It Happened at the Fair (19 page)

Over the course of the last two months, Cullen had watched him. Tried to read his lips. Tried to figure out what it was he said to keep his visitors so long in his booth.

Maybe it was simply a matter of hearing. Bulenberg could hear. Cullen couldn’t. And for every minute they politely stood in Cullen’s booth, they’d linger in Bulenberg’s for three more.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bulenberg.”

Sneering, the boy pointed toward the door Cullen and Della had stepped through. “I saw you. You showed that lady your system. She was very enthusiastic, then you whisked her out the side door so I wouldn’t have a chance to talk to her. Just like you did that insurance man.”

Cullen lifted his brows. “You think a woman wants to buy my sprinkler system?”

“Don’t act all innocent. She’s probably here with her father or something and will go running to him with tales of your sprinklers.”

Cullen harrumphed.

“Roll your eyes all you want, McNamara. But the truth is, we’re two months into the fair and you haven’t sold a sngl one. And taking candidates out the side door won’t stop them from eventually coming to me.” Bulenberg looked him up and down. “Maybe you’d best run back to your farm where your mechanical ‘genius’ is better appreciated.”

He could squash him with two blows. But he wasn’t sure what the commission’s views were on that, and he couldn’t afford to be dishonorably discharged.

Instead, he stared. Hard.

“I think your bark is worse than your bite, McNamara.”

“Care to find out?”

Tsking, Bulenberg returned to his booth. “Just don’t try it again or I’ll come right out there with you.”

I’d like to see you try, Cullen thought. Still, he wished he could afford that demonstration. All of the fair’s exhibits had finally been installed and completed, so the commission might be open to a new query. But he couldn’t afford the materials, so why waste their time and his?

WOODED ISLAND

“They meandered down winding paths, every bend bringing new delights.”

CHAPTER

18

Della and Cullen cleaned up their dinner boxes, then left Blooker’s Cocoa House.

“I thought we’d go to the Wooded Island for our hand gestures,” she said. “I believe you said there were places where no one would see us?”

He nodded. “That’s what I’ve been told.”

“Well then, let’s see what we can find.”

The canals and lagoons cut the Wooded Island off from all main thoroughfares. The only way to reach it was over high-backed bridges every bit as beautiful as the Parisian ones she’d seen in lithographs.

WOODED ISLAND

Guarding the one they now crossed was a statue of a grim-faced Indian, his sinewy, muscular body not unlike that of the man beside her. She closed her eyes, indulging for a brief second in the image that thought conjured up.

At the peak of the bridge, Cullen paused, turning them toward the rail. He said nothing, but he didn’t need to. On every side they were surrounded by palatial architecture, beautiful vistas, and marble-like sculptures. The colossal appearance of the buildings made them seem like mountain ranges, dominating and belittling everything around them. She couldn’t imagine anything but the New Jerusalem surpassing it in beauty.

Sadness crept over her, for in another four months, this would all be a deserted stretch of low-lying ground. Before the first rendering had occurred, before the first nail had been hammered, the decision had been made. Instead of continuing in perpetuity, come November, the entire fair would be torn down and destroyed.

Suppressing a sigh, she watched a blue gondola glide by, maneuvered by two Venetian men whose olive skin seemed even darker against their colorful costumes. The boat’s narrow prow cut through the crystal lagoon waters, its keel barely touching the surface. Gold ornaments and velvet hangings dragged lazily behind it in the water.

GONDOLA

She would love to ride in one. The vantage point had to be spectacular. But they were way too expensive for her purse.

“You ready?” he asked.

Stepping back, she allowed him to guide her onto the island. How quiet it was. Only the sound of distant music, the ripple of waves, or an occasional whispering couple broke the solitude.

They meandered down winding paths, every bend bringing new delights. Bubbling fountains called out to birds. Glimpses of swans, ducks, and pelicans could be caught along the sedgy banks, while beds and beds of flowers flooded the senses. Even the lagoon’s wind was soft, barely shaking the petals of larkspurs, daisies, sweet williams, and marigolds. A teasing breath of roses tickled her nose, though she’d yet to see any.

Cullen opened a low gate. Flowering honeysuckles trailed along its borders, releasing a new medley of sweet odors. But it was the perfume of roses, now strong, now faint, that captured her attention. Grass-bordered paths brought them closer and closer, and then she could see them. A wall of velvet color. The garlanded fence of roses stood a good eight feet high.

