“Really?” She smirked. “I hadn’t noticed.”
The general cleared his throat. “I, well, that is to say I was under the assumption Alexander...dra was a man.”
“Well you thought wrong. Now what is so important you dragged me away from my work to see you about?” Without being asked she took a seat in one of the empty chairs across from him and crossed her legs.
His eyes followed her long legs before he cleared his throat and sat. He pushed a newspaper clipping across the desk to her. “This is an article your father wrote.”
Alexandra read the print in front of her.
“The time will come when people will travel in stages, moved by steam engines from one city to another, almost as fast as birds can fly, fifteen or twenty miles an hour. A carriage will start from Washington in the morning; the passengers will breakfast at Baltimore, dine in Philadelphia, and sup in New York the same day. Engines will drive boats at ten or twelve miles an hour, and there will be hundreds of steamers, running on the Mississippi.
Oliver Evans, 1800.”
She glanced up. “So?”
The general leaned back in his chair and interlocked his fingers. “Is it true?”
“My father believed it was.”
His eyes narrowed. “And what about you? Do you believe it can be done?”
“Yes.” As she said it she wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t have been so quick to admit it.
“Can you build this horseless carriage then?”
She shrugged, suddenly wary to admit building it was precisely what she had been doing all this time.
He leaned forward. “I am offering five thousand dollars plus whatever materials you need at your disposal.”
“What for?”
“To end the war.”
It seemed like a noble enough mission. What did she have to lose? Money she was desperately in need of. By the end of the month the rents for her warehouse home would be due and there wasn’t enough left in her father’s coin tin she kept hidden under the loose floorboard by her bed to pay them. “My rents are due soon. Will you be willing to pay some of the coin in advance?”
The general shook his head. “It is best you build your contraption here where it is secure.”
Alexandra worried her bottom lip. The warehouse had been her only home. Well, for as long as she could remember. Even now, almost a year after his death, she swore she could hear her father’s tread on the stairs and smell the pungent odor of his pipe wafting across the attic apartment. Could she bear to leave those memories behind? Then again, did she really have a choice, for when she could not hand over the rent money she would be kicked out onto the streets, her trinkets and inventions tossed into the gutters or sold for scrap. She glanced at the general. Could she trust him to keep his word? Since he was a military man she had to assume so.
“All right. I’ll need someone to help me move my tools and supplies to somewhere larger to store them while I work.”
The general’s smile made her feel a little uneasy as his eyes remained cold and fixed on her. “I have such a place here. Lord Grendal will help you move your things.”
She tossed an annoyed look at the dandy who sat beside her. Just what she needed, a self-absorbed, starched shirt, humorless man who thought he was her better, criticizing her every move.
Chapter Three
Alexandra rummaged through the pile of odds and ends trying to decide what was worth taking and what could be left behind. As she sorted her mind wandered. How did the general think her steam powered horseless carriage was going to help him end the war with the British? Was he thinking perhaps he could move supplies and his forces faster and thereby have the advantage? She wiped a dirty hand across her brow as dust billowed up from her activities. What did she care? She was no citizen of England. Her father had been at one time, before he was ridiculed into journeying to the promised land of America.
With a sigh she dropped a handful of sprockets into the pile at her feet. Promised Land! So far all that had been promised were bill collectors, abnormally high rents and not even a spare penny to put aside for a rainy day. As if in taunt, a rumble of thunder shook the warehouse. She hated being alone in the empty building during a storm, the hollow echoing sound made her melancholy. If her father were here he’d laugh and tell her stories of all the past great inventors to take her mind from the raging heavenly battles going on outside.
Someone knocked on the outer door, startling her. She considered just ignoring the intrusion, but after a second crack of thunder she decided to see who was there. Brushing off her hands she stalked to the door. When she flung it open she spied Lord Grendal standing on the other side, hair plastered to his head looking like a drowned rat. Small rivers of rain trickled down his great coat and puddled at his feet.
“What do you want?” she asked leaning on the door frame.
“I thought you could use some help packing up your...things.” He blinked, pushing a lock of salt and pepper hair from his forehead.
She stepped back against her better judgment, allowing him into the shelter of the warehouse. “Fine. You can stack the crates and trunks for me.”
He shrugged and slipped off his dripping coat. After tossing it over a stack of containers nearest the door he rolled up the sleeves of his starched white shirt and followed her to the other side of the room.
Alex pointed to a row of crates she had already packed. Let’s see the dandy do some real work hefting heavy wooden boxes for a while. It should keep him too busy to bore me with idle chit chat. “It was nice of you to offer to help.”
“I did not offer, not really, the general assigned the duty to me.” He gave her a wry smile over his shoulder and picked up the first bin. “Where do you want this one?”
“So I recall.” She pointed to a large empty area by the big double doors. “Stack them there to be loaded.” When he nodded and headed for the spot, she returned to sorting the pile on the floor. “So, Lord Grendal, what is it you do for the general? I assume you are not one of his soldiers as you don’t wear a uniform.”
He strolled by her and picked up another crate. “The name is Weston. I am a military strategist.”
