonight. I’ve got a certain amount riding with you, as it were.”
As the man filled Matthew in with last-minute particulars about the car, Matthew scanned the hangar, scouting out his competition. Over half of them were there, seeing to their vehicles or making an early start to packing up, and he recognized all but two. One Greek flag and one Dominion, two unfamiliar drivers. He had studied the racing roster and knew the names, but despite what he’d boasted to Eliza, he knew precious little else about the participants and their sponsors. Less than he should, he suspected.
One unpleasant presence was impossible to ignore. Not a driver, just a visitor, for which Matthew was thankful. Matthew had run across Lord Orm, the Californian cattle Baron, when the man visited one of Rutherford Murcheson’s workshops in Le Havre the previous year. Matthew had been in France conducting some business with Murcheson on Dexter’s behalf. Orm was there to perform some sort of efficiency study, officially, but all of them agreed he was more likely touring makesmith shops and other factories to steal ideas for a new enterprise of his own. Murcheson’s bet was a dairy, as Orm had asked about glassmaking and bottling methods, and obviously was already in possession of a good many cows. He’d made sure to keep Orm away from the most cutting-edge projects, showing him only a curated selection of his multifaceted makesmithing operations.
Matthew had disliked the cut of the man’s jib on sight then, and liked it no better now. He noted the fellow still wore that flashy lapel gadget, a gilded golden poppy. It was said to conceal a set of secret compartments under the lapel that could be revealed using a complex clockwork mechanism similar to one of Murcheson’s famous curio boxes. All Matthew knew was that the thing was in exceedingly poor taste, and the weight utterly spoiled the drape of Orm’s coat. It was also—and this was unforgiveable—so ornate that the decoration would obviously hinder, not enhance, whatever operations the device was meant to perform. Nothing like his own slim-lined, tasteful model, which converted with a flick of the hand into a set of light but useful tools.
Orm was deep in conference with one of the unknown drivers. Was the cattle Baron a silent benefactor, perhaps? His appearance worried Matthew, though he couldn’t put his finger on any good reason why. Matthew was just making up his mind to approach the man when Orm left the building, disappearing past the press line into the thick crowd.
Well, he could find out about Orm and the unknown driver at his leisure. Of the rest of the field, he knew Whitcombe and Cantlebury from Oxford, and he had at least a passing social or business acquaintance with three or four others. Van der Grouten and the two French contestants he knew by reputation. Making up his mind to find out more about the mystery entrants once he returned to the hotel, Matthew let his thoughts drift back to the problem of Eliza and his embarrassingly sleepless nights of late.
He didn’t ruminate for long before a new distraction arose.
“What’s that smell?” One of the mechanics said, just as another of the men flicked something from the air in front of his face.
Looking up, his upper lip curling at the stench, Matthew saw the ceiling of the hangar many stories overhead. But the girders were obscured by a faint haze.
A shriek from the opposite side of the structure seemed to trigger a wave of reaction, and the crowd mobilized like a flight of starlings, pushing and pulling toward the wide-open door. The haze descended like something from a nightmare, a foul, hot rain that coated everything it fell upon with a slick, brown residue.
Matthew turned to see his mechanics throwing a tarpaulin over his car, and then his gaze continued to the bright crimson vehicle in the stall adjacent. The vivid c
olor blurred as the noxious fumes began to make his eyes water. Cursing as he coughed and batted away the first heavy droplets of the disgusting spray, he sprinted and hurdled the velvet rope, reaching inside Eliza’s car and rolling up the open window on the driver’s side. He shouted for his team but they had already joined the crowd jostling in a panic at the exit.
Steer manure. There were cattle on the Pence estate, and as a boy Matthew had been taught the basics of their upkeep. He recognized the smell, though it had taken him a moment to place it, so far out of context. Liquified, possibly by the addition of some sort of alcohol from the stinging smell of it—and by the looks of it, sprayed through the dirigible hangar’s vaunted, state-of-the-art fire control system.
