To Catch a Rake (30 page)

For several agonizing minutes, he focused on the riverbed, as the bell’s position slowly moved. Then he saw the leak. Nothing more than a tiny, dark gash in the middle of a craterlike indentation on the sandy floor. He lowered himself into the water, feet first, to examine the hole.

The small, dark crack of several inches appeared next to a silver streak of water rushing into the tunnel. George tested the depth by shoving his finger into the hole. His finger traveled mere inches before it hit a solid object, possibly the top of the great shield. Not wasting any more time, he started to layer the few iron rods piled in the bell in a lattice pattern over the indentation in the riverbed. The first one disappeared in the swirl of disturbed river bottom. “
Damnation
.” The thought of failure and instant death from being sucked into the hole crossed his mind for a second or two. He closed his stinging eyes and kept heaving the remaining heavy iron rods into place.

When finished, he signaled the men to drop numerous clay bags.

Once several bags were dropped, George swam in and out of the bell to move the bags into position over the leak. After repeatedly holding his breath for a minute or two, he tugged the bags to spread over the iron rods to make a wider plug. After who knows how many minutes later, he pulled himself into the bell, breathing hard. He waited a minute or two before he observed the first signs of success, the lack of any silver streaks of rushing water. Instead, the water around the bags appeared calm, as revealed by the disturbed sediment slowly falling down like snow back onto the riverbed. A dark outline of bags appeared like nestled eggs in the middle of the indentation. He continued to swim out of the bell and drag new bags close to the pile on the floor of the Thames, as fast as his fatigued arms could move them.

When the bags had run out, he signaled with three knocks for the bell to be raised. He had only enough strength to pull himself onto the small seat in the bell’s interior and slump to the side. Whether or not he was able to permanently stop the leak, he had no idea. All of the clay bags had been used, so more bags and a man with fresh muscles were needed at this point. His chest painfully constricted and with great difficultly he stifled the urge to panic due to the feeling of no air.

The color of the water below him soon appeared turquoise, indicating the bell had risen to a level where light easily penetrated the water. The bell broke the surface and fresh air burst into the iron dome.

He rolled off the shelf and managed to paddle five feet to hold on to the barge’s side. With numb hands and arms, he held on to the barge’s wooden railings with all of his remaining strength. He could do no more than that.

Mr. Duff observed his distress, jumped into the water, and swam to his side. In one swift movement, he threw his arm around his waist and heaved him high enough to grab on to the railing. “Up you go, gov.”

“The leak?” George managed to spit out with difficulty, his mouth full of foul-tasting Thames water. Able to hold on with his arm wrapped around the railing, he lacked the strength to fully heave himself out of the water.

The workman on deck gripped his arm and pulled, while Mr. Duff pushed him from below, so George finally escaped the deathly grip of the cold Thames and was flung onto the barge. He lay splayed on deck like a dead flounder.

“Don’t you go about worrying about the leak,” Mr. Duff said, pulling himself out of the chilly water. “Nothing we can do now but pile on more bags when the new ones become ready. Thomas is goin’ down next, and maybe after that we’ll hear if the leak ’as stopped.”

George replied with a nod, the only movement he had enough strength to execute.

It did not take long before the barge crew loaded fresh bags from a small boat and prepared to move the bell into place again.

He remained flat on his back, covered in his oilskins and coat, listening to the rushed efforts behind him.

Before they dropped the next load of clay bags, they received word from the shore that the leak had significantly slowed—enough so that it could be effectively managed from within the tunnel.

While the barge was towed back to shore, George lifted himself enough to lean against a wooden toolbox. He saw a woman with two young curly-haired children standing on the very edge of the quay. She held the smallest child in her arms, resting on her hip and a thumb in its mouth. The other, a small boy of possibly five years, held on to his mother’s skirt in a death-like grip.

Once the barge reached the dock, Mr. Duff hopped off and ran to his family. The four of them seemed to blend together in one big embrace.

