Page 11 of Discovering Dahlia (The Blue Orchid Society #5)

The sun had not fully risen the next morning when Miles stood on the terrace deck, leaning back against the rail. Benedict was there, sitting on his mat.

Just as the light broke through the horizon, shining its first beams over the water, Dahlia came up the stairs. Seeing Miles, she startled, but she must have recognized him in the darkness, because she came closer. “Thank you for being here.” She kept her voice low and looked toward Benedict and back. “He really does wake early, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” Miles said. “I heard his cabin door close at half past five and hurried after him.”

Dahlia shivered beneath her cloak.

While he couldn’t see her face, Miles could imagine her expression. She did not like to be cold any more than he liked to be hot. “Go on,” he said, moving back to lean against the rail. “Do what it is you do here. I won’t bother you.”

Dahlia shivered again. She looked toward the railing at the bow. “It’s nothing really,” she said. “Just a few moments to collect my thoughts before the day begins.”

Miles held up a hand, gesturing toward the bow.

Dahlia went to the very foremost part of the deck, where the railing began to curve. She set a hand on the rail but looked back, then returned to where Miles stood. “I feel silly with you watching,” she whispered.

“Then, I won’t watch.” He turned around, facing away, toward the water.

“That is even worse,” Dahlia said, sighing. “Come on, then.” She returned to the bow, and Miles went with her.

“What am I to do?” he asked, amused by her fluster.

“Just stand still,” she said. “And keep watch on Lord Benedict.” She didn’t glance over to see whether he followed her instructions or not, but instead, she closed her eyes, breathing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. She did it again, her chest and shoulders rising and falling.

Miles glanced back at Ben. The light was still dim, and even more so in the darkness under the bridge. But he could see that his friend hadn’t moved.

Dahlia opened her eyes now, staring out at the water. She remained silent, so Miles did the same. Boulogne-sur-Mer looked as if it still slept, beneath the shadow of the hill above while the clouds and harbor waves slowly became illuminated by the rising sun until they glowed above and below.

The sun shone on Dahlia’s face, casting it in a light-rose color. Her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks glowed.

Miles had never seen any sight more beautiful, and an intense happiness settled over him, like a soft blanket fresh from the clothesline on a sunny day.

Dahlia released the rail and turned, leaning back against it. “That is it,” she said, looking a bit embarrassed. “My little routine is simple, but these few moments of quiet have become essential to my temperament.” She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, looking first toward Benedict and then in the direction of the stairs. “I need to meet Victor to look over the day’s itinerary,” she said.

“You work too hard,” Miles told her, speaking to cover the fact that he felt nearly giddy being with her. “You should be enjoying your time with your friends.”

“I shall.” She nodded. “It is a full day at sea. Very few arrangements to be made today.”

As they watched, Benedict rose. He lifted his arms, then lowered them, and moved gracefully in a Tai Chi routine. His movements were slow and intentional, and he stepped lightly, his hands and feet synchronized in what looked almost like a combination of a dance and combat practice.

“And yourself?” Dahlia asked. “What do you plan to do today?”

Miles was glad she kept up the conversation rather than hurrying off to arrange breakfast or manage the ship’s schedules. If he had his way, he’d spend the entire morning standing at the ship’s bow alone with her. “Today is my tour with Captain Carmichael and Lady Covington.”

“Oh yes.”

“Unless you would prefer for me to remain with Ben?”

“No,” she said. “Between myself and our friends, I’m certain we can keep a watchful eye on him.”

Ben brought his hands together, pressing a fist against his palm and bowing. When he lifted his head, his face lit up, as if he were seeing them for the first time. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he asked before giving a salute and leaving to descend to the lower deck.

Miles and Dahlia followed. Victor met them at the bottom of the stairs, so Miles bid him and Dahlia good morning and returned to his cabin, where his valet waited with a razor and a cup of warm shaving soap. Miles sank into his chair and leaned his head back as the valet set to work.

“Pleasant morning, my lord?”

Miles, glanced up, seeing the question in Peterman’s raised brow. He realized he was still smiling, the warm glow from being near Dahlia lingering, making his chest light and his outlook cheery. “A pleasant morning indeed.”

“This arrived for you.” The valet handed Miles an envelope bearing the ship’s logo. Miles’s name was written on the front.

He broke the seal and pulled out the contents. It was the photograph taken when he’d first come aboard. As he studied it, his high spirits lessened. In the image, Dahlia’s smile was amiable, but it was obvious by the coolness in her eyes and the tight way she held herself that it was forced. His neck was hot. Was he being foolish to believe her feelings toward him had warmed in such a short time? In the crypt, he’d believed her words had been for him, that they were an indication of something special, her confidence that he would always come for her. But now he saw them for what they were: words spoken in a moment of panic. Taking them as proof of a special bond between them was ridiculous. He pushed the photograph back into the envelope and tossed it onto the side table, his cheery disposition entirely gone.