“Help!” The voice from the far side of Eliza’s steam car was nearly drowned out by the still-swelling commotion. “Mr. Pence!”
A pair of mechanics, apparently having the same idea as his own team, were struggling to pull an oilcloth from an overloaded supply box. Matthew hastened to their aid, and the three men were able to drag the heavy canvas over Eliza’s vehicle just before the heaviest drenching of stinging filth began to fall. Looking across the garage, he noted with relief that Smith-Grenville’s car was covered and protected as well.
“This way!” One of the men shouted, holding up a hand to shield his eyes. “There’s a side door, sir!”
It wasn’t locked, and Matthew gave a roar of pure relief when he half-fell from the opening into the unsullied air beyond the hangar wall. Hacking and swearing, he and his ad hoc companions pushed their way through the confused masses nearest the building, until they hit a clearing several yards off.
“Coated in . . . we’re coated in horse shit!” The mechanic was so offended he forgot to beg Matthew’s pardon.
“I believe it’s cow shit,” Matthew corrected him, staring at his own clothing in dismay. He had rather liked the crisp, pale linen suit and the waistcoat of robin’s-egg blue figured silk he’d chosen to wear that morning. He would certainly never wear them again. Served him right for not donning a coverall the second he walked into the garage.
“Oh aye, cow,” the second mechanic concurred in a Yorkshire burr. “Burnt enough of the stuff on t’fire back home to know.”
Matthew frowned, trying to clear his head through the fug of stench and confusion. “That’s right. Our gamekeeper used dung chips for his stove too. And from the sting and fumes, I think this has had some ethyl or other alcohol added to thin it out. One good spark in there now and . . .”
His eyes met the Yorkshireman’s in a moment of perfect understanding and horror, and as one they bolted back toward the hangar.
“Water!” Matthew screamed to anyone who would listen. “We need water!”
A pair of policemen, evidently rerouted from the front entrance, blocked the way back in; Matthew nearly bounced off the larger one in his haste to get through the door.
“Nobody goes—eugh!” Large as he was, the man quailed before the mighty aroma of Matthew’s ruined suit.
“It’s flammable,” Matthew said firmly, hoping like hell he seemed like a person in charge. “Flammable. One match could blow the place up, cars and all. We need water, now!”
“Flammable—holy mother of God!”
Within moments the swell of motion had turned, as pails materialized and onlookers rushed in to help the mechanics who dashed back in to save their cars from an even worse fate. Knowing both his own and Eliza’s steam cars were fairly well-protected, Matthew threw his hand in where he could, helping throw soaked blankets over other steam cars and moving a barricade to allow the firemen access once they finally arrived.
“Fire!” The first cry went up from the back of the hangar, closest to the scaffold of catwalks and stairways that enclosed the offices.
The Yorkshire mechanic pulled something off the nearest wall and pelted for the rear of the building, Matthew hot on his heels. When the man passed him a cool glass orb, he stared at it in puzzlement, nearly tripping over a bundle of hoses in his blind rush. Smoke had started to curl off a pile of oil-stained rags along the wall, and licks of flame were already attempting to jump to the wall itself.
Just as the Yorkshireman flung his own orb at the floor next to the rags, Matthew realized what the glass ball must be. He aimed his a bit higher, toward the top of the rag pile where it met the wall, and shouted in triumph as the breaking glass released its powdery contents and the fire began to peter out.
An emergency chemical fire extinguisher, self-contained and at the ready. Now that he knew what they were, Matthew noticed the orbs in sconces at regular intervals along the walls.
“How did you know?” He asked the mechanic as they moved back, making room for the bucket brigade. “I thought those were some sort of lamps.”
The man shrugged, bashful in the face of direct questioning. “Airship mechanic. A hangar this size, extinguishers are always to hand. I know a bit about steam cars as well. I suppose Mr. Hardison thought I’d be of use.”
