Brilliant Devices

chapter 14



It did not take long to learn the lie of the land, but that did not ease Claire’s frustration in the least. On closer inspection, what she had thought to be a town turned out to be a series of long sheds set into the ground, so that one had to descend a staircase in order to enter each one. The mess hall hunkered in the center, and arrayed in neat rows around it were housing for the miners, supply sheds, the mine offices, and management quarters, as well as what she was informed were wash houses, equipment sheds, and storage.

“There’s no shortage of water here, of course,” said the young engineer who had been seconded by Lady Dunsmuir to show Claire and Andrew around. “Those larger buildings there contain great steam engines that produce heat and electricks for housing and offices.”

“But why is everything set into the ground?” Andrew asked.

“Because of the storms and the cold, of course,” the young man said, as if this should have been obvious. “The ground may freeze as hard as iron, but at least it’s some protection from the gales from the north. If we didn’t build this way, homes and offices would be torn from their foundations during the winter, and we’d arrive in the spring to nothing but debris. The Firstwater Mine is like an iceberg, you see—ninety percent underground—and that includes the settlement as well.”

Claire nibbled on the inside of her lip to stop herself from telling the young man he was boring her to tears, and could they return to the office where the meeting was, please?

“Lady.” Maggie tugged on her skirt. “Lady, I’ve got to—to—” She rounded her eyes in a wordless plea.

“Sir, thank you for a most informative tour,” Claire said at once. “But I am very much afraid my ward and I must find a powder room posthaste.”

He blushed scarlet, and pointed. “L-lady Dunsmuir’s powder room is in that row there, third stair from the end. I’ll take y—”

“I wonder if I might prevail upon you to tell me more of the engineering side of mining?” Andrew put in smoothly, taking his arm and walking on.

The young man looked over his shoulder in some distress, but Claire took care that he should see nothing but a lady hustling a child to the nearest facilities. “Well done, Maggie.”

“I weren’t fibbing. I’m fit to burst.”

They located the indicated door without difficulty, and found the tastefully appointed powder room empty. And what luck—somewhere in the neighborhood was where the meeting was to be held, if the gentlemen milling about in the square outside were any indication.

When she and Maggie had completed their ablutions, Claire whispered, “We must find a way to hear what they’re saying. See if we might get into ~izedt">she an the ceiling.”

But they could not. On one side, the single window was at ground level, the ceiling not much higher. Other than the door, there was no other exit.

Behind her, Maggie opened the other lavatory stall, and drew in such a sharp breath that Claire turned. “Lady, look. This ent a loo at all.”

Expecting to see a sink or cleaning supplies, Claire was intrigued to see an empty cubicle, neatly paneled in wood. “I cannot imagine her ladyship ordering this for mere entertainment. Do you suppose it is something like the hidden closet you found at home?”

A few taps upon the panels revealed its dimensions, and it was only the work of a moment to spring the latch. A set of steps descended even deeper into the ground. “Maggie, you are a treasure. Where do you suppose these go?”

“Dunno. Let’s find out.”

Cold air breathed up from the depths, and Claire was glad once more that they had both worn coats. The steps were clean and well kept, which meant this passage was not secret, and was even regularly used. A thin line of electricks glowed along the ceiling.

“Lady! A signpost.” Maggie squinted at it in the dimness and spelled out the words slowly. “Managing Director that way. Owner’s soo—syu—”

“Suite.” Claire turned to gaze down a second passage, equally gently lit.

“Supplies. Mess Hall.”

“Good heavens,” Claire said. “These are underground streets. That young man was not exaggerating. It is like the Tube in London, Maggie, so that people—or perhaps only the Dunsmuirs—do not need to venture aboveground in the cold.”

“I thought everyone left when it got cold.”

“But if a storm should strike early or late in the season, one must still come and go.”

“Which way, Lady?”

“The Managing Director’s office. I wonder where we shall come out?”

A short distance down the corridor, they found another set of stone steps. “Quietly, now.” At the top, she pressed the latch slowly, and pushed the door open a scant half inch. The two of them pressed one eye to the gap, one above and the other below.

In the time it had taken them to find the door, the men had gathered around a heavy mahogany table—the Dunsmuirs, Count von Zeppelin, Captain Hollys, and the mine officers. And what she heard during the next half hour made her wish that her corset had not been secured so tightly, because she felt a distinct need to gasp for air.

Maggie sat on the steps after about ten minutes, and when that proved to be too cold, she got up and went exploring down the tunnel. Claire took this in at some level, but like the iceberg, ninety percent of her mind was taken up with understanding what was going on around that table.

For the Dunsmuirs were not merely a wealthy couple who dabbled in natural resources in various locations about the world. No, they intended to change ied gert—and for the better, too, as far as Claire could see.

“Why should all the commerce from Europe be funneled through New York?” the earl asked, indicating a huge map of the continent on one wall. “Any market needs competition to be viable, and since Charlottetown and the Maritime Territory have so recently declared for the Canadas, it makes sense to locate the airfield, port, and seat of government there.”

“And Zeppelin ships shall be the first to enter the new port,” the count said with satisfaction. “It will be profitable for all concerned when I do not have to pay the tariffs that New York extorts from me.”

