One

April 1852

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Mrs. Charles Lancaster was more than thrilled. She was exhilarated. In fact, her enthusiasm was so great she felt that the top of her head might fly off.

She was about to christen a brand new, very beautiful, very powerful locomotive in front of Philadelphia’s most distinguished citizens. It was perhaps the most exciting event she had attended in months. As the train moved slowly toward her, Kitty Lancaster felt her heart beat more rapidly. Her hands, gloved in exquisite white lace, clasped and unclasped in front of her.

Such emotion regarding a locomotive was unusual for a woman in 1852, but Kitty Lancaster was more than just a little interested in the power of iron and steam and speed; she was fascinated by it.

As the locomotive drew nearer, Kitty turned to the man standing next to her on the reviewing platform. “Mr. Baldwin,” she said, “it’s lovely, truly lovely.” And then, taking his hands in her own, she added, “I congratulate you.” Her awe was quite evident.

The locomotive builder bent his head toward her and smiled. “I thank you, Mrs. Lancaster, for your glowing opinion of my new machine. And I’m delighted that you will be the one to christen it. I pray that it will continue to perform as beautifully as it appears in your eyes.”

The bright and gleaming new locomotive had recently been completed in Mr. Baldwin’s Philadelphia shops. Trailed by four equally new, equally shining passenger cars, it pulled slowly to a stop in front of the reviewing platform where Mrs. Lancaster, Mr. Baldwin, and a large number of other greater and lesser dignitaries stood. Huge gouts of steam erupted from the engine, and there was a great grinding scream of metal on metal, followed by the clank and clatter of cars banging against their couplings. And in a few moments the train came to a halt only five feet from the front of the stand.

The reviewing platform had been set up at the intersection of Broad and Market streets; the train had drawn up to the platform on the Market Street tracks. A refreshment tent was placed beside the platform,’ and another, larger tent was set up opposite it to accommodate the dignitaries should the weather change drastically. But it was a splendid, warm April Saturday with no sign of a cloud.

Flanking the track was a large, noisy crowd; the throng spilled out into the vacant lots on either side of Market Street. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, cheering and clapping whenever the mood struck. In front of the refreshment tent, a brass band had begun to play when the train stopped. The lively march had been composed for the occasion by Will Stewart, a member of the faculty of the University of Pennsylvania Conservatory of Music.

The locomotive was indeed a wonder, perhaps the finest piece of equipment produced by the finest shop in America. It was, first of all, massive, weighing nearly sixty thousand pounds, and it was powerful; it could easily pull the load now attached to it up the steepest mountain grade. And it was splendidly decorated. The stack, the firebox, and most of the steam dome were typically painted black, but the rest of the engine nearly exhausted the spectrum. The boiler was robin’s-egg blue; the wheels and the pilot—what many came to call the cowcatcher—were vermillion red. The outside of the cab was made of polished teak, covered with elaborate scrollwork in gold. Underneath the window was a realistic painting of a Bengal tiger stalking unseen prey in an emerald-green jungle. The locomotive’s nameplate, which was set well forward on the boiler, was in great, ornate brass letters: TIGER. Another jungle painting appeared on the side of the headlight. And American flags flew from bronze stanchions on top of the pilot.

The locomotive’s tender was painted a delicate rose, with the railroad’s name—PENNSYLVANIA RAIL ROAD—inscribed on a flowing blue ribbon and surrounded by curlicues of gold.

“You are a truly glorious machine,” Mrs. Lancaster said under her breath.

“Excuse me?” Matthias Baldwin asked, not quite hearing her.

She laughed a most engaging and vivacious laugh. “Oh, I hope you didn’t think I was addressing you, Mr. Baldwin,” she said, grasping his hands again. “I was thinking about your glorious engine.”

Matthias Baldwin smiled and raised his eyebrows.

“May I tell you a secret?” she asked.

“Of course. Please do.”

“I won’t shock you?”

“I doubt that,” he said and smiled.

