“This is my chief engineer?” he said, disbelief apparent in his tone. “He can’t be more than fifteen!”
“I have over ten years of experience, sir, under the finest engineer in the British Empire.” I kept my voice low and hoarse, grateful for the soot that liberally smeared my face. The dark smudges would help hide the fact I had no whiskers at all, not even the peach fuzz of a youth.
“You must have been apprenticed as soon as you learned to walk,” he muttered under his breath.
I chose to be selectively deaf.
“Perhaps you could explain, then,” he continued in a louder voice, “why Lieutenant Whitcomb has suggested we do not need to purchase coal at this stopover.”
“Certainly, sir. The price of coal at the Paris airfield is nearly thirty percent more than what we pay at Saint-Etienne. The Mercury is a remarkably efficient vessel, using less fuel than any other ship of the fleet, excepting the smallest post packets. We are able to take on the same amount of coal as other ships on the London to Paris route, but we can make it all the way to Saint-Etienne before we require resupply. And, we don’t have to wait in line for our turn to load, as the more distant depot is seldom crowded.”
Captain Rollins—but no, I couldn’t think of him by that name. The memories of his father, my Captain Rollins, were too painful. He was young Mister Josiah, in my mind at least.
Captain Josiah, then, raised an eyebrow at my explanation. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps you would be so good as to show me the records of the costs?”
Nodding briskly, I turned to the desk and opened the top drawer. I shoved my notes to the side before sliding the charts out and setting them on top of the rest for Josiah’s perusal.
“The cost savings on each individual transaction is low, but, as you can see, they add up over time.” I took out a map, pointing to the relevant locations. “We generally stop for resupply in Saint-Etienne, Marseille, Rome, and Ptolemais in Greece.”
“That’s a great deal farther than most ships can travel while still carrying cargo,” Josiah said, frowning doubtfully. He moved closer and leaned over the charts to study the lines I pointed out. He smelled of sandalwood and chamomile and male, a captivating blend. His arm brushed mine, and I felt the heat of his body even through the layers of clothing separating us. A distinct, smoldering fire kindled inside me, spreading from the spot where our bodies touched until I feared my skin would scorch from the inside. My lungs seized at the unexpected feeling, and I hastily shifted away until I could draw a full breath again.
What an unsettling development. I wanted Josiah Rollins.
Fortunately, Josiah was concentrating on the information before him, and I didn’t think he noticed my agitation.
“Here, I’ll fetch a lamp. We’re losing the light,” I said, rather breathlessly, needing a moment to come to terms with my body’s unwelcome reaction. I retrieved a box of lucifers and lit the oil lamp that hung over the bench, casting a golden glow to replace the fading illumination from the setting sun.
I understood the concept of attraction, of course. After all, I had been raised first in a bordello among the working girls and their gossip, and then aboard an airship with an assortment of crewmen who gossiped quite as much as the girls.
Not that I’d had much first-hand experience with matters of the heart—or of physical desire, which I’d heard occasionally disregarded the heart entirely, along with common sense. I’d met and worked with plenty of men in my time, but privacy in which to act upon any possible attraction I might feel? Well, that was as rare aboard the Mercury as smokeless coal.
Still, I recognized the symptoms. The shortness of breath. The deep, achy burning down low inside. A sudden great desire to see what Josiah looked like out of his crisp, pressed uniform.
I had them all.
This attraction presented a problem in so many ways.
Josiah needed to believe I was a man—not always an absolute prohibition against a relationship. I knew some deckhands over the years who’d shared a special closeness that went deliberately unremarked by the rest of the crew, although they would be shunned by society at large if it were known publicly. However, if Josiah were of that mind, he’d be gravely disappointed to find out my true gender.
If he ever were to find out I was a female and he liked females and he were attracted to me, as well—not a likely scenario as I generally wore a heavy coating of gear grease, soot, and sweat while on board—we still had no future together. He was a respected member of society, and I… Well, I was not.
And he was my captain.
