Rough Surrender

by Cari Silverwood

  “Your Thomas Flyer?” She couldn’t help trying, if only to annoy him. He was trying to organize her again.

  “No.” He laughed. “Not that.”

  “I can drive, you know. It’s easier than flying and I can probably do a better job than you can.”

  “Hmm. Miss Evard, you are on dangerous ground.” Hands at his back, he narrowed his eyes as he walked with her toward the hall’s entrance. “A challenge then, to find the best driver. Do you accept?”

  The vast arch of the dome above them seemed far bigger than it had while she’d been seated. Faith stopped to look up and admire the architecture. This entire hotel was a multitude of arches and minarets and marvels. “A challenge, sir? Very well.” She smiled at him and walked on ahead. There. Men hated being outdone by women.

  With an easy loping stride, Mr. Meisner caught up to her. “Good, and the winner gets to command the other to do anything at all...on the night of the baron’s party.”

  She halted again and barely avoided colliding with a waiter bearing a tray. The man apologized, steadied his tray and continued. “That sounds a little rash, Mr. Meisner.”

  “Backing out, Miss Evard?” He looked down at her and the height difference made her feel as small as a field mouse with a hawk hovering overhead.

  “Never, sir. You may regret this.”

  When he bent to whisper, she could smell his scent mixed with exotic shaving lotion. The room tilted and she swayed. “I won’t...but you will. Don’t wear any underwear Friday night.”

  Goodness. Why ever did he think she’d obey such an outlandish instruction?

  Chapter 13

  For the next two days, Faith tried hard not to obsess about Mr. Meisner, her new beau, or boyfriend, as some might say–a term that made her giggle when it occurred to her. Mr. Meisner a boy? Nothing seemed less likely.

  The shopping expedition for new clothes was far less scintillating than simply taking in the air of Cairo. The streets thronged with British and Europeans, as well as Egyptians going about their daily chores. Whether sitting at street-side tables arguing about the price of gourds, herding donkeys or taking their morning meals, it was all so different and, thus, interesting. The Egyptian foods such as kebabs and kofta and koushari played havoc with her taste buds and stomach due to the spices. And, though she tried, listening proved an inefficient way of learning the language.

  The murder of the young woman was an undercurrent wherever she went. The Europeans she spoke to seemed to suspect a deeper, more tantalizing mystery than with most deaths–as if at the center of it all someone lurked like a spider sitting at the middle of a web waiting for prey. The police seemed no closer to catching the culprit and the speculation had slowly died down as nothing further happened to whet the appetites of the gossips. All in all, it was a sad and awful affair.

  On the Thursday morning she met Jeremy and Mr. Meisner for a lunch at Groppi’s, a Belgian cafe in the center of Cairo, and was surprised to discover patisseries and tea, as well as Belgian chocolates sold in elegant lacquered boxes. Little cups of strong coffee added a brusque taste to the affair. Mr. Meisner stayed polite and restrained throughout, though now and then, she caught a smoldering look from him that turned the scene around her suddenly crisp and tight, as if some momentous event was about to happen.

  The momentous event proved to be a tussle over who would pay the bill. She never argued with gentlemen over bills. It was scandalous to do so yet, when Mr. Meisner reached for his billfold, she’d made a point of paying instead.

  Jeremy stared at her across the little square table and Mr. Meisner paused with his hand under his coat. The nonchalant way he raised his eyebrow at her made her even more determined.

  “Madame...mademoiselle–” The waiter looked more than dumbfounded, he looked angry. “You must not pay if the gentleman wishes to.” And now she had half the cafe customers staring also. The little china plate with her coins in the center seemed to mock her.

  Face burning, she shook her head. “Of course you must accept this, I’m–”

  Then Mr. Meisner had stood and taken the waiter aside. That he pressed money into the man’s palm hadn’t escaped her. She refrained from saying anything more. The battle had been lost and, besides, she wasn’t exactly sure why she’d pushed the point herself.

  Once in the automobile the atmosphere had slowly changed from ice-cold to tepid and she made polite conversation with Jeremy on the way back to the hotel.