“I want to drive that machine,” she said. “I want the steam to push up until the boiler’s near to bursting. I’d like to hurdle down the track faster than any human has ever traveled, with the wind blasting my face, my hair streaming behind me. God! What I would give to do that!” She looked at him. “Are you still not shocked?”

He laughed. “No. Not shocked. Though I have to admit that you are a most unusual and enthusiastic young woman,” said Matthias Baldwin, liking her and admiring her exuberance. “Which is matched only by your great beauty.”

“I am enthusiastic for railroads, Mr. Baldwin,” she said, rushing by the compliment as if she had not heard it. “Nothing so excites me as they do.”

John Carlysle, an Englishman who had arrived in Philadelphia from London only two weeks before, was not among those invited to the reviewing stand. But he had stationed himself and his three sons as close as possible to it. Because he wanted them to have the best view of the proceedings, he had found space next to the front of the locomotive, just to the side of the pilot.

From there he could see practically without obstruction the stunning young woman in green silk talking animatedly with Matthias Baldwin, the locomotive manufacturer. He reckoned that she was in her late twenties or early thirties. She was tall and quite slender, and her hair was very nearly as black as Tiger’s smokestack.

“She is quite a beauty, Father, isn’t she?” Graham Car-lysle said, noticing where his father’s attention was directed.

Graham was twenty years old, and his father’s age was a year short of double that. In spite of his young years, Graham had already spent considerable time in the company of a number of more than ordinarily beautiful members of the opposite sex, many of whom were more than a little older than he was. His success with the ladies, and his seeming indifference to any kind of permanent relationship to any one of them, often bothered—and even angered—his father, who steadfastly believed in the Bible’s teachings regarding one man cleaving to one woman.

Still, he couldn’t quarrel with Graham’s assessment of the lady in front of them. “She’s the only beautiful thing on the platform,” he said.

“I wonder who she is,” Graham said.

“Shall I tell you?” John Carlysle asked, smiling, pleased that he knew more than his son about this one woman, at least.

“Yes, tell me who she is,” Graham said.

“Her name is Kitty Lancaster,” John said.

“Have you met her?” Graham asked.

“Not yet, but I expect I will. I expect I’ll be meeting most of the people on that platform soon. Many of them control the Pennsylvania Railroad.” John Carlysle was due shortly to take up a new position with the railroad.

“And she is a power at the railroad?” Graham asked, surprised that a woman might have a position here that only men might take in England. He was new to America, however, and he was aware that it was a nation full of shocking novelties. So he was prepared for very nearly any American outrage.

“Yes, indirectly,” John said. And then, noticing the confusion on Graham’s face, he added, “Actually, she has considerable influence but no outright power.”

“Well, is she rich?” Graham asked with a grin. “And,” the grin vanished, “is she married? Is she then hopeless for me?”

“I’m sure she’s wealthy,” John said. “But I’m afraid she’s been married, lad, though Mr. Lancaster is no longer with us. He was killed in the recent war with Mexico. The reason for her influence is that she is the daughter of Mr. J. Edgar Thomson, the chief engineer of the Pennsylvania, and the man who is to be my superior when I start work with the railroad.” John was scheduled to meet Edgar Thomson on Monday; he expected to discuss then his future duties and responsibilities at the line.

“She has influence just because she is his daughter?” Graham asked.

“No.” John smiled. “Kitty Lancaster has influence because she is his daughter, and she is a most unusual young woman. Or so I’m told.”

“I’m hungry,” said eight-year-old David Carlysle, interrupting.

“Don’t interrupt, David,” his father replied.

“That gives me very little room to maneuver,” Graham said with exaggerated, mock sadness. And the grin reappeared on his face.“It would seem so.”

At that moment, John, who had been looking down at his sons, raised his eyes to the platform and saw that Mrs. Lancaster was looking at him, as though she was aware she was being discussed, he thought.

“But I’m hungry David repeated.

“You’re always hungry,” Graham said.

John, meanwhile, nodded his head toward her, then dipped his hat. She gave a tiny nod in return, not sure whether she should know him or not.

“Is the ugly little man next to her Edgar Thomson?” Graham asked.

