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AS HE CLIMBED INTO the conveyance that would carry them to Wilhelmina's cottage, Mr. Bennet launched into a predictable complaint. “Shar Lucas as our carriage driver is hardly ideal, but we have no one else to rely on at such a strange hour.”
“Shar is an excellent driver,” Elisander argued on behalf of his friend. “You'll find no one better. He handles the horses well.”
“He's... alright,” Mr. Bennet conceded, “Still, I would prefer a lady driver. My stomach quakes at the thought of a man behind the reins. It's so unusual.”
“Why?” Elisander climbed in after his father and sat with Kier, whose small, dark eyes were already devouring a novel. “A man can drive a carriage as well as any woman, assuming he's been trained.”
“Are you certain of that? Men are such destructive creatures, Elisander,” Mr. Bennet argued. “If they're unrestrained, their wildness emerges. The lives of others should not be put in the hands of a man.”
A sighing Elisander observed, “You have such a poor opinion of your own sex, Father.”
“I have a very honest opinion.”
“You sound like Captain Fitzwilliam.” Elisander snickered at his remark. He was well aware of his father's distaste for Darcy. “She would agree that men are unfit for driving carriages and piloting airships.”
“And that is undoubtedly the first and final opinion I am likely to share with that vapid, bad-mannered woman.” Mr. Bennet sneered at his younger son. “Kier, how are you already reading? Do you do nothing else but read?”
Elisander could relate to his brother's love of books, so he leapt to Kier's defense. “There is no pleasure like reading! When I have a house of my own, it should have an excellent library, or I will be exceptionally disappointed.”
Mr. Bennet grumbled disapprovingly. “I can think of many activities that give me more pleasure than the pages of a book. You're too bookish. Both of you. This is why neither of you will ever marry, I'm sure. A scholarly husband is never preferred!”
Elisander ignored his father's ranting and focused on the pleasant clop of horse hooves. The carriage moved at a steady pace that would get them to their destination within a few hours.
“I envy Kier's ability to read while moving,” Elisander said. “I'm sure the motion would make me ill.”
“Then please refrain from reading, Elisander,” his father begged him. “When we arrive at Miss Collins' cottage, you need to look handsome and strong, not enfeebled and sickly. If you were to retch on your cousin, it would be most unpropitious!”
“I need to look handsome?” Elisander could feel his eyes narrowing. “Why?”
“Why should you not look handsome?” Mr. Bennet crossed his arms over his ill-fitting waistcoat. “One should always strive to look their best.”
Elisander responded with a shake of his head. If his father wanted him to look handsome, it could only mean one thing.
Mr. Bennet still hoped Elisander would marry Miss Collins.
* * *
SHAR'S BOREDOM SOARED as the carriage trundled forward. To him, there was nothing more tedious than driving the Bennets' chaise and four. He loved horses. He loved riding them. He loved brushing and feeding them. In some odd way, he even enjoyed the smell of them. But he hated driving a carriage. It turned the horses into slaves, and it was woefully boring.
Shar lit a cigarette and hoped Mr. Bennet would not smell the smoke. Elisander's father possessed very little patience for his male groom. If he saw Shar with a cigarette pinched between his fingers, he would surely be livid.
After nearly an hour of travel, Shar's eyelids were heavy, and his yawns were increasing in length. If not for the soft hiss of static rising from his satchel, he might have fallen asleep with the reins in his hand.
He recognized the noise straightaway. It was Georgette Wickham's teletalk. With an eyebrow raised, he removed the peculiar black box from his satchel and pushed its red button.
“Hello?” a woman's voice spoke through the static. “Hello... hssss... is there anyone out there? Grrrzzz. If there's... ssssh... out there, I would really like to chat. I'm terribly bored.”
“Hello?” Shar spoke into the box.
The lady squealed at the sound of his voice. “Hello! Please talk to me. I'm bored... ssfffzz... my mind. Do you zzzzzt.”
“I can barely hear you!” Shar shouted into the teletalk.
“Let me tweak... ssssh... based on... rrrrzz... location.”
