Authors: Juliana Gray
Once, she had eaten it all up.
Footsteps pattered through the doorway. “Oh, there you are!” said Abigail. “Who was the visitor? So awfully sorry to have abandoned you like that, but you know I’m hopeless with strangers. Either can’t say a word, or else ask some frightfully indecent question by mistake. Oh, is that the
Times
? Do let me see it. I put a fiver on a Derby horse before we left, and I’m desperate to see if I’ve won.”
Alexandra waved her hand. “By all means.”
Abigail picked up the paper and lifted herself onto the table, legs swinging. “I shall skip right over the first few pages, if you don’t mind. Nothing but railway disasters and mine cave-ins. Oh, bugger it! I’ve lost. To a nag named Sainfoin, if you will. Such rotten luck. That chap down the pub positively
assured
me. Well, that’s that. Perhaps next . . .” She stopped in midsentence.
Alexandra looked up. “What is it?”
“Alexandra,” she said, in a strangled voice, “you haven’t seen the newspaper yet, have you?”
“No. It only just arrived. Has somebody died?”
“No. Quite the opposite.”
She folded one side behind the other and handed it to Alexandra.
MR PHINEAS FITZWILLIAM BURKE, R.S.
in respect of a Scientific Experiment, conducted to
Rigorous Standards and to his Thoroughgoing
Satisfaction, concedes the following to
A . M .
THAT
the Female Sex enjoys Unrivaled Superiority
to the Male Sex with regards to steadiness of purpose
in pursuit of Academic Enlightenment;
THAT
the Male Sex is by far the more easily
distracted from its Intellectual Labours
by Thoughts of Love;
THAT
in Courage and Steadfastness
the Female Sex has no Superior;
THAT
all of the above are Scientifically Proven to
hold true at speeds exceeding Forty Miles per Hour.
On the TRUTH of these FINDINGS,
Mr. Burke declares himself prepared to stake
both his LIFE and his HEART.
WRITTEN and ATTESTED
this 22nd day of JUNE, 1890
“Good God.” Alexandra looked up and met Abigail’s eyes. “Good God.”
“Quite. A full sheet, just as we agreed, back at that inn.” Abigail peered over the edge. “His name must be five inches tall. Rather sporting of him, to use only your initials. Do you think anyone will smoke you out?”
“I don’t know. I don’t bloody care.” Alexandra rose from her chair and folded the paper back again. Her nerves sang with the return of her fighting spirit. He loved her. He must love her. And she’d be damned if she let him walk away again. “Abigail, my dear.”
Abigail looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Yes, Alex?”
“How would you like to go to Rome with me?”
TWENTY-FOUR
Borghese Gardens
Rome
I
say, Mr. Hartley,” said Alexandra, “this is really most inconvenient. Did you not consider your propensity for motion sickness before taking up automobiles as your life’s work?”
William Hartley lifted his pale head and cast her a mournful look. “Trains are all right. I thought the same would hold true for horseless carriages. It’s why I . . . oh dear.”
Alexandra sighed. “Take my handkerchief, sir. What a damnably sticky wicket. No, do keep it. I have several, I assure you.” She cast her eyes across the exhibition grounds, which were still empty of people in the early dawn light. Across the field, the temporary sheds housing the machines rose like ghosts from the shadowed grass.
In one of those sheds sat Finn’s automobile.
“I’m quite all right up to twenty miles an hour,” Mr. Hartley said hopefully.
“That’s no use at all. Mr. Burke’s machine can do forty with ease. Really, I’m most put out. The race begins in little more than twenty-four hours, and you’re all but eviscerated.” She tapped her fingers against the edge of the seat. “We
must
show well in this race. We
must
have a resounding triumph, or we’ll be forced to accept Mr. Burke’s bid after all.”
And I’ll be damned if I take his money, however he tries.
“No, no. There’s talk of an exposition in Paris next fall. Or perhaps the spring . . .”
She looked back at Mr. Hartley. “Can one of your mechanics drive?”
He dabbed at his face again with her handkerchief. “Possibly. But they’ve never tried it before, I’m afraid. Ought to have brought one of my engineers down, but the cost . . .”
She heaved a great sigh. “There’s nothing else for it. I shall have to drive.”
Mr. Hartley nearly toppled out the open door of the automobile. “You!”
“Me, of course. Do you plan to win the race by discharging effluent across the faces of those competitors in your backdraft? I should think not.”
“Do you . . . do you know how to drive?” he asked feebly.
“Yes, I do. Quite well. I shall have to take a bit of instruction from your mechanics, of course”—she nodded in the direction of the three men nearby, who leaned against the white fence circumscribing the grounds, faces purpling with suppressed laughter—“but I daresay I shall get on very well.”
“You . . . you
daresay
?” He clutched at the handkerchief.
She smiled at him and administered a pat to his shoulder. “There, there. You’re in no condition to drive in any case. Weak as a lamb, poor thing.”
“I say.” He straightened manfully.
“Don’t worry. I’ve studied the course. It’s a shame we didn’t arrive earlier, to familiarize ourselves with things, but you could hardly have foreseen the delay with the customs officials.”
