"Wonderful characters in a delightful romance."
Reviewed by Suan Wilson
Posted February 23, 2005
Romance Historical
Lady Camelia Marshall arrives in London from South Africa
determined to secure her late father's legacy in the
archeology world. She braves society scorn as she pleads
the nobility for financing to continue her search for the
Tomb of Kings. After surviving ancient curses and
mysterious saboteurs, this task should have been easy.
Instead, Camelia finds London bleak, as it seems to drain
the life out of her. Her final mission takes her to the
eccentric inventor, Simon Kent, who refuses to schedule an
appointment. Camelia marches into his laboratory intent on
bullying him into building her a steam engine. Simon Kent, a bookish inventor, is intrigued by this
unconventional woman who invades his home. Society deems
him odd, as his background is not acceptable. His foster
parents, Lord and Lady Redman, secured his release from a
prison when he was a boy. He joined the loving couple's
family as they added more abandoned children to their home.
Secure in their love and encouragement, Simon ignores
society and works with a myriad of ideas and inventions.
His inventions have kept him busy and happy while never
leaving England. However, all that will change if he
accepts Camelia's offer. Convincing Simon to join her in Africa becomes easier as
unknown persons burn his house and laboratory. Her vibrant
description of the beauty and harshness of Africa, plus the
compelling growing attraction between them, gives Simon
more incentive to join her. EVERY WHISPERED WORD is a refreshing tale complete with
wonderful characters. Camelia's pets, a monkey, a snake and
an exotic bird, add humor, and their antics will have
readers laughing out loud. Add Ms. Monk's detailed
description of Africa, which gives a wonderful sense of
place to this romantic tale, and readers have a book worth
keeping!
SUMMARY
When Lady Camelia Marshall barges uninvited into Simon
Kent’s London laboratory with a business proposition, she
finds the famous inventor not at all as she had imagined.
Far from the elderly scholar that she expected, Kent is
handsomely dishevelled, surprisingly brawny and decidedly
uninterested in helping her pursue the archaeological work
of her late father that could make known to the world the
stirring secrets of an ancient culture and the mysterious
cave paintings of the lost Tomb of Kings. Though intrigued by the striking unconventional beauty of
Lady Camelia, Kent cannot fathom leaving behind his
inventions and research to scrabble in the African dirt.
But
while he may not grasp the magnitude of Camelia’s
proposition at once, someone else does—someone willing to
go
to dangerous lengths to stop Camelia…and anyone associated
with her. Suddenly, seduced by the sun-kissed hair and
bronzed skin of this gifted and indomitable woman, Kent
finds himself drawn into a risky adventure that will lead
him to an astonishing paradise he could never have
imagined.
ExcerptLondon, EnglandMarch 1885 If only she’d had her pickax handy, she would have made
bloody good use of it. She kicked the black door in frustration instead, then
stifled a curse as pain shot through her foot. I hate this bloody place. The door groaned and retreated slightly, exposing a narrow
view of the entrance hall beyond. She stared at it a
moment, swiftly analyzing her options. No doubt the proper thing to do would be to pull the door
firmly closed. People in London probably didn’t expect
their doors to be kicked open in broad daylight, she
reflected, especially by relatively respectable-looking
young women. But what if Mr. Kent was actually at home,
and had simply not heard her knocking? Perhaps he was
engaged in some area of the house where it was difficult
to hear someone pounding incessantly upon the door. Then
again, she mused, a man of his social stature probably
employed a butler. Well then, why had this servant not
responded to her knocking? Because he was old and deaf as a post, she promptly
theorized. Or maybe he was a secret tippler and had
collapsed on his bed, utterly foxed. Or suffered a
dreadful attack of some sort and was lying helpless upon
the floor, too weak to call for help. How tragic it would
be if she just callously closed the door and left,
abandoning the poor old, deaf butler to suffer alone and
die. “Hello,” she called, flinging the door wide open. “Mr.
Kent? Are you in?” A banging sound thundered from somewhere within the house.
