All those words, plus three separate dot-dash images, would take the dickens of a time to transmit, not including waiting for a clockwork hawk to fly into range. In any other city, she might send TD out the window to wait on the roof by himself. But the natural predators in New York skies, like that owl the other night, might find his temporary paintwork realistic enough to eat. Or try to. She would have to wait with him.
Accordingly, she left her room and went hunting for an access to the roof. None of the mansions she had seen near Central Park had an obvious mooring tower, and this one was not likely different in that regard. But its layout was nearly identical to the much larger mansion being built across the alley. The roof access was in the same place too, up a flight of narrow stairs from the third floor.
The rooftop door was locked.
Maddie glared at it. She gave the panel a hefty kick in case it was merely stuck in its frame from disuse. It was still locked. Thanking her stars for Hiram’s lock-picking lessons, she hurried down to her chamber, keeping a wary eye out lest she be summoned again to sooth Mrs. G-G’s fears about the guests. With a sturdy hatpin and the long, slender handle of her steel travelling comb, she ran back up and began to probe the lock.
It took longer than she expected, and she began to wish for some kind of penetrating oil to loosen the tumblers. But the strength of the steel triumphed. The handle turned easily. The frame, however, was not about to give up its years-long grip. She shoved, then kicked, and then, fearing the noise but seeing no other course, threw her shoulder against the door. It opened suddenly, hurtling her onto a rooftop shiny with drizzling rain. She huddled under the narrow eaves.
“Signal now,” she told TD. His bronze beak opened, sending his inaudible call out to the low, grey sky. She moved just inside the doorframe and waited. And waited.
By the time she got her message sent and came downstairs, her skirt was sopping from errant droplets blown into the doorway. Her hair wasn’t much better, the brown wedges curling up from damp, exposing the single, bronze under-strand she had left dye-free as a reminder of her heritage. Nobody in America would grasp the significance of a lock of Main-Bearing bronze, but she tucked it under as best she could.
Emmeline, accosting her in the wide second-floor hallway, was too preoccupied to notice it. “Where on earth have you been? Mother was beside herself. The investors are already here.” She lifted her hand from Maddie’s forearm. “You’re all wet.”
“I went up to the roof,” said Maddie truthfully, and then prevaricated. “To see if I could spot your father’s airship arriving. But you don’t even have a mooring tower. Nobody does.”
“I could have told you that.” Emmeline pulled her along by the hand. “Rich people here like to distance themselves from their business roots, and that seems to mean doing everything in as old-fashioned a way as possible. Including being driven along the crowded streets instead of floating along above the traffic and noise.”
“Did you get the investors’ names?”
“No. Anyway, they’re all in hot baths, didn’t even come into the parlour first. It appears they stood out on the open deck, getting drenched, to watch the city skyline approach. Hurry and get changed. If we’re not downstairs to help Mother through the pre-dinner greetings, she’s apt to take to her bed with nervous palpitations.”
Glad to have tucked TD safely away in a pocket—for how to reasonably explain carrying a hat ornament up to the roof she could not think—Maddie let herself be shoved into her chamber. The maid, Dora, helped her strip off the damp skirt and jacket, promising to take them away immediately to be dried. Maddie barely managed to distract the girl long enough for TD to scramble out of the pocket and flit to the white armoire. Then she slid into the waiting bath, washed quickly, and was at her dressing table combing out her hair when Dora returned.
“I hear there are visitors,” she said as the maid shook out the skirts of her well-worn green evening gown. “Do you know their names?”
“No, miss. Only that one’s a Southern gentleman, very handsome, and the footman said he stared at Miss Emmeline’s portrait like a starving dog looks at a roast. Wouldn’t it be romantic if they fell in love at the first sight of each other?”
Maddie privately thought romance was the last thing likely to interest Emmeline, but she could not press the maid about the Steamlords without arousing curiosity. She would know soon enough if she was facing anyone who might recognize the Marquis of Main-Bearing’s missing daughter in the mild-mannered social secretary. The bronze streak in her hair must be thoroughly hidden, however. She directed the girl through fixing her curls in a more formal style than usual.
