Jonathan nodded, a smile tugging his lips.
Mac nodded. “Just so.”
We’d thought long and hard about how best to convince Jonathan of our authenticity. In the end, it had been my mother’s suggestion to let the man’s own words do our talking for us. After careful consideration, we’d selected several journal entries, cutting and pasting to ensure none could cause any sort of ripple.
And though two had specifically mentioned how certain events in history could be neither changed nor altered, Phoebe told me that when they’d revealed the pages to him, it was the last entry that had caused the greatest impact.
Jonathan Carlyle reached into the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket and quickly scanned the entry. I couldn’t read the words from where I stood, but I knew which one he’d kept.
My son is born! I have a son! Today is the most glorious day that any man has ever lived! He is hale, with a cry fit to rattle the windows. I admit here that I wept when I first beheld the sight of my Julia, lying there in a measure beyond beauty as she handed our child into my arms.
“I know we thought, were the child a boy,” Julia said to me, “that we would call him Mordecai, after your great-uncle. But he does not look like a Mordecai, does he, darling?”
Gazing down at the squirming bundle, I laughed and told her, “No, beloved. He most assuredly does not. In fact, he looks to me as if his name should be . . .”
We’d cut the last word, not wanting to influence the baby’s name any further. It didn’t really bother any of us that we’d nixed the name Mordecai. We figured Henry Luis Carlyle owed us for that one.
Jonathan brushed a finger over the page, his gaze wistful and very far away.
“Henry.” He looked up and grinned broadly. “He’ll be called Henry, though I shall be careful not to speak the name until this very moment.”
Jonathan said nothing for a while as he examined each of our carefully blank expressions. He sighed. “You’re certain of Niko’s safety? There was . . . shall be . . . no injury to his person or that of anyone else?”
“No one will be hurt,” Mac answered. “Of that, you can rest assured.”
Chapter 38
THANKFULLY, IT WAS JUST A FEW BLOCKS TO TESLA’S. As Doug and Mac stepped down onto the sidewalk, two figures emerged from the shadows.
“State your business,” declared a gruff voice.
“Stand down, Peters,” Jonathan ordered as he disembarked. “These men are with me, and shall join you on your watch tonight. Has there yet been any sign of trouble?”
Sergeant Peters stepped out beneath the streetlight. He no longer wore the navy uniform of the Greenwood security, but the pea coat and flat cap of a civilian. “Seen the same carriage ride by three times within an hour. It was covered, and they changed out the driver. But I marked it.” He cocked his chin at Mac and Doug. “You gents armed?”
Mac grinned as he eased his jacket back, revealing two large revolvers that hung from his belt. “Good to see you again, Sergeant.” He gave Peters a crisp nod, then repeated the gesture for the burly blonde at his side.
The Vanderbilts’ Petit Chateau occupied the entire corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Second Street. A five-story behemoth of pale stone, peaked shale roofs, and small balconies, the mansion would’ve looked more at home on a sunny hill in the French countryside. Like bony witches’ fingers, slim medieval turrets protruded skyward. And seated atop the main construction lay a high-pitched gable with three odd, porthole-type windows.
As the carriages queued up to disgorge their silk-and-satin-clad guests through the decadent front gate, I suddenly got why the snobby Caroline Astor had declared the house a “monstrosity of extravagance.”
“Crap on a cracker,” Phoebe whispered when we took our spot behind the long line of glossy black coaches. “This place is insane. Like one of those movies where they keep the murderous aunt locked up in the attic.”
“Or a Daphne du Maurier novel come to life.”
Nikola Tesla sat across from me. His knees bounced. He rocked back and forth. He shifted, and the fingers of one hand tapped a constant cadence on the other wrist. He seemed in a state of perpetual motion. When Tesla had emerged from the building and, without comment, climbed into the carriage, his gray-brown eyes had barely grazed over us. And yet, I knew in that single glance he’d forever memorized each and every one of our features.
Of course he did.
