Courting Trouble (3 page)

Would goggles make a better forgive-me gift than flowers? Would Esme even care that he wanted her to share his dreams?

He replaced the goggles on the mantelpiece beside the replica brass model of Dayenne’s groundbreaking mechanical analysis of speed and motion in the animal world. Gears and pistons worked as muscles. It was the inspiration for Jed’s own work.

Not that his work was proceeding as quickly as he’d hoped. First there had been the distraction of becoming acquainted with Esme. She’d mistaken him for a smooth-talking scoundrel and offered him employment to front her Women’s Advancement League and speak for her in the men’s clubs. He’d accepted because he’d seen it was his best chance to get to know her.

But now, the governor had agreed that discussions on the political future of the Swan River Colony would be held in settings where women could also participate, and Esme had released him from his spokesman’s role.

He ought to have been using his freedom to focus on his work, but he’d discovered love and concentration didn’t mix. He kept wondering what the heck Esme would get up to next.

Just last week she’d signed up to take dirigible pilot lessons. No respectable woman flew a dirigible. Those dangerous aircraft were purely for sky pirates.

Esme just kept pushing the boundaries.

Women! Who could understand them?

He picked up the packet of papers he’d thrown on the desk. Poor Gupta. Jed suspected he well knew that Lajli’s pursuer wanted back the money she’d stolen—and that she was likely to be highly resistant to that idea. She’d probably spent most of the money buying passage to the Swan River Colony. The papers were a diversion while Lajli worked on her evasion techniques.

Still, he’d promised to look at them, and he was curious why Gupta had sought his advice. He laughed under his breath. It would be ironic if Gupta expected him to know how to handle women.

Was Esme right? Were the townsfolk waiting to see a performance of
The Taming of the Shrew?

Darn interfering busybodies. Their interest was making her more skittish.

He sat in the room’s sole armchair drawn up to the fire. The oxblood leather of its right arm was cracked, and Mrs. Hall hid the deficiency with matching antimacassars crocheted in vile orange and brown wool. But the chair was comfortable.

Jed unfolded the papers, blinked and angled them to catch the firelight. At first he thought the writing was in a foreign language, but one or two words popped out at him,
waves
and
tone.
He squinted and recognized
vibrations.

It was difficult writing, a cramped fist that a graphologist would label secretive. Even the diagrams were odd. He turned one page sideways. They looked to be made up of a random collection of parts from musical devices. An elongated phonograph trumpet lay near a side-section view of a music-box reel.

He deciphered two more words,
Kali’s Scream,
and then, with increasing interest,
The British Raj shall dance, crashing to its knees, when Kali screams.

“Surely it isn’t possible.” But he switched on the gas lighting and moved to his desk, pushing aside the unfinished letter to his mother and lining up a fresh sheet of paper and a sharp pencil. Slowly, disbelievingly, he deciphered the blueprints and notes, while the grandfather clock in the hall below gravely chimed the hours.

Fascinating. Since he was an inventor, the science of the device laid out in the blueprints intrigued him. As a man…he smiled. Lajli’s stolen papers held definite possibilities.

A yawn caught him by surprise. He stood and stretched cramped muscles. Bending, he added another log to the fire, then leaned against the mantelpiece and watched the flames greedily embrace it.

The sap crackled and snapped. All through history, fire had been the symbol of hell, a force of terrible destruction and suffering. But if these papers weren’t the ravings of a lunatic, then there existed the potential for a new hell, an inferno—no, a volcano—of sound. There existed the means and the will to devastate lives.

Except he didn’t believe them. Oh, the theory sounded superficially plausible, but if one wanted an explosion, the answer was dynamite. No, the value of the papers lay in something else entirely… Handled properly, they were an invitation to adventure.

Forget roses. He was going to give Esme a mystery.

Chapter Three

Esme handed Mrs. Ayesha Dam a screwdriver and watched her friend replace the back of the clock she’d just repaired. An individualist in her own quiet way, Ayesha alternated between days she wore a sari and days she wore European dress. Today she looked like a schoolmistress in navy wool with a white trim. The severe style suited her tall, slender figure. Silver streaked her black hair, which she’d wound into a smooth knot and secured with two carved ivory pins.

Her tidy workshop was on the northern edge of Bombaytown. The crowded township was defiantly Indian against the stark backdrop of the Australian landscape. It vibrated with energy under the wide expanse of blue sky—mysterious, attractive, swirling with rumor and people determined to start new lives.

Ayesha gave a final twist to a screw, then spun the clock around. “All fixed.”

Esme nodded, uninterested. Ayesha was always fixing something for someone, although she didn’t do it for money. Her husband was a successful sandalwood merchant, traveling between Swan River and Kochi. Ayesha worked because she loved fiddling with gadgets. Just now, her current preoccupation was refining the design of firelighters for the Diwali celebrations in a couple of weeks. Bombaytown loved its Festival of Lights.

“How are your Diwali preparations going?”

