His concern for Hazel’s safety on this journey climbed another notch. “What on earth does he want with her?” he muttered.
“Whatever his motives, I doubt they involve harm to Miss Hughes, at least initially. You, however, are expendable. He is allowing your involvement as a means of securing her passage from England with as little fuss as possible. I worry for your safety when he has Miss Hughes where he wants her.”
Sam looked at Oliver, who sat comfortably in the opposite seat—one foot resting on the other knee—but his casual posture was at odds with the razor-sharp directness of his focus. “I advise you to be vigilant on your own behalf as well, Sam. Keep a weapon on your person at all times.”
Sam nodded. “I wish . . .” He shrugged. “It’s neither here nor there. She is determined to go.”
They rode in silence the rest of the way to the docks. When Eugene opened the door, crying seagulls and the unmistakable scents of the wharf greeted them. Evening neared, and the sun would soon sink below the horizon. Another carriage pulled alongside Sam’s, and he spied Hazel’s face through the window. He’d offered to give her a ride, but she’d insisted she could do that much on her own. He opened the door and flipped down the steps for her, and she took his hand and offered a tight smile.
“Where is the ship?” Oliver asked, scanning the docks.
Sam frowned. “Eugene, is this the correct location?”
Eugene set the luggage on the ground. “Just to the left, I believe.”
Hazel shielded her eyes against the waning light. “There’s nothing there.”
Eugene nodded. “Yet.”
Hazel’s hired driver set down her steamer trunk and a large portmanteau next to Sam’s, and she clutched a smaller valise in her gloved hands. She, Sam, and Oliver looked out over the water at the ships dotting the harbor.
Hazel frowned. “One of those, perhaps?”
Oliver wandered closer to the water’s edge. His eyes widened slightly, and he put a hand to his mouth and ran his thumb along his lip. He glanced back at Sam and cleared his throat. “I believe I see the Magellan.”
Sam’s head suddenly throbbed, and his mouth went dry. His suspicions grew as he moved to Oliver’s side and saw, down in the water, an eerie green-yellow glow that grew in intensity and size as it drew near.
Hazel rushed over, and then with a gasp, grasped Sam’s arm. “What on earth . . .”
Eugene finished paying Hazel’s hired driver and joined the three, who stared mutely into the water. “That is what I tried to tell you earlier, sir. The Magellan is a submersible.”
Sam’s heart pounded painfully in his chest. No, no, no . . . He’d never been one for tight spaces, and since the war, he’d made a habit of sleeping near windows, preferably open ones. He didn’t rest easily unless he had a clear view of the sky, and he doubted very much he was likely to find such accommodations aboard a craft that propelled its passengers through the murky depths of the ocean.
Like a specter rising from the underworld, the submersible emerged from the water, growing until it stood as tall as some of the ocean liners that were becoming all the rage. The machine was massive, sleek, and adorned in silver and black with a huge raven crest along the side. The front boasted large panes of thick glass, revealing a brightly lit room that housed a large wheel and periscope with cushioned window seats along the periphery.
A uniformed ’ton maneuvered the behemoth into position alongside the dock. Sam sucked in a deep breath and hoped he’d not disgrace himself by fainting. He heard Eugene’s gears quietly clicking and whirring—likely the ’ton was performing a bio-read on Sam, noting his elevated heart rate and rapid breathing.
True to his programming, Eugene stood behind Sam and murmured, “You are unwell?”
“I shall be fine,” he managed, and when Hazel looked at him in concern, he turned his attention to the submersible with a roll of his shoulders. “I am fine.”
Oliver whistled low under his breath as he examined the impressive bulk of the submarine and the rivulets of water that streamed down from the top of it. “I . . . well.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Certainly looks seaworthy.”
Sam glanced at him and hoped panic wasn’t evident on his face.
Oliver looked at him for a moment and then turned to Eugene. “You’re programmed to monitor his vitals, I would assume?”
“Yes,” Eugene began, “and—”
“I am absolutely fine,” Sam ground out.
