Hot and Steamy (21 page)

Terror clutched Elizabeth so abruptly, it was all she could do to keep from vomiting.
Mother! Father!

A man leaped from the dock and started swimming toward the wreckage. Several others followed in a ragged, desperate lack of formation. Then an enormous, black shape hurtled past Elizabeth, into the sea, and paddled furiously after them. It took her a moment to realize what had happened. “Byron, no!” She lunged for the dog, seizing empty air. She tumbled into the shallows as the dog swam toward the burning ship with a speed the men could never hope to match.

Perry was stripping off his coat to follow Byron into the ocean. Executing a shallow, graceful dive, he joined the mass of men headed to rescue the survivors.

Elizabeth wrung her hands, not knowing whether to worry more for her family, for the other victims of the boiler explosion, or for Perry and Byron. The latter two, at least, paid the risks no heed. Within moments, Byron seized a floating human form by the collar and dragged it vigorously toward the would-be rescuers.

A man accepted the unmoving figure from Byron, guiding the first victim toward shore. Byron executed a tight circle and headed back out to snatch a floundering child and carry it through the water toward another of the swimmers from the dock. The man took the child, who clung to his chest, freeing Byron to go after another.

Still searching for her parents, Elizabeth marveled at the strength and speed of the animal. Without ever being taught, Byron knew what to do and did it methodically and effectively, his strokes instinctive and his massive body allowing him to rescue even large adults. When it became clear what was happening, everyone joined in to help. The women lay down on the docks, reaching outward. The men collected the floating bodies on their own or from Byron, hauling them near enough for the women to grab hold, together hoisting them to the docks. Once there, the women rushed the victims to dry land, covering them with coats, rushing them to the infirmary, or waiting for them to join the rescue effort.

Tears flowing down her cheeks, Elizabeth waded into the shallows to help serve as a conduit between the swimming men and the hefting women, balancing survivors and bodies for the transfer. She saw her parents wading into shore, hand-in-hand, and an icy shudder of relief passed through her. No longer concerned for them, she set her mind to her own task, trying to banish the fear that, when the crisis ended, she would lose both Byron and Perry to their own courageous actions.

The
Lucy Pearl
slid beneath the waves, quenching the fires, until nothing remained to mark the spot but trails of smoke and steam. As the ocean claimed its prize, the men rushed back to the docks, worried to get sucked into the maelstrom of its plunge. But Byron remained, circling the wreckage. Suddenly, his shaggy head disappeared beneath the water.

“Byron!” Elizabeth wanted to shout, but only a whisper emerged. She saw Perry heading toward where the dog had gone, his strokes strong and sure.

Seconds passed like hours. Elizabeth could feel each heartbeat hammering her chest, every breath drawing in an agony of hovering smoke. Then, as abruptly as he had gone, Byron surfaced. In his mouth, he clutched a toddler, dragging her sodden head into the air.

As one, the crowd stilled, bodies half-drawn to the docks, strokes frozen in mid-movement. Perry reached Byron and took the child from the dog. For a few moments, Elizabeth could see nothing, as dog and man took turns blocking her view. She saw a few of the men start heading back out toward the sunken ship. Then, Perry raised the young child high out of the water. The child gasped, then coughed. Abruptly, she wailed in terror, grabbing for Perry.

The crowd cheered. Perry placed the toddler carefully onto Byron's back, and the dog swam back with a leisurely pace clearly designed not to dislodge his rider. As the child settled into place, she clutched the dog's furry neck in a death grip and stopped screaming.

Byron stepped out onto the shore with Perry at his side, keeping the child balanced. A woman, presumably the child's mother, seized the toddler and held her close. The child snuggled against her. Once again, the crowd cheered.

Byron shook, sending a spray of water in all directions. No one seemed to notice or care. Most pressed in to embrace the survivors, to examine those who had not yet shown signs of life. A few approached the dog, touching his flag-like tail, his wet fur, his floppy ears now heavy with seawater. His tongue lolled, he panted heavily, and a string of drool dangled from his open mouth.

Perry flopped down beside Byron, and the dog collapsed to the ground, resting his head on Perry's leg.

From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw the police coming. “Go quickly.” She waved at the pair. “Run!”

Clearly exhausted, Perry shook his head. Byron whined and rolled his gaze to Elizabeth, but he did not move.

Byron's face held the raw beauty and innocence of the universe, the eyes all-giving, the brows as expressive as anything human. He seemed to know what was coming, resigned, glad to sacrifice himself for the many human lives he had saved.

As the police drew nearer, Elizabeth threw herself across man and dog, burying as much of them as her smaller person allowed. She glared fiercely as the men drew up around her. “If you so much as touch a hair on either of them, I will attack. You will have to kill me first.”

Those nearest the scene went silent, and the hush spread in ever-widening rings. Gradually, Elizabeth's parents stepped up in front of her, their faces pale, their clothing burnt and sodden. A scarlet line of blood trickled from her father's cheek where a piece of the ship must have slashed him. Others moved beside them, then still more until Elizabeth looked through a sea of dripping pants and legs and could see nothing of the approaching policemen.

A chant started up: “Save the hero dog! Save the hero dog!” As each additional voice joined the chorus, it became louder and louder until no other sound could penetrate.

Elizabeth hugged Perry and Byron in turn, tears once again coursing down her cheeks. Burying the dead and healing the wounded would take precedence over the next few weeks. After that, Elizabeth would finally have her wedding.

 

In the Cedar Falls Cemetery, amid the stone markers, stands a statue of a large, powerful-looking dog with long, wavy hair and a blocky head. Inscribed beneath it in Victorian letters is the following:

“W
e are
not
amused.”

