The Oilman's Daughter

by Allison M. Dickson

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Renault, but ain’t some things more impo’tant than money? Like stayin’ alive?” asked Frank.

  Cecilie sniffed and folded her arms. “Je ne mourrai pas rejeter.”

  Jonathan didn’t know what she’d said, but he suspected it was a condemnation of his idea, and her demeanor indicated that further conversation on the topic would be unwelcome. As he had no desire to upset her, he resolved to let it lie. And he certainly had no room to argue about profiting from an idea, given what his own father had made off his inventions. But then again, no one had kidnapped Victor or chased him beyond the moon and back to steal those ideas either. Perhaps her father would see things differently in light of everything that had happened, but right now Jonathan just wanted to keep things amenable between them.

  They arrived at the Western Union office. Frank thought it’d be best if he stayed with the wagon, so Jonathan and Cecilie went inside the building. A dozen clerks sat at stations, preparing messages for transmission as composed by customers. Runners took the messages into the back part of the building where some fifty women worked at long tables, headphones over their carefully coiffed hair, tapping their telegraph keys in rapid fire. At a counter along one wall, more women riffled through alphabetized messages and passed them to waiting customers, a veritable symphony of commerce.

  Jonathan pulled a number from the ticket counter and composed the message to his father using one of the office’s forms and a pencil stub. When the counter bell rang and displayed his number, he and Cecilie walked over to the clerk who had her hand raised.

  “Welcome to Western Union,” she said. “You have a message to send?”

  “Yes, please,” said Jonathan.

  She took his delivery destination information, confirming it was to a private telegraph office in the Circumferential Rail Company’s Houston headquarters, then read his message back to him to ensure that it was sufficiently legible for her to transcribe for an operator.

  FROM JONATHAN ORBITAL TO VICTOR ORBITAL CARE OF CIRCUMFERENTIAL RAIL COMPANY STOP HAVE SUCCESSFULLY RETRIEVED MISSING PASSENGER STOP MISS RENAULT UNHARMED STOP JEFFERSON PORTER AND BROTHER LINCOLN MISSING PRESUMED STILL IN SPACE STOP INFORM PINNACLE AND ROOSEVELT STATIONS AND SPACE GUARD STOP WILL DELIVER MISS RENAULT TO HER HOME SOONEST MESSAGE ENDS

  “That’s it,” said Jonathan.

  The clerk nodded and transcribed the form for him, then returned his original message. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Orbital?”

  “Yes, I’d like to obtain these funds from my personal account.” He wrote an amount on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

  Her eyes widened a little at the figure. “Of course. I’ll have to verify the availability, and then give you a voucher. We don’t carry that much cash here. You may redeem it at any bank.”

  Jonathan smiled. “That will be fine.”

  The clerk left and Cecilie pulled him close to whisper, “Are you mad? Five thousand dollars? I can’t allow you to bankrupt yourself on my behalf.”

  “Not at all. You forget my family. Besides, we have no valises, no clothing of our own. I intend to outfit us properly, purchase rail fare to New York, and from there transatlantic fares to Paris. I’m taking you home, Cecilie. I promised your father I would see to your safe return, and I intend to keep that promise.” As to how he might ensure her safety when she got there was another matter. Perhaps a private body guard would be necessary. Or a long stay in Paris for himself, if she would have him.

  Cecilie threw her arms around him and kissed him full on the mouth. Her warmth enveloped him like a bower in the spring sunshine, and Jonathan felt as if his heart might explode from joy.

  A feminine throat cleared and the young couple separated. They turned to see the clerk regarding them with a sparkle of amusement in her eyes. “My apologies, Mr. Orbital. Here is your voucher.”

  Jonathan snapped up the typed card signed by the clerk and the branch manager. “Thank you kindly.” He took Cecilie’s hand. “Come on, let’s say farewell to Frank and purchase some supplies.”

  Cecilie frowned as they approached the door to the street. “But what of Captain Greaves? You’re not going to leave him behind, are you? He risked so much to get us safely away from that horrible Sargasso.”

  Jonathan felt like his eyes might pop right out of his head. “Cecilie, the only reason you were even there in the first place was because he was paid to kidnap you, and now you want to help him?”

