Eddy’s lips puckered in a moue of distaste, he scrubbed at his face with a fist and threw himself into the nearest chair.
At the sound of a trumpet being blown with enthusiasm from outside, he leapt up again.
‘That’s the bugle call for dinner. Good show because I’m starving. At least we don’t have to change because no one dresses up on the first night.’ He slicked down his hair with both hands, then gave her a swift top-to-toe look. ‘Hurry up, Flora, or we’ll be late.’
Sighing inwardly at her reflection in the mirror above the mantle, Flora reminded herself that on a first-class-only ship, she couldn’t disappear into a third-class dining room like she had done on the outward voyage.
Her cinched-waist grey jacket above a matching straight skirt and high-necked white blouse conveyed the tailored image of a new century professional woman; nothing like the rest of the lady passengers in their couture silk moiré gowns and abundance of furs.
The creeping worry that had plagued her all day found a voice. ‘I’m not very hungry, Eddy. You go along on your own.’ She hoped her stomach wouldn’t growl, making her a liar.
‘Are you sure?' Eddy peered at the printed menu card on the mantle. 'They’re serving roast lamb, and Charlotte Russe.’
‘It’s been such a busy day what with all the packing.’ She feigned a yawn. ‘I’ll ask the stewardess to bring me something here.’
‘If you’re sure.’ Eddy frowned, his hand already on the door handle. Not much kept him from a meal. ‘I’ll see you later, then.’
The door closed behind him at the same second the stewardess appeared from Eddy’s bedroom. ‘I’ve finished now, Miss. Is there anything else?’
‘Might I have a tray sent in for supper?’ Flora asked. ‘Something light, perhaps?’
‘Of course, Miss, I’ll arrange it straight away.’ She pronounced it ‘awee’, revealing her Celtic origins.
Once alone, Flora chastised herself for her foolishness, her excuse to Eddy struck her as feeble now; combined with guilt at having left him to face a room full of strangers on his own. Not that the prospect would bother Viscount Trent. He took social occasions in his stride. In one sense she was proud of his confidence, even took credit for it, but its existence only served to emphasize the differences in their worlds.
In what seemed like no time at all, the stewardess returned with a hot, fluffy omelette, a selection of tiny sweet biscuits, fruit and cheese, together with a pot of aromatic coffee on a tray; all of which Flora demolished in half the time it took to arrive.
Anticipating a solitary stroll on deck before Eddy returned, she let herself out of the suite into the internal corridor that ran the length of the ship. At the stern end, she pushed through a glazed door into a staircase hall grand enough for a London hotel.
A crewman saluted her as she emerged onto the saloon deck; the rhythmic whoosh of the ocean below, the only indication the vessel was moving. A soft glow of yellow light from the long windows in the dining room reflected on the water, while the muted strains of the orchestra serenaded the diners.
Flora headed for the aft saloon deck, where land was no more than a blur on the horizon beneath the purple and navy of a darkening sky. A gust of cold air lifted the hair at the temples and she shivered, glad of her shawl. She passed a stack of steamer chairs piled beneath the metal companionway, the massive round winches on a deck empty but for a square, bulky shape under canvas, fastened down with thick ropes.
Flora recalled from Eddy’s lecture that the Minneapolis was designed to carry livestock, but sailed in ballast this trip, used to keep the vessel upright and discarded when the ship reached port.
The strange object stood a few inches taller than herself, several feet wide and distinctly square, but with vague shapes protruding from the front; that it was ballast seemed unlikely.
With a swift backwards glance to ensure she was not observed, Flora eased into a gap between the swaddled shape and a stack of fenders piled beside the companionway.
The oiled canvas proved heavier than she imagined, but a brief struggle and a determined tug revealed a rubber wheel more than two inches thick, beneath a curve of black-painted metal. Smaller than a cartwheel, the wooden section was painted in cream with thick spokes picked out in brown; some sort of wheeled cart, but much sturdier.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ a male voice said at her shoulder.
Flora jumped backwards, her head colliding with the metal support, sending a sharp pain through the crown of her head. She raised one hand to her scalp and swung round to where a young man stood, his feet splayed and both hands tucked into the pockets of a dinner suit. His tie lay undone against the lapels of his jacket, the collar open on his throat and his fair hair in disarray from the evening breeze. Penetrating eyes of an indistinguishable colour in the low light behind a pair of rimless spectacles regarded her with unnerving intensity.
