by M J Moores
“Well, I—what I mean ta say is … I could use some help, I suppose,” he mumbled, but she heard.
Louisa turned back around and stood before the man, her fists anchored to her hips. “Listen carefully, now. Do you know the cobbler on Wessex Street—by the toy shop and the butcher?
“Aye.”
“Go ‘round to the alley door at six o’clock sharp. Mr. Shoer sets the day’s trash out before heading home.”
“I ain’t gonna wear no trash.”
“I never said you were. Now, listen. You stand four paces back from the door, hat in hands. When he sees you he’ll say, ‘Good evening for a walk.’ You nod and reply, ‘Aye, ‘t would be if my feet weren’t so sore.’ You got that?”
He nodded.
“Repeat it.”
He did.
“Then, he’ll prop the door open and you’ll follow him inside. He’ll measure your feet and find you a pair of returned shoes or boots he cannot re-sell—usually it’s a small defect the customer found.”
“Ya don’t seem ta understand. I have no money. Nothin’ I kin pay with.”
She pointed to his hands. “You are a laborer, yes? You know your way around tools?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Shoer will set a hard night, but you’ll work off the cost in trade. By dawn you’ll have earned your boots. Now, if you see someone waiting at the back door ahead of you, you’ll have to return another night. Those are the rules. If you steal from him or harm him in any way, his door will be shut forever. If you share this information with anyone, be bloody well certain you can trust them.”
“An’ why are ya trustin’ me?”
“Like I said, you’re not a thief. You’ve been driven to do something out of character. I’ve no doubt you have a family at home, and without a new pair of boots, you’ll be hard-pressed to keep up appearances at your job.”
“How in the—ya got all that from one lousy fight?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Nah, ya ain’t wrong. Mr. Shoer, the cobbler on Wessex Street.”
“That’s right.”
“One night’s work.”
“Guaranteed.”
“What if he asks who sent me?”
“He won’t.” Louisa gave a short bow, turned, and disappeared into the night. She squared her shoulders and headed for Morrie’s place, pulling his blatant disregard for their deal back to the front of her mind.
A woman’s cry pierced the night. Louisa gave over to the call and never made it to her destination.
False Start
T he Steamie maneuvered through the growing crowd amassing at Battersea Park for the race. The driver hollered for the pedestrians to move off the road as he stood half-in-half-out of the cab, waving his arm.
“I haven’t seen this many people at the park since the Queen’s 45th birthday celebration,” Bennett said, craning his neck out the window as they bumped along and through the gates.
“I thought they held a race every year,” Louisa asked.
“They do, but usually at the more northern Victoria Park Sky Port in Globe Town.”
“I don’t understand. Why the shift? Why the park and not the airfield or the main port?”
“Well, since it’s the first time in five years a new engine has debuted, and there are two here today, the sheer number of spectators would halt the daily runs from the Sky Port and overwhelm the smaller airfields.”
“We also have our test scheduled for tomorrow,” she reasoned.
“How could I forget? But I doubt our little experiment had anything to do with it. They’ve been planning to use the park for over a year—since Collingworth and Gunnings announced they’d be competing with new models. The park is more conducive to this kind of fanfare.”
The Steamie jerked to a stop. Louisa and Bennett jolted forward and back against the padded bench.
“This is as far as I can go,” the driver called.
Bennett practically vaulted from the vehicle, eyes alight with anticipation. Louisa eased her door open with a groan of hinges and held a hand to her eyes to guard them against the mid-afternoon glare.
“Come on, Lou!” Bennett called, waving her over as he slid his round, tinted glasses in front of his eyes. She shut the door, waved the all-clear to the driver, and stepped around the vehicle to join Bennett. Louisa pulled her new sun-goggles from her vest pocket and fit the band over the network of fine braids confining her unruly locks, pinned like a cushion to the back of her head.
Laughter and loud chatter floated in the cool breeze as prams and masses of picnickers dotted the grass in bright summer colors. Spicy street meats wafted in the air and merchant calls punctuated the carnival-like atmosphere. Louisa’s heart swelled, and she smiled openly. Bennett waved her over to a group of gentlemen, two of whom she recognized from the fundraiser three weeks ago.