  The worst of it came when Mr. Meisner helped her from the Thomas Flyer. He kissed her hand then murmured, “Remember you are a woman, Miss Evard. I shall make sure to supply you with more proof tomorrow night.”

  Oh, the gall of the man. She stood there simmering with both annoyance and a perverse longing for his touch as the automobile drove away. No doubt he knew the effect he’d had on her, but she couldn’t help herself, just as she’d been unable to stop herself from what she had done at the cafe. She was compensating for how he made her feel when they were alone. The one thing she didn’t quite understand was why.

  Why...anything. The whole situation bamboozled her. Why she gave in to him when they were alone, and why she struggled not to when they were elsewhere.

  The rest of that day, as the start of the air meet drew closer, her longing rose. The winged shadows of airplanes could be spotted testing the Cairo atmosphere and the winds–roaming the skies as if to taunt her.

  “That’s Baroness Raymonde de Laroche,” she told Helen that afternoon while they watched from the terrace of the Heliopolis Hotel, as a Voisyn craft purred across the sky. The sun glanced startling rays of sunshine off the metal parts of the airplane. With her hand shading her eyes, she followed the flight of the box-tailed biplane until it drifted low on approach to the aerodrome.

  “Tarnation. I have to do something!”

  She visited the workshop for the second time. As she took the last creaking step down from the horse-drawn carriage onto the gravel, Jimmy Whitrod emerged from the open doors of the building, wiping his hands on a cloth.

  “Good afternoon, miss!” He grinned in the disarming way he always used. The brown tufts of hair on his head poking up at all angles, the wood shavings sticking to his faded black trousers and the sweat dampening the neckline of his open gray shirt, all spoke of hard work.

  “Afternoon, Jimmy.” She smiled back. “How is my Bleriot?” She nodded toward the doorway.

  “She’s all done except for the engine. Mr. Meisner has ordered up a truck and we’ll be shifting her to the aerodrome before dusk.”

  Faith sucked at her lip. “I registered at the aerodrome yesterday. I’m getting a loan of a plane just the once, tomorrow morning. To try out the winds and get the feel of the place.”

  They strolled in through the doors side by side. There she was, her airplane, sitting up on the two white-walled bicycle wheels. Twenty-six foot wingspan. A neat structure of piano wire, cable, canvas and spruce. The tang of shaved timber sweetened the air. There weren’t too many sheds with doors that could take one of these and she was grateful to Mr. Meisner for letting her use his. Though, of course, he had ulterior motives. She shut away the feelings that threatened to arise, stepped up to the Bleriot and admired the curve of the wing structure. Compared to the bulky Voisyn, the Bleriot was a marvel of simplicity and elegance.

  “She’s pretty, ain’t she, miss?”

  “Yes.” She reached up and ran her palm over the leading wing edge. “The wing-warping controls all check out?”

  “Yes. Good as you can get ’er. We’ll take the wings off for transport to the flying field.”

  “Excellent.” Yet the sight of the airplane without an engine only sent a sinking feeling to her stomach. What was the point in coming all this way only to miss out on flying in the meet? She sighed, and dug her fingernails into her palms.

  Two other men who had been lounging on the empty crates sprang to their feet and ducked their heads.

  “Thank you, gentleman, for helping Jimmy wi
th this.”

  They nodded and waited there, obviously uncomfortable in her presence.

  “That all, miss?” Jimmy scratched at his neck. “Anything else you’d like me to do?”

  “Well. Yes.” She turned to him and put hands on hips. “Maybe we need a fresh eye and ear. Do some investigating. I know Mr. Meisner is doing this also, but I’d like you to see if you can track the whereabouts of that missing crate. Start at the docks.”

  “The steamer’s gone. Might be hard without the local lingo. But...I can hire a translator?” His forehead corrugated in query.

  “Yes. Do that. Whatever it takes. And thank you, Jimmy.”

  “Sure. Sure.” He grinned. “Jimmy Whitrod, private investigator at your service.”

  She grinned back at him. Maybe there was hope yet.