The green evening gown was rather worn in places, and it was even more out-of-date this year, but it was still serviceable. What a pity she had not been able to return to London for that fitting promised by Lady Serephene. She might now be in possession of a lovely, crush-proof, crimson evening gown in the latest style. Ah, well, with the proceeds from her job with Emmeline, she could invest in an off-the-rack gown suitable for a professional woman in America.
A simple gold chain at her neck and a simple pearl bracelet around her wrist finished the toilette. Dismissing the maid to put the bathroom to rights, she checked her appearance in the dressing table mirror. She looked as well as an employee had any right to. It was time to face the Steamlords.
Chapter Twelve
STILL MADDIE HESITATED, staring at the bedchamber door and wishing she had thought to buy a pair of ocular lenses that would disguise her face somewhat. Why was she suddenly so concerned about being recognized? She had travelled the breadth of America and never once worried about that. The countess, that’s why. The speculative attention had set her nerves quite on edge. “Now, Maddie,” she told herself sternly, “You are simply a social secretary, whose interests are status, seating arrangements, and using the right fork.”
Dora came from the bathroom and hurried to open the door. “Sorry, miss. I didn’t know you was waiting.”
“What? Oh. I was woolgathering.” Forced out of her sanctuary, Maddie stepped out into the hallway. It was empty. She moved toward the stairs and heard a man’s booming laugh float up. The guests were already downstairs. Mrs. G-G would be even more at sea, and Emmeline would be furious.
Beside her, a door opened. A tall man in evening dress stepped out. Dark, soft curls gleamed in the light cast by the nearest wall sconce. Nobody she recognized. She smiled politely as he bowed.
“May ah escowaht you dayown, Miss?” His vowels seemed comprised of two or three syllables each, and Maddie needed a moment to decipher his words. The Southern gentleman was asking if he could escort her downstairs.
“Thank you,” she said. “I am Miss Hatter, and you are?”
“Ulysses Cray Coggington, of Geah-haven, Vu-ginia. Mighty pleased to make yoah acquaintance, Miss Hattah.” He offered his arm. Maddie took it. She need not, after all, walk into the parlour alone, to face whoever might yet recognize her there.
“You made one of Mr. Gatsby-Gauge’s party on the California trip?” she asked.
“I did indeed. A fine young country they have out there. Wide as the ocean. And mountains? Miss, I never did see such mighty peaks. Taller than a New York skyscraper. I would not have believed it possible.”
“They are a splendid sight,” she agreed. “And your fellow travellers, did they too find the scenery impressive?”
“That German fella, Herr Mittwoch-Uhrwerk, he would have it that the Alps were as high, and the Black Forest as dense, as any out West. I don’t see how that can be so. Even he admits his whole country would fit right inside one of those flat states.”
Mittwoch-Uhrwerk? Maddie ran the name hastily through the mental catalogue she had compiled since first learning a German Steamlord was among the guests. No match. Two down, one more to pass. And what were the odds, really? She looked up at her escort as he handed her gently down the first stair.
“Having seen both sets of mountains from an a
irship, I cannot agree with the German gentleman. And the other gentleman? What was his opinion?”
“He was—but here. He can tell you himself.” Mr. Coggington called down to a man mounting the lower sweep of the stairs. “My lord, we are discussing whether the Alps are equal in stature to the Rocky Mountains. What is your opinion?”
The man below glanced up, his thick curls gleaming bronze under the hall chandelier’s brilliance. His greying brows almost concealed incisive brown eyes that, Maddie knew all too well, would glitter with bronze flecks if seen up close. This was one British Steamlord who would recognize her behind any spectacles, and under any shade and style of hair.
He wasn’t looking at her, though. A slip of paper in his hand claimed his attention even while he replied to Coggington, “I believe the Royal Geographical Society has proclaimed the Rocky Mountains the superior in elevation.” Then he proceeded on his way up the stairs, passing them with a slight inclination of the head.