George noticed other men’s families lingering around the pit as well. The news of a leak must have traveled quickly throughout London—fast enough that entire families came running to the site, concerned for the welfare of their loved ones.

After the Duffs completed their familial embrace, Mr. Duff lifted the youngest into his arms, while his wife held the boy. Both adults exchanged smiles and fleeting kisses.

George sighed; every part of his body ached. Closing his eyes, he heard only the happiness of family reunions happening around him.

Did he save the day, save Fitzy, and earn Mr. Brunel’s praise?

If so, the joy from his triumph escaped him. Fatigue or low spirits could account for some of his lack of enthusiasm. However, after watching the Duffs’ reunion, he began to fully comprehend the emotional need that drove families to rush from their homes at the sound of an alarm. He had witnessed it many times, but he had not been personally affected or truly empathetic before.

If you asked him a day ago, he would have immediately sought Mr. Brunel’s praise. Instead, this very minute, he understood why his father ran to his mother’s room when he returned home. Why his father shunned the immediate gratification of the accolades—praise that gave you the pleasure of a pat on the back and a spoken “job well done.” Why he sought the highest, most meaningful praise of them all, the proverbial crown of laurel leaves held high above your head—the accolades from the woman you love.

Now he understood his parents. The loneliness banished from his mother’s face, replaced by an expression of calm joy when her husband entered the room. Then the moment reached its crescendo by the peace of holding hands with the person you love the most—a single breath of time that defined your life and gave it purpose.

Now his future happiness depended upon finding Meta in order to tell her about the love that coursed through his body and claimed the essence of his soul. Success meant little to him unless he could share it with her. If only she were here now, he’d be a happy man.

So he had fallen in love at last.

He had just enough strength to chuckle weakly. At sixteen, he believed he had fallen in love with the sister of a friend from school. He spent a year planning his life, marriage, and future happiness based on a stolen kiss in a stairwell.

What an idiot
.

His sweetheart married another before she even came out. He believed he had been ill-used and the victim of the ultimate betrayal. His anger eventually turned into the certainty that he must have been unworthy of love, too tall and too dark or some other fault he would never be able to rise above. This sentiment remained with him for years until this moment.

This sweet moment of understanding himself better.

Nothing would ever make him happier than giving himself to one woman forever.

If she would have him?

He shouted a bark of laughter. Now he fully realized why his friend Boyce sang all the time after his marriage and why Ross hated to leave his wife’s side for even a day.

He dropped his head back and stared at the cloudy sky. Laying here on hard boards, soaking wet, under the gray heavens, he needed to rush to her immediately and place his weary, spent heart safely in her hands; tell her of his heroic actions; receive her praise and reassurances. He needed this now as much as he had needed air from a fragile leather hose.

At the bare minimum, he should have danced, laughed, or shouted his love to the world. But the memory of his many insults aimed toward Meta returned, the harsh words and bearlike bad temper.

Could she ever forgive him?

He masked his heartache from the thought of her refusal and told himself he did not deserve her forgiveness. He lay on the hard deck, feeling cold, fatigued, and worthless. His accomplishment of little meaning without her to share it.

Without her.

Without her, he was just another piece of rubbish floating on the Thames.

Twenty

George stabbed the shovel into a pile of muck. The scraping sound joined a similar noise made by the other men, all echoing throughout the tunnel. The week following the water intrusion, he found comfort in work, the exhausting physical numbness of hard labor mastered. Both the Brunels expressed their surprise when they frequently found him assisting the miners digging out the mud left behind by the leak. George considered his suffering, caused by the nauseating stench of sewage, a form of penitence. He told himself every good engineer must have personal experience doing the dangerous work he asked of others.

