magnets—you have seen our electric lighting?”
“Indeed,” Jed said politely, although the crude lighting made a poor show compared to the bright natural sunlight pouring in the windows.
“The generator is in a cupboard behind that wall. Amberley redesigned it to increase the power outlet, but then when he ran the magnets, it was a disaster.”
“Spoons!” A middle-aged man, wearing the wig of a barrister, brayed his amusement. “Club management had replaced the silver spoons with stainless steel. Thought to save money. Every spoon whipped through the air to clang against the powerful central magnet.”
The young man looked disapprovingly at such unregulated amusement. “Amberley keeps promising to fix the machine, but so far it remains too dangerous to use. Mr. Puddlington’s glasses were ripped from his face.”
“Inventions naturally require tweaking. Why perfection straight out of the box, or the workroom…”
Jed let the discussion drift on while he observed the men. Their number increased as the lunch hour approached. Dr. Palmer returned from his business and introduced Jed to his cronies, including the barrister. Jed shared a table with them, eating a substantial roast beef meal followed by Christmas pudding. He grinned to see this remnant of midwinter festivities. The inhabitants of Swan River had a unique but enjoyable approach to life—taking the best of their home countries. He was glad, though, that they didn’t waste good brandy setting the pudding alight. Cognac this fine deserved to be savored, and he took his glass with him to sit by the fire.
Nicholas Bambury chose a chair close by. He hitched his trousers carefully before sitting. “So, Reeve, I believe you’re a friend of Captain Fellowes?”
“I have that honor.”
From his corner chair, Dr. Palmer frowned suspicion.
“And of his niece, Miss Esme Smith.”
Jed inclined his head.
“Nouveau riche, of course,” Bambury continued. “But a spirited beauty.”
Men around them chuckled knowingly.
Jed found his hackles rising. There was something condescending in the comment, as if Bambury judged a horse’s points.
“It’ll take a strong man to tame her.” The tilt of Bambury’s head was the faintest of preening movements. The message was clear: he was a strong man and he considered Esme and her inheritance his.
Jed studied his untouched brandy. Then he tossed it onto the fire and watched the flames flare blue.
The men stared at him.
Jed held Bambury’s gaze. Whatever he said would be repeated and embellished—and he would not risk Esme’s reputation. But if he said nothing, Bambury would win the encounter.
“Interesting how alcohol burns. Pure energy. Perhaps one day, they’ll invent a car to run on it. Now, there’s fumes I’d like to smell.”
“But the waste, man. The waste,” the barrister said.
Men laughed.
Jed stood and looked down at Bambury. “Yes. Fine spirits definitely shouldn’t be wasted on men who can’t appreciate them.” He nodded in general farewell, point made. “Gentlemen.”
After the musty warmth of the club, he enjoyed the bracing outside air. It lacked Fremantle’s tang of salt, but had its own odor of busy city life lived beside a river. It reminded him of the leisurely trip down the Mississippi that he’d taken two years ago.
Perth sat twelve miles inland. Apparently, the first governor had been a military man and hid his settlement behind a substantial hill, safe from ship-based cannon fire. The goldrush had led to a frenzy of building, and ornate shops and houses intermingled with square Georgian buildings from the earlier era.
It was a city finding its place in the world. Esme and Dr. Palmer weren’t exaggerating. This was the time of opportunity, to set a new pattern of equality and freedom, or regret it for all of the coming century.
And sleek golden devils like Bambury were fattening on Swan River’s possibilities with all the disgusting tenacity of swollen
“Indeed,” Jed said politely, although the crude lighting made a poor show compared to the bright natural sunlight pouring in the windows.
“The generator is in a cupboard behind that wall. Amberley redesigned it to increase the power outlet, but then when he ran the magnets, it was a disaster.”
“Spoons!” A middle-aged man, wearing the wig of a barrister, brayed his amusement. “Club management had replaced the silver spoons with stainless steel. Thought to save money. Every spoon whipped through the air to clang against the powerful central magnet.”
The young man looked disapprovingly at such unregulated amusement. “Amberley keeps promising to fix the machine, but so far it remains too dangerous to use. Mr. Puddlington’s glasses were ripped from his face.”
“Inventions naturally require tweaking. Why perfection straight out of the box, or the workroom…”
Jed let the discussion drift on while he observed the men. Their number increased as the lunch hour approached. Dr. Palmer returned from his business and introduced Jed to his cronies, including the barrister. Jed shared a table with them, eating a substantial roast beef meal followed by Christmas pudding. He grinned to see this remnant of midwinter festivities. The inhabitants of Swan River had a unique but enjoyable approach to life—taking the best of their home countries. He was glad, though, that they didn’t waste good brandy setting the pudding alight. Cognac this fine deserved to be savored, and he took his glass with him to sit by the fire.
Nicholas Bambury chose a chair close by. He hitched his trousers carefully before sitting. “So, Reeve, I believe you’re a friend of Captain Fellowes?”
“I have that honor.”
From his corner chair, Dr. Palmer frowned suspicion.
“And of his niece, Miss Esme Smith.”
Jed inclined his head.
“Nouveau riche, of course,” Bambury continued. “But a spirited beauty.”
Men around them chuckled knowingly.
Jed found his hackles rising. There was something condescending in the comment, as if Bambury judged a horse’s points.
“It’ll take a strong man to tame her.” The tilt of Bambury’s head was the faintest of preening movements. The message was clear: he was a strong man and he considered Esme and her inheritance his.
Jed studied his untouched brandy. Then he tossed it onto the fire and watched the flames flare blue.
The men stared at him.
Jed held Bambury’s gaze. Whatever he said would be repeated and embellished—and he would not risk Esme’s reputation. But if he said nothing, Bambury would win the encounter.
“Interesting how alcohol burns. Pure energy. Perhaps one day, they’ll invent a car to run on it. Now, there’s fumes I’d like to smell.”
“But the waste, man. The waste,” the barrister said.
Men laughed.
Jed stood and looked down at Bambury. “Yes. Fine spirits definitely shouldn’t be wasted on men who can’t appreciate them.” He nodded in general farewell, point made. “Gentlemen.”
After the musty warmth of the club, he enjoyed the bracing outside air. It lacked Fremantle’s tang of salt, but had its own odor of busy city life lived beside a river. It reminded him of the leisurely trip down the Mississippi that he’d taken two years ago.
Perth sat twelve miles inland. Apparently, the first governor had been a military man and hid his settlement behind a substantial hill, safe from ship-based cannon fire. The goldrush had led to a frenzy of building, and ornate shops and houses intermingled with square Georgian buildings from the earlier era.
It was a city finding its place in the world. Esme and Dr. Palmer weren’t exaggerating. This was the time of opportunity, to set a new pattern of equality and freedom, or regret it for all of the coming century.
And sleek golden devils like Bambury were fattening on Swan River’s possibilities with all the disgusting tenacity of swollen
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