Imperial Clock (The Steam Clock Legacy) Page 6

  A rare combination. If only she were a couple of years older and bore a more reputable family name. If only...

  Using his compass, for the party’s tracks were completely covered, he led them directly to the coaches in a little over fifteen minutes. Eustace was not there. He had evidently lost his bearings trying to find them in the blizzard, so Wilhelmina sent up a flare rocket from the emergency supply chest. He can’t have been far away, as he returned several minutes later sporting a limp of his own, face red as beetroot. In the meantime, no one seemed to notice Sonja McEwan’s ankle had fully healed.

  Nor that Mrs. Prescott, resting on the front seat of the first carriage, had passed away.

  Her heart had given out.

  “I could’ve sworn I packed the over-ice—sworn blind. It makes no sense. I had two spare gas torches in this hamper with the soup flasks, two torches full and ready just in case, and plenty of hot strips for the copper pan.” Mrs. Challender rifled through the blankets and food baskets and under the seats in the final carriage one last time, on the verge of tears, before casting her husband and Mr. Auric a pitiful gaze. She turned her face away when she saw Sonja had seen.

  Hmm, that’s right, best not cause a panic with the others. But even Sonja swallowed hard at the sight of one her teachers falling to pieces.

  Mr. Challender buried his head in the bulky sleeve of his parka, resting against the brass door frame. His wife’s alarming news had the unflappable Mr. Auric worried too; he rubbed his stubbly chin several times with his glove, no doubt thinking of a way out of this. Several locomotive components in the steam engines were frozen solid, and without gas lamps to warm hot strips in the copper pan, and those hot strips to melt the ice, they had no way of freeing up the engines. In other words, they were stuck here until the engines thawed, or they had to walk out.

  “Roughly how far, if you had to guess—”

  Mr. Auric shook his head, silencing his shorter, fatter colleague. “Don’t even think it. When night falls, you’d freeze to death before you made the nearest village.”

  “May well be, may well be. But I don’t fancy leaving these girls out here all night either. See,” Mr. Challender swiped a handful of snow off the roof, “these carriages are only covered by a waterproof canopy. Hardly any insulation.”

  “Better that than foot-slogging it,” Sonja rudely cut in, not meaning to—she immediately clasped a gloved hand over her mouth and cringed at Mr. Auric’s headshake on her behalf. Damn, she really had to stop blurting things out like that.

  “Right, McEwan, you’ve had this coming.” Mrs. Challender slid from the carriage, marched over the snow and proceeded to whip Sonja with a tea towel. Hateful, erratic blows that either glanced off her kagool or slapped the side of her hood, making her ears sting. “Impudent little—I’ll bloody teach you not to give lip to your elders.” Thwack! “Giving cheek at a time like this—you just wait till I have you in my office, you rotten little terror.” Thwack! Thwack! “You’ll never speak out of turn again, so help me.”

  After the initial shock had sunk in, Sonja felt a little sorry for her arts and crafts teacher. The blows weren’t having their intended effect, and the poor woman’s sobs between outbursts made it clear this attack was her frustration speaking, and a pitiable frustration at that. She obviously blamed herself for the dangerous night to come.

  At last she desisted, and her husband led her back into the supply carriage. Dorcas Henshall, Aloysius’s twin sister, who probably hated Sonja even more than her obnoxious brother did, thumbed her nose from a carriage window and then, mouth wide like a grouper’s, scrunched her sly face into a hideous sideways laugh for her friends inside.

  Incensed, Sonja hurled a juicy snowball. It found the open window and hit the little hellhound square in her fizzog. Sonja dove into the nearest carriage just as Dorcas spilled out of her own, wailing into the blizzard, eager to heap more trouble on her long-time enemy.

  But Mr. Auric wasn’t so gullible. “Whatever’s to do, Henshall?” He quirked an eyebrow at Sonja while he held the drama queen crying into his jacket. “If you want my advice, throw one right back—that’s the way to get even.”

  “But Mister Aur-ric—she’s always picking on me.” More tears from Dorcas, even less sympathy from perhaps the only teacher in the entire school who saw through her vindictive theatrics. More than that, he was the one teacher who didn’t speak down to Sonja, didn’t talk at her, lecture her the whole time.

