Dawn's Early Light (6 page)

T
heir arrival at the Outer Banks, Wellington Books decided, was quite the triumph.

For one thing, that rather brash American, Wheatley, was nowhere in sight. He had to be behind them by a few good hours at the very least.

Second, the couples either on the veranda or walking the grounds of Swan's Retreat enjoying the light, salt-kissed air and bracing breezes of North Carolina barely noticed Wellington's motorcar as it approached. Some engineers designed motorcars merely as retro-fitted horse carriages, creating in the process noisy, vapour-spewing monsters. However, Wellington had been paying close attention to the works of Karl Benz in Germany. Much like Benz's aerocraft, Wellington's motorcar was a streamlined, self-contained transport, able to vent any excess steam from a series of pipes through a single exhaust at the rear of the vehicle. The end result was a body less square and more rectangular, the wheels nearly half the diameter of a typical carriage. He had also taken several designs of combustion engines from Benz, Diesel, and Everett; and then incorporated several “Fox Corrugateds” to increase both heat transfer and overall strength. Through a series of struts, chassis, and insulators, Wellington invented a solution to the noise his mechanical marvel would have produced, the end result a delightfully soft medley of chugs, pops, and pings that barely drowned out the sounds of the local fauna.

At least until the boiler's pressure release values would reach critical and expel any excess gases. Birds took flight when the engine's quick, concussive
bang-bang
shattered the solitude of the resort. The first two times it happened on their trip between Norfolk and the Outer Banks, Eliza's
pounamu
pistols appeared seemingly from thin air. By the time it happened on the causeway to Swan's Retreat, Eliza merely pinched the bridge of her nose, apparently not happy with the announcement of their approach.

“Subtle, Welly,” she grumbled.

“I would agree,” he replied smugly. “As subtle as it can be.” Whatever was her problem now?

“I don't see why, having made this motorcar of yours practically whisper silent,” she said, shooting veritable daggers from her eyes, “you haven't been able to silence the two pops that sound more like gunshots. You have made us all the talk of the resort—and we've only just pulled up. Truly, this thing is—”

“Absolutely delightful!” squealed Felicity. “And it was such a comfortable ride compared to your average stagecoach.” Felicity's eyes were dancing with delight as her hands gently ran along the motorcar's cushions. The backseat, where the librarian sat, resembled a chez lounge built into the rounded back of the car. The plush, red velvet couch folded upon itself, completely hidden from view until needed.

Wellington glanced pointedly at Eliza, and then craned his neck to say over his shoulder, “As you are the first to try the tumble seat, thank you for saying!”

Eliza opened her door, muttering just loud enough for Wellington to hear. “Two peas in a pod . . .”

While Felicity did not catch what she said, she did look at Eliza askance when she slammed the motorcar door shut. She blinked, then looked back to Wellington. “I'm sorry? The tumble seat?” Felicity looked around her. “Why is this called the ‘tumble' seat?”

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but paused. Eliza was carrying her own luggage, capturing the attention of many on the porch. “Well, it's a bit difficult to explain presently.” He watched her ascend a few more steps before going back to the luggage in the trailer. He recognised his portable analytical and his own suitcase. There were eight others stacked neatly in the wagon.

“I beg your pardon, Age—” And he caught himself. He was a field agent, and out in the field he had to maintain secrecy. “Er, Miss Lovelace, but exactly what is all this?”

“I was not certain what resources we would have out in the—” Then it was Agent Lovelace's turn to pause. She cleared her throat and continued, her voice far louder than necessary. “I mean, I was not sure what reading material I would have while on vacation. While I may seem like a simple woman to you, my studies do matter.”

“No reason for the theatrics, Lovelace,” a voice whispered from behind her, causing the librarian to jump slightly. Eliza glared at her. “If you want to blend in, just act naturally. You can act naturally, can't you? Or
is
this natural for you?”

Felicity blushed. “I suppose I am a bit nervous, Miss Braun. Considering circumstances.”

“See? That wasn't hard, was it?”

Wellington glanced away from the two ladies and looked over the suitcases again. Across these suitcases, Felicity Lovelace had packed a small library. A part of him appreciated, and even admired, her for doing so. The practical part of him looked at her with abject terror. Books were heavy to begin with. Packed in suitcases? They would be a labour of Herculean standards to move.

And Felicity was so . . . tiny.

“I suppose we should call for a porter.” He cleared his throat. “Preferably one of an automated, mechanical nature.”

“What's the problem, Johnny Shakespeare,” called a voice from the top of the steps. “Can't handle a few suitcases?”

Impossibly, “Wild Bill” Wheatley stood at the top of the steps. Wellington determined not to ask how he'd managed that feat.

“Glad to see you all made it here,” Bill said, motioning along the length of Wellington's motorcar. “So that contraption of yours held together?”

“It performed beyond expectation,” Wellington said proudly.

“So I heard,” he quipped with a smirk. “I thought we were under attack or somethin' . . .”

Wellington pressed his lips together lest something uncouth escape him. “Allow me to offer a hand with Miss Lovelace's luggage.” He examined the suitcases, and selected the two closest to him. Yes, they were heavy, but nothing he could not manage. He then motioned to Bill with one of her suitcases. “The sooner you assist your companion here with her bags, the sooner you can all regale us with how you beat us here from Norfolk.”

The cowboy guffawed. “First beer's on you, pard'ner.”

Wellington managed to get Felicity's bags up to the top of the stairs, where he remained to enjoy the sight of the OSM agent nearly topple from the weight of the one bag in his grasp. Wheatley blinked as he contemplated the solitary bag that nearly brought him to the ground. He glanced back over to Felicity, now unfurling a pink lace parasol as she took in the Carolina landscape, shook his head in disgust, and heaved the bag again. His face was quite ruddy by the time he reached the step where he had earlier postured for Wellington's benefit.

