Unwritten Books 3 - The Young City (9 page)

“Then you have a place there.” She pressed a textbook into Faith’s hand. “And while I’m here, I’ll help you. I’m really proud of what you’re doing.”

Faith blushed. “Well, why shouldn’t women be doctors?” she said lightly. “We’ve nursed enough men back to health over the ages.” She sighed. “Still, ’tis hard.” She put the towel aside and moved to the table, sitting herself down among the books.

Rosemary frowned. “Don’t work too hard. You need your rest as well as your study.”

“I need to study,” said Faith. “And afterwards, I need to sew. To help Edmund pay for this.”

Edmund came in through the back door, muttering numbers to himself. He barely looked up as he passed. Faith bent over her books, muttering medical terms. Rosemary watched. Her frown deepened.

The next day, Rosemary worked the front of the shop when the door jangled. She looked up from the colony of ink blotches on her hands. She found herself staring at the man in the cream-coloured suit who had called out to Edmund outside the church. He had a long handlebar moustache twirled at each end like something you’d expect to see on a circus ringmaster. His eyes were dark pools. He leaned on his ebony cane.

“Good day to you, madam,” he said. His voice was cultured, his British accent measured. “What happened to young Miss Watson?”

Rosemary blinked. Then the light dawned. “Oh, you mean Faith! She’s in class. I’m filling in for her.”

“I see,” said the man.

Silence stretched. Each stared at the other, wondering who had dropped their cue. Finally, the man said, “And you are ...?”

Rosemary straightened up. “Sorry. I’m Rosemary. Rosemary Watson.”

“Aldous Birge.” He held out his hand. Rosemary gave him hers, then stumbled into the counter as Aldous pulled her hand up to kiss.

“Watson?” he repeated as Rosemary rubbed her stomach. “Are you related to Faith and Edmund?”

“Distantly,” she replied.

“That explains it!” He laughed. “I didn’t think Edmund could afford to hire extra help these days.”

Rosemary frowned at the heartiness of the laugh. She cleared her throat. “How may I help you, Mr. Birge?”

“I doubt you could,” he said, his chuckles fading. “I have business to conduct with Edmund. May I see him?”

“He’s not in,” she said. “Are you sure I can’t help you? I can find what you’re looking for —”

“I’m not looking to buy trinkets.” Aldous waved a hand. “I have serious business to conduct. Was Edmund not expecting me?”

Rosemary put on the smile she used at the library for people trying to back out of late fees. “If he was, he didn’t tell me. He left
me
in charge of the store, and I’m perfectly capable of —”

“Mr. Birge!”

They turned. Edmund stood, half in and half out the front door, staring at Aldous, his eyes wide. His gaze flicked between Birge and Rosemary. Then he stepped into the store. “Mr. Birge,” he continued more calmly. “What brings you here?”

Before Aldous could answer, Edmund cut in. “Rosemary, I fear I forgot to buy bread. Faith will be furious if she finds out. Can you run over to the baker’s and purchase a loaf?” He held out a coin.

Rosemary stared. Edmund shifted on his feet and didn’t look her in the eye. Aldous stood patiently, waiting for her to leave. She took a deep breath. “Fine.” She took the coin and lifted up a section of counter. “I’ll be right back.”

“Pleasure meeting you, Miss Watson,” Aldous called after her.

“Chauvinist pigs,” she muttered as she turned up the street. Then she gave herself a shake. What had just happened? So, she’d met a customer she didn’t like. What of it? Edmund obviously didn’t like him either, so perhaps he’d sent her away so he could speak to him without a lady’s “sensitive” ears present. Not that he had to worry on her account.

But something about Aldous nagged at her; maybe his dark gaze, his patronizing smile. The feeling of déjà vu didn’t help. “Where have I seen you before?” she muttered as she slipped through the crowds. “And why are you so interested in Edmund?”

At the end of the day, Rosemary heard Edmund in the hallway, stepping into his bedroom/office. She locked the front door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and drew the blinds shut. She gathered up the receipts and mail and went in the back.

Edmund’s door was ajar and he didn’t answer her
knock, so she pushed in and found him hunched over his desk, surrounded by papers, his head in his hands.

“Edmund?” She nudged his shoulder.

He jumped. “What are you doing here?”

She glared at him. “Receipts and the mail. Interested?”

He looked away, wincing. “I am sorry, Rosemary. You just startled me.”

“Fine.” She handed him the papers. “You okay?”

“Just tired.”

“Faith’s tired, too.” She sighed. “You know, you both could use a holiday.”

But Edmund snatched an envelope from the mail and his face lit up. “He wrote!”

“Who?”

He didn’t answer. He just tore open the envelope and pored over the letter. Rosemary shrugged and turned away. She stopped when she saw an odd-looking device on a table by the door, all gears and grease. She fingered two wires stretching from it.

“What’s this?”

Edmund snapped upright. “Do not touch that! You canna possibly understand —”

But Rosemary followed the wires to the floor, where they ran to a jar of brackish liquid. She held back her hands. “Acid! You built a battery?”

Edmund froze halfway out of his seat. “You know what a battery is?”

