Around the World in 100 Days (9 page)

“The American inventor? Of course.”

“Well, that was his son, Thomas Junior.”

“Oh, my. Really?”

Harry nodded earnestly. “He's an eccentric genius. Do you know, he recently invented an electrical device that stimulates certain areas of the brain, dramatically increasing a person's intelligence.”

“Really?” said the woman again.

“Yes. I highly recommend that you purchase one.”

 

Later that evening, in need of fresh air—the cabin was filled with smoke from Johnny's foul-smelling meerschaum pipe—Harry took a stroll on the deck. As he stood at the rail, staring at the dark water, a soft voice said, “Hello, Harry.”

He jerked around in surprise. “Elizabeth!” He took a moment to collect himself before he went on. “I didn't see you at tea or at dinner. I was wondering what had become of you.”

“I've just been in my cabin, reading.”

“Books are all well and good, but you can't eat them.”

She laughed. “The steward brought a meal to my cabin.”

“I didn't know they did that, in second class.”

“They do if you pay them enough.” She leaned on the rail next to him. “What deep thoughts were you thinking, before I interrupted them?”

“Nothing very profound. Only wishing the ship would go faster.”

“Oh? Why are you in such a hurry?” She gave him a sly glance. “Perhaps you don't enjoy the company of the other passengers.”

“No, no, it's not that at all. It's just . . . Well, we have to complete our trip by a certain date, and each day at sea is one day less of driving time.”

“What happens if you don't finish by that date?”

“I lose six thousand pounds. And I don't have it to lose.”

“Your family would be responsible for your debt, then?”

He nodded. “I have every intention of winning. But you see why I'm so eager for the ship to make good time.”

“Yes. Yes, I do see.” She gazed intently out over the water, as if searching for land. “It's a worrisome thing, having your whole future ride on the outcome of a wager.”

Harry had not said that his whole future was at stake, but in a way it was true. Until that moment, he had conveniently forgotten his promise to his father: If he lost, he would quit tinkering and take up some gentlemanly profession. It had been a stupid promise, rather like agreeing to spend his life in jail for a crime he had not committed. Harry pushed the thought out of his head. No point in fretting over what might happen if he lost; he was not going to lose.

“Harry,” said Elizabeth.

“Yes?”

“Is that short for Harold or for Edward?”

“Neither. It's just Harry.” He paused, not certain he wanted to reveal his actual name. It would mean also revealing his origins. But for some reason, he wanted Elizabeth to know. Perhaps it was a sort of test, to see how she would react, whether it would matter to her. Or perhaps it was due to the sense of intimacy that occurs between shipboard acquaintances who know that, once the ship docks, they will never see each other again. “In actual fact,” he said, “it's Hari, with an
i
. It's an Indian name. According to my mother, it means ‘the sun.'
S-u
-n, not s-
o
-n. But apparently it can also mean ‘the monkey.'”

Elizabeth snickered. “You're making that up.”

“No, honestly. When I started school, my mother insisted that I spell and pronounce it the English way. She wanted me to appear as British as possible. Didn't want me to go through what she went through, I suppose.”

“I'm sure it was difficult for her, trying to fit into a world so different from the one she was used to.”

Harry glanced at her, curiously. “You sound as if you know her.”

“No, of course not. I was just assuming she grew up in India.” Elizabeth shivered. “It's turned a bit chilly. I think I'll go back to my cabin and my book.”

“I'll walk with you, then.”

“Please don't bother.”

“It's no bother, really—” Harry started to say, but she was already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “Good night, Monkey.”

 

The next day, Harry had a leisurely breakfast in the dining room, as well as a long luncheon, afternoon tea, and dinner, certain that Elizabeth would turn up for at least one meal. She did not. Harry could only assume that the book she was reading was awfully compelling—or that she was deliberately avoiding him.

But that evening, as he wandered about the deck, trying to walk off his growing impatience, she approached again, with a smile that implied she was genuinely glad to see him. For nearly an hour they talked companionably, mostly about books and motorcars. Then she returned to her cabin, again refusing to let him escort her.

They played out a similar scene the next night, and the next. Though she revealed nothing about her background or her reason for traveling to America, he did at least learn the title of the book she found so fascinating—
Adam Bede
, written by George Eliot, who was apparently a woman. Elizabeth promised to pass it on to him when she was done. But the truth was, Harry felt no need for a book; mulling over the mystery of this young woman was more than enough to occupy his mind.

Harry had tried hard to respect Elizabeth's wishes and let her remain anonymous. But on the fourth day out of Liverpool, his curiosity overrode his conscience; he talked the head steward into showing him the list of all the passengers in second class. Three Elizabeths appeared on the roll; two were accompanied by their husbands, and one was a child.

Unless his Elizabeth was married or lying outrageously about her age, Harry could think of only one satisfactory explanation: She was, in fact, traveling first class and—unlike Charles Hardiman—chose to fraternize with the less exalted passengers for a brief while each day.

That evening, when they met in their usual spot at the rail, Harry lost patience with her attempts to keep the conversation in safe, neutral territory and blurted out, “Why are you pretending to be a second-class passenger?”

She blinked her blue eyes at him. “Whatever makes you think that?”

“I looked at the passenger list.”

“Oh.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Why does it matter?” she countered. “To you, of all people?”

“What does that mean?”

“You know what it's like to be looked down upon. I wouldn't have expected you to be guilty of it yourself.”

“I'm not looking down upon anyone.”

“Yes, you are. Because I'm in steerage, you act as though—”

“Steerage? I thought you were in first class!”

Elizabeth laughed. “And how did you imagine I'd afford
that
?”

