The Transatlantic Conspiracy (4 page)

Alix leaned past Rosalind, as carefully and politely as possible, then began fiddling with the dials and switches, muttering excitedly in German.

Rosalind glanced at Cecily for an explanation, but Cecily only raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

“Oh,” Alix said, suddenly realizing her rudeness. She took a few steps back and resumed a dignified pose. “I do apologize, Miss Wallace. It is only that the machine is very complicated. It appears one can send messages directly to any cabin one chooses just by selecting the number. It might not even go to a central exchange first, which is very good for privacy. I am
. . .
I am impressed, and it has gotten the better of my manners. Do forgive me.”

Alix sounded so earnest that Rosalind couldn't even think of being offended. She had never before heard another woman speak of gadgetry with such delight. It was much like when Aunt Mildred spoke of bicycling: peculiar, unladylike, but undeniably charming.

“There's nothing to forgive, Lady von Hessen,” Rosalind said, grinning in spite of herself. “And I thought you were to call me Rose.”

She sighed and smiled broadly in relief. “Yes, and you are to call me Alix. Commencing at once.”

“Then you'll pardon me, Alix,” Rosalind added, “because I should thank you. It's a fascinating device and thanks to you, I now know what the thing is. Left on my own, I feel certain I'd have mistaken it for a safe and stored my jewels in it, or something equally horrid.”

Cecily swung her feet onto the floor, saying impatiently, “Yes, dear Alix is very technologically inclined, you know.”

“I am not,” Alix protested, blushing. “I simply
. . .
read books about things.” She looked at Rosalind, perhaps for support.

“Oh, you needn't worry about Rose,” Cecily said. “She's as bad as you are. She drives motorcars.”

Alix's mouth went slack. Her eyes sparkled. “Is that so?”

Rosalind felt her cheeks getting hot. “I
. . .
” she began hesitantly. But then she steeled herself. Cecily had let the truth out, so there was no reason to deny it. Rosalind had already scandalized Society in America—not to mention London—with her illicit motoring. Why not scandalize Germany as well? “It's true,” she said. “Whatever you may think of me for it, I am a motorist. And proudly so.”

For good measure, she raised her chin and folded her arms. Let people say what they wished. Why should men have all the fun driving about in automobiles?

To her surprise, Alix clapped her hands together. “Cecily, your friend is simply wonderful. So spirited. Very
. . .
um
. . .
American.” It sounded like a compliment, so Rosalind decided to take it as one. “Wherever did you find her?”

“Find me?” Rosalind said. Her arms fell to her side. The initial goodwill she'd felt toward Alix began to chafe. She'd heard similar “compliments” from friends of Cecily's in London; they spoke of her as if she weren't present, as if she were a lost puppy—or worse, a curiosity.

“Our fathers are old friends,” Cecily explained. “And a good thing, too. You must meet her father sometime, Alix. You really must. He's as peculiar as she is.” Then she whispered rather loudly, “He's the one who gave her the motorcar.”

“I
can
hear you, you know,” Rosalind grumbled.

“Oh, don't be cross, Rose,” Cecily said with a giggle. “Don't mind us and what we say. We certainly don't mean anything ill by it. Do we, Alix?”

Alix quickly shook her head. “No, no, not at all. I do apologize, Rose; I meant no offense. Cecily and I are just happy to see each other.”

Cecily fell back onto the bed, arms spread wide as she stared up at the ceiling. “I should like to be a motorist one day. It must be sooo exciting. Whizzing through the countryside at twenty miles an hour!”

Best not to dwell on their aristocratic prejudices, Rosalind decided. They couldn't help it. They were like Father that way; he'd developed his own airs after he'd made his fortune. He'd become one of them. No, it was better to play along. She beckoned them both to lean in conspiratorially and stage-whispered, “I've driven over thirty, actually.”

“You never!” Cecily exclaimed. “That's faster than a horse.” She covered her mouth as if she had just heard something wonderfully scandalous—which, to be fair, she had. “You're such an eccentric, Rose. You and Alix both, what with your machines and motorcars and things
. . .
”

“You are one to talk, Cecily,” Alix said. “You are as bad as we two, and do not pretend otherwise. You and your love of clocks
. . .
”

Cecily's eyes flashed to Rosalind. Her face turned red. She grabbed one of the feather pillows and flung it at Alix, who evaded it by scampering to one side. “You promised you wouldn't tell a soul.”

“Clocks?” Rosalind repeated, baffled.

“Oh, yes,” Alix replied, nodding a few times. “She is clock-mad, our Cecily. She builds them, you know. Big ones, little ones, watches even.”