“Please, Father,” David said.

John sighed. “Alex,” he said to his twelve-year-old son, “would you take your brother to a food seller and find some-thing for him to eat.” He handed him a coin. “Here is twenty-five cents. That should do it.” Then he changed his mind and handed Alex a second coin. “Perhaps you could find enough for the rest of us. But stay away a long time,” he said, looking pointedly but fondly at his youngest son. “I’d like ten minutes of peace from David’s ceaseless cries of distress.” And then John returned his attention to Graham. “What were you saying, Graham?”

“Who is the man next to Mrs. Lancaster, the one she is talking to with such fervor?”

“He is the builder of this engine: Matthias Baldwin.”

“Why is she there?”

“For the sake of the ceremony I suppose. Mrs. Lancaster will probably christen the Tiger by smashing a bottle of champagne across its…” He paused, searching for the right word. And then it came to him, “Prow. So she rates being present at the center of the stage.”

“Lucky for us that she is so near,” Graham said.

John Carlysle smiled. He couldn’t agree with Graham more.

In England, John Carlysle had been a railroad man. In fact, he was one of the finest construction engineers in Britain. He had been trained at the University College in London, where he was one of the first to take a degree in the new discipline of civil engineering, and he was a member of both the British Institution of Civil Engineers and the prestigious Society of Civil Engineers, which had been in existence since 1771. Carlysle’s most recent accomplishment was the new line from London to Bristol. He had been in charge of that line from its first surveys to the laying of the last tracks. And he had finished the job on time and under budget. Once completed, Carlysle had been offered the job of building a line from Dublin to Belfast. But he had refused, for John Carlysle knew that he had no future in England. He had reached the limits not of his talents, education, and abilities but of his birth. He was the son of a blacksmith; and before he was a railway man, he had started out in life as a blacksmith. He had studied and worked hard; he had learned upper-class manners, language, and social graces; and he had come far. But not far enough to satisfy his deepest longings.

From the first moment he worked on a railway, John Car-lysle dreamed of owning and operating his own railroad. And as the years passed his dream grew grander. He wanted a railroad empire like the one his master and mentor Sir Charles Elliot was manifesting in England. Sir Charles had built or acquired lines from London west to Bristol and Penzance and north to Leeds and York. And if his designs materialized, as John was certain they would, Sir Charles would soon own connections with Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, and Glasgow.

But Sir Charles was an aristocrat. He was born into the right family, he had attended the right schools, he had fought in the right regiments, he was friends with the right people, and he had married the right woman. Sir Charles was brilliant, talented, and ambitious—and all the right doors easily opened to him.

John Carlysle was at least Sir Charles’s equal in intelligence, talent, and ambition. And yet he was only too aware that in England a dream such as Sir Charles’s was unrealistic for a blacksmith’s son. He could manage Sir Charles’s, or someone else’s, railroad empire; but he could never own one.

Yet in America little was impossible.

Two years earlier John’s wife, Julia, had died of cholera. Julia had been a superb wife and mother—as warm and caring as she was beautiful; and John had been very much in love with her. She adored her new home in England. It would have been as painful for her to leave it as to leave her own body. So John had laid aside his personal ambitions and worked hard for Sir Charles. But after her death, the country of his birth began to lose its hold on him. And he started to dream again.

The crisis for John came in the fall of the previous year, 1851. He had known Sir Charles’s daughter Diane since she was a child, and as she had grown up, their paths had crossed constantly and naturally, for Sir Charles had liked John very much and had often invited him to his city and country homes.

John and Diane also liked each other very much, even though they stood very far apart in the rigid British class structure. And yet, soon after Julia’s death, Diane naturally and almost unconsciously fell into the role of the leading woman in John’s sons’ lives. She did not try to replace Julia or mother them, which she and John knew was impossible and out of the question. Rather, she became a kind of aunt to them; the boys adored her.

The increasing closeness of John Carlysle and Diane Elliot did not escape Sir Charles’s notice any more than it escaped John’s or Diane’s. While they were not ready to act on their growing fondness for one another, Sir Charles was. One rainy, drab, chill day in November, John received a card from Sir Charles asking him to appear the following evening at his club. There would be supper, the card added.

