She nodded.
“You’d be helping your country, Lena, not just me.” His dimple flashed with his smile. “Margaret is right—Beasley is odd. But she doesn’t know the half of it. Beasley is up to something wicked.” He paused and searched her eyes, still firmly clasping her hand in his. “When I have the information our country needs, you’ll be free to go.”
The sun had finally bested the last of the fog. All around her, the sea called in its innumerable voices. She was standing on the edge of the world as she knew it with a man who confused her, one she didn’t know if she could trust. What if he was right? Perhaps Beasley was wicked. She could help, make up for some of the trouble her father had caused and get a reliable guide into Scree in the bargain. That would please the marshal. She looked into his pleading eyes. Her answer seemed as inevitable as the tide.
THREE MILES OUTSIDE OF TOWN, NORTH ALONG THE COAST ROAD.
The directions had been short and simple when the marshal had given them to Lena the previous day.
“You’ll see the house clinging to the cliffs. There’s a long track leading to it, bordered by a row of poplars. I’ll have a coach drop you near the track. It’s best if he thinks you came on your own.”
“But what pretense do I have for showing up uninvited?” Lena had worried her lower lip between her teeth as she and the marshal had stood out on the pier.
“You’re your father’s daughter. I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Thomas Saltre had laughed, and only when they had turned and started back to town had he dropped her hand.
Lena had another dilemma as well, not one she chose to share with the marshal. (Even now that she knew his full name, she could not think of him as anything other than “the marshal.”) Her problem was that she would soon have nowhere to stay. Her room at Miss Brett’s would be taken over shortly by a dowager from the southland. And Lena’s limited resources would not permit a stay at the one hotel in Knoster. She was in a pickle, as her mother used to say.
For some inexplicable reason, she had not mentioned Jimson Quiggley to the marshal. It would be natural for her to pay a call on her companion from the train, especially since he had so kindly offered her assistance, should she need it.
So the next morning she dressed carefully, braiding her long black hair and pinning the braids across the crown of her head. Her other traveling suit was still fresh—a fitted jacket with a skirt of dark blue to match her eyes. It had been made by Nana Crane. The skirt was just long enough to be fashionable but short enough not to get caught in the doors of a coach or train. She selected her one pair of kid gloves, saved for the most special of occasions, whose leather was soft and buttery against her skin. Then, with mixed feelings, Lena set out for Mr. Beasley’s house.
The coast road north beyond Knoster was a seldom-used route. Most people heading to Scree preferred the newer and more direct inland road. Even the train turned inland at Knoster, chugging its way to the northern border crossing one day each week with its burden of convicts, suspected Peculiars, and opportunists. The coast road embraced the rocky shoulders of cliffs that dropped to pocket beaches. A few farms dotted the outskirts of Knoster, where mainly pumpkin and lettuce were grown, and Lena saw globes of orange in fields of green that tumbled toward the sea. This new world was a riot of color so different from the muted gray of her city. Lena absorbed it all as she leaned forward, peering from the confines of a Concord coach. She had been deeply disappointed to be seated inside the coach rather than riding with the driver on his bench outside. She had read Mark Twain’s account of his overland journey in Roughing It—“a-top of the flying coach, dangled our legs over the side and leveled an outlook over the worldwide carpet about us for things new and strange to gaze at. It thrills me to think of the life and the wild sense of freedom on those fine overland mornings”—and had been fully prepared to experience the same thing herself, but it was not to be. The marshal had tucked her securely inside the coach and said that she would hear from him soon. She didn’t bother to ask where or how. She was happy to escape his robust mustache and prying eyes.
Even though she was inside the coach, she couldn’t help but feel some of Twain’s “wild sense of freedom” as she rode into a new adventure. But the ride ended quickly, at an imposing row of poplars that bordered a gravel track that led toward the cliff’s edge and the sea below. A few hundred yards down the track was Beasley’s house, and Lena was glad to stretch her legs. She had seen glimpses of the building as they approached—cupolas and towers, sharp roof angles, and the wrought-iron railing of a widow’s walk. But she was not prepared for Mr. Beasley’s house in its entirety.
