Authors: Juliana Gray
He let out his breath in a gust. “Thank God. Thank you, Alexandra, for understanding. I promise I’ll . . .”
She held up her hand. “Wait. As I said, I’ll back out. But only if you will, too.”
He stared at her. “What the devil?”
“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, isn’t that right? If I’ve got to pull out of the race to prove my devotion, so must you. If it’s too dangerous for me, it’s too dangerous for you.”
“That’s . . . that’s rot! That’s the most unreasonable . . . ridiculous . . . female convoluted . . . reasoning!” He knew he was sputtering, and he didn’t care.
“I think it’s quite logical indeed, and I’m sure that if you consider the matter carefully, you’ll see that I’m right. After all, I have a great deal more to lose than you do.” She took her sleek kidskin gloves from one clenched fist and fitted them carefully to her hands. “Now, while you’re busy thinking it all over, I believe I have an automobile to ready for a race.”
TWENTY-SIX
O
f the eleven competitors in the race, Alexandra decided, only two were any real threat to her: Bartolomeo Delmonico, with his rumbling petrol engine, and Phineas Burke.
Phineas Burke, who should have been making a last-minute inspection of his own motor-car just now, but who instead hovered over the boiler of William Hartley’s automobile, firing questions at all three mechanics at once.
“Impossible man,” she said, as she wound her white cotton voile scarf securely about her head, trapping the hot afternoon sun in her hair.
“I think it’s touching,” said Abigail. “Aren’t you going to speak to him?”
“I think we’ve done enough speaking for one day. Goggles, please.” A flashbulb went off at her left elbow, scraping against the raw edge of her nerves.
Not that she would admit
that
to anyone.
Abigail handed her the goggles and helped her slip them over her head, with the lenses atop her scarf, ready to be pulled down. “This is so thrilling,” her sister said, tightening the buckle on the leather strap. “I want you to know, I’ve laid twenty lire on you with the chap running the book at the hotel café.”
“Where the devil did you find twenty lire?” Alexandra asked her sister. “Really, Finn,” she said, more loudly, “that’s quite enough. These men are really most frightfully competent. You should see to your own machine.”
He straightened and turned to her. His forehead was creased with worry. A light sheen of perspiration shone on his temples, beneath the line of his driving cap. “You’re certain of the course?”
“Perfectly. Around the gardens, down to the Colosseum, back up to the gardens. I tracked it yesterday. And it’s marked.”
He stared at her a second or two longer, his eyes the color of new leaves in the bright Roman sunshine. “Be safe,” he said.
For an instant, her heart swelled painfully against her ribs.
“And you,” she whispered.
He turned and walked away, his long limbs flowing purposefully through the thick, hot air. Alexandra watched him circle his automobile, checking the tires, and then swing into the driver’s seat in a competent motion. Why couldn’t he understand? Could he simply not imagine her need to walk into his arms as her own woman, with her own fortune, free and unencumbered? Could he not comprehend her desire to shut the door on her past, on the idle and useless Lady Morley she’d once been, the one who married for money and position instead of love?
“Lady Morley.”
She was so absorbed, she didn’t hear the words at first. It was Abigail who whipped about and exclaimed, “Good God! Wallingford!”
Alexandra turned. “Wallingford! What on earth?”
He stood there glowering in a light gray suit and straw boater, his black eyes flashing not at her, but at her sister. “You might have told me where you were going, you silly fools,” he said.
Alexandra recovered in an instant. “And why is that, exactly?”
His gaze slid to her. “Because I woke up four days ago to find myself the only damned resident in the castle, and the entire pile gone silent, without a word of news from anyone, and . . .”
“I’m so terribly sorry,” Abigail said. “How were the goats?”
“I don’t,” he said, between clenched lips, “give a damn about the goats.”
“Such language, Your Grace! In front of Miss Harewood! I’m shocked. Shocked and appalled. Moreover, I’ve a race that begins in”—Alexandra consulted her watch—“five minutes, and I beg leave to point out that you’re a most unwelcome obstruction.”
“You’re
driving
? In the
race
?” He looked thunderstruck. His eyes shifted back and forth between her and her sister.
“Certainly I am.”
“But you can’t simply leave your sister alone in a crowd of . . . of
Italians
!” Wallingford exclaimed.
“Of course not. Mr. Hartley will protect her from any insult.” She nodded to where Hartley stood a few yards away, hat in hand, scratching his ear, mechanics lounging at his side. He seemed to hear his name, for he looked over at them, replaced his hat, and worked his jowls.