“Your Majesty,” the Prime Minister's voice held just enough sorrow to indicate sympathy, with a twinge of helpless regret. “I fear we have little choice.”

I wisely kept my eyes down, focused on the rim of the wheeled chair beside me. I had performed my best curtsey when I'd been introduced, then sank to one knee, my black skirts puffing out around me. It had been suggested that I do so to avoid towering over the small, stout lady who ruled the Empire.

“Given the circumstances,” the Prime Minister continued, “Miss Haversham's unique qualifications are the best and the only ones that will answer.”

A pudgy hand with rings on every finger came into view and lifted my chin. I raised my head obediently, but continued to keep my gaze low.

The Prime Minister continued in the frigid silence. “Miss Haversham is also a recent widow, ma'am, in a sense. Her betrothed died on the eve of their wedding day.”

There was an intake of air at that. I kept my face stoic and resolved, hoping that she'd not inquire about him. My fake betrothed had come into existence in the scant moments before this interview. For my life I could not recall his name. But he made a lovely excuse for unattractive mourning clothes and my hair pulled back into a severe bun.

The temperature in the room warmed. “The best, you say?” The hand was pulled back, and the chair creaked as she shifted within it.

“Highly recommended,” came the firm response.

“Very well,” Her Majesty said briskly. “It has been explained to you, Miss Haversham? What you are to do?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said.

“My godson is a genius,” she continued, oblivious to my response. “You understand? Genius must be nurtured and protected. So far, he has resisted my efforts to see to his wellbeing. And his estates, such as they are . . .” The queen shook her head. “He neglects himself,” she continued. “And you will see to him.”

“Your Majesty,” I said with all due humbleness.

“We share a grief,” she continued. “To have lost our dearest ones too soon. But mind your station, miss.” The queen's voice was sharp as a blade. “Do not seek to rise above it.”

Her hand gestured, and the chair wheeled off, out of my vision. I waited until the door was closed before I rose to my feet. The Prime Minister let out a puff of breath. “That went better than I anticipated.” He turned to me and raised a bushy eyebrow. “You are ready to depart?”

“Yes, m'lord.”

“Then collect your weapons from the guard, and be off.”

 

The carriage rode quite smoothly as it clattered over the rough country roads. I was taken aback by its comfort, since its appearance had given me no confidence. Dusty, unpolished, with seat cushions that were worn and frayed at the edges.

The horses were well-cared for, I'd grant them that, although the driver and footmen's attire left everything to be desired. Their uniforms were tattered at the cuffs, and the one had a patch at the elbow.

Clearly the task before me would not be an easy one.

We made excellent time from the station, and the carriage pulled up in front of the house before midday. The manor was large and lovely, but the grounds around the house had been sadly neglected. The shrubbery in particular looked like it had been savaged and partially burned recently. I frowned as I pulled on my gloves, adjusted my hat, and took up my parasol.

I alighted with the footman's aid, but there was no one to greet me at the door. I did not bother with the bell, but opened the door wide and marched straight in.

The foyer was dark, lit only by the light through the curtain gaps. I ran my gloved finger over the side table and
tsk
ed at the result.

“Ma'am.” The voice was sharp, and I turned and faced the butler. “How may I assist—”

I held up my dusty forefinger. He bristled, but I cut off his response. “Lord Ashington,” I demanded.

“His lordship is in his laboratory and is not to be disturbed.” His voice was smooth enough, but his anger was clear. “Do you have an appointment, Miss . . . ?”

“Haversham. I am his lordship's new secretary.” I raised an eyebrow. “Lead the way.”

“His lordship said nothing of this to me.”

I kept my eyebrow raised. “And you are?”

A dull red flush started to creep over the man's collar. “Jervis, ma'am.”

I waited.

“This way, ma'am,” Jervis said, his voice as rigid as his spine.

As we walked, I noted the signs of neglect. Clearly, the management of this household left a great deal to be desired. I didn't voice my observations, but Jervis's rigid back told me that vocalization was unnecessary.

He opened the door into the library. A large room with high windows filled with light and shelves of books almost made me smile as I stepped in. A delightful space, warm and bright, with the pleasing scent of old books and leather. A man's room, certainly, and one I thought well of until I saw the horror that lay before me.

The desk, a massive carved oak table, was covered in papers, strewn about in appalling disarray. In fact, the entire room was one large chaotic pile of correspondence, newspapers, maps, and heaven only knew what all. A secretary's worst nightmare.

“If you would wait here, Miss.” Jervis said. “I will—”

I knew that ploy all too well. “No. The laboratory. Now.” I didn't both with the “if you please.”

Jervis resigned himself and obeyed.

We emerged from the house, walked down a lovely path through a formal garden to a large brick building with high casement windows.

At least, I assumed it had been a formal garden. The large hedges had suffered the same damage as those in the front of the house, with great gouges in the earth and scorch marks here and there. I opened my mouth to question Jervis but decided against it at the last moment. Best to establish myself with his lordship first.

Jervis opened the door, and bowed me through with a malicious glint in his eye.

I stepped within and was met with a wave of heat, humidity, and noise. The skirts on my mourning dress wilted as quickly as the curl in my hair would have done, had I not secured it in its tight braid.

I took in air filled with the scent of grease and the acrid odor of hot metal. The entire building was ablaze with light, flicking in the lamps and reflected by the copper and brass of the machinery. Gears and pulleys turned and twisted above my head, and heaven alone knew what function they performed.

The wooden floor stretched out before me, with men and tables scattered all around two huge machines. More workers emerged from trapdoors in the floor with tools and plans, scurrying this way and that, clearly intent on their responsibilities.