Chapter 14 #2
While he’d chatted with his peers, Felicia had drawn her hand from his sleeve and drifted to speak with a nervous young inventor whose very small exhibit was wedged between two much larger and showier machines.
Hardly anyone seemed to have noticed the poor man, but Felicia appeared to be deeply immersed in the explanation the young inventor was proffering.
Drawing nearer, Rand saw that Felicia held a slim rod in her hand.
A channel had been scored down its length and a stoppered glass vessel fixed in the space.
At the other end of the rod from the elegant metal stopper was a small piece of burnished metal.
Rand halted beside Felicia, and as she lifted the rod to show him, he realized the metal addition was a very fine nib.
“Mr. Finlay”—Felicia nodded at the young man—“was just explaining that the pen works via a combination of gravity and capillary action. See?” She set the nib to a piece of paper the inventor had laid atop a traveling writing desk mounted on a pedestal and swiftly scribed numbers and letters, capital and lowercase.
“It’s remarkable—no more open pots of ink or splotches. ”
Rand looked at the young man. “I’ve seen pens like this in Paris. What makes yours different?”
Mr. Finlay leapt to explain. “If I could, miss?” Tenderly, he took the pen from Felicia, then, with a fingertip, directed Rand’s attention to the detail of the stopper.
“I’ve made changes to the seal to make it more airtight.
I’ve also altered the vessel—it’s really an annulus of glass with air in the central shaft.
I discovered that makes the flow of ink more even.
Then I’ve worked with the local steel mills to refashion the nib.
This one gives a steady and even line and will outlast anything presently on the market. ”
Rand knew Birmingham foundries were setting themselves up as manufacturers of all sorts of steel products—from the largest and heaviest to the smallest and finest, apparently.
Rand reached for the pen, and Finlay let him take it from his hands.
Rand held the pen up at eye level, studying the stopper, then the glass vessel, then, in very close detail, he examined the nib.
The work was unquestionably fine and quite different to what he’d seen in France.
He looked at Finlay. The man returned his regard hopefully; Rand judged him to be as honest and as earnest as the day was long. Rand handed the pen back to Finlay, then looked at Felicia and arched a brow.
She didn’t smile, but her attention returned to the pen, her gaze almost covetous. “It seems a very fine piece of work. I can’t think of any point of its design that could be bettered.”
Finlay blinked at her, then, realizing she’d paid him a compliment, smiled shyly.
Rand reached for his card case. He extracted a card and handed it to Finlay.
The man took it, read it, and his eyes went wide. He looked at Rand. “You’re Cavanaugh?” He glanced again at the card, then looked up, patently stunned. “Lord Cavanaugh?”
Rand hid a smile; from the corner of his eye, he saw Felicia grin.
“I am. And after the exhibition, I’d like you to come to London and demonstrate your pen to some other like-minded gentlemen.
I’d like to explore what arrangements we might contemplate to make the most of your inventive modifications. ”
“Oh yes—of course, my lord. I will be happy…well, thrilled to set up a demonstration in London.” Finlay looked across the aisle and down the hall.
“I heard you’re backing the Throgmorton steam engine.
I didn’t think you’d be interested in”—he looked down at the pen, lying in his hand—“something so small.”
Felicia put her hand on Finlay’s arm. “Smaller inventions often make the biggest difference and just think of how much people write.”
Finlay smiled back.
“One thing,” Rand said. “If anyone else approaches you with a view to backing your pen, I and my syndicate would appreciate having the first opportunity to consider supporting your work.”
“Absolutely, my lord—you have my word.” Finlay looked at Rand’s card.
“Send a letter to that address tomorrow,” Rand advised, “detailing the scope of your work and where you can be contacted. I’m out of town for the next few days, so it may be a week or more before I’m there to read it, but you can expect to hear from me within a few weeks.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Finlay was clearly still in awe of his own luck.
Rand nodded, as did Felicia, and Finlay swept them a bow. As they moved away, Felicia smiled and looked up, meeting Rand’s eyes. “You’ve made his day—his exhibition.”
Rand quirked his brows. “It’s perfectly possible he’s made mine—well, at least looking beyond the steam carriage. Speaking of which”—he halted, letting the crowd part and flow around them—“I should get back and relieve William John.”
