“The Germans,” Cecily interrupted, scrunching up her face. “The Belgians.”
“Don’t speak ill of the Belgians, Cecily,” Charles scolded. “They’re a splendid people.” His tone lightened. “I thought you’d appreciate my impetuousness. No, but I am adamant about this. It’s going to be great fun. Though I daresay you’ll have to make due with a little anonymity. I rather suspect that in traveling with dear Rosalind, we’ll be eclipsed by her.”
“How do you imagine that?” Rosalind asked. She could hardly picture Cecily being eclipsed by anyone. And certainly Charles was . . . memorable. I’m staring at him again, she realized, looking away.
“Rosalind, as the daughter of the railway owner, you will be the centerpiece of the entire journey,” Charles said, almost sounding sorry for her. “As your father no doubt intends.”
“No doubt,” Rosalind agreed.
“I suspect we will have to struggle to be paid any mind by anyone,” Charles said. He sighed in mock regret, teasing his sister. “However are we to make due with anonymity?”
“Oh, I see,” Cecily said. She looked off vacantly for a moment and added, “Ah. That puts it in a very different light.” Then all at once, she was her old self again. “And that is quite terrible. Making due with anonymity. And at a great social event!”
Charles grinned at her. “So, we’ll accompany Rosalind, then?”
“We shall,” Cecily replied, squeezing Rosalind’s hand.
“Will your parents approve?” Rosalind asked.
“Leave Mother and Father to me,” Charles said. He winked at Cecily. “I’ll put it to them properly. By tomorrow morning, they’ll be all for it. I give you my word.” He headed for the door. There he paused and turned back. Looking at Rosalind, he said, “This is going to be great fun.”
Once Charles’s footsteps had faded downstairs, Rosalind turned to Cecily. “Seven days on a train? ‘Great fun’? Has your brother lost his mind?”
“An underwater train,” Cecily corrected, giggling. She took Rosalind’s free hand and squeezed that one, too. “How can you dislike traveling on trains? Your father’s made his fortune building them.”
Rosalind sighed. That was precisely the reason she disliked trains, though it would be impossible to explain that to Cecily. What could she say of her childhood, the small eternities on her father’s railway cars, rattling to this town and that; her father always on the move, always encouraging the local city heads to invest in newer, bigger, better, and above all more expensive transportation networks?
“Oh, if my father were your father, Cecily,” she said, “you would understand.”
Chapter Two
How Charles had managed it was a mystery to Rosalind, but by the next morning Lord and Lady Exham had thrown their wholehearted support behind the idea. They even went so far as to agree that the three might travel unchaperoned—or rather, that Cecily and Rosalind would be chaperoned by Charles. It made a degree of sense, if only a marginal one: Lord and Lady Exham would never allow their daughter to travel without supervision, so of course they wanted her older brother to accompany her.
But Rosalind wasn’t a member of the family. Neither she nor Charles was married. Charles was the last person who should be chaperoning her.
But why question the decision? This was exactly what Rosalind had wanted.
And of course Lord and Lady Exham knew that she had traveled unaccompanied before, always at her father’s request. It was unconventional, but Father regarded his trains as more or less his private property: so, he reasoned, Rosalind wasn’t alone. Each and every train worker was responsible for chaperoning her.
Mother disagreed, on the grounds that it was improper. The two of them had gotten into some truly vicious arguments about it. But Father’s pride would not allow him to budge. His attitude toward his daughter’s travel had served him well in America, so why should it be any different under the ocean?
The de Veres, on the other hand, would never let Cecily travel alone. They did not agree with Rosalind’s father’s unorthodox “New World” views, and though they feigned respect for them, Charles’s presence was a necessity. He would accompany the girls for their safety. A kind thought, but really, being a young and unmarried man, Charles wasn’t quite a typical chaperone. An older aunt would have been more fitting. That they agreed to Charles’s plan did strike Rosalind as rather odd. But, she reasoned, since she and the de Vere siblings would spend the entire journey in the safety of the train, and be met by her family upon arrival in New York City, there was little chance of danger or mishap.
