Scarlet Devices (18 page)

M
AJESTIC
.
T
HE WORD
kept popping into Eliza's mind, each time she caught sight of a new vista, a higher ridge, a more dramatic river valley. She'd heard that parts of the Spanish territory south of the Dominions were even more stunning, a desert land of fantasy colors and jaw-dropping canyon systems. But this . . . she'd read, seen some artwork, studied topographical maps galore, but she simply hadn't grasped how
big
it all was until she saw it from the air. Even flying low, below the clouds and the risk of ear damage, she could see for miles when she topped the rises, and the mountains seemed to go on forever.

As the plains dwindled behind her, the crests and snow-topped peaks grew higher. After the first few hours of being too in awe to notice much else besides the view, she realized she was growing quite cold. At the same time, the uncomfortable pressure in her eardrums grew to a stabbing pain, despite the special plugs Dexter had designed to help her adjust to the changes in altitude.

I should have gotten those implants, like Charlotte suggested
. It had seemed so extreme, not to mention costly, considering the air portion of the rally lasted less than a week. Tonight's nameless checkpoint camp, then Salt Lake City. From there, they continued to Elk City, then had another two-day window to reach Carson City on the western side of the Sierras. At least, whoever remained in the race would continue in that order, before the final sprint to San Francisco.

Matthew had taken the lead from the start, and she'd stayed within eyeshot of him all day. It grew surreal by afternoon, seeing his balloon and sometimes nearing enough to see Matthew himself, but not being able to speak to him. They should have incorporated some sort of short-range communication devices into their airships, she thought. Then she remembered that at the time they were preparing for the race, Matthew Pence was the
last
person she would have wanted to talk to, even by radio telegraph. When exactly her opinion had changed, she wasn't quite sure, but now she found his concern more endearing than annoying. Somehow everything he did now seemed
right
.

Her thoughts drifted to the night in the barn, how he'd touched her. How she'd touched him, and that had been unexpectedly entertaining. The whole interlude had been not only sensual and exciting but
fun
, playful, and sweet at the same time. The sort of thing a girl could grow used to. And then at the end, had he really said he loved her? Perhaps she had dreamed that part, after all.

But thinking of the hotel room, how he'd held her as she fell asleep, then tucked her into bed without waking her, she suspected it was no dream. She still wasn't sure how she felt about it. What it meant to her.

The sky was fairly clear but the wind was fitful, sometimes aiding their progress and sometimes slowing them. The last few hours were excruciating in a way Eliza had never anticipated, with the sun glaring straight into her eyes. Even her darkened helmet visor wasn't quite enough to prevent a sun-dazzled headache by the time night began to fall. She nearly cried in relief when she saw Matthew's balloon, silhouetted against the last of the fading light, sinking toward the signal fire that marked their checkpoint.

Charlotte had warned her about landing after a long trip, even with the improved harness arrangement. But when Eliza released the clip to slide into a vertical position to land on her feet, she realized she was in trouble before she even touched down. Cold and exhausted, for the last few hours she had neglected the series of subtle posture shifts and stretches that relieved the pressure from the harness.

She couldn't feel her feet. She hit the ground and kept on going, nearly pitching forward on her face, then falling ignominiously backwards when the balloon caught a final updraft and tugged her upward at the last moment.

“Well, damn.”

“Eliza!”

“I'm fine,” she called from beneath the layers of silk, as she frantically pushed them aloft again until she could kill the flame entirely.

“What in the—where
are
you under there? Oh,
there
you are. My goodness, not the smoothest landing I've ever seen you perform.” He bundled the puffy red balloon up and into his arms, clearing the rigging so she could handle it safely.

“You're one to talk. I've seen you tip straight on your back trying to land in that chair.”

“You sound grumpy, darling. Is it pain? Would you like me to kiss it better?”

She glanced to one side, where the rally official was fast approaching them to check her in officially. “Maybe later.”

“Now, now, Mr. Pence. Remember the racers aren't supposed to interfere with one another's equipment.” The man was barely visible in his thick parka with its fur-lined hood. “Miss Eliza Hardison, yes? Initial here, please. Thank you.”

Eliza stabbed the pen toward the check-in form in something that resembled her initials, then attempted to stand. She sat down harder than she had on the landing.

“Owwww . . .”

“Are you all right, Miss?”

“Pins and needles, Miss Hardison?” Matthew knelt beside her, extending a hand carefully toward one of her ankles.

“No, no, don't touch. It feels like bees swarming up my legs. It'll pass.”

“Do you require a medic?” the official asked.

She shook her head, focusing on detaching the rest of her harness and rigging to take her mind off her legs while the stinging buzz and general sense of humiliation subsided. Her hands were shaking, fingers dull with cold, complicating the task. The official finally took himself back to the fireside, a spot Eliza was eager to reach herself.

“No pirates,” Matthew commented, removing his gloves and blowing on his fingers in a vain attempt to warm them. “I didn't expect to make it here unmolested, did you?”

She freed the last of the clips holding her to her rigging with a sound of triumph and began stuffing the deflated balloon into a specially designed pouch on the harness. “No, I didn't, but I'm not complaining. Are there guards here? What if they attack by night?”

Matthew shook his head. “Two rally officials, a medic and a cook. A pair of hostlers for the mule teams and wagons that brought them all here. Armed with rifles but they won't be able to do much against pirates in the dark. None of us will. Do you think you can stand now?”

