EVERY SATURDAY AT MIDDAY, CRAFTSMEN, SCIENTISTS, AND investors gather at the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanic Association’s building to exchange ideas and form partnerships. According to the draftsman, George, Charles Annan attends these “New Innovation Luncheons” whenever he’s in town. Will’s description of the gangly fellow who asked about my machine matches what George and I recollect of Annan, and if he’s still in Boston, this is my best chance to find the scoundrel.
George had already planned to attend, and he agreed to bring Will along so both could keep watch for Annan. But while they would blend in seamlessly, my height and sex would make me stick out like a sore thumb. So while Will and George mingle in the second-floor banquet hall, I must lurk elsewhere.
Fortunately, the Mechanics Building lobby has an ideal place for spying.
I snap to attention as a new group enters the building. For the twelfth time, I scrutinize the men emerging through the front door, and for the twelfth time, I deflate in disappointment. None of them, however, notice my staring, hidden as I am behind the twisting pipes of “Swanson’s Efficiency Steam Engine.”
A carriage-sized machine isn’t something typically found in a lobby, but the Mechanics Building is filled with displays touting the winners of the Association’s mechanical craft competitions. I could spend hours marveling over the devices in the hallways, but because I’m keeping a lookout for Annan, I’ve spent the last half hour using Swanson’s clever invention as a hunting blind.
I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do if I succeed in capturing my prey, though. If Annan submitted an application last spring, its review has probably just begun. Once mine reaches the patent office, both applications will undoubtedly grind to a standstill while the patent examiners deliberate over the identical designs for Heaven knows how long.
The ideal scenario is for Annan to withdraw his fraudulent claim. However, I doubt an appeal to conscience will prompt him to right his wrong. Will has offered to convince Annan with his fists, but I wonder if even that will persuade someone so brazen.
If only I hadn’t shown him the machine in the first place. In retrospect, I was foolish to trust Annan just because he was Daniel’s friend, and he pulled my strings like an expert puppeteer with his recommendation of Mr. Burnham. No doubt he was diligently copying my machine while Mr. Burnham delayed me with excuses.
My teeth gnash at the memory of the mysterious “intruder” in Burnham’s shop. Between the initials on the fallen hat and what I recall from our tussle, I’m positive he was Annan. The indignity galls me all over when I hear the front door open, followed by men’s voices.
“… Be along soon, Mr. Binney.”
“Then we can wait for him here, Mr. Annan.”
Entering the lobby is a portly graybeard with an ivory-handled walking stick, and holding the door for him is a lanky man with rust-colored hair. Recognition hits at Annan’s caterpillar-like eyebrows, and I quickly duck my head.
My fingernails dig my palms as their conversation drifts into my ears. I’d like nothing more than to leap out and claw Annan’s eyes, but I can’t be rash. If anything, this is my chance to discover what he’s up to. Unfurling the hand fan I borrowed from Eliza, I obscure my face and sidle closer to eavesdrop.
From my glimpse of Mr. Binney, I gather that he’s an investor, and he confirms it when I hear, “I’ve colleagues who want to hear more. Once we get a few more interested parties, we should like a demonstration.”
“Of course, Mr. Binney. We can bring the bag machine to your office whenever you like. Once you see what it can do, you’ll have no doubts about lending support.”
My hackles rise. Already at work selling my machine, thief?
“With your permission,” Annan goes on, “we can discuss plans for distribution and rights at the demonstration. Ah, here comes Mr. Mowe.”
My heart seizes. Mr. Mowe? He couldn’t possibly mean—
“Apologies for the wait, gentlemen.”
An all-too-familiar voice freezes the blood in my veins. I glance over my fan toward the door, and my world shatters.
Striding in with a portfolio and a businessman’s demeanor is Daniel.
He shakes hands with Mr. Binney, and the sight drives a knife between my ribs. Until this instant, I’d dismissed the possibility that Daniel was involved. I knew he had ample opportunity to betray me, but I refused to presume he would. I trusted Daniel. I believed he cared about me—that, even apart, he wished for my success.
Daniel chuckles at something Mr. Binney says, and my blood boils. I once loved Daniel’s laugh; the sound cheered me, warmed me. Now it mocks me as I imagine him laughing while he pulled the wool over my eyes.
But he hasn’t gotten away with it yet.
“Well,” says Mr. Binney, gesturing toward the stairs, “shall we? I’ll introduce you to my partners.”
“I’d advise against that, sir,” I shout, snapping my fan shut. “Unless you wish to be associated with a liar and a thief.”
I plant myself in their path. Mr. Binney raises an eyebrow, unsure of what to make of me. Annan’s eyes bulge in their sockets.
Daniel also goggles, but only for an instant. With a deftness of a master actor, his expression smooths into a mildly aggrieved air. “I don’t know who you are, miss,” he says with a sniff, “but you shouldn’t fling accusations like that.”
My eyes narrow. You want to play that game?
Turning to Mr. Binney, Daniel murmurs, “Let’s go. This maniac must be in the throes of some female hysteria.”
“Charles F. Annan.” I point at the fake inventor, making him flinch. “Hometown, Newton Lower Falls. Fraud, pretending to have invented my bag-making machine.”
Annan flusters. “Wait just a—”
I jab my finger at Daniel. “Daniel S. Mowe. Age twenty-three. Also from Newton Lower Falls. Most recently employed as junior bookkeeper at Columbia Paper in Springfield, but abandoned his position last March. Presumably to promote Mr. Annan’s efforts to sell the machine they stole from me.”
I toss Mr. Binney a saccharine smile. “As a prudent businessman, I’m sure you’d like to confirm my assertions. Contact Columbia Paper’s proprietor, Charles Yates. He’ll be happy to tell you the particulars about the bag machine and his wayward employee.”
Mr. Binney’s mouth pinches as though I’ve dumped manure on his polished shoes. “I’ve heard quite enough,” he huffs, stalking for the exit. “Good day, all of you.”
Daniel and Annan chase after him. “Mr. Binney,” Daniel pleads, “this isn’t what you—”
The old man’s cane whips up, cutting him off. “A word of advice. Have your dalliances if you must, but keep them hidden. In business, a man requires a spotless reputation. Even a hint of impropriety”—Mr. Binney’s eyes slide meaningfully toward me—“and no one will have anything to do with you young bucks.”
With that, he storms out the building. Annan hastens after him. I watch them go with a mixture of satisfaction and annoyance. Although my efforts bore the intended result, I’m vexed that Mr. Binney presumed my accusation the ravings of a jilted paramour.
I face Daniel. The mask he wore for Mr. Binney has shattered. Fury contorts his features beyond recognition, and it strikes me that this is the first time I’ve seen him for who he is.
His fists clench, looking ready to whale me. I meet his glare head on. Unlike the night my face got kicked, we’re in a public place in broad daylight. Not to mention, Will Abbott and George are within screaming distance.
“The jig is up,” I declare. “So quit this farce before I drag your name through the mud.”
Daniel bursts into laughter, a crazed, defiant sound that raises goosebumps over my skin. Foreboding grips me as he doubles over, clutching his sides.
The fit ends as abruptly as it began. Daniel straightens, his lips twisted in a sneer. “My dear Mattie,” he says, regarding me like a bug to be squashed. “Challenge me, and you’ll be the only one dragged through the mud. With the full blessing of the law, I might add.”
He opens his portfolio and thrusts it under my nose. Inside is a drawing of the bag machine beneath the title: “Bag Machine. Inventor Charles F. Annan. Patented August 31, 1869.”