  Her face turned solemn. “I realize that what he did was wrong, and he is a bit of a barbarian, but he has lost everything of value. His ship, his crew. Now he is stranded here. And he didn’t murder you when he had opportunity. He has honor in him just as you, Jonathan. I have seen it myself. If we leave him behind, my conscience would not bear it.”

  Jonathan dry-scrubbed his face, feeling the stubble marring his cheeks. He couldn’t believe she was ready to give Phinneas a second chance, but he couldn’t refuse her. Not only because he would give her the moon if she asked, but also because if there were more dangerous days ahead, Phinneas may prove a powerful ally, provided the man’s temper didn’t become a liability. “All right, then. We’ll go get him. He may not want to come with us, but I suppose we should at least try.”

  Cecilie beamed and did a little twirl. One of her outstretched hands nearly knocked a nearby man’s bowler hat from his head. “Oh! Je suis tellement désolé, Monsieur!”

  The man waved her off. “It’s fine, Miss.”

  They found a bank almost across straight across the street and stopped to let Frank know their plan. It was getting late in the day and shops would be closing soon. Once they had funds, Jonathan would see to getting them overnight accommodations and then in the morning they would visit a few shops before heading back.

  “Any place nice enough for you folks to stay in ain’t gonna let me stay there,” said Frank. “There’s a few places I can take the wagon and not get it stole overnight. I’ll go there.”

  “At least let me give you some money,” said Jonathan. “You and your family have been gracious hosts, and I am in your debt.”

  Frank shrugged. “I ain’t gonna say no to that. You a decent man, and you’ve done right by us.”

  Jonathan had Frank take him and Cecilie to the Raphael, and arranged for the young man to meet them there in the morning. The tall brick building wrapped around the plaza below like a pair of welcoming arms. Inside, it was lit with modern electric chandeliers that reflected softly off the warm wood panel ceilings. The clerk tried to sell him on a suite instead of two separate rooms, but despite his strong feelings for Cecilie, Jonathan wasn’t angling to be presumptuous. He asked the clerk to arrange for the delivery of toiletries and changes of clothing for them both, and then a bellhop escorted them up to their rooms.

  Jonathan took the opportunity to bathe, and then dressed in the clothes provided by the hotel tailor. He adjusted his cravat and then went to knock on Cecilie’s door. She answered wearing a thick robe with the hotel’s name monogrammed onto a breast pocket, her hair wrapped in a towel. Taking him by the hand, she led him inside. “I only just finished my bath.”

  “I can come back later,” he said. “I was hoping you’d join me for dinner.”

  She lowered her eyelids. “Mais oui. I’m famished, but not for dinner.” She let her robe fall away. Underneath she wore not a stitch.

  Jonathan’s promise to behave himself evaporated in the warmth of her kiss.

  Later, morning sunlight awakened them, entwined in each other’s limbs and tangled in the smooth sheets of Cecilie’s bed. It was the first real sleep he’d had in days, and he felt renewed. He pressed his face into her raven curls and breathed the lavender scent. “Good morning.”

  “Mmm . . . good morning yourself. How nice to awaken this way.”

  “Yes indeed.” His stomach was rumbling like a dirigible’s engine. Cecilie giggled at it, her hand splayed across the bare skin of his belly. “It’s reminding me that we skipped
dinner. As much as I enjoyed last night, I hope we won’t miss breakfast as well.”

  “Non, Monsieur. I’m craving bread and jam and coffee.”

  Jonathan rang the front desk and asked for some breakfast to be sent up. Shortly, a waiter arrived with a cart laden with eggs and ham, bread with butter and preserves, coffee and tomato juice. Jonathan tipped the man handsomely, and then he and Cecilie fell to, demolishing the meal in short order. Thus satiated and fortified with coffee, they took the elevator down to the lobby. The operator bid them to have a nice day, and Jonathan felt that not even a rainstorm could have dampened his spirits.

  Frank sat in the wagon, parked across the street from the hotel so the horses wouldn’t befoul the circular drive with their droppings. He hopped down to help Cecilie aboard.

