A Gentleman of Means (3 page)
Read A Gentleman of Means Online
Authors: Shelley Adina
Which sent Lizzie off into a romantic dreamland and made Maggie sigh and roll her eyes. “You should not encourage her, Lady. She is difficult enough to live with when Tigg is right here with us. Heaven help us when he returns to the Dunsmuirs. It will be all dramatic sighs and melancholy gazing at the moon until we are all fit to scream.”
“Just wait until your turn,” Lizzie said, snapping out of her reverie with vigor. “I shall take great pleasure in pointing out each of your sighs and vapors—preferably in public.”
Maggie seemed unperturbed at this dire threat, though Claire wondered if she was, in truth. “I hope you do not expire of old age while you’re waiting. I have nary a prospect in sight to entertain you with, thank goodness.”
The pink that stained her cheeks made Claire wonder if there was indeed someone who made Maggie sigh, or if it was simply brought on by general feminine modesty about speaking of such things in front of Andrew. She herself had been both unkissed and untried at the age of sixteen. By the next year, however, her life had been turned upside down, not the least because Andrew had given her her very first kiss.
What might the next year bring for Maggie? Claire could only hope that there would be much more peace and far less adventure—if only for her own sake. Claire did not think she could survive another summer like the one just past.
Dear Mr. Meriwether-Astor,
I was saddened and perplexed to receive your letter with its news—or lack thereof—of Gloria. I had absolutely no idea of her leaving when last we spoke—in fact, we had made plans to see one another again following our brief sojourn to see the gearworks in Neptune’s Fancy.
I am very sorry to inform you that I have no idea where she might have gone. Did she take luggage with her? A change of clothes? She carried only a reticule onto the vessel, which might have held a change of unmentionables at best, a little money, and perhaps her sketchbook and some pencils.
One member of our party seems to think there may have been an attraction between Gloria and the captain of the vessel, who introduced himself to us as Barnaby Hayes. I cannot vouch for this myself, as the interaction between them was as civil and cordial as might have been expected between any two persons only recently introduced. He showed no signs of dishonorable conduct in our short acquaintance, and certainly no propensity for kidnapping.
I find myself distressed at the idea that she may not have left of her own volition. But we must keep a positive view of the matter. I will write to some of our school friends in London. There is a possibility, however remote, that she may have contacted one of them and they may be willing to confide in me. If this turns out to be the case, I will inform you immediately.
Gloria is a young woman of resources and intelligence. Whatever has happened, you may be sure that she will do what is right.
Yours sincerely,
Claire Trevelyan
Claire laid down her pen, folded up the letter, and sealed it. A pigeon waited on the balcony outside for it, but she took a moment, in the stillness of her room with its lace curtains and Baroque writing desk, to consider what she was doing.
It felt decidedly odd to be offering comfort, however small and stilted, to Gloria’s father—a man who had backed a French invasion of England—who was so evil and heartless that he did not balk for a moment at the prospect of trafficking in human lives and misery. Surely a man who owned one of the largest fleets in the world, who had business connections on every continent—though England and Prussia were forbidden to him—had the resources to find his own daughter.
Why should he waste his time inquiring of Claire? She could only hope that once she had heard from Catherine and Julia in London, their correspondence would come to an end and he would turn his investigations elsewhere.
Certainly she was concerned for her friend. But there had to be a reasonable explanation for her behavior. Perhaps Lizzie might even be right. The memory of the dirigible swimming away and leaving her and her friends in abject peril triggered a bubble of anger in her chest, swiftly doused by a surge of compassion.
Gloria could not have left them voluntarily. Their friendship and regard for one another would not have been abandoned so utterly. She was sure of it.
Her father would find her eventually, and in the meantime, she would do what little she could. She enclosed the letter in the pigeon’s glossy body, set the numbers and letters of the code for his vessel, and released it into the sky.
Under her breath, as she watched its running lights disappear among the stars, she whispered a prayer for Gloria’s safety.
*
The letter that came back from Catherine Haliburton (née Montrose) a week later was unenlightening at best.
What a surprise to hear from you, Claire. I had not supposed you interested in continuing your acquaintance with any of your old friends now that you are forced to earn your living by the sweat of your brow. You are working in a factory, I hear. That must be terribly distressing for your mother. We have not seen her in town for an age, so I imagine that is why.