John had been troubled before he received Sir Charles’s card, and was in greater turmoil afterward. He had not yet decided what to do about Sir Charles’s offer regarding the Dublin-Belfast line. He didn’t know whether to take the position or make a break with his mentor and sail to America where he could start fresh—and empty pocketed. He hardly had more than enough cash to pay for his own and his boys’ passage.

There was the greater question of what to do about Diane. He knew Sir Charles well enough to understand that even though the older man was very fond of John, he would never approve of John marrying his daughter. And although he cared greatly for Diane, John was not sure that he did in fact want to marry her. Nor was he sure that she wanted to marry him. There were moments when he yearned for her as much as he had ever desired Julia. And there were other moments when he thought he would be better off making a fresh start on his own in America. Shouldn’t she, he often thought, live her own life in her own land with her own kind?

When John arrived at the club, he found Sir Charles in a private room sipping claret in front of a roaring fire. Sir Charles was a slight man, slender nearly to the point of gauntness. Except for a fringe of sandy-gray hair, he was completely bald; and with his hollow cheeks and deep-set gray-green eyes, his head appeared as cadaverous as the skull on a pirate’s flag. But Sir Charles’s personality was anything but corpselike. He was as charged with power and energy as one of his own locomotives driving full-out along his main line.

John Carlysle was a full head and a half taller than the older man, and he was as square and sturdy as Sir Charles appeared light and fragile. Sir Charles looked like antique polished porcelain, while John was as scarred and scuffed as a well-worn boot. John had been through many accidents and many battles in the course of his career as a railroad man. Every construction crew he’d managed had been a wild bunch. Every track in England had seen its share of train wrecks.

“John,” Sir Charles said after the servant escorted him into the room, “it’s good of you to come.”

“It’s my pleasure, Sir Charles,” John said.

“Claret suit you?”

“Of course.”

Sir Charles inclined his head, and the servant poured the wine from a decanter into a stemmed crystal goblet. He carried the goblet to John on a silver tray.

“Sir,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Sit, John,” Sir Charles ordered, motioning to one of the pair of leather wing-back chairs facing the fire. “I must talk with you about important matters,” he went on. His voice was serious, almost dark with foreboding. “I’d rather do that now, before the alcohol has made my mind over mellow. Then we shall eat. Does that suit you?”

“By all means,” John said, very curious to know the cause of Sir Charles’s intensity.

“Now,” Sir Charles said when they were settled in their chairs, “I have a number of profound matters on my mind, and they all, I fear, intertwine. That is a problem,” he paused, pondering, “but that also may prove to suggest a solution.”

There was a long silence.

John took a sip of his wine and then looked at Sir Charles. Sir Charles returned the look. His eyes were chill and impenetrable.

The silence continued.

“I’ve displeased you?” John said at last.

“Displeased me? What makes you say that?”

“I can’t otherwise understand why you are reluctant to tell me what is on your mind, Sir Charles.”

“No, John, you haven’t displeased me. You are—and you will always be—one of the best men I know. If anything, you have flattered me.”

“How have I done that?”

“You have chosen my daughter.”

John Carlysle’s eyes remained locked with Sir Charles’s.

“Now you flatter me, sir,” John said. “I wish I were as certain as you are about what I feel toward Diane, and what she feels toward me. Of course I am very fond of her.”

Sir Charles laughed. “It’s only a matter of time, boy. What stops you now is that you see the difficulties standing between the two of you and marriage. In time your passion —or your love, whichever you choose to call it—will seem to be greater than those difficulties…”

“And?” John asked.

“And I have asked you to take charge of the building of the Dublin-Belfast line,” Sir Charles said, changing the subject.

“What is your answer, John?”

“Sir Charles, for God’s sake!” John Carlysle said, raising his voice to a near shout. “What does that have to do with Diane?”

“I told you my thoughts about you are intertwined. Bear with the vagaries of an old man, please John, and give me an answer, would you?”