They slipped inside its labyrinthal design and came upon little trees covered with red and pink varieties. Low showy bushes held dozens of yellow ones, deep golden hues at their hearts. Some roses tumbled about recklessly and some leaned against little sticks, holding up one pristine blossom. There were other flowers too, but the roses upstaged them all.

Cullen led her to a bench. “Will this be all right? We’ll be hidden from view unless someone comes right up on us.”

She looked around. It was a dead end in the labyrinth. Roses, grass, and cool earth surrounded them. Slices of sunbeams slipped through openings of the garlanded fence, dappling her with warmth.

“It’s lovely.” Smoothing her skirt beneath her, she took in her surroundings. She loved roses. It was the scent she kept in her satchet, the scent she dabbed behind her ears, the scent she washed her body with.

By degrees, her attention was drawn from the brilliance of nature’s bounty to the splendor of the man beside her. His long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, toes gently tapping. He slouched back, one elbow on the armrest, one elbow on the back of the bench, his arm dangling between them.

“Cullen?”

“Hmmm?”

“How is it that a farmer decides to invent an automatic fire sprinkler?”

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulder. “Too many hours behind the plow with nothing else to think of, I suppose.”

Several yards away, a brown songbird bathed itself in a gurgling fountain.

“Oh, I understand how you might have thought of the system,” she said. “But very few people take their dreams and turn them into reality.”

“I’d have been a lot better off leaving it in the dream phase.”

Tilting her head, she studied him. His face gave no clue as to what he meant.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

He squinted into the distance. “Because it’s true.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.”

“So give me the short version.”

He blew out a puff of air. “I drew up the schematics when I was eighteen or thereabouts. Once the harvest was in and winter came, I began experimenting. Built a prototype. Installed it in our cowshed. Set it on fire—and the whole thing burned to the ground.”

Her eyes widened. “Did your parents know you were going to do that? Were the cows inside?”

Drawing up his mouth in disgust, he shook his head. “It was my dad’s idea. He’s always given me more credit than I deserve. We hauled everything out, including the cows, then put a torch to it. So stupid.”

She slowly straightened. “Is that the same system you have in Machinery Hall?”

He gave her an exasperated look. “Of course not.”

Raising a brow, she waited, but he offered no more. Barely suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, she folded her hands in her lap. “Then where did the one in Machinery Hall come from?”

“I made it.”

“I’m aware of that.” She tapped her thumbs together. “I’m wondering what you did between the cowshed and Machinery Hall.”

A slight smile touched his mouth. “It was a simpler time back then. Farming was booming and had been for fifteen years. So Dad wanted to hire some fellows and send me off to Boston where many of the best inventors and scientists lived.” A distant quacking of ducks filtered through their wall of roses.

“I refused, of course,” he said. “I’d go only if I could pay for it.”

“And did you?”

He nodded. “I had this steam engine I’d built. I made money going from farm to farm threshing clover, hauling loads, cutting cornstalks, sawing wood, grinding feed, and whatever else they’d pay me for, all with the help of my steam engine.”

“And then you went to Boston?” she asked.

“And then I went to Boston.”

She smiled. “And you experienced marvelous success, then brought your product to the World’s Fair.” It was a statement more than a question.

“I failed miserably and returned home by year’s end with my tail tucked between my legs.”

Her lips parted. “What happened?”

“I made a bargain with a piano-factory owner. If he’d let me sleep in his basement, I’d install my system in his factory.”

“Did something happen?” She bit her lip. “Did his factory burn down?”

“Not right away. His factory had my second attempt at a sprinkler system. Since then, I’ve improved on it even more. Much more.”

“In what way?”

“In every way. My third attempt consisted of a perforated distributor with a brass cap soldered over it, but it wasn’t very sensitive because the fusible joint had contact with the water inside. So then I made a similar one, but the distributor was a rotating slotted arrangement. My last attempt is the one I have now. I hollowed the base to separate the solder joint from direct contact with the water inside and changed the pipe connect to a male half-inch thread.”

She had no idea what he was talking about, but for the first time he began to show animation in his face. He was still slouched on the bench. Still had his elbow on the back of the bench with his arm hanging between them. Still had his ankles crossed. But the toes of his shoes tapped each other with a rapid beat and his face had come to life.

“Did you reinstall it in the piano factory?” she asked.