  “You folks spend a nice night?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Jonathan made room for Cecilie on the wagon box. “Miss Renault needs to purchase a few outfits for travel. Do you know where we might find a suitable garment shop?”

  “Yessir.” Frank chirped to the horses.

  A piercing whistle behind them made Jonathan glance back. A man in a bowler hat was just lowering his fingers from his mouth and waving to flag down a Hansom. Jonathan wondered idly if it had been the same fellow Cecilie had bumped into the day before at the Western Union office.

  “Jonathan, what are you looking at?”

  He realized he’d been staring at the man, but he turned to smile at Cecilie. “Just woolgathering.” Nevertheless, he did keep checking back over his shoulder when he thought she wasn’t looking.

  As much as he loved Cecilie’s company, shopping with her was an infuriating process. She wanted to try on every item in every shop they visited, and then she wanted to discuss alterations, argue measurements, and heap verbal abuse upon anyone who wasn’t quick enough in the very best French tradition. After she’d found enough clothing to fill a suitcase, she started picking out hats and shoes. Jonathan began nodding off in his seat.

  “Just a few more minutes, I promise.”

  “I’m just going to step outside for a bit,” he said. He walked out of the shop and into the warm breeze, hoping to wake himself up.

  Frank was sitting in the wagon bed with his feet up on the rail and his hat over his face, snoring. Jonathan thought about awakening the man, but he honestly felt like sprawling in the back of the wagon himself. He leaned over the rail to make sure Cecilie’s other purchases were still secured, and as he did so, he caught sight of the man with the bowler hat once more. He was across the street, leaning against a brick wall, smoking a cigarette and checking his watch. A scruffy man in a homburg stood beside him, looking right across the street at the shop Cecilie was in. Jonathan’s heart pounded. They were being followed. He was certain of it. Trying hard to act nonchalant, he turned to lean against the wagon, his back to the men.

  They were watching the shop, but from their vantage point, they couldn’t see all the way inside. It was clear that they were taking pains not to be seen as well. That might be the opening Jonathan needed for an escape.

  “Frank,” he whispered.

  The young man continued to snore.

  “Frank, wake up.” Jonathan took hold of the young man’s foot and tossed it off the rail.

  Frank jerked and sat up. “I’m sorry, Mista Orbital. I dozed right off there.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Jonathan in low, urgent tones. “I want you to take the wagon around to the opposite side of this block and wait for me and Miss Renault there.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “There are two men following us. No, don’t look around,” Jonathan cautioned him as the young man started to glance left and right. “They’re behind you, across the street, one wearing a bowler and the other a homburg.”

  “You think they mean to do you some harm?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d rather not stick around and find out. We’ll cut through the alley and meet you around the block, all right?”

  Frank nodded, and climbed back up onto the box.

  Jonathan went back into the shop. Cecilie brightened when she saw him and held up two hats for his consideration. “Which do you think? This one or this one?”

  “Neither. We’re being followed. We have to leave right now.” He turned to the startled clerk. “The mademoiselle is in danger. Is there a rear exit?”

  “Why, yes,” stammered the young man. “Should I call for the police?”

  “No.” Jonathan pressed five dollars into the man’s hand. “For your trouble. If two gentlemen come in here to inquire about us, play dumb.”

  The man looked down at the money in his hand, gulped, and nodded.

  Jonathan seized Cecilie’s hand and they plunged back into the stock room, surrounded by stacks of hatboxes and dummy heads for displays. They found the back door right away. Jonathan cursed himself for not having taken the time to buy a pistol or two, and then had a wry thought about how quick he was to take up the mantle of shooting people once again. He stuck his head out of the door to check up and down the alley. But for a couple of stray cats pawing at a trash can, it was abandoned.

  “Quickly, now.”

  The door of the shop across the alley was propped open by a steel milk crate. Jonathan smelled the tang of wax and paraffin and knew it had to be a candelier. He pulled open the door and led Cecilie inside.

  “Here, what’s the meaning of this?” cried a heavyset woman with a scarf tied around her hair.

  “My apologies, ma’am. We took a wrong turn. Is that the way out?” Jonathan pointed toward the front of the shop.