Just because we both possessed an eidetic memory doesn’t mean that we processed that data at the same level. The man was beyond genius. My own “gifts” weren’t even near the same ballpark. I may store all those massive skeins of information, but unlike myself, Nikola Tesla used every single strand.
I’d seen so many pictures of Tesla. Had basically papered my room with the man during a brief but intense pre-adolescent crush. And as I snuck glances, I saw that he looked much like the images I’d collected. Tall. Lanky. Handsome, with a slim mustache and spare, hawkish features. His clothes were immaculate, his posture perfect. But the pictures couldn’t possibly capture the odd charisma or the frenetic energy that seemed to radiate from him.
Collum had wasted no time. “Mr. Tesla. We need to speak about the enhancement you—”
Ignoring him completely, Tesla scooted forward on his seat, leaning in almost too close to me, as though he didn’t understand the logistics of personal space. Speaking in the sibilant accent of his Serbian birthplace, he said, “Jonathan says that you are like me, yes?”
Starstruck, I managed to nod. “I . . . yes. Yes, sir. I’m Hope Walton. My friends and I are all so honored to meet you, Professor—”
Apparently done with his version of the niceties, Tesla pounded on the roof. “Let us away,” he called to the driver. Not even glancing in Collum’s direction, he said, “There shall be no more talk of the device business until we are done here. I stay only long enough to speak with Vanderbilt and Astor. Then I must immediately return to my lab. There is much to do. At that time, you may state your case. This is my final word.”
“Our Nikola,” Phoebe whispered. “Quite the charmer, isn’t he?”
Above our heads, every one of the mansion’s myriad windows glowed with diffuse golden light. Music and the muffled sounds of laughter penetrated the stone walls. I secured my wrap around my bare shoulders, shivering beneath its heavy ivory silk as the five of us stepped from the carriage.
Phoebe tugged at her low neckline. “Ugh. Sure as sunset, this thing’s gonna slip and show my girls. I should have taken it up an inch or so. And who are all those people watching us?”
The spectators, mostly middle-class, were obviously keen for a glimpse of New York’s wealthiest and most prestigious inhabitants. A cadre of uniformed policemen held back the crowd as we funneled through the portal and into the Vanderbilts’ fenced yard. Though I knew little about Hollywood, I had a feeling this was as close as I’d ever get to walking the red carpet.
“Speaking to that . . .” Collum hurried after Tesla, who moved rudely past the queued guests, too impatient to wait his turn. A brilliant flash boomed from the portico just ahead where the host was posing for a photo with each guest in turn.
Tesla bounded up the steps, neatly cutting off a man with enormous sideburns and his affronted, bejeweled wife. “I say!” the man exclaimed.
“You say?” Tesla rounded on the man. “You say what?”
When the flummoxed man only opened and closed his mouth, Tesla scoffed and turned away. “Never understood that phrase. If you have words that need to be spoken, simply speak them and be done, yes?”
“Why, look here, Mina,” cried a voice from the line. “It’s our own little Niko!” A man stepped out of the queue and strode over to plant a hearty slap on Tesla’s back.
Short and stubby, hair already going famously white, Mr. Thomas Alva Edison—creator of the light bulb and the direct current, holder of more than a hundred patents, and Tesla’s most despised rival—grinned up at Tesla. A much younger woman in
lavender ruffles tripped along as she hurried to join them. Bow tie askew, tuxedo coat misbuttoned and frayed at the hem, the nearly fifty-year-old inventor may’ve looked like someone’s rumpled old uncle, but I noticed his leering smile did not reach his eyes.
Straightening his immaculate greatcoat, Tesla responded to his former employer in a voice flat as a sheet of paper. “Edison.”
“I must say, Niko.” Edison raised his voice just enough so that it carried past the fence and into the first few rows of spectators. “It’s right unusual to see you keeping company with a . . . female.”
Edison’s emphasis on the word didn’t go unnoticed by the avid crowd. The aging inventor paused, letting their whispered speculations spread.
“And here I thought you eschewed the company of ladies . . .” Another sly, deliberate pause. “. . . so you could pursue those little notions of yours.”
