Scarlet Devices (6 page)

“As I've promised both you and Lord Hardison more than once. Wish me luck, sir.”

“Luck, miss!”

The countdown had started, sixty seconds until the starter pistol would fire and the rally would begin. Mechanics scattered, clearing the raceway, and leaving the drivers alone with their thoughts as they waited out the final minute.

Eliza's thoughts ranged wildly, though she tried to keep them firmly on the day's driving route.

Pence meant well, for all he was a beast about it. He genuinely feared for her delicate self and spoke accordingly, seeming to forget that he hadn't any business doing so. Usually Eliza was able to dismiss him, but this morning her bravado was pure flummery. Outside she might be brash, but inside was all butterflies the size of bats, threatening the equilibrium of her stomach and mind. She imagined the fluttering as actual bats and stifled a hysterical snort at the thought. Her hands felt melded to the wheel, knuckles white and aching.

Thirty seconds to go. Eliza watched the hands on the enormous clock face that dominated the temporary arch through which the racers would drive. The arch and clock would remain for the rally's duration, with a daily posting of the leaders and their times, for the benefit of those New Yorkers who were following the news. The posting marquee was empty still, and Eliza made herself envision her own name there, in letters large enough to see from a block away.

Ten seconds. The crowd began to shout out the countdown, and Eliza readied her hand on the gear knob, her foot on the clutch. The car was warm, and it wouldn't do to set off with an embarrassing lurch. Slow and steady would win the race.

Five, four . . . well, perhaps not all
that
slow. But steady, at any rate.

Then the starting pistol, a jolt of adrenaline and the anticlimax of having to wait and listen to the crowd's wild roar as all the cars in front of her began to move. When she finally edged into motion, smooth as glass, she let herself exhale in relief. Her grip on the steering wheel loosened, her shoulders relaxed. The mechanics of driving were second nature to her, and she lost herself almost immediately in the delight of handling the finely made steam car and the joy of the beautifully clear road beneath her wheels.

Manhattan proper had come to a halt for the rally's start, and traffic was cleared from Tryon Square all the way across the Murray Bridge. Cheering crowds lined the streets, and policemen on horses and swift velocimobiles accompanied the racers to ensure security. Once over the bridge's impressive span, the crowd thinned and the racers sped forward, soon leaving the city and the police escort far behind.

 • • • 

P
ERFECT DAY FOR
it
.

That was Eliza's main thought entering the fourth hour of her drive. She couldn't have asked for better driving conditions. The sky was a clear, perfect, spring blue, with a few fluffy white clouds to the west for added interest. A recent spate of rainstorms had brightened the fresh green of the hedgerows and fields she drove past, but the road itself was dry and smooth. She knew not to take that for granted. The rally committee had paid for road repairs to the suggested route thoroughfares prior to the race, but only as far as St. Louis at the western edge of the Northern Dominion.

Once they crossed into the Victoria Dominion, things would likely turn rockier, literally. The end of broad, well-maintained roads, the end of the steamrails. The beginning of catch-as-catch-can byways, wagon tracks and the jealously guarded domains of the petty lords who essentially ruled the continent's interior. Eliza had heard that large swathes of Victoria and Louisiana might as well be medieval England, in terms of economics and the local methods of governance. She thought it sounded more like ancient Greece, and in her heart of hearts she'd feared Matthew Pence's dire predictions for her safety would come true.

But for now, sailing down the smooth stretch of road leading into Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Eliza felt only optimism. The weather, the road, the fact that her car hadn't been sullied by steer manure—good omens, all. There were a few race fans along the streets of the charming city, but nothing like she'd seen leaving New York. If anything, the lack of excitement was anticlimactic, though Eliza was embarrassed to think such a thing when she was only a few hours into what was meant to be a great adventure. The city itself looked the opposite of adventure, its tidy streets and domed capitol building the very picture of order and respectability. It seemed unpopulated, as well. The racers were shunted through the center of town but their route had been cordoned off, and the mounted police escort made sure no spectators drew close enough to hinder their progress.

The crowds began again at the bridge over the Susquehanna, and Eliza heard the cheers as she geared down to join a short line of competitors creeping over the wide river while attempting to avoid hitting any careless pedestrians. The Watchmaker's absurd spider-steamer was easy to spot, high above all the banners and placards. Eliza craned her neck and caught a glimpse of vivid green—Cantlebury's car was anything but subtle—and Barnabas Smith-Grenville's absurdly bullet-shaped royal blue vehicle. A black car she couldn't place was directly in front of her. Behind her, the crowd had closed in, suggesting no other cars were close at her heels.