In that instant, he made up his mind. “No,” he said, in a voice like muffled drums.

“No? Are you sure John?”

“Very sure, Sir Charles. I can’t—won’t—do it.”

“Good!” Sir Charles smiled broadly. “Then I’m right. I do know you! You’re acting exactly as I predicted!”

“Sir Charles?” John Carlysle said, stunned. “What do you mean?”

“You thought you would surprise me, John Carlysle, my son. Well, you haven’t.” And then he roared with laughter. “Next you were going to tell me that you planned to sail to America and make your fortune there, et cetera, et cetera.”

“What’s to laugh at?” John asked his mind in a whirl.

“I told you, because I know you. I know your deepest desires … which brings me to the question of my daughter’s future. And I’ll make it brief, John. You can’t have her. I won’t allow it.”

The servant appeared to refill Sir Charles’s and then John’s goblets.

“You said to me only moments ago, Sir Charles, that I flattered you in choosing Diane. What did you mean by that?”

“Just what I said. If but for accident of birth, I’d be delighted for you to be one of my family. If only I had you as my son!”

“I don’t have a title. Is that it?”

“You do not. And Diane will marry a title.”

“What does she have to say about that?”

“Diane will do what I tell her to.”

“Will she?”

“And so will you. You see, my son, I want you to emigrate to America. I want exactly what you want.”

“You’re right… in part,” John admitted, with much reluctance. “I know there’s no future for me in this country. Not the kind of future that matters most to me.”

“Exactly!” You’re trapped here and you know it. And you may be attracted to my daughter. And she may be attracted to you. You might in fact love one another. But a marriage between the two of you in this country is impossible.”

John looked up quickly. “Are you telling me to go to America and take her with me?”

“That’s not the solution I had in mind.”

“I could do that. I could take her with me.”

“But you won’t. And neither will Diane go with you. What you will do is listen to me, because I am going to make eminent good sense. You have too many years behind you to play Romeo, John. And I am not a Montague, nor are you a Capulet. We are far from enemies. Both of us need one another. And I especially need you in the United States.”

John’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. “I sense dampness in the air. I think it will rain soon. And I think the rain will be money. I don’t want your money, Sir Charles. I don’t want your bribes.”

“That’s not the solution I had in mind for you either. I thought you knew me better than that. I am a much larger devil than you take me for, my son. I plan to invest in you, not bribe you. I’ll tell you again; I will tempt you with exactly what you want.”

“And that is?” John couldn’t help being curious.

“What you desire is the opportunity—the chance—to do what I have done. You’ll never do that in this country. You know that and I know that. But you can—and will, or at least I believe you will—do that in the United States. I want you to do that as much as you do, for as you’ll see, I stand to gain along with you.”

John started to say something, but Sir Charles raised his hand in order to silence him. “No, no, John, listen. You’ll have your chance to reply after I’ve made my speech.”

“Now,” he went on, “most of the population and wealth in that country is concentrated along the eastern seaboard. But that will not always be the case. People are moving west, toward the Mississippi and beyond. Some of the richest land in the world is out there, and there is the potential for vast industrial development as well. But, there is a range of mountains—the Appalachians—that stands between the eastern and the western states. It is not a great or a lofty range. Few peaks exceed three thousand feet. But these mountains nonetheless are sufficient to restrict considerably the movement of goods and produce between East and West.

“However, when the railroads have crossed those mountains, the United States will become the most powerful nation on earth.”

John raised his eyebrows very high, and then he shook his head. “Oh, no, Sir Charles. You can’t be serious. The future will always remain with Europe. America is much too raw ever to catch up with the Old World. And I say that even though I am certain that my own personal future lies there.”

“Give the Yankees fifty years, John, after they have completed their railway network, and then we’ll see. Are you willing to wager on that?”

“A fifty-year wager? Which of us will collect it?”

“That’s what lawyers and wills are for,” he said, laughing. “But no, we won’t be bettors. We have more immediate gains to attend to. I’ll go on.