Still, a dalliance might be possible, however improbable and ill-advised, if not for my suspicion Captain Edmund Rollins had been my own father as well as Josiah’s. The chances were good he was my half-brother. The thought, coupled with my current feelings, made my stomach turn.
But, surely, Maman would have told me if Captain Rollins had been my father. Besides, neither Edmund Rollins nor Maman had the slightest hint of alchemical ability. I must have gotten that particular gift from my real father, whoever he was. Maman refused to speak of him at all.
Probably, Josiah and I were not related in the least. But how could I be certain?
I struggled to keep my expression neutral, despite my troubling thoughts.
“I’ll see to it the crew remains on board, sir, shall I?” Lieutenant Whitcomb looked at me and cast his eyes to heaven behind the captain’s back. He obviously didn’t appreciate having an inexperienced whelp come in and question his judgment.
For one brief moment, Lieutenant Whitcomb and I were in complete agreement. The surprise went a long way toward shocking me out of my current regrettable state.
“Thank you, Whitcomb,” murmured Josiah, too absorbed in the figures Obadiah and I had recorded to look up as Whitcomb left the engine room.
“The crew is staying on board? No shore leave?” I asked. It had suddenly become vitally important to visit Maman as soon as possible. I needed to tell her how Captain Rollins had died. I needed to ask her about the payments in Captain Rollins’ secret accounting book. And I had to know if Josiah was my half-brother. Immediately. Before my feelings became inappropriately involved.
“No. Our passenger, Mr. Jones…”
I gave a sharp laugh in derision. The name “Mr. Jones” was obviously a pseudonym. “Why can’t these government operatives tell us outright we have no business knowing their names? It would be less insulting to our intelligence.”
Josiah smiled wryly at my response. “As I said, Mr. Jones is to attend a state function tonight, but he will return as soon as he has conducted his business. We will cast off immediately. I do not wish to be in the awkward position of having to round up my crew from the local bawdy houses in order to leave in a timely manner.”
I nodded. “A wise decision, sir, for most of the crew. But I wonder if I might ask a favor?”
“Do not tell me you wish me to make an exception in your case,” Josiah said, attention shifting away from the charts to me.
“Well, yes,” I said. “My mother lives here in Paris, and I’d like to pay her a visit. No harm in that, is there?” I did not mention Maman ran a bawdy house, albeit it an expensive one, and not likely to be frequented by the general run of able airmen.
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How odd that you haven’t a French accent.”
“Je le fais, si nécessaire,” I said. I do, when necessary. “My maman is an English expatriate. I was raised in Paris until I joined the crew of the Mercury. So you will not mind if I leave the ship for an hour or two?”
“I do mind. The ship must be kept in readiness to launch at a moment’s notice. Too, your presence is needed here to supervise the lading of the coal and water stores. Besides, you are much too young to go gallivanting around Paris on your own. Who knows what trouble you may get into?”
His implication that I was too young to take care of myself barely registered against the greater insult to my capability as engineer. “We have no
need of more coal stores!”
I reached around him and snatched up the proof, written by my own hand and waved the papers before his face. “We can make top speed for another ten hours, and we’ll raise the Saint-Etienne airfield in less than eight. That is, if we’re not over-burdened by the weight of extraneous fuel!”
Josiah’s eyebrows rose at my insubordination, and his eyes went cold. “I am captain here, boy. You will not question my commands.”
Oh, yes. I was supposed to be a male. I fought to keep my voice from rising into a soprano register. “But the charts…”
“Are apparently flawed,” he said, cutting me off with a sharp gesture. “I know how much fuel a ship the size of the Mercury takes to travel at speed, and I know how much coal we were supposed to have aboard when we embarked. Therefore, I know we need to resupply here, in Paris.”
“Chief Butterfield and I made certain refinements to the engines. We don’t require—”
He cut off my words once more. “Any more argument, Mr. Everley, and I’ll have you put ashore. Permanently.” He smiled, a show of ire rather than of pleasure. “You’ll be pleased, I’m sure, to have the extra time to visit your mother.”