It was eminently clear why no one had responded to her
knocking. Someone had to be in the house to be making such
a racket, although what activity he or she was involved in
she could scarcely imagine. “Mr. Kent?” She stepped into the entrance hall. “May I
come in?” The foyer was strangely void of furnishings, as if the
owner had only just moved in. A battered, spindly-legged
stool stood at the side of the hall, upon which a
precarious tower of books and papers had been carelessly
erected. More stacks of worn leather-bound volumes and
notes were scattered in untidy hills across the floor and
up the staircase, forcing her to step carefully as she
navigated her way further into the hall. “Mr. Kent,” she called again, trying to be heard above the
clamor, “are you all right?” “That’s it!” shouted someone, triumphant. “I knew it! I
knew it!” The voice was coming from the kitchen below, suggesting
that it did not belong to Mr. Kent, but to one of his
servants. That was better, really. A servant could tell
her if Mr. Kent was in the house. If so, Camelia could
then be issued into the drawing room to wait while the
servant formally announced her. A formal presentation was
much more desirable than having the renowned Mr. Simon
Kent suddenly come upon a strange young woman standing
uninvited in his home amidst the clutter of his personal
books and papers. Assuring herself that she was actually pursuing the more
socially acceptable course of action, she closed the front
door. Then she straightened her hat and brushed her gloved
hands over the emerald-and-ivory-striped fabric of her
skirt. There was no mirror handy for her to check the
state of her hair, but the multitude of pins she had
clumsily poked into place were already working their way
loose, causing her inexpertly crafted chignon to droop
against the nape of her neck. Zareb was probably right,
she realized in frustration. If she was going to stay in
London much longer, she would probably have to resort to
the hiring of a lady’s maid. The thought of such a
frivolous expense irritated her. She jammed several
hairpins back into place and marched through a door
leading off the entrance hall, then she descended the
narrow flight of stairs leading to the kitchen. “Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s better now!” shouted the deep
voice, ecstatic. “Bloody hell, you’ve got it!” A man of considerable height stood in the middle of the
kitchen with his back to her. He was dressed in plain dark
trousers and a simple white linen shirt, the sleeves of
which were carelessly shoved up to his elbows, and the
fabric of which was sodden and clinging to him. This was
not surprising, given the extraordinary heat and moisture
suffusing the kitchen. A fine, silvery mist wafted about,
giving the chamber a faintly ethereal quality. It was a
bit like being in the jungle after a heavy summer rain,
Camelia thought, wishing she wasn’t dressed in so many
suffocating layers of rapidly wilting feminine attire. A loud banging and gasping roared from an enormous
apparatus beside the man. A steam engine, she realized,
feeling a surge of excitement. It was turning a massive
crank, which was facilitating the movement of a series of
revolving wheels. These gears were part of an intricate
structure that was connected to a large wooden tub, but
Camelia could not make out exactly what the extraordinary
piece of machinery was doing. “Wait now, bide a bit, steady, steady--not too fast, now,
you’ve got to keep it steady!” coaxed the man, speaking to
the contraption as if it were a child learning a new
skill. He braced his lean, muscled arms against the rim of the
wooden tub and stared inside, intently focused upon
whatever was taking place within. “A little more, a little
more--that’s it--yes--that’s it--brilliant!” Intrigued, Camelia moved closer, making her way through a
maze of long tables which were crowded with strange
mechanical devices. Stacks of books were piled everywhere,
and the tables, floor and walls of the kitchen were
covered with intricately drawn sketches and notes. “A little faster,” urged the man, excited. “No, no, no,”
he scolded, raking his hand through the damp waves of his
coppery hair. He began to swiftly adjust a series of
levers and valves on the steam engine. “A little more--a
little more--come on now, we’re almost there--that’s it--” A deafening blast of hot vapor belched from the apparatus.
The crank began to turn faster, which in turn caused the
gears to rotate with rapidly increasing speed. “That’s it!” he shouted, elated. “Perfect! Brilliant!
Marvelous!” The wooden barrel started to shiver and shake. Water
sloshed over its sides and onto the floor. “Too fast.” Shaking his head, he frantically worked to
readjust the changes he had made to the steam
engine. “Hold now, slow it down--slow down I say, do you
hear me?” Camelia watched with mounting concern as the enormous
barrel shivered and shook and sent waves of soapy water
spraying through the air. Whatever the contraption’s
purpose might have been, it was clearly not meant to
completely drench the person operating it, as it was now
doing. “Stop now, hold, cease, do you hear?” the man commanded,
blinking water from his eyes as he scrambled to readjust
the settings on the machine. The crank and wheels were spinning at an alarming rate
now, and the great barrel was quivering and quaking as if
it might break apart. “Hold, I say!” the man shouted, banging upon the
recalcitrant contraption with his wrench. “Stop this
nonsense before I take a bloody ax to you!” Suddenly sopping wet garments exploded from the barrel in
every direction. A sodden pair of drawers smacked hard
against Camelia’s face and she stumbled backward,
momentarily blinded. The table behind her gave way,
toppling the one behind it. A dreadful crashing filled the
room as she landed hard upon her backside. “Stop, you worthless piece of junk!” roared the man, who
was still frantically trying to get his contraption under
control. “That is enough!” Camelia pulled the wet drawers from her face just in time
to see the machine give a final, defiant huff. The man
stood before it, dripping wet, his legs apart, wielding
his wrench like a menacing sword. His shirt was unfastened
nearly to his waist, exposing the taut contours of his
chest and belly, and the considerable breadth of his
shoulders was clearly defined beneath the virtually
transparent mantle of linen. Camelia thought he looked
like a mighty warrior poised for battle--except for the
limp stocking dangling from the top of his head. He waited a long moment, breathing heavily, watching to
see if the machine was going to give him any more trouble.
Evidently satisfied that it was not, he slowly lowered his
wrench and turned, shaking his head in disgust. He
glowered at the sight of the overturned tables, the
smashed jumble of inventions, and the litter of notes and
books strewn across the sopping wet floor. Finally his dark gaze fell upon Camelia. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he demanded,
incredulous. “I’m trying to get up,” she returned, hastily pulling her
wet skirts over her legs. Her bruised dignity marginally
restored, she held out her hand and regarded him
expectantly. “I mean what on earth do you think you’re doing here?” he
clarified, ignoring her outstretched hand. “Are you in the
habit of just marching into people’s homes uninvited?” She struggled to maintain an air of polite formality,
which was enormously difficult, given the fact that she
was sprawled on the floor and the man was glaring at her
as if she were a common thief. “I knocked,” she began
primly, “but no one came to the door--” “And so you decided to just force your way in?” “I most certainly did not force my way in.” Since it was
clear he lacked the basic manners of even the most
inexperienced butler, she decided her interrogator had to
be one of Mr. Kent’s apprentices. While she could
appreciate that it was probably difficult to find reliable
assistants who were sufficiently skilled in mathematics
and science, that did not excuse his utter
discourtesy. “The door was already open.” He yanked the wet stocking from his head and threw it
aside. “And so you decided that meant you were welcome to
sneak in and spy on me?” As it was obvious he was not going to assist her in
getting up, she pushed herself to her feet with as much
dignity as she could muster, given the challenge of
managing her bustle, petticoats, reticule, and awkwardly
tilting hat. Once she was upright she met his gaze with
cool disdain. “I can assure you, sir, that I did not sneak in, but
rather walked in after knocking upon the door for several
long minutes, and then calling out loudly to announce my
presence. The door was open, as I have already mentioned--
a careless oversight of which I’m sure your master would
not approve, were he to hear of it from me.” The man’s blue eyes widened. Good, thought Camelia with satisfaction. I can see I have
your attention. “As it happens, I have an appointment this afternoon with
Mr. Kent,” she continued crisply, affecting an air of
supreme importance. She was only embellishing the truth a little, she assured
herself. In fact she had written to Mr. Kent asking for an
appointment exactly five times. Unfortunately, he had not
responded to any of her letters. But she had been advised
by certain members of London society that the esteemed
inventor was a bit odd, and could sometimes go for weeks
without either being seen or responding to any of his
mail. And so instead of waiting for Mr. Kent to write
back, she had taken matters into her own hands, penning a
note in which she informed him that she would be calling
upon him on that particular day, at that exact hour. “You have an appointment with Mr. Kent?” The man arched a
skeptical brow, which only served to further irritate her. “Indeed I do,” Camelia assured him firmly. Obviously Mr.
