Scarlet Devices (17 page)

“I'm Doctor Miller, by the way. Are you in any pain? Headache?”

“No, I'm quite well,” Eliza assured her. She didn't think she'd fallen very hard, but they seemed to be taking extra precautions with her.

“How is your stomach? Any queasiness?”

“None at all.”

“Grip my fingers, please. Now with the other hand. Good. What's my name?”

“Doctor Miller.”

“Excellent. I believe your ‘old childhood friend' here is correct, you don't appear to have a concussion, but you are probably suffering from dehydration. Water, a meal and some sleep should set you right. He was quite concerned for you.”

Matthew didn't look concerned so much as miserable. Eliza took his hand impulsively, sensing there was more to his worry than her silly fainting spell. He squeezed back, still trying to give comfort rather than take it.

“Matthew, what is it? Tell me, please.”

But as soon as he drew a breath and steeled himself to begin, she realized. She'd known already, in her heart.

“Cecily? Miss Davis?”

Slowly, he met her eyes and shook his head. Such a small, subtle movement to tell such a grave piece of news.

The doctor stood, taking her time to brush the dust from her skirts. “Mr. Pence, perhaps you would escort Miss Hardison to the hotel now. The sheriff's men won't be able to hold back the crowd much longer anyway, and she really does need fluids and rest. No alcohol, Miss Hardison. You may take lemon or barley water, or lemonade if you must, but fresh spring water would be best.”

 • • • 

T
HE
E
L
D
ORADO
Foundation Ladies' Society for Temperance and Moral Fortitude was out in full force in Colorado Springs. They'd retreated to regroup when Matthew arrived with Parnell and his tale of the pirate attack. But by the time Eliza had been shown to her room and brought a dinner tray, she could hear them in the street. Chanting, though she couldn't make out the words.

She drank a glass of the ice water that accompanied the meal, then undressed down to her chemise, moaning with relief as she unfastened her corset. Thus released, with a dressing gown on to ward against the night's chill, she was able to eat in relative comfort. Or would have been able to, if her mind didn't keep taking her back to that moment, the passenger door opening, Cecily falling out. Miss Davis was already dead, Matthew had told her. Only for a few minutes, Doctor Miller thought, but it had been too late to revive her.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her unwanted reverie, and she was grateful for the excuse to stop staring at her stew and bread without eating more of it. Although she hadn't dared to hope, when she saw who it was she felt an easing as palpable as when she'd removed her stays.

“You can't be here, Matthew.”

“Nobody saw me come down this hallway. Let me in before anyone does and we'll be fine.”

She did, closing and locking the door behind him. “You can't stay long.”

“I know.”

They spent several minutes just holding one another. No words, because there was nothing they could say to make things better. For Eliza, it was enough just to cling to Matthew for a brief time, reassuring herself that he had made it through another day alive. She'd been missing something, and apparently it was his hand on her neck, cradling her head against his chest. Once she had that, she felt things might one day be all right.

Time was short, though, and Matthew had come with news. “Parnell is dead.”

“What? How?”

“He hanged himself.” Matthew sat down on the small straight-backed desk chair, passing a hand over his weary face. “The sheriff left him writing what looked like a letter, and went out to conduct some other business. The next time he returned to check on him, Parnell was dead. Used the sheet from the cot, twisted to make a rope.”

“Dear God.” She let him pull her into his lap, no longer caring about appropriateness. “Why? What did the letter say?”

“Well, it shed a bit more light, and confirmed Orm's involvement. Parnell wrote that a quick death by hanging was better than the living death he'd have on Orm's farm if his employer came after him for his failure. And also something about opium. He had seen what opium did to Orm's workers, and would rather take his chances in hell.”

A cold spike of horror lanced through Eliza. Parnell had feared Orm so much he died rather than face whatever consequences the man might dole out. What sort of monster could this man be, and how could they hope to survive if he was bent on destroying them?

“Orm sounds worse than I ever imagined. Worlds worse.”