He hadn’t recognized her! In spite of hard-learned self-control, Maddie shivered.
Instantly Mr. Coggington reacted. “You are chilled from standing about this draughty stair, Miss Hatter. Come downstairs immediately. I’m sure there will be a fire to warm you.”
They had not gone three steps before a voice came from behind them. “If I might have your assistance for a moment, Miss—Hatter?”
“M-me, sir?” Maddie squeaked. Clearing her throat, she turned to Mr. Coggington. “Thank you for your escort, sir. But I must attend to your fellow guest. The footman in the hall will direct you to the parlour.” He bowed and was gone with one backward glance, bright-eyed with curiosity.
Maddie turned and mounted the stairs, each footfall heavy with dread. Ahead of her, the British Steamlord stalked along the corridor. At the farthest end he swept around to face her. She pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. She was a self-reliant woman, not dependent on any man, and she had as much right to be in this house as he did.
“Hello, Father,” she said. “Did you have a pleasant voyage?”
Chapter Thirteen
IF LORD MAIN-Bearing had missed his errant daughter, there was not an iota of softness in his manner to reveal it. “I neither know nor care what game you are playing,” he said, in a rumble like cannon-fire echoing over a castle moat. “You will leave this house immediately. My air yacht will take you to whatever city you choose. Except, of course, in England.”
Maddie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Tonight.” His shadow loomed over her. “I will not have you throwing spanners into my business dealings.”
“And what about my business dealings?”
It was his turn to blink. “You have business here? Are you writing a society story on the Gatsby-Gauges?”
“No, I’m not.” Maddie bit her lip. She didn’t know much about how Father conducted his affairs. Could she be certain he would not stoop to using someone’s child for advantage? Until she was sure, telling him her true purpose here was out of the question. “I have been hired to instruct the daughter of the house in matters of European and British etiquette, in preparation for her tour abroad next year.”
“You’re a governess now?” He stared at her, plainly baffled. “Is working as a servant truly better than coming home to your family?”
“Social secretary,” Maddie corrected. “I will not renege on my obligation to my employer merely because you have arrived.”
“Then your presence has nothing to do with mine?”
“I didn’t know you were one of the visiting Steamlords until you came up the stairs just now.”
He frowned. “I still can’t have you here. If our connection ever came out, you would be perceived as my spy, planted with this family to gain me advantage. Do you have the slightest idea of the resulting damage to my reputation, and to the whole of Main-Bearing Steam-Works?”
His spy? When she had not spoken to him in a year? The idea was ludicrous. Maddie opened her mouth to say so, and then thought how it would be if the Gauge family learned their new secretary was using a false name. Emmeline would feel betrayed, Mrs. G-G horrified at having made demands on a Steamlord’s daughter. She had not even met Mr. G-G yet; he’d have no reason to believe in innocent coincidence. The revelation might bring down the whole negotiation. No, there must be no suspicion of kinship. She took a deep breath, schooling her voice to a tone of calm and reason.
“I have been known as Miss Hatter for nearly three years now. I have references and friends to vouch for me. Nobody will connect me with you at all, if you will merely address me as Miss Hatter when necessary, and otherwise ignore my existence as you would any secretary.”
“You presume to tell me what I will do? I order you to leave here.”
“No,” said Maddie, clinging to her calm voice although her insides quivered like airship canvas in a gale. “You cannot compel me. If you name me as your daughter, you will destroy both our purposes here. I suggest you go about your business and leave me to mine.”
“By the Great Cog, child!” Lord Main-Bearing stared at her, the muscles of his left cheek pulsing. After a moment he gave an exasperated huff. “You have me against the forge. If this goes awry, we will both regret it extremely. Do not force me to take steps.”
Watching him stride off along the hall, Maddie shivered violently. She had said a flat “no” to her father. To her great surprise, he had not instantly sent for his men to haul her off to that convent in the wild Scottish isles. He had not even threatened to withdraw her allowance. Although either punishment might occur to him later, for now she had won. There was no time to reflect on the unexpected victory, however. She must compose herself, enter the parlour, and make amends to Mrs. G-G for her tardiness.