Kent wasn’t at home or he would have come rushing in by
now, to find out what had made such a tremendous racket in
his laboratory. “Regarding a matter of great import.” “Really?” He folded his arms across his chest,
unimpressed. “What?” “Forgive me, sir, but that is not your concern. If you
will just advise me as to when you expect Mr. Kent to be
in tomorrow, I shall call upon him then.” She had decided that she should not wait for the inventor
to appear. Although there was no mirror in the kitchen,
she was certain the effect of being hit in the face with a
wet pair of men’s drawers was not estimable. She could
feel her enormous hat listing dangerously to one side, and
her hair was falling in a tangled damp nest beneath it. As
for her carefully selected outfit, which she and Zareb had
labored so hard to iron into a state of neat perfection,
it was now a soggy, wrinkled disaster. If Mr. Kent were to
take her proposition seriously, she could hardly appear
before him looking like a waif who had just blown in from
a gale. “I’m Simon Kent,” the man informed her brusquely. Camelia stared at him in disbelief. “You’re not.” “Am I not quite what you expected?”’ “To begin with, you’re too young.” His brow creased. “I’m not sure whether I should be
flattered or insulted. Too young for what?” The barest flicker of amusement lit his gaze, making it
clear to her that he was simply making sport with her.
Well, she was not that gullible. “Too young to have earned several degrees in mathematics
and science from the University of St. Andrews and St.
John’s College in Cambridge,” Camelia pointed out. “And to
have lectured extensively on the subjects of Mechanisms
and Applied Mechanics, and to have written two dozen or
more papers published by the National Academy of Science,
and to have registered patents for some two hundred and
seventy inventions. And obviously, too young to be
responsible for all of this,” she finished, gesturing to
the room full of scientific activity around her. His expression was contained, but she could see that she
had surprised him with her knowledge of his employer’s
accomplishments. Good, she thought, perversely satisfied
that she had managed to put him in his place. “Given the disastrous results of the experiment you just
witnessed, I fear I have forever damaged your too kind
opinion of me. However, since you just barged into my
laboratory uninvited and unannounced, I’m afraid I cannot
be held responsible for that. I don’t customarily permit
anyone to see what I am working on until I am relatively
confident it is not going to explode and start shooting
undergarments about.” Camelia stared at him, speechless. He was not so young
after all, she realized, suddenly noticing the furrows in
his forehead and between his brows, which suggested
countless long hours spent in study and deliberation. He
was certainly thirty-five, or perhaps even a year or two
more. While that was relatively young for a man to have
accomplished all that she had just described, it was not
impossible. Not if the man was exceptionally brilliant,
disciplined, and driven. A terrible sinking feeling
enveloped her as she realized she had just insulted the
very man she had so desperately hoped to impress with her
visit. “Forgive me,” she managed, wishing that the floor would
open up suddenly and swallow her whole. “I did not mean to
intrude. It’s just that I very much wanted to meet you.” He tilted his head to one side, his expression wary. “Why?
Have you come to interview me for one of those irritating
rags that takes such inestimable pleasure in dismissing me
as a mad inventor?” His tone was sarcastic, but Camelia detected a thread of
vulnerability that suggested he had not been impervious to
being described as such. “No, nothing like that,” she assured him. “I’m not a
writer.” “Not a writer, and not a spy. That’s two counts in your
favor. Who, then, are you?” “I’m Lady Camelia Marshall,” she said, grabbing her hat as
it started to slide off her head. “I’m a great admirer of
your work, Mr. Kent,” she added earnestly, holding fast to
keep the heavily flowered confection from flopping over
her face. “I’ve read several of your papers and have found
them to be most intriguing.” “Have you indeed?” If he was impressed by the fact that a woman had actually
read some of his work, or claimed to find it intriguing,
he gave no sign of it. Instead he walked behind her and
lifted the first table that Camelia had knocked over. “What a bloody mess,” he muttered, bending to pick up some
of the dozens of tools, pieces of hardware and wads of
notes that lay strewn about the wet floor. “I’m terribly sorry about knocking your tables over,”
Camelia apologized. “I hope nothing is broken,” she added,
stooping down to assist him. Simon watched as she awkwardly picked up a small metal
box. She gripped it with one soiled, gloved hand while the
other held fast to the enormous monstrosity of her sagging
hat. That done, she started to rise. Unfortunately, her
balance was compromised by the heavy weight of her wet
bustle. She abandoned her grip on her bonnet and flailed
around with one hand, her expression suddenly panicked,
still holding his invention safe against her breast. Simon reached out and grabbed her as her hat dropped in a
riot of wilted roses over her face. As she toppled against
him the scent of her flooded through him, an extraordinary
fragrance unlike any he had ever known. It was exotic yet
vaguely familiar, a light, sun-washed essence that
reminded him of wandering in the woods on his father’s
estate during a summer rain. He held her fast, drinking in
her fragrance and acutely aware of the delicate structure
of her back, the soft gasp of her breath, the agitated
rise and fall of her breast as it pulsed against the damp
linen clinging to his chest. “I’m so sorry,” Camelia apologized again, horrendously
embarrassed as she wrenched her hat up off her face.