Shar thought he detected a hint of a Scottish accent, but her voice was so garbled, he wasn't entirely sure.
Several seconds later, the mysterious Scot spoke again. “Hello? Can you hear me any better now?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Really? Oh, that's wonderful!”
Shar's left hand was occupied by the reins. In his right hand, he held the teletalk and cigarette, and he alternated between smoking and chatting. “What's your name, love?” he asked her.
“Gladys. Gladys McCracken. You?”
“Shar,” the stable boy replied. “Shar Lucas.” After a brief pause—during which he took a drag from his cigarette—he asked, “Do you know Georgette Wickham?”
“Of course. I'm her top engineer,” Gladys said. “I'm also her airship pilot, her mechanic, her cannoneer... and occasionally her cook, believe it or not.” With a giggle, she added, “I make an excellent stew.”
“I would love to try it sometime,” Shar replied. “It sounds like Captain Wickham keeps you busy, eh?”
“She's a veritable slave driver,” Gladys told him. “Honestly, you have no idea how terrible she can be.”
“So you're a sky pirate?”
“Aye.”
“And you enjoy what you do?”
“Aye.”
“I think I would enjoy it too, if I'm being honest,” Shar confessed. “You get to fly around on an airship, doing whatever pleases you. I could learn to love that life... assuming you don't hurt anybody.”
“Oh, we rarely come to blows with anyone. And if we do hurt someone, it's usually cause...zzrrt... deserved it,” Gladys said. “Although, to be fair, the captain did have a duel with a young man recently. I don't think he deserved it. Poor fellow.”
“I think you might be referring to my duel with her.”
Gladys excitedly squeaked, “Oh, really?”
“Indeed. A bit ironic, is it not?” Shar grew tired of his cigarette, so he extinguished it on the driver's seat.
“Do you remember me, then?” Gladys asked. “I was the girl who was carryin' the massive cannon.”
“How could I possibly forget?” Shar leaned back with a sigh. “As I recall, you were the reason I lost.”
After a short pause, Gladys sheepishly accepted responsibility. “Aye. Sorrae.”
There was another pause—a much longer one. It was so long, Shar started to wonder if he lost contact with her.
“Hello?” Gladys' voice boomed. “Are you still there?”
Shar, who was holding the teletalk close to his ear, flinched at her shouted question. “I am.”
“Good. I was enjoying your company,” Gladys said. “So... what are you up to, Mr. Lucas?”
“I'm driving a carriage.”
“Really?” Gladys' voice went sharp. “Men don't drive carriages! How odd.” After another brief pause, she added, “But... if you were dueling with my captain, I guess we've already established that you're a bit of an oddity.”
“Perhaps.” Shar absentmindedly studied the calluses on his fingers. The stable boy's hands were hardened by labor. “And what are you doing right now, Miss McCracken?”
“I'm tweaking a valve on one of the engines. When I finish, I have to check the large propellers and the propulsion estimates on the—”
Shar interrupted with a chuckle. “That sounds like a damn good time.”
Gladys gasped at his reply. “I've never heard such language from a gentleman!”
“I'm not a gentleman.” As he increased the speed of his horses, he asked, “Have you heard about motocarriages?”
“Of course I've heard of them!” She sounded so exasperated by his question, he imagined her rolling her eyes. “I practically invented them. The motocarriage's inventor stole one of my engine designs.”
“That's unfortunate,” Shar weakly empathized.
“Aye. But that's what happens when you don't bother with a patent, I s'pose,” Gladys lamented. “One day, motocarriages will take over the world.”
“And airships, most likely,” Shar added. “Can you imagine what the sky might look like if it was peppered by hundreds of airships?”
“It'd be lovely,” Gladys said. “It'd be ssssssszzzzz.”
When her voice died with the static, Shar's lips dropped into a pout. “Miss McCracken?” he yelled into the teletalk. “Miss McCracken? Gladys? Hello? Are you there? Did I lose you?”
The teletalk had officially gone silent.
And Shar was officially alone yet again.