“Really?” Alexandra observed him through new eyes.
“Really.” He headed for the door with his load and stacked it neatly on top of the first one.
“I never guessed you to be the intelligent type,” Alex smirked. If truth be told he didn’t seem any type, just plain, boring and unassuming.
He glanced at her and frowned, the look in his eyes frosty and guarded. “Strange, I never believed you to be the intelligent type either.”
Maybe he wasn’t as dull as she first thought. “That is typical of your gender I suppose. Men always underestimate a lady. Rest assured, my lord, we are not all swooning, confections of lace and ruffles, you know. Some of us actually have intellect.” She bit her lip, not meaning it to come across quite as sarcastic as it sounded.
With a shrug he crossed the room and picked up another crate. Alex finished sorting the pile and tossed the parts she wanted to take in another one. After nailing the lid in place she began to scoop the undesirable pieces into a pile. She glanced at Weston as he walked back and forth carrying the heavy wooden boxes. “Everyone calls me Alex.”
He paused, lifting an eyebrow. “Everyone?”
“My father.” She hated to admit she really didn’t know anyone on a personal level.
“I see.” He continued with his job. “And your friends?”
“I don’t have any...that is to say most people don’t appreciate a woman who is confident and speaks her mind.”
“I see.” He grinned “In other words people see you as an oddball of sorts.”
Arms akimbo she scowled at him. “You would work faster if you refrained from making ill-informed observations.” Again he grinned and headed for another box. The man is an arrogant rake. Imagine having the gall to...she sniffed...point out the obvious. She sighed and headed for the
shelf of uncompleted and non-working inventions. Lovingly she touched each of her father’s projects she had not the heart to toss out or try to get working on her own. Her fingers came away coated in dust and grime. She would crate them up and take them with her, rather than part with the reminder of him, she decided.
“How long has your father been deceased?”
She answered without looking up, “Almost a year now.”
“It must be hard for you, here, alone.”
Crossing her arms she fixed him with a stern stare. “Why, because I am a woman?”
He shook his head and carried on. “No, I mean because he was your father, your family.”
“I miss him,” she admitted and looked away. “I don’t remember my mother though my father said she was beautiful.”
“She was a Cancan girl so I imagine she was.”
Alex glanced up at him surprised he knew. “How is it you know about my mother yet you did not know I was a female?”
“I am a military strategist not a Pinkerton,” he said with a sheepish grin.
Alex began to blow the dust off of each invention and pack them carefully in a nearby bin. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Where do you hail from? What are your parents like?”
“My father was a military man, whom my mother claims died of disappointment because I did not follow in his footsteps like he had hoped.”
She gave him a quizzical look. “And yet here you are a military man?”
“Not really. I supply independent support to the general. I am not now, nor have I ever been in the military.” He set down his packing materials and headed for the last stack.
“Why?”
“I never wanted to, I suppose. I always wanted to be an actor.”
“An actor? You’re jesting.” She giggled despite herself.
Giving her a sour look he picked up another crate. “What is wrong with that? You are an inventor.”
She smothered her amusement. “So where is your mother?”
“Living in Philadelphia, surrounded by her friends and meager family who listen to her lament about what a wastrel her only son is.” He grimaced and set the box down beside the others. “Did your father not have any expectations you failed to live up to?”
“Not really. I suppose he did wish to see me married before he died but, well we both knew it wasn’t likely.” A sigh escaped her lips before she could stop it and she scowled at him lest he think her weak or unhappy with her lot in life. “Marriage doesn’t interest me in the least.”
“Really? Why ever not?”
“Well, for one, who wants to be naught but arm decor for some fancy self-absorbed dandy?” She tossed her short curls and returned to her packing.
“It displeases you to be thought of as beautiful and charming?”
She frowned as he touched a raw nerve. “I am neither of those things.”
“Why not, because you do not wear a dress? I think you are very pretty.”
She shot him a sour look.
He held up both hands. “What? You are pretty, though so far I cannot vouch for the charming part.”
With a snort she turned her back on him lest he see that she was moved by his simple admission. “Still your roguish tongue and stack the crates.”
“As you command, Miss Alex.”
When she glanced over her shoulder at him he smiled and turned back to his task. His flattery would get him nowhere, fast. She glanced down at her stained shirt and breeches amazed he had actually seen anything worth complimenting. For a brief moment she pondered the idea of spending her last few coins on a dress. Nothing fancy, just a simple confection of pink flowered cotton...With a groan she tossed the ill invented shoe buffer into the bin. Have I completely lost my mind? Since when do I have the desire to wear anything but my oh so comfortable breeches anyway? Shaking her head she pushed the thought aside and returned to packing.
Chapter Four
General Madden looked up from his charts when Weston walked into his office a week later and sat in the empty chair in front of the desk. “Well? Did you get the woman settled in the tent?”
Weston nodded. “Are you sure about her?”
Madden let the charts roll up on their own accord. “What is there to be sure of? She will build the war machine I want and then I will have her disposed of before she figures out what we really want it for.”