It clung like a limpet to the edge of the cliff and was tall and gray-shingled with white railings and trim. The architecture had followed no particular style—a cornice here, a bay there, a swooping roofline that looked as if it might take flight. There was an old-fashioned garden that had run amok on the south side of the house and also a small apple orchard, beyond which Lena could see a weathered railing to a staircase that dropped over the edge of the cliff. On a point of the roof, a copper horse, tinted green by the sea air, danced crazily in the wind. Several other brass fixtures that Lena didn’t recognize spun furiously.
She lifted the brass knocker and mentally rehearsed what she would say. But the woman who opened the door never gave her a chance.
“All vendors use the back door.” She was tall and angular and stood with her hands on her jutting hip bones. She glared at Lena.
“I’m not selling anything. I’m here to see Mr. Beasley and Jimson Quiggley.”
The woman looked her up and down. “You’re not here about the bicycles? Or the hair tonic?” She peered around Lena as if she was expecting to see someone with her on the step. “All by yourself, then? What’s your business?” She thrust her neck forward, like a chicken, Lena thought. Next thing she’d be strutting and clucking.
“I’m a friend of Mr. Quiggley, and I have a business question for Mr. Beasley.”
“I’m not sure I should bother the gentlemen if you can’t tell me more—”
“Tell you more what?”
Lena recognized the voice immediately. Jimson’s head appeared behind the housekeeper’s taut gray bun, and his eyes grew wide with surprise or pleasure as he gazed over her shoulder. “Mrs. Pollet, this is my dear friend Miss Lena Mattacascar. I think we should invite her in, don’t you?” His eyes twinkled in the way Lena remembered from the train.
Mrs. Pollet sniffed, but her expression softened when she looked at Jimson. “She could have said so in the first place.” She backed away from the door just enough to give Lena room to slip inside. As she scooted past, Lena realized that the housekeeper was half a head taller than Jimson.
Jimson was around Mrs. Pollet in a flash, taking Lena’s hand in his and pumping it up and down. “How have you been? Are you still staying with your cousin? Did they ever find your purse?”
Lena could hardly answer one question before he was on to another. She found herself smiling at Jimson’s lively face. The entryway itself confused Lena even more. It was like no foyer she had ever seen. The ceiling was two stories above her and painted to look like the night sky, except where a window in the painted sky let in a patch of real blue with clouds scudding by. The wall in front of her featured brass instruments, some with dials. There was a barometer, a compass, a thermometer, and others she couldn’t identify.
Jimson was still talking. “You have to see the library and meet Mr. Beasley.”
Lena dove into the rushing stream of words. “What did she mean about bicycles and hair tonic?”
“Oh, Mr. Beasley ordered a bicycle from Mr. A. A. Pope and Company. It was supposed to be here last week. Hair tonic . . .” His forehead dissolved in wrinkles as he thought. Lena had forgotten how open Jimson’s face was. It held none of the marshal’s secretive intensity. “I’m not sure about that one. But you have to come see what we have here.”
He’s only been here a couple of d
ays, and he’s already talking as though he owns the place, Lena thought enviously.
“Come with me. Mr. Beasley’s a great inventor, a man ahead of his time. But first tell me everything you’ve been doing.”
Lena was surprised how comforting it was to be with someone familiar, someone who made her feel safe. This time Jimson really did pause to listen, asking her just a few astute questions about her days in Knoster. Lena left out all mention of the marshal except to say she had met with him once and that he had failed to find her purse. She even confessed that she was now staying at Miss Brett’s rather than with her cousin.
As they talked, Jimson led her through a series of hallways toward the library.
“How have you gotten on with your library work?” She hoped he’d managed to satisfy Mr. Beasley.
“Perfect. His library is the most amazing place, nothing like any library you’ve ever seen. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have all the regular librarian training, because everything here is so different. Being a quick learner is more important than knowing all the answers.” He winked at Lena and then stopped abruptly and changed direction. He led her down a short hall to a door that opened out onto a patio overlooking the cliff. In the middle of the patio there was something that appeared to be a large cauldron with a mirror. It was enclosed in glass.