“Sure,” said Rosemary. “The presence of two metals in an acidic solution generates an electric charge. They taught us that in basic chemistry —.” She stopped herself too late.

He stared at her. “That was a very advanced schoolhouse.”

She smiled, then turned back to the machine. “So, what are you doing with a battery?”

He coughed. “I ... I like to tinker.” He cleared his throat. “I invent things.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing in a pawnshop?”

He drew in a breath. “My uncle James was the inventor in the family. Him and his steam engine. My father, Edmund Watson senior, bought the shop before I was born and always intended that I should inherit it.”

“Your father’s name is Edmund and he named
you
Edmund?”

“He wasn’t inventive. Particularly with names. If Faith had had sisters, they would have been Hope and Charity, in that order.”

She smiled. “So, tell me what the machine does, and if it has anything to do with the letter you received.”

“How did you know the letter was about an invention?”

Rosemary grinned at him.

“I did write to an engineer,” said Edmund. “But not about my Morse code machine. About this.” He
reached behind the machine and brought out a small box of translucent pink crystals.

“Rocks?” said Rosemary.

“Quartz,” said Edmund. “I experiment with electricity and I heard stones such as quartz produce a charge when they are struck or compressed.”

Rosemary stopped herself from using the word
piezoelectricity
. She smiled and nodded.

“I’ve been looking at the potential uses of this phenomenon,” he went on. “So far, this is what I have come up with.” He fumbled through a drawer and pulled out a gun-like device with two wires for a barrel. He pulled back the spring trigger with a click and a bright spark leapt between the wires.

Rosemary clapped her hands. “You’ve invented the barbecue lighter!”

“What?”

“Never mind. So, what did the man say?”

Edmund picked up the letter. “He says he is visiting from Montreal ...,” he bit his lip, “... tomorrow.” He swallowed. “His company has a booth at the Industrial Exhibition and he wants to meet me there, around noon.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“I am not ready!” Edmund crushed the letter in his fist.

“Edmund, what’s wrong? This is the opportunity of a lifetime!”

He shook his head. “No, no. I canna go before Mr. Ballard with only this.” He gave his lighter a flick. It crackled and sparked. “I would be a laughing stock.”

Rosemary clasped his hands. This time, he didn’t flinch at her forwardness. “Yes, you can. It’s the best kind of invention: it’s simple. You’ve got notes, right?”

He held up a sheaf of ragged, inky papers.

“There. That’s your backup,” said Rosemary. “This is perfect. Faith needs a holiday, and you need to work on something other than your shop. So, let’s all go down to the Exhibition tomorrow. We’ll pack a lunch!”

“Who’ll mind the shop?”

“Close it.”

“I canna do that!”

“What harm is one day going to do?”

Edmund opened his mouth to object, then closed it. After a moment, he gathered up his papers and put the “barbecue lighter” beside them.

Rosemary beamed. “It’ll be great. I’ll tell Faith.” At the door, she hesitated. “One thing: what
is
this Industrial Exhibition, anyway?”

“Faith, I’m sorry. I didn’t know the engine would spark like that.”

Rosemary stood beside Faith, a hand on her shoulder, as the woman leaned against a stall, her face pale. Around
them, the crowds chattered, the stall owners called, and, in the distance, a pipe organ tooted its music.

“That
thing
,” gasped Faith, pointing to where they had come from, “is a fire hazard. It could well be the creation of the devil. People are not meant to be pulled around by something other than horses or steam!”

Rosemary moved closer to Faith to avoid the crowds streaming off the temporary wooden platform. A train stood on the tracks beside it, with seats on open platform cars and an electric motor for an engine. The crowds off, the train backed out of the station buzzing like a hive of bees. Sparks flashed off the wheels and the third rail onto the wooden platform, dangerously close to the legs of the passengers. The engineer, Rosemary noted, wore thick gloves.

“It’s okay,” she said, patting Faith’s shoulder. “We’re here now and we’re safe. These engines are the way of the future. I’m sure they’re safer than they look.”

Colour reappeared on Faith’s cheeks, but she looked away. “I feel foolish. Do you think Edmund saw my fear?”

Rosemary looked back. Edmund was watching the train go. He was bouncing on both feet. “Marvellous! To see Van Depoele’s design tested here! Marvellous!”

She patted Faith’s shoulder. “I don’t think he noticed.” She stepped over to Edmund. “Don’t forget your appointment.”

Edmund looked up, showed her his envelope of
papers, and patted the device in his pocket. He gave her a nervous smile. “I’m ready.”

Rosemary looked around. “Where’s Peter? He’s got the food.”

“I saw him heading toward the game stalls,” said Faith.

Rosemary blinked. “Oh dear. Peter and a carnival. Bad mix. I’ll go look for him. You go on; I’ll meet up with you at your presentation!” She darted into the crowd.

She’d realized what the Toronto Industrial Exhibition was as she rode the streetcar over. She’d gone to its modern descendant — the Canadian National Exhibition — and there wasn’t much difference between the two. The Industrial Exhibition had different showcase buildings and an impressive Crystal Palace, but had the same crowds as the twenty-first century Ex — people shouting and laughing and kids speeding around the legs of their parents. Rosemary marched past the stalls, looking for Peter.