“The Appalachians, then, stand between the United States and that nation’s ultimate promise, its ultimate destiny… Did you know, John, that most of the produce and goods of the western states pass down the river to New Orleans? And thence travel by sea to their final destinations? Did you know that the railroads that now exist in the western states simply funnel goods to the river? And yet the primary market for these goods lies only a few hundred miles east of where they are produced.”

“That will change,” John said. “It has to.”

“Exactly!” And that’s where you and I become involved. At this moment a number of rail lines are being built through the mountains—the Baltimore and Ohio, the Pennsylvania, the Erie, and others. Each of these lines will survive and prosper; or else it will be taken over by another, more powerful line. But one line, inevitably, will surpass all the others, will be the most profitable, and the most successful. I have a prediction as to which line that will be—the Pennsylvania. It is the best financed and best managed of the lines currently building westward.

“But first it must cross the mountains, which in Pennsylvania are called the Alleghenies. And that is what I would like you to help accomplish.”

“But I am five thousand miles from Pennsylvania. And I am not employed by the Pennsylvania.”

“Not yet. However, I currently hold something over twenty-two thousand shares of Pennsylvania stock… out of a total capitalization of two hundred thousand shares. That means that I control a bit over ten percent of the company. The par value of that stock, by the way, is $50. I paid between $44 and $46 for it. When the line is finally connected through to Pittsburgh, the stock will increase to $55 or so. At any rate, whenever I make my wishes known to the Pennsylvania board of directors, they will pay attention to me.”

“I should say so,” John said, in growing admiration. Sir Charles was full of surprises. “So then I shall go to Philadelphia as your representative? Or at least that is your intention?”

“You will make sure the railroad traverses the Alleghenies. You will work with Mr. Edgar Thomson, who as of this moment is the chief engineer. I should imagine he will preside over the entire company before too very long. He will if I have a say in such matters. And of course I do,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Thomson is an extremely good man, probably the best railroad man in the United States. I’ve known him for twenty years, ever since he spent time in this country studying our methods and practices. He’s one of the prime reasons for my faith in the future of the Pennsylvania line.

“You, boy, are another. Therefore, in order to weld you solidly both to that line and to me, I have transferred one thousand shares of Pennsylvania stock to your name. On the completion of the mountain division of that line, a further fifteen hundred shares will be transferred to you. In the meantime, these shares will be placed in trust.”

“Good God!” John said. “You overwhelm me!” He was in greater turmoil now than before he had arrived at the club. Indeed he was more shocked than he had ever been in his life. If what Sir Charles was saying about the line was true —and John didn’t doubt him for a moment—twenty-five hundred shares of Pennsylvania stock could be the key to gaining the power and wealth that he had only dreamed about.

“In due course,” Sir Charles said, as though reading his mind, “you will acquire a line of your own. At that time, you will transfer to me—or my heirs—an amount of your own stock equal in value to the twenty-five hundred Pennsylvania shares, at then current prices, naturally. I have already undertaken to communicate with Mr. Thomson my intentions with regard to you. He will doubtless respect my wishes.”

“You are a devil, Sir Charles.”

There was a wicked grin on Sir Charles’s face. “I confess that I’m enjoying myself.”

“And what if I refuse to act according to your grand design?”

“I have never once entertained that thought. I know you, John Carlysle. I know you well.”

“And what about Diane?”

“Diane will be taken care of—and handsomely. She is beautiful, and she is wealthy. A suitable match for her will be found.”

“May I have a few days to sort out my thoughts?”

“You don’t need a few days, John. You already know your reply.”

There was a long pause before John spoke. He gulped down the remaining claret, then set the goblet down on the marble-topped table next to his chair. He looked once again into Sir Charles’s frigid, gray-green eyes.

“You are a monster, Sir Charles. But of course you are right. I can’t refuse you.” After a pause, he said, “Yes, I’ll do it.”

Sir Charles then leapt up, strode swiftly over to where John was sitting, took his hands, and nearly lifted the younger man bodily to his feet.

“Embrace me, boy! You have made my old heart sing!”