Without a word of warning or the slightest hesitation, Nikola Tesla snaked his arm through mine, nearly yanking me off my feet when he hauled me up the steps to meet the host.
William Kissam Vanderbilt’s buggy eyes tracked the inventor. “Why, Professor, I am honored. Welcome to my home.”
Vanderbilt extended a hand in greeting. Tesla recoiled, though he quickly recovered. I felt a shudder run through him as he took a deep breath, then placed his gloved hand into Vanderbilt’s. Their handshake was odd, and seemed to go on a bit too long. When it was done, Tesla spoke with a barely concealed grimace. “Even providing the relative safety of the glove,” he said, “the touching of hands can often lead to illness. I would suggest—when next we gather—we propose an alternative greeting for members.”
All the guests within earshot tittered. If Tesla noticed, he didn’t react. But William Vanderbilt did. Baring his teeth, he spoke through them. “This is not the place for such a private discussion, Professor.” Vanderbilt then reached up with his right hand and patted his lapel three times. Standing in front of him, I caught the tip of something gold sticking out from beneath the black cloth as he eyed Tesla. “Are we clear?”
Tesla’s jaw tightened, though he quickly agreed. Then he repeated Vanderbilt’s distinct gesture. Pat. Pat. Pat.
Puzzled, I slid my eyes sideways. There, over Tesla’s heart, his lapel covered a lump that looked suspiciously similar to Vanderbilt’s.
What the hell?
“Now.” Something in the tycoon’s false bonhomie set my teeth on edge. “Let’s get that photograph taken, shall we?”
“Yes,” Tesla murmured, eyes still fixed on Vanderbilt’s lapel. “As you say.”
Though I doubt he was aware of it, Tesla’s grip on my arm had tightened to the point that—putting aside the option of creating a huge scene—I had no choice but to follow.
Of course, by then it was much, much too late. As we positioned ourselves beside the host, I turned to peer at Collum and Phoebe. From the looks on their faces, I could see that they, too, realized what was about to happen.
What do I do? I mouthed.
Phoebe opened her mouth, closed it. Collum, looking slightly pole-axed, only shrugged.
The photographer disappeared beneath the black cloth of his enormous camera. The lighting assistant measured out his flash powder.
The photographer yelled, “Hold!” And I did the only thing I could think of. I ducked out, angling my body as far to the side as was possible without ripping Tesla’s arm clean out of its socket. Unless fate had gotten even weirder than usual . . . the only part of me that would appear in the 1895 newspaper photo that Moira, Phoebe, and I would find in the year 2016 would be my gloved arm and one recently altered sleeve.
Inside the vaulted foyer, male and female attendants took wraps and coats and furs. I motioned to Collum and Phoebe and sketched out the details of the strange exchange between Tesla and Vanderbilt. Collum frowned. “Any idea what it means?”
I shook my head.
“Great,” Phoebe snapped, her tone uncharacteristically sharp as she handed her wrap to one of the attendants. “One more damn mystery to add to the pile.”
I glanced over at her and saw the troubled look she was working so hard to hide.
“Hey,” I said, tucking an arm into hers. “They’re fine. If I know Doug, he’s having the time of his life in that lab.”
“I know,” she said. “Plus, Mac’s there and all the other men. It’s only . . . Did you see his face? He barely got to see Tesla, much less speak to the man. I know he must be so disappointed.”
That was the plan, of course. While we watched Tesla’s back, Jonathan would convince him of the danger of ever constructing another device. And with Peters and his security force protecting the lab’s perimeter, Mac and Doug’s mission was to locate and destroy the already built enhancement, making sure it wouldn’t survive the fateful fire.
For Doug it would be as dreadful and agonizing as drowning puppies in a river.
She was watching her brother as he moved into bodyguard position behind Tesla. “And it’s not just that. Collum’s right. Think what we might do with the enhancement, if we could bring it back with us.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I really thought Aunt Lucinda would change her mind about that.”
“Collum and Doug went to her before we left, you know.” Phoebe’s wide, mobile mouth turned down, the frown unnatural on her normally cheery face. “Tried one last time to persuade her. Apparently, she refused to even discuss it. I’d never seen Coll look so downcast.”
