The Kingdom of Ohio (22 page)

The door swings open and two hulking guards wearing Pinker ton Detective uniforms motion for them to exit the car. Having no option, they do. The guards trail behind as they climb the wide steps of the mansion.

They are greeted at the door by an immaculately dressed butler with a hooked nose and lacquered hair. He looks them up and down, instantly appraising their incomes, social station, and the exact degree of politeness necessary to the situation.

The butler nods to Peter, his smile radiating contempt. “Your coat, sir?”

Peter hesitates. He remembers sitting across from Neumann in the Suicide Hall, and the mechanic's words of warning, which had seemed paranoid at the time. But now, feeling the weight of his father's pistol in his pocket, hastily retrieved before leaving the apartment, he shakes his head. “I'll keep it. Thanks.”

He looks around at the wood paneling of the walls, the intricate tilework on the floor, the framed pictures, potted palms, and china vases. It is a place unlike any he has seen before, the vestibule of another world. He glances at her, hoping to share a covert look, but she ignores him.

“Mademoiselle? May I take your wrap?”

She nods, handing the butler her tattered scarf. He accepts the garment with thinly veiled distaste. “This way, please.” The butler walks away without waiting for them to follow. They proceed up a short flight of stairs, through the atrium and down a corridor, the Pinkertons trailing behind.

Rounding a corner, she recognizes a painting by Van Groöte that her father once showed her in a book and feels an instant of vertigo. The framed pastoral scene depicts a pair of young shepherds in an alpine meadow, a flock of sheep grazing in the distance behind them—and for an instant she imagines that she could step into the painting, her father's look of astonishment as she waves up at him from the page—

Abruptly, together with this reverie and the memory of her father's face, she also experiences a wash of anger. When her mother died, her father had worn that same look of stupefied disbelief; over the span of her childhood, he had retreated behind this expression, along with an ever-changing array of vague artistic pursuits, into a distance beyond her reach. In his absence, surrounded by the silent deference of the family servants who populated her world, she'd learned to rely only on herself, and on her studies—which, if not exactly comforting, were at least safe.

None of which, she reminds herself now, has changed. She glances at the mechanic, then away. Briefly she had allowed herself to imagine—

But how sentimentally stupid, she mocks herself, that hope had been. She should have known better: should have remembered that she can trust only herself. Only—her vertigo returns with such wrenching force that she nearly stumbles—she cannot even trust herself anymore.

The butler stops and opens a set of double doors, gesturing for them to enter. Peter hesitates, and after a moment she pushes through ahead of him. The Pinkertons follow, silently taking up positions on either side of the door.

The room inside is dimly lit, a single green-shaded electric bulb casting brown shadows over the walls. A round wooden table dominates the space, attended by armchairs upholstered in red leather. Pink marble columns rise in each corner, flanked by potted palms.

A huge, elderly man with angry eyebrows and a face like a bulldog is seated at one end of the table—this must be Morgan, Peter guesses. Another man is sitting at the other end of the table, slumped over a technical journal in which he traces the words with his finger. The recognition is instant, but it takes Peter a long moment to digest the fact that he's in the same room as Thomas Edison—the combination of the bilious lighting, the red glow of the walls, and the silence making him feel like he is dreaming.

After a pause that is not quite long enough to be rude, but sufficient to convey an absolute sense of authority, Morgan sets down the newspaper that he is studying and looks up.

“Mr. Force,” he rumbles. “Miss Toledo. Welcome to my home.” He stands, towering over the others in the room, and offers his hand to Peter, who takes it, mumbling a greeting in reply as he feels the financier's fleshy palm envelop his own. Peter tries not to stare at the man's nose. Releasing Peter from his grip, Morgan bows to her; she acknowledges the gesture with a small nod.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” the financier continues. “Please, sit.”