“Thank you, Sir Charles. I only wish your words had been less painful to me.”

“You know I love you, boy. You’re better than a son to me.”

“Does that excuse me for abandoning your daughter?”

“Of course! Diane knows the score. But come, I have ordered us salmon. It’s time to eat it.”

The governor of the state of Pennsylvania was stationed in front of the podium at the center of the reviewing stand. He had been orating for well over twenty minutes. In the course of his speech, he told his audience that he approved mightily of Mr. Baldwin’s new engine as well as the recent completion of the Pennsylvania’s eastern division, because the line now extended well over one hundred miles west of Harris-burg, up the valley of the Juniata River very nearly to its headwaters. And he also, approved mightily of the continued success of the building of the railroad’s western division from Pittsburgh toward Johnstown. He approved the penetration of the mountain barrier, which would be accomplished before another year was out. He further approved of the presence on the platform of Mr. Patterson, the president of the railroad, as well as the entire board of directors. He acknowledged the other significant personages on the platform: Mr. William Astor, the financier; Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt, the shipping magnate; Mr. Daniel Drew, representative of substantial shipping and railroad enterprises; and Mr. Charles Minot, the president of the Erie Railroad. The governor mightily approved of being on the same platform with so many of the richest and most powerful men in the United States.

He went on to approve of the city of Philadelphia and its mayor, and after that, the bounties of the state of Pennsylvania which no other state could match. Then he approved of the quality and character of the men of Pennsylvania who produced the finest goods and the richest crops in the United States. And at last, he approved of the women of Pennsylvania for having produced such men.

It seemed to John Carlysle that the governor would never run out of things to approve of. But finally he stopped.

Now and again during the speech John found himself glancing at Mrs. Lancaster, who was finding it hard to mask her boredom. And much of the time her eyes were closed, as if she were dozing. But then she would whisper something to Matthias Baldwin next to her, and they would both chuckle discreetly. John thought her liveliness quite becoming.

Several times he found her eyes watching him. John imagined that she had noticed the Savile Row suit he had acquired at Sir Charles’s urging, before he had embarked for Philadelphia. Not many men in the crowd before the reviewing stand were dressed as fashionably as John.

After the governor finished, the mayor of Philadelphia managed to find several things to approve of that the governor had not considered.

There was a rustle in the crowd behind John. Twisting around to see what it was, he saw his two sons Alex and David returning with food.

Alex held a newspaper-wrapped bundle. Hot grease was seeping through it, and Alex kept shifting his hands to keep from getting burned. David was carrying a candied apple on a stick. His face gave clear evidence of his enjoyment.

“Father,” Alex said, “I’ve found fried clams. But will you take them? They’re hot.” He handed the bundle over to John, who held it out for Graham to unwrap.

“They’re delicious,” John said to Alex after he had tried a few. “Crisp and golden. Thanks for fetching them, Alex. Take a few yourself. You too, Graham.”

By the time they had finished eating their clams, the mayor concluded speaking. He was followed by William Patterson, the president of the railroad, whose speech was blessedly short. At the end of it, he called upon Mrs. Lancaster to do the honors of christening the Tiger. She made her way to his side at the podium.

A pole had been rigged up in front of the reviewing stand, just to the side of the podium, and a long, crimson silk ribbon had been tied to it. At the end of the ribbon a magnum of champagne had been attached. After saying a few words Mrs. Lancaster would propel the champagne so it would hit the front of the locomotive.

William Patterson presented the bottle to her. Holding it out in front of her and smiling, Kitty Lancaster looked toward the locomotive and at the throng of people clustered around it. And then she laughed and spoke to them. “Do you people want to back away?” she asked in a loud voice, still laughing. “Soon it will be raining champagne.” Her voice was full, rich, and vibrant. And she was looking directly at John Carlysle.

Since the Carlysles were standing only a few feet from Tiger’s pilot, they figured to take much of the splash, but John, smiling, made no move to leave, and Alex and David giggled.

No one else moved either. There were many chuckles.

“It’s not every day we get champagne weather,” said a voice near the Carlyles.

