Gossamer Wing 1

by Delphine Dryden

  It wasn’t a throat-clearing. It was a snort, contemptuous and disruptive. This time, snickers of thinly veiled laughter radiated from the noise like rings in a pool, finally lapping up against the front row in a wave of raised eyebrows and frowns.

  “With a final consideration of who might benefit most from what may at first appear to be a harmless superstition.” She stared into the back of the lecture hall, waiting for further indirect commentary, then continued when she felt the audience growing restive. “Even in San Francisco, workers who disappear are said to ‘go west,’ never to return. While some argue that the fanciful term originated from tenant farmers abandoning their home lords’ lands to become independent pioneers in the early days of the Dominions along the Atlantic Coast, the geographic inconsistency of the term’s use along the Pacific suggests that it is purely metaphorical, a subconscious invocation of the great unknown . . .”

  She spoke at length, clear and loud, projecting her voice to the back of the hall as she’d trained herself to do. At only twenty-three and fresh from university, Eliza was the youngest member of the Society for the Study and Improvement of Workplace Reform. She knew she couldn’t afford to appear frivolous, not even for a moment.

  Even now, as she neared the end of her speech and congratulated herself, she noted the mood of the crowd was still tenuous, liable to shift either way. There was some interest, some skepticism. The few old crones in the audience eyed her with the usual suspicion, looking for flightiness. Half the men in the front row were asleep. Of the remaining half, most looked bored, but several wore sour expressions that boded ill for the question-and-answer portion of her presentation.

  Two were leering at her. Always the same two. She ignored them and gave her papers a neat tap on the podium to indicate she was finished. “Thank you. At this time I would be pleased to entertain your questions.”

  There was the usual scuffling, hemming and hawing, a few hands raised tentatively in the air then lowered just as quickly. Eliza was already preparing to leave. They never bothered with questions. Not for her. They only allowed her to speak because she was Eliza Chen’s granddaughter, but she would continue until she had won her own place in the Society’s esteem. Or perhaps, she thought some days, she would form her own damn reform society.

  “Miss Chen!”

  A murmur ran through the crowd, and the whisper of wool against upholstered seats as every head turned to the back of the house. A man stood in the next-to-last row, leaning on a cane in a somewhat dandified pose. His bright golden boutonniere caught the light, gleaming against his wine-colored jacket.

  “It is Miss Hardison,” Eliza reminded him. “Did you have a question for me, sir?”

  Even across the many rows of seats, Eliza could see the man’s smirk. His entire posture conveyed condescension. Instinctively, she braced herself.

  “For the Society at large, rather. I came here today expecting to learn information beneficial to my business, from like-minded gentlemen with experience in industry. Instead, I apparently stumbled onto some sort of recital for children. To whom do I apply for a refund?”

  The crowd’s outburst ranged from horrified gasps to outright giggling, and Eliza could feel her control of the room slipping away as though it were palpable, a rope being yanked from her hands while she scrambled for purchase on treacherous ice.

  “I say! I say! Order!” One of the senior members, the Duke of Trenton and Drexel, pounded his walking stick on the floor repeatedly, to no avail. “Order!”

  “Did you have a question about the topic of my presentation, sir?” She lifted her voice, straining to be heard over the uproar. It was difficult to unclench her teeth enough to speak. The temptation to hurl insults was almost overwhelming.

  The man chuckled, leaning to one of his companions to share something, then straightening and raising one indolent hand for silence. The crowd granted it, and Eliza knew with a sick certainty that she had lost any hope of salvaging the situation. Whoever he was, he had the audience now, and she could be no more than the punchline of whatever horrific joke he had planned.

  “Tell the truth, Miss Hardison. You didn’t do any research. You just had your nursemaid tell you some bedtimes stories, didn’t you?” Over the laughter, he called out, “Do be careful on the way home, miss. You wouldn’t want the bad men to get you and go west forever!”