Cecily grabbed another pillow to hide behind. “Lies! All of it!” she cried, but Rosalind knew Cecily well enough to tell when her friend was putting on an act, gleeful at being indignant—which was most of the time.

“In Switzerland we shared rooms,” Alix told Rosalind. “Day and night it was all
tick-tock
,
tick-tock
.”

A realization struck her. “So that's why you have so many clocks in the parlor,” Rosalind said. “I thought they belonged to Charles.”

“Belonged to Charles?” Cecily's smile vanished. “Hardly. My poor old brother knows nothing about assembling clocks. Doesn't understand the first thing about it, I tell you. Far too busy mucking about with his guns and shooting and tweed. Ohhh, tweed. Dreadful fabric. Simply dreadful.”

Having seen Charles wearing tweed during a recent excursion to the country, Rosalind was inclined to disagree. But best to keep that to herself, too.

“Speaking of Charles
. . .
” she ventured, then paused, uncertain of how to ask after him without sounding improper. “Shouldn't we find him?”

“Charles is
here
?” Alix asked Cecily

“Um
. . .
” Cecily said, suddenly at a loss for words. “Well
. . .
Well, no. Obviously not with us here now. I mean, that is to say
. . .
”

“He accompanied us all the way from England,” Rosalind chimed in, wondering at Cecily's odd behavior. Perhaps the siblings had gotten into an argument she hadn't been aware of. She pushed the thought from her mind; it was none of her business. “And then we lost him in the crowd at the station. He must be onboard somewhere. He's traveling to New York with us.” She hesitated, then added, “He's our chaperone.”

“Yes, but only as far as my parents are concerned,” Cecily said, collecting herself. “Charles is clearly being Charles. Who really understands anything that he does?” She hopped out of bed. “Now then, let's not talk any more about my silly brother. Such a dull subject.”

Alix glanced at Rosalind and shrugged.

“I know what we should do,” Cecily said, taking Rosalind's arm. “We should go along to the restaurant car and have some lemonade. Doesn't that sound like fun?”

“Yes, but
. . .
” Alix appeared puzzled at first, and then she smiled. “That is a wonderful idea. I could do with some refreshment before I get settled.”

Before Rosalind knew what was happening, Alix had taken her by the other arm and the two girls were guiding her toward the door.

“But, Cecily,” Rosalind protested. “What about Charles? Don't you think we should make an effort to find him?”

Cecily groaned. “Rose, my dearest, you mustn't insist on discussing my brother so. People will talk.”

Clearly, there
was
something going on between the siblings—Cecily was never this mean-spirited or rude—but arguing about it wouldn't make Cecily any more inclined to explain herself. It was best to put her at ease and in charge; that was always the trick for getting Cecily to reveal something she was trying to hide.

“You're right, Cecily,” she said. “Your brother can look after himself.”

“Very sensible, Rose.” Cecily gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “And after all, lemonade is far more important than boys.”

Chapter Four

T
here were three dining cars in First Class. The tables were circular and covered with woven tablecloths of blue and gold—the same colors as practically everything else on the train. That, too, was typical of Father: throwing gold all over the place like King Midas. Yet here again he'd reached for new heights. The china and silver were all sparkling, brand-new. Ornate crystal chandeliers hung very close to the ceiling, presumably to avoid striking anyone in the head.

An attendant seated them at one of the tables near a round window. Within minutes, Rosalind found herself relaxing, sipping lemonade with Cecily and her new friend, Alix. She glanced outside; the platform was nearly empty. The people outside had presumably all either boarded the train or been shooed away by the station attendants. They would be leaving soon.

There were only a few other people in the car—everyone else was probably unpacking. Among these few were some German and Austrian aristocrats, though she spotted one Russian in military uniform. A pair of French businessmen sat at a nearby table, speaking in quiet and serious tones about the train and what it meant for the future of Europe. Rosalind was tempted to eavesdrop. She could almost hear Father's voice in her head, lecturing these two about the unstoppable march of progress. Led by American machinery. Led by
him
.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Old Europe had a reason to fear the upstart industrialists, not only in America but also inside their own borders. Entrepreneurs who made their own fortunes did pose a risk to the old order. And this was a good thing, the
best
thing. The collapse of class barriers, the breakup of empires
. . .
But Father was so blind in so many ways. Particularly when it came to his own daughter. Women played no part in shaping his version of a new and better future.

Rosalind tore herself away from the whispering Frenchmen. Cecily was her usual talkative self, prattling on about the drapery and the glassware, plainly making every effort to avoid the topic of Charles. Before Rosalind could ask after him again, Alix smiled at her.