“This is a horrible idea,” Hazel murmured. “Sam, I do not think—”
A hatch atop the monster opened to reveal a stately Dravor Petrescu, lord of the castle and, apparently, the sea. He smiled broadly and extended a hand. “Gentlemen, my dear niece, I welcome you to the Magellan.”
A long gangplank extended from the submersible and led to the top hatch where Petrescu stood. Hazel climbed the length and took her uncle’s hand as she stepped down into the massive craft. She stood in a small entryway with four steps leading down to a brightly lit hallway, painted white and adorned with evenly spaced Tesla sconces. She descended the stairs, followed by Sam and Eugene.
Sam was still pale as a ghost. A muscle worked in his jaw, and he nodded absently at something Eugene said. Petrescu delivered instructions to three ’tons, who carried the luggage down the hall and disappeared down another set of stairs.
With a light bump, the craft shifted and vibrated as engines far beneath their feet sounded. They were moving slowly through the water, and Petrescu smiled broadly. “I shall never tire of the thrill, the movement of this majestic creature of the sea.”
Hazel cleared her throat. “It is most impressive, my lord. I’ve certainly never had the pleasure of traveling in such style.”
He placed a hand on his chest and inclined his head. “Please, you must call me ‘Uncle,’ or at the very least, ‘Dravor.’”
“Very well. Uncle Dravor.”
He beamed and gestured ahead. “The Grand Staircase. I shall show you to your quarters, and then I hope you’ll join me for supper.”
“That sounds lovely,” Hazel said, but she doubted she’d be able to eat a bite of anything. Although she’d never suffered from motion sickness, her stomach churned with anxiety.
The Grand Staircase was wide and adorned with whitewashed oak. They descended one deck to where an ancient suit of armor stood guard. The craft teemed with ’tons in matching uniforms: black shirt and trousers, with a single stripe down the arms that varied in color, likely dependent on their task or station.
“Are all of the servants automatons?” she asked Dravor.
“Mostly, however, I do employ a small human staff in case of emergency or mishap with the ’tons. I have a man of affairs you’ll meet shortly—Renton—and I’ve taken the liberty of employing Sally Tucker as your personal maid. You’ve no objection, I hope?”
“None, thank you.”
Directly facing the broad staircase was a set of open double doors, through which Hazel spied a large table. A man exited the room dressed in a plain suit of clothing. He was tall and broad, the sort of man Hazel imagined would find success as a prizefighter. His face even bore traces of just such activity. His nose had been broken at least once, and a jagged scar above his right eyebrow was evidence of a healed cut.
Dravor smiled and extended a hand outward. “Here is the man I just mentioned. Allow me to introduce Renton. He is my personal assistant and, on occasion, bodyguard. Renton, this is my niece, Lady Hazel Hughes, and her friend, Dr. Samuel MacInnes.”
Renton placed a hand on his chest and inclined his head. “A pleasure.”
The introduction marked the first time in her life Hazel had been formally presented as “lady,” and she was uncertain if the flutter in her chest indicated excitement or discomfort. She and Sam murmured their greetings, and Petrescu added, “Meet me upstairs in the office, Renton.
I’ll be there shortly.”
Renton bowed again and walked around them to ascend the stairs. He took them two at a time, his movements sure, and disappeared around the corner.
“The Main Room,” Dravor told them, motioning to the double doors in front of them, “is where we dine as well as gather for conversation, company, and games.” He smiled, and for a moment Hazel forgot he’d ever made her uncomfortable. “This craft is often my home for long stretches of time, and I like to enjoy the comforts I would on land. There is a library, my personal study for correspondence and business matters, a conservatory, and a well-equipped kitchen and pantry, even a billiard room, among other things.”
Dravor gestured as they walked. “This level contains the Main Room, of course, which is at the center like an island between two corridors. There are eight guest suites, although not all are in use at the moment.”
Hazel’s head swam. “It is enormous.”