  The tide had turned for good. Anything she might say could only make things worse, and the only thing she could salvage was enough poise to make a dignified exit. With shaking hands, Eliza gathered her notes and made her way offstage, fumbling for a moment to find the gap in the velvet curtains. Her eyes were full of unshed tears, anger and mortification vying for control. She had bitten the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood.

  When the hand curved around her elbow, she jerked away, ready to fight.

  “Easy. Easy there, Miss Hardison. Stand down, it’s only me.”

  She blinked rapidly, clearing her sight enough to recognize the man beside her. “Mr. Larken.”

  The mild-mannered elderly gentleman had been in charge of lecture arrangements since the Society’s beginnings. He gave her an encouraging smile and, to her fierce gratitude, said nothing of her heckler.

  “This way, please.”

  Eliza let him lead her swiftly from the wings and out a side door of the lecture hall. The noise and smell of the street rose up to greet them, harsh and acrid despite the cool spring air.

  “What are we doing out here?” Eliza tried to catch the heavy door but it latched behind her before she could reach it. “Who was that man? I’d planned to have him ejected.”

  “His Grace asked me to make sure there was no trouble. To see you made it outside the building without further . . . harassment.”

  Of course. The Duke of Trenton and Drexel was a powerful patron to the Society, but shunned any hint of controversy like the plague. Larken hadn’t been sent to secure her safe departure, but her quiet one. No public ejection of the heckler, no formal complaints. Bad enough the press would report the incident itself, no need to add ruffled feathers on top of that. She could almost hear the Duke’s pompous, lugubrious voice speaking the words.

  An ornate steam carriage pulled up before them on the cross-street, hissing and creaking to a halt. As she and Larken rounded the corner, Eliza realized it was one in a long line snaking down the street. She glanced at the lecture hall’s doorway, half a block away. Her presentation had been the last of the day, and the attendees were starting to emerge.

  “This is perfectly ridiculous. Are you going to let me back into the hall at some point? I’ve left my satchel and scarf inside, along with my driving things.”

  “Oh. By all means, miss. My apologies.”

  Eliza stopped again, just yards away from the entrance, when the next group issued from the door with her persecutor at their head. Sunlight caught his glistening boutonniere much as the light in the hall had, this time forcing Eliza to squint against the reflected glare. His companions wore similar fripperies, all in the latest style. No simple rosebuds, but elaborately enameled and jewel-encrusted flora limned in gold or platinum, often with tiny mechanisms that opened the petals of the “blossom” at the flick of a switch to reveal a secret compartment, or offered up a flame suitable for lighting a pipe.

  “Do you know him?” she asked Larken. “The one with the gilded pansy whatsit in his lapel.”

  “I don’t, Miss Hardison. He was the guest of one of the less regular members, and the name escapes me at the moment.”

  No name had escaped Larken’s memory since his birth, Eliza was fairly certain.

  “You’re not planning to accost him, are you, miss?” the gentle old fellow asked in a quavering voice.

  Eliza hadn’t moved from her spot to the side of the entrance, nor did she intend to until the man left. Eliza might petition to have him tossed out on his ear, but she was no ill-bred harpy or impetuous child to fling harsh words on the open street. Much as she might wish to.
Instead she bit the much-abused inside of her cheek once again, forcing back the many unladylike sentiments she longed to hurl at the heckler’s sleek top-hat-covered head. The man’s dull brown, silver-streaked hair was long, clubbed back with a black velvet ribbon, and she noted uncharitably that the rakish style did not flatter his narrow, unremarkable features. It was too much for him, like his flashy suit and flashier jewelry, almost as though he were all costume, no content.

  “Of course not, Mr. Larken. That would be begging for trouble, and I assure you I want none.”

  The man and his cohorts entered their ornate carriage, and Eliza breathed a little easier as the threat of confrontation passed. But just as the heckler turned to take his seat, his eyes lit on Eliza through the open carriage window, and his look of icy calculation chilled her to the bone.

  He did not look at all like the flippant dandy who’d ruined her presentation, and possibly her professional reputation to boot, with his boorish humor. In that unguarded moment, swift but unmistakable, his gaze had revealed both intelligence and malevolent speculation. Eliza wasn’t sure which she found more troublesome.