  He listened.

  Father was never there to listen; Aunt Lily was disinterested in anything but gossip and the latest fashions; and Merry didn’t care much for science; which left Derek Auric, five years her senior and soon to be a Leviacrum fellow, as her “huggable mentor”, as she’d written in her diary last term. A corny phrase perhaps, but it was true—they got on like a house on fire in matters of science, politics, history, favourite places they’d visited, even adventure literature, though he was a devout reader of Verne, while she preferred Rider Haggard. And the more time they’d spent together after class, or in his office during lunch hour, swapping books, chatting away at everything and nothing, the greedier she’d become for his company.

  No, tarrying with him in the blizzard had definitely not been over-dramatic; she would have gladly sprained her ankle for real for that privilege.

  But would he...could he ever consent to taking their friendship further? Beyond South Hampshire Grammar? Next semester, when he left for his new situation in the tower, they would be unbound from any teacher-pupil taboo but, when all was said and done, she would be seventeen and he twenty-one. Not an impossible age gap by any means, but how would his moneyed family react—not to mention Father and Aunt Lily, still refinding their footing in society—to such an unlikely pairing? And she was hardly Merry, a swan the boys flocked to whenever she spread her wings. No, Sonja was not feminine in that way. Not yet. Grace eluded her, as did obedience to fashions and social mores. But perhaps next season...with Lady Catarina’s instruction...

  “Now you run on back to your carriage. I’ll deal with McEwan. Here, these will help keep you and your friends warm until Mrs. Challender can see to you.” Mr. Auric handed Dorcas a couple of spare blankets, then joined Sonja in the empty carriage.

  Like the segments of a brass caterpillar, each steamcoach pulled a train of three spherical carriages. They each had large iron wheels with spring suspension for uneven terrain, and were coupled together by rigid iron knuckles. With both coaches stranded, the girls would have to share four carriages, with two left for the supplies and the two engine cabins for the staff. But the girls had packed themselves into three carriages instead of four, probably to console each other and keep warm, leaving one free. Sonja’s heart squirreled when Mr. Auric climbed in to share the empty carriage with her.

  “What will the others say?” She adopted her plummiest tone.

  “About what, pray?” Not obtuse, more evasive; he planted himself on the seat opposite her and avoided eye contact while he rubbed his gloved hands together and peered through a clear streak he’d made on the misting window. “I really did underestimate the chill. You are tolerably warm, McEwan?”

  “As toast, sir. But I’ve resolved to visit the warmest place on earth for my next holiday—the northern hemisphere rather seems to have it in for me.”

  He chuckled behind his vigorous glove-rubbing. “Where did you have in mind?” Sonja shrugged. “Oh, come now, give it your best shot,” he egged her on. “Remember my lecture on mind over matter, the physiological evidence?”

  Of course she did, or rather she recalled his delivery of it: loose and playful, for the first time really starting to engage the class, much to the chagrin of Dr. Gavin, their senior biology teacher who also happened to be a bald, creepy mesmerist every pupil in the school was scared stiff of. It was also the day she’d tripped into Mr. Auric, purposefully of course, and gasped as he’d caught her, hands on waist, lips almost touching, and spoken her first name: “Sonja...I mean McEwan,
easy does it now.”

  “How could I forget?” She smiled and coyly looked away when their glances met. “Oh very well, here’s my psychosomatic remedy for our little igloo ignominy: first...” His deep laugh only sweetened her exuberance, “... a week’s frolicking on a Bermudan beach, parasols and modesty optional, followed by the clearest, bluest, most fish-full snorkel swim in the Caribbean, probably off St. Lucia or Barbados.” Heavens, if her remedy was working on him as potently as it was her—and given the way his gaze discreetly poured over her body, perhaps conjuring her supple roundnesses beneath the winter wear, it appeared to be—Derek Auric would indeed have a distinct carnal inclination for her person right now. “And finally, a jungle trek to a paradise lagoon and waterfall where people wear scandalously little for—”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, that was most vivid, McEwan. I think that’s enough thawing for now.”