“Deuced bureaucrats,” Mr. Hartley said, under his breath.
“Off you go, then! The general public will be herding on through in little more than an hour. Gentlemen?” She motioned to the mechanics.
They grinned at her as they came up: no tugging of forelocks, no ducking of heads, no
your ladyships
. An egalitarian lot, these motor-car enthusiasts. “Yes, ma’am?” one of them asked, folding his arms.
“As you’ve perhaps noticed, Mr. Hartley is unwell.”
“Sick as a dog, ma’am, looks like.”
“Dogs ain’t in it,” agreed another.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, well. As it happens, I have some experience with automobiles myself, and I shall be taking over the driving for the upcoming race.”
A slight breeze rustled the brim of her hat, the only movement in the stunned silence among them. She allowed the news a moment to digest.
“
You
, ma’am?” asked the first man at last.
“Yes, that’s right. I’ve driven an electric motor at forty miles an hour on roads far inferior to tomorrow’s route. Of course, you’ll have to give me some brief instruction on the operation of a steam-powered engine, but I imagine . . .”
“But ma’am,” broke in the second man, “it ain’t that easy! Begging your pardon.”
“Of course it isn’t easy. If it were easy, Mr. Hartley wouldn’t have become unwell.”
“And . . . well, it ain’t exactly what a lady might call safe.”
“I’m not
exactly
like other ladies.”
The men looked at one another and shrugged.
“That’s that, then,” Alexandra said. “Mr. Hartley, if you would be so good as to hand me your goggles.”
* * *
P
hineas Burke’s head was priced rather high this morning, which rendered Delmonico’s company only just tolerable on the short walk up the hill from the hotel on the via Vittorio Venetto to the exhibition grounds in the Borghese gardens.
“She is a beautiful creature, you must admit,” Delmonico was saying, “though she makes rather much noise when one uses her hard.”
Was he talking about his automobile or his mistress? Finn rubbed his aching temple. “I daresay.”
“Yours, of course, has the advantage of silence,” Delmonico went on, “and of course she doesn’t lack spirit. But again, she tires too quickly. You’d be better off with my sort. Not so clean, I admit, and smells like the devil. But she’s cheap to feed. Just fill her tank when she’s empty.”
Surely he must mean his automobile.
“I’m convinced I can solve the problem of battery endurance,” Finn said. “I’ve already made astonishing progress. My motor’s cleaner, more efficient, far easier to drive.” He struggled to marshal his thoughts. He wasn’t a drinking man in ordinary circumstances, but the revelry at the hotel last night had gone on and on, led by that Belgian fellow, and the waiters had refilled his wineglass with great dedication. Filled with restlessness, filled with uneasiness that Alexandra hadn’t yet replied to his parting note, he’d emptied each round in due course. He’d stumbled into bed at two o’clock and thanked God, for the first time in well over a fortnight, that Alexandra wasn’t there to witness his disgrace. He was still half-drunk, even now, and the remnants of intoxication paired most foully with the pounding of his head.
They had reached the white fence encircling the grounds and stopped to lean against the thin wood. “Ah, there we are,” said Delmonico, gesturing at the open field, with its row of tidy sheds along one side catching the light from the rising sun. “Fully fifteen exhibitioners, eleven of them racing tomorrow. Even that compatriot of yours with the steam engine has come at last.”
“Steam engine?” Finn shook his head, felt the resulting rattle, and stopped at once. “Who’s got a steam engine?”
“A Mr. Hartley, from the Manchester Works in England. Perhaps you know him?”
“Hartley, by God!”
“He sent me a cable two weeks ago. He says he has made a very great breakthrough and wishes to compete.” Delmonico leaned his chin on his hands. “If I am not mistaken, that is him now.”
Finn raised his hand to shelter his brow against the flashing sunrise and peered into the field. A dark object sat in the distance, at the beginning of the track, surrounded by men. “What, there?”
“I believe so. The machine has only just arrived.” Delmonico leaned forward. “It seems they want to give her a trial.”
“By God,” Finn whispered, ravaged head forgotten. “So they are.” With one hand he reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out his watch.
The mechanics backed away from the automobile, revealing its silhouette against the sunrise. Finn had seen it before, touring the works with William Hartley several months ago: a rather awkward body, with the driver perched high and the boiler positioned behind, delivering steam to the front-mounted motor. Still, a steamer was capable of high speeds and rapid acceleration. No gear shifting necessary, no need to crank the engine. A neat, efficient machine.
Except, of course, for the risk of boiler explosion.
Finn craned forward, trying to pick out more detail in the watery light. Good God, that was an extraordinarily odd hat Hartley was wearing. Almost . . .
The automobile surged forward like a shot from a cannon, building speed with shocking ferocity. Finn couldn’t hear the engine from his post, couldn’t see much except the rising cloud of dust as the vehicle raced down the dirt track, beaten out of the meadow turf just a few days ago.
Delmonico gasped next to him. “Such speed!”
