“A temptation for a thief as much as for a spy, then?”
“I expect so. Someone tried to steal it from his office at the factory last year. That’s why it stays here now. That’s also why he hides it whenever he is away from home. The house has many hidden nooks and passages. I’ll show you some tomorrow.”
“You’re sure the gauge is an exact duplicate?”
“Yes. Anyone who copied it could break Papa’s patent and ruin him.” Emmeline glared at the blank panel. “If they get me, they’ll make him give it up. You have to help me make sure that does not happen.”
After supper, having been assured that Emmy Gat would undertake no midnight wanderings, Maddie retired to the library to research her cover story. Her utter lack of experience in New York’s high society would soon become apparent if she could not name any families beyond Astor and Vanderbilt. The absence of a brass monkey with its updating news-vest was an unforeseen check—another example of America’s rich living like their pre-Steam British ancestors—but there were cabinets filled with past editions of print newspapers and magazines, including three New York Society journals. She skimmed those, making mental notes on oft-mentioned names, and went to her bluebell-scented bedchamber for a much-needed sleep.
When she woke sometime later, light haloed the rich blue of the window draperies. She wondered what had disturbed her. Then, a cautious footstep scuffled nearby.
Chapter Seven
SOMEONE WAS IN Maddie’s bedchamber. She knew it before fully waking, from the rustle of coarse cloth and a faint clink near the fireplace. Before she could muster her drowsy muscles to tackle the intruder, another fact intruded: beneath her was not the stiff mattress of her boarding-house bed but a yielding cloud contained by floral-scented linens. She was in Emmeline Gatsby-Gauge’s house. She opened her eyes.
The maid lighting her fire leaped up, wiping her hands down her apron. “Sorry, miss, for disturbing your rest.”
Maddie yawned. “Time I was up, I’m sure. When is breakfast?”
“An hour yet, miss. I’ve your tea tray in the hall. Shall you have it now?”
Ah, how lovely to be back in a civilized house. “Yes, thank you. Will you be waiting on me while I’m here?”
“No, miss. That’ll be Dora, miss.”
“Tell her I’d like a bath ready in half an hour.”
The girl curtsied and went out, returning with a delicate bed-tray. Its white-painted wood bore a blue lace mat and a porcelain tea set painted with bluebells to match the wallpaper. The tea was a spiced black; scents of cinnamon and star anise floated up from it. When the girl left, TD immediately flew down from the armoire, a white country-French affair with a high crown moulding well suited for hiding a small bird. While he pecked at the one plain biscuit on the tray, she gazed around the room she would occupy for the duration. Not a clockwork or steam-driven machine was in evidence. Not a single mechanical gadget, in fact. Had she fallen down a rabbit hole and ended up in an English manor house from a hundred years ago? Her Old Nobility great-grandparents had lived like this, before Trevethick’s wondrous steam engine and the many other marvels invented since then. How curious that rich Americans should deliberately adopt a style of living that Old Nobility British aristocrats only kept because they couldn’t afford to update their venerable estates with new conveniences. Painting virtue on necessity, her Steamlord grandmother had called it.
The bluebell motif decorated the walls and windows, interspersed with white furnishings, picture frames, and other accents. A needlepoint poem about bluebells hung above the fold-top desk. Doorways were picked out in darker blue-violet, one leading to the hall and the other to her private bathroom. When was the last time she had a private bathroom? She could compose fashion columns in a luxurious, long bath. Or detail her investigation into Emmeline’s would-be abductors. W.Y. Knott, investigative journalist, would lay it out thusly:
Nefarious Deeds in New York City
by W.Y. Knott
On a recent sojourn in America’s most bustling city, this reporter had a ringside seat as industrial espionage spilled over into kidnapping and blackmail. The daughter of an illustrious American Steamlord was accosted on the street in broad daylight. With help from a passerby, she valiantly fought off an attempt to drag her into a waiting carriage. Had the attempt succeeded, surely a letter would soon have been delivered to a gilded mansion near Central Park, demanding the Steamlord’s proprietary invention in exchange for his only child’s safe return.
