Chapter Two

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After Beechcraft strode off, the blond-haired boy studied Isabelle and Mrs. Darling. Face clear of the animosity it showed toward the ship’s owner, he swept into a deep bow. “Ladies.” His evening attire bore the marks of overuse, uneven fading spreading across the good fabric, but he wore it with the elegance an athletic build gives any clothing.

Isabelle dipped her forehead in reply.

“My name is Reimund Fitzwilliam. May I ask your own?”

There was something mocking in that exquisite politeness, or at least entertained. A charitable individual might assume it to be self-deprecation. Isabelle sensed only danger. She couldn’t identify the threat, but it was there, stalking her dignity. 

Mrs. Darling waited, but when her charge didn’t respond, she introduced them. Reimund requested the honor of escorting the ladies to the dining room. Isabelle’s agreement was a matter of practicality. There was only one path there. What were they supposed to do — insist he wait and trail them at a respectful distance?

They set off, and Reimund tilted his head to study Isabelle. Sconces blazed at regular intervals in the corridors, but the sun wasn’t done with the day. When they reached a row of windows, the lingering light bathed their new acquaintance in a romantic glow.

“Did I hear correctly? You are Lady Huxley? As in the famous archeologists?” 

Someone else might not have picked up the heartbeat-pause before the word “famous” as Reimund discarded another adjective, possibly “notorious.”

Off balance, Isabelle heard herself say, “Lady Isabelle,” and bit her tongue. She never demanded her title. 

“I beg your pardon?”

Committed, she said. “The proper address is Lady Isabelle, not Lady Huxley.” 

“My apologies.” 

Mrs. Darling delivered them from the following silence. “It is complicated, isn’t it? All these conventions regarding rank and title. It’s enough to make me grateful to be a mere missus.”

Reimund smiled sympathetically and gestured at her veil. “I take it the loss of Mr. Darling is fresh?”

Isabelle detected a flush through the lilac netting. 

Mrs. Darling murmured, “Not so fresh as it once was.” 

(It suited Mrs. Darling’s purpose that this comment could be taken as banality, evasion, or profound commentary on how grief disrupted a person’s sense of time.)

They arrived at the grand dining room and stood before an attendant Isabelle recognized but did not know by name. Chandeliers coated the assembly in a honeyed glow as diners chattered and glasses clinked. Eight tables varied in size. Some parties informed the staff of their desire to keep to their own clan, while others accepted the invitation to make new acquaintances. 

Too late, Isabelle realized the attendant took their joint arrival as a request to sit together. He led them toward the pair of individuals already seated. The man rose in deference to the ladies’ presence and smiled at Reimund. There was a family resemblance, though the man’s hair was gray, his features softened by time. 

Isabelle noticed the man only in passing. She stared at the woman. Not staring at her would require superhuman will. The American—or, more precisely, her dress—was the stubborn focus of the passengers. There was lace and taffeta and silk of distinct patterns in tangerine and chartreuse. The combination of colors and textures arrested a person’s gaze and held it captive. A gentleman on the other side of the room tried to escape. His expression shuddered between horror and sympathy as he diverted his eyes, only to find them drawn back to the atrocity. Isabelle couldn’t tell if he wished to save the lady from her outfit or the abused fabric from her. 

The woman was handsome beneath the multicolored crime. Her middle-aged skin lacked the aristocratic patina of a pampered, indoor life, but her features were even, her hair rich mahogany and her hazel eyes commanding. She clasped her hands together. “Why, this must be your young cousin.”

The man confirmed it, and the attendant made the full introductions, giving the name and nationality of the German Baron Hoffman and the American Mrs. Jones.

She greeted them. “Ladies. Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

“Please, call me Reimund. I’m only half-German. The rest of me is Irish. We are far less formal about such things.”

When Mrs. Jones giggled, the feather in her hair trembled. 

The table was set for six. Fine bone china bore the Beechcraft insignia — a scrolling “B” in the middle of a false heraldic shield — and rested on ivory jacquard linen. A late arrival claimed the last seat, giving Isabelle the chance to satisfy her curiosity about the industrialist behind Beechcraft Enterprises.

The same attendant listed their party for Beechcraft, dabbing at his damp forehead with his fingertips. He froze in response to his employer’s icy glare.

“That will be all.” A sweep of the hand punctuated the statement, and the waiter fled.