Unless something went wrong with the train, of course. But no chaperone could help them if they sank.
•••
The next two weeks passed in a flash of preparation and packing.
Cecily, of course, insisted that she and Rosalind have several new dresses made for the “event”—she refused to call it a “journey”—though Rosalind did wonder about her friend’s tastes. Cecily refused anything less than matching patterns and designs for the two of them, and while the dresses were very pretty, Rosalind had her doubts about looking exactly like her companion, their chaperone’s other ward. Cecily was convinced that it would be much more fun if they looked “like twins.”
Although Rosalind thought they looked silly, she had no desire to protest. She would have the company of her best friend and her best friend’s brother on this voyage. And then, there was one dress in blue and gold that Rosalind particularly liked . . . and that Charles seemed to admire when he saw it, if his stunned silence was any indication. If only Cecily hadn’t bought one to match. The last thing Rosalind wanted was for Charles to think she looked like his sister. But maybe that was Cecily’s intention all along.
No. Rosalind was overthinking, as always. It was best not to think; it was best to prepare. Father’s offices in London had already sent the travel papers. She was a very lucky girl. She could have been traveling alone.
•••
The newly built Transatlantic Railway Station in Hamburg was like nothing Rosalind had ever seen in her life—and she had seen more than her fair share of grand railroad stations over the years. All the boring professional commentary tended to ruin the simple appreciation of their architectural beauty. That and the waiting crowds of newspaper reporters that always seemed to be on hand whenever Father had taken her “sightseeing.”
There was something of the old Grand Central Station in the railway’s private depot at Hamburg, and the façade was reminiscent of the Gare du Nord in Paris; though perhaps it would have been better to say that the Louvre had been its inspiration.
The interior was a glamorous palace of polished wood, marble, and brass. Countless waiting rooms, restaurants, and parlors for entertainment were spread out alongside the grand concourse that led from the entrance to the ticket windows, and finally to the platform. Despite the tremendous grandeur of the surroundings, the passengers struck Rosalind as unimpressed, more focused on one another. The crowd was thick and spirited, with people pushing and shoving in a desperate attempt to catch sight of some dignitary or actress. Cecily had been right to call this an “event.”
Rosalind laughed at the crowd’s antics, but at the same time she found herself craning her neck to hear passersby as they spoke, searching for any hint of an American accent. Perhaps she was homesick. She pressed on toward the train, arm in arm with Cecily. The two were dressed identically except for Cecily’s oversized hat. Rosalind was very grateful Cecily hadn’t insisted upon that match. The mass of silk and feathers looked like an animal that might pounce at any moment.
Charles followed behind them, giving instructions to his valet, Harris, a rather serious-looking fellow who, as ever, wore a dark suit and gray trousers. He nodded slightly at everything Charles said, as if to reassure his master that he was listening, though for all Rosalind knew, he may not have been. Cecily’s maid—a
young girl named Doris—brought up the rear, seemingly ignored by everyone but Rosalind. If they’d been leaving Pittsburgh instead of Hamburg, Rosalind might have struck up a conversation with the girl. But how could she? In London she’d learned: engaging the servants for any reason other than servitude simply wasn’t done. At least, not in the de Vere household.
Besides, Rosalind had to look after herself. She’d already been very nearly stampeded by a trio of newspapermen in pursuit of some hapless theater star.
“It’s rather exciting, isn’t it?” Cecily whispered.
“It’s certainly rather something,” Rosalind answered. “I’ve never seen such a crowd.”
“That’s a good thing, though, isn’t it?” Cecily said, her eyes darting. “It means that your father is going to be fabulously successful and build more of these all across the world! And that means you’ll be able to come and visit us all the time.” She paused for a moment. “Or so I assume.”