No, that smacked of sensationalism unworthy of the dignified and mysterious Knott. All that had occurred was that Emmeline had hired an investigator/bodyguard. If not for the attempt yesterday outside the café, there might be no story here at all. The generous salary, however, could go straight into Maddie’s savings, advancing the day she could afford to give up her father’s allowance with all its conditions and restrictions.
Tracking down a possible kidnapper was a new challenge, but how hard could it be? Compile a suspect list at the factory today and keep an eye out for anyone taking an inordinate interest in young Miss Gauge. Then, when Obie returned from his charter flight, she could set him to following any watchers to their lair, and identify them. Simple, really.
As Maddie swallowed the last sip of aromatic tea, a tapping came from the middle window. She scrambled to pull back the drapes and found a red-tailed hawk, one of Madame Taxus-Hemlock’s enamelled clockworks, glaring in. TD fluttered to the sill. The hawk stared at him for a long moment, silently transmitting its message. It turned away when finished, but it didn’t leave. An answer was clearly expected. Hoping the maid would not pick this moment to appear, she said, “TD, speak to me.”
The sparrow’s beak opened. Madame’s voice issued forth. “Maddie, dear girl, what on earth is going on in New York City? Twice in twelve hours TD started an imminent-danger signal through the network, and sent images of his location, only to cancel it within a handful of minutes and resume normal functions. One set is dark and blurry—would that we had night-vision imaging!—while the other, in daylight, shows angles of your lovely blue parasol. Don’t tell me you are dueling on the open street? You had better clear TD’s head or he won’t have room for more images when needed.”
Oh, dear. Maddie had completely forgotten about the bird’s built-in distress signal, primed to alert when its owner was in danger. Or rather, she had not thought the signal would take so little to set off, and she had no idea what command had cancelled it. Well, Madame must be reassured and the little bird’s brain cleaned out. Also, Madame might know whether Mr. Gatsby-Gauge’s wondrous gauge was really worth stealing, and perhaps which Steamlord would steal his daughter to acquire it. Crossing her fingers that the maid would be late to run her bath, Maddie began her reply.
Chapter Eight
THE MAID WAS not late. She could be heard starting the bath while TD was still dot-dashing his ink-dipped beak across a page, emptying his image-cache of pictures collected during the two distress signals. Maddie hastily locked the front of the fold-top desk and, hurrying to the armoire, selected her clothing for the day. The linen suit with blue trim could be paired with her largest hat, in whose deep blue ribbons TD nested during investigations.
Breakfast was on offer in a sunny morning room that overlooked a courtyard garden laid out in the Pre-Revolutionary French fashion, all gravel and potted shrubs. The only touch of colour was Emmeline, her rose-petal pink morning dress fluttering in a light breeze as she came in through the tall glass doors. While the coddled eggs and slivers of crustless toast were being served, Maddie explained to Mrs. G-G how Steamlords in Britain were formally granted the rank of Marquis or other peer, according to the perceived benefit of their unique inventions to the Empire.
“Mr. Gatsby-Gauge,” she finished, “would become at the very least a baron, had he invented his gauge in England. Inventing is more highly esteemed than merely making money, as the Vanderbilt and Rockefeller patriarchs did here. Their fortunes are founded on ex
panding existing technology rather than creating new.”
“It’s as well Papa is building a bigger mansion, then,” said Emmeline, “to better reflect his standing. Mother, I want to show Miss Hatter the new house this morning. Would you care to come along and perhaps seek her opinion on the decor? A proto-baroness must have a suitably elegant home.”
What about the factory? In her guise of secretary, Maddie couldn’t openly argue for that. She smiled instead at Mrs. G-G. “I would be delighted to offer any assistance you desire.”
Emmeline’s mother showed her first spark of animation. “Can you advise about a garden? I used to have flowers and herbs aplenty at our old house, and I miss them. Although, with such high houses all around, I fear it might not receive enough sunlight.”