He plucked the charts from my shaking hands, spun on his heel, and exited the engine room, leaving me fuming in his wake.
Odious, stubborn, blind, foolish man! All he had to do was glance into the storage locker to see the excess bags of coal, but no, Josiah was much too assured of his own infallibility for that. I spent several minutes exercising my vocabulary to find suitable epithets while I stowed the papers Josiah hadn’t taken with him. Asinine, fatuous, unreasonable, short-sighted, and feeble-minded all came to mind.
I could understand a brand new captain questioning the judgment of an equally new chief engineer. I had expected I’d have to defend my decisions at some point. But to have my recommendations and records summarily dismissed as unsound was intolerable.
How could I continue in the employ of a man who distrusted me so heartily? If not for my rash promise to Obadiah, I would tender my resignation immediately and accept the offer from Mr. Fairlane who, at least, appeared capable of respecting my abilities.
But no matter how much I regretted the decision, I had made the promise, and for the sake of Edmund Rollins’ memory, I’d abide by my word.
But how could I help Josiah keep Winged Goods profitable if he refused to listen to me?
I bent to check on the firebox. The flames leapt too high, responding to my frustration. I banked the coals and closed down the air scoops a couple turns to slow the burn. I still fumed almost as much as the fire, but I was determined to stick out the voyage.
On the positive side, the physical attraction I’d been feeling for the captain had greatly lessened. Well, somewhat lessened, at any rate, as long as I focused on his stiff, unyielding attitude instead of his overwhelming presence.
I still needed to speak to Maman, however, despite the captain’s unreasonable denial of my entirely logical request. I tucked in my shirt, donned my frock coat, and dug in the equipment drawers on the far wall for a length of sturdy rope. I’d have to resort to extreme measures in order to leave the ship unnoticed.
Chapter Seven
I tied the rope to one of the pistons, threw it out the porthole, and jammed myself, feet-first, through the narrow opening, holding tight to the rope. I caught the line between my feet and legs and lowered myself quickly to the packed dirt of the airfield. Shadows cloaked me the whole way, and I didn’t think anyone saw me, even as I jogged past sleeping airships toward the exit.
I slipped through Paris’ brightly lit boulevards, the soot on my skin black as the shadows of the alleys I clung to as I approached the tastefully adorned façade of Maman’s house. Unless one knew what went on behind the conservative black door, a casual passerby would never guess they strolled past a brothel.
An ostentatious coach and four pulled up in front of the appartemente as I turned onto the street, pulling my cap low and ducking my head to disguise my gender from passersby. A tall, cloaked figure exited the carriage, knocked once and entered into the warm and sultry light of the salon.
I circled to the rear, approaching the tradesman’s entrance, since my appearance was rough, at best, with my workman’s clothes and filthy face.
Matilde, the cook, let me in, clucking at my state of disarray. “And here you come, dirtying my kitchen with your cinders and ashes, the same as when you were a child!” Her scolding words held no real reproach, and welcomed me as much as the smell of baking bread and tarts did. She urged me to a seat at a table by the fireplace and bustled about to organize a supper of a fresh baguette, mimolette cheese, cold beef and apricot jam tarts.
“Is Maman available, or is she with a client?” I asked, keeping my voice bland and my mind carefully blank. I did not want to think of what Maman did for her personal clients, few as they were these days. Mostly, she spent her time managing the house and the girls she employed.
“I sent Yvette to fetch her as soon as I saw you coming to the door. Your maman will be glad to see you. She misses you. You should write to her more often, my little sparkle,” Matilde chided gently as she set an overflowing plate before me.
A rustle of taffeta silk approached from the hallway, and my mother swept in.