  Sonja groaned, but did he even realise how suggestive his quip was? He’d never made any kind of advance upon her, and rightly not, for he was a gentleman and would never abuse his authority over her, but could such obvious feelings...sparks...heat between two people ever be considered wrong? She knew nothing about such things. Did he even reciprocate her affection? He was fond of her, that much was obvious, but what else? Men were infuriating things—either too obvious when you’d rather not know or too inscrutable when a little insight might reassure. This fizzy alchemy between them, almost making her lose her head altogether at the mere thought of him close to her, where did it spring from? Both of them? Or from her alone?

  Don’t let him off the hook so easily. Keep him talking until he declares himself one way or the other. If you don’t, it’ll torture you forever.

  “I feel terrible about Mrs. Prescott.” She eyed the canopy roof as it flexed and whumped against the brass ribs holding its form. “She seemed so full of beans throughout the walk, and then just like that—” The first tears of ripped stitching made her swallow. She eyed Mr. Auric worriedly.

  He perched on the edge of his seat, biting his lip. His dull grey eyes pinwheeled as he watched the fray in the ceiling grow to a gaping wound, and considered his next course of action. “God, these winds are bloody-minded. I—we may need to reorganize if they get much worse. If the roofs should rip loose altogether...”

  A frightening thought. Bad enough to have to spend the night marooned in a blizzard, but to be exposed to the elements as well. She fidgeted with the drawstring on her kagool, twining it around her finger. “Sir, are you in charge?”

  He shot her a cutting glance, as though the idea appalled him. “No. Why?”

  “Nothing. I just think you should be, that’s all.”

  “Well, both Mr. and Mrs. Challender have seniority over me, so the onus is on them...I mean they are in charge of the class.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “That’s quite all right, McEwan. Despite the constant reprimands you receive, you’re actually a very sensible—” he mouthed a few syllables, as if sifting through them for the most non-committal word, “—very pragmatic young woman. Very much your father’s daughter.”

  She sensed he was caught between wanting to endear himself to her and his teacher’s duty to keep her at arm’s length. The result came across as cold, diffident.

  “Thank you.” Without the sir, she managed to soften the blow, make herself feel a little less patronized.

  The door flung open and Mr. Challender leaned into the carriage, followed by wicked swirls of snow. Sonja recoiled from the biting wind. “The roofs of four carriages have been torn free, including the girls’. My wife and I have made a decision.” He coughed and then wiped his streaming nose on a frozen sleeve. “We’re going to head for the farmhouse at the edge of Keswick before nightfall, before we all freeze. Everyone, that is. Everyone is going. Come on, Auric, McEwan, get yourselves ready. Grab whatever blankets you can find. As many layers as possible to insulate yourselves for the trek.”

  A strange, overpowering sensation of drowning overcame Sonja—drowning in snow, something that had never occurred to her until now. The drift had almost reached the highest step of the carriage, over two feet. If it continued at this pace, they might soon be entombed.

  Mr. Auric turned slowly to his superior. “Listen carefully to me, Eustace: leaving the coaches is the worst possible idea in this situation. I know you’re the senior faculty member here and we haven’t exactly seen eye to eye, but I implore you to trust me on this—if you take the girls out into this blizzard, there’s a very good chance you will kill some, if not all of them.”

  “Rubbish! Just sitting here waiting to be buried is the surest way to kill everyone. Think on it. At least if we start out now, before nightfall, we have a chance of reaching safety. If we stay here, we have no chance whatsoever of reaching safety. I’d rather not threaten you with disciplinary action by the School Board, Auric. My mind’s made up. Now come on.”

  “I’m staying.” Sonja sat upright, adamant as Mr. Challender turned to scold her.

  “And so am I.” With a stomp of his boot Mr. Auric was on his feet, clawing at the canopy, making short work of the stay pegs. Exhilarated, Sonja leapt onto the seat and helped him rip the roof free from its nails and stitching. She only managed one corner but between them, they soon tore the whole thing down. Then, after barging his perplexed colleague aside, Mr. Auric waded through the snow drift to the first of the girls’ open carriages.