I was just remarking to Julia the other day as we were lunching at the Orangerie how amusing it is that our old set seems to have done rather well in society—and the roots of our success were clearly visible even in the classroom.
In answer to your rather odd questions, no, I have not seen Gloria. I had a letter from her from Paris a year ago in which she promised to send me some of the fashion plates from the Worth atelier. She still has not fulfilled her promise, so I have washed my hands of her. I have no patience for those who do not keep their word.
I trust you are well, despite your unfortunate circumstances.
Mrs. David Haliburton
With a sigh, Claire tossed Catherine’s letter, full of complaints and slights both given and received, into the fire. An envelope engraved with the Mount-Batting crest had come in the same mail, so she opened it with a sense of resignation, expecting more of the same.
Julia did not disappoint.
Claire, darling, how very amusing that I should hear from you this week, when your name has popped up in conversation repeatedly, though the subject of your family is not one I generally dwell upon.
I have not heard from Gloria recently, outside of a postcard from the exhibition in Venice. Spiteful thing—she knows I was wild to go, but alas, with the renovations to our town house, I am plagued with architects and decorators and simply could not take the time. I am surprised you made her acquaintance there. Goodness, the things she said of you while we were in school—but perhaps that is best left in the past. We are women now, and our school days are behind us.
I see in the society pages that you are to be married at last. What an age you have been about it—quite the last of our class, if I am not mistaken. I myself am delighted to announce that the heir to the Mount-Batting title will be born in the early summer. Amidst all this chaos, I am interviewing nannies and nursery maids, and what a chore it is.
Were you not a governess at some point? If I can find no one for the post when he is old enough, perhaps I shall write to you. I should much rather have someone I know teaching the future earl, and with your odd notions of independence I suppose you will continue to work after you are married. Goodness knows anything would be better than working in a factory.
I must close. They are hanging the chandelier over the grand staircase and my presence is urgently requested.
Julia’s letter hit the back wall of the fireplace with rather more force even than Catherine’s, and fell into the flames, where the venom embedded therein caught instantly. The offending sheets were consumed in moments, and Claire told herself she must put their contents out of her mind with equal speed.
Some people, as they matured, learned and grew. And some simply never did. She was more grateful than ever for the continued unstinting friendship of Emilie, Lady Selwyn, who wrote faithfully once a month. Each letter was a delight, full of the minutiae of country life in words that fairly glowed with happiness.
Claire looked forward to that same kind of happiness with Andrew. She might have passed up two chances to be the mistress of a great estate—three, if she counted the Kaiser’s unfortunate nephew—but what did that signify when she was to become the wife of a man who had earned her respect and admiration as well as her love?
Feeling somewhat restored, she pulled another sheet of paper toward her and wrote another missive to Mr. Meriwether-Astor. It was short and to the point, and would hopefully be the last of its kind.
Dear sir,
I regret very much to inform you that Gloria’s and my mutual friends in London have not heard from her more recently than a month ago, and certainly not within the last week.
While I realize that my information brings you no closer to locating her, at least one avenue of investigation is closed so that you may concentrate your not inconsiderable resources on another that might be more profitable.
If there is anything more I might do, I hope you will write to apprise me of it. Please let me know when she is found. I shall be very happy to hear of it, but it will not stop me from giving her a fine talking-to for causing us all so much anxiety.
Yours sincerely,
Claire Trevelyan
*
Lieutenant Thomas Terwilliger, on leave from his service aboard the flagship
Lady Lucy
, gave a final turn of the last screw and set the modified mother’s helper on
Swan
’s hardwood floor. The rotary mechanism in its belly that normally contained sweeping brushes was now a sanding device meant to take the peeling, warped planks back to their original state so that they could be varnished and restored to beauty.
“There she goes,” he said with satisfaction, as the mother’s helper buzzed slowly across the expanse of the salon, a track of sanded wood spooling out behind it.
“That will save us a lot of elbow grease.” Alice Chalmers watched it with the approval of one who has sanded plenty of floors. “Thanks, Tigg. Well done.”
“It was nothing,” he said modestly, because truly, it was a trifle compared to the mighty Daimler 954C engines he had been working on down in
Swan
’s engine room. But still, he took pleasure in a job well done. That was something he’d learned from the Lady, who took as much pleasure in a mother’s helper behaving as it was designed to do as she did in tuning
Athena
’s own Daimlers, or for that matter, designing a membrane for an airship that collected its energy from the sun.
