walked on unsteady legs over to where the locomotive tilted at an angle, its nose buried in the sod. The steaming, clattering, and clanking monster now stood quiet, a slain beast. Pieces of broken rails lay scattered about, looking as if they had been squashed by the foot of a giant.
She felt him come up beside her. "What happened?" she asked.
"The rails gave way. We were going too fast and the engine is so heavy it knocked the iron plates to pieces."
"What a pity, for now everyone will think your locomotive a failure."
"Everyone would be right." Below his haughty cheekbone a muscle jumped. She ached for him. She wanted to gather his head to her breast, to stroke her fingers though his hair and tell him it didn't matter what others thought.
She touched his arm instead and felt the muscles harden beneath the warmth of his skin. "Oh, no, Lieutenant Trelawny. With power such as this—with power such as this, a man could change the world."
For a moment the shadows in his eyes lifted, and she saw a sort of bewildered hurt mixed with hope. But then he blinked and looked away.
They both turned at the sound of hoofbeats. Clarence bore down upon them on his big sorrel gelding. His father and a few of the other guests, drawn by curiosity, loped along behind him.
"Jessalyn!" Clarence cried, sliding off his horse before them. His eyes widened at the sight of the derailed locomotive. "My God, Jessalyn, are you all right? Mack, what the deuce were you thinking of? You should never have subjected her to the rigors, not to mention the dangers of—"
"God's life, Clarence," Jessalyn snapped. She had forgotten what a prosy old stick he could be at times. "There's no need to enact a tragedy. I'm perfectly all right apart from a slight lump on my head."
"And a few thistles in her pretty arse," Lieutenant Trelawny added.
His drawling remark startled a whoop of loud laughter out of Jessalyn. She tried to stop it with her hand and nearly choked.
"She's hysterical," Clarence said. His color high, he glared at his cousin. "There, you see. The shock has made her hysterical."
Henry Tiltwell and his cronies came trotting up to them. Tiltwell's laughter boomed out over the rolling fields. "Come a cropper, did you, boy? Your iron horse came a cropper, what?" He roared at his joke, and the others joined him.
Lieutenant Trelawny stood rigid before their laughter, his face blank. But Jessalyn had caught the flash of pain in his eyes before he shuttered them, and she couldn't bear it. "You fools!" she shouted, whirling to confront the laughing men. "You are all addlepated, cork-brained fools!"
It stopped their laughter, but only for a moment. "Came a cropper!" Henry Tiltwell bellowed again, slapping his thigh.
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She hated them for their ignorance and their cruelty, for mocking the man who had built that wonderful locomotive, simply because it did not fit into their tidy world. Lieutenant Trelawny stood apart, alone, and she felt his aloneness as an empty hole deep within her own self. She had no idea of how her eyes shone as she looked at him, bright as beacons on a black night.
Or that Clarence Tiltwell saw it.
At twenty-two Clarence Francis Tiltwell thought of himself as a man. Yet he could never enter the library at Larkhaven without feeling a sick clenching deep in his gut. As a boy the only times he had ever been summoned to this room was to receive a thrashing. Now, pulling open the heavy wooden doors, he felt all of ten years old again and scared.
Turkey rugs of muted colors covered the floor, and green velvet curtains shrouded the windows. The walls were decorated with hunting paraphernalia—old spurs, whips, horns, and a collection of antique matchlocks and crossbows. Books bound in green and gold-blocked calf filled glass-fronted cases. It was a man's room, but it could not be said that the room reflected the man within it. Henry Tiltwell hated hunting, and as far as Clarence knew, he
She felt him come up beside her. "What happened?" she asked.
"The rails gave way. We were going too fast and the engine is so heavy it knocked the iron plates to pieces."
"What a pity, for now everyone will think your locomotive a failure."
"Everyone would be right." Below his haughty cheekbone a muscle jumped. She ached for him. She wanted to gather his head to her breast, to stroke her fingers though his hair and tell him it didn't matter what others thought.
She touched his arm instead and felt the muscles harden beneath the warmth of his skin. "Oh, no, Lieutenant Trelawny. With power such as this—with power such as this, a man could change the world."
For a moment the shadows in his eyes lifted, and she saw a sort of bewildered hurt mixed with hope. But then he blinked and looked away.
They both turned at the sound of hoofbeats. Clarence bore down upon them on his big sorrel gelding. His father and a few of the other guests, drawn by curiosity, loped along behind him.
"Jessalyn!" Clarence cried, sliding off his horse before them. His eyes widened at the sight of the derailed locomotive. "My God, Jessalyn, are you all right? Mack, what the deuce were you thinking of? You should never have subjected her to the rigors, not to mention the dangers of—"
"God's life, Clarence," Jessalyn snapped. She had forgotten what a prosy old stick he could be at times. "There's no need to enact a tragedy. I'm perfectly all right apart from a slight lump on my head."
"And a few thistles in her pretty arse," Lieutenant Trelawny added.
His drawling remark startled a whoop of loud laughter out of Jessalyn. She tried to stop it with her hand and nearly choked.
"She's hysterical," Clarence said. His color high, he glared at his cousin. "There, you see. The shock has made her hysterical."
Henry Tiltwell and his cronies came trotting up to them. Tiltwell's laughter boomed out over the rolling fields. "Come a cropper, did you, boy? Your iron horse came a cropper, what?" He roared at his joke, and the others joined him.
Lieutenant Trelawny stood rigid before their laughter, his face blank. But Jessalyn had caught the flash of pain in his eyes before he shuttered them, and she couldn't bear it. "You fools!" she shouted, whirling to confront the laughing men. "You are all addlepated, cork-brained fools!"
It stopped their laughter, but only for a moment. "Came a cropper!" Henry Tiltwell bellowed again, slapping his thigh.
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She hated them for their ignorance and their cruelty, for mocking the man who had built that wonderful locomotive, simply because it did not fit into their tidy world. Lieutenant Trelawny stood apart, alone, and she felt his aloneness as an empty hole deep within her own self. She had no idea of how her eyes shone as she looked at him, bright as beacons on a black night.
Or that Clarence Tiltwell saw it.
At twenty-two Clarence Francis Tiltwell thought of himself as a man. Yet he could never enter the library at Larkhaven without feeling a sick clenching deep in his gut. As a boy the only times he had ever been summoned to this room was to receive a thrashing. Now, pulling open the heavy wooden doors, he felt all of ten years old again and scared.
Turkey rugs of muted colors covered the floor, and green velvet curtains shrouded the windows. The walls were decorated with hunting paraphernalia—old spurs, whips, horns, and a collection of antique matchlocks and crossbows. Books bound in green and gold-blocked calf filled glass-fronted cases. It was a man's room, but it could not be said that the room reflected the man within it. Henry Tiltwell hated hunting, and as far as Clarence knew, he
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