“I’d like to introduce you to my assistant, Miss. Louisa Wicker. You’d better watch out, boys—she’s a fast learner,” Bennett joked.
They chuckled amiably and shook her hand in turn. Bennett went so far as to share their names with her, too.
“This is Mr. Arnold Digsby, Minister for Agriculture”—a lump formed in Louisa’s throat—“and owner of Digsby’s Tractors, the largest farming equipment manufacturer this side of the channel.”
His hand engulfed hers. Louisa’s firm grip faltered.
“And this is Mr. Nathan Green, head gardener at the Royal Botanical Gardens and something of a savant when it comes to floral engineering.”
Mr. Green laughed. “It’s called being a botanist. Environmental engineering has always been a passion of mine, but other than designing economical ways of helping my plants grow, I’m afraid the only engineering I do is with flowers and shrubs.”
Louisa slipped her hand from his grip as soon as it was polite for fear a sudden clamminess would betray her as the imposter she was.
What is Bennett doing? I might be smart, but I haven’t the schooling to back it. These men belong to the Society of Engineers. Louisa paled. Luckily, Bennett and the others didn’t notice.
“I heard a rumor about your second dispersal test tomorrow. Is it true?” Mr. Digsby inclined his head to punctuate the question.
Bennett grinned, a wild glee lighting up his features. “It is.”
“How on earth did you manage to get Rathburn to fly for you?” Mr. Green asked, leaning in.
Bennett chuckled. “I asked my brother, Gordon—the one just above me—if he knew of a pilot I could trust.”
“How does he know Rathburn?” Digsby leaned forward too. Louisa followed suit, not wanting to seem out of place, but also genuinely interested.
“Before he hit the racing circuit full time, he was a test pilot for the RAF.”
“The RAF? The Queen only just started that project,” Mr. Green said.
“Officially, she launched it on her 45th birthday—when the races proved how maneuverable the Minis could be. Rathburn was in the program for the first year and then branched out. Anyway, Gord got in at the same time. The two of them used to sup together and trade stories. Rathburn lived vicariously through my brother’s exploits and vice versa. They’re still in touch, and Gord knew Rathburn would be in town this week for the races.”
A deep, all-too-familiar baritone slipped into the conversation. “Pardon me, gentlemen.”
Louisa’s arm hair stood on end. Her body tensed, and she swallowed a curse.
Morrison Tweed joined the circle, just to Louisa’s right, between her and Master Bennett.
“Ah, my apologies, Miss.” He glanced down, taking in Louisa’s feminine form filling out the vest and trousers. Heat flashed across her features. She’d dressed in her assistant’s attire today, not wanting to make the same mistake twice. But to be mistaken for a man simply because she didn’t wear a dress? The hellish warmth rose higher on her cheeks, and her eyes flashed. Had the sun-goggles not hidden her look, she might have caused a scene. Louisa bit her tongue and stood straig
ht, the sleeve of her shoulder brushing against the arm of the reporter’s Norfolk jacket.
“Mr. Tweed, what a fortuitous surprise.” Bennett turned and shook hands with the traitor. Louisa went rigid, her lungs clasped in a vice as she forced herself not scream or rail and break her cover … or his face.
“You’ve met Arnold and Nathan, I’m sure,” Bennett said.
Morrie shook their hands.
“And this is my assistant, Miss. Wicker.”
Louisa’s brain jumped from distaste at having to touch Morrie, to wonder at Bennett’s decision to stick to a more traditional introduction with the reporter, back to anger at being mistaken for a man. A man!
Morrie took her hand and let go again before she could even decide how firm to grip it—hard, to imply her displeasure; soft, to emphasize her femininity. Her stomach roiled as the volley of emotions jostled and tossed her sense right out of her head.
“I wanted to thank you for the personal invitation to tomorrow’s dispersal test. I’m most impressed with your results so far, and I look forward to another dynamic demonstration.” Morrie looked ready to depart when his bearing changed. He stood tall, on alert, gaze focused past Bennett and Digsby.