Dravor laughed. “It is indeed. There are four levels, simply numbered one through four from top to bottom, and the servants—human and ’ton—are located on Deck Three. We are presently on Deck Two. In addition to the Magellan’s impressive size is her speed. We shall travel in a less than a week a distance that would take much longer overland.”
Sam, who had been quiet since boarding, cleared his throat. “Which route are we taking?”
Hazel glanced at him. He was still pale, and a sheen of sweat dotted his brow.
If their host noticed Sam’s discomfort, he refrained from comment. “We travel south along the Continent to Spain, through the Strait of Gibraltar, traverse the Mediterranean around Greece, up the Aegean, through the Bosporus, and northward along the Black Sea coast to Romania. I wish we could afford the luxury of stopping for an extended stay in Italy and Greece, but I fear time is of the essence.”
Hazel nodded. “I hope we will reach my sister quickly.”
Dravor nodded gravely. “Yes, as do I. I am gratified to note that your level of compassion is exactly as I’d hoped. I’ve no doubt our efforts will be not only fruitful, but expedient. We will find a cure for Marit, and all will be well.”
Walking next to Dravor, Hazel wished she felt a sense of kinship to him. She studied books and people and was usually an astute judge of character, but Dravor Petrescu was an enigma, and she couldn’t help but wonder if her partial sense of ease about him since boarding the Magellan was something fabricated. She imagined being aboard the huge vessel without Sam, and her heart lurched.
The entirety of the submersible’s interior was whitewashed and lit with sconces that cast a warm glow. Portions of the ship’s design sported walls of riveted metal, and though the large rivets and curved metal pieces that formed the gentle curve of the enormous hull were disconcertingly large, they were somehow comforting in their substance. What had Mr. Reed called it—seaworthy? She inhaled deeply. One would certainly hope.
Servants moved about quietly, nodding deferentially to the count as they passed. A thick Persian carpet lined the hall, muffling their footsteps, and doorways sported arched designs reminiscent of India. Subtle touches provided additional nods to Persian architecture and décor, evidence of the count’s affinity for the exotic.
They passed several doors as they continued along the passageway. Dravor stopped at two adjacent doors near the stern of the craft and produced two keys with a flourish. “Your rooms, dear guests.” He handed one to Hazel but paused as he placed Sam’s key in his hand. “Are you unwell, Doctor? You seem peaked.”
Sam shook his head. “Merely weary. I shall be fully restored after a good night’s sleep.”
Dravor frowned and pursed his lips. “Should you need it, there is a small infirmary on Deck Three. I’ll show you after supper.”
Sam nodded, but refrained from further comment. Hazel eyed him askance and then smiled at Dravor, who inclined his head in an informal bow, and walked away. She watched her uncle’s progress down the hallway—his tall bearing, forbidding aura, impeccable clothing, and confident stride created a picture of a man who knew his place in the world and commanded his own destiny.
Sam was unlocking his door and hadn’t spared her a glance, which was odd. Since the beginning of his involvement in the whole affair, his focus had been on her entirely, and now he seemed well and truly ill. She’d noted his panic upon first seeing the submersible, and while she didn’t know the cause, she could see that it affected him profoundly. Her sense of guilt was crushing. This wasn’t his concern, and what was worse, he was now adversely affected by it.
Eugene was quiet, save the subtle whir of gears.
Sam opened the door and entered the cabin. He still hadn’t looked in her direction or uttered a word to her, and to her surprise, she realized he meant to enter the room and quickly close the door.
Her lips tightened, and she shoved her body against the door. “Sam,” she hissed, “let me in.”
She heard him huff in irritation, but he stopped pushing on the door. She entered the room and opened her mouth to say something, but stopped before uttering a word. The suite captured her attention. It was large and lavish, complete with a four-poster bed with gauzy white bed hangings, a table and two chairs, a seating area to the right, a small wardrobe, and an open door leading to a personal lavatory. His trunks had already been placed near the wardrobe, and the room was filled with softly glowing Tesla lamps and sconces, the same that adorned the hallways.