“Wonderfully. In addition to the firelighters, I’m designing some clockwork insects as gifts for the neighbors’ children. Look at this clockwork bee.” Broad yellow stripes encircled the toy’s fat body. When she wound it up, it was ridiculously enchanting, with its wobbly antenna and a rattly buzz that accompanied the jerky raising and lowering of its wings.

“Charming. The children will love them.”

“Ah well, isn’t that what any festival celebrates, the sharing of joy?” Ayesha put the bee down and picked up a brass grasshopper. She squinted at its back legs. “Now if I could only get this fellow to jump.”

If I could only forget Jed Reeve for ten minutes.
He was the reason she couldn’t settle to anything this morning. She’d finally abandoned her revolutionary tracts and a draft speech on universal suffrage in favor of fresh air and a brisk bicycle ride. Her emerald-green cycling outfit expressed her rebellious mood perfectly. The radical bloomers told the world that here was a woman not afraid to assert her independence and individuality.

But at what price?

One tall, lean Californian with laughing dark eyes and an incisive intelligence had her questioning her choices. Revolution was all very well, and she had no intention of relinquishing her political ideals, but when it came right down to it, was politics enough to fill her life and keep her warm at night?

Passion.
In the privacy of her mind, she said the word defiantly.

Society said women weren’t meant to be passionate. Sentimental clichés described them as angels of mercy, dainty flowers and motherly homebodies.

But she’d discovered she was passionate. She cared passionately about injustice and, she very much feared, she cared passionately for Jed Reeve.

If she were honest, it was more than passion. She was teetering on the brink of falling in love.

She picked up a music box and turned the key. A few notes of “Greensleeves” tinkled out.

Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously
. The words drifted up from memory.

She was almost sure Jed loved her, but did he love her as she was, or how he wanted her to be? Always it was the woman who had to fit herself to a man’s world. She’d heard how he spoke of his mother. She was the perfect, fashionable helpmeet to her husband’s political career as a United States senator. It raised the question of Jed’s expectations for his own wife.

Esme sighed and replaced the music box on the low shelf of repaired items.

“I like your Mr. Reeve,” Ayesha said.

“No one likes a mind reader.”

“It is the combination of frown and smile that tells me you are thinking of him.”

“You approve of Jed because he’s an inventor like yourself.”

“Inventors are fascinating.”

“Did you hear what he did yesterday?”

Ayesha turned away, ostensibly to watch the toy grasshopper as, wound up, it crawled and kicked its way to the end of the bench. Admittedly, its stuttering progress was amusing, but not to an inventor trying to solve a problem.

“I saw that smile. It’s too bad of you, Ayesha. He embarrassed me dreadfully. He slung me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. All the men cheered and hollered. I was mortified. And he had the nerve to say he was preserving my reputation!”

“The Rootail Pub does rejoice in a certain infamy.”

“It’s a workingman’s pub. Besides, the landlord’s wife was there.”

“And the other women?”

Esme glanced down at the scarred worktable. The other women had all been prostitutes. Esme had nothing but sympathy for women reduced to selling themselves, but she couldn’t argue—their presence had daunted her. Their sexuality was so overt and tired. They’d rubbed up against the men, allowing themselves to be groped or roughly pushed away. When Jed walked into the pub, her discomfort had ratcheted up another level. She’d become blisteringly aware of her own feminine attributes, unable to prevent her imagination presenting her with images of herself and Jed. Embarrassment had added force to her resistance to his demand that she leave.

She ought to be glad he’d stalked away in fury and disgust last night. Who needed a dictatorial male in her life?

Of course, if he returned today, there were a few more home truths she intended to share with him. He was more enlightened than most men, but clearly even he needed a refresher course in the respect due a lady suffragette.

If he returned…

She grimaced. Angry though she was with the man, he’d seemed to feel he had an equal right to be annoyed.

Courting was terribly hard on a woman. It forced her to look at the future, to realize that every choice had its price.

At times like these, a girl missed her mother. But her mother had died over two years ago. Ayesha, to some extent, took her place as an older friend who could, if not advise her, at least be counted on to listen sympathetically. There had to be a way an independent woman could share her life while retaining her identity, and without driving herself and her beau crazy.

There has to be, because I won’t be less than I am, not even for Jed.

* * *

“Jed Reeve, you scoundrel.” Esme inhaled sharply and her bicycle wobbled. She brought it to a stop and steadied herself with one booted foot on the ground.

Around her, the busy activity of Bombaytown swirled on undisturbed. She’d left Ayesha’s shop with the problem of reconciling love and suffragism still unresolved, but insensibly comforted by her friend’s hug and smiling affirmation that “All will be well.”

The school bell rang clear over the noise of market stallholders crying their wares and the low mooing of one of the sacred cows that roamed the narrow streets. Children ran for school, their uniforms clean and tidy, their satchels bumping with each hurried step. Youthful paperboys, who should have been going to school, waved their cheap newssheets, shouting that the men responsible for the theft of the world’s largest emerald, the Jungle Heart, still hadn’t been caught. Worshippers at the desecrated Indian temple from which it had been stolen were described as very, very sad.