A young woman, holding her skirts, rushed toward the group. Her pale skin flushed red. Bennett turned as she gripped his arm, surprise altering his jovial expression.
“Andrew,” she gasped and fought, gulping air to sate her need, as she struggled to maintain her ladylike air. Louisa would have just taken a damn breath. Instead, the woman seemed more concerned with appearances than whatever reason made her rush over there in the first place. But her voice, and those large, heavily lashed, dark eyes triggered a memory—I know her.
“Miss. Rathburn, whatever is the matter?” Bennett asked, taking both her hands in his.
She inhaled as deep a breath as her cinched bosom would allow. “It’s Reggie. Something wrong. I need to find a medic or constable—someone in charge.”
Bennett’s fierce gaze snapped to Mr. Digsby.
“On it. I know where the emergency tent is.” Digsby nodded to Bennett and Miss. Rathburn, then took off.
Bennett met Mr. Green’s eyes.
“The constabulary. Right.” And Nathan Green was gone.
Bennett looked to Morrie and inclined his head for the reporter to follow. Morrie nodded back. Louisa didn’t know what kind of man-code they were working on, but she knew when a corset had been pulled too tight. She slipped Miss. Rathburn’s arm around her shoulders and followed after Bennett and Tweed as they shot across the park and over to the small village of tents at the base of the impromptu launch platforms.
How did they know where to go? Not once did anyone say—and then she spotted Rathburn’s Mini-Blimp and racing stripes. Each participant’s colors were as unique as a family crest, and the tent anchoring it was a perfect match.
Miss. Rathburn pulled away from Louisa and stumbled into the expansive tent ahead of everyone. Morrie made to follow, but Bennett thrust his chin toward the flap. Tweed blinked, checked himself, then nodded and stood guard as curious onlookers gravitated toward the commotion. Morrie’s chest swelled to twice its usual size and his muscles pulled taut against the thin fabric of his coat. He affected the ready stance Joe had taught her. Morrison Tweed was no longer a reporter—he’d become the man, the soldier, she’d glimpsed that first night. The one who knew how to care for cuts and to wrap bruised ribs. Louisa shook free of the memory of a man she thought she could trust and ducked through the flap.
Rathburn lay on the floor convulsing, and his sister kneeled beside him. Bennett paced. Louisa took in the half-eaten meal on the simple travel table; a wooden folding stool lay on its side. Nothing else in the room appeared out of place.
A tingle at the base of her neck where it met her spine warned Louisa of a familiarity. Her stomach dropped. She side-stepped over to the table as Bennett kneeled across from Miss. Rathburn, both looking on helplessly as the pilot writhed.
Louisa grabbed Rathburn’s wine glass, sniffed it, and splashed its contents over the meal.
She watched.
Reggie groaned.
She waited.
He panted.
Then she saw the telltale rim of light blue ring on one edge of his mashed potatoes.
Louisa gasped.
Digsby burst into the tent. “He’s gone! The medic. An accident between two Steamies up the street. They needed medical attention. What do we do?” He dropped onto the double-wide cot to catch his breath.
“Blind monkeys,” Louisa cursed under her breath as the image of her younger self superimposed over her eyes when she’d asked her mother, “What do we do?”
Marie Pierce had removed any trace of her presence, grabbed her daughter’s hand, and led her from the flat into the night on the back of an old, converted carriage—the driver none the wiser of the circumstances.
“Oh, Reggie!” Elenore Rathburn’s cry snapped Louisa back into the moment. She swooped over, scooped the girl up under her arms and spun her ‘round toward the door, a pair of grateful male glances striking her before meeting Louisa’s back.
Out they went and around the far side of the tent when Louisa looked over her shoulder. “Morrie!” Phoenix’s bark left her lips on instinct. “Get in there. They need your help.” She disappeared before he could identify who in the crowd belonged to the command. Louisa held the blubbering girl by the shoulders and gave her a shake.
“Miss. Miss. Rathburn. Miss.—Elenore! Look at me.”
The girl startled but stopped shaking and met Louisa’s gaze.