  * * *

  THE LATCH ON the boiler’s cover was stuck, and Eliza knew she was about to spoil a glove getting it open. She didn’t care, as long as she made it to her cousin’s party in time to wish him a happy birthday. That, at least, might end her day on a positive note. Nearly anything would be better than her experience at the lecture.

  The India rubber gasket sucked at the lid, keeping it closed, resisting her tug. When it finally popped open, a spray of superheated droplets caught Eliza’s forearm above the kid glove, prompting a curse she would never have uttered if she hadn’t been alone.

  Though she was standing in a relatively safe zone, Eliza still felt her hair and dress wilt in the steam. She waved the hand with the stained, crumpled glove to disperse the vapor, and peered at the inner boiler casing and cooling tank gauge in dismay.

  “Bloody hell!”

  A gently cleared throat startled her and she jumped back from the velocimobile. A fresh puff of steam clouded the face of the intruder for a moment.

  “Pardon. Can I be of any assistance?”

  The voice was smooth, pleasant. The gloved hand that waved the steam away this time was elegant, the glove itself expensive and pristine. And the face . . .

  “You.”

  “Oh! Eliza, I had no idea you were back from school. Welcome home.”

  With a sigh, Eliza stepped back toward the velocimobile and faced the interloper over the hot boiler.

  “Matthew, an unexpected pleasure. May I assume you’re also on your way to my cousin’s party?” She tucked the offending glove behind her back and hoped the rest of her appearance wasn’t too unkempt. She’d paid little thought to her appearance when she changed out of her lecture suit. The snug driving helmet kept her plaited hair in place, and her lightweight coat and split skirt were sorely wrinkled and coated with road dust. She would have to do, she supposed. It was only Matthew, after all; he was used to seeing her streaked with engine grease, although it had certainly been awhile since he’d seen her at all. Nearly four years, she realized with a start.

  “Indeed I am. Are you having trouble with your boiler? I know a little about engines, as you know, I might be able to help—”

  “No!” Eliza bit her tongue and smiled sweetly. “No, thank you, you mustn’t trouble yourself. Please, proceed to the party. I have matters well in hand. I know more than a little about engines, as you may recall.”

  Hubris, her hindbrain warned. That never ends well. Eliza ignored the warning. She could handle things quite well alone. After that morning’s set-down at the lecture hall, the last thing she wanted was the company of a man who assumed her less than competent merely because she was younger and female.

  If Eliza’d had a big brother, Matthew would have given him a run for his money when she was growing up. He had never let her tag along when it came to working on the truly exciting projects. He found her interest in delicate clockwork devices charming and appropriate for a young lady, but not so her interest in things like locomotive engines and velocimobiles. And he always, always pointed out that she could lose a finger in the machinery, as if the mere prospect of such a hazard should be enough to dissuade any properly brought-up girl. As if he were not himself at the same risk. But if you didn’t take that risk, how could you find out what made the thing go?

  The early afternoon sun shone through the dark bronze of Matthew Pence’s hair, lending him a halo that Eliza couldn’t help but view as ironic.

  “I’ll put myself at your disposal,” he insisted. She didn’t remember him as being so obnoxiously chivalrous. “Consider me your minion. With two of us working, surely you’ll be able to repair your vehicle more quickly?”

  “It’s just overheated,” she explained. “Or nearly so. It ran close to dry but I caught it in time. There’s really nothing to do but wait for it to cool enough to add more water. My own fault, I’m afraid, I’ve been stopping frequently to take photographs and letting the engine idle too long. This one builds up steam quickly, which is convenient, but it needs close minding because it’s so small.”

  And it needed a thorough tune-up, something she hadn’t been able to accomplish often enough while attending college. Poughkeepsie hadn’t been much of a town for motoring, though had she needed to render a whale for blubber she would have been in the perfect place.