And very, very mad,
Esme thought, her gaze on Jed.

A thousand and one spices scented the air. Strings of flags and floating lamps were stacked in eye-catching displays, reminding everyone that Diwali, the Festival of Lights, was nearly here. Bright-colored silks fluttered as tailors re-dressed their narrow windows. Kites hung from a trader’s stall. A street performer set out his begging bowl, folded his legs and brought a flute to his lips. An eerie, plaintive tune wove through the chaos.

On the other side of the road, Jed walked, seeming oblivious to the noise and spectacle, his head bent in total concentration as he listened to the conversation of a far-too-beautiful young woman. She waved a slender hand to emphasize some point she was making, and the gold bangles on her arm jangled seduction.

A third member of the party was walking a pace behind Jed and the girl, but that didn’t surprise Esme. Ever since Jed saved Gupta Singh from drowning, Gupta had hero-worshipped Jed and imitated his style. If Jed was here in Bombaytown, it was on the cards that Gupta would be following him like an eager puppy.

Although—Esme frowned—Gupta didn’t look happy today. In fact, he looked downright worried.

Huh.
Even Gupta disapproved of Jed taking up with the pretty young girl.

She sniffed, ignoring the tight band that compressed her chest—it was simply an allergic reaction to some spice in the air. It was not her heart cracking. Jed could walk out with any girl he wanted. There had always been a lurking fear that he would find courting a suffragette irksome. How much easier to woo a woman who simpered and sighed, who simply adored him?

As I do.
Her breath caught at that painful and instantly banished admission.

At just that moment, he looked around and saw her. His head went back as if he’d taken a blow.

Guilt. Esme scowled and kicked down the stand on her bike, dismounting swiftly.

Darn it.
A man who’d professed to be courting her had no right to be escorting another young and personable woman along a public street. He ought to be at her house bearing roses, to offer his apologies for last night’s offences.

He crossed the road a bare inch in front of a flower cart pulled by a fast-trotting donkey. The tub basket overflowed with carnations and willow branches from the gardens along the river, where the growers were busily preparing for Diwali, when flowers would be strung in garlands and strewn in houses and streets. Usually, it was one of her favorite festivals.

“Esme.” Jed caught her arm. “What are you doing here?”

“That is hardly any of your business.” She looked disdainfully at his hand on her arm. “Please release me.”

His hand closed fast. “Don’t be ridiculous.” The width of his shoulders blocked the street from her view, creating an illusion of privacy at the edge of the busy market square. “I was just coming to see you.”

“Huh. Since when have I lived in Bombaytown?”

“I had to collect Lajli and Gupta first. They have a story to share with us.”

“Me, I am Lajli.” The unknown young woman inserted herself into the conversation.

Gupta plucked at her arm. “Come away. S-sorry, Miss Esme.”

The young woman eeled out of Gupta’s hold. “I am
Lajli.
I am Gupta’s cousin.”

Jed ignored her, his attention all for Esme. “Perhaps I should let you think I’m a cheating buzzard, it might be safer. Don’t argue. I saw that look in your eyes. As if I’d betrayed you. Sweetheart, I’d never do that. I might lose my temper and embarrass you. About last night…”

“Never mind about last night.” She was suddenly conscious of Lajli’s fascinated stare, even as the band around her chest dissolved into nothing. “What do you mean, it might be safer to let me think you a cheating buzzard?”

His eyes shifted away from hers, then returned determinedly. “If you thought I’d betrayed you, you’d steer clear of me, and that would be safest for you. On the other hand, everyone already knows how important you are to me. That wouldn’t change, no matter how you snubbed me. So you’d remain my Achilles’ heel, but I wouldn’t be near you to protect you.”

She frowned at the inference she couldn’t protect herself but refrained from correcting his outdated notions. Her curiosity was too strong. “Protect me from what?”

“From bad mens,” Lajli said triumphantly. “I was right. The papers are bad.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I, but I intend to.” Jed rubbed her arm, a reassuring caress. “That’s why I’m here. Lajli has some questions to answer.”

Lajli pouted.

“But not here.” For the first time, he seemed aware of the curious stares they were attracting.

Esme blushed. Even a street dog had stopped in its direct line to the butcher’s stall to stare at them.

“Let’s adjourn to the Chai House.” Jed took hold of Esme’s bike, kicked up the stand and began wheeling it.

“It is very public,” Gupta objected hesitantly.

“Are any secrets kept successfully in Bombaytown?” Jed asked.

Lajli clapped her hands. “That is good. We shall be bold and the villains will flee.”

Jed’s mouth twisted wryly. “As you say. At least we shan’t skulk in shadows.” He looked at Esme. “If something’s worth having, it’s worth fighting for.”