Chapter 8
Two mornings later, Felicia entered the breakfast parlor at eight o’clock to find William John and Rand already at the table.
Both were frowning.
They raised their heads and nodded a reply to her cheery “Good morning.” In William John’s case, his gaze remained unfocused and his nod absentminded, but Rand’s attention locked on her.
His gaze, intent, swept her, then rose, and he met her eyes.
He smiled fleetingly and inclined his head, then he glanced at William John and his frown returned.
She helped herself from the sideboard, then joined them at the table, sliding into her usual chair opposite Rand, with William John to her right.
As she poured herself a cup of tea, William John muttered something, then more volubly grumbled, “I just don’t understand it. It should work perfectly, but it’s not.”
She told herself it wasn’t any of her business—except, of course, now it was.
She’d agreed to help, even if she remained uncertain of the wisdom of doing so.
If she grew to enjoy the pastime and fell victim to its lure, what then?
She was a lady, a female, and nothing could change that.
She took a bite of the slice of toast she’d liberally slathered with raspberry jam, then glanced at Rand.
He was waiting to catch her eye. “As you can hear, William John’s stumped.”
Her brother turned to her and eagerly explained, “It’s something to do with the drive mechanism.
Now everything else is working perfectly, it’s somehow getting out of kilter.
I think we need an adjustment to the gears, but I can’t see where.
And there’s some other wrinkle in the pressure in the lines.
Not major, but I suspect if we don’t get it perfectly correct, the engine will work for only a relatively short time before…
” He raised his hands in a “who knows?” gesture.
“It’ll probably blow a gasket or something and come to a shuddering halt. ”
Rand’s gaze hadn’t left her face. “We were wondering if you would take a look at the problems. You might see something William John has missed.”
She glanced at William John, only to have her brother fix her with a pleading look and reach across and grasp her hand.
“Please, Felicia.” He squeezed her fingers.
“I know it’s not something you expected to have to do, but any insights you have—any hints you can give me—would be greatly appreciated.
” He held her gaze, then quietly stated, “I need your mind to work my way through this.”
She heard the sincerity of his plea and saw it in his eyes.
Inside, a stone wall of resistance, built through years of enforced disinterest and bolstered by self-protective caution, wavered, then crumbled and fell.
She felt herself nod. “All right.” She glanced at her plate.
“Just let me finish my toast and let Mrs. Reilly know I’ll meet with her later, and I’ll come down and see… what I can see.”
They hovered, both of them, as if despite having gained her agreement to assist, they thought she might change her mind or be distracted by the household. She had to smother a cynical snort.
Less than fifteen minutes later, the pair all but shepherded her down the stone stairs, William John leading the way, with Rand following behind her. On reaching the workshop floor, William John went straight to the engine, suspended within its special frame.
To her eyes, the engine seemed to have grown.
William John saw her taking note of all the extra pipes and tubes. “I’ve added the connections to the levers the driver manipulates.” He pointed to a board clipped to one side of the frame. “That slots into the front wall of the carriage in front of the driver’s seat.”
“Ah. I see.” She promptly ignored the extra pipes and tubes and focused on the engine beneath.
William John pointed, directing her attention to a complex set of gears that lay between the pistons and the twin drive shafts.
“When I start it up, all runs smoothly. I can increase the power and therefore the speed and all is well. With the throttle fully open, everything powers along. The instant I start to throttle back, the gears start to grind. I’m sure if I let the machine continue to run, they would eventually jam, which would be disastrous. ”
“Hmm.” After a moment of frowning at the interlocking cogs, Felicia turned to the board on which the diagrams were displayed.
She went to stand and stare at the drawings.
After a minute in which both men remained utterly silent and watched her—she could feel their gazes on her back—she reached out and, with one finger, circled the set of cogs, levers, and rods that made up the gears.
“The issue lies here, and, again, it’s because you’ve increased power to such an extent, everything downstream has to be readjusted. ”
She glanced at William John. “You’re not going to do anything to further increase the power output, are you?”