  The young man leaned his weight onto one foot, settling into a pose common among fashionable toffs of the day. It irritated Eliza, who knew it was just an affectation he adopted out in public, for polite society. A pretense that he was still a son of privilege rather than a machinery-loving apostate. He had always been good at blending in, though, becoming part of the prevalent social scenery. In some ways she envied him that skill. “Photographs? Flora or fauna?”

  “Workers who claim their lost loved ones have ‘gone west,’ never to return again,” she told him, daring him with her eyes to take her up on this topic. “I photograph them holding portraits of the missing. I was also conducting interviews and gathering anecdotal data. I’ve noticed some interesting correlations.”

  Matthew raised an eyebrow, but didn’t take the bait as he once might have. Back in the days when she had run into him frequently at Dexter Hardison’s factory, Pence would have been the first to chide Eliza for taking such a risk, haring off on her own and talking to strangers.

  Now it seemed he had lost some of that interest in her welfare, or perhaps simply developed more circumspection about stating it. In fact, Eliza thought, he seemed a bit distracted in general. Perhaps it was the problem of the engine. It was clear he still itched to get his fingers on it.

  He wore a metal flower on his chest, a sleek, stylized, closed lily bud in some silver brushed metal. It was far more understated than her heckler’s had been, but it reminded her of the man all the same. She wondered if Pence knew him.

  “Hardison House is only twenty or so miles from here,” Matthew pointed out. “I’d be more than happy to give you a lift, so you can make the party sooner. It wouldn’t do to cross Charlotte by being late. She’s inclined to be touchy these days.”

  “I suspect she has good reason.”

  Eliza thought she’d be touchy too if she were as tiny as Charlotte, Lady Hardison, but carrying the undoubtedly huge child of a man the size of her cousin Dexter. Because she was nearly as small as Charlotte, the very idea daunted Eliza. She had recently vowed only to look at slight, slender men as spousal prospects should she ever decide to marry. Preferably men with smallish heads and narrow shoulders. Pence’s shoulders were rather broad, like most makesmiths’, despite his fashionable slimness. It made her even more irked at him, though she knew she was being unreasonable because of the incident at the lecture. She couldn’t help it; she resented those effortlessly capable-looking shoulders.

  “I’ll be fine,” Eliza said firmly. “I don’t require help, but I thank you for the o
ffer.” She procured a large bottle of water from under the seat of the vehicle, then used a funnel to add a slow trickle of liquid to the cooling unit. “In fact, you should start off again now or I’ll beat you to the party.”

  In Pence’s smug chuckle, Eliza heard the first hint of the younger version she remembered. “Not likely. You never could have before.”

  “Really? A dare? Would you care to wager on that? I’m more than old enough to gamble now, lest you be concerned for my morals.” She was already tightening the fittings, closing up the boiler and securing the latch. A bet would make the last few miles to Dexter’s party fly by.

  Sadly, Pence declined to make it as interesting as he could have. “Certainly, Miss Hardison. If I win—and I don’t mind saying I intend to—I’ll claim the first waltz of the evening from you once the dancing starts.”

  “I . . . oh, fine then. Fair enough.” Eliza was not inclined to waltz with anyone, least of all with Matthew Pence. But she didn’t plan to lose, so it seemed a safe enough stake. No need to tell her competition about the Leyden jar battery cleverly concealed beneath the velocimobile’s seat, and the boost its charge would give to her starting speed until the boiler reached full steam. “If I win, I’ll claim fifty pounds and when my book is published you’ll put an endorsement in the Times. Quarter-page at least.”

  The terms took him aback, it was clear, but he covered nicely. “All right. May I ask what this book is about? A novel, perhaps? I didn’t know you had writing aspirations, those must be new.”

  With a final yank to the boiler cover’s handle, Eliza cranked the engine until it kicked into life, then stalked back to the velocimobile’s seat where she stowed the half-empty water jug and funnel before she strapped herself in. “It’s a monograph on worker–landowner negotiation inequities and the impact of subliminal psychological manipulation by authority figures on common laborers.”