Finally free of its pins, the treacherous headpiece fell
to the floor, dragging whatever semblance of a coiffure
she might have retained down with it, until her hair was
spilling across her back in a hopeless mass of tangles. Simon stared down at her, taking in the smoky depths of
her eyes, which were wide and filled with frustration.
They were the color of sage, he realized, the soft green
shade of wild wood sage, which grew in the dry, shady
heaths of Scotland. A fine fan of lines surrounded her
lower lashes, making it clear that she was well past the
girlish bloom of her early twenties. Her skin was
unfashionably bronzed and sprinkled with freckles, and her
honey-colored hair was streaked with the palest threads of
gold, indicating she was well accustomed to being in the
sun. That he found surprising, given the quality of her
attire. In his experience most Englishwomen of gentle
breeding preferred the protection of either the indoors or
shade. Then again, he reflected, most women of gentle
breeding didn’t march boldly into a man’s house, uninvited
and unescorted. He was vaguely aware that she no longer
required his assistance to stand, yet he found himself
strangely reluctant to release her. “I’m all right now, thank you.” Camelia wondered if he
thought she was incapable of staying upright for more than
three minutes. Not that she had given him much reason to
think otherwise, she realized miserably. “I’m afraid I’m
not accustomed to wearing such a big hat,” she added,
feeling he must require some kind of explanation for her
inability to keep the confounded thing on top of her head.
She declined to mention that a wet pair of drawers had
knocked her in the face, challenging the integrity of her
awkwardly arranged hairpins. Simon didn’t know what to say to that. He supposed a
gentleman might reassure her that the hat was quite
fetching on her, but he thought the bloody thing was
ludicrous. There was no denying she looked much better
without it, especially with her sun kissed hair loose and
curling across her shoulders. “Here.” He picked her hat up and handed it to her. “Thank you.” He turned away, suddenly needing some distance from
her. “So tell me, Lady Camelia,” he began, trying to focus
on his disaster of a laboratory, “do we actually have an
appointment today of which I am unaware?” “Yes, absolutely,” Camelia replied emphatically. “We most
certainly do.” She coughed lightly. “In a matter of
speaking.” Simon frowned. “Meaning what, exactly?” “Meaning that our appointment was not confirmed, exactly.
But it was certainly set, there can be no doubt about
that.” “I see.” He had no idea what she was talking
about. “Forgive me if I seem obtuse, but just how,
precisely, was this meeting arranged?” “I wrote you a series of letters asking you for an
appointment, but unfortunately, you never replied,”
Camelia explained. “In the last letter I took the step of
informing you that I would call upon you today at this
time. I suppose that was rather forward of me.” “I believe it actually pales in comparison with marching
into a man’s house unannounced and unescorted,” Simon
reflected, slapping a sheaf of soggy notes onto the
table. “Are your parents aware that you are wandering
around London without a chaperone?” “I have no need for a chaperone, Mr. Kent.” “Forgive me. I did not realize you were married.” “I’m not. But at twenty-eight I’m well past the age of
coming out, and I have neither the time nor the
inclination to be constantly arranging for some gossipy
elderly matron to follow me about. I have a driver, and
that is sufficient.” “Aren’t you concerned for your reputation?” “Not particularly.” “And why is that?” “Because if I lived my life according to the dictums of
London society, I would never get anything done.” “I see.” He tossed a wooden pole with a metal attachment
onto the table. “What’s that?” asked Camelia, regarding it curiously. “It’s a new type of mop I’m working on,” he said
dismissively, bending to retrieve something else. She moved closer to examine the odd device. “How does it
work?” Simon regarded her uncertainly, not quite believing that
she was actually interested in it. Few women had ever
ventured into his laboratory. Of those that had, only the
women in his family had demonstrated a genuine
appreciation of his often-outlandish ideas. Yet something
about Lady Camelia’s expression as she stood there
tempered his initial impulse to simply brush off her
question. Her sage-green eyes were wide and contemplative,
as if the odd tool before her were a mystery that she
genuinely wanted to solve. “I’ve attached a large clamp on the end of a mop-stick,
which is operated by this lever,” he began, picking it up
to show it to her. “The lever pulls this rod, which
tightens this spring, causing the clamp to close tight.
The idea is that you wring out the string end of the mop
without ever touching it, or even having to bend over.” “That’s very clever.” “It needs work,” he said, shrugging. “I’m having trouble
getting the tension on the spring right, so that it
squeezes out the mop sufficiently without snapping the
lever.” He placed it back on the table. “And what is this?” Camelia indicated the metal box she
was holding. “A lemon squeezer.” She regarded it curiously. “It doesn’t look like any of
the lemon squeezers I’ve ever seen.” She opened it to
reveal a wooden fluted nob surrounded by a ring of
holes. “How does it work?” “You put the halved lemon on the mount, then close the lid
and press down firmly, using the handles to create more
pressure,” Simon explained. “The hollow in the lid
squeezes the lemon hard against the mount, extracting the
juice without the need for twisting. The juice flows
through the holes into the chamber below, free of pits and
pulp, which get trapped in the chamber above. Then you
pull this little drawer out and there you have your lemon
juice.” “That’s wonderful. Are you planning to manufacture it?” He shook his head. “I made it for my family because I’m
always trying to find ways to lighten their work a little.