He moved to join her before the board. “No. We’ve more than doubled the output of Trevithick’s engine. We don’t need more power—at least, not at this point.”
“Good.” She eyed the board, almost surprised at the way her mind was already juggling options.
It hadn’t required conscious thought—a conscious instruction to her mind to solve the problem—but rather a deliberate direction to her higher mind to get out of the way of an ability that was instinctive and intuitive.
After another minute, she pointed to the largest of the cogs. “Can you make this bigger? Or is there some other way to…expand the capacity? That’s what we need to do—you’ve increased the power, so now you need to compensate and expand the control to handle the extra power.”
William John stared at the cog in question, then pulled a face. “I’m not sure we can make it any bigger, but what if—”
Rand slid onto a high stool on the other side of the heavy frame and watched brother and sister discuss and debate their options.
And gave thanks to whatever deity was watching over him and this project.
If they hadn’t stumbled on Felicia’s unexpected talent, they would have already run aground.
Instead…as he watched Felicia and William John standing shoulder to shoulder before the board, their attentions fixed unwaveringly on the diagrams, both entirely sunk into the workings of the Throgmorton engine, Rand felt quiet confidence well and solidify.
In common with many of the more productive inventors, William John didn’t care where ideas for improvement came from. That the ideas he was, even now, eagerly seizing on and working to find ways to implement were coming from his younger sister didn’t even impinge on his ever-grasping mind.
As for Felicia, the more Rand heard of her and William John’s increasingly quick-fire exchanges, the more he realized she had an instinctive feel for where her skills ended and William John’s began. Again and again, she seemed to mentally walk to some definable edge and then turn to her brother.
And unfailingly, without so much as a pause, William John would pick up the inventive baton and carry it on.
It took the pair the better part of an hour for William John to reach the point where he was smiling again and, fired by confidence, declared that he would soon have the problem with the gears resolved.
Another hour passed as the pair investigated the problem with the control levers.
They ultimately came to an agreement on the best way to rework the settings—“It’s the sensitivity of the movement that’s at fault,” Felicia had said—but agreed to leave that adjustment until after all else was working correctly.
Accepting that verdict, William John set about dismantling the control panel from the engine.
Felicia watched him work for a moment, then glanced at Rand and stepped away from the engine and the board of diagrams. “Mrs. Reilly will be waiting. I should go up.”
Engrossed in his task, William John merely grunted.
Rand watched as Felicia plainly battled an impulse to remain and, perhaps, even tinker herself, but then she straightened her spine and took another step toward the stairs.
She caught his eye. He smiled and inclined his head.
“Both William John and I are more grateful than we can say for your assistance.”
“Yes, well…” Her eyes were drawn to the engine. Then she murmured, “I suppose, now, that it’s partly my responsibility, too.”
After another second, she drew breath, determinedly turned away from the engine, and, with a brief nod his way, headed for the stairs.
Felicia climbed the stairs to the front hall—and, with every step, felt as if she was having to physically pull herself away.
As she’d suspected, the ineluctable thrill of solving William John’s puzzles—of meeting the challenges—was well-nigh addictive.
On reaching the front hall, she paused and drew in a deep—very deep—breath.
As she exhaled, Mrs. Reilly looked around the green-baize-covered door at the rear of the hall.
On sighting Felicia, the housekeeper’s face lit. “There you are, Miss Felicia. Are you ready to go over the menus, miss?”
“Yes, indeed. You’ve timed it well.” She needed to get her mind back into its usual rut—no, it wasn’t a rut.
Dealing with the household was her normal and rightful occupation.
Poking at inventions in the workshop was merely a temporary, if necessary, distraction and would never amount to anything more.
“Come to the sitting room.” She gestured to the door across the hall and led the way.
She and Mrs. Reilly settled in the sitting room and spent a comfortable half hour discussing menus and recipes. Somewhat to her surprise, Felicia found her mind drifting… Disconcerted, she hauled it back and focused firmly on the task before her.