“What is it?” Lena edged closer to the device, but her real interest was in looking over the rail to the rocks and sea below.
“Mr. Beasley’s converting solar power into steam energy. The sun reflects off the mirrors and makes the water boil.”
“You can do that on a stove,” Lena remarked.
“This is on a much larger scale, and it doesn’t take wood, coal, or oil to power it. Mr. Beasley predicts coal will run out eventually, and then where will we be? Industry requires steam. This”—he gestured toward the cauldron—“can produce enough steam to power an engine. It could power an electricity generator, or perhaps a smaller one could power a motor vehicle.”
He looked as pleased as if he had invented it himself, Lena observed. “What happens when the sun isn’t shining?”
“Even on a cloudy day you get some energy. Ultraviolet makes it through the clouds; it just isn’t as efficient. You’re right, though. It works best in a climate with lots of sunny days. Mr. Beasley’s always experimenting. He’s even working on a flying machine. He’s a true man of science.”
Jimson led Lena on to the library, chuckling when he heard her sharp intake of breath. The doors, with their massive metal mechanisms of revolving gears and rods, were unlike any Lena had ever seen. “Why, they’re like machines or sculpture!”
“The inner sanctum . . . the holy of holies. Welcome to the library.” Jimson gave a short bow.
As unconventional as the doors was the library itself. It was far more than a collection of books. It was more like a cabinet of curiosities, a museum of the strangest sort. Rich leather-bound volumes lined walls on shelves that reached twenty feet to the ceiling. Prized artifacts filled display cases. Unlike the dim, marble-floored building where her mother worked, this library was filled with filtered light from long windows. On top of a glass case a collection of small volumes glowed red, blue, and green.
“They’re real jewels,” Jimson informed her, “rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Mr. Beasley says they were made by Mr. Sangorski and Mr. Sutcliffe. And this book is the oldest book of medical illustrations ever written.”
A narrow gallery halfway up the wall supported a rolling ladder to reach the higher books. Any unused wall was covered with maps—mostly of continents Lena had explored only in her imagination. Many were marked with little flags that Jimson said showed places Mr. Beasley had visited as a medical doctor and as an explorer. And then there were the display cases. The room was filled with variously sized oak-and-glass cases, each carefully labeled with a brass plate. Lena stepped close to the nearest one. Inside on a purple velvet background was a spear with a long blade on one end. Attached to the shaft just below the blade was what looked like all the hair from a horse’s tail. Lena read the brass plate: THE SOUL OF GENGHIS KHAN. She looked up at Jimson.
“It’s a sulde from Mongolia. A warrior ties the hair from the tails of his best horses on his spear and keeps it outside his tent. It’s kind of like his name card, but Mr. Beasley says they believe it’s even more than that. It’s his identity, and when he dies it becomes his soul. This one belonged to Genghis Khan, one of the smartest men who ever lived, Mr. Beasley says.”
Lena was reminded of the missionary ladies at Miss Brett’s, proclaiming that Peculiars had no soul. “But it’s not really a soul.”
“Well, our vicar in Northerdam would agree with you. Besides, science hasn’t proved we even have souls.”
“But it hasn’t proved that we don’t.” Again Lena felt hollow inside and she wondered if it was because she was different from everyone else.
“Mr. Beasley collects all kinds of wonders from his travels. In this case”—Jimson led her by the arm to a very small glass case on the top of a low bookshelf—“we have a pipe made from the femur of a Chinese pirate.” Lena recoiled, but he held her arm more tightly. “It isn’t so bad. Take a look.”
She peered into the case. A long and delicate pipe lay on a bed of satin. It was carved with strange vines and yellowed at the mouthpiece. “How does he know it was from a Chinese pirate?”
“Because he got it from a Malaysian pirate who had lost an ear in the battle.”