“But we must be cautious,” his first officer warned. “It seems the Texicans may have infiltrated as far into the Canadas as Edmonton. It is my belief that they are responsible for the events of last night, when der Landgraf was attacked.”

The count nodded. “They are foolish, then, if they believe a single bullet can derail the development of a country’s economy. Whether I had fallen or not, these plans will proceed.”

“We shall be returning to London immediately following our tour, then,” Lady Dunsmuir said. “I will meet with Her Majesty to inform her of these developments.”

“Do you fear reprisals, then, your ladyship?” the mine director asked.

“I fear they have already occurred,” she said bluntly. “With the sabotage here and the attempt on Count von Zeppelin’s life, we would be fools if we did not believe them related. The only thing we do not know is who is behind it.”

“We shall find out,” the count said grimly.

“I’ll tell you who’s behind the sabotage,” the mine director said, his brows lowering in a frown. “If it isn’t Frederick Chalmers and his Esquimaux, I’ll eat my hat. Who else knows this mine like the back of his hand? And—begging your pardon, your ladyship—who parks his boots under the bed of a woman of the Esquimaux, the whole kit and caboodle of whom are in Isobel Churchill’s pocket?”

Frederick Chalmers!

Claire gripped the door frame hard so she would not fall headfirst through it. She must find Alice immediately. Could her father really be so close? Because it had to be he. How many men named Chalmers would have intimate knowledge of a mine’s workings if he were not an engineer?

And then what the man had said sank in.

They suspected Frederick Chalmers of the sabotage.

Oh, dear. Which would be worse—never to know one’s father, or to know him for a saboteur and a criminal?


When Claire joined Andrew and their guide topside once more, she was hard put to keep from spilling her news. But of course one must not blab indiscriminately what one had learned by eavesdropping—though this was not a rule of etiquette her mother, Lady St. Ives, would ever espouse.

They joined the others in the office, conveniently too late to have been included in the discussions. The meeting had broken up and everyone was enjoying thimbles of port and brandy. Claire and Maggie had just accepted cups of piping hot tea when a messenger came in.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said to the earl, “but a pigeon’s just arrived.” He handed his lordship an envelope bearing a most flamboyant script.

The earl tore it open and read the contents.

“Good heavens,” he said blankly, and handed the letter to the countess. “We are to be inundated with guests, it seems. The news of your visit, Count, seems to have traveled far and wide. And is about to travel farther.”

Davina’s brows rose and she handed the letter to Count von Zeppelin. Then she turned to Reginald Penhaven. “It seems the end-of-season convoy is arriving a week early, in the company of Julius Meriwether-Astor and his family, plus a rather large contingent of reporters from the Texican, Colonial, and Edmonton newspapers. Do you know of Mr. Meriwether-Astor?”

“Is he the railroad baron out of New York?”

“He is indeed,” Count von Zeppelin said. “We have met on one occasion, but I am afraid it was not a happy one. He is expanding his interests from railroads to airships, you see, and did not look upon my newest designs with a friendly eye.”

“His ships fly with the older Crockett steam engines, do they not?” Claire asked. And when surprised faces turned her way, she fought the tendency to blush under their scrutiny. “I went to school with his daughter Gloria. And when I was looking for a company with which to invest, naturally I first investigated a concern that was familiar to me.” She smiled at the count. “Their ships do not hold a candle to the Zeppelins, though, I am happy to say.”

The count smiled back and waved the letter. “It seems he has been making a world tour in his newest model, seeking to drum up publicity.”

“This seems a strange stop to make, then,” Mr. Penhaven observed. “A little out of the way, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not if you bring reporters with you,” Davina countered. “The world comes with them. Count, I am afraid our dinner en famille is about to be augmented by several orders of magnitude. May I offer our mess hall once again, and recommend we move dinner to tomorrow evening?”

He bowed to her gracefully. “If your chef will agree to working with mine, we will put on an event that will give these reporters something much more interesting to write about than Meriwether-Astor’s creaky old ships.”

The door opened and another messenger came in. “A pigeon for you, your ladyship.”

Davina tore open the envelope, scanned the letter, and raised her eyes to the heavens. “We may as well invite the governor of the territory and be done with it. This is from Isobel Churchill. She is on her way from Edmonton with what she says is an order from Prime Minister Darwin himself that we suslf his is fpend production of our diamonds pending a hearing of the Esquimaux’s case before the Bar.”

“Poppycock!” the earl exploded, taking the letter as if its contents would wither to nothing under his furious glare. “The prime minister has no such authority—particularly since the diamonds for Her Majesty’s thirty-fifth anniversary tiara are being cut and finished as we speak. I’m sure she would have a thing or two to say about a suspension, particularly since she chose the stones herself.”

“Not to mention the fact that our mine is not under Esquimaux control,” Davina said more mildly. “It seems I may have to reveal my parentage to the dear lady after all this time, and settle the matter.”

“That is your choice, my dear.” The earl touched her cheek, his temper fading as he regarded his wife with fondness. “You have the family and Her Majesty behind you, whatever you decide.”

“I am not ashamed to let it be publicly known to Isobel Churchill … and twenty foreign reporters.” Davina raised her chin and looked positively wicked. “Perhaps I might even upstage Mr. Meriwether-Astor’s world tour.”