  He shepherded the class into two groups, one per carriage, and called for them to “Huddle together as tightly as possible. I’m going to tie the edges of the canopy to the seats, but I also want you to take turns holding it down, using your own weight to secure it. I’ll show you how. Use the blankets to make yourselves comfortable, as it’s going to be a trying night. If you require the toilet, alert either myself—I’m staying with one group in the first carriage—or Mr. and Mrs. Challender, who will stay with the second group, and we will make all the necessary arrangements. And lastly, try not to worry; morning will come sooner than you think.”

  Despite the incredible wind, Sonja and a few other girls helped him rip the final fraying roof down—all the carriages were now exposed—and secure it over Mrs. Challender and the girls in the second carriage. Mr. Challender spoke something she didn’t quite catch into Mr. Auric’s ear.

  “You do what you have to, but I may have just saved these girls’ lives.” Mr. Auric glared into his colleague’s hateful stare, inches away. “And if you do anything to scupper it, I’ll break your bastard neck. We clear?”

  “Just so long as you know what’s coming.”

  “And vice versa.”

  They parted with obscene and livid hand gestures Sonja could not believe came from teachers at her school. If the other girls had seen or heard that exchange, they might indeed think the world was coming to an end. But it only confirmed her suspicion—that beneath the slightly shy and awkward assistant teacher, Derek Auric was a formidable man. He would not be bullied or swerved from what he knew to be the right course of action. Admiration almost frothed through her chattering teeth as she watched him orchestrate the survivors in the gale force winds.

  While she squeezed between a shaking Dorcas Henshall and Patty Lonergan under the canopy in the first carriage, muffled sobs from all around reminded her she was in most regards still in a world of children. But she didn’t feel like one right now, not even a little. A warm, gentle kiss on her cheek made her gasp. She couldn’t see him, yet the faint hint of tobacco on his masculine breath was unmistakable under the whumping tarp. And when he whispered to her, “Thank you for believing in me, Sonja,” she knew instantly she would never be that child again.

  She closed her eyes and saw beyond the storm as clear as day; it was almost unbearably exciting.

  Chapter Five

  High Tide

  The sluggish beats of the vintage chronometer kept Meredith on edge as she paced around the living room and dining room and peered through the front window every
few moments. Mrs. Van Persie, their half-blind housekeeper, flittered in and out, gathering items for the dining table spread, for this impromptu early lunch Father had scheduled by telephone. Exactly what trouble Sonja had been in was unclear, but it had to be serious for him to leave his pre-expedition operations in Portsmouth harbour and fly the first available airship all the way to Cumbria and the Lake District to collect her. He hadn’t had time to explain in his telephone call, but she was safe now and on her way home with him, if a little weak from whatever ailed her.

  When Meredith spied the glinting brass of a large, tubular-shaped wagon pulled by a team of several beefy shires, and Father walking backward down the driveway as he guided the vehicle’s clumsy turning arc between the gate posts, her heart sank. His third expedition to Subterranea was suddenly imminent. He’d hired the wagon to transport the remainder of his supplies to the harbour, an impregnable wagon for his most secretive possessions: scientific tools and instruments commissioned from his learned colleagues around the world, kept under lock and key in the cellar these past several months.

  Father was a puzzle of a man, always had been, beset by an unfathomable desire to win dominion over inexplicable regions far beneath their feet. Meredith had only been a toddler when he’d burrowed his way to Subterranea in his giant mole. She remembered more of the ballyhoo here at home afterward than of the famous day itself, in the autumn of 1899, when the massive machine had dug its way into a hillside in Dover—and the history books. Endless streams of dignitaries and reporters and particularly those teams of postmen carrying sacks of correspondence had flooded the living room for months, reducing her to a shy little ornament, while elevating Mother to a kind of regal personage, always smiling, always offering her hand to strangers, always profoundly sad inside, or so it seemed to Meredith. For although Mother had supported Father’s expedition indefatigably, even funding it from her considerable fortune, she had cried herself to sleep most nights he’d been away.