And he was laughing.
A reprimand rose to her lips, suppressed when he removed his hand from his pocket and held it out, whether to draw her from beneath the metal support, or to shake hers, she wasn’t sure.
‘I cannot tell,’ Flora snapped, taking small revenge by ignoring his hand. ‘Whatever it might be is still mostly covered by this canvas sheet.’
‘Quite right. And I shouldn’t laugh, not when you might be hurt? I apologize, but I’ve simply never seen someone look so guilty, and yet so angry at the same time.’
‘I’m not hurt, not really.’ Flora rubbed the crown of her head. ‘However, next time, I would appreciate some sort of warning before you creep up on me like that.’
‘Next time?’ His lips twitched. ‘Should I assume you make a habit of skulking round ships in search of treasure then? Because if so, you do know that makes you a pirate?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Flora tucked in her chin, frowning. Either her throbbing head was making her dizzy, or he was deranged.
‘I’ve never met a pirate,’ he chattered on. ‘But as I always say, life is an adventure.’ He thrust out his hand again. ‘Bunny Harrington, pleased to meet you.’
Gingerly, she accepted his hand, startled at how firm and warm his grip was in hers. Her pulse raced uncomfortably, and, unnerved, she snatched back her hand.
‘Actually it’s a nickname,’ he said in response to her surprised start. ‘My real name is positively unmentionable.’ He guided her from beneath the overhang with one hand, his other at her waist. ‘Do you have a particular interest in motor cars?’
‘Is that what this is? One of those horseless carriages?’ Her thoughts flowed again, though with less clarity than normal, hampered by her throbbing scalp.
‘Indeed, yes. Would you like to see her?’
Before she could answer he had hauled the canvas aside, revealing what resembled a scaled-down hansom cab, but on four wheels as opposed to two, with a fifth wheel on a pole behind a sheet of glass where the driver should be. Instead of traces for a horse, there sat a rectangular metal box with rounded corners.
‘It’s, um – quite impressive.’ Flora stared, fascinated. ‘This is yours?’
‘She is indeed.’ He ran a hand gently over the fender in a caress. ‘A Panhard-Levassor Landaulet.’
‘They make these in America?’ Flora’s nerves receded and curiosity took its place, though her head still throbbed a little. Following his example, she stroked the caramel paintwork, surprised to find it was smooth as glass beneath her fingers.
‘This particular masterpiece is French.’ He adjusted his glasses by a sidebar. ‘I had her shipped over in the autumn to show to the Duryea Motor Wagon Company.’
‘And it really goes all by itself?’ Flora had seen pictures in the London Illustrated News of motor cars, but she had never seen one.
‘Not exactly.’ His bemused frown made him even more attractive. ‘She’s powered by a front-mounted engine with rear-wheel drive, a sliding-gear transmission—’ His mouth closed with a snap. ‘Well, never mind all that, I’m sure it’s of
no interest to you.’ He pushed a hand through his hair, revealing a well-defined brow and arched eyebrows slightly darker than his hair. ‘Besides, I still don’t know your name.’
‘Flora. Flora Maguire,’ she said, disarmed by the intensity of his stare that made her think they had met before, but couldn’t possibly be the case.
‘Delighted to meet you, Miss Maguire.’ He placed a hand flat against the metal box in a possessive gesture. ‘I plan to start my own manufacturing company making similar vehicles once I return to England. Not the first to do so, you understand. The Daimler Company beat me to that particular accolade. At present, I’m seeking partners to provide the engineering expertise, while I—’ He checked himself with a wave of his free hand. ‘Do forgive me, but when I get started, there’s no stopping me.’
‘I’m fascinated, but this is all quite new to me, I’m afraid.’ Flora bent to study the front-mounted lamps that looked like eyes peering back at her. ‘It looks as if it has a personality.’
‘Splendid!’ His face lit up like a schoolboy’s. ‘I’m so glad you see it too. Most people think it’s ridiculous that I should attribute a character to a pile of metal, wood and rubber. He leaned towards her, his breath warm on her cheek, ‘Actually, I’ve named her Matilda.’
