Elizabeth snickered. “You’re making that up.”
“No, honestly. When I started school, my mother insisted that I spell and pronounce it the English way. She wanted me to appear as British as possible. Didn’t want me to go through what she went through, I suppose.”
“I’m sure it was difficult for her, trying to fit into a world so different from the one she was used to.”
Harry glanced at her, curiously. “You sound as if you know her.”
“No, of course not. I was just assuming she grew up in India.” Elizabeth shivered. “It’s turned a bit chilly. I think I’ll go back to my cabin and my book.”
“I’ll walk with you, then.”
“Please don’t bother.”
“It’s no bother, really—” Harry started to say, but she was already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “Good night, Monkey.”
The next day, Harry had a leisurely breakfast in the dining room, as well as a long luncheon, afternoon tea, and dinner, certain that Elizabeth would turn up for at least one meal. She did not. Harry could only assume that the book she was reading was awfully compelling—or that she was deliberately avoiding him.
But that evening, as he wandered about the deck, trying to walk off his growing impatience, she approached again, with a smile that implied she was genuinely glad to see him. For nearly an hour they talked companionably, mostly about books and motorcars. Then she returned to her cabin, again refusing to let him escort her.
They played out a similar scene the next night, and the next. Though she revealed nothing about her background or her reason for traveling to America, he did at least learn the title of the book she found so fascinating—Adam Bede, written by George Eliot, who was apparently a woman. Elizabeth promised to pass it on to him when she was done. But the truth was, Harry felt no need for a book; mulling over the mystery of this young woman was more than enough to occupy his mind.
Harry had tried hard to respect Elizabeth’s wishes and let her remain anonymous. But on the fourth day out of Liverpool, his curiosity overrode his conscience; he talked the head steward into showing him the list of all the passengers in second class. Three Elizabeths appeared on the roll; two were accompanied by their husbands, and one was a child.
Unless his Elizabeth was married or lying outrageously about her age, Harry could think of only one satisfactory explanation: She was, in fact, traveling first class and—unlike Charles Hardiman—chose to fraternize with the less exalted passengers for a brief while each day.
That evening, when they met in their usual spot at the rail, Harry lost patience with her attempts to keep the conversation in safe, neutral territory and blurted out, “Why are you pretending to be a second-class passenger?”
She blinked her blue eyes at him. “Whatever makes you think that?”
“I looked at the passenger list.”
“Oh.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why does it matter?” she countered. “To you, of all people?”
“What does that mean?”
“You know what it’s like to be looked down upon. I wouldn’t have expected you to be guilty of it yourself.”
“I’m not looking down upon anyone.”
“Yes, you are. Because I’m in steerage, you act as though—”
“Steerage? I thought you were in first class!”
Elizabeth laughed. “And how did you imagine I’d afford that?”
“When you said your family name was a familiar one, I naturally assumed—”
“You assumed they were rich and influential.”
“Yes.”
“Well, they’re not, I assure you.” There was a bitter edge to her words, as though she sorely resented the fact. For a minute or so she stood drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the wooden rail. When she spoke again, it was in that soft, melodious voice Harry had come to enjoy. “You like me, don’t you?”
For once, Harry was cautious; he wasn’t ready to admit just how much he liked her. “You said yourself, everyone likes you. Even Johnny.”
Elizabeth gave a gratified smile. “Does he?”
“I actually managed to lure him to the dining room with the promise that you’d be there.”
“I’m sorry. They don’t allow steerage passengers to dine in second class.”
“I’m surprised they let you on this deck at all. They’re not supposed to, are they?”
“No. But I’m something of a special case.”
“In what way?”
She hesitated so long that Harry wasn’t sure she would answer at all. Finally she reached into her reticule, drew out a business card, and handed it to him. Harry moved close to one of the deck lights to read it:PRESS PASS
LONDON Daily Graphic
Annie Laurie
CORRESPONDENT
“This is . . . this is you?”
“It’s not my real name, of course. It’s a nom de plume,like Nellie Bly or Bessie Bramble. Perhaps you’ve seen my newspaper stories.”
“I don’t read the Daily Graphic.”
“Well, it’s rather a new rag. We’re working hard to increase our circulation.”
Harry nodded grimly; at last he understood what her game was. “And you thought that a personal interview with the intrepid young motorists would be just the thing.”
“Yes.”
“Or, even better, a personal conversation with the son of the famous Phileas Fogg. I expect you knew all along who my father was.”
“Yes.”
“Then why not just ask me for an interview? Why go to all the bother of pretending that we were friends?”
Elizabeth showed no sign of shame. She unflinchingly returned his gaze. “Because. I wanted more than just a single news story. I want to chronicle your entire journey.” She reached out and placed a hand on his. “I want to come with you,” she said.
ELEVEN In which
HARRY LOSES AN ARGUMENT AND THE FLASH GAINS A PASSENGER
Harry thrust the press pass into her hand. “I’m afraid not. I don’t like it when people lie to me. It makes me distrust them.”