“You could have a rooftop garden. Or a conservatory. They are all the rage with Steamlord families in England.” Maddie didn’t explain the reason: because the Steamlords’ land grants were in the designated Green Zone encircling London, their mansions had to be built underground to maintain the pastoral surface. Light-pipes brought indirect sun to the interiors, but pleasure gardens and conservatories were built on the mansions’ earthen rooftops instead of surrounding them as on Old Nobility estates. “I’ve seen some lovely stained-glass windows, too, with floral motifs. They are charming indeed when the sun hits them.”
“Really? Stained-glass flowers?” The older woman smiled, suddenly resembling her more vivacious daughter. “And a rooftop conservatory? Might it have wrought iron in the shapes of flowers or hanging vines?”
“Mother, you may have anything you wish,” said Emmeline. “You are the mistress of your own house. Not the decorators, not Papa, and certainly not those snobby Vanderbilts and Astors. They will never call upon you, even should you move in next door to them. Tell her, Maddie.”
From the Society Pages Maddie had gleaned a basic idea of which families would, in England, would make up the Upper Two Thousand, the ton. In New York City, the equivalent was The Four Hundred, that being the number of guests who could fit into Mrs. Astor’s ballroom. Only the cream of Society was invited. Even Mrs. Vanderbilt had been excluded from that gilded number for many years.
“If I may speak frankly,” she told Mrs. G-G, “such established families will only interact socially with newer-money people through charity events. Attend a concert in support of refugees, or a whist drive to feed starving orphans, and they may deign to nod at you. You will meet other women in your situation there, however, women who have risen above their old society and are not yet accepted into their new one.”
Her hostess gazed at her with wonder. “How do you know all this when you are so young yet? And not even American?”
“Society is much the same everywhere,” said Maddie, thinking of her Old Nobility grandparents and their barely-gracious acceptance of their Steamlord son-in-law. Despite being the third Marquis of Main-Bearing and an intimate of the Royal Family, he would always, to them, be a commoner.
“I will come with you this morning,” said Mrs. G-G with decision. “I will have them make me a rooftop garden and fill it with all my favourite flowers. And herbs. It will smell delightful.”
As the young ladies went up to fetch their hats, Emmeline apologized to Maddie for the delay in visiting the factory. “We’ll go after lunch. But I had to set up a distraction first. Mother frets over me if she has nothing to occupy her mind.”
Maddie hurried into her room. The maid was absent but from the closed desk she could hear the faint dot-dashing of TD’s beak. How many images he must have collected! She checked his ink supply and relocked the desk, then scooped up her blue hat and met Emmeline on the staircase.
The new house was not even five minutes’ drive away. Bryson rounded two corners and stopped before a mansion on the reverse of the same city block. The creamy limestone exterior had not yet greyed over from airborne soot. The front entrance alone occupied more street-front than Maddie’s whole boarding house. Imposing indeed. If Mr. G-G could afford this huge building, set on prime New York real estate a single block off Central Park, ransom was a prime motive and the field of suspects was vast indeed. Yet business rivals could not be discounted either, and she would waste valuable time dawdling around this massive mansion when she could be investigating them.
After a swift scan of the street for any out-of-place loiterers, she followed her employer up the wide steps to the elaborately carved black-walnut doors. The traffic noise cut off as the doors closed, but in the distant reaches of the vast house, workmen could be heard chiselling, hammering, and shouting to one another. The women toured the main floor, their footsteps echoing through the barren chambers. Every door and fireplace seemed to be placed in its equivalent position to the older house, allowing for the larger scale. The breakfast parlour looked out over a courtyard at present filled with building supplies, its French doors propped open on a crude ramp up which labourers were pushing laden lumber trolleys.
Standing in the room that corresponded to the old house’s library, Maddie felt, rather than heard, a movement behind her. She whirled in time to see a wall panel swinging out. Hidden passage or servants’ corridor? A bewhiskered man in a dusty suit stepped through. He stopped, stared, and then hurried forward.
“Mrs. Gatsby-Gauge. Welcome. I do apologize for not being on hand to greet you. The message informing me of your intention was mislaid.” Mrs. G-G drew back. Emmeline frowned at her mother’s timidity. Fearing she would give voice to her frustration, and thus increase her mother’s nervousness, Maddie stepped forward and held out her hand.