Felicia tilted her head. “If you don’t have need of me—and I’m sure William John won’t—I rather think I’ll wander farther and see what I can see.”
Rand nodded. “By all means do.” If it hadn’t been for her, he would very likely have missed seeing Finlay.
Even if he had noticed the man with his small and unprepossessing exhibit, as until now Rand hadn’t seen much to interest him in the latest pens, he might not have ventured close enough to speak to the inventor and recognize the value of what he’d produced.
Unlike him, Felicia was coming to the field of inventions with an entirely open and highly educated inventive mind. He squeezed her hand, then released her. “Wander, study, and investigate—and let me know if you see anything you think I should look into.”
She smiled and graciously inclined her head. “If you wish it, I will. Have fun with William John.”
He chuckled, and they parted, she continuing up the line of inventions while he made his way across the aisle and back to where the Throgmorton steam carriage stood proudly displayed—with a long line of people waiting to ask questions of its inventor.
Rand grinned at the sight and made his way to William John’s side. The Throgmorton steam engine was creating an even bigger stir than he’d hoped.
Clive Mayhew threaded his way through the crowd clogging the wide aisle of the exhibition hall.
He moved slowly—carefully—keeping his eyes peeled for any of the denizens of Throgmorton Hall.
The crowd reassured him; as long as he remained alert, it was unlikely anyone from the Hall would spot him among the jostling throng.
And if they did, he would have time to flee and plenty of other bodies for cover.
Besides, Clive doubted Miss Throgmorton or Mrs. Makepeace would have made the journey; of those Clive had met at the Hall, only Cavanaugh was likely to be there, and as Clive understood things, his lordship would almost certainly remain close to the Throgmorton invention, which Clive had learned was at the far end of the hall.
All Clive wished to do was find his uncle and tell old Horace that he had had enough. Regardless of his dire need of the ready, Clive was finished with his uncle’s grubby schemes.
At that moment, Sir Horace Winthrop was parading up the exhibition hall, projecting his customary and—to his mind—entirely appropriate superior air.
He was the most established leader of investing syndicates in London, and, as such, he was recognized by many and was determined to be accorded all due deference.
He inclined his head to the two older inventors who, on seeing him eyeing their exhibit—one involving modifications to a horse-drawn plow—bowed low.
As they should. It was Sir Horace’s prerogative to decide which of the owners of displayed inventions he would honor with an invitation to speak with him in his office in the City. Effectively, it was in his gift to decide which invention prospered and which sank without trace.
Given that it was widely known that he disapproved of the entire panoply of steam-powered inventions, stigmatizing them as entirely unnecessary, the inventors of such things didn’t attempt to catch his eye; regardless, he passed their exhibits with his nose in the air—wordlessly declaring his view of their works.
On entering the hall, he’d made his way as quickly as his dignity permitted to view the Throgmorton exhibit—from a safe distance.
Seeing it displayed in all its glory, he’d smiled to himself and made a mental note to congratulate his nephew on having the good sense to damage the steam engine in such a way that the failure would not be evident until they started the engine on the exhibition floor.
How Throgmorton had managed to pass the assessors’ inspection, Sir Horace had no idea, but, presumably, the engine was simply fired up to make sure it worked, and that was that.
He had little idea how the blessed things functioned and even less interest.
All that mattered was that the Throgmorton machine failed most spectacularly—and having it fail in front of Prince Albert was as spectacular a failure as Sir Horace could conceive.
He truly was thoroughly pleased with Clive.
On the thought, he saw his nephew easing his way through the crowd toward him.
Sir Horace halted and planted his cane before him. He stood in the middle of the central aisle, closer to the main doors than the rear of the hall; entirely pleased with his world, he ignored the annoyed looks as members of the public were forced to tack around him.
Clive reached him and halted before him. His nephew inclined his head respectfully. “Uncle. I hoped to find you here.”
The boy looked rather stern, almost grim.
Sir Horace’s nerves fluttered, and he glanced swiftly around. “What about the Throgmorton party? Is there any chance of them seeing you—us?”
“They’re nowhere near, and I don’t plan on remaining for long.”
Sir Horace relaxed, and his earlier satisfaction bloomed anew. He returned his gaze to Clive and smiled approvingly. “Excellent, my boy! I must congratulate you—”
“No.”