“Agreed. There is one small—very small—bright side to today's events. Parnell's suicide note lent more credence to our theory than any of us could have done by merely trying to convince the sheriff it was true. The sheriff has asked any of us who are willing to push on to Salt Lake City to alert the garrison there. There's no land telegraph line between the two cities, it's out of radio telegraphy range and any of us would arrive faster than a courier on horseback.”

“There's no one closer to help?”

He shook his head. “No one big enough. Only smaller outposts, a few dozen soldiers apiece at most. They don't have the manpower or equipment to investigate and stand up against Orm's men if it comes to that. Not if he's got sky pirates to waste on a bombing raid. And if he's making enough money from his illegal opium trade to fund all this sabotage, the ladies' Temperance Society, the whole mad scheme, we must be talking about a sizeable farm. It must be a large area with a lot of workers.”

“Many of whom may be enslaved former opium addicts. Not very daunting. How loyal to Orm could they be?”

“They're probably not all slaves. He'd need enforcers, foremen.”

“True.” Eliza yawned, trying and failing to stifle it. “Pardon me.”

Matthew wrapped his arms more tightly around her and pressed a kiss to her temple. “You need to sleep, and I need to leave before somebody finds us out.”

“Hold me a moment longer?”

He did, and she rested her head on his shoulder. She thought,
just for a moment . . .

E
LIZA STILL LOOKED
tired and pale when she entered the hotel lobby at sunrise, and Matthew wanted very much to kiss her. Those two things were foremost in his mind, and it galled him that he could do nothing about either of them. Couldn't even hold her hand, with the temperance ladies close enough to stare into the ground story windows. He orbited her as though she were the sun, drawn in by her pull but unable to get any closer than his fixed distance.

Her mind was on other things, however. “Miss Speck has the influenza. One of the maids found her lying on the floor in her room this morning, delirious with fever. Doctor Miller's already been to see her.” She sat down on the round bench in the middle of the surprisingly ornate space, and Matthew joined her.

“Damn. And Cantlebury?”

“He's with her now, I think. He didn't look ill but I don't know if he plans to go on without her. I didn't speak with him; I found all this out from the maid.”

He'd been looking at a map, and she reached over as she spoke to tip it toward herself. It was a large detail of the land to be covered on the air legs, with stops marked and his own notations added. Eliza traced the dotted line of the route from Colorado Springs to that night's nameless checkpoint.

“They say Salt Lake's as far west as the commercial airships dare to go, and only a few of them at that because they don't like to cross the plains for fear of piracy.” He laid a fingertip on the page, barely brushing hers, then continuing on from Salt Lake to Elk City. “Beyond Salt Lake, the pirates rule the air with little challenge from authorities.”

“And on beyond that, there be dragons.” She lowered her voice to a murmur. “Thank you for putting me to bed last night. I'm sorry I fell asleep on you.”

“My dear lady, you may fall asleep on me any time you like. I wouldn't recommend doing it while the manic ladies' poppy brigade is out in force, however.” He nodded discreetly toward the window. Even this early, there were women with placards assembling in the street, and a mounted policeman had taken up a station by the front of the hotel.

“I'll be glad to see the last of them. They do seem a bit chastened this morning, however. The maid informed me that some of the ladies were quite taken aback by what happened to poor Miss Davis, and they lost their heart for picketing.”

“Informative maid.”

“She was indeed.” She bent to the map again, studying the region he'd outlined in red. “It seems such a small obstacle, compared to the size of the continent. This one place, holding all the Dominions back from coast-to-coast travel. The alleged foul vapors and disappearing dirigibles over California. Pirates in the air to the east. The Spanish to the south, and to the north nothing but freezing weather, fur trappers and hostile natives. It all comes down to the Sierra passage, doesn't it? If Orm has been orchestrating things to prevent people traveling there, think of the possibilities if he's exposed and stopped. This is the part where I expect you'll tell me I should quit because it isn't safe to go on.”