“Tell me, Rosalind, what is it like to drive a motorcar?” she asked.

“Oh, it is very exciting,” Rosalind answered. “Like riding a horse while sitting in a chair. The wind rushes against your face.”

Alix nodded and sipped her lemonade. “That sounds wonderful. I should very much like to drive a motorcar one day.”

“When we arrive in America, I will take you for a ride in Father's,” Rosalind said, and she meant it.

“Won't he mind?” Cecily asked.

“I doubt he'll even notice,” Rosalind answered. She bit her lip, realizing what she had just said. But it was true, and it spoke to exactly what she'd been thinking a moment ago: Father rarely paid much attention to anything she did, except when it served his own interests.

Alix set her drink down. “This voyage shall be great fun, I know it. My goodness, Rosalind, it must be very exciting to be the daughter of an American engineer who builds such incredible trains—”

“He does more than just build trains, silly,” Cecily interrupted. “He builds bridges and tunnels and things, too.” She looked at Rosalind. “He must be very clever with numbers.”

“With mathematics, yes
. . .
” Rosalind answered. “And you know, he always said I took after him in that.” She glanced at Alix. “There was many a summer when Father had me doing the ledgers for the company, to make sure it was all in order. He said I was very good at it.”
But of course
,
she added silently,
it was all about helping him, not about my own abilities.

“Your father made you his accountant?” Alix whispered. “That is
. . .
I suppose I cannot even imagine it. How exciting.”

Rosalind attempted to smile, not even sure why she'd brought it up. At the time she'd felt that she and Father had something in common, binding them together. But her smile fell as she remembered again what Father always said to her when she'd finished: “If only you had been born my son.” Spoken every time like it was a compliment.

“Rosalind, is something the matter?” Alix asked.

She put the thoughts of her father from her mind and quickly said, “No, no, nothing at all.”

Cecily threw up her hands. “Alix, darling, you
must
stop pestering Rose about such silly things. You're embarrassing her. She loves books and writing and she's a machinist. She's even piloted submersibles. There: now we know everything about my American friend's sordid past. There are much more important things to discuss, like which hat I should wear to dinner. Because
truly
, if I wear the red silk—”

“Submersibles?” Alix interrupted. “Cecily can't be telling the truth, can she? Is that true, Rose?”

“
Once
,” Rosalind replied to Alix. Because
truly
: she, too, would rather discuss Cecily's choice of hat. To Cecily she said, more forcefully, “Once. My father insisted I accompany him when he tested rescue boats for the railway
. . .
”

Cecily grinned and sipped her drink.

“I think it sounds very exciting,” Alix said. “And dangerous. Were you not afraid of drowning?”

With a glare at Cecily, Rosalind replied, “Of course I was.” Her voice rose. “Sitting in a metal box under New York Harbor? Wouldn't you be afraid?” She bit her lip and turned back toward the window. “Perhaps drowning isn't the best topic of conversation.”

“Oh, I don't mind,” Cecily said impishly. “I enjoy a bit of a thrill. And I'm a very good swimmer.”

•••

Soon they were off.
There was a small jolt, barely perceptible, and then bright sunshine as they steamed out of Hamburg and across the German countryside. Before long the tracks began sloping downward into the earth. Less than an hour after their departure, a tunnel closed over them. The train was already underground, and still there was no sign of Charles. Rosalind realized her palms were clammy. He was their chaperone. He should have come looking for them. He should have easily found them by now.

“Cecily,” she said, “shouldn't we go looking for Charles and make certain he's aboard? I'm worried he may have missed the train for some reason. Perhaps he was waylaid back at the station—”

“Don't be absurd, Rose,” Cecily interrupted. “Charles can look after himself. It's not my sisterly duty to play nursemaid to him.”

“But Cecily, he's our chaperone.”

“Now isn't that peculiar?” Cecily remarked.

Alix nodded and stood up from the table, their lemonades long finished. “It is peculiar. I will say, this is the first time my parents have allowed me to travel by myself
. . .
”

“No, not that,” Cecily groaned. “The tunnel is peculiar. I'd have thought we would be under the water by now. I was looking forward to seeing fish. Don't tell me the tunnel goes underground the entire way?”

Rosalind laughed in spite of her worry.
Besides
, she thought,
he must be onboard. This is a huge train. He could be anywhere.
“The ocean is a bit too deep for that. No, the train goes underwater when we reach the coast. It's very difficult to support the weight of a train in the water, you see.” She began gesturing with her hands. Her mother always called this a horrible habit. But Mother said that about a lot of things, so Rosalind paid little mind to her admonitions. “And there are these buoys all the way along the tunnel to keep us afloat.”

