The Transatlantic Conspiracy (3 page)

“Well, I—” Rosalind began.

“Do you believe that the Transatlantic Railway will replace the ocean liner?” the Englishman from
The Times
interrupted.

“I hardly think—”

“Does your family dislike sea travel?”

“No, of course not—”

“Is your father declaring war on steamships?”

“Now, look here,” Rosalind grumbled, “that is absolutely absurd—”

“So you doubt your father's latest creation?” someone else asked.

“Of course not!” Rosalind snapped. She felt cornered, as if surrounded by predators. “I have every confidence—”

“Why has your father sent you alone?” asked yet another reporter. “Why isn't he here to accompany you?”

The question gave Rosalind pause, for it had been troubling her as well, though she reminded herself this wasn't the first time he hadn't joined her. She reflexively knew not to frown; she heard her mother's voice in her head telling her never to do such a thing in public. And good Lord, there were a lot of reporters. Too many. How could the photographers refill their flash powder so quickly? And what must the Kaiser think? For all she knew, she was interrupting his very important, very German speech, right?

“That is a silly question,” she said, holding her head high in the manner that Mother would have wanted her to. “My father is in America, overseeing every preparation for our safe arrival. In order to leave from Germany on his underwater train's maiden voyage, he would have had to travel to Europe by ship. And how could he possibly have taken a ship when he is pioneering suboceanic rail travel?”

It was a contrived answer that likely had no basis in fact, but at least it sounded decent. She'd had lots of practice making similar pronouncements.

And now Cecily had them all smiling and laughing with her poses. With any luck, the papers would print Cecily's picture alone and leave Rosalind out of it.

The only one who wasn't smiling was Charles's man, Harris. He stood to one side, watching the crowd. Rubbing her eyes, Rosalind noticed his ever-dour face forming a distinct grimace. He looked in Charles's direction and jerked his head toward something or someone in the crowd. Rosalind followed with her eyes but could make out only a mass of more or less identical bowlers and top hats.

One stood out from the crowd, however, because below it a pair of eyes locked with hers. A man with a mustache, in a brown suit and matching bowler, was staring at her. He quickly turned away and disappeared.

Now Charles was frowning, too. When he noticed Rosalind, he smiled again. But it was forced. Strange. He was troubled by whatever he had seen; Rosalind was certain of it. Had he been troubled by that strange man with the mustache? Charles leaned over and whispered something in Cecily's ear, but the newspapermen and photographers were still making far too much noise for Rosalind to hear any of it.

“Does your father advocate an alliance between Germany and America?” asked one, raising his voice at Rosalind.

What a silly question
, she thought.

“I would imagine that my father, being a man of science, would also be a tremendous advocate of progress, industry, and commerce,” she replied, somewhat tersely. “The German government had terribly good sense in partnering with him in this venture. If the French had taken him up on the offer, I've no doubt we would be departing from somewhere in Brittany. And I also have no doubt that my father's business is his and not mine, and I have no further answers to give you.”

She smiled, and the smile wasn't phony. No, she considered it to be a rather good answer, good enough at least to placate this idiotic rabble. Father had often remarked that she made a fine public speaker. Had she been born a boy, he'd told her, he would send her to study law or stand for political office. The compliment was comical, in a way—at least from his point of view. He never understood why she became so incensed at such comments. Progress, as far as he was concerned, was to be determined by men.

“Come on,” Rosalind muttered to Cecily, “let's get aboard before they depart without us and we're left here with this mob of reporters.”

“A splendid idea,” Cecily agreed.

•••

At the platform, Rosalind
glanced over her shoulder. Doris was right behind them, though a few people back in the crowd. Rosalind smiled and motioned for the girl to join them properly, for surely there was no harm in it. As she did so, Rosalind realized that she'd lost track of Charles and Harris.

“Cecily,” she said, stopping short. She shook free of Cecily's arm, looped within hers, and whirled around on her tiptoes. “Can you see Charles?”

“Oh, don't worry,” she said, patting Rosalind's back. “He's gone off to telegraph Daddy about some business. Nothing important, of course. Something dull, dull, dull, no doubt. I expect he'll meet us on the train.”