Rosalind laughed. She wanted to believe it. What if it was true? What if the railway really was such a success? Father might become the talk of Europe. And beyond. And if that happened . . . well, anything could happen. Father might become so successful he wouldn’t need to parade his family in front of the press every time he built a new railroad or developed a new locomotive engine. I might be able to do what I want, Rosalind thought. To go where I want. A rich father preoccupied with his success might let his daughter do as she pleased, regardless of what her Mother thought about it. Rosalind would have to marry eventually, but there would be plenty of time to travel the world with Cecily before then. With Charles as their chaperone . . .
“Oh, my word!” Cecily suddenly exclaimed.
“What?” Rosalind asked, alarmed.
Cecily reached out with her free arm and pointed across the chamber.
“It’s the Kaiser!”
“The . . .” Rosalind craned her head and lifted herself on tiptoes to try to get a better look over the crowd. “Where?”
It took her a few moments of searching, but her eyes eventually fell upon a stern figure standing high above the swarm, at a podium directly in front of the great gilded archway that led to the railway platform, which was concealed behind a velvet curtain.
The emperor of Germany looked regal and imperious with his white uniform, a polished breastplate, and a proud upturned mustache. So much finery. Her father would have worn a plain suit and a hat. Unlike Cecily and Charles, the Kaiser struck Rosalind as hopelessly old-fashioned, almost childlike: he was either a medieval knight playing at being a head of state or a head of state playing at being a knight, and Rosalind didn’t know which was worse. It was rather the state of monarchs in the modern world, she realized. They were overgrown children who clung to the past at all costs, afraid of being swept away on a tidal wave of progress.
“What’s the smile for, Rose?” Cecily whispered.
“I’m just excited about getting aboard,” Rosalind lied. But she almost laughed out loud. In spite of her enchantment with the London social scene, maybe she was more American than she’d been willing to admit. Father would certainly be proud if that was the case.
After a pause, the Kaiser began to address the crowd in guttural German. Rosalind knew she was in for a hideously long and boring speech. For a moment she didn’t know whether to regret her poor understanding of the language or to be glad of it.
“Is he saying anything important?” she asked Cecily, whose German was far better than her own.
Cecily listened, lips pursed. Then she shrugged. “Oh, the usual. Momentous occasion, the glory of the event, the joining of two great nations bound together by, oh, I don’t know, probably a mutual love of eagles or something.”
“Tush,” Rosalind said, clucking her tongue at Cecily, but she smirked. When she turned back to the podium, her view was blocked. The three reporters who’d been chasing the starlet had planted themselves, more or less as one, directly in front of her.
“Um . . .” Rosalind began, drawing back a pace.
“Please to excuse me, Fräulein,” one of the men said, speaking in heavily accented English, “but am I correct to be thinking that you are Fräulein Wallace?”
The question startled her. She’d prepared herself for being recognized once aboard the train, but with all the chaos, she had not expected anyone here to recognize her, least of all some newspaperman. Still, she knew her father would want her to be honest, and surely there was no harm in confirming her identity.
“I am, yes,” she said. “But how did you know that?”
A second reporter pushed his way forward and touched the brim of his bowler hat.
“John Gervais, Miss,” he said. “The Times. We recognized you from your picture.”
He held up a copy of his own newspaper, dated three days earlier, and offered it to Rosalind for inspection. She took the paper and stared in astonishment at the sight of her own face—lacking clarity due to the print, but more or less recognizable—set to one side of the front page, under the heading industrialist’s daughter to accompany maiden voyage of underwater train.
Rosalind seethed silently, biting her tongue to avoid an outburst. Father really had used her to advertise the train—and in a very public way that he’d also chosen to keep from her. How dare he? How dare he?
But she kept smiling and said, with great self-control, “Oh my goodness. I hadn’t expected him to . . . advertise it.” The last words were spoken through clenched teeth, despite her best efforts.
With a quick, angry motion she passed the newspaper to Cecily, who arched her eyebrows in an appropriately disapproving manner. Charles took notice and leaned over his sister’s shoulder to read the article. He looked at Rosalind and then back at the picture a few times.