  “Yes, of course. But what are you—”

  Jonathan didn’t stay to answer her question. He and Cecilie hurried through the shop, startling the girl behind the counter. To forestall any further complaints, he laid a five dollar bill on the counter and apologized. Then he saw Frank pull the wagon up in front of the candelier and he and Cecilie went out to hop aboard.

  “Did they follow you?” Jonathan asked.

  “I don’t think so. At least I didn’t see them move away.”

  “I hope there is only the two of them,” said Cecilie.

  “Where to, Mista Orbital?”

  “Back to the farm, quick as you can.”

  Frank flicked the reins and the horses pulled the wagon away from the shop. They weren’t nearly as fast as Jonathan would have liked, but he didn’t want to take the time to find a steam carriage to take them or risk that the driver who picked them up might be working with Bowler and Homburg. Frank Clay was the only other person he could trust.

  As they left Kansas City, Jonathan kept checking behind them, and when it became evident that they weren’t being pursued, only then did he let himself breathe.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Phinneas was sitting in a rocking chair for the first time since he was a lad, reading the newspaper and listening to the porch boards creak as he pushed against them with his legs. Anyone who looked at him would think he was wiling away a beautiful afternoon in comfort, but they wouldn’t be able to see the gears spinning madly in his head. They wouldn’t know how hard it was for him to just sit and relax like this, and how much it bothered him that he’d started acclimating to the gravity. The urge to get moving again worried at him like an itch he couldn’t quite reach, but he maintained his composure, just as he did any time his ship had come under siege. Hysterics wouldn’t help him figure out where he should go first, or how he would get there. But being a country boy definitely wasn’t suiting him, and every time he tried to make himself useful to pass the time, people turned him way.

  He’d first attempted to help clean up after breakfast, only to have Jessie slap at him with her dishtowel and push him out the door. “This ain’t your job! Get on, now. Go rest, space man.” Next, he tried to see if Grant needed any help out in his barn, only to find the old man asleep at his workbench, his face planted right down on the dirty wood and snoring up a storm. He finally went o
ut to see if he could help Jessie’s aunts with their weeding or harvesting or whatever it was they did, but they only shook their heads. Aunt Georgette, who’d exchanged her house dress for a pair of filthy overalls and a straw hat, said, “Nossir, Mister Greaves. You’s a guest, and guests don’t do no chores. Besides, you need to get well.”

  Phinneas couldn’t believe it. For the first time in his life, he was being pushed out of work rather than in, and he felt lost. So he sat in the chair and rocked, read the news of a planet and people he felt completely disconnected from, and suffered the sickening pretense of leisure. Occasionally, his mind turned to the whereabouts of Orbital and Cecilie. Well, perhaps it was more than just occasional. Despite his attempts to block the woman out, she’d managed to work her way into his brain like an insidious sulfur leak from a boiler furnace. It was more than just the kiss they’d shared. He was also curious about her endgame. Her desire to give him her father’s technology told him she would be willing to make deals with the devil if necessary. It was only a matter of who would cross her path next.

  At any rate, he’d likely seen the last of her and her Orbital lap dog. Jessie had said they were going to return, but he doubted it. They had no real reason to, what with Gusarov dead and buried. If Orbital wasn’t a halfwit, he would be taking a train east right now to catch a transatlantic ship back to Paris and deliver the girl back to her da’. He could already imagine the moon-faced idiot fumbling all over himself to lick the dust from her boots.

  Phinneas gritted his teeth and kept reading the ten page rag that gave itself the lofty name of The Signal-Enterprise. The news wasn’t so great, which wasn’t news at all on this miserable clot of dirt. The local talk mainly seemed to be about drought and famine, and a good look around the area showed why. But for the little plot of green growing on the Clay farm, the surrounding land was as dusty as an Egyptian tomb, and it sounded like much of the country was suffering from the same thing. It was a world in need of a miracle. Maybe Mr. Clay’s special plastic wasn’t going to be the answer to it all, but he thought maybe it could help in a lot of small ways that added up to something huge. The development of machines and instruments that could process large amounts of grain and other goods, and lighter ships that could carry it into and through space would be monumental.