I expect others would think it was a piece of nonsense.” “I believe most women would welcome anything that makes
their household tasks easier,” Camelia argued. “Have you
at least registered a patent for it? Or for the mop?” “If I stopped to register patents for every little thing I
came up with, I’d spend my life buried in paper.” “But you have some two hundred and seventy patents.” “Only because some well-meaning members of my family took
it upon themselves to take my drawings and notes on those
particular inventions and submit the necessary documents
and fees to the patent office. I have no idea what has
been registered and what hasn’t. Frankly, it doesn’t
interest me.” She regarded him incredulously. “Don’t you want to know
that your ideas have been properly registered, so you can
receive credit for them?” “I don’t invent things for the sake of receiving credit
for them, Lady Camelia. If someone else wants to take one
of my ideas and improve upon it and invest the time and
the capital necessary to put it into production, so be it.
Science and technology would never advance if all
scientists hoarded their theories and discoveries as if
they were gold.” He hoisted the second table back onto its legs and began
to pile onto it more of the wet papers, tools, and various
inventions that had fallen to the floor. “So tell me, Lady
Camelia,” he said, shaking the water out of a tangled nest
of wire, “what is it that led you to write all those
letters asking to see me?” Camelia hesitated. She had imagined conducting her meeting
with Mr. Kent seated in a richly velvet-draped drawing
room, where she could expound at a leisurely pace upon the
importance of archaeology and the evolution of man,
perhaps while being served tea on a silver service by some
suitably deferential servant. It was now abundantly clear
to her that Mr. Kent didn’t employ a servant, given the
numerous stacks of greasy dishes piled high upon the stove
and in the sink on the other side of the kitchen. She
considered suggesting that she return on another day, when
he might not be preoccupied with the task of restoring his
laboratory to some semblance of order, then quickly
rejected the idea. Time was running out. “I’m interested in your work on steam engines,” she began,
bending to pick up a few more items from the floor. “I
have read one of your papers on the subject--in which you
discussed the enormous benefits of steam power when
applied to the pumps used in coal mining. I thought your
thesis that steam power has yet to be used effectively was
most compelling.” Simon couldn’t believe she was serious. Of every
possibility that might have explained her presence, the
subject of steam engines and coal mining would have struck
him as amongst the least likely. “You’re interested in
steam engines?” “As they apply to the challenges of excavation and
pumping,” Camelia explained. “I am an archaeologist, Mr.
Kent, as was my father, the late Earl of Stamford. No
doubt you have heard of him?” A glimmer of hope flared in her eyes, which for some
reason Simon was loathe to extinguish. However, he
disliked the idea of lying to her. “Unfortunately, Lady Camelia, I’m not very well acquainted
with the field of archaeology, and I don’t typically
attend functions where I might have had the pleasure of
meeting your father.” His tone was apologetic. Camelia nodded. She supposed she couldn’t really expect
him to know of her father. Given everything she had heard
about Mr. Kent, it was apparent he spent most of his time
cloistered in his laboratory. “My father dedicated his life to the study of the
archaeological riches in Africa, at a time when the world
is almost exclusively interested in the art and artifacts
of the Egyptians, Romans and Greeks. Very little has been
done in terms of recording the history of the African
people from a scientific point of view.” “I’m afraid I don’t know very much about Africa, Lady
Camelia. My understanding is that its people are basically
nomadic tribes who have lived extremely simple lives for
thousands of years. I didn’t think there was anything of
value there--except diamonds, of course.” “Africa does not have the abundance of ancient buildings
and art that have been found elsewhere in the world,”
Camelia allowed. “Or if it does, we have not yet found
them. But my father believed Africa was home to
civilizations far older than those existing anywhere else
in the world. When Charles Darwin proposed his theory that
human beings may have descended from apes, most of the
world laughed. My father, however, grew more convinced of
Africa’s singular importance in the evolution of mankind.” “And how does that apply to my work with steam engines?” “Twenty years ago, my father discovered an area of land in
South Africa in which there were many indications that
once an ancient tribe lived there. He purchased some three
hundred acres and began an excavation, which produced many
exciting artifacts. I am now continuing my father’s work
and I need your steam powered pump to assist me.” “I thought archaeological digs were basically carried out
with a shovel, a bucket, and a brush.” “They are. But excavating in South Africa has unique
challenges. Once you get below the first layer of
relatively soft ground, the crust becomes extremely hard
and difficult to break. Then you the have the problem of
water seeping into the hole as you approach the water
table. And then there is the rainy season, which can last
from December through March. At this moment my dig is
completely flooded, making it impossible for my workers to
continue.” “Surely there are steam-powered pumps available in South
Africa,” Simon suggested. “They are actually somewhat difficult to come by.” Cassandra was careful to keep her tone light. She did not
want Simon to know about the extraordinary problems she
had encountered in trying to secure a pump for her site.
If he knew that her previous equipment had been sabotaged,
or that she believed the De Beers Company had instructed
the pumping companies not to lease her any more machinery,
he might decide it was too risky for him to supply her
with his own unique pump. “There is a water-pumping monopoly in existence, which is
controlled by the De Beers Mining Company,” she
continued, “and its priority, understandably, is providing
services for pumping the diamond mines. At this point, I
am unable to either purchase or lease a pump, which has
brought the work on my site to a halt. But after reading
your article, I am convinced your pump would be far
superior to anything currently in use in South Africa.