Meanwhile, it gave him a chance to assess his newly recognized passion for Meta—and left him wondering if the overwhelming sensations he experienced on the barge were transitory in nature—created by sheer exhaustion—and therefore might fade with time. But he knew better. He wholly recognized his love—romantic love—but he failed to devise a solution for his condition. He knew nothing about her late husband or the extent of her lingering feelings of fidelity or love. Moreover, she likely remained offended by his recent bouts of ill-tempered insults. He would not find it surprising, in the least, if she never forgave him.

What proper lady would?

So if she refused his suit, could he live with his need for her? She had become one of his life’s necessities, like food and air. When she rejected him, what would he do? Clearly, he would have to flee England. Live in a land far away, never to be heard of again, lost and forgotten—America, perhaps.

By the end of the week, his distress reached a level he was unable to relieve by himself. Courage failed him—her rejection a possible death sentence.

His only option was to discuss the matter and get another opinion. The choices were a best friend, like Boyce, or one of his new friends, like James, or a man of greater experience, like his father. Not desiring to appear weak or teased in front of his friends, he decided to discuss the matter with his father after dinner. As far as George was concerned, he’d rather have a blacksmith pull his eyeteeth out than discuss such a matter. But he was desperate.

Damnation, he had become a maudlin idiot.

That evening, he entered the parlor first after dinner. The rain came down in translucent sheets on the windows, but a vigorous fire in the hearth countered the onslaught of rain. After two glasses of brandy, he strode to the mantel and grabbed the pile of white cards. As long as he lived, he had no intention of responding to anyone, about either of the two field guides, ever again. He threw the cards into the fire and inhaled the sour smoke of burnt paper.

His father entered the parlor holding a note recently delivered to Mrs. Morris. “Wonderful. It appears young Fitzhenry will pay a call upon us tomorrow. I must say I miss the boy. Sometimes, on rare occasions, he reminds me of you when you were young.”

“Pardon?” Struck by the return of Fitzy paying a call, and whether or not his sister approved, he lost the thread of conversation. “Fitzy?”

“Yes. You never really appreciated the emotional impact of your drawings, just the intellectual accomplishment. On the other hand, Fitzhenry expresses a rare aesthetic appreciation for them. Rare too amongst most members of the general public, I have discovered. In the long run, he’ll find more happiness being an artist than a draftsman or engineer.” He looked at the note again. “This gives me an idea. Mrs. Morris,” he called, strolling out of the room.

George ground his teeth. He eyed the brandy and wondered if another glass would put him in his cups. If he became thoroughly disguised, could he effectively communicate his woeful situation with Meta to his father without making a damn fool of himself by blubbering out some nonsense that would never suit?

To hell with it.

There were times when a man needed many, many bumpers of strong brandy, and this was one of them.

His father returned and plopped down on the ivory chair before the fire. “I sent him a note in return. I’m going to ask young Fitzhenry to bring certain supplies tomorrow. I have a plan to engage the lad to create a present for you mother. She will be delighted; I know it.”

For the first time, he neither questioned nor complained about his father’s attentions to the woman he loved. Instead, it inspired him to consider a future gift for Meta, someday, if he ever got the chance. “I know Mother will appreciate that.”

His father cocked his head. “Do you? I’m pleased to hear that.”

Right, here goes. “I wonder if I might have some advice?” George congratulated himself on taking the first step. Seeking advice pained him; it might even be fatal.

“Certainly,” his father said, a broad grin increasing the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “On what subject? Love?”

George choked on his swig of brandy.

His father beamed. “I was being facetious, but from your expression, I must have hit the mark. You know I never expected us to discuss that subject, but I’m pleased, dear boy, pleased indeed. My father and I never discussed females. It was just not the done thing in those days.”

“I’d never say a word either if I hadn’t made a mull of it.”

His father chuckled. “All men make mulls out of romance. I promise you that. It’s that lovely Mrs. Russell, isn’t it?”

George nodded, then took another gulp of brandy. “I blamed her for my troubles. Justly, in some cases, unjustly in others. I should apologize first, of course. But I’m not sure how to proceed after that. I just cannot go on without making it right between us.”