***

Half an hour later, Miles came up the stairs to find the dining room practically empty. Benedict and Lady Covington sat at one of the tables beside a window. Once Miles had filled his plate, he joined them.

“Good day,” Benedict said. “I was very pleased to see you this morning at my meditation practice.”

Miles nodded, unsure of what to say. Naturally, Benedict knew why he’d been there, but following his friend around like a bodyguard still felt strange.

“I imagine you are looking forward to the ship tour as much as my wife is,” Benedict continued, apparently not at all bothered by Miles’s assumed role as his protector.

“Very much so,” Miles said. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Lord Meredith.” Lady Covington inclined her head.

“Have you plans to fill the day, Ben?” Miles asked.

“I believe I will have plenty to occupy my time. Cards, deck games. Have you visited the ship’s library? The selection is excellent. I shall not be bored.”

“Nor shall we,” Lady Covington said. “I am very eager to view firsthand a compound steam engine with the capacity to power a vessel of this size. I estimate the force required of the boilers would be over sixty pounds per square inch.” She opened a notebook and wrote something on a page. “To generate such power and use it efficiently is a feat indeed, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed.” Miles dipped a piece of toast into his eggs and took a bite. He wished to view the engine as well. Not exactly for scientific purposes. He never did completely understand the mathematics of physical properties required for such calculations. But as the lady had said, machinery with the strength to power a ship of this size must be impressive. Diagrams and equations in books did not capture Miles’s interest, but seeing directly how things work, touching them, analyzing from different angles, he was able to understand in a way that schooling had never taught him.

Ben looked out through the window. “The day is far too fine to spend in the bowels of a ship,” he said, turning to Miles. “Perhaps we might play at quoits when you finish?”

“A fine idea,” Miles replied. He looked out of the window as well, admiring how the freshly risen sun sparkled in blinding flashes on the waves.

He and Lady Covington finished breakfast and took their leave, exiting the dining room. In only an hour, the air had warmed to a pleasant temperature.

Captain Carmichael was waiting for them on the terrace deck. He gave a gracious bow. “Lady Covington, Lord Meredith.” He checked his pocket watch, giving a sharp nod. “Exactly on time.”

He led them inside the ship, but instead of turning down the corridor toward Dahlia’s office as Miles had done the day before, he opened the door to his right. He stepped aside and allowed the two to precede him. Lady Covington went ahead, and Meredith followed. They climbed a spiral staircase, emerging at the very highest point of the ship.

The bridge had no roof, and rather than rails, there were sturdy bulwarks that came up to Miles’s waist. He recognized the ship’s wheel and a compass in its binnacle box. He turned slowly around to see the scene from all angles. From this vantage, the captain had an unimpeded view of both the sails and the sea around them.

Miles and Lady Covington were introduced to the quartermaster, Mr. Keller, and the channel pilot, Mr. Webster. Captain Carmichael explained that the pilot was not a member of the ship’s regular crew but an expert on the tides, sea depths, and harbors of the channel who sailed temporarily with the SS Aurora . If the cruise were to continue out to sea, Mr. Webster would have no need to accompany them. Mr. Keller acted as helmsman and watch, as well as assisted the captain with sail and navigation calculations.

The captain directed their attention to a device opposite the wheel. “The engine order telegraph,” he said. “A simple mechanism, but crucial to a steamship’s operation.”

Miles and Lady Covington studied the apparatus. It was shaped like a clock, with a round dial about ten inches in diameter. A knob in the center was attached to a handle that extended past the dial’s edge, giving the operator a grip he could hold on to in order to move the marker. The sections on the face were marked with words such as Stop , Slow , and Full Speed .

“Since the ship’s speed can’t be controlled from the bridge, this is how we communicate with the engine room.” Captain Carmichael took hold of the hand grip, demonstrating, without actually moving it, how it could be shifted from section to section. Moving the indicator rang a bell in the engine room and shifted the marker on an identical engine order telegraph’s indicator belowdecks. Once the engineers followed the order, they adjusted their own indicator, moving the one on the bridge’s device, showing it was complete.

Lady Covington examined the simple machine closely, asking questions about speed of propulsion and oxidation of the gears.

Captain Carmichael chuckled, grinning at her and Miles. “I cannot wait to introduce ye to the lead engineer, my lady. He’ll have all the answers ye seek.” He turned back, taking in the view of the furled sails and their intricate rigging. “If ye’ve any questions about what happens above decks, though, I’ll provide any explanations ye require.”

As the captain and Her Ladyship delved into a discussion on angles and wind aerodynamics, Miles took a few steps away, watching the deck below. A few crewmembers appeared to be inspecting the lines, moving methodically from one to another, applying a layer of tar where they felt it necessary. They climbed up and down, sometimes swinging, sometimes sliding with a skill Miles envied. Other crewmembers crisscrossed, mops in hand, as they made certain the decks were clean and dry.