‘That’s not so outrageous.’ Flora smiled, enjoying his closeness, despite the fact he was a stranger. ‘After all, they call boats “she” and give them feminine names.’
‘Exactly.’
‘There you are, Flora.’ Eddy's voice called to her from the far side of the deck. His rapid footsteps clattered across the boards. ‘I’ve been searching for you everywhere. I thought you’d fallen overboard.’
‘There’s no need for melodrama, Eddy.’ Flora’s governess tone emerged by habit. ‘I was taking a walk, when I happened to meet Mr Harrington.’
Eddy wasn’t listening. ‘Golly! It’s a motor car.’ He eased between them, his feet trampling the canvas to get to the vehicle.
‘Panhard-Leva-um,’ Flora broke off, failing miserably in her attempt to display her knowledge.
‘Panhard-Levassor Landaulet,’ Bunny corrected, following Eddy’s progress round to the rear.
‘Mr Harrington plans to open a factory in England making them,’ Flora added, wondering when, if ever, she would be able to call him Bunny. Then remembered he hadn’t asked her to.
‘Well, perhaps not these,’ Bunny said. ‘I hope to make one from a design of my own.’
Eddy’s head appeared above the rear canopy. ‘Do you have your designs with you?’
‘I do as a matter of fact. I would be happy to show them to you sometime.’
‘Oh, yes please.’ Eddy ran a hand along the bodywork as he circled the vehicle, firing rapid questions, to which Bunny offered enthusiastic responses.
Flora stepped back, an observer to these two who were so clearly from the same mould, who though physically dissimilar, possessed the confident air of knowing their own place in the world.
She began to feel invisible; rarely remembered and easily replaced, which reminded her of a housemaid called Molly who had left Cleeve Abbey, the Vaughn’s country estate in Gloucestershire two years before. Her post had been held by several others since, but Lord Vaughn still called the girl who made up the fires Molly. A habit Flora attributed more to absent mindedness rather than an arrogant disregard for his staff.
The night air had grown colder and goose bumps erupted on Flora’s arms beneath her shawl. She cleared her throat. ‘Eddy, I think we should leave Mr Harrington in peace. Perhaps, he will allow you to see the motor car another time?’
‘Of-of course. Any time he wishes,’ Bunny’s perplexed stare made him look as if he was on the verge of saying something, but he changed his mind and let it go with a sigh.
‘Goodnight, Mr Harrington. Come along, Eddy.’ Flora strode away without looking back, though she was sure he still watched her.
‘What did you think of Mr Harrington?’ Eddy asked, catching up with her on the metal steps up to the promenade deck.
‘He seems pleasant enough.’ Flora tried not to think of that wayward hank of blond hair and the twinkling eyes behind his spectacles. Who would have thought a man in glasses could be so attractive?
‘I think he’s a really good chap.’ Eddy’s voice held disappointment at her lack of enthusiasm.
‘Why? Because he owns a motor car?’ She gave the sore spot on the back of her head a final, brief rub.
‘Sort of, though I had a good long talk with him at dinner.’ Eddy pushed open the door of their suite and stood to one side to let her enter. ‘He’s seated at our table.’
Chapter 2
‘Isn’t it time you got ready for bed, Eddy?’ Flora placed the tray that contained their empty cocoa cups on the bureau by the door, ready for the stewardess to collect.
‘I will but, I wanted to ask you something first.’ Eddy hovered at her shoulder, shuffling his feet in a familiar precursor to either a confession or a request.
‘Which was?’ She hugged a book left on the bureau close to her chest, her head tilted in a listening pose.
‘There was a chap at dinner the same age as me. His name is Ozymandias.’
‘Really? Does his mother have a fondness for Shelley by any chance?’
‘What?’ A confused frown furrowed his brow.
‘Don’t say “what”, Eddy. Say “pardon”. Haven’t you ever read, “I met a traveller from an antique land?”’
‘I hate poetry. It’s sissy.’ He wrinkled his nose.
‘Girls love poetry, especially if you can quote it from memory.’
‘I don’t like girls either.’ Eddy’s brows lowered as if she had committed blasphemy.
