Perilous Journey of the Much-Too-Spontaneous Girl (4 page)

Outil came to life with the morning sun as usual.

“M’lady, would you care for some breakfast?”

“No, I couldn’t eat a thing.” Marguerite didn’t look up from her text.

“It is a fact that you will perform at a higher level if you have a healthy morning meal and a full stomach,” Outil pressed.

“Fine.” Marguerite looked up and remembered herself. “Yes, that would be lovely, please fetch me an egg and some bread.”

“Very good.” Outil left the room quickly, happy to have something to do with herself. Marguerite took a moment to stretch, stare out the window, and get dressed. Today was definitely flight suit time. She didn’t think she could stand one second in a corset and still think clearly. Plus, it was an aviation examination. That called for an aviator’s attire.

She pulled the pants up and buttoned the pretty brass buttons on top. Then she fastened the belt and picked up her bottle of perfume; the original bottle she’d brought from France hadn’t survived the trip. Jacques had purchased her a new one as soon as he’d found out her favorite type from Outil. He was very thoughtful. She had to give him that.

She put on a squirt and set the bottle down, looking out the window absent-mindedly. The door opened behind her. She didn’t turn around. “Thank you, Outil. You can set the meal on the nightstand.” A booming male voice shook her core and scared her to death. She spun around at once.

“I am no automaton, and I’m certainly not serving you breakfast. What in the world are you wearing?”

“Oh! Father!” Marguerite’s first reaction was to run into the old man’s stout arms and hold him tightly. She stopped herself midway, however, suddenly leery of his response to her new life, remembering she was no longer a little girl.

“Come here, then. I won’t bite you.” He beckoned and stepped closer to her.

Relief flooded her heart. He didn’t hate her.

She leapt for him, nearly knocking him over. He returned her affections with a tight squeeze and a rough peck on her cheek. “My dear, dear daughter,” he said reverently.

“I was so afraid you would never want to see me again.” Big salty tears ran freely down her cheeks, soaking his shoulder.

“I’ll admit I spent quite a bit of time ready to disown you—or kill you—for the grief you caused me. But of course, I wanted to see you again. I’d have to see you to knock sense into you.” He laughed at his exaggeration and held her at arm’s length. “What in the world are you doing here?” He gestured to her tiny room and indicated the low status of her life with only the raise of his eyebrows. “Your letters were so vague. I only knew you were alive and nothing more.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t want to trouble you, but I’m so happy here, and I didn’t know how to explain by letter. I feel like I’m finally using my brain and my talents. People respect me because I’m working hard and doing well, not because I’m your daughter or because I have money.”

She knew this wasn’t all true, but it fell off her tongue so quickly and easily, and it just sounded right. She was happy. And wasn’t this what a father would want to hear? Not that his daughter was laughed at and tormented because of who she was and where she came from?

“Well, money is something we must discuss.” His tone turned dark. He looked her up and down. “Please explain this clothing. I arrived last night, and I haven’t seen one other lady wearing anything of this sort. However, I have seen several young men in similar.” His glance was accusatory and suspicious.

“When our ship went down, I lost everything I brought.” She hesitated before explaining further. It was still hard to think back on that day. “My gown was soaked in seawater and blood. All they had for us to change into on the rescue ship was a flight suit. It was so warm and comfortable, and such a relief to get the soil of the wreck off, I couldn’t resist. I suppose it’s become a symbol of my new life.”

“Darling, it’s been several months,” he said with eyebrows raised again. “You must know that there are rumors … er … more than just about you leaving home. Now that I see you face to face, I’m beginning to worry these rumors are not without substance.”

Outil appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray and followed by Jacques. Suddenly the tiny space felt close to bursting.

“I see the automaton survived. Curious,” her father said.

“Lord Vadnay,” Outil dipped low, balancing the tray perfectly.

“At least you aren’t without a servant.” He did not acknowledge her piety. “And you. Explain yourself.” He looked at Jacques, who seemed just as stunned as Marguerite to see her father this early in the morning, two days ahead of schedule.

“Sir,” Jacques stood tall and offered a small bow in greeting. “I am an instructor in this school and an acquaintance of your daughter, as you will remember from the ball at your home several months ago.”

Marguerite noticed that he left off the part about being the captain of the ship that was bested by pirates, or the fact that he blew it up and was investigated by a formal inquiry.

Her father’s face grew dark nonetheless. “Oh, yes. I know who you are.” He turned back to his daughter. “Marguerite, I’d like you to move into my quarters for my duration in New France. I can send a man for your … things.” He looked around the room with disdain once again, his eyes rested on the humble meal Outil was carrying. “And we will get you some proper food.”

Marguerite’s stomach jerked in upon itself as she fought to get the words out she knew she had to speak. Defying her father in the middle of the night with no one watching was a far cry from openly disobeying him to his face.

“Father, I … ” she began.

Jacques stepped forward. “Lady Vadnay actually has a very important examination that will keep her engaged for the rest of the day. She is required to report to the lecture hall within the hour and will complete the exercises sometime in the afternoon.”

Within the hour
…
the words made her stomach even more upset. It was almost time. She was almost finished. She just had to get past her father first.

“Marguerite?” Her father looked at her, his hands on his hips and his chest puffed out. “What is he talking about?”

“It’s a school, father. I’ve been learning aeronautics and steam engineering. Today is my final examination before I am assigned my own ship to pilot.” She took a deep breath and suddenly felt five years old again, begging for a mechanical pony. “I’m going to be a pilot, father. I’m going to fly!”

He looked at the ceiling. He looked at the floor. He took a deep breath.