“Buoys?” Cecily asked, gazing into the window at her own reflection.

“Yes, but you see, when the train comes through, it changes the weight of the tunnel by tons,” Rosalind continued. She was actually excited at the prospect of Cecily's fascination with something mechanical. If Cecily secretly enjoyed tinkering with clocks, perhaps she really did have interests beyond deciding on the right hat for the evening. Maybe it was even a good thing Charles hadn't found them yet. Cecily might open up if there weren't any men or boys around.

But then she stopped herself. Cecily and Alix were both staring blankly at her, doing their best to be polite.

“It's not really all that interesting, I suppose,” Rosalind said.

Cecily patted Rosalind on the arm. “Oh, don't be silly, Rose, it's utterly fascinating. Just like that time when you told me all about ballooning.”

Rosalind suppressed a scowl. Cecily was lying; this was Cecily's polite way of telling her she was being boring.

Alix, still standing, removed her brochure from her handbag. “I do not mean to interrupt, but I believe we should visit the arboreal car before we adjourn to our staterooms to change for the evening.”

“Arboreal car? They have an arboreal car?” Cecily paused. “What's an arboreal car?”

“It's an indoor park,” Rosalind explained. “Trees and flowers and shrubbery, that sort of thing. And the lights make it look like it's the correct time of day, or so I was told.”

“Oooh,” Cecily replied. She stood and peered at the brochure over Alix's shoulder. “It has a rose garden.”

“Yes, I know,” Rosalind murmured.

“We simply must see it before it is overrun by the teeming masses.”

“Cecily,” Rosalind said softly, “I know that you would like to go exploring, but we really ought to ask a porter to help us find Charles. At the very least we should ask for his room number, so we can send him a message telling him we're here. He must be worried to distraction about you.”

“Don't be absurd,” Cecily told her. “Charles doesn't worry about anything.”

“He worries about
you
,” Rosalind said, ever more certain that the siblings had had some sort of argument at the station. But then again, Rosalind hadn't seen any such argument
. . .

“They have a library!” Alix announced.

“Oh, Alix,” Cecily said, “you sound just like Rose.” She looked at Rosalind and teased, “You've only just met her and already you're a bad influence.”

Rosalind remained silent. Cecily insisted on being evasive? Fine. If the de Veres were having an argument, they would avoid each other for a little while, then they would make up and all would be back to normal. Rosalind had seen it happen before. Perhaps he was avoiding
them
as well. The best thing to do, Rosalind concluded, was to explore First Class as thoroughly as possible in the hopes of crossing paths with him.

“You know, Cecily,” she said, “you are absolutely right. We
should
explore. We should take advantage of this wondrous train.”

Cecily grinned. She raised her finger into the air and exclaimed, “Marvelous. To the rose garden!”

Rosalind exchanged a glance with Alix. They nodded to each other. Then they both looked at Cecily.

“To the library,” they replied in unison.

•••

Rosalind had seen the
“libraries” on some of her father's other trains—small, stuffy rooms packed with a tiny collection of crumbling books nobody wanted to read. This library was the size of an entire car, with a fine selection of books and several comfortable chairs to read in. It was at the rear of the First Class section of the train, rather near to the arboreal car, as luck would have it.

Along the way, they passed back through the sleeper cars, with Rosalind keeping a wary eye out for Charles the entire time. Car after car after car
. . .
A First Class fraction of one hundred passengers did not seem like a great number—certainly not when compared with the number typically onboard a ship—but on a train it appeared to demand an endless amount of space.

And beyond the sleeper cars were various amenities: parlors, an art gallery, a concert hall (where a pianist played at all times), and of course a smoking room, open only to men. (They could have it, though; Rosalind hated the smell of tobacco.) At every open door, she peeked in and made a quick search for Charles, and every time she was disappointed.

The library car was quiet and dark and lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves. There were high-backed armchairs and a couple of tables for reading, although the librarian on duty had a ledger on his desk: passengers could sign out books. Again, there was no Charles, but Rosalind had not given up hope. She took a moment to examine the titles on the nearest shelf
. . .
mostly novels and books of poetry, but some nonfiction as well.

Cecily tugged on Rosalind's hand. “Come along,” she urged impatiently. “The flowers are waiting.”

And Charles, too
,
I hope
, Rosalind thought. Her heart fluttered. Her palms felt clammy again. The arboreal car was at the very back of First Class, and the last car on the train that was accessible only to First Class passengers. Unless Charles was hidden away in his stateroom, he was there. He had to be.