Miles studied the intricate system of ropes that moved the sails into the positions required to capture the maximum amount of wind. And while he could not calculate the equations necessary to describe the angles, he could see intuitively how the operation worked, and he wished again to be a part of it. To be climbing the rigging, hauling ropes, heaving the bars of a capstan to lift a spar into place or to raise an anchor. He longed to be doing, working with his muscles, feeling the exhaustion and satisfaction at the completion of a difficult task, rather than sipping tea in a drawing room or dancing at a ball.

They continued the tour, taking the stairs downward from the terrace deck to the promenade deck, and descended farther beneath the first-class passenger deck to the second-class cabins and storerooms. They passed through the galley, where Captain Carmichael introduced them to the chef, Francois, before continuing on. The captain indicated a door in the corridor. “Here is the engineer’s cabin,” he said. “And the engine room is down here.” He took a few steps farther and stopped at an alcove where the top of a ladder was attached to the wall. The remainder ran down into a shaft beneath.

“I apologize, my lady,” the captain said, his hand on the top rungs of the ladder. “But the descent may be difficult from here. If you choose—”

“Not a problem, Captain,” Lady Covington said in her practical way. She moved around to the other side of the ladder, grasped the handrails, placed her foot on a rung, and started to step down.

Miles and Captain Carmichael looked at one another. The captain grinned and Miles shrugged as she lowered herself.

They descended after her, and as they did, the air grew hotter and the humming noise louder.

When they reached the bottom, the noise was nearly deafening, and the heat was stifling. All around, enormous pieces of machinery gleamed as men polished and greased the gears. Pipes of various sizes made a maze, and above, crewmembers moved over catwalks, adjusting dials and turning knobs and cranks. Some of the machinery was moving, and Miles recognized the noise of the boilers.

“Watch your skirts, my lady,” the captain said, pointing to a crankshaft rotating near the walkway.

A man with a thick beard, uniform coat, and brimmed cap with the ship’s insignia came toward them.

“David Fulton, the SS Aurora ’s chief engineer,” Captain Carmichael said in a raised voice. “And here we have Lady Covington and Lord Meredith.”

They exchanged greetings.

“We’ll be casting off, soon,” the captain said. “I’m needed on the bridge.” He motioned toward the engine with his chin. “And you’ll certainly want to see the engine at work once it’s at full power.”

They bid him farewell as Mr. Fulton took charge of the tour, walking them through the engine room and pointing out the various pieces of equipment and describing their purpose.

The process of taking water from the ocean and, through the use of these instruments, converting it into energy capable of propelling a full-size ship was simply remarkable. Miles listened with one ear as Lady Covington took out a notebook and began to question Mr. Fulton in earnest. In spite of the heat and the sulphury smell of the burning coal, the bowels of the ship felt exciting and alive. Miles watched with interest as the engineers and crewmembers went about their work.

He wandered over to the far door of the engine room, and the heat grew more intense. When he looked through the doorway, he saw a row of twelve boilers. Each was far taller than a man and at least twice as wide. From another door, farther along, men were bringing wheelbarrows of coal, and others were shoveling it into the open maws of the boilers.

A bell rang, and Miles turned around to see the chief engineer move to the engine order telegraph. He called out directions, moving his marker to indicate that the captain’s order had been received.

Lady Covington watched intently as he read the rows of dials, adjusting a knob here and there.

The activity that had been steady and efficient intensified. Crewmembers moved faster, turning cranks and wheels. Inside the boiler room, men called out with increased energy, shoveling with a more rapid pace as the engines began working in earnest, making a steady chugging sound.

One of the shoveling men glanced over, catching Miles’s eye. He grinned, his remaining white teeth gleaming in a soot-blackened face. The flames of the fire reflected on his bald head.

Miles inclined his head. “Milton Barrow, nice to see you.”

Milton’s grin grew, his few teeth reflecting in the flames. “’Twas nicer to see ye lying flat on the deck.”

At this Miles laughed. “I imagine it was.” He enjoyed Mr. Barrow’s banter; while many of his peers might consider the man’s insubordination unacceptable, Miles found it amusing.

“’Ave ye jes come to watch?” Milton Burrow asked. “Or will ye be getting yer lordly hands dirty?”

Miles could not resist such a challenge. He removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. When he stepped near the boilers, a wave of heat hit him. Someone handed him a shovel, and another pointed toward a barrow full of coal. Miles thrust in his shovel and got to work. The rhythmic motion was soothing. And just as the engine room felt alive, the strain in his muscles gave him a feeling of purpose. He was not only a passenger but part of the machinery setting the ship into motion. And thoughts of the photograph, of the danger aboard the ship, and his hopes for a possible future with Dahlia moved to the back of his thoughts. His mind felt clearer, his tensions relaxed. Within only a moment, his back and face were dripping, but he did not stop, pushing the shovel into the coal, lifting the load, and tossing it deep into the boiler.