That is why I have come to you.” “And just what makes you think my pump is better?” “In your paper you dismissed current steam turbines as
extremely inefficient. You proposed that far greater
energy could be harnessed if the steam could expand
gradually, instead of in just one step, enabling the
turbine to move at an extraordinary speed, which would in
turn result in a much more powerful and rapid pumping
action. Since the artifacts I am excavating can be damaged
by prolonged exposure to water, and because I am extremely
anxious to progress with my work, I believe your new steam
pump is the best solution for clearing my site.” So she had actually read the article, Simon reflected.
Even more surprising, she apparently had understood it. He
raked his hands through his hair and gazed about the room,
trying to remember where he had put his notes and drawings
on steam engines. He began to rummage through several
piles of drawings scattered on the floor, then moved to
one of the tables that had not been upended by Lady
Camelia’s spectacular fall and continued searching. “Why were you making this engine shake this tub?” Camelia
asked while he searched. “The engine wasn’t supposed to shake the tub. It was
supposed to turn the paddles inside, which in turn would
force the water through the clothes. Unfortunately, it
didn’t work as well as I had hoped.” Camelia stared at the enormous contraption in
astonishment. “You mean this is a giant washing machine?” “It’s an early prototype,” Simon told her. “Current
machines employ a wooden tub and paddles that are turned
by a crank. I’m trying to make a machine that will operate
with steam power, freeing women from the exhausting job of
turning the crank by hand.” Although her experience with washing clothes was limited,
Camelia could certainly appreciate that for a woman in
charge of an entire household’s attire, a steam-powered
machine would be of enormous help. “That’s a marvelous
idea.” “It needs a lot of work,” he admitted, casting an
irritated glance at the soaking wet garments strewn about
the kitchen. “A steam engine is difficult to operate, and
I’m having trouble getting it to give me a good, steady
rotation. Also, it’s too large and expensive. Gas power is
another option, but few homes are connected to gas.
Electricity is also a possibility, but most homes don’t
have it yet.” He began to burrow beneath a towering stack
of unwashed dishes, which looked as if they might come
crashing down upon his head at any moment. “Here it is,”
he said, extracting a crumpled sketch from beneath a
frying pan. Camelia moved closer as he cleared some space on a table
and attempted to smooth out the badly creased, stained
drawing. “The basic premise of a steam engine is that it places
steam under enormous pressure, then permits it to expand,
creating a force which can be converted into motion,”
Simon began. “Using a piston and cylinder, a pumping
effect is created, which can be used for many tasks,
including pumping water from coal mines and pits. I was
trying to improve the engine’s efficiency by having the
steam expand through a series of stages, thereby
significantly increasing its pressure.” “Did you succeed?” “I managed to break down the movement of the steam and
intensify its pressure. Unfortunately, it was not enough
to make a substantial difference in terms of the pump’s
efficiency.” Disappointment filtered through her. “Did the pump you
built work well enough to clear water out of a pit?” “Of course,” Simon assured her. “I made a few adaptations
to it, so that the action was better than what most pumps
can achieve. It just wasn’t enough to warrant
manufacturing it on a large-scale basis. The materials I
used were costlier than what is generally employed, and
the machine takes longer to assemble, which means no
manufacturer would consider the design economically
viable.” Camelia supposed that a somewhat improved pump was better
than nothing. “Would you be willing to lease it to me?” “Unfortunately, there is nothing to lease. I dismantled
most of it, because I needed the pieces for other things.” She stared at him, crestfallen. “How long would it take
you to build another one?” “More time than I have right now,” Simon replied. “I am
currently working on too many other projects. Besides,
that machine had several problems which I couldn’t seem to
solve.” “But that is what should compel you to devote more time to
it,” Camelia argued. “As a scientist, you should be
motivated by challenge.” “Look around you, Lady Camelia. Do you honestly believe I
don’t have enough challenges already demanding my
attention?” “I’m not saying that the other inventions you are working
on are not important,” Camelia assured him. “But you can
scarcely compare lemon squeezers and washing machines to
something that will help me unearth a vital piece of human
history.” “That depends entirely upon one’s point of view,” Simon
countered. “For people who collapse on their bed every
night exhausted by the overwhelming burden of their daily
chores, any invention which makes a task easier to perform
is an improvement on their life. Potentially improving the
lives of thousands strikes me as far more important than
digging up a few disintegrating bones and broken relics in
the wastelands of Africa.” “Those disintegrating bones and relics tell us about who
we are and where we came from,” Camelia returned,
infuriated by how he was denigrating her work. “The
discovery of our history is of critical importance to all
of us.” “I’m afraid I am more interested in devoting my time to
inventions that will make the present and the future
better. While I respect the field of archaeology, Lady
Camelia, it is a rarefied area of interest mainly for a
few privileged academics. I don’t believe you are about to
discover anything that will improve the lives of thousands
of people. Since my time is extremely limited, and I am
already working on far more projects than I can manage,
I’m afraid I cannot help you.” He began to pick up more of
his scattered inventions and papers from the floor. “I will pay you.” He paused and eyed her curiously. Her expression was
composed, but her hands were gripping her reticule so
tightly her soiled gloves were stretched taut against her
knuckles. Clearly, pursuing the work of her father meant a
great deal to her. “Really? How much?” “Very well,” she assured him. “Handsomely.” “Forgive me if this seems somewhat uncivilized, but I’m
afraid you will have to be a little more precise in your
terms. How much, exactly, does ‘handsomely’ mean?” Camelia hesitated. Her financial resources were severely
strained. She had scarcely enough funds in the bank to
keep the handful of loyal workers who had remained on her
site from quitting over the course of the next two months.