“It’s rather a good likeness, actually,” he murmured.
Rosalind sighed.
Cecily’s eyes were on the newsprint. “We’re mentioned as well! ‘Miss Wallace is expected to be traveling in the company of Viscount Charles and Lady Cecily de Vere, children of the Earl of Exham . . .’ ”
“Well, fancy that,” Charles said.
The third reporter pushed his way forward with a large camera and tripod. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “if you would be so kind, perhaps a photograph of you? Of you and the lady and the gentleman?”
“Um, well, I . . .” Rosalind began. She felt rather dubious about the whole idea of having her name in some newspaper, let alone being photographed then and there. And how could she ask poor Cecily and Charles to join in when her father had been so uncouth as to have their names printed along with hers? Had Lord and Lady Exham been warned? Rosalind very much doubted it. But before she could protest, Cecily seized her arm in excitement.
“Marvelous!” her friend exclaimed. Cecily quickly tilted her chin and struck a pose at Rosalind’s side.
A torrent of bright flashes exploded in front of Rosalind’s eyes, followed by the smell of burning powder. It suddenly seemed that every news photographer in Europe had descended upon them through supernatural means. She blinked, purple dots swimming before her eyes. It was all she could do to manage a smile.
“Any words on your father’s venture?” asked the German reporter, producing a notepad and pencil. “Do you find it exciting? Frightening? Thrilling?”
“Well, I—” Rosalind began.
“Do you believe that the Transatlantic Railway will replace the ocean liner?” the Englishman from The Times interrupted.
“I hardly think—”
“Does your family dislike sea travel?”
“No, of course not—”
“Is your father declaring war on steamships?”
“Now, look here,” Rosalind grumbled, “that is absolutely absurd—”
“So you doubt your father’s latest creation?” someone else asked.
“Of course not!” Rosalind sna
pped. She felt cornered, as if surrounded by predators. “I have every confidence—”
“Why has your father sent you alone?” asked yet another reporter. “Why isn’t he here to accompany you?”
The question gave Rosalind pause, for it had been troubling her as well, though she reminded herself this wasn’t the first time he hadn’t joined her. She reflexively knew not to frown; she heard her mother’s voice in her head telling her never to do such a thing in public. And good Lord, there were a lot of reporters. Too many. How could the photographers refill their flash powder so quickly? And what must the Kaiser think? For all she knew, she was interrupting his very important, very German speech, right?
“That is a silly question,” she said, holding her head high in the manner that Mother would have wanted her to. “My father is in America, overseeing every preparation for our safe arrival. In order to leave from Germany on his underwater train’s maiden voyage, he would have had to travel to Europe by ship. And how could he possibly have taken a ship when he is pioneering suboceanic rail travel?”
It was a contrived answer that likely had no basis in fact, but at least it sounded decent. She’d had lots of practice making similar pronouncements.
And now Cecily had them all smiling and laughing with her poses. With any luck, the papers would print Cecily’s picture alone and leave Rosalind out of it.
The only one who wasn’t smiling was Charles’s man, Harris. He stood to one side, watching the crowd. Rubbing her eyes, Rosalind noticed his ever-dour face forming a distinct grimace. He looked in Charles’s direction and jerked his head toward something or someone in the crowd. Rosalind followed with her eyes but could make out only a mass of more or less identical bowlers and top hats.
One stood out from the crowd, however, because below it a pair of eyes locked with hers. A man with a mustache, in a brown suit and matching bowler, was staring at her. He quickly turned away and disappeared.
Now Charles was frowning, too. When he noticed Rosalind, he smiled again. But it was forced. Strange. He was troubled by whatever he had seen; Rosalind was certain of it. Had he been troubled by that strange man with the mustache? Charles leaned over and whispered something in Cecily’s ear, but the newspapermen and photographers were still making far too much noise for Rosalind to hear any of it.
The Transatlantic Conspiracy Page 2