Beechcraft took his place at the head, offering Isabelle, seated to his left, a brief, “My lady.” He ignored the others. 

On his right, Mrs. Darling murmured her how-do-you-do. She’d pinned her veil upon sitting, and it tilted drunkenly, falling toward Beechcraft at an angle that obscured her profile. 

Isabelle frowned at her chaperone and wondered if the accessory wasn’t for her late husband. Maybe she had lost someone in the disaster at the Rosefield factory. That might inspire a sudden nod to mourning attire in this setting.

Mrs. Jones squinted at Isabelle’s bosom in a way that perplexed her until the woman spoke. “What an unusual necklace, Lady Huxley. Is there a story behind it?”

Reimund corrected the woman. “Lady Isabelle.” He leaned toward Mrs. Jones, who sat at the foot of the table. “I made the same mistake. But she informed me we should not call her Lady Huxley.”

“I did not know.” Mrs. Jones laid her fingertips over her heart. 

Isabelle regretted her earlier lack of grace still more, now that it had splash damage. “It doesn’t matter.”

The conversation lapsed into silence. Isabelle wished she could disappear into the floor. No, she wanted Reimund to sink into the wooden planks and hoped the experience would be painful. Frowning, she adjusted her silverware until the same space separated each piece from the next.

To corrosion with idiotic customs, uncomfortable legacies, and too-pretty, too-charming, too-knowing German-Irish persons.

The meal service rescued her. Five courses of cuisine appeared and disappeared amid the clatter of silverware and din of conversation. The fare was elevated but simple, designed to please as many passengers as possible.

Reimund tried to engage Isabelle but met with one-word evasions. He asked about her travel plans, her accommodations, her dinner… Her obvious distaste only amused him. He called her by ridiculous titles such as Most High Female. The insane names made Mrs. Jones laugh. Isabelle saw Mrs. Darling smile, too, though she hid it inside her veil. 

Isabelle chewed and reflected on the strange party. It should have been “Beechcraft’s table.” After all, it belonged to him. The magnate owned the Aerial Express and all its furniture. 

But it was “Mrs. Jones’s table.” The American dominated the conversation. The others learned she came from her native New York to launch her grand tour. She never could persuade Mr. Jones to travel, but the poor dear was dead now, and Mrs. Jones wasn’t getting any younger—much as she’d like to. Lady Isabelle should enjoy these years, the “pre-ache era” of her life. 

Mrs. Jones spoke with her full body, swinging her shoulders and gesturing with her hands. Her enormous plume found the baron’s nostrils, making him sneeze.

Beechcraft contributed little to the discourse. He dug into his meal with more determination than enthusiasm, not so much dining as shoveling fuel.

Reimund leaned back in his chair and glinted at Isabelle. “So, Your Incandescent Nobleness, have you been to Constantinople?”

Her teeth ground together. “I lived there for many years. And If Lady Isabelle is too difficult to remember, Mr. Fitzwilliam, you may address me as my lady, or even Isabelle.”

Reimund’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Oh, I couldn’t presume. But I insist you call me by my first name.”

“Very well... Roger.”

His grin deepened, but the nascent conversation between Beechcraft and the baron stole his attention.

Beechcraft leaned toward the baron, disregarding Mrs. Darling, who sat between them. “I hope the latest shipment of your lignite arrived with no issues. The demand for it is increasing.”

The baron’s expression tightened. “Yes, everything proceeds as expected. Your foresight in these matters is commendable.” It didn’t sound like a compliment.

“I have often been glad of my foresight — and the precautions it suggests.” Smug satisfaction laced his voice. “I assume you brought the new designs with you.” 

Baron Hoffman pressed his lips together and nodded. 

Isabelle glanced at Reimund to see what he made of the exchange.

The young man’s social control failed, and he glared at Beechcraft with raw loathing, reminding her of the hate-filled expression she’d spied earlier.

Feeling Isabelle’s gaze, Reimund shook himself. “Forgive me. I ate something that didn’t agree with my digestion. Tell me, my peerless peeress, are you an academic, as your parents were?”

“I am not an archaeologist,” she said, stiff, “if that’s what you mean.”

“Huxley,” Mrs Jones said before she could stifle the recognition. She grimaced an apology at Isabelle. 

Beechcraft noticed the byplay, eyes moving between the ladies, but didn’t care enough to inquire.