Wallingford stared a moment and turned back to Alexandra. “You’re not serious.”
“Well, watch her yourself, then. Though I’d be more concerned for the poor Roman fellow who dared to accost her. Mr. Hartley!”
He straightened. “Yes, your ladyship?”
“I believe it’s time. Is the steam up?”
One of the mechanics spoke. “Yes, ma’am. Full steam. She’s ready to go.”
At that instant, a loud noise like a pistol shot cracked through the air.
* * *
T
he poor fellow,” Alexandra said.
They watched in respectful silence as the injured man passed by the ten remaining automobiles in a stretcher, arm and face bound up in white.
“Did you see the way his arm swung about? Jolly lurid,” Abigail observed. “To say nothing of his jaw. I thought they’d never get all that blood off the bonnet.”
“Damned cranks on these petrol engines,” said Alexandra. Her fingers drummed along the steering tiller. A solid weight had been forming in the pit of her belly for some time. She ignored it. She looked instead down the row of competitors, lined up at the starting point, automobiles of all shapes and sizes and engines, each more improbable than the last. One fellow balanced on what looked to be a sort of motorized bicycle.
She saw Delmonico chuckling with Herr Jellinek, whose wife and daughter were apparently avoiding the hurly-burly of the race itself. The Italian’s automobile perched next to him, its metal frame polished to a blinding sheen.
In the automobile next to her, Finn stared straight ahead, as if memorizing every paving stone on the road before them. With one hand he drew his goggles down over his eyes. Wallingford came around and leaned on the edge of Finn’s doorframe, exchanging a few words, face intent.
On Finn’s other side, Delmonico’s mechanic cranked his shiny beast’s engine with expert heaves of his arm. A deep growl rumbled through the air, and then another from down the line, smothering the boiler’s hiss behind her. Delmonico glanced down the row of motor-cars in her direction, and the look in his eyes surprised her, fierce and piratical beneath the huge disks of his goggles.
A flash of recognition exploded in her brain.
She’d seen that expression before, those dark, fierce eyes narrowed in malevolence. She’d seen it among the olive trees, near Finn’s workshop, on her way down to the lake on Midsummer’s Eve.
The night of the fire.
Good God. It was Delmonico. Delmonico, who wanted Jellinek to invest in his company. Delmonico, who’d spent a fortune, who’d nearly bankrupted himself setting up this exposition, to showcase his own automobile.
Delmonico, who would apparently do anything to win this race.
She turned to Finn and called his name, into the roar of engines and the shouting of the crowd. He didn’t stir, didn’t so much as flicker a muscle of his face.
“Finn!” she screamed again.
He started and turned to her.
“Finn! Watch Delmonico!” She stabbed her finger at the Italian.
Finn swiveled his head and looked at Delmonico. His face returned to hers with a quizzical shrug.
“Watch him!” she screamed again.
Finn shrugged again and pointed in front of them.
She turned to follow his finger, to where the starter stood fifty yards down the track with his pistol raised.
It was too late. The race was about to begin.
The sultry smell of petrol exhaust filled her nose and lungs. Her right hand clenched the steering tiller with an unshakable grip, and her left hand stuck to the throttle.
The starter looked up and down the line, consulted his watch, and scanned the line again.
Watch the pistol
, Finn had told her.
You’ll see the puff of smoke before the sound reaches your ears.
She watched the pistol. Her pulse pounded in her throat.
Around her, the crowd of spectators had gone utterly still. Not a sound, except for the roar of the engines; not a movement, except for the starter swiveling his head up and down the line of automobiles. She sensed the eager pressure of the steam in the boiler behind her, ready to burst.
Puff.
An eternity passed before the crack rattled her eardrums, an eternity in which Finn’s motor surged next to her and her foot lifted from the brake and she opened the throttle.
Hartley’s steamer erupted forward with an eager burst of speed. She matched Finn, passed him, her acceleration carrying her to the front of the field with nothing but empty paved road before her, lined with trees and spectators. The wind flowed over her scarf, fluttered the ends, cooled her head from the burn of the sun.
Elation sang through her body.
She had the fastest machine. She’d stick to the front, draw Delmonico’s attention, keep him from bothering with Finn. Delmonico would follow the greatest threat. All she had to do was keep her lead.
From behind her came the whining grind of the petrol engines, shifting gears and building speed. Somewhere in that pack Delmonico’s automobile strained toward her, trying to catch up.