But Mr. Kent mustn’t know that. The disheveled man
standing before her appeared to be having financial
troubles of his own, given his modest, sparsely furnished
home and his apparent inability to employ anyone to assist
him, either with his inventions or with the avalanche of
crusted pots and greasy dishes piled around the stove and
sink. “If you will build me a pump immediately, Mr. Kent, then I
am prepared to offer you five percent of my profits over
the next two years. I believe you must agree that is very
generous.” Simon frowned. “I’m sorry, Lady Camelia, but I’m not clear
on what that means. Profits on what, precisely?” “On whatever I find at my site.” “I wasn’t aware that there was a flourishing market for
bits of bone and broken pots.” “There is if they are of archaeological significance. Once
I have had the opportunity to study and document the
pieces, they are sold to the British Museum for its
collection, with the understanding that I am to have
continued access to them should I ever wish it.” “I see. And just how much you have managed to earn in the
past five years while engaged in this pursuit?” “What my father and I earned in the past is of no
consequence,” she informed him firmly. “At the time of his
death six months ago, my father was on the verge of an
extremely important discovery. Unfortunately, rain and
water seepage have made progress on the site extremely
slow, and my workers have had difficulty accomplishing
much.” Actually, most of them had become convinced that the site
was cursed and fled, but she saw no reason to share that
particular piece of information with him. “With the help of your steam pump,” she continued, “I will
be able to excavate the site a hundred times faster than I
could using only manpower for removing the water and mud.
Then I will finally find what my father spent so many
years looking for.” “And what was that?” Camelia hesitated. There had already been rampant fear
amongst her own workers as to what it was she sought. When
the accidents occurred, that fear had ignited into a
firestorm of panic. Of course Simon Kent was an educated
man of science, who probably didn’t believe in curses and
vengeful spirits. Even so, the less he knew, the better. “My father was searching for the artifacts of an ancient
tribe that inhabited the area of our site some two
thousand years ago.” That was certainly true, she assured
herself. It just wasn’t the entire truth. Simon looked decidedly unimpressed. “A few smashed bits of
ancient tribal artifacts? No secret stashes of gold or
diamonds? No mysterious ancient powers trapped in a jewel-
encrusted chest?” “The value of these particular artifacts will be
enormous.” Camelia struggled to keep her temper in
check. “My father spent his last twenty years on the cusp
of an important scientific discovery, which is certain to
open the door to an entire new area of archaeological
study.” “So what you are offering me at present is essentially
five percent of nothing,” Simon observed bluntly, “given
that you and your father have so far failed to find this
so-called ‘significant discovery.’” He began to gather up
the sopping wet garments strewn about the kitchen and toss
them back into his washing machine. “Forgive me if I seem
ungrateful, Lady Camelia, but as marvelously tempting as
your offer is, I’m afraid I shall have to decline.” Camelia glared at him in frustration. Simon Kent was
nothing like she had imagined. She had envisioned him as a
refined, elderly man of science and letters, who was
driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge, as her
father had been. She had believed Mr. Kent would welcome
the extraordinary opportunity to participate in her
exploration, in which one of his inventions would be used
to further the world’s understanding of its own origins.
She had convinced herself that he would be nothing like
the other British men she had met upon her return to
England, most of whom seemed to think that South Africa
was nothing but a scrubby plot of dirt inhabited by
barbarians, a land just waiting to be ravished for
diamonds and gold. “Ten percent then, over two years,” she offered stiffly as
he continued to hurl garments back into his infernal
washing machine. She hated the fact that she needed his
assistance so desperately. “Will that satisfy you?” “It isn’t just a matter of the money.” Simon was impressed
by her obvious determination. Clearly her desire to honor
her father’s life’s work and succeed where he had failed
was admirable. “Even if I built another steam-powered pump
for you, which would take several weeks at the very least,
who would operate it for you once it was shipped to South
Africa? You have already described the significant
challenges of the geography and weather. The steam pump I
would build would be different from anything currently in
use. It would have to be adapted to address the problems
that would undoubtedly arise. Someone would have to be
trained to operate and maintain it, otherwise you would
find yourself saddled with a completely useless piece of
machinery.” He was right, Camelia realized. The one steam engine she
had managed to lease for her dig right after her father
had died had suffered countless breakdowns during the few
brief days it had actually worked. Then it had
mysteriously fallen over and smashed its gears, destroying
it completely. The leasing company had demanded that she
pay for the ruined machine, then refused to lease any
equipment to her again. Mr. Kent’s machine would be useless unless someone with
adequate knowledge of such a piece of equipment could be
engaged to run it. “Would you be willing to come to South Africa and train
someone to use it? You would only need to stay a week or
two,” she hastily assured him. “Just long enough to
demonstrate how the machine works and familiarize someone
with its maintenance.” “Someone might be able to master operating it in two
weeks, but learning to maintain it and repair it would
take weeks or even months beyond that,” Simon pointed
out. “I’m afraid I don’t have the time or the inclination
to sail to Africa to do that--I have far too many other
projects demanding my attention at this time.” “Of course I would offer you more, to compensate you for
your time,” Camelia added. “I would increase your stake in
the profits to ten percent over five years--surely this
would satisfy you for the time I am asking you to invest.” “Lady Camelia, I’m afraid I do not share your fascination
with scrabbling around in the African dirt. I hope you
understand.” Camelia pressed her lips tightly together. What a complete
and utter waste. She had spent two weeks poring over his
articles in The Journal of Science and Mechanics while
writing him letter after letter, politely asking him for a
visit. In that time she had convinced herself that she
would be able to persuade the reputedly odd but brilliant
Simon Kent to provide her with the steam pump she so
desperately needed. Two precious weeks lost, with
absolutely nothing to show for it. Panic flared within
her. Her gaze fell to the greasy sketch on the table before
her. “Of course I understand,” she said calmly. “I hope you
will forgive me for entering your home unannounced, Mr.