“And so you were,” Matthew said, extending his hand. “Tell me your name.”
“Roger Brearley, sir.”
“Mr. Brearley, I’m going to sing your praises to Mr. Hardison. Without your quick thinking I believe this would’ve been a disaster.”
Brearley grinned and lifted his arm, pointing to his sleeve which—like everything else in the hangar—was drenched with evilly pungent slime. “An even bigger disaster, you mean, sir.”
Matthew frowned down at his own clothing, then surveyed the vast room where order was slowly beginning to win out over the chaos. With the immediate threat of fire averted, the sharp edge of panic dulled, but the dawning dismay at the magnitude of the damage was equally apparent. The smell would have been unimaginable . . . if he’d only been attempting to imagine it. He didn’t see how things could possibly be set to rights in time for the scheduled start of the race in the morning.
“Bloody hell.”
FIVE
ONE ENGLISH COMPETITOR, one French entrant and the sole driver from China were sitting on the sidelines at the race start, and Eliza was fervently thankful she was not among them. Their steam cars were irredeemably soiled, as they had all featured jaunty soft tops that happened to be open at the time of the sabotage. One Dominion driver had also been affected, but his sponsor had come through with a replacement vehicle just in time for the starting lineup. The rest of the steam cars had been cleaned up, though most of them had suffered cosmetic damage. The lineup was not nearly as bright and colorful as it should have been.
That it had been sabotage was clear. The liquefied manure solution was obviously calculated to do the most damage possible, even if the fire were thwarted. No culprit had been found, however, and the race’s sponsors had agreed that the incident should not derail the event.
“You can say it, you know,” Eliza said to Matthew as they waited with the other drivers to walk out to the starting line. The bank building off Tryon Square, where the race was set to start, was crowded with sponsors and luminaries. As cultured as the throng was, Eliza still had to raise her voice to be heard over the babble. Matthew leaned closer to listen and she caught a whiff of his shaving lotion, an unexpectedly warm and spicy note from a man she thought of as neither of those things. She scolded herself for liking the way he smelled.
“I can say what?” he half-shouted.
“That the sabotage means it’s all too dangerous for a little thing like me.”
He pulled back and shrugged. “It was already too dangerous for a little thing like you.”
“I’m just surprised the incident didn’t prompt further lectures.” In truth, Eliza had almost looked forward to the challenge of arguing with Matthew about her continued right and qualifications to participate in the rally. Over the weeks they’d spent training in tandem at Hardison House, she’d grown accustomed to the regular infusion of righteous indignation tho
se conversations afforded her. His failure to renew the battle in the face of these new circumstances had been vaguely disappointing.
Although she hadn’t been there for the horrific spraying of flammable cow dung, Eliza had seen—and smelled—the aftermath, and assisted in the cleanup effort. She couldn’t fail to notice that most of the other drivers eyed her and Matthew with a chilly suspicion, as their two vehicles had escaped relatively unscathed. Thanks largely to Matthew’s efforts, Eliza’s steam car gleamed as brightly as ever this morning, a rosy beacon against the field of scoured and hastily rewaxed competitors. Thanks to the color choice, the press had already labeled her “The Scarlet Woman,” much to her mother’s mortification. She’d received a number of telegrams from home, upon her arrival at the hotel, elaborating on that theme. Eliza’s protests that the color was amaranth, not remotely scarlet, had thus far fallen on deaf ears. The reporters continued to use the epithet, and her mother continued to scold her from across the state and beg her to reconsider participating in her cousin’s “mad scheme.” At least the latter concern would become moot the moment the race began.
“It’s not my job to lecture you now,” Matthew said with a somewhat devious smile that Eliza hadn’t seen before. “It’s my job to win the race.”
“It’s your job to beat me, you mean. Fair enough.”
“Do you think beating you would have any more effect than lecturing you? I suppose I could put you over my knee, in that case. It’s unorthodox, but I’m certainly willing to give it a go if you are.”
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