No sign of gunmetal gray. Had Pence surged ahead or fallen behind along the way to this first stop, at the old Harrisburg Academy grounds? Not that it should matter, as Eliza was competing against the entire field of opponents, not Matthew alone. It was only a midday pause in the race, more a press opportunity than anything else, and of course all that really mattered was making it to Pittsburgh before midnight. But one of the race organizers was an alumnus of the Academy and had managed to leverage the opportunity for publicity to the school's benefit. The cars would gather on a field near the campus, there was to be a speech by the mayor and box lunches would be provided for the competitors to take along with them. It seemed a shame for Matthew to miss out, that was all.

Her boiler rattled, complaining about the stop-and-start pace along the bridge. Eliza frowned at the water and heat gauges, willing them to remain within safe parameters. She risked a quick tug at the pressure release handle, and chuckled as the crowd jumped at the sudden, sharp whistle blast.

Naïve, perhaps, but at first she blamed the startling whistle for the ugly expressions a few of the crowd members turned toward her. There were three of them glaring at her, all women about her mother's age, dark-clad and grim-faced. One of them looked her in the eye, giving a sort of enraged smirk as she called to the other two, who followed her lead while still keeping pace with the slowly moving mob. Manic fervor in their eyes, they neared the steam car, waving their placards and shouting something Eliza couldn't hear over the general hubbub.

Nonplussed, Eliza looked frantically ahead of her, focusing on the car she was trailing and noting with relief that they were almost across the bridge and the crowd had cleared from the main road ahead. As soon as she was off the bridge, she could speed up and shake the angry women off.

Mere feet before Eliza's car crossed onto the road proper, one of the women in black slammed a red-printed placard against her side window. Eliza shrieked, to her mortification, and accelerated sharply, almost slamming into the black car before she caught herself and braked. The heavy brown bulk of a police horse brushed by, the animal nickering as it literally jostled the car, and for a moment she had a perfect view of the mounted officer's polished black boot and blue-clad pants leg. A wide satin stripe ran down the outside of his leg. The boot left a squeak of black against the window.

And then he was gone, pushing her assailant along with him, and Eliza was on the relatively open road again.

Through her hind mirror, she saw two of the women rushing to the third's aid, and she saw the signs they were waving. It took her brain a moment to register the lettering, reading it backward and in quick glances as she was. That delay didn't lessen the impact one bit.

RALLY OF VICE
, screamed one of the signs. The other, as best she could see as it faded from view behind her, proclaimed the drivers to be the
DEVIL'S SPAWN IN DEVIL- STEAMERS.

The third placard seemed to have been broken in the fray, but Eliza already knew what it said. The sight of it was burned into her memory from that terrifying few seconds of it slapped against her window.

SCARLET DISGRACE TO WOMANKIND
!

Harrisburg seemed much less charming than it had before she crossed the bridge.

P
OLITE SMILES WERE
the order of the day at the Harrisburg Academy grounds. A bunting-draped pavilion and bandstand had been set up, bright flags snapped in the breeze and the mayor was gladhanding the crowd with all the easy expertise of a veteran politician. Matthew conversed graciously with a group of beaming Ladies' Auxiliary members as he watched the mayor tickle another baby, but his real attention was on the gravel drive leading to the field on which the festivities were being held.

At last a flash of red eased his anxiety. There was no mistaking Eliza's steam car, coasting around the field behind a pack of other vehicles that included Smith-Grenville's flashy blue torpedo. Handlers jogged out to meet the racers, directing the cars to their various cordoned-off billets around the central green and the pavilion. Eliza pulled in between Barnabas's car and Cantlebury's green monster, three bright splashes of color among the field of mostly white, gray and black steamers. Beyond them, the Watchmaker's vehicle rattled to a hissing, screeching halt. The Watchmaker pulled levers furiously, a final flurry of movement before the craft settled to the ground with a puff. A chuckle ran through the crowd at the display; it looked for all the world as if the strange steamer was sighing in relief at the chance to rest.

“And is your family from New York as well, Mr. Pence?” asked one of the ladies. Matthew turned back to them with a guilty conscience. He saw that a few daughters who looked of marriageable age had joined the group while his attention was elsewhere. One was clearly uninterested in the whole affair. The other, though pretty enough, looked a trifle manic. She seemed torn between simpering in Matthew's direction and glaring toward the latest group of racers to arrive.

The sun twinkled off a tiny pin in the girl's collar, and when the glare ended Matthew could see it was a delicate four-petaled flower, crafted in gold. Some of the older women were wearing them too. All the flower-wearers wore unpleasant expressions.

“Yes, they are. Well, they're divided between New York and Sussex, for the most part.”

The flowers were ominous, but Matthew couldn't quite think why. As he mulled it over, attempting to back away from the effusive guild ladies, a group of mounted policemen cantered onto the green and pulled up a short distance from the cars. One of them dismounted on the fly and strode briskly to Eliza's car, handing her out and bending close to speak with her.

