Chapter 11
It was well past midnight when Alex stretched out on his back in bed, a soft feather pillow beneath his head.
The rain had turned to a light drizzle, dripped down the window.
The skinny moon sent a weak shaft of light through the window, hitting Alex on the face.
He was wide awake, so excited, so filled with plans, with hope, he couldn’t calm his mind for sleep.
He found himself listening to the rhythmic patter of the light rain.
So much was happening so quickly and all because his guardian Ryder knew Lord Whitsonby who knew Lord Carberry with six hopeful, expensive sons.
Both gentlemen were smart and experienced, rich and ready to invest and bring his ideas to reality.
But what if his ideas, his designs, his experiment were somehow flawed?
What if they wouldn’t work? No, he knew to his bones each adjustment and change he’d make were right.
Were there other rich men interested in investing?
Of course there were. He thrummed with excitement.
Like Alex, most men believed trains would crisscross England and indeed most of the world in the next decade.
He planned to be one of the men who improved those trains, made them more efficient and safer, made them more comfortable for passengers.
He easily pictured the thousands upon thousands of passengers in the future.
He remembered when six months before he’d read about the American Henry Worthington’s invention of the boiler feed water pump to replace the fire-tube boiler meant to generate steam in a series of tube walls running through heated water.
It worked, but the heat produced could cause problems. Worthington’s water pump was amazing and Alex had written to him.
Worthington had actually written back to him and their written discussions concerned how to keep the water more regulated in the boilers to prevent one of the inevitable catastrophes—explosions.
He’d suggested adding another copper tube or maybe changing to iron, wouldn’t both smooth out the steam and make the boiler work more smoothly and efficiently?
Worthington agreed. And there were the problems of clogs and heat spots caused by the actual water itself, and why was that?
And how to avoid excessive heat? Yet another problem to be solved.
Alex remembered with a smile how the children at Brandon House had gathered around him when he’d told them about Heron of Alexandria who lived in the second century BC.
“He put several tubes in a vessel of water, heated the water until steam came billowing out of the tubes and there you have it—the first steam engine invented. And this was even before there were huge white wigs and knee britches.” And he’d given them a demonstration.
Then, suddenly, uninvited and shoving aside boiler improvements and Heron of Alexandria, was Camilla Rohman, real as life and grinning up at him, but not all that far up for she was tall, long-legged.
When she walked her stride was long, easy, no mincing with tiny steps to make a man slow to a near crawl, and her neck was ever so graceful and—graceful?
Alex blinked into the dark. He’d never thought of a girl’s neck being graceful before in his life.
All right, perhaps that was true, her long neck was graceful, like a flower stem and—he nearly gagged.
Alex fluffed his pillow, turned onto his side, but there she was with that wonderful white-toothed smile of hers, and her hazel eyes sparkling behind glasses once the sun made a brief appearance. She looked really quite fine in the glasses. If he took off her glasses, would he be a blur to her?
No, no, he couldn’t think about her now, he needed to keep refining his improved boiler ideas—examine the excessive heated water problem, find a better material for the tubes, write Worthington, not have Camilla Rohman take over his brain, but it was not to be so he gave it up.
For the past decade he’d had his share of female attention in Upper Slaughter.
He was used to young ladies being charming to him, vying for his attention, it wasn’t anything new, merely something he took in stride.
When Ryder had first brought him to London after he’d come down from Oxford, he’d taken Alex to balls, soirees, excursions to Richmond, al fresco luncheons, even one masquerade ball where he’d been a masked highwayman, ever so dashing he’d overheard one young lady say.
It seemed to Alex Ryder was invited everywhere, not only for his charming company but the fact he was the brother of the powerful Earl of Northcliffe, a gentleman who’d intimidated Alex until he’d smiled and buffeted his shoulder, complimented him on the improvement for the gardener’s scythe, a simple matter really, shortening the shaft or snath for the short lad responsible for the south lawn of Northcliffe Hall, filing down the hook and whittling down the shaft for Benji’s smaller hands.
Ryder had grinned at Alex later when they were alone.
“Well done. My brother will very likely back you, Alex, so consider you already have one investor in the pocket. Now it’s off to London. ”
Alex had always loved London, but this time was different.
He met gentlemen at the Royal Academy of Science, some smart, thoughtful men, others so old their beards dipped into their tea.
He’d met wealthy peers at Ryder’s club, White’s, gentlemen who could change his life with their groats and commitment to his vision.
And other venues, for amusement, surely, but again Alex met even more gentlemen with wealth and privilege.
Ah, and the ladies. He hadn’t really thought about it, but he discovered the young ladies were just like the girls in Upper Slaughter.
They sought him out, flirted with him and waltzed with him, their white hands soft in his.
But none of the myriad quite pleasurable activities in London had ever diverted his busy brain and brought it to a standstill before Lady Camilla Rohman—Cam—a lovely name that suited her.
Graceful neck and vivid hazel eyes behind her glasses.
He punched his pillow and gave it up. It wasn’t like he’d never see her again except at balls since he’d be dealing with her father, Lord Whitsonby.
Well, unless she was forced to go to Bath to Aunt Deveraux with her trumpet and tales of Napoleon’s hand up her skirts.
Alex grinned into the darkness. Boilers and Cam—given the way his brain worked, they were both problems to be solved.
He had to figure out why this one girl with her bright smile and clever mouth and long, graceful neck was invading his brain with no effort at all.
Over the years when he had a problem that confounded him, he’d speak to Ryder, but what would he say to his guardian about a girl he’d just moved right into his brain with no effort at all?