“Sir, she has attained the top place in her class—academically,” Outil added without mentioning the test flight disaster. “She is the brightest student in the history of the school.”

“Outil is correct … ” Jacques tried to add.

“Enough.” He cut them off and then looked at Marguerite. She thought she saw tears welling in his eyes, but he spoke with the authority of a king. “My man will collect your belongings from this closet. You will report to my home immediately.” His voice was even and deadly serious. Marguerite set down her book, picked up her cape, and stepped past him into the hall by Jacques and Outil.

“Father, I will meet you for supper this evening at any location you choose. Outil will take down the address and escort me. If you wish for me to live in your rooms, I accept, gladly. I have many things I wish to discuss with you as well, but only after my examination. I’ve worked very hard to learn this material. I’ve paid my own money for this experience. I will see it through to the end.” She dipped low in a curtsy, made ridiculous by her flight suit, and turned to walk down the hall.

“You are just like your mother! Stubborn and hard headed!” He hollered after her. Marguerite did not look back.

Her hands twitched and trembled as she tried to hold the pen steady and scrape it on the edge of the ink well. She blotted it carefully and began to write. The more she lost herself in the technical details of the questions, the more she felt the drama of the morning melt away.

Her thoughts began to flow more easily, and the knowledge she’d pored over for the past few months all came together. There was even a portion of the test that she knew she bested simply because of her time on Jacques’s ship,
The Triumph
.

They had a small break for lunch. Marguerite was a bit saddened that Outil and Jacques were not waiting for her in the dining room, but she ate quickly and sped back to the lecture hall, giving herself time to stretch and think and breathe deeply before the second half began.

Much to her relief, Outil was waiting for her at the end of the day. If the automaton had been anything softer than brass gears and panels, Marguerite may have fallen into her arms and wept for joy. She was exhausted, but also confident that she’d passed without a flaw. This was her passion. This was her talent. It was just a shame, for her father’s sake, that she hadn’t been born a boy.

“M’lady, congratulations!” Outil used the most excited version of her mechanical voice for this exclamation. “There is an autocart waiting to take us to your father’s home. He has already removed your belongings from the school.”

“Thank you, Outil. How does he seem?”

“He is not in good spirits.”

“That’s not surprising.”

Outil adjusted a button on Marguerite’s shirt that was about to come undone. “I believe that although he did not wish to, he may have enjoyed the tour of the city Master Laviolette and I took him on today.”

“You took him on a tour? With Jacques?” Marguerite was incredulous. “That’s a small miracle, Outil. I was sure he would have you sent out for scrap and me chopped up for chum after this morning.”

“Excuse me for saying so, but I believe he loves you much more than that.” Outil motioned down a path to their left. “This way.”

“What is it they say? Out of the gearbox, into the oil,” Marguerite mumbled.

The cab was the latest model from Paris, of course. Marguerite had seen a precious few on the streets of Montreal up to this point. She wondered if her father secured it as a rental. or if he’d brought it with him on the ship.

The rear seat was plush and comfortable and made from the softest velvet. Marguerite caught herself running her hand across it, longing for her own room at her childhood home filled with similar fabrics and softness. It had been close to a year since she’d slept on a feather bed with real satin sheets and a duvet that didn’t smell like it was made from a yak. Independence was nice, but so was luxury.

The driver looked at the pair in the rear mirror with a smirk but drove through the streets overflowing with horse-drawn carriages, autocarts and those on foot, without comment. A short drive along the St. Lawrence River brought them to a formidable brick home with modern lights flanking a huge mahogany door. “Lovely, of course,” Marguerite commented. “Where is Jacques now?”

“He had an engagement to attend this evening. He wanted me to assure you that he would call on you tomorrow at your father’s home.” The driver pulled to a stop, got out, and opened the door for the ladies. They stepped from the autocart and walked to the front door. It opened before they touched the knob. An automaton stood at attention, beckoning they enter.

“M’lady, your father awaits.” Its voice had none of the sweet inflection or lilt of Outil’s, but his gear work was magnificent and his metal shiny and new.

Marguerite walked past, taking him in, followed by the grand foyer beyond. Outil replied, “Thank you,” and followed. Fresh flowers stood on delicate tables lining the walls of a round room with a vaulted ceiling. Windows lined the top of the space, each covered with a rainbow of stained glass. An elegant staircase clung to the wall, winding its way to the second floor.

“Your room is at the top of the stairs. I will show you there if you will please follow me,” the bot croaked before stomping up the stairs in a very ungraceful fashion. Marguerite looked at Outil, who rolled her metallic blue eyes. The gesture was so human and so appropriate for the moment; Marguerite burst out a little giggle as they ascended the stairs behind the clomping bot.

“
There
you are.” Her father’s voice filled the rotunda and bounced off the gilt ceiling. Marguerite looked down at him from halfway up the stairs to the second-floor balcony. This welcome was decidedly less warm than the previous one. She was going to have to figure out how to apologize for ignoring his orders without giving up her hard-earned independence.

“Yes, here we are,” she answered and walked down the stairs.

“Faulks will show you to your room. Please rest and change for dinner. We have much to discuss, and I’m hungry enough to eat a brass elephant, so we’ll dine early.”

“Yes, sir.” Marguerite’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but her father didn’t seem to notice. After all these months successfully navigating life on her own, she found it ridiculous to have someone telling her how to dress and when to eat.

The room at the top of the stairs was gorgeous. Deep, ocean blue draperies flanked floor to ceiling windows. The bed filled most of the floor with four posts, a duvet that matched the curtains, and a mountain of pillows. Outside, Marguerite had a view of the city gardens and the river. It was truly glorious.