‘In which case perhaps I should save romantic verse for another few years,’ Flora sighed. ‘Go on, you were telling me about your friend Ozymandias.’
‘He prefers to be called Ozzy.’ Eddy threw himself into the nearest armchair, hooking his feet over one arm. ‘It was that old lady’s suggestion. Mrs Penry-Jones I think she’s called.’
‘What was?’ Flora turned to him with a frown. ‘Calling him Ozzy?’
‘No, not that.’ He threw both arms outwards in a gesture of frustration. ‘She said Ozzy and me ought to take meals with the other young people on board and not in the main dining room.’
‘She said that?’ Flora gaped. ‘How presumptuous of her!’ An image of a woman with a thrusting bosom and chicken-lipped mouth puckered like a schoolteacher filled Flora’s head. ‘She wasn’t rude to you, was she, this Penry-Jones person?’
‘How can I tell?’ Eddy shrugged, nonplussed. ‘All adults address me in the same way, like I am a Labrador who has just fouled the carpet.’
‘Eddy!’ Though she doubted her display of shock was convincing, confirmed when he hunched his shoulders and grinned. His irrepressible sense of fun always made her laugh, which made discipline an uphill struggle at times.
‘Flora, really, it’s all right.’ He wrapped both arms round his drawn up knees. ‘Mrs Gilmore, she’s Ozzy’s mother, thinks we would prefer it too. Anyway, I’d rather eat with the other boys, honestly. The old people in the dining room are so stuffy.’ He splayed both hands in mid-air. ‘They spent the entire time at dinner reading the passenger lists to see who is important enough to talk to. Then the Americans got into some angry debate as to whether or not McKinley will be re-elected as President. I'll have more fun with Ozzy, truly. He’s a trump.’
‘I’m sure not everyone is old and stuffy.’ Flora recalled a pair of attractive blue eyes fringed with heavy lashes that sparkled behind a pair of glasses. ‘But I understand what you mean, and why not? I’m glad you’ve found a friend of whom you think so highly.’ She gently ruffled his hair, ignoring his frustrated sigh. ‘Incidentally, did this Mrs Penry-Jones happen to have an opinion about where governesses should eat?’
‘That’s an odd question.’ Eddy tucked in his chin and regarded her with his head on one side. ‘Papa bought you
a ticket, didn’t he? Which means you’ve every right to sit with the other passengers. The dining room or the deck, what’s the difference?’
‘You’re absolutely right. And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to whine or feel sorry for myself.’ She smoothed his hair where it stuck up at the back. ‘Now off you go to bed, it’s after ten o’clock.’
As Eddy’s bedroom door banged shut, Flora released a sigh. Now she would have to face all those stuffy people on her own.
*
Flora woke with a start, blinking into the darkness until the outlines of furniture emerged from the shadows. The thump that had woken her came again, as if something heavy had been thrown against the bulkhead. Pushing her hair away from her face, she rolled over and flicked on the bedside light. The hands on her travelling clock stood at twenty minutes past midnight. With a groan, she slapped her arms on the covers in protest at the sound of a male voice that came clearly through the bedroom wall.
‘Things change…’
‘…but I thought we agreed...’ a high, female voice answered.
Fully awake now, Flora drew her knees up into a crouch and scooted to the head of the bed. She pressed her ear to the bulkhead, ignoring the surge of shame that ran through her. Anyone vociferous enough to wake her in the middle of the night must expect eavesdropping.
The man spoke again, his tone, lower and more menacing, though Flora couldn’t make out the words.
Then a door slammed, followed by silence. No rapid footsteps, or enraged sobbing, just the tick of the mantle clock that now read 12.26.
Muttering to herself about the selfishness of others, Flora turned over, and slapped the pillows into submission in an effort to settle back to sleep. The remaining hours of the night passed slowly, alternating with periods of wakeful restlessness, accompanied by the persistent low thrum of the engines far below.
When finally she woke from a deep sleep engendered by a disturbed night, her head throbbed slightly, her room bathed in weak daylight. The clock announced it was still unsociably early, so with no pressing need to rise, she relaxed into the comfort of the soft mattress and crisp linen.
Flora's Secret Page 2