“Ah,” Rosalind said. That made sense. Charles wouldn't have left without a word. And besides, he was their chaperone: where they went, he had to go as well. “Well, good. So long as he's not going to abandon us
. . .
”

“I cannot imagine Charles abandoning you anywhere,” Cecily murmured.

Rosalind's cheeks flushed. She kept her head down. The reaction was neither ladylike nor proper. She reminded herself again that she was here as her father's representative, and that this was the only reason Cecily and Charles were able to join her on her journey home in the first place. “I'm certain I don't know what you mean,” she said, hiding a smile.

“Ohhhh, don't you?” Cecily teased. “Then I suppose I shan't say anything further about it.” She paused. “Not in public, anyway. Now come along, I can't wait to see what sort of train goes beneath the sea.”

As they lined up at the gate—still hidden by the massive curtain—the Kaiser delivered another harsh but triumphant-sounding line. Then he gave a sharp tug on a rope hanging near the podium. The curtain fell away. Even Rosalind had to gasp along with the crowd.

Chapter Three

F
ather has truly outdone himself. No wonder this is so important to him
. . .

Rosalind's jaw hung slack. She had marveled at her father's creations before: the bridge over the Hudson River, the one now being constructed over Lake Michigan, his high-speed locomotives and luxurious two-story passenger cars. But the Transatlantic Express stretched along the platform for what seemed to be nearly half a mile. The carriages were far larger than normal as well—easily twice the width of a normal Pullman car, and almost twice as tall, with arched roofs—painted in beautiful blue and gold. The windows were round like portholes, cheekily mimicking the ships that the train sought to replace: a design quirk her father had insisted upon, no doubt. Above, rows of delicate wires spanned the whole length of the train, crackling and sparking with electricity.

“My word
. . .
” Rosalind murmured as she, Cecily, and Doris slowly made their way along the platform.

“It's like a ship!” Cecily clapped her hands together softly in excitement. “A ship on wheels! I simply adore it!”

“You must get one of your very own,” Rosalind said wryly.

“I
must
.
I'll be the talk of Mayfair.”

“But wherever would you put it?” Rosalind asked. “It's very large and not likely to fit in the carriage house.”

Cecily appeared to think about this for a moment. “Cornwall,” she said, in all seriousness.

Rosalind sighed. Why Cecily still insisted in playing the flighty fool when they were alone—just the two of them—she could only imagine.

•••

They entered the train
far down the platform, beneath a great arched ceiling of glass and steel. The crowd was thankfully much smaller than the one in the concourse—only a hundred passengers were boarding—but with all the servants and porters, there were still more than enough people to make it slow going. Fortunately a small army of station attendants and conductors, all impeccably dressed in blue-and-gold uniforms, were on hand to keep things organized, issuing directions in a variety of languages.

“Here we go!” Cecily cried.

An attendant took her hand, helping her up the narrow carriage steps.

“Here we go,” Rosalind echoed as the same man helped her aboard.

She couldn't help but squint back toward the station. There was still no sign of Charles and Harris. But how could she spot them in all the confusion? They'd just have to reconnect on the train.

Inside, the cars were beautifully adorned with polished wood, textured wallpaper, and intricately painted murals that lined the ceiling, depicting countless oceanic scenes—it was all so much more opulent than Father's American trains. Small electric lamps shaded with green glass lit the narrow corridor, which ran along the left-hand side of the sleeper cars. The hallway was only slightly wider than that of a normal railway carriage, and Rosalind found things a little cramped, what
with the other passengers trying to find their compartments, and the porters moving baggage about the place. It seemed Father had been so intent on making the quarters as large and as grand as possible that he had forgotten that passengers also needed to be able to
access
them.

Typical of him, really: focusing on grandiosity while forgetting about little details like convenience.

Cecily suddenly made a noise of excitement. She began waving to a young woman about their age, who stood at the far end of the corridor. The girl was taller than Cecily, closer to Rosalind's height, with the porcelain-doll features and poise of the aristocracy—and with her slim dress and handbag, the fashion sense of a Parisian society girl.