French doors at the side opened to a smaller room with a tidy bed and dresser, ostensibly for a maid or valet.
“Well,” she said, taking in the whole of it. “This is . . . impressive.”
Sam grunted noncommittally, pocketing his key. He sank onto one of the two chairs in the seating area.
Hazel glanced at Eugene, and then joined Sam. She sat slowly in the matching chair and watched him, her disquiet growing, as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and held his head in his hands. She tried to scoot her chair closer, but it was bolted to the floor.
She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, and tried to see his face. “Sam,” she murmured. “What is it?”
He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. His fingers tightened in his blond hair, and Hazel realized she’d never seen him so vulnerable before. It was disconcerting, and she wanted to fix it. Sam MacInnes was charming and intelligent with a contagious sense of humor. Sam MacInnes, unwell, was an injustice the world should never have to know, and she resolved to help him or insist he disembark at the soonest possible moment and return home.
The silence stretched, and she wondered how to proceed. Lucy was competent and efficient; she took matters into her own hands and somehow made everything work. Isla was strong and brave and could help people as a natural empath. Emme was fueled by her passion for the downtrodden and pushed and shoved until people paid attention.
Hazel was none of those things, and she felt her limitations keenly. The only thing she knew for certain was that she adored the man who sat next to her, and she wished more than anything that he was hers, that she had the right to place her arms around his broad shoulders and hold him tight.
She felt her eyes burn as she watched him struggle. His breathing remained uneven, and his hands curled into fists on his head. She glanced at Eugene and realized she didn’t know how much of Sam’s personal history he had been programmed with. She widened her eyes at him in an unspoken plea for help. The ’ton, however, looked at her for a moment and then, as if having made a decision, nodded once and began unpacking Sam’s belongings.
She gaped. What on earth was she supposed to do with that? Realizing that she was well and truly Sam’s only companion, she shrugged aside her natural reserve and sank onto the floor next to his chair. She placed her hand on his knee, closing her eyes and genuinely feeling that her deepest wish was for him to be well.
“Sam?” she murmured again. “Please tell me what’s wron
g. There’s a library here. Perhaps I can research a solution for you, or I might have read something already that will help. You must talk to me, though. The one thing I cannot read is your mind.”
She paused, giving him time to speak if he chose to. His one concern over the last few days had been to help her, keep her safe. She wanted to help him, if she could.
“I am afraid,” she told him, hoping to prompt a reaction. Perhaps if he felt the need to rescue her, it would pull him from this strange panic pouring off him in waves. “This ship is strange, and my new uncle is strange, and I have no idea what we are walking into.”
He stirred, and she felt a mixture of triumph and guilt at having played on his vulnerability. He shuddered, rubbed his eyes, and finally lifted his head to look at her. His blue eyes were filled with discomfort and concern, and he placed his hand over hers, which still rested on his knee. “I am sorry, Hazel,” he said.
She felt wretched for manipulating him. “What is it?” she whispered. “Tell me what’s wrong. You’ve not been well since we saw this thing come out of the water.” She paused. “Are you uncomfortable in tight spaces? This craft is massive, perhaps thinking of that will help?”
He nodded and winced. “I’ve never done well in any sort of confinement, and especially since the war . . . I need to see the sky, the stars.” He flushed and rubbed his face with his free hand. “I sound like a child. I promise, I will manage it.”
She smiled softly. “Have you read Milton?”
He lifted the corner of his mouth. “‘The mind is its own place’?”
She nodded. “If only it were so simple, but there is something to it. I met a man not long ago at a dinner party who studies issues of the mind and behavior, observes patients in asylums and such. I was curious about his work, and he taught me an exercise. Close your eyes.”
He kept looking at her.
“You must humor me. Close your eyes.”
He obeyed.
“Now think of a happy memory, something in your life that happened, or perhaps a person who brought you great joy. Something that thrills you or prompts happiness or a sense of peace.”
The Lady in the Coppergate Tower Page 8