“
The
New York Pences?”

“Ah, well. Yes, I suppose so. If you'll excuse me, ladies, I must speak with one of the other drivers. An urgent question regarding a . . . a badly embractured fandangulator. I'm sure you understand.”

“But don't go without your box lunch!” One of the matrons scooted forward, pressing a white, twine-secured box into Matthew's hands.

“Thank you, you're too kind. Good afternoon, madam. Ladies.” He tipped his hat and spun on his heel, fast-walking across the field to the lineup of the three brightest cars in the race.

Before he reached Eliza, however, Matthew's attention was diverted. Barnabas Smith-Grenville greeted him with the same glum, gray visage he'd worn earlier in the day. His voice matched his face as he rasped out, “Good afternoon, Pence.”

“You sound ghastly.”

“Bless you for a saint, Matthew, you always say the kindest things.”

“No, really, you look ready for the doctor. They're coming to shove a boxed luncheon at you, shall I warn them all away?”

“They?” Barnabas looked past Matthew, bleary-eyed, and squinted at a fast-approaching gaggle of women.

“Ladies' Auxiliary or similar. With eligible daughters in tow.”

“Daughters? Really?” Barnabas made a feeble attempt at straightening his sweat-soaked collar.

“You're not up to it. You hardly look fit to drive, man.”

“He's quite right, Lord Smith-Grenville,” Eliza agreed, appearing from the other side of Barnabas's car. “We could ask one of the ladies to help find a doctor for you.”

“I'm perfectly well, thank you, Miss Hardison. Pence, what's in that box? Anything good?”

“Haven't opened it yet.” Nor did he intend to in front of Barnabas, who looked as though the mere sight of food might trigger appalling consequences. “How are you faring, Miss Hardison?”

She looked lovely, of course, but rather shaken. Perhaps from the sight of Smith-Grenville, who truly did look like looming death. Eliza held herself stiffly, as though she had a pain.

“You just saw me four hours ago,” she pointed out. “I'm much the same now as I was then. Oh, I think it's our turn to be celebrities, look.”

Along with the steadfast lunchbox ladies, the mayor of Harrisburg was bearing down on them. He was clearly recognizable as the mayor, labeled as such by means of a broad red and white satin sash across his substantial chest that read
MAYOR
.

“Welcome to Harrisburg. Welcome! Douglas Micklefield, mayor.” He reached Matthew first, hand extended, and commenced a round of brisk hand-shaking while the trio of drivers introduced themselves. “We're proud to be your first stop. Anything we can do for you, anything at all, you have but to ask.”

Eliza beat Matthew to it. “Sir, I believe our friend may require a doctor. He seems to have taken ill.”

Indeed, even as she spoke, Barnabas swayed at an alarming pitch, reaching behind himself to his car for support. He'd gone paler still, except for his cheeks and forehead, which bore an ominous mottled flush.

“I don't need a doctor,” he tried to insist. The force of his words was diminished by the fact that he said them while sliding down the car door.

“Barnabas!”

“Lord Smith-Grenville!”

“Doctor Adams!” one of the ladies called into the crowd. “Has anyone seen Doctor Adams?”

When Matthew stepped to Barnabas's side to keep him standing, he felt the heat radiating from his friend's body. He eased him to the ground instead, letting gravity finish its work, and limited himself to bracing Barnabas so he didn't topple over completely. The crowd, obviously sensing an event, began to murmur and gather in around the line of cars.

“You have a fever, idiot. You knew you were ill this morning, didn't you? You looked terrible then, but I thought it was just nerves. Why didn't you tell somebody?”

“Doesn't matter. I'll be fine. I have to find Phineas.”

“Not with a fever, you don't.”

“'Snot a fever,” Barnabas insisted, but his words were beginning to slur and his eyes were glassy, unseeing. “Phineas . . .”

“I'll find him for you,” Matthew reassured him.

“And I'll help,” Eliza said.

He hadn't even noticed her joining them on the ground, she'd been so uncharacteristically quiet and reserved. She knelt opposite Matthew, and his concern was mirrored in her dark gray eyes.

Barnabas looked up at them, beseeching. “You have to find him. My baby brother . . . he took my hobbyhorse, you know, and I want it back. He never did take care of his things. Those flowers are beautiful, absolutely lovely. And they look so innocent. They use a special knife to cut the pods, did you know? Looks like cat claws, like . . .” He hooked two fingers, making a weak clawing gesture, then letting his arm drop into his lap.

“Coming through!” A voice rang clear over the babbling crowd. “Doctor coming through. Here you, step aside, make way.”

The mayor greeted the doctor with a solemn handshake, then pointed out Barnabas slumped on the ground against his steam car. The doctor, a slim, bearded, elderly gentleman, wasted no time in joining his patient and beginning his examination.