The tragedy was long past, but Isabelle was surprised he didn’t recognize her parents’ name. The papers had abused it liberally. Perhaps even egocentrism had its good points, distracting a person from gossip.

“If not in antiquities, where do your interests lie, my lady?” The baron’s eyes were warm. 

“Alchemy.” That sounded brusque, so Isabelle expanded. “I hope to attend one of the new universities accepting women.” She almost brought up Beechcraft’s daughter — Julia was a famous advocate and patron of female education — but she remembered the two were estranged.

“Forgive my ignorance, but I always get the subjects muddled. Mr. Jones — god rest his soul — used to say that nothing ever entered my brain without turning upside down and sideways.” The American swigged the last of her wine. “Alchemy…how does that differ from chemistry?”

Isabelle nodded to the attendant waiting to retrieve the filet.

“It’s a false distinction, at least in modern alchemy. The ancient art was two-thirds mythology and witchcraft. But today, alchemy is the name for the branch of chemistry most concerned with the omnipresent aether and attentive to the effects that seasons and astronomy play in the transmutation of substances.” Isabelle could have lectured on the subject, but Reimund’s scrutiny made her feel too exposed.

She forked up a morsel of cake and bit into the torte with misplaced aggression. Deep, silky chocolate filled her mouth, soothing her.

“Good for you, my lady.” Mrs. Jones beamed. “There is no greater ornament to a young woman than a well-formed mind.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Mrs. Darling said. “If I had a daughter, I hope she would greet her studies with as much passion as you seem to, Isabelle.”

At this rare contribution to the conversation, Beechcraft glanced at Mrs. Darling, his gaze lingering long enough to make the woman shift in her chair, neck disappearing into her gown and lopsided veil shielding her.

Shortly thereafter, Beechcraft stood, straightening his jacket. “Ladies, gentlemen, I take my leave. My secretary has a nightcap waiting.”

The baron inclined his head but did not look at Beechcraft. “Goodnight, sir.”

Beechcraft strode away without further pleasantries. Mrs. Darling studied her plate, and Reimund’s eyes were stormy but unfocused. Only Mrs. Jones watched the man retreat, her stare cold and calculating, at odds with the chatterbox’s general demeanor.

The two Germans were the next to leave. The baron bid them good evening, and Reimund bowed. “Mrs. Darling, Mrs. Jones, Your Excellent Effeminacy, may you have pleasant dreams.”

Isabelle glared and plopped her napkin on the table. As they left, Mrs. Darling’s smile was wry, her shoulders more relaxed than they’d been throughout dinner. “An interesting young man.”

“Interesting is one word for it. I would have said obnoxious.”

They said good evening to Mrs. Jones. Walking away, Isabelle looked back for a moment. The widow sat at the table alone, tapping her fingers and staring into space, brow furrowed.

Outside their cabins, Mrs. Darling paused. “Isabelle, this is the first time I’ve served as a chaperone for anyone, let alone an independent young lady.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “Do you know why my guardian insisted on a chaperone? I make this trip on my own several times a year.”

Mrs. Darling shook her head. “The dirigible line contacted me on Sir Edward’s behalf. I’m sorry if my presence is an unpleasant surprise.”

She shrugged. “It’s all right. I suppose.” They wished each other goodnight. 

Isabelle realized she needed to use the facilities. As she washed her hands in one of the deep porcelain sinks, she studied her face in the mirror. The warm amber light flattered her. She wasn’t immune to vanity and felt a trifle better about her encounter with Reimund Fitzwilliam.

She slid the mahogany door closed behind her, the brass rollers letting it glide into place. On her way back, she passed a gentleman steeling himself against the door. Lanky and Italianate in coloring, he rested his forehead against the wood, clutching the knob with one hand. His cabin was two doors down from hers, on the far side of Beechcraft’s bedroom. His suit was modest, and she wondered if his room connected to the owner’s, if he were part of Beechcraft’s retinue. If so, she couldn’t blame him for his reluctance to enter his employer’s domain. 

He never looked at Isabelle, but the weight of her gaze pushed him forward. He opened the door with a resolute tug and vanished inside.

Isabelle gazed out the window as she brushed her hair. The twinkle of London’s lamps below stirred an old ache. In her mind, the view inverted itself, the lights became stars, and she was five years old again. She lay on her back and stared up at the desert sky with her mother and father, their bodies warm on either side of her. 