That was supposed to be a secret.
She thought her sketches were meaningless to an observer, but he had caught enough veiled references and seen Mr. Malvern’s monograph on sun cells on locomotives open on her desk. The Lady was up to something big, and if she was keeping mum about it, he would not be the one to blab even though his curiosity was burning as bright as the lamps in the ceiling above.
“Come along, boys,” Alice said, wiping her hands on the rag hanging from the back pocket of her pants. “It’s time to change for supper, if the clock in my stomach is right.”
Tigg had long ago become used to the toffs’ insistence that a man sit down to dinner in fancy clothes. Luckily for him, his khaki uniform fit the bill and so far he hadn’t been required to turn out in evening togs. Maybe he never would. Truth be told, he couldn’t imagine himself ever being rich enough or flash enough to indulge in such a thing, even when he and Lizzie were married. Unless the Lady and Mr. Malvern came to dinner, he would sit down in his regular trousers and shirt like a sensible being, and Lizzie wouldn’t fuss.
Lost in a happy dream of their first home together—fuzzy and nebulous though its appearance and location might be as yet—it took two tries for Jake to nudge him out of it.
“Woolgathering, lad?” He jerked his head toward the hatch and he and Tigg followed Captain Hollys and Alice back to the crew’s quarters to wash up and change. “Penny for ’em.”
“I’d rather have a penny for yours,” Tigg said. “You’ve been making yourself scarce.”
“I’ve been up on the fuselage, mending bullet holes,” Jake retorted. “I’ve got no time for social conversation if we mean to get
Swan
in the air for true anytime soon.”
“Not what I meant,” Tigg said, unperturbed. “You’re not resting easy, nor the captain either, and it’s—”
“—none of your affair.” Jake cut him off.
“The captain’s my superior officer, and you’re my mate. If a bird flies into the viewing port and both of you hit the deck leaving the helm unmanned, it becomes my affair with a vengeance.”
“Are you saying you don’t trust me to do my duty?” Jake demanded, his expression hardening.
Tigg had known the older boy since they were little ’uns begging in the Haymarket. Where his half-brother Snouts could be counted on to keep a cool head in a pinch, Jake would fly off the handle at the hint of a slight, and hold a grudge sometimes for years. Tigg hadn’t been around him much in the last couple of years, but it was a sure bet Jake hadn’t changed in the essentials.
“I’m saying that talking about what happened might be good for you.”
For answer, Jake stripped off his shirt and ran water over his head from the boiler overflow valve, scrubbing off the sweat and dust of the day’s work. Tigg did the same, and by the time he dried his face and rubbed the towel over his military-cut hair, Jake had screwed up the bluster to answer.
“The sooner I forget that place, the better. Talking about it ent going to change what happened.”
“It might help us understand, though.”
“I ent putting that in your heads. Bad enough it’s in mine.”
“So you and the captain are content to jump like mice every time the steam pipes clank? To wake in the middle of the night in a puddle of sweat? To stare off into space and not come back no matter what anyone says to you?”
Jake’s mouth tightened, as though he might be reining in his temper with an effort of will. That was different—he was learning control.
“Do you blame us?” Tigg went on. “What happens when we’re in an air skirmish and you go into that trance, Jake?”
“I won’t.”
“You can’t say that. Are you willing to put Alice’s life in danger because you’re too proud to admit you’ve got the megrims?”
He barely saw Jake’s fist in time to throw up his arm and block it. With a twist and a movement of his foot, he had him on the cabin floor, leaning on him gently, the offending fist twisted up between his shoulder blades.
“You forget I’ve had advanced training from Mr. Yau,” Tigg told him softly. “Don’t swing on me again or I won’t be so gentle next time.”
Jake was fuming with rage as Tigg let him up. “It’s none of your business,” he snarled. “If you ent got the sense to let me keep the ugliness to myself, you deserve what you get.”
Tigg, on the alert in case he took another poke, said, “I’m trying to be your friend, you numpty. We’re a flock, remember? We help each other.”
He could see the struggle going on behind the other boy’s eyes, as green as those of Snouts. The struggle between the horrors of the megrims and the belief that a man kept his fear to himself. The struggle to trust someone other than Captain Chalmers. Well, Tigg could understand that. Alice had made a man out of an angry boy, but that didn’t mean a man could live without friends.