“I don’t make a regular habit of lying, you know.”
“Only when it suits your purpose.”
“Oh, and you never say anything that isn’t perfectly true, I suppose?”
“I try to avoid it.”
“You didn’t, for example, tell anyone that Johnny was Thomas Edison, Junior?”
Harry shifted uncomfortably and scratched his head. “How did you hear about that?”
“It’s all over the ship,” she said. “You should have told someone who was more discreet.”
“It was meant as a joke. I wasn’t deliberately trying to deceive anyone, the way you have been.”
“Tell me this, then: If I had asked you, on the first day we met, whether I could accompany you and your friends around the world, what would you have said?”
“I’d have said no, of course.”
“There you are.”
“Yes, well, I’m saying it now, in any case. So all your deception, all your—your fake friendship didn’t accomplish a thing, did it?”
“Oh, yes, it did,” said Elizabeth acidly. “It made me realize what a prude and a hypocrite you are, and how intolerable it would be to spend even a few days in your company, let alone several months!” She turned on her heel and strode off across the deck. For once, Harry did not offer to escort her to her cabin.
Over the course of the next two days, Harry wished a hundred times that he had had the foresight to bring along an interesting book. It might have distracted him, kept him from replaying over and over every conversation he’d had with Elizabeth—if that was, in fact, her name—and wondering how he could have been so naive. He should have realized all along that, if she was so fascinated by him and by the Flash, there must be some good reason.
This was hardly the first time he had been betrayed or disappointed. No one makes it through childhood and school without the
pain of having a playmate or a classmate suddenly turn against him. Harry had had more than his share of such experiences. Sometimes a friendship soured because he had carelessly revealed his Indian heritage; other times friends grew resentful when Harry outshone them at sports. In spite of it all, he had gone on trusting people too much, believing the best of them. Well, if he expected to make it around the world without losing his money or his motorcar, or worse, that would have to change. Somehow he would have to learn to be more cautious, less trusting.
The Aurania was scheduled to reach New York on the fifteenth of August. On that morning, as Harry was having breakfast, Charles Hardiman unexpectedly appeared at his table. “May I?” said Charles, gesturing at a chair.
Harry grinned wryly. “If you’re sure you can bear such a cramped and dreary dining room.”
Charles brushed something from the seat of the chair and lowered himself onto it carefully. “I need to talk to you,” he said solemnly.
“Having second thoughts about the trip?”
“No, not at all. It’s about Annie Laurie, actually.”
“Aha. So, she’s risen all the way up to first class, eh?”
“Yes. I first made her acquaintance two days ago, and we’ve spoken at length several times since then.”
“I see. And what sort of lies has she been telling you?”
Charles scowled. “See here, Fogg, it’s not good form to insult a lady.”
“She’s not a lady. She’s a reporter.”
“I know that.”
“Oh? What else did she tell you?”
“That she asked to accompany us on the trip, and that you refused her.”
“I did.” Harry set his scone aside; the marmalade on it suddenly tasted bitter to him.
“Did she tell you why she was so anxious to come with us?”
“Not in so many words. But isn’t it obvious? If she did a series of exclusive reports on our heroic efforts, it would increase her paper’s circulation—and, of course, make her reputation in the bargain.”
Charles waved his words aside. “No, no, you don’t understand. There’s more at stake than that. The Daily Graphic didn’t give her this assignment, you know. In fact, the editor didn’t believe she could handle it. She had to practically beg him to give her a chance. And she’s had to pay her own way. She gets no salary at all from the paper until she begins sending in stories. If we don’t even let her aboard the Flash, she’s going to look a fool; it’ll badly damage her career, if not ruin it altogether. You should have seen her, Fogg, when she was telling me all this. She was practically in tears.”
Harry wanted to scoff, to say that it was undoubtedly all a show, designed to win Charles over. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Elizabeth was really that cold and conniving. Neither could he bring himself to forgive her entirely. “I’m sorry. It’s just not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Do you still imagine this is going to be some sort of pleasure jaunt, Hardiman? It’s going to be dirty and miserable and exhausting, and the last thing we need is a woman along. I mean, think about it. Where would she sleep? What would she eat? I bought supplies with two people in mind, not four. Where would she . . . you know? There won’t be any facilities.”
“We can work all that out.”
“When? We arrive in New York today; we’ll be on the road first thing tomorrow morning.” Harry shook his head vehemently. “No. No. It’s just not possible.”
“Have you considered the fact,” said Charles, “that it’s not your decision to make? The three of us are in this together. I move that we take a vote.”
“Why should you have any say at all? This was never your idea; you came only because your father told you to.”
“Well, what about Shaugnessey, then? Have you asked him?”
Harry sighed. He hadn’t bothered to mention the matter to Johnny. Though his friend was a genius where machinery was concerned, he didn’t know the first thing about people, particularly women. He was obviously smitten with Elizabeth and would welcome her company without considering the problems involved.
Clearly, Elizabeth was a clever and capable woman. But this trip would demand more than cleverness. It would require unflagging determination and fortitude, and there was no way of knowing whether she had those qualities.