Her mother used to spin the constellations into bedtime stories. She knew a few of the traditional myths and invented more. Isabelle still bumped into her mother’s imagination now and then. Last month, she pointed out Desiccus to Pippa, who informed her there was no famous story of a hero sentenced to drink only the salt water of the Arabian Sea. 

Isabelle tied her hair in a nighttime braid and started undressing. There was something in one of her pockets. She withdrew Pippa’s just-remembered present and ran her fingers over the velvet bag.

She opened the pouch, dropping its contents into her palm. An attached chain and clasp suggested she could wear it with her chatelaine, but what was it?

She stared at the tiny metal box in her hand. Maybe two inches long and not as wide, the device had a hinged lid and a winding key on one side. Isabelle fiddled with the key, but it wouldn’t budge until she flipped the top open. She turned the key and watched as the gears moved a flint wheel against iron pyrite, creating sparks that were directed onto a wick soaked in oil. It caught.

Isabelle admired the steady flame until a thud next door almost made her drop the fire-starter. She shut the lid, snuffing it, and whipped her head toward the wall between her room and Julius Beechcraft’s. She could only make out muffled fragments of the raised voices, but their identities were plain. Captain Miro was arguing with his employer.

“…your own daughter…”

“…last voyage…”

“…the best you have…”

A door slammed, and angry footsteps thudded past, moving further down the corridor. 

The captain’s conflict with his employer stirred Isabelle’s anxiety. She hated to think he might be in trouble.

(Miro, too, was anxious as he returned to his office. He sat with head in hands, cursing the members of the Beechcraft family. Not content with the standard expletives, he recalled a phrase he’d only heard once — from a Venetian courtesan shouting at a gouty sailor who refused to pay.)

Isabelle loved the captain far more than her appointed guardian. Miro knew her parents back when he was an independent airman. They hired him for their expeditions, and when they died, his ship, the Cutlass, fetched Isabelle and delivered her to her sole surviving relative.

No one would have blamed Miro for disclaiming the strange little girl once he discharged his duty to dead friends. Instead, the Cutlass flew through Constantinople whenever it could. Miro and his crew adopted Isabelle, often spiriting her away from her lax guardian. The years brought change, and economic pressures forced Miro to sell his dirigible. It was difficult for small independents to stay aloft in a sky crowded by major dirigible lines. He couldn’t afford to alienate his employer. 

Isabelle lay in bed, tossing until she drifted off. She awoke once during the night. A sharp cry entered her dreams, and heart pounding, she grew aware of her surroundings and the soft pillow beneath her head. She listened to the silence. Had the sound originated from her mind or her environment? A second loud noise came. Not part of her dreamscape.

It reminded Isabelle of an animal in pain. Could it be the distress of some large, nocturnal bird? But it sounded mammalian. Isabelle strained to hear, but there was nothing more.

A faint knock echoed next door, and a porter asked if everything was well. She couldn’t discern the response, but footfalls again passed her room.

Her sleep shattered, Isabelle caught only jagged bits and pieces of it, dozing fitfully until rescued by the sun.

Isabelle woke up to the sight of the sea and shore, the city left behind while she slept. She pulled on trousers and a flared dress coat, took a trip to the facilities, and returned to find Mrs. Darling tapping at the external door to her room. 

“Isabelle, good morning.” Mrs. Darling’s smile was tired. She gestured down the corridor. “Shall we breakfast?”

Before Isabelle could answer, a commotion drew their attention. 

A woman shrieked, and they looked toward Beechcraft’s cabin, where the doors gaped open. A crash sounded like a vase or bottle breaking, and then another voice emitted a rough, “Good God.”

Isabelle brushed past a protesting Mrs. Darling, not stopping until she stood in the doorway of the owner’s suite. 

The opulence of the space eclipsed the luxury of the rest of the ship. Rich velvets and brocades begged to be touched, and the panes of the enormous window caught the reflection of plush Persian rugs. 

Isabelle noticed none of this, nor did she see the people whose cries caused the clamor. Her eyes never moved past Julius Beechcraft’s four-poster bed. 

The magnate lay sprawled, his covers half-thrown to one side and his white nightshirt stained. The crimson started at his chest and bloomed outward.

Death had taken the man’s sneer and replaced it with a vacant non-expression, a cipher-like mask that obliterated the individual. 

That’s it for chapter two!

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