  Chapter 14

  Leonhardt shaded his face with a hand across his brow, peering at the scene a few hundred yards away. The man whipped away the chocks from under the wheels of the Bleriot and the little airplane accelerated up the line of the landing strip and purred into the air. Faith looked so small and fragile perched on top of the thing. His other hand stayed pointing straight along the crease of his trousers despite his urge to clutch something.

  For the next ten minutes he remained standing among a row of young trees, watching the maneuvers of the craft as she tested it out in slow flat figures of eight. A long way up off the ground but perhaps the thing was safer than reports had indicated?

  As she came in to land, a mild breeze ruffled his shirt at the last moment. The plane slid sideways and careered toward the opposite side of the strip with two men sprinting out after it. By the time it slewed to a halt Faith had nearly ploughed into an opposite row of shrubs. One of the two wheels collapsed, canting it to one side and sending up a screeching racket. Faith leaped out and, as the craft tilted, she grabbed a wing to steady the machine.

  “Oh my lord.” He took a half step. The Bleriot tipped farther and Faith, still holding the wing, was whisked fifteen feet or more into the air. Only the fast response of one of the men grabbing the opposite wing tip brought her back down to earth before she could fall.

  “Damn! Damnable contraption.” He frowned, watching her casually dust herself off.

  Was it as bad as it appeared? He needed to be sure. With what he had in mind to do, he really needed to be sure. If he could help it, he never left anything to chance, and he never fudged the figures.

  Well, if she could do it, so could he.

  Within the hour, he’d arranged for a lesson. Enough money could buy almost anything. A spare machine belonging to the French team had been bought for a short flight.

  The Frenchman, a tall mustached gentleman wearing a gray beret and work clothes, rested his forearm on the wing, caressing the canvas and looking doubtful, as if Leonhardt were about to molest his favorite pet. “Very well, monsieur. You must listen to what I say, yes?”

  “Of course.” Leonhardt climbed the little ladder and heaved himself into the pilot’s seat. The thing was far higher than he’d thought. He looked down past the bedstead frame and propeller. Damn this seems dangerous. One hour of instruction and now I get to fly?

  “A taxi up the strip, and a leetle lift off the ground, yes?” The Frenchman stood on the ladder and waggled his eyebrows under his cap.

  “Yes.” Leonhardt wiggled on his gloves, made sure every finger was in the right spot then pulled his goggles down to cover his eyes. His heart was trying to escape to somewhere safe, judging from the heaviness of its thuds. He did not blame it at all. Madness. Why was he doing this? To stop Faith killing herself? Heavens, he was mad, himself.

  “I shall prepare for you then. The coil.” He reached in, fiddled, the other man at the front turned the propeller once or twice. “Bon. The oil, the retard, and we do this.” Thumbs-up was signaled to his partner.

  The front man sang out, “Contact!” and swung on the prop. The engine coughed then roared into life, the propeller spun again under its own power. Wind and oil smacked into Leonhardt’s face. The goggles darkened with specks of oil.

  “Bon! Bon!” With a last slap on Leonhardt’s back, the man jumped down the ladder and hauled it away. “Remember! Listen to my instructions, monsieur!”

  “Yes!” He grabbed hold of the little steering wheel, remembering that the stupid thing didn’t precisely steer.

  “Listen to me!”

  As the machine trundled forward, he gripped the wheel ever tighter. Faster and faster, the ground blurred past, with the bumps from the wheels sending awful shudders up through his behind. Even faster again, and she lifted off the ground.

  No more bumping, just sheer abominable fear, and an engine vibrating so out of balance it blurred before his eyes. More oil splattered him, whipped back by the wind.

  “Move it right.”

  “Lessen the throttle!”

  “Use the foot pedal, monsieur! The rudder!”

  The yelled words from the man running alongside, and by another fellow pedaling a bicycle, seemed completely irrelevant, yet by striving, by utterly ignoring his emotions, Leonhardt managed to bring the machine thumping back to earth and to a halt. The small fire that broke out as the engine hissed to a stop was the icing, so to speak, on the cake.

  Done. On the blessed ground. He didn’t kiss it, though he understood why others felt the need.