Matthew smiled despite himself. He had wanted to. That didn't mean he
would
. “I've learned that on your personal map, beyond that line there be dragons. I'm not a complete idiot. And you seem every bit as likely to prevail as any of the rest of us. You're in a vanishingly small group of survivors, after all.”

“I hear we are again reduced this morning,” Madame Barsteau said, greeting them with a dismal wave as she crossed the lobby and joined them on the bench. “We'll be four, setting out. Lavinia insisted that Cantlebury not give up his chance. He'll be down shortly.”

“How are you feeling, Madame?” Eliza asked.

“Tired. Angry for Cecily. Nostalgic . . . no, the meaning is different. I think you say ‘homesick.'”

Eliza put a hand on the older woman's shoulder, then, impetuously, embraced her. “Just a few more days now and we'll be on our way home by fast clipper.”

Madame Barsteau returned the hug for a few moments, then straightened and gathered herself. “As you say. Here is Mr. Cantlebury. Ah, and a rally official.”

Mr. Nesbitt, one of the rally committee's representatives, reached them just as Cantlebury did, then stood turning his hat nervously in his hands. He'd all but ruined the brim of what appeared to have been a rather nice derby.

“A very good morning to you all, you remaining four. I trust you all know that today begins the air leg of the Sky and Steam Rally. From this point forward, all progress to San Francisco must be made by airship, whether dirigible or balloon, rather than by ground travel. I'll remind you all that upon the arrival of the final competitor at the penultimate stop, Carson City, your running time tallies will be sorted and your overall placement by time will determine departure order handicaps for the following morning when you embark for San Francisco. Racers will depart at ten minute intervals.”

“Yes, yes, we remember, man,” Cantlebury told him. “We only want to know our current rankings. Unless anyone else needed to hear more about the handicapping?”

Having been reassured by the others that they agreed with Cantlebury, Mr. Nesbitt pulled out the official time tally. “The current standings have Miss Eliza Hardison in the lead, followed by Mr. Matthew Pence and Madame Jeannette Barsteau at a tie, then Miss Lavinia Speck and finally Mr. Edmund Cantlebury.

“No Miss Speck,” Eliza informed him. “Influenza.”

“Ah, I see.” He pushed his spectacles up his nose and pulled a pencil from some hidden pocket, making a careful note on the tally page. “As for this morning, departure will be in one hour's time from the town square. A coach will arrive in approximately thirty minutes to take you all there, so you may access your vehicles for your airship equipment. And on a more personal note,” he added, with a self-conscious throat-clearing, “though I may be out of order for saying so, and I'm not sure I'd like my employers to know I've said this, I should like to apologize for the very odd turn things have taken in this rally. After reading the summary report I received from the post express rider this morning, I am simply astonished and horrified. While these events are always a risky enterprise, never in all my years have I seen anything quite like this. While I admire you tremendously for your desire to persevere, I will also say it's within my authority to call the race off. Are you all four quite sure you want to continue?”

They all nodded, though none of them did so with much enthusiasm.

“Very well. Best of luck to each of you, and I'll see you at the starting line.”

As they had all already breakfasted and packed, it was a question of waiting thirty minutes for their ride. Whitcombe arrived before then, greeting them with a face that looked better rested than any of theirs.

“If you'll all come into the private dining room,” he requested, “the sheriff and I have put together a going-away package for each of you.”

The “package” consisted of revolvers and ammunition, which all four of them accepted despite the extra weight it entailed.

 • • • 

I
T WAS MORE
of a starting box than a line. The four vehicles had been parked at the corners of the town common, a patch of sickly grass that hadn't really recovered from winter yet. The flowerbeds that edged the square were pretty, however, full of pansies and other bright flowers.

The El Dorado Foundation ladies seemed diminished both in number and volume, Eliza was pleased to notice. The group with signs had mainly congregated along one side of the square, and a heavy police presence kept them relatively subdued.