“Amelia!” she cried, and made for me like a sailing sloop bound for harbor before a storm. Jewels shone at her throat and dripped from her ears. The bodice of her midnight-blue evening gown—from Charles Worth, undoubtedly—dipped lower than the short stays I wore for working in the heat of the engine room, revealing assets far creamier and ampler than mine. Her face remained smooth and lively, still breathtaking in spite of the tiny crinkles that gathered at the corners of large eyes nearly the color of her dress. Her shining golden hair, brightened with strands of silver, tumbled in artful curls down her graceful neck.
I felt like a small, grubby troll in her presence.
“Dearest!” she cried as she gathered me close. “Always you come like the wind with no warning. How long can you stay? Shall I have your room prepared? You would like a bath, perhaps?” she added as she let me go and got a good look at my filthy condition. “Your gowns are brushed and ready for you. We can be dressed and at the opera within the hour.”
Maman tried to push me into society every time I came to visit. I think she felt guilty I had missed out on the life of a cultured lady. I know she hoped I would meet a nice, respectable gentleman; not titled, of course, for I was still the illegitimate daughter of a courtesan, but someone who would love and marry me and with whom I could start a family. Maman wanted grandchildren, not that she’d ever say so to my face.
I, however, had no intention of ever procreating, to avoid the possibility of passing my unfortunate curse onto some poor, innocent child.
I shook my head. “I must be back before midnight.” I had calculated the time carefully, knowing approximately how long I had before the Mercury’s turn to refuel came up.
Maman made a moue of disappointment with her rosebud mouth, lightly enhanced with paint. “So soon? When will you come for a week or two, or perhaps longer? Or I could take you to London for the Season, if you prefer?” She drew back, taking a damp cloth from the sideboard and dabbing at a bit of soot on my cheek.
“Maybe next year, Maman,” I said. I could think of few things I would like less than spending weeks dressed in tight corsets and restrictive gowns, standing around stifling ballrooms—well, I was used to stifling rooms, come to think of it—waiting for a man of proper husband material to notice me.
Like goods in a Moroccan market.
Not in this lifetime.
“Maman,” I put in hastily before she could come up with any more ideas for marketing my femininity, “I need to talk to you about Captain Rollins.”
She stilled, and her peaches and cream skin went pale as skimmed milk. “Yes. I received your telegram telling me he was dead.” She dropped the French accent of her adopted country, s
peaking in the cultured British tones I recognized from my childhood. She pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat—not sinking gracefully, or perching saucily. She simply sat down, the same as Matilde or I would do. “Can you tell me how… how it happened?”
Matilde clucked in concern and brought her mistress a cup of tea before excusing herself to go to her own apartments. She’d be listening at the door, no doubt, but she gave Maman and me the illusion of privacy for our discussion.
I could think of no gentle way to say it. “He was murdered in an alley in Constantinople. His throat had been cut.”
Maman went, if possible, even more pale.
I pushed aside my dinner. My appetite had fled. “The Turkish authorities said footpads killed him in a botched robbery, but his money and watch were still on his body when I found it.”
“You found him? Oh, my poor child.” Maman leaned forward over the table and grasped my hand.
“Footpads did not kill him, Maman. Of that I am certain. He still had money in his pockets.”
“But who would kill our poor Edmund? He never injured anyone in his life!”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, Maman. I do know there is something more to Captain Rollins’ death than mere robbery, and I intend to find out what it is.” I held her gaze, giving my words the weight of a vow.
She frowned, drawing a sharp breath as if to argue with my decision, but never spoke the words. After a moment, she dipped her chin, acknowledging my intent.
“Even as child, once you made up your mind, dissuading you from a course of action proved impossible. I don’t suppose that has changed.” Her fingers tightened on mine. “I must ask that you take the greatest care for your safety, my heart. A person who would slash Captain Rollins’ throat would not hesitate to harm you.”
“I will, Maman.” I certainly planned on staying safe—as long as my safety did not interfere with finding the culprit. I drew my hand away, took out my sheaf of notes and leafed through it, intending to take out the sketch of the button I’d found in the captain’s hand.
Fires of Hell: The Alchemystic Page 7