Of course, when it came to toughness and tenacity, she probably had the edge on Charles Hardiman. And, now that Harry thought about it, a reporter for a major London newspaper might prove to be a real advantage. As Elizabeth had demonstrated, a press pass sometimes opened doors that were firmly closed to ordinary people.
“If she did come,” said Harry, “—and I’m not saying she will come, but supposing she did—she would have to provide her own food and pay for her own lodging . . . if there is any.”
“She fully expects that. And should she run short of funds, I can easily afford to lend her some.”
“No doubt. Unless, of course, we’re attacked by Chinese bandits who beat us senseless and take all our money.”
Charles looked startled. “Do you think that’s likely?”
Harry sighed again. “This is not the Cotswolds we’ll be traveling through, Hardiman, or the Lake Country. Anything is likely. Anything at all.”
If Harry had been truly adamant—had he, for example, refused to drive the car if Elizabeth was in it—he might have had his way. But, though he did not approve of her impulsive and foolhardy plan, he could not bring himself to spoil it, now that he knew how much it meant to her. Besides, he was hardly in a position to condemn anyone for being impulsive or foolhardy.
And so it was agreed that Elizabeth would join them on a sort of trial basis. If she proved too much of a liability, Harry reserved the right to drop her off at the nearest train station; from there she could make her own way home.
Thanks to the transatlantic telegraph cable, news now crossed across the ocean far faster than any ship. For a week, New Yorkers had been reading about the Flash’s imminent arrival, and hundreds had gathered to welcome the car and its crew; a squad of policemen had been brought in to keep them from mobbing the intrepid young motorists.
While Harry and Johnny oversaw the unloading of the motorcar, Charles accompanied Elizabeth to the nearest Western Union office, where she sent a triumphant telegram to the Daily Graphic, informing the paper that she had won—or, more accurately, finagled—a seat in the car; the editor promptly cabled her ten pounds for expenses.
She at once began composing her first dispatch:New York, New York, August 15
The daring young motorists who are to attempting to circumnavigate the globe have generously agreed to let a representative of the Daily Graphic ride with them. In the weeks to come, this fortunate reporter will be providing the Graphic’s readers with a series of regular and exclusive eyewitness reports on the adventures of the Flash and its crew.
It promises to be a grueling journey, even for us passengers. As we are expected to provide our own food and shelter, your humble correspondent purchased a canvas tent and several cases of tinned food, only to discover that there was no room for them in the vehicle. Thankfully, Mr. Shaugnessey, the ever-obliging mechanic, offered to attach a wooden crate to the rear of the “car,” for the purpose of carrying such supplies.
Since it was by this time late in the day, Mr. Hardiman gallantly suggested that some among us might prefer to spend the night in a hotel, as it might be the last opportunity to do so for some time. He referred, of course, to the female contingent, who made it clear that she expected no special treatment, and that she would be perfectly content to set out without delay. And so we did. It must be admitted that your correspondent had an ulterior motive; if we leave at once, we will avoid the unwelcome attentions of rival newspaper reporters.
Though our readers will undoubtedly be curious to know what route we will follow across America, the young pilot of the Flash, Mr. Fogg, has asked that the Graphic not reveal this information. He fears that, if we are
beseiged by well-meaning well-wishers in every town along the way, it will slow his progress, and that is something he can ill afford. As of this date, Mr. Fogg has a mere ninety days remaining in which to cross all of North America, Asia, and Europe, or lose his extravagant wager.
TWELVE In which
THE MOTORISTS BEGIN THEIR JOURNEY IN EARNEST, OR AT LEAST IN AMERICA
From talking to the longshoremen, Harry learned that, instead of driving through Manhattan—and through the daunting mass of well-wishers—he could put the motorcar on a ferry, cross the Hudson River to New Jersey, and head west from there. It would mean missing the chance to see one of the world’s great cities, unfortunately. But this was not a sightseeing tour; it was a race against time.
They filled the Flash’s ten-gallon fuel tank with the last of the kerosene and lit the burner; in fifteen minutes, they had enough steam to drive the car aboard the ferry. A chorus of disappointed cries arose from the vast welcoming committee, who wanted a closer look at the car and its crew.
Since everyone had assumed the travelers would be going by way of Manhattan, there was no fanfare when they disembarked in Hoboken, and no crowd of admirers to slow them down. They took a second ferry to Newark and by five o’clock were in the open countryside, cruising along an old toll road at a gratifying speed.
A regular network of these former turnpikes was strung out across New Jersey and Pennsylvania. They had once been the main arteries between cities, but the coming of the railroad had changed all that. The turnpikes were still used by farm wagons and by cyclists, though, so most were in reasonably good repair, and many were marked on maps.
Harry didn’t have much use for maps. He had been blessed with a good sense of direction, so he preferred to trust it and, if he got in trouble, ask for directions from the locals—who, it stood to reason, should know the neighborhood better than some printer in a city hundreds of miles away.
Around the World in 100 Days Page 7