Peter eases himself into one of the armchairs near Edison. The inventor is still absorbed in his journal, apparently oblivious to their arrival. Peter shoots her a sideways glance, trying to read her face for some sign of what she is thinking. But she looks like a photograph of herself taken from a great distance: features blurred, eyes dark and illegible. She remains standing.

Morgan sighs and shrugs, returning to his seat. This is not how he likes to do business—business is war, he knows, but that does not mean it cannot be civilized. He rings a small silver bell and the butler appears in the doorway. “Bring us coffee for four,” he says. The butler nods and vanishes.

An awkward silence ensues.

“Mr. Morgan,” she begins finally, “I appreciate your hospitality. But you must understand if I am cautious, given that my presence here is not entirely of my own free will.”

The financier fixes her for a moment with a penetrating gaze and then nods. “I understand, mademoiselle. The use of such methods is a thuggery that I abhor on principle.”

“Yet you have employed them!” She stares at Morgan, and Peter can see that she is trembling. “Will you please explain your motives in bringing me here? For I cannot help suspect that you have some villainy in mind.”

“Villainy is a complicated thing, Miss Toledo.”

“You justify yourself, sir?”

Peter, who has been silently watching, flinches at this comment. Although he's still fumbling for some clue about what these men want, it seems clear to him that it's best not to make them angry. Strangely though, it is the financier who finally looks away from her gaze.

“Mademoiselle,” Morgan says stiffly, “justification gets most of us through our days.”

The door swings open and the butler enters again, carrying a tray laden with coffee service. He sets the tray down and ceremoniously pours four cups, a faint clatter of china and the warm scent of French roast relieving for a moment the tensions that crisscross the room.

“Thank you,” Morgan says. “We will serve ourselves.”

“Will there be anything more, sir?”

Morgan grunts and, taking this as a negative, the butler departs. The financier stands and takes a cup for himself, motioning for the others to do the same. Trying to seem at ease, Peter does, stirring in two generous spoonfuls of sugar before returning to his seat and deeply inhaling the aroma. The only coffee he has known is a harsh brew made from bark and grounds reused until they've nearly lost all flavor, and now he's embarrassed to notice the financier watching him with an amused smile. She ignores the refreshment.

“Miss Toledo,” Morgan continues after a moment, “I will explain my motives, as you requested. But first—”

“Coffee?” Edison looks up from his journal, registering the presence of the two newcomers for the first time.

“Thank you for joining us,” Morgan sighs.

The inventor doesn't react to this remark, but stands and holds out a chemical-stained hand to Peter, giving him an appraising look. “I understand you're a mechanical man, like myself.” He nods. “Mr. Force, isn't it?”

Peter gapes at the proffered palm, dazed by the suddenness of his arrival in the presence of the man who invented the filament bulb, the talking machine, the bifurcated ratcheting screwdriver . . .

“Are you”—he manages to ask—“are you Thomas Edison?”

Edison shrugs noncommittally and crosses to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“You'll have to speak up, Mr. Force,” Morgan says, rubbing his temples wearily. “My associate is a little hard of hearing.”

Peter realizes that he is still staring at the inventor and, self-conscious, looks away. There are a thousand questions that he wants to ask this man, but all of them seem suddenly foolish. Tongue-tied, he looks down at the table and feels his cheeks flush red.

“Well, then.” The financier leans back in his chair and sips his coffee, the delicate cup nearly disappearing in his massive grip. “I will explain myself as you requested. But first, allow me to ask you a question.”

Standing in the middle of the room, swaying with exhaustion, she waits. His tone is civil, she thinks, his manner beyond reproach. So why, she wonders, am I still afraid?

“Where are you from, mademoiselle?”

She blinks at Morgan, hesitating.

“I read your story in the newspaper,” the financier continues, “and wondered what sort of woman might say these things. I believe our origins play a great role in the development of individuals. Which is why I ask now: Where are you from?” He peers at her, waiting—and when she says nothing, he abruptly raps on the table with his knuckles. Both she and Peter flinch at the gunshot sound.