A sudden whizzing noise flew by her ear. Lena jumped. For the first time she noticed a series of glass tubes suspended overhead crisscrossing the library.
“They’re pneumatic. It’s the way Mr. Beasley sends requests from his study.” Jimson walked to a large desk and opened the end of the tube and removed a copper cylinder from which he extracted a folded sheet of paper. “He wants his copy of Swinburne’s Poems and Ballads. He’s a great fan of poetry.”
Lena watched openmouthed as Jimson rolled the ladder to an upper shelf, climbed up, and returned with a book in hand.
“I don’t know Dewey’s decimal system yet, but I’m working at it. I know most modern libraries are using it now. Come on. It’s time I introduced you to Mr. Beasley.”
MR. BEASLEY’S STUDY WAS SEVERAL DOORS DOWN FROM THE library, on the side of the house that faced the sea. Jimson rapped on the dark paneled door and waited until a deep voice asked him to enter.
One wall of the study was mostly windows, with a view of the sea stretching into eternity. The rest of the room was dark-paneled and dim, and from the depths of that dimness a man arose.
“Here’s your book, Mr. Beasley. I have a friend visiting—the girl from the train, Lena Mattacascar.”
Had he been talking about her? Lena suddenly felt flustered. She looked up into the face of a very tall, mostly hairless man. She tried hard not to stare, but it seemed impossible. Above his gray eyes two brown arching lines had been neatly drawn where eyebrows should be. The rest of his face was smooth—there was no stubble of beard. And the top of his head was crossed lightly with only a few strands of pale hair.
“I’m delighted to meet you. Tobias Beasley at your service.” He extended both of his large hands and enclosed her right hand. When the fingertips of her pale butterscotch glove extended well beyond his, his eyes lit with interest. But he said nothing other than “Welcome to Zephyr House.”
She remembered the marshal’s words—He’s up to something in that strange house of his, and you’re going to help me find out what it is—and shivered. “Thank you. Jimson has already shown me the library. It’s amazing.”
“It is wonderful, isn’t it? But you must be tired after the drive out here, and I suspect Jimson didn’t think to offer you any refreshment. I’ll ring for Mrs. Pollet. We’ll have tea.”
He ushered them over to chairs by the large mullioned windows, and Lena found herself looking out over the endless blue sky and the sea. The way they merged into one gave her a strange feeling in the p
it of her stomach.
“Jimson told me that your mother is a librarian. Does she use this new Dewey decimal system? I’m having Jimson recatalogue all my books using it.”
“That’s not how the books are arranged now, but the librarians have been talking about it. I remember my mother coming home and complaining about the new system.”
Mrs. Pollet strutted into the room with a tea tray loaded down with sandwiches and cups and a steaming red teapot. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked at Lena skeptically, as if she blamed the girl for this disruption to her household routine. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Beasley?”
“No, Leticia, this is more than enough. But would you ask your husband to check the water levels of the Aeolipile?”
She nodded and hurried off.
“Jimson also showed me how you are converting water to steam using solar power. Is that the Aeolipile?” Lena asked.
“No, the Aeolipile is something else altogether. It’s sometimes referred to as a ‘Hero engine.’ It’s a demonstration of how steam can power a device. It’s a two-thousand-year-old invention and not very practical. But I’m hoping to modify it. The house is full of experiments.” Mr. Beasley leaned forward to pour them each a cup of tea. “Coal won’t be around forever. We’ll use it up eventually, just as we will oil. But steam—that’s the true wave of the future. What we need are more ways to generate steam power that don’t depend on resources that will disappear.”
“But aren’t there coal mines all over Scree?” Lena tried to direct the conversation toward the land to the north.
“Yes, right now Scree is full of coal. But it won’t be forever; it can’t be. So while we’re busy exploiting the land, someone needs to be researching the next step. That’s the problem with engineers. They can be shortsighted.”
“Mr. Beasley has all kinds of inventions. I only showed you one.” Jimson lifted the top off a sandwich to inspect the filling inside. Chicken salad seemed to please him, because he took a hearty bite.
The Peculiars Page 6