CHAPTER 20 #2
Raven watched the rhythmic up-and-down motion of the pistons with great interest. Beneath his boots he could feel the vibration of the crankshaft thrumming though the floorboards.
“So, the pistons go up and down,” he mused.
“Correct,” said Mrs. Guppy.
Raven moved his forefinger in a circling motion. “And a propeller has to spin round and round.”
“That’s right. In engineering, we call it converting reciprocating motion into rotational motion.”
“So, how does that happen?”
He knew the answer in principle, but as he had yet to see a working marine engine in action, he was curious to observe exactly how all the individual parts moved.
The boatman made a rude sound. “Next you’ll be lecturing the little muckworm on Newton’s Laws of Motion.”
“Actually, I have a feeling that the lad would catch on very quickly.” Mrs. Guppy turned back to Raven. “By the by, do you have any formal education? Can you read?”
Raven let out a snicker. “Do I look like I know m’letters?”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” she murmured.
Raven froze on hearing one of Charlotte’s favorite warnings, suddenly aware that he must not underestimate the plain and dowdy Mrs. Guppy. Dressed in an unflattering shade of mud-brown wool, she looked like a rather dull greengrocer’s wife. But clearly she was not.
He gave a rude grunt, determined to be more careful and keep his mouth shut.
“The lad asked a good question.” Tucking her skirts more tightly around her legs, mademoiselle shifted her position. “Please continue with your explanation.”
“If you take a closer look at the engine, you see there is a system of connecting rods and levers . . .”
Raven and Mademoiselle Benoit listened with rapt attention as Mrs. Guppy began to explain the mechanics of all the moving parts, both of them interrupting to ask questions.
“You’re very clever.” Mademoiselle smiled after Raven inquired about the arrangement of gears turning the crankshaft.
He ducked his head, once again aware that he ought not appear too clever.
Mrs. Guppy eyed him for a long moment and then resumed explaining how the technology worked.
The tide was turning, the crosscurrents churning up rippling eddies as the boat passed under Blackfriars Bridge.
“Avast, Jed, cut the steam,” called Andrew over the thump of the pistons. “White Lion Wharf is just ahead.”
Mademoiselle Benoit sat back, her look of enthusiasm giving way to naked fear.
“You must be brave,” counseled Mrs. Guppy. “We will soon be with Oliver, and the three of us will come up with an idea of how to deal with the latest development.”
“But what if . . .” Mademoiselle turned away, leaving the rest of her words unsaid.
The boat bumped up against barnacled pilings. The engineer jumped out and fastened the mooring lines around the iron cleats.
“You’re free to go, lad,” said Mrs. Guppy as she slowly rose.
Raven darted over the railing and crossed to the cobbled courtyard just beyond the wharf. But then he stopped and took cover in the shadows of the stone warehouses, intent on following them to where Oliver Carrick was hiding and then reporting back to Wrexford and Charlotte.
“This way, my dear.” Mrs. Guppy guided mademoiselle past the storage sheds. “We haven’t far to walk.”
“What if Oliver isn’t there?” said Mademoiselle in a shaky voice. “What if he’s been arrested? How will we ever manage to help him—”
Raven had to make a rapid-fire decision.
“Oiy,” he called. “If you are looking for someone to trust, you need to come with me.”
* * *
All we can do is wait.
Charlotte had sat down at the earl’s desk and taken up a sketchbook—Wrexford had suggested that they move from the parlor to his workroom, which offered distractions to keep their minds off brooding—and was now intent on working out a preliminary idea for her next satirical print.
But as the minutes slid by with agonizing slowness, she couldn’t keep her imagination from conjuring up all sorts of hideous possibilities for why Raven hadn’t yet returned.
Unable to sit still a moment longer, she slipped off her shoes and moved as quietly as she could to the far end of the room in order to pace without rousing the others.
Despite their sleepy protests, Hawk and Peregrine had been sent up to bed, but Cordelia was dozing on the sofa, her head pillowed against Sheffield’s shoulder. He was passing the time by reading a weighty report from Lloyd’s of London on revised insurance offerings for commercial shipping ventures.
Charlotte noted that he hadn’t turned a page in quite a while.
McClellan had put aside her mending and was now knitting. As for Wrexford . . .
He appeared in the doorway of the adjoining library with several books in hand.
A reminder that yet another mystery—a very personal one—hung over their family.
Charlotte felt a stab of guilt at having put aside the recently discovered letter written by Wrexford’s late father and all the questions it had raised.
Murder had a way of shoving every other concern into the shadows.
However, she knew how much Wrexford longed to turn his attention to unraveling the conundrum of the person known as “A”—which might help him to understand the complexities of his relationship with his father.
“Have you found anything helpful?” she asked.
“Not particularly,” he answered. “Though I confess that I’m surprised by what excellent taste my father had in poetry.”
“I haven’t forgotten about your personal quest, my love.
We will find the answers to the questions about your father’s mysterious correspondent as soon as we solve this present conundrum,” promised Charlotte.
Her heart ached for him. Putting the needs of his friends before his own was simply part of who he was.
But she knew it was taking an emotional toll.
“I hope . . .” Though they had kept their voices low, she saw that the sounds had roused both Cordelia and Sheffield. Leaving the rest of her thought unsaid, she quickly turned her attention to the present moment.
“You two really should return to your residence.” Charlotte moved back to the desk. “You need not wait here all night. We will send word as soon as Raven returns.”
Assuming he . . . No, she wouldn’t even consider the alternative.
“We’ve no intention of leaving,” announced Sheffield. He patted back a yawn. “Mac serves a far better breakfast than our cook.”
McClellan stuffed her knitting into the sack by her feet. “Speaking of which, I had better go and put a batch of muffins into the oven.”
But before she could move, the clatter of fast-approaching footsteps exploded in the corridor.
Wrexford spun around and reached for the pistol case on the bookshelf behind him, while Sheffield rushed to lock the door against attack.
The latch rattled, and then a fist thumped against the paneled oak.
“Oiy, oiy! Let us in!”