“In fact,” she begins, drawing a breath, “I—”

“I'm from the Midwest myself,” Edison interrupts. “Why, for a while we were practically neighbors. I was born in a little town called Milan, about a hundred miles outside Toledo. Used to work as a telegraph man all over that region. I remember one night in Port Huron when the telegraph lines across the St. Clair River froze up, I had locomotives pull up to either bank so we could signal Morse back and forth with their whistles! Another time—” The inventor rattles on, an artificial grin plastered to his face, and she realizes this must be a set piece, prearranged with Morgan to make her feel at ease. She ignores the inventor, her eyes fixed on Morgan.

At length, the financier stops the other man with a wave of his hand. “Very well, let me ask another question then. Mademoiselle, in what year were you born?”

She opens her mouth, and then closes it. Among all the people she has met in New York, the financier is the first who seems prepared to accept her story. And surely he could help, she thinks. At the same time she remembers her resolve to leave this morass of danger and crippling doubt behind. And this recollection, along with a sudden intuition of peril, makes her hesitate. She glances over at the Pinkertons standing by the door, then back at Morgan. “Why do you ask?”

“It says here”—the financier picks up the newspaper he was reading when they first entered—“that you told the police you have traveled through time. Is that true? I ask because if it were, that would be of great importance to me.”

She tries to force her thoughts into some kind of order. The stillness of the room and the bloody hue of the walls, along with her own exhaustion, press down on her. Better to wait, she tells herself, remembering the men like Morgan who visited her father's house: how they made themselves seem like forces of nature while her father shrank and nodded helplessly, practically giving away the Kingdom before their demands. Better to wait, she tells herself, to carefully consider—

“To be honest,” she says, “at this moment, I do not know. I have been imprisoned, and can hardly think clearly. I will be happy to discuss these things with you, but now I am tired. I have answered your question. Now, I must ask you, as a gentleman, to let me depart.”

Morgan sighs.

“What was that?” Edison leans toward her, cupping his ear. “Didn't quite catch what you said, miss.”

“She said,” the financier says, “nothing.”

The inventor nods and settles back in his chair, eyeing her doubtfully.

Morgan turns to Peter. “What do you think? I understand that you have some acquaintance with Miss Toledo.”

Peter finds himself caught and pinned by Morgan's gaze. Seated at the table, he risks a glance in her direction but her eyes are closed. The other man's stare drills into him, and he tries to imagine what she might want him to say. Finally, at a loss, he falls back on the truth.

“Couldn't really say.”

“Say again?” Edison shakes his head, then suddenly frowns and digs in his pocket, producing a battered ear-trumpet, which he screws into his head.

“Do you believe she is a madwoman?” the financier presses. “This appears to be the opinion of the authorities.”

Peter shrugs again, painfully aware that he's in the middle of some negotiation he doesn't understand. “I don't know,” he repeats. “She was sick. Nearly fainted when we were down in those subway-works.”

“What's that?” A calculating look appears on Edison's face. “You were down in the tunnels?”

Immediately she stiffens and Peter realizes that somehow he has made a mistake. “I only wanted to show her.” He tries to speak lightly. “I work there, you know. Didn't disturb anything.”

The financier nods, fingering his mustache. “Tell me,” he asks Peter, “what did she do while the two of you were in the subway excavations?”

“Do?” Peter glances at Edison, then back at Morgan. “Didn't do anything. Looked around a few minutes, then we left.”

“And you say it was which tunnel, exactly, the two of you visited?” the inventor asks. Peter hears, or imagines, a sudden note of veiled excitement in his voice.

“Well, let's see—” he starts to stall, but she interrupts him.

“It was the Canal Street tunnel, Mr. Morgan.” She draws a breath. “So I have answered your questions. Now you will have to excuse us.”

The financier is silent, his brow furrowed. “Mademoiselle, I am sympathetic to your plea,” he says at length. “But I must refuse until we have discussed this further. Mr. Force, may I have a moment of privacy with Miss Toledo?”