Kent, and I thank you for your time.” She placed her
enormous hat on her head. “Oh, dear,” she exclaimed,
feeling about helplessly at the back of it, “I seem to
have lost my pearl hat pin. It must have fallen on the
floor--do you see it anywhere?” Simon scanned the littered floor. “Here are some
hairpins,” he said, bending to pick up a half dozen wire
fastenings strewn amidst the remaining debris, “but I’m
afraid I don’t see…” “Oh, here it is! It was just caught in the top of my hat.”
She jabbed the pin into the loose tangle of her hair and
moved swiftly toward the stairs leading to the main floor. “I’ll see you out,” Simon offered. “That won’t be necessary,” Camelia assured him airily,
mounting the staircase as quickly as her damp, heavy
skirts and bustle would permit. She strode across the
entranceway and flung open the front door. “I hope I have
not caused too much of a disruption to your day, Mr.
Kent.” She gave him her sweetest smile, then turned and
proceeded to make her way down the stone steps to the
street. Simon watched as she hurried along the sidewalk toward an
elegantly appointed black carriage, her crinkled skirts
swishing heavily about her, her pale blond hair falling in
a tempest of waves beneath the wilted roses of her
ludicrous hat. He wondered why her driver had not waited
with her carriage directly outside his door. Perhaps she
had instructed him to park a little further down the
street so that she might enjoy a brief stroll. Whatever
the reason, her stride was quick and determined as she
walked, her beaded reticule swinging from her gloved
wrist. The mauve and pewter colors of early evening
swirled in a dusky veil around her, and as she reached the
carriage she turned and waved. Then she opened the vehicle’s door and climbed inside,
evidently so anxious to depart that she did not wait for
her coachman to climb down and assist her. Simon closed his door and stood in his front hall a
moment. The leaden light had fallen like a caul over the
barely furnished area, making it seem unusually oppressive
and gloomy. He debated lighting the gas lamp fixture on
the wall, then decided against it. He rarely ventured from
his laboratory until the middle of the night anyway, and
with all the straightening up he still had to do, he would
probably be down there until the early hours of the
morning. As he headed back down to the kitchen he noticed
that his trousers were wet and clinging to him, and his
sodden shirt was open nearly to his waist. Wonderful, he thought dryly. Now on top of being labeled
reclusive, absent-minded and profoundly eccentric, he
could add being an exhibitionist to his list. Lady Camelia
had not seemed to mind his state of undress, he reflected,
or if she had, she had been extremely adept at masking her
discomfiture. Perhaps her time in the wilds of South
Africa had desensitized her to the proprieties of English
society. It was doubtful that the native workers she
employed labored in the scorching heat in a starched
shirt, waistcoat and jacket. He lifted his experimental mop from the table and set to
cleaning the floor, trying hard not to think about her
sage-green eyes, and how gloriously soft and warm she had
felt in the achingly brief moment he had held her. * * *
“Good Lord, madam, whatever do you think you’re doing?”
demanded the beefy-faced gentleman staring at Camelia from
the opposite side of the carriage. “This isn’t your
carriage!” “It isn’t?” Camelia looked about its wine velvet interior,
pretending to be confused. “It certainly looks like my
carriage--I recognize the curtains--are you certain you
haven’t made a mistake and climbed into the wrong one?” “Quite certain,” the man returned adamantly, “since I’ve
just returned from the country and have been sitting in
this very seat for the last three hours. I was just about
to disembark when you climbed in.” She cautiously peered out the carriage window, watching as
Simon went back into his house and closed the door. “Then I must beg your forgiveness, sir,” she apologized,
opening the door. “I told my driver to wait for me here,
but it appears he must have moved a little further down
the avenue. I regret causing you any inconvenience.” She
disembarked and fled down the street, tightly clutching
her reticule. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she raced along,
fearful that at any moment Mr. Kent would discover she had
stolen his drawing and chase after her. A heady mixture of
triumph and fear kept her breaths shallow and her steps
swift. She might not have Mr. Kent’s newfangled steam-
powered pump, but she had an extremely detailed sketch of
it. She would find someone else to build it for her--
someone who would share her vision of advancing the field
of archaeology. There were other inventors in London--men
who were interested in loftier pursuits than trying to use
steam power to launder underclothes or wring the last bit
of juice out of a lemon. She came to the end of the street and crossed, then
slipped down a narrow alley that ran behind a row of
homes, weaving her way back to where she had left Zareb
with the carriage. Her African friend had argued
vehemently with her when she had insisted that he could
not drive her directly to Mr. Kent’s home, but ultimately
he had relented. They couldn’t afford to rouse any
attention, and Zareb by his very appearance never failed
to draw a fascinated audience wherever he went. She held her hat with one hand and her reticule safe
against her chest with the other, despising the iron grip
of her corset and the cumbersome cage of her bustle and
petticoats. When she finally got back to Africa, she would
take great pleasure in burying them both. Some
archaeologist a thousand years hence would no doubt think
they were instruments of torture. “Hello there, duckie.” A heavyset man appeared suddenly in
front of her, blocking her path. “Where are we off to in
such a hurry?” Before she could respond an enormous hand clapped roughly
over her mouth, cutting off the enraged protest in her
throat.
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