“Dispose of her? What do you mean?” Weston clenched the arms of the chair hoping he had misunderstood the general’s intent.
“Make her disappear, permanently. The last thing we need is a woman around with evidence of what we intend to do. We will get rid of those vermin savages. Those redskins will not stand a chance against a weapon of this caliber. Just think, I will be known as the greatest war hero that ever lived. Settlers will flock here to populate and work the land. I alone will be the catalyst that launches America into the future.”
Weston hid his shame and repulsion as the general got that faraway look on his face which was the norm after one of his self-important rantings. There was a spark of brilliance and a streak of lunacy in the man that made Weston wary.
“Has the woman made a list of supplies she needs yet?”
Irritation tightened Weston’s jaw. “Her name is Miss Evans.”
“Whatever, daughter of a whore is what she is, no name needed.” Madden’s eyes narrowed. “You are not having doubts about your mission here, are you Grendal?”
Am I? Weston clenched his fists at his side. Miss Evans is naught but a silly woman and it is not in my job description to feel anything for her, least of all infatuation or pity. He shook his head.
Madden waved a dismissive hand. “Good. Have a supply list on my desk by tomorrow.”
Weston stood and stalked from the room. The general was as looney as they came. He was all for showing the British what for, but he didn’t hold with killing thousands of redskins. America had been their home before the white man came and annihilating a whole race just didn’t sit well with him. Weston headed for Miss Evans’s massive tent which took up one whole end of the army compound. After nodding to the guard stationed at the flap he stepped inside. Crates and trunks littered the interior in a haphazard way. Frowning, he picked his way through them until he found Miss Evans hunched over a roll of papers spread out on a desk in the corner.
“The general requested a detailed list of materials that you need,” he said stopping in front of her.
Alex hardly spared him a glance as she stuffed a charcoal stick behind her ear. Once again he was struck by how pretty she was, her short brassy curls framing her soft face. Her full pouty lips pursed, a small frown wrinkling her brow as she contemplated the blueprints in front of her. Finally she sighed and looked up, her hazel eyes serious. “I’ll have one ready as soon as I can understand how to link the steam regulator to the broiler and bypass the main vent.”
“The what?” Weston looked down at the seemingly random notations and charcoal marks on the papers.
With an exasperated sigh she pointed to a line on the sheet. “Here. See? In order to be able to control the speed of the carriage, one must be able to control the amount of steam released or held back. The other main problem is the wheels.”
Weston moved around behind the desk to study the plans. “What is wrong with them?”
“Well nothing essentially, except they will work well on a wagon road or flat surface, but if there is a need to go across rougher terrain I’m afraid they won’t do very well. In that case the army would be much better off using horses.”
“I believe Madden wants to catch the British before they reach the shore, to blow up the ships before they dock.”
“Then wheels won’t work. The carriages will be too heavy and sink in the sand.” She sank down into the chair behind her, resting her elbows on the desk top and rubbed her temples.
Weston plucked the charcoal stick from behind her ear. “What if you form some kind of legs o
n the carriage instead of wheels?” He sketched a rough drawing of a leg with a wide flat bottom to support the structure. “Something like this perhaps?”
She stopped rubbing her temples, examined his sketch and her eyes brightened. “That might work, but I’ll have to redesign the pulleys and levers used to turn the wheels to somehow make the legs go forward and back.” She worried her lower lip between her teeth, making a tiny sucking sound. Finally she sighed. “There is no way I can have this done in a month on my own. If my father were here, perhaps I could make it happen.”
“What if I help?”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied the paper and then she turned her gaze to him. “I don’t know. You’re not an inventor, even if your idea is quite sensible.”
He chuckled. “I will take sensible, as the first compliment you have given me to date among the list of insults.”
Her face flushed a light pink and she looked away. “Yes, well, I will stand by my original opinion. However, I will grant men may have periods of sensibility.”
Weston smiled. “At the risk of sounding entirely insensible and terribly male, how about accompanying me to dinner in the dining hall?”
She looked down at her smudged shirt and dusty breeches and then shrugged. “I suppose I have to eat.”
Before he could offer her his arm she stepped out from behind the desk and headed for the tent flap. Weston frowned and followed her. He kept forgetting Alexandra was not like the ladies he was used to. By the time they entered the dining hall the final dinner bugle had been blown. Over two hundred heads turned to stare, conversations fading into silence as they made their way between the rows of tables and benches to an empty corner. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Alexandra raised her chin, eyes flashing as if to dare anyone there to ridicule her. Despite her open show of courage her face turned a bright shade of pink. Stiffly she took a seat at the last empty table, back ramrod straight, lips pressed into a straight line.
Perhaps her teasing, annoying demeanor had more to do with her feelings than he thought. Once they were seated, a serving boy placed a tray in front of each of them. The smell of hot roast beef, mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy took his mind from his musings as his stomach gurgled in appreciation. It was a fact that army food wasn’t as elegant as the meals he was served at home by his own cook, but it was good just the same. One by one conversations resumed and he turned his attention to his meal. He was halfway through it before Alexandra finally spoke.
Inventing Love Page 2