Why a temperance society
? Eliza couldn't help worrying over that tidbit, wondering why on earth a supposed opium kingpin would want to bankroll such an enterprise. The ladies were fundamentally opposed to everything he was trying to achieve, as far as she could tell. And it seemed too convenient, too pat, that the organization had also taken so vehemently against the rally.

One of the placards read,
ONLY ANGELS AND BIRDS WERE MEANT TO FLY
. Eliza was glad she wasn't of that mindset. For one thing, it completely discounted other creatures like bats and those ballooning spiders. For another, she was looking forward to going aloft, leaving these drab, angry women and all her other concerns on the ground and soaring high above it all. She was also starting to sweat inside her fur-lined flight suit, and was eager to get into the air in order to cool off. But the mayor must make a statement first, then the other rally official, whose name she'd forgotten, and finally Mr. Nesbitt with the official announcement of rankings.

The ladies booed Eliza when her name was called, and some hissed, but she was used to that now. One of them, however, pitched a fist-sized rock at her steam car, startling her and leaving an ugly scratched dent in the freshly washed red paint. She turned her attention away from them, very deliberately, and ignored the scuffle of hooves and the shouts as one of the policemen sought the stone-thrower.

She had a flight checklist to go through and a semi-rigid dirigible to inflate. And Eliza always loved this part, the unfurling of the primary balloon. She focused on that, on making sure everything was in its proper place and her harness fittings and panniers were secure.

Although her airship was modeled on Charlotte's tiny craft,
Gossamer Wing
, Eliza's ship had several important differences. Improved steering and pitch control, by the addition of ballonets. A harness system that allowed Eliza to stand upright while launching, then latch the cradle into the horizontal position once she was airborne. Other minor refinements. But the biggest change was that unlike Charlotte, Eliza didn't choose to have her balloon blend tastefully into the blue of the sky.

Once the pilot was lit and the balloon began to billow and rise, the crowd gasped. No subtlety, no ladylike pinkish tint here. The ship was the unabashed vermilion of a Chinese lantern, complete with figured black and gold designs near the base and top to increase the resemblance. It was one tradition from the old country her grandmother's family had retained, and that Eliza Chen had passed down to her children and grandchildren, the symbolic meaning of this particular red. The crowd saw brazen, lustful scarlet, but Eliza saw good fortune and happiness.

“My
Firebird
,” she whispered as the craft expanded to its full grounded inflation, just enough to fill the balloon without pulling her off the ground. “Well done, Dexter.”

Looking across the square, she saw Matthew's somewhat larger balloon rising, revealing its horizontal gradations of green, from the fresh clear color of a budding spring leaf to the deep hue of a pine branch. They lent his bullet-shaped ship something of an organic air.

Cantlebury's balloon was more traditional in shape, with vertical panels of bright blue, orange and yellow, and all the subtlety of a circus tent. Eliza felt more cheerful just looking at it. And Madame Barsteau's craft earned another gasp from the ladies, a more appreciative one this time. The design of the silk was clearly couture inspired, and utterly French. On a background of crisp white, a design of black filigree swirls stood out in stark detail, and the color scheme was continued in the glossy black of the craft's small basket. It was an elegant and stunning ball gown, transformed into a dirigible. Eliza wanted to applaud.

She and Matthew would have an immediate advantage, she realized. Both Barsteau and Cantlebury relied on tethers to moor their crafts, and wouldn't lift off as quickly. She followed Matthew's lead, quickly getting her bearings and turning her ship west-northwest, in the direction they must head. Then it was simply a matter of buckling herself into the harness and waiting for the starting pistol, her fingers ready at the altitude control to fully inflate the balloon and be on her way. Eliza found her hand was trembling; she hadn't been this nervous since their initial start from New York.

That seemed a lifetime ago, and she could hardly believe it hadn't even been a full week. She glanced at Matthew again, trying to remember what it was like to dislike him. To be irritated when he drew near, instead of calmed and excited at the same time. She wasn't even sure when her perspective had changed. But it had, and now everything was different.

“Fly safely, Matthew,” she whispered, just before the starter pistol fired.

And they were off.