“Still wish to forgo the Portoporter, Mr. Wheatley?” Wellington called.

“No,” he grunted through gnashed teeth. “I'm—fine. Just—'cause—we're—” The suitcase landed on the step above Bill with a thud so heavy Wellington felt it at the top of the landing through the soles of his shoes. “—comin' to the Swan's—don't—mean . . .” Bill huffed as he looked up to where Wellington stood, looked back to the car, then back up to Wellington, Felicity's two suitcases flanking him. He took a deep breath, heaved, and resumed his slow ascent. “Don't mean—we can't—fend—for ourselves.”

Wellington grinned, and he straightened his own vest and descended the stairs, giving Bill a nod as he passed. “A true frontiersman spirit. Well done!”

He had returned to the lodge's lobby with his own bags just as Bill reached the top of the landing with his first bag. Wellington's grin was now a brilliant smile as he watched from the corner of his eye the American groan as he stood, turned, and slowly descended towards Felicity's remaining suitcases.

“Aren't you a lucky sod?” Eliza quipped, joining him in the foyer. “Lovelace packs bricks in her suitcases, and you choose the two that just happen to hold her clothes and sundries?”

Wellington fixed his eyes on her, and then couldn't help but wink. “Luck, Miss Braun, has nothing to do with it. I watched both the Portoporter and that rented cart hitched to us. Easy to deduce which ones were ladened with the heavy burden of knowledge.”

Another shudder came from the landing. Bill's face was now a deep scarlet.

“Much like our American adventurer is at present.”

After another fifteen minutes or so, Bill finally set down the last of Felicity's packed library with a thud. He was breathing as if he had just played several sets at Wimbledon.

“God save the Union! A fine specimen you are,” Wellington said, motioning with his walking stick at Bill's shoulders. “Atlas himself would be impressed at the weight you carry.”

Then he turned to survey their new accommodations. Swan's Retreat was, even by Wellington's standards, quite impressive, far from the wilderness hunting lodge he had envisioned. If he had not known the outside was on the Outer Banks of the Carolinas, Wellington would have thought himself on the deck of a White Star cruise liner. However, rather than the drone of air motors around him or the sound of a sea vessel's whistle, he was instead surrounded by the casual conversation of men in hunting jackets and ladies gossiping with one another.

He and Eliza had just made eye contact with the concierge when Eliza suddenly stood between him and the desk, threw her arms around his neck, and squealed, making many a head turn.

“Oh, Reginald!” She beamed and gave him a rather fervent kiss that nearly toppled him over. “You have made me the happiest newlywed in all of the Empire!”

“Er, um . . . think nothing of it,” Wellington stammered, feeling the heat rise under his skin. He was drawing a blank. Ye gods, what were their cover names? “Nothing at all . . . Esther.” Eliza's smile widened. He got it right. Feeling every neck muscle tighten as he craned around her face to peck her on the cheek, he added, “I thought you would enjoy the fresh sea air here in the Carolinas.”

With a delightful little giggle, Eliza crinkled her nose, and then continued to the front desk, leaving him there quite befuddled.

Wellington smoothed out his cravat and cast a nervous glance over to Agent Lovelace who was eyeing him curiously. She darted her eyes to Eliza, then back to Wellington, asking him silently,
The vapours?

His nod of reassurance, he knew, was anything but.

When he joined Eliza at the desk, she nuzzled in closer to him, fluttering at him her sapphire blue eyes as if she had caught a handful of dirt in them. There was no reason or rationale in this odd game she had chosen to play at this very public moment; but like all of her antics, he was sure there was going to be an uncomfortable point to it.

“Welcome to Swan's Retreat,” the concierge recited his greeting.

“Thank you, kind sir,” Wellington replied brightly. “Reginald and Esther McPhearson.”

The man at the desk's expression remained stoic as he replied, “As I surmised.” With a light snort, he looked down at his ledger and found their names. “We have you staying with us for six days, five nights.” He glanced back up at the two of them, and Eliza giggled again. “How fortunate we are for that.”

Wellington was now feeling a different kind of heat rise, but his anger was immediately quashed by Eliza's reply. “Oh, such manners here, Reginald. I did hear that the southern states of the Americas excelled at hospitality.” She patted the concierge's hand and nodded. “I think your establishment here will suit us down to the ground.”

“We do hope so,” the attendant spoke evenly, though Wellington could clearly hear the undercurrent of loathing in his voice. Particularly when he added, “If you desire to anything, just—”

“Ask?” Eliza blurted. “I can assure you we will, provided Reginald and I do not awaken and find ourselves mute.” She then burst into a cackle. “But how ridiculous of a notion, don't you think?”

Wellington felt dizzy.
You are
still
upset about that?
He'd fooled her into silence on that mission, so perhaps it was only fair.

“You are booked in Room Ten.” He slid a single key across the blotter towards Wellington. “I will instruct the bellman to see to your luggage.”

“Thank you,” Wellington managed, wincing slightly at Eliza's sudden squeeze of his bicep. They were ten paces away from the desk before he asked his partner through a forced smile, “I do believe I apologised for what happened at the Phoenix Society. Several times.”

“Just hedging my bets, Welly,” she began through her own tight smile. “Simply making my presence—and my voice—known to all at the outset.”

“Did you wish to include all of North
and
South Carolina in your proclamation as well?”

She gave a slight chuckle. “Oh, Wellington, you know how I indulge in excess.”