“Alix! Alix!” Cecily cried.

The girl's face lit up. “Cecily?” she exclaimed.

“It's me!”

Cecily and the girl rushed toward each other, squealing in delight. They hugged each other tightly and exchanged kisses on both cheeks, giggling like schoolgirls. Rosalind watched the reunion with no idea what to say. Mostly she worried that this place was too claustrophobic for a meeting of old friends. A small traffic jam began to form behind them, and Rosalind gave the waiting passengers an apologetic smile.

“Cecily,” she said, “I don't mean to interrupt, but
. . .
”

“Alix,” Cecily purred to her friend, “you simply must meet Rose. Rosalind, this is my dear friend Alix von Hessen, of the Hessian von Hessens, you know.”

Rosalind figured that there weren't too many von Hessens who
weren't
from Hesse, but making a joke now didn't seem polite.

“Wonderful to meet—” she began.

“She and I were at finishing school together,” Cecily continued, talking over Rosalind with her usual exuberance. “In Switzerland, of course. All the best finishing schools are Swiss.”

“Of course,” Rosalind agreed, even though she had no clue.

“Yes, some of them,” Alix said, her English polished and fluent, “though our old headmistress
. . .
”

“Ooooh, Madame Künzler
. . .
Kindly do not remind me.” Cecily shuddered.

“I never knew you attended finishing school, Cecily,” Rosalind said.

“Naturally,” Cecily replied. “I insisted upon it. But look at me now, being so rude. Alix, this is Rosalind Wallace. I call her Rose. I'm the only one who calls her that, but you may as well, isn't that right, Rose?”

Behind Rosalind, a porter coughed loudly.

“I
. . .
yes?” Rosalind's voice faltered.

Alix smiled and raised an eyebrow, as if to say,
Cecily's a handful, isn't she?
She extended a hand.

“It is very nice to meet you, Rosalind,” she said. “If you are a friend of Cecily's, then I am certain we are going to get along wonderfully.”

“She's my dearest friend in all the world,” Cecily said. “And her father owns the railway. Isn't that fun?”

“The railway?” Alix asked. “You mean
. . .
this
railway?” Her pale-blue eyes widened. “Oh, my. Then I am very pleased to meet you indeed, Miss Wallace.”

Rosalind laughed, and then quickly remembered her manners. Smiling demurely, she nodded and said, “And I you, Miss von Hessen.” Then a thought occurred to her. Cecily had given no title to accompany the name, but there were so many aristocrats traveling with them
. . .
“Or is it Lady von Hessen?” she asked, suddenly afraid that she had misspoken.

“Oh, why should any of us be so very formal?” Alix asked. “We are on a train that travels beneath the waves. Clearly all the rules of the world are being thrown to the wind.”

“I suppose that's true,” Rosalind agreed, grinning a little. She almost forgot the impatience of the other passengers. It was wonderful to hear an aristocrat speak so dismissively of protocol. London had been filled with aristocrats so obsessed with protocol that they practically fell all over themselves to observe it. They had been even worse than Rosalind's Old Money cousins in America. Yet here was Alix von Hessen, insisting that none of that mattered.

“And besides,” Alix continued, her tone warm and genial, “if you are Cecily's dearest friend in all the world, I should like to think that we are already friends as well, Miss Wallace. Or
. . .
Rose? Yes?” She took Rosalind's hand.

Rosalind smiled. “I should like that very much, yes. And yes, you may call me Rose if you like. That will make two people. Things are so often better when they're shared.”

“Then you must call me Alix.”

“This is marvelous.” Cecily beamed, then suddenly her face became very serious, peering down her nose at the grumbling passengers. “And now
. . .
let's see my stateroom.”

“I think that would be best,” Rosalind agreed quietly. “Before we're kicked off the train for causing a blockage.”

“Don't be silly,” chided Cecily. “They can't kick
you
off, can they? Your father would cancel the whole journey!”