The dust from her tires must be stinging his goggles.
Ha-bloody-ha.
* * *
F
inn knew something was off the instant his automobile leaped from the starting line.
She was quick off the mark, almost as quick as Hartley’s steam engine. But some subtle spark was missing, some additional fraction of energy.
He couldn’t pause to consider the question. Dust and motor-cars swarmed around him, jockeying for position. The screaming growls of the petrol engines filled his ears, drowning out the roar of the crowd. A race among gentlemen it might be, an exhibition of infant motor development, but a race was still a race.
And Alexandra was winning it, by God. Her motor streaked away under the full pressure of its formidable boiler, raising a billowing fug of dust and steam behind it. He had to keep her in sight, at least.
The paving stones shook under his tires and the cheering crowd streamed past. Eighteen, perhaps twenty miles an hour, he judged, holding position between Delmonico on his right and the motorized bicycle on his left. Just ahead, on the other side of the motor-cycle, rolled another motor-car, a high-wheeled petrol model with the driver mounted atop a converted carriage frame.
The four of them tore down the road, passing through the entrance of the Borghese gardens and angling right onto the via di Porta Pinciana. The crowds still pressed against the sides of the road, cheering wildly, stucco-fronted buildings rising up behind them: a noisy tunnel down which they barreled after the fleeing shape of the Hartley steamer.
Up ahead lay the sharp left turn onto the via Sistina. The motors began to slow. Finn’s brain had split into two: one part followed Alexandra’s progress as she disappeared around the corner, while the other jostled about with the three automobiles around him. Delmonico roared along steadily, ahead and then behind, his goggles flashing in the sun. The motor-cycle kept pace. Finn didn’t know the driver, another dark-haired man who glanced at Delmonico in a constant rhythm, speeding and slowing, taking his cues from the Italian.
As they neared the corner, Finn saw the other petrol motor wobble.
He backed off and edged farther away, almost pushing Delmonico to the right. The other motor recovered, and then wobbled again, and recovered.
Just as they reached the corner, the tiller came off in the driver’s hands.
Shouts, roars. The motor-cycle veered smoothly right, forcing Finn back. The disabled motor kept going in a straight line, right for the crowd. The driver waved the useless tiller, screaming, and dove out of his seat in a graceless tumble.
“’
Ware! ’Ware!
” Finn shouted.
Delmonico glanced backward at him and cut across his path, angling around the corner. Finn turned sharply, nearly grazing the back of Delmonico’s machine. His own motor strained mightily, sliding against the paving stones in a screech of tire rubber.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the crowd part in the path of the tillerless automobile, until nothing remained but a fruit stand. The vendor turned his head just in time to dive away, before the machine plowed straight through the middle of his cart to bury itself under a load of astonished bananas.
Finn judged the turn to a hairbreadth. Inches from Delmonico on his right, from the motor-cycle on his left, he rounded the corner and shot down the straightaway, where Alexandra’s motor appeared once more, leading by twenty or thirty yards at least. Delmonico flung back a look of deep annoyance and wiped his goggles.
The buildings here were taller, denser, red roof tiles burning in the sunshine. They rushed past the yawning gap of the Piazza Barberini and glimpsed the Triton Fountain through the crowd. Finn fought to keep up with Delmonico and the motor-cycle, fought to keep them from closing him off in a pincer. Behind him came the shouts and rattles of other motor-cars; ahead of him lay the acute right turn onto the wide via Nazionale.
His heart climbed into his throat. He strained to watch the black shape of Alexandra’s motor, to spot her white scarf rising above the boiler.
Slow down, slow down
, he begged her.
Don’t risk the turn.
He had no idea what sort of steering Hartley’s engineers had put in their machine, what strength of rubber contained the air in her tires. A blowout at this speed . . . a shade too fast around the turn . . . the motor rolling over, Alexandra crushed beneath it, Alexandra flung free to break her neck on the paving stones . . .
He couldn’t watch, couldn’t look away. He didn’t notice when the motor-cycle swerved, didn’t notice until the last second. He hit the brakes hard to avoid the churning tire, and Delmonico roared on ahead of him in a burst of speed, spewing mottled smoke from the back of his engine.
Damn it all! Bested, caught out in a moment’s distraction. Another motor-car caught up with him, a steamer, ranging up on his right side. He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t see Alexandra’s motor now. He’d have to trust that she made the turn, that he’d taught her well. He pictured her hands on the tiller, elegant, capable white fingers, steering safely around the corner and onto the via Nazionale.