The track ran in a straight line down the length of the exposition grounds before curving around to complete its oval. Finn held his breath as the steamer drew closer, its contours emerging rapidly from the glare of the sun, resolving into detail. The tires churned into the dirt, the rhythmic hum of the turbine reached his ears, the driver . . .
The driver.
Finn felt the blood drain from his head, from his hands, dropping like a stone into the center of his gut.
“By heaven,” cried Delmonico, “they have a woman driving her! A woman!” He pounded the fence with his fist.
The motor was slowing now, nearing the turn of the track. Finn sensed, dimly, that he had vaulted over the white fence, that he was running across the damp grass, that William Hartley’s steamer was making the turn to head back to the starting point.
“No!” he heard himself yell. “For God’s sake!”
But the automobile was accelerating again, exploding back down the track. It rushed past him, a hundred yards away, trailing a billowing banner of dust.
Finn turned and ran after it, legs pumping and lungs bursting, as the long, hot rays of the Roman sunrise pierced his throbbing skull. All he could do was chase after Lady Alexandra Morley in her steam-powered automobile, while her delighted laugh mingled with the throb of the engine across the motionless air between them.
* * *
A
lexandra set the brake and jumped with delight from the seat. “Bloody splendid!” she called out, tearing off her hat and her goggles. Hartley and the mechanics ran up to her from the fence with identical mad grins on their faces. “Magnificent! How fast was it?”
“Forty-two miles per hour, by my watch!” Hartley brandished the instrument in question. “A record.”
“I can’t describe it! The acceleration! It was like bolting on a horse, only perfectly smooth, perfectly . . .”
“Alexandra!”
The word burst through the air, sharp and desperate.
Alexandra whirled at the sound. A man raced toward her through the yellow dust, long legs battering the ground like pistons. “Finn! There you are! Isn’t it marvelous? I . . .”
He stopped a few yards away. “You fool! You bloody fool! You might have been killed!” He whipped about to face Hartley, chest heaving. “You damned idiot! Why did you let her drive?”
Hartley’s face, already white, blanched even further. He removed his hat and wiped his forehead with Alexandra’s lace-edged handkerchief. “I . . . She insisted . . . She told me she could drive . . .”
Finn threw his hands up in the air and turned back to Alexandra. “For God’s sake, what were you thinking? A steamer’s nothing like an electric. The boiler alone . . .”
She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Well! That’s a fine greeting. I thought you’d be pleased to see me.”
He aimed his gaze upward to the pale morning sky. “Not tearing down a dirt track in an untested steam engine!”
“How perfectly unreasonable. You know I’m a competent driver. You taught me yourself.”
“In
my
automobile, under
my
supervision. And for that matter . . .”
“I don’t
need
supervision . . .”
“. . . why are you here at all? And with
Hartley’s
team?” His eyes blazed at her.
She glanced at her nephew-in-law, who stood with the mechanics, hanging on every word. “I’m an owner of the company. As you know.”
The lines of his face hardened. “Yes, I know.”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that! I only came down to watch, to see the new machine in action, and then Mr. Hartley . . . proved unable to drive this morning. I thought I might help.”
“Risking your neck.”
“No more than you do,” she said quietly, “every day.”
He didn’t reply, only looked at her with his grave, penetrating eyes. His hands clenched and relaxed by his side. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion later,” he said at last.
“Yes, of course.” She gathered herself and turned to the other men. Her heart pounded hard in her chest, shocked with awareness of Finn’s gaze, Finn’s body once more crackling with energy and emotion a short distance away. “I beg your pardon. Mr. Burke is extraordinarily protective of his friends. Shall we put the automobile back in the shed? I expect you’ll need to get her ready for the public viewing.”
Mr. Hartley started forward. “Yes, yes. Of course. Shall drive her back myself. You . . . eh . . . of course, Burke, you’re welcome to . . . eh . . .”
“I shall accompany Lady Morley,” said Finn.
Mr. Hartley leaped into the automobile and grasped the tiller, while the mechanics started off on foot. Finn stood motionless, watching them go. Alexandra’s heart gave another dizzying thump.
He turned. “So. You’re here.” He wore that fixed inscrutable look of his, the scientist’s look, studying her.
She swallowed. The glowing self-confidence that had filled her since the sight of the newspaper advertisement drained away, under the weight of that impassive gaze. Perhaps she’d misread. Perhaps he’d arranged for the advertisement earlier, before he knew about her ownership of his competitor.
Perhaps she’d just made the greatest blunder of her life.
“Would you rather I hadn’t?” she asked carefully.
He shook his head. “At the moment, I suppose, I’m only glad you’re alive and whole.”
“I didn’t mean to worry you. I didn’t know you were there. I . . .” She checked herself, and then asked, “Why did you leave like that, without me?”
His expression softened at last into a rueful smile. “For one thing, darling, you’re the devil of a distraction. And as I explained in the note . . .”
“Note? What note?”
He started. “You didn’t get my note?”
“No! I looked for one, I thought you’d left one, and then I found that list of shareholders, that stupid, stupid . . .”