  There was a mark where the wheel had dug into his skin through the gloves. It took ten minutes to go away. The oil all over his face took another ten minutes to wipe off but that gave him something to do while the tremor in his right leg wore off.

  “Never again,” he muttered as he strode toward the edge of the field. “The woman is quite insane.”

  The note he’d kept in his pocket since the morning he and Faith had shared breakfast at the Heliopolis Hotel would burn a hole in his pocket no longer. The engine could stay where he’d stored it. From what he’d seen, the chance of her killing herself in her airplane was high. Let others do themselves mortal injuries. She wasn’t going to be allowed to. Not if he had any say, at all.

  * * * *

  Helen, Mr. Meisner’s servant, was a quiet woman. The tall mirror showed Helen hovering behind her with mouth pursed and brow lined in concentration. At least thirty-five years in age, thought Faith. The dove-gray dress, thin face and harshly pinned-up bun of brown hair helped make her look austere and distant. Still, Helen said nothing as she pulled the ties tight at the back of Faith’s corset then helped her put on the rest of her attire–the long, flowing gold, black-and-red dress, the stockings, the shoes–and to style her hair into a mountainous pile high just above her nape. The earrings and bracelets came last.

  “Are you well, Helen?”

  “What? Oh, excuse me, miss. You startled me.”

  All day while they’d explored and shopped in Cairo–whether outdoor market or exclusive indoor seamstress, Helen had carried herself with the same stoical air. By the end of the day Faith had a supply of drawers more suited to her sheath-like Poiret dresses, one of the newer girdles, and an urge to somehow change Helen’s dismal expression.

  “I’m sorry. You just look...unhappy.”

  Helen sighed and stepped back. “No. I’m perfectly fine, miss. Just not used to talking to my superiors.” She wrung her hands then ducked her head. “Erm. Miss. Beg pardon for mentioning, but...there seems to be an item missing.”

  Well. She guessed it would have to be said. Helen had noticed anyway. Blood heated her cheeks. And here she was trying to get the woman talking.

  “The drawers? I’ll not be wearing them tonight.” At the last moment she’d decided to do as he’d asked her.

  Face still, Helen said, “Be careful outside then, miss. The winds can pick up at night.”

  Dash it. If the woman wouldn’t say it, she would. It’d clear the air and, besides, who better to question than his servant. “Mr. Meisner requested it.”

  “I did guess that, Miss. T’ain’t none of my business. Just a
s neither is the writing elsewhere. I’m right proud to be in his employ.” Oh, the look in Helen’s eye was icy.

  Faith sighed, went to the bed and sat. “Do you despise me? Don’t worry about bothering me. I can take being despised. I just would like to know where we stand.”

  “I’m only a servant–”

  “No,” snapped Faith. “You are you. Where I was brought up, servants still had a say in life. Fact is, most of the time, we didn’t have servants as such. So...answer me, please.”

  The quiet in the room ballooned into deathly silence then Helen took a deep breath. “No. I don’t hold it against you, miss. I know sir’s tastes. I don’t despise you. I...I just don’t like to see him hurt.”

  Him?” Faith squeaked. “Him? You couldn’t dent the man with a brick.” She put both hands on the bed, to either side, and leaned back.

  Helen frowned. “I disagree, miss. This last year since leaving London and coming here, well, he’s been most out of sorts. But now–”

  “Yes?” Surely she’d not made him unhappy? How could that be?

  “He’s smiling again. Which means, if I ain’t mistaken, that he’s ripe for an arrow straight in the heart.”

  “Ah. I see. I promise you I have no intention of aiming for Mr. Meisner’s heart, with arrows, or anything else. I’m not toying with him.” What nonsense, if anything the man was toying with her.

  “Thank you, miss.” Helen smiled a little. “I appreciate knowing that.”

  “He’s lucky to have someone like you in his employ, Helen.” And, she realized, rolling the idea around in her head, the reverse was true–to have earned Helen’s loyalty, he must be an admirable man. Strange, how glad that made her. “How long has Mr. Meisner been here...in Cairo?”