“Good morning,” she said. “I am Miss Hatter, the ladies’ secretary. And you are?” Behind her, Emmeline’s skirts rustled as she moved away, tacitly leaving Maddie to smooth Mrs. G-G’s way.
“William Hunt. Site manager.” He looked past her. “Ma’am, how may I be of service today?”
When Mrs. G-G didn’t reply, Maddie prompted, “Madame, I was to remind you of floral themes, stained glass, and the rooftop conservatory.”
Hunt’s eyes opened wide, his initial surprise giving way to pleasure. Possibly he had been uneasy at the lack of direction from the mansion’s future mistress. He couldn’t avoid client complaints if the client never stated her desires. “Certainly, Ma’am. Mr. Tiffany’s company makes excellent stained-glass windows. Would you care to tell me what flowers and plants you most enjoy, that we might plan an appropriate construction?”
Once Mrs. G-G was fully engaged with Mr. Hunt, Emmeline pulled Maddie away. “Come see Papa’s new workshop. It will be far more secure than the cellars of our present house. And much larger. Mother,” she called. “We will meet you up on the roof.”
Maddie followed with rising curiosity. Was Mr. Gatsby-Gauge’s workshop anything like the one attached to the Main-Bearing mansion? That one was the original cave-like factory her great-grandfather had excavated beside his first, relatively modest under-home. Although the actual manufacturing had long since been removed to industrial districts throughout the Empire, her father and grandfather had always done their best inventing amid the old factory’s copper boilers, clockwork controls, and smelly liquids that burbled and glowed in strange hues. Looking forward to more of the same, she stayed on Emmeline’s heels through an unadorned opening in a hallway wall and down a winding stair.
Compared to the Main-Bearing workshop, this place was nothing. It was much larger, true, but bare and plain, with stark electric lights. No brass or copper was visible, nor any glassware. Matte-steel cabinets lined three walls while the fourth had empty doorways leading to store-rooms and strong-rooms. Long metal tables were being installed, struts and tools clanking and echoing around the cavernous space.
“Why are there no doors?” she called over the clatter.
“They’ll be the next thing installed,” Emmeline yelled back. “Clocksmiths will come from Switzerland to make them all as individual clockwork mechanisms that will only open if wound in specific patterns.”
“
Very interesting and secure,” said Maddie. “But this tour is bringing us no closer to discovering who attempted to kidnap you. Now that your mother is pleasantly occupied, could we not go to the factory?”
Emmeline shook her head. “We can’t leave Mother on her own. After luncheon we will go.”
With that Maddie had to be content. She noted approvingly a storeroom window: two sturdy, convoluted grills a hands-width apart, set in the middle of a thick foundation wall. No glass had been added yet but the tracks were there for panes on both sides of the grills. In the midst of New York City, where anyone could walk right up to the building, these measures almost guaranteed any ill-doers would be seen or heard long before reaching the interior.
After circling the whole space, greeting some workmen by name, Emmeline led the way up a narrow, enclosed stair to the third floor, and then via another to the rooftop. Mrs. G-G was in animated discussions with Mr. Hunt and another man. Maddie stood back, surveying the surrounding rooftops and admiring the empty azure sky. No millionaires’ runabouts for several blocks in every direction. No messenger craft with their leathery wings, no delivery vessels lowering fresh produce from countryside farms into the waiting arms of city cooks and housewives. All that ordinary business happened at street level, in the old-fashioned way. This wealthy neighbourhood seriously enforced its Old World gentility. Until now, Maddie had not quite believed the stories of American millionaires buying up whole rooms from English castles and transporting them—panelling, artwork, fireplaces, and furnishings complete—across the ocean to decorate their brand-new mansions. Now she doubted no longer. As Emmeline had said, they were all determined to pretend their wealth was far older than the generation or two between them and the factory floor or railroad office.
Maddie Hatter and the Gilded Guage Page 4