Chapter Fourteen
WHEN MADDIE RETURNED to her bedchamber after supper, TD was tapping urgently on the window. A red-tailed hawk swooped away as she approached. She said to TD, “Speak.” The little sparrow looked up at her and whistled the first few bars of the chorus from Oberon O’Reilly’s favourite song, “Her Majesty’s Airship Corps.” Then came Obie’s lightly Irish tones.
“Madkin, urgent warning. Your Da’s on this charter airship I just brought in to New York City. He’ll be staying with a big cog of industry, name of Gatsby-Gauge. There’s a wife, and a daughter about the age for dancing and dueling. If you run across them, your Da won’t be far away. I’ll be back at the boarding house tonight, after we’ve cleared this ship. Hoping to find you there, my girl, and not off on some mad start.” He signed off, and then a second message followed, also from him.
“Mad you are, my girl. How did you get yourself into the very house where your Da was about to land? And what’s this job you’re on? Can you get yourself down here to fill me in tomorrow? Or can I come up to you?”
“Thank you, Obie, for being just too late with your warning.” Maddie wasn’t aware of speaking aloud but TD chirped inquiringly. “No,” she told him, “That’s not a reply. And you’ve nothing yet from Madame?” The bird whistled a negative and turned to stare out the window. Maddie sat at the dressing table to unpin her hair. The bronze lock tumbled out from the coil. If anyone else had seen that, only an arm’s reach from Lord Main-Bearing’s identical curls, questions might have been asked.
She had survived the pre-supper ordeal by asking each of the two visitors’ secretaries if there was some way in which their Steamlord could be made more comfortable during their stay. The German secretary, Herr Gehirn, gave a ponderous reply that took ten minutes and boiled down to “Herr Mittwoch-Uhrwerk prefers beer to wine.” Her father’s man, a ginger-haired fellow fortunately new to his service, was named Pennwiper. He offered the suggestion that the fire in Lord Main-Bearing’s room be banked early in the evening, as His Lordship was not accustomed to sleeping in a warm room. Knowing well the coolness prevalent in the underground chambers of her family home, Maddie assured him nothing could be more easily arranged. Resisting the urge to ask about her mother, her young
brothers, the main factory foreman, and all the other people she had known since birth, she went off to acquaint Woodrow with the secretaries’ requests. The butler regarded her with surprise, and then with approval, and said he would see to it personally. Thus she had avoided any general conversation, and the chance of meeting Father’s disapproving eye.
Now she leaned on one hand, gazing at her reflection and wondering where she had found the steel to bluntly refuse Father’s order. She had never said “no” directly to him. When, long ago, she had approached him with her objection to the marriage being arranged for her, he had said, “That is your mother’s province. Speak to her,” and Maddie had not persisted. She had not said, “No. Mother does not listen. I am speaking to you. I will not marry that gentleman.” She had run away instead, in desperation.
In her travels since that fateful day, she’d observed how men spoke to each other in the air crew and in the newspaper trade. They directly and firmly made their point. No hinting obliquely as her mother and aunts tended to do, as she used to do. She had learned to make her way, first among the airship crews and then as a reporter, by speaking plainly and saying right out what she wanted or intended. Today, she had made her point directly and firmly to the Third British Steamlord. He had, for a wonder, refrained from browbeating and threats. That had not been the case on their last confrontation, when the allowance bargain was struck. That day, she had been backed up by Madame Taxus-Hemlock, a distant relation of Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria. Father had been furious with Madame for helping his errant daughter evade him but, forced to use respectful language in her presence, he had been clear on the consequences if Maddie violated their new agreement. Since that day, she had believed Father would have her summarily carried off to that isolated convent if she disobeyed. Now she had bluntly refused to obey, and he had not retaliated. Yet.
Maddie Hatter and the Gilded Guage Page 7