“Fever, elevated pulse,” he muttered as he worked. “Lymph nodes swollen. How long has he been like this?” He directed his question at Matthew but never stopped moving, deploying his stethoscope and exhorting a barely responsive Barnabas to breathe in.

“He didn't look well this morning. Seemed fine last night, though. At least, he didn't complain of not feeling well. We were all off our feed, I think, from nerves.”

“I wasn't,” Eliza volunteered. “I ate like no lady should. But Mr. Pence is right about Lord Smith-Grenville, he barely touched his food at the pre-rally dinner.”

The doctor spared her a glance, then did a double take, looking first at Eliza, then at her car and back again. “Lord, I hope you manage to avoid my wife, young lady. Now . . . his lungs sound clear. The fever is high, we need to bring that down immediately, but he seems fit enough to recover quickly if he receives the proper treatment. Where's Micklefield?”

The mayor harrumphed and took a small step closer, clearly wanting to stay clear of possible contagion.

“Micklefield, send a boy to fetch Horace and the ambulance. We'll need to move this young man to the hospital. Has he any family who ought to be notified? Or the rally authorities, perhaps?”

Arrangements were made, runners were sent, a whirl of activity that left Eliza and Matthew standing in the calm center next to Barnabas's car.

“You'll want something to eat,” Matthew pointed out, spotting Eliza's lack of a boxed lunch. All the other drivers seemed to have received theirs. “They must have forgotten, in the excitement. Let me just—”

“I can ask for my own luncheon, thank you. Stay with Barnabas.”

Eliza didn't need to go far. Several yards away, the lunch ladies still clumped near Mayor Micklefield, tutting and fretting in Barnabas's direction. As Eliza approached, most of them went silent, and their faces turned sour and disapproving. Matthew couldn't make out the conversation over the crowd, nor see Eliza's reactions, but none of it looked good.

The apparent leader of the Ladies' Auxiliary held a stack of three boxed lunches in her plump arms, but made no move to offer one. A few of the other ladies turned slowly and deliberately away from Eliza, their noses lifted. Eliza's shoulders squared, stiffened as if for battle. Matthew wanted to rush to her assistance, but was stuck holding Barnabas's head off the ground. All he could do was watch, heart in his throat.

After a brief exchange with the ladies, the mayor turned toward the one with the stacked boxes, his sharp tone carrying above the hubbub even if his words did not.

Matthew spotted the lapel pin glinting in the sun as the woman grudgingly handed Eliza a box, extending it as far from her body as possible, as though Eliza might bite or contaminate her. It was as dismissive as she could be without joining her companions in the cut direct.

Eliza took the box and inclined her head toward the woman, a polite nod the so-called lady hardly deserved, then turned to accept the mayor's outstretched hand. He sketched a quick bow, and she dropped a brief but elegant curtsy. Matthew could see her profile, the fierce spot of color on her cheek that gave the lie to the pretty smile she bestowed upon the town's leader. But she didn't rush, didn't lose her poise for even a moment. She bobbed her head toward the women again in farewell, then turned and made her regal way back toward the cars, her face as serene as if she were walking in an empty garden.

Matthew was strongly tempted to applaud. God only knew what had gotten into the women of Harrisburg, but Eliza had handled herself with an aplomb he never would have credited her with possessing. Not merely coping with things, she'd been something like magnificent.

 • • • 

E
LIZA COMPLIMENTED HERSELF.
Fulsomely, fervently, earnestly. Never had she cheered herself on so well, because never had she deserved it so well as when she took the words and actions of the Harrisburg Ladies' Auxiliary with a gracious smile and a thank-you for the box luncheon they had only provided her under duress.

Duress and shaming. She had rather enjoyed the shaming, which the mayor had delivered in her defense. He did so only after she had an earful of “scarlet woman,” “no smoke without fire,” and “ought to be run out of the town on a rail like the harlot you are.” Mayor Micklefield had put them in their place by countering with “glass houses” and “let he who is without sin” and something else that might have been from Marcus Aurelius. Then he had demanded the woman in charge hand over a lunch, and Eliza had managed not to burst into tears or cast up her breakfast on the lot of them.

Shock had helped. She still couldn't quite believe what she was hearing or seeing, despite the forceful lesson of the placard. That these apparently well-bred ladies would utter such words, would administer the cut to a gently born young woman who was quite possibly their social superior . . . Eliza knew what was written in the newspapers, had even heard some unpleasant shouts from the crowds, but facing it head-on was a different thing entirely. A wretched, terrifying thing. She could still feel the shame on her cheeks, and it infuriated her to have blushed at all because she had no reason to be ashamed. Her conduct, while unconventional, was irreproachable. What's more, she was paving the way for their own daughters to have more freedom, greater opportunities. And her car wasn't remotely scarlet.
Amaranth
.