She nodded and took the hand he offered as he rose. Her feet still tingled, but they would work again. And tomorrow she'd know to be more careful.

The race officials had finished giving Matthew and Eliza a quick tour of the camp facilities, and they'd availed themselves of such, when Cantlebury touched down. It was full dark by then, and his first words filled them with foreboding.

“Madame Barsteau fell behind a few hours ago and I lost sight of her. I think she may have had to land, it looked like she was having mechanical trouble. Hard to tell through my spyglass.”

In any other race, they would probably have rejoiced at the news that one more tough competitor was out of the running. But at some point between ground and sky, the four of them had begun to feel like a unit, the last surviving representatives. At least Eliza felt so, and the two men seemed to as well.

“I should have turned around. I'm too far behind on time to win this anyway, I could have gone back and looked for her. Made sure she was all right.” He finished powering down his equipment and hopped from the balloon's basket to gather the silk.

“And then kept right on going afterward, until you arrived at the previous checkpoint? Your heart's back in Colorado Springs, Edmund,” Matthew pointed out. “But Lavinia will be well by the time you get back there from San Francisco. I don't think she'd approve of your giving up at this point.”

“She told me as much,” Cantlebury admitted as he stowed his gear, securing it all in the basket with a tarpaulin. “Said if I didn't at least try to finish, she wouldn't have me back. Then she said something rather unkind about my poor wife, but I think that was the delirium talking.”

Eliza blinked. “Did you say your w—”

“Let's see if there's any food available, shall we?” Matthew suggested a bit too loudly and cheerfully.

Cantlebury reached under his tarp and retrieved a heavy fur mantle, slinging it around his shoulders as he headed for the campfire and the meal that presumably awaited the racers.

“Tell you later,” Matthew whispered apologetically. “It's not what you think.”

She decided not to worry about it until after she'd eaten. And warmed herself up. And possibly slept for eight or ten hours.

 • • • 

“I
T ISN'T A
secret, by the way,” Matthew said much, much later.

Eliza looked at him, obviously unsure what he was talking about.

“Cantlebury's wife.”

“Oh.”

The gentleman himself had retired to his insulated tent immediately after dinner, leaving the other two warming themselves by the fire. The rally officials were in their own tent, along with the medic. The cook and hostlers were either asleep or up to quiet pursuits of their own in the covered wagon. Matthew was as alone with Eliza as he was likely to get that evening.

“It probably hasn't escaped your notice that Cantlebury isn't your typical model of upper-class scion.”

To her credit, Eliza didn't seem uncomfortable about the subject. She merely shrugged and smiled. “I've met worse specimens. You're not going to try to excuse him on that basis, are you?”

“No, no. That part is relevant, however. When Cantlebury was born, things went poorly all around. He was the first of twin brothers, and they were born too early. His mother nearly died. Edmund nearly died. His little brother was healthy enough. Perfect, in fact, except for having been born over an hour
after
Edmund. Clearly documented, witnessed by too many people to pretend after the fact that the healthy, normal baby had come out first. But not to worry, the doctor assured the Cantleburys that their new defective heir wasn't likely to live long. Cantlebury tells me his father was much cheered by this, and still shuns that doctor out of resentment whenever he meets him in the street.”

“Because he was wrong about the baby living?”

“More because he was wrong about the baby dying. Also about his next prediction, which was that the child would almost certainly be an imbecile, and it would be easy enough to have him declared incompetent and unfit to be heir. And that he might have gotten through infancy, but he was unlikely to live to school age. To his father's horror, Edmund turned out to be an exceedingly bright little boy. And his tutor told
everyone
.”

“So no incompetency?” She poked the fire with a stick, raising a shower of sparks that glowed amber against the black night. “And he was still alive. I take it this is all still relevant to the wife?”

“It is. Should we call them out to build this up some more? If Madame Barsteau is still looking for the camp, she'll be having enough trouble navigating in the dark.”

“After the story.”

“Right. So the elder Cantlebury was stuck with this heir he was convinced would be unsuitable—because he's an idiot, Cantlebury's father, did I mention? However, he finally realized he had a cousin with a solution to his problem. This cousin had only one child, and his wife couldn't have more. He was stuck with a daughter, Margaret, who had been born with her own set of problems. A palsied hand, a limp, difficulty speaking clearly. And simple, although she's very sweet, is Meggie. Not much taller than Cantlebury. She's five or so years older than he is but she'll always be a child, really. The fathers thought, ‘Perfect.' They'd match up their two problems and at least keep the money in the family, because the doctors kept assuring them that these children were both bound to die sooner rather than later. A betrothal was made.”

Eliza stared at him, horrified. “What was
wrong
with them?”

“The children or their fathers?”

“The fathers. Monsters, both of them.”

Matthew pondered that. “Short-sighted and pessimistic, I think. But in their way, they
were
only trying to do what they thought was best for their families, if not best for the two people most directly affected. Anyway, the crux of it is, at the age of fourteen Cantlebury was told by his father that as the heir, he had certain responsibilities, and if he wanted to come into his money one day he'd have to marry someone suitable and sign a thick stack of documents about what would happen to that money if anybody died. Even as smart as Cantlebury was, there isn't much a boy of fourteen can do about these things. He was legally old enough to marry, Meggie was more than old enough, and neither of them had any clue about their parents' ulterior motives.”

“So that's his wife?”