•••

Cecily's compartment was by
far the largest Rosalind had ever seen on one of her father's trains: it was a proper set of staterooms, rather than a cramped cabin. Just like on a ship. The floor was carpeted and the walls upholstered in matching green velvet. The brass adornments and fixtures on the walls were as brightly polished here as in the corridor, no doubt the work of diligent hands that had been working right up to boarding time. Father had truly spared no expense in this latest endeavor. She felt she should have known as much. But then, as she'd said herself, his business was his alone.

The furniture consisted of a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a table and chairs for entertaining visitors. There was even a writing desk by the round window. The bed was small by house standards, but for a train it was sizable, and it looked soft and warm, which were the best standards by which a bed could be judged. Cecily promptly threw all propriety to the wind and leapt upon it, cackling in delight as she bounced up and down.

“This is marvelous!” she cried.

“Now that you're settling in, Cecily, I think I'll be doing the same,” Alix said, with another wry glance at Rosalind.

“Yes,” Rosalind agreed absently. She walked in a circle around the room, examining the furnishings each in turn. She almost feared what would happen to the family if the Transatlantic Express wasn't a success. Father must have risked a fortune, no matter what Germany's investment had been. If the Transatlantic wasn't a success, they might suddenly become poor again, like Grandfather. Mother's family would never speak to them again; the only thing that kept them civil was the fact that Father's money allowed them to pay off Great-Uncle Horace's gambling debts.

All of which begged the question once again: Why wasn't Father on the train keeping an eye on things? He had to be concerned. Or did he have that much faith in Rosalind? Had she underestimated him? Maybe he trusted her to be not only the family representative but also the business's watchdog.

“I've been thinking, there are so many things to do,” Alix said in the silence. “I wonder if seven days is enough for it all. The dining room, the library, the tennis car, the concert hall
. . .
”

Cecily stopped bouncing and sat still, resting her chin on her hands. She looked at Rosalind. “Rose, why didn't you tell me they have a concert hall? You're supposed to keep me informed about these things.”

Rosalind was hardly listening. Her eyes had fallen on a little brass tube beside the desk, mounted on the wall just next to the window. There was a sort of scoop-shaped tray at the bottom and a series of levers and dials that Rosalind could make neither heads nor tails of.

She glanced back at Cecily. “Cecily, I know nothing about the wonders aboard this train,” she admitted. She turned to Alix. “How do you know about it?”

“I have
The Transatlantic Express Guide
,” Alix replied, as if in on a secret. She produced a small printed brochure from her handbag and held it up. “It details every step of our journey and the amenities available onboard, and it even gives a list of respectable hotels to stay at in New York. I am very pleased by it.”

Cecily groaned and flopped back on the bed. “Oooooh,” she said. “Trust you to get excited about a piece of paper.”

Alix rolled her eyes at Cecily's teasing. “I am very fond of paper, in fact. And in much larger quantities. I read books, you see. In Switzerland, Cecily was always teasing me about it.”

“That's something you two have in common,” Cecily said, smirking at Rosalind from the bed. “You love books and I tease you about it.”

“Incessantly,” Rosalind confirmed. It was all well-intentioned, but it did wear on a person. She wondered if Alix felt the same way.

“There are far worse things to be teased over,” Alix said.

“And more deserving ones,” Rosalind added. She felt herself drawn to the strange pipe contraption next to the writing desk. “I wonder what this can be. Any ideas, Cecily?” It didn't seem right to ask Alix about it, having only just met the girl. One did not inquire about peculiar technological devices with new acquaintances unless they were male and much older and engineers by profession.

“I've no idea,” Cecily said. “Could be a radiator. Or an ink dispenser.”

“Oh, Cecily, you silly fool,” Alix chided with a laugh. “It is a pneumatic tube, of course. For sending letters between cabins, I would think. Very clever of them to have thought of that.”

“Huh,” Rosalind said. She lifted the lid of the device, then let it fall shut again. “That rather makes sense.” She had never seen a pneumatic postal device in person, but she had read about them. Alix was right: it
was
terribly clever. It was like having a telegraph for letters. It made good sense having one on the train, as it was both more private and more convenient than having one of the porters deliver a message.