“Then you’ve been warned,” she said, still looking at John.

Mrs. Lancaster’s voice then took on a serious tone. “In the name of the Lord, the people of Pennsylvania, and the directors and stockholders of the Pennsylvania…” She halted in midsentence. Instantly William Patterson moved to her side, fearing she was ill or growing faint. But she raised her hand to stop him from supporting her. “No, no, no, thank you,” she said, backing as far away from him as the limited space allowed. “I’m quite all right. Please, I’m not ill. I’m quite all right.”

“What’s she doing?” Graham Carlysle whispered to his father.

“Damned if I know,” John said. But it is certainly interesting, whatever it is, he thought to himself.

Then Mrs. Lancaster did a most remarkable thing. She loosened the crimson ribbon from the magnum of champagne and pulled the bottle free.“Do please excuse me for interrupting the ceremony this way,” she said to the crowd after she had finished freeing the bottle.

“But I’ve had a sudden flash of inspiration. And I have always made it a practice to follow my instincts.”

There was nervous laughter in the crowd and from those on the stand, and not a few of the dignitaries’ faces registered embarrassment.

A short, steep stairway led from the reviewing stand down to the street. Within minutes Kitty Lancaster had scrambled down it and pushed her way to the front of the locomotive. Then, lifting up her skirt, she pulled herself up onto the tiny platform at the top of the pilot, and raising die champagne high over her head like a torch, she shouted, “Such a powerful machine deserves to be christened right and properly by the direct and personal action of a human being!” She paused until the murmurs of the crowd stopped. Then she spoke again. “I hereby christen you Tiger in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, the people of Pennsylvania, and the directors and stockholders of the Pennsylvania Railroad.”

With a powerful swing of her arm, Mrs. Lancaster smashed the bottle across the nose of the engine. Instantly a great cloud of champagne burst out, and for half a second, she was surrounded by a golden nimbus of champagne mist.

She stood radiant and smiling, basking in the waves of cheers and applause from the crowd. Then she began to look for a way to descend from her perch.

“Here,” said a voice, “take my hand.” It was a rich, pleasant baritone with an educated British accent. When she looked to see who the voice belonged to, she realized it was the man she’d been glancing at for much of the ceremony.

“Thank you,” she said and gave John Carlysle her hand. His hand felt firm and solid, just like his voice sounded. But it was calloused and chapped from working outdoors. And this surprised her, for the man was well dressed and well mannered. She wondered if he was a soldier or perhaps a sailor. Yet she didn’t sense anything rakish about him, nothing that suggested an adventurer.

She was much intrigued by this man. And with his help she carefully made her way down to safety.

“Thank you again,” she said.

“You are most welcome, Mrs. Lancaster.”

She wondered for a second how he knew her name, but then she realized that it had been announced before she christened the locomotive. She realized that he was still speaking to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I missed your words.”

He smiled. “That’s quite all right,” he said. “I was saying that you handled the champagne like a true expert.”

“Why, thank you again,” she said, returning the smile, politely.

“I think I should like you to christen a locomotive of mine someday. Would you?”

“I don’t know,” she said, a little flustered. “I couldn’t say.”

“When the time comes,” he said, “perhaps you will be able to give me an answer.”

“Are you a railroad man?” she asked, hoping he was.

“That I am,” he said.

Well now, she thought, that’s better than a soldier! Better than an explorer! She gave him her most radiant, official smile. Then she started to make her way back to Matthias Baldwin on the reviewing platform.

“Wait,” he said. “Before I let you go, I’d like you to tell me something.”

“What is that?”

“I’d like you to tell me why you’ve been staring at me … earlier, when you were up on the reviewing stand.”

Mrs. Lancaster didn’t answer him. Giving him a look that she hoped conveyed how impertinent she thought him, she pulled away and quickly fled back up the stairs and onto the reviewing platform.

When she reached the top, there was a great clatter of applause and cheering from the crowd. She turned and acknowledged the crowd, and then she looked at the Englishman below and gave him a nod. Finally, she smiled.