“I know,” I said. “Well, do you think Doug might, um—?”
She shook her head. “No. Doug will do his duty. They’ve probably already destroyed the little bugger. It’s not fair, though. It might’ve been our only real shot at finally locating Da.”
Servants gestured for people to move out of the foyer and make their way into the entrance proper, and I gave my friend’s arm a tight squeeze, letting her know that no matter what happened, I was here for her. Always.
Chapter 39
WE WALKED FROM THE FOYER AND INTO THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.
Everything was shimmering, jewel-toned, and luscious with silk. It rippled from the walls. Draped from chandeliers. Dangled from the two-story ceiling in great swags of color. Our low-heeled boots immediately sunk into Turkish carpets that covered the vast expanse of marble.
Above our heads a Capuchin monkey in green vest and fez rode a minuscule bicycle calmly across a hair-thin wire.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whispered.
Bare-chested men in turbans and gold balloon pants wove among the guests offering trays of jeweled goblets and bite-size delicacies. In a parlor just off the main hall, tuxedo-clad gentlemen lounged on silken pillows, ogling a gyrating belly dancer.
Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. Smells like a weed shop on going-out-of-business day.”
I nodded as the smell of pungent incense filled my nose.
“It looks like the inside of a freaking genie’s—” I stopped suddenly. “Um . . . And how exactly would you know what a weed shop smells like?”
She rolled her eyes. “Stumbled into it, one day while me and Doug were out shopping for Mac’s birthday.” Her teeth flashed, a relief of white in the sumptuous, over-colored room. “Almost bought my own grandda a dragon-shaped bong before we figured it out.”
“Nikola, darling. You came!”
Though I’d seen her in person only days earlier, without my very specific memory, I would never have connected this woman with Consuelo Vanderbilt’s frumpy, uptight mother.
She glided up to take Tesla’s hands in hers. Though the same protruding pale eyes and snub nose turned up to simper at Tesla, clothed as she was in a too-revealing gown of eye-watering gold silk, Alva Vanderbilt looked like a someone had tried to pass a potato off as a Christmas gift.
Tesla managed a fleeting smile, though I could see his jaw muscles flex with a desire to wipe off his hands. “Mrs. Vanderbilt.”
“Please, do call me Alva, won’t you?”
When she moved in to kiss Tesla’s cheek, he recoiled, gaze pinned to the woman’s very ample chest.
Affronted, Mrs. Vanderbilt stood there with her mouth open. “Why, I nev—”
“Pearls,” Tesla choked out. “You—you are wearing pearls. I cannot abide the sight of them.”
She blinked at him, the anger on her face gradually morphing to pity. “Oh, you poor dear,” she said, fingering the strand of huge matched pearls that disappeared down her bodice. “Yes, I’d heard of your strange sensibilities, but I’d quite forgotten. I shall ring for my maid and have her take them away, posthaste.”
“Do not trouble yourself so. In all honesty, we shall be here for a short time only. To meet with Mr. Vanderbilt and John Jacob Astor. Has Mr. Astor arrived?”
Mrs. Vanderbilt pouted and I wanted to puke. “Yes, and he will be delighted to see you,” she said, her voice flattened. “He’s been sick with concern that you would not attend. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him or my husband worry so over a guest.” She made a little moue of distaste. “William is still greeting our guests, of course. But JJ is somewhere about. I could . . .” The woman’s voice trailed off as her bulging eyes skimmed past Phoebe and me, and landed on Collum. “Nikola,” she purred. “Won’t you introduce me to your lovely young friends here?”
Gilded peacock feathers wobbled from Alva Belmont Vanderbilt’s upswept hair as she breezed past Phoebe and me to plant herself directly in front of Collum. “My, what a handsome boy you are.”
As I watched, Collum’s face turned the color of the burgundy swath dangling just above his head. I bit back a snort as Mrs. Vanderbilt wiggled closer, practically propping those enormous boobs of hers right on his chest.
Sparks of Light Page 25