“Your brother’s been poisoned. Don’t.” She raised a finger in warning as the girl’s mouth dropped, ready to wail. “It won’t kill him. He’ll be fine in a few days.”
“H—how do you know?”
Louisa sighed. “I’ve seen this before. It’s a particular combination of herbs called Heartache. It presents like a heart attack but makes the person cramp up, feel ill, wish they were dead, and become eternally grateful to the one who sees them through it.” Wives who had cause to be concerned would hire her mother for such jobs. Marie didn’t take them often, because it decreased her regular clientele, but the fee usually more than made up for it. Her mother excelled at disguising herself; and when she couldn’t, they left town in a hurry.
“I—I don’t understand. Reggie isn’t seeing anyone.”
“It’s not about a jilted lover …” No, but maybe a self-righteous and controlling Judge … Louisa scanned the area for Bug and Scythe.
“What? What are you looking for?”
Whoever had spiked Rathburn’s wine would need to stick around to make sure he was out of commission.
“Your brother’s flying Collingworth’s new engine in the race, right?”
“He was supposed to. But not if he’s been poisoned.”
“This is the third time someone has tampered with Collingworth’s plans and Master Bennett’s.”
Louisa gripped Elenore’s hands in case the girl swooned, but she needed to steady herself instead when she recognized a tall man wearing a mauve satin vest and matching frock coat. She averted her eyes but watched him from under lowered lids as he observed the crowd draw closer and closer to Rathburn’s tent. The last time she’d seen that man, he’d reamed out Scythe and Bug at the airfield. Had he taken care of the situation himself this time?
An air horn blasted. Louisa and Elenore jumped. Elenore tightened her grip on Louisa’s hands.
“That’s the call to deck,” Miss. Rathburn said.
“What does that mean?” Louisa asked, her heart still pounding from the scare.
“The race will begin in thirty minutes. All pilots must board their vessels for final inspection.”
This can’t be happening. Louisa looked down between them, trying to clear her mind and make sense of everything. As she stared at Elenore’s skirts, a series of skillfully disguised buttons cascaded in a line down the front half. She turned the girl’s hands ov
er and traced smooth calluses along the ridges of her palms, then met her gaze.
“You know how to fly, don’t you?” Louisa asked.
“Pardon?” Elenore pulled her hands away and hid them in the folds of her skirt.
“You’re a pilot.”
Elenore blushed.
“Can you fly your brother’s Mini?”
“I—well I—I’m just learning. He lets me take it on tours around the family estate.”
Louisa’s heart leaped. “Could you race it?”
“No. Certainly not. I’m not fast enough. I’d need four arms to do it.”
“But your brother does it.”
“He’s fast. He’s trained for it. That why he’s famous. I’m not—fast or famous.”
“What if you had help? Do you think you could race it then? Both Collingworth and Bennett need the Mini operational. Will you try?”
Elenore inhaled a shaky breath and reached for Louisa’s hands again. “I heard what you did for Andrew at the first launch. He was astounded at your dedication to the project. Will you help me? I don’t think anyone else would trust me.”
Louisa’s stomach lurched at the memory of her near fall and hypothermia. Elenore’s shoulders fell. She must have read the fear on Louisa’s face. But too much rode on today’s outcomes. Morrie might have given up on her, on Phoenix and their partnership, but Louisa hadn’t. The Judge wouldn’t win this round hands down; she’d give all she got.
“Yes, I’ll do it. Lead the way.”
Elenore held Louisa’s hand like a sister or nursery friend might and led her to the open-air lift. The rickety device rose all the way up to the skywalk.
“Whoa, is that safe?” she asked as Elenore released her hand, a new spark gleaming in the girl’s eyes.
“Perfectly. Just help me with my skirts and we’ll go up. Oh, and call me Elly. If we’re going to do this thing, we may as well be on a first name basis.”
Louisa gave her a shaky smile, kneeled by Elenore, and worked with her to gather the material and turn the bell into a “V.” The modern design was adopted for cycling, but clearly, Elenore chose it as her piloting attire—just as Louisa chose to follow the day’s trouser-trend adopted by some female engineers.