“When you said your family name was a familiar one, I naturally assumed—”

“You assumed they were rich and influential.”

“Yes.”

“Well, they're not, I assure you.” There was a bitter edge to her words, as though she sorely resented the fact. For a minute or so she stood drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the wooden rail. When she spoke again, it was in that soft, melodious voice Harry had come to enjoy. “You like me, don't you?”

For once, Harry was cautious; he wasn't ready to admit just how much he liked her. “You said yourself, everyone likes you. Even Johnny.”

Elizabeth gave a gratified smile. “Does he?”

“I actually managed to lure him to the dining room with the promise that you'd be there.”

“I'm sorry. They don't allow steerage passengers to dine in second class.”

“I'm surprised they let you on this deck at all. They're not supposed to, are they?”

“No. But I'm something of a special case.”

“In what way?”

She hesitated so long that Harry wasn't sure she would answer at all. Finally she reached into her reticule, drew out a business card, and handed it to him. Harry moved close to one of the deck lights to read it:

“This is . . . this is you?”

“It's not my real name, of course. It's a nom de plume,like Nellie Bly or Bessie Bramble. Perhaps you've seen my newspaper stories.”

“I don't read the
Daily Graphic
.”

“Well, it's rather a new rag. We're working hard to increase our circulation.”

Harry nodded grimly; at last he understood what her game was. “And you thought that a personal interview with the intrepid young motorists would be just the thing.”

“Yes.”

“Or, even better, a personal conversation with the son of the famous Phileas Fogg. I expect you knew all along who my father was.”

“Yes.”

“Then why not just
ask
me for an interview? Why go to all the bother of pretending that we were friends?”

Elizabeth showed no sign of shame. She unflinchingly returned his gaze. “Because. I wanted more than just a single news story. I want to chronicle your entire journey.” She reached out and placed a hand on his. “I want to come with you,” she said.

ELEVEN
In which

H
arry thrust the press pass into her hand. “I'm afraid not. I don't like it when people lie to me. It makes me distrust them.”

“I don't make a regular habit of lying, you know.”

“Only when it suits your purpose.”

“Oh, and you never say anything that isn't perfectly true, I suppose?”

“I try to avoid it.”

“You didn't, for example, tell anyone that Johnny was Thomas Edison, Junior?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably and scratched his head. “How did you hear about that?”

“It's all over the ship,” she said. “You should have told someone who was more discreet.”

“It was meant as a joke. I wasn't deliberately trying to deceive anyone, the way you have been.”

“Tell me this, then: If I had asked you, on the first day we met, whether I could accompany you and your friends around the world, what would you have said?”

“I'd have said no, of course.”

“There you are.”

“Yes, well, I'm saying it now, in any case. So all your deception, all your—your fake friendship didn't accomplish a thing, did it?”

“Oh, yes, it did,” said Elizabeth acidly. “It made me realize what a prude and a hypocrite you are, and how intolerable it would be to spend even a few days in your company, let alone several months!” She turned on her heel and strode off across the deck. For once, Harry did not offer to escort her to her cabin.

Over the course of the next two days, Harry wished a hundred times that he had had the foresight to bring along an interesting book. It might have distracted him, kept him from replaying over and over every conversation he'd had with Elizabeth—if that was, in fact, her name—and wondering how he could have been so naive. He should have realized all along that, if she was so fascinated by him and by the
Flash
, there must be some good reason.

This was hardly the first time he had been betrayed or disappointed. No one makes it through childhood and school without the pain of having a playmate or a classmate suddenly turn against him. Harry had had more than his share of such experiences. Sometimes a friendship soured because he had carelessly revealed his Indian heritage; other times friends grew resentful when Harry outshone them at sports. In spite of it all, he had gone on trusting people too much, believing the best of them. Well, if he expected to make it around the world without losing his money or his motorcar, or worse, that would have to change. Somehow he would have to learn to be more cautious, less trusting.

The
Aurania
was scheduled to reach New York on the fifteenth of August. On that morning, as Harry was having breakfast, Charles Hardiman unexpectedly appeared at his table. “May I?” said Charles, gesturing at a chair.

Harry grinned wryly. “If you're sure you can bear such a cramped and dreary dining room.”

Charles brushed something from the seat of the chair and lowered himself onto it carefully. “I need to talk to you,” he said solemnly.

“Having second thoughts about the trip?”

“No, not at all. It's about Annie Laurie, actually.”

“Aha. So, she's risen all the way up to first class, eh?”

“Yes. I first made her acquaintance two days ago, and we've spoken at length several times since then.”

“I see. And what sort of lies has she been telling you?”

Charles scowled. “See here, Fogg, it's not good form to insult a lady.”

“She's not a lady. She's a reporter.”

“I know that.”

“Oh? What else did she tell you?”

“That she asked to accompany us on the trip, and that you refused her.”

“I did.” Harry set his scone aside; the marmalade on it suddenly tasted bitter to him.

“Did she tell you why she was so anxious to come with us?”

“Not in so many words. But isn't it obvious? If she did a series of exclusive reports on our heroic efforts, it would increase her paper's circulation—and, of course, make her reputation in the bargain.”

Charles waved his words aside. “No, no, you don't understand. There's more at stake than that. The
Daily Graphic
didn't give her this assignment, you know. In fact, the editor didn't believe she could handle it. She had to practically beg him to give her a chance. And she's had to pay her own way. She gets no salary at all from the paper until she begins sending in stories. If we don't even let her aboard the
Flash
, she's going to look a fool; it'll badly damage her career, if not ruin it altogether. You should have seen her, Fogg, when she was telling me all this. She was practically in tears.”