Inherit the Skies Read online

‘You must have the largest family in England, Eric,’ she said, hiding her dismay with a wry smile.

  ‘No, it’s not a relative this time, Sarah,’ he said. ‘It’s someone I think you may be able to help. You remember the man who came to see you the day I asked you to marry me? You told me that his firm was called Morse Motors and that he was interested in building engines for aeroplanes.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. But what …?’

  ‘The other day I ran into an old friend – Adam Bailey. He is an engineer and draughtsman and he works for a motor car company.

  But he and another chap – a Maximillian Hurst – are working in their spare time to design an aeroplane.’

  ‘Really?’ Sarah said, interested but not unduly surprised. Since entering the world of ballooning she had met a great many men who attempted the seemingly impossible; new inventions were all part of the normal round of everyday life.

  ‘Yes. They are very enthusiastic. Adam believes they have come up with something rather special though he insists that Max is the brains behind it. But it seems the man is not only interested in the structure – he also has his own ideas for an engine. And the pair of them are looking for someone to build it for them.’

  ‘Surely the motor car firm they work for would be the ideal people to do that?’ Sarah suggested.

  ‘I said the same thing, but apparently they are not altogether keen on two of their best men burning the midnight oil on a project of their own. Adam seemed to think it unwise to draw their attention to the fact by asking them to build the engine. It was then that I remembered what you had said about your friend Mr Morse and I suggested the three of us might have dinner together sometime and talk the matter over. Would you be agreeable to that?’

  ‘Well yes,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t see what I could do but if you would like to …’

  Eric reached for her hand and twisted the ring he had bought her so that the row of perfectly-set diamonds sat squarely on her finger.

  ‘Good. In that case I will arrange it,’ he said.

  Eric had booked a table at Rules, the oldest restaurant in London and one of the most prestigious. Here writers, artists, lawyers and actors met to enjoy the company and the fine food in congenial surroundings, upstairs at a table beside a lattice window the King had wined and dined the beautiful Lily Langtry when he was Prince of Wales, it was said, though a special door had been put in to enable them to enter and leave without having to walk through the restaurant in full view of the other patrons.

  As a deferential waiter relieved her of her wrap and led them between the tables where the finest crystal and silver gleamed on starched white napery Sarah smiled to herself. Eric would never be a rich man, that much was certain. He was too fond of luxury and the good things of life, spending the rewards that came his way without a thought for the future. Not even their engagement had curbed his habit. Money burned a hole in Eric’s pocket and it worried her slightly. She remembered only too well what it was like to have nothing and sometimes when Eric lavished on her the fruits of his success she thought of her mother, eyes crinkled with strain, fingers sore and bleeding as she sewed far into the night to earn enough to keep body and soul together. But there was no point chastising Eric about it. He would simply look glum, the light going out of his merry eyes, apologise profusely – and continue in exactly the same way as before. When they were married she would take care of the purse strings, Sarah decided. In the meantime she might as well simply relax and enjoy the luxuries which Eric showered on her.

  The waiter pulled out her chair with a flourish and hovered attentively.

  ‘Would Madame care for an apéritif?’

  ‘Why not?’ Eric said expansively. Sarah, guessing the price of the drinks here, thought she could have made out a very good case for waiting for their guest but said nothing.

  ‘We were lucky to get here first,’ Eric said, settling himself

  comfortably and lighting a small cigar. ‘When Henry started telling me about the latest problem with his dirigible I thought we would be late and Adam would be here before us. That would have been unforgiveable.’

  ‘What is he like?’ Sarah asked, sipping her sherry.

  ‘Adam? Oh, he’s a decent chap. A bit of a mystery in some ways …’

  ‘A mystery? What can you mean?’

  ‘Ah!’ Eric laid his cigar down in the crystal ashtray. ‘ You’ll soon be able to judge for yourself. Here he is now!’

  He pushed back his chair, rising to his feet, and Sarah followed his glance to see the waiter ushering a man towards them.

  Her first impression was that he was very tall, then she realised it was the shortness of the waiter which accentuated his height. In reality he was perhaps no more than six foot, lean and muscular in his dark well-cut suit. Lamplight gleamed on a fine head of hair, almost aggressively fair; beneath it his face was strong boned and handsome with a square jaw and slightly hooked nose that suggested it might have been broken at some time. There was a faint arrogance about the set of the mouth, though the full lower lip conveyed an impression of sensuality; the eyes, wide set and hazel in colour, were direct. Sarah felt a small stab of surprise along with an inexplicable quickening of her pulses. Though she had wasted little time wondering what he would be like she had somehow expected an impoverished engineer to be nondescript and a little shabby. This man had an undeniable presence and a look which made her instantly glad that she was looking her best. Whatever else he might be Adam Bailey was all male and it evoked an immediate response in any woman who crossed his path.

  Totally unaware of her confusion Eric greeted his guest.

  ‘Adam! you’re here. Good to see you. May I introduce you? Sarah – Adam Bailey. Adam – my fiancée, Sarah Thomas.’

  The eyes met hers, appraising and, she felt, slightly mocking. Disconcerted yet determined not to show it she smiled.

  ‘Mr Bailey.’

  ‘Miss Thomas. Delighted to meet you at last. I have heard so much about the famous lady balloonist.’ There was the faintest hint of amusement in his tone.

  ‘Hardly famous,’ Sarah returned.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t agree. I have read a great deal about your exploits.’ But again there was that suggestion of amusement and Sarah bristled slightly. When introduced people usually greeted her with interest if not outright admiration whilst this man seemed almost to be laughing at her.

  ‘A drink, Adam,’ Eric suggested.

  ‘Thank you. A Scotch would be very nice.’

  The waiter, attentive as ever, brought Adam’s drink and the menus.

  ‘Shall we order first and talk afterwards?’ Eric suggested. ‘ I recommend oysters to begin. Rules began as an oyster bar, you know – porter, pies and oysters – at the end of the eighteenth century when it was frequented by rakes, dandies and superior intelligences.’

  ‘My ancestors, no doubt,’ Adam said drily.

  ‘The superior intelligences?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! The rakes.’

  They all laughed and as they studied the menus Sarah relaxed a little. The sherry was running trickles of warmth down her throat and into her veins and Eric’s attentiveness and obvious pride in her went some way to restoring her dented confidence. The oysters arrived winking invitingly in their silvery shells. Sarah eased one out and tasted it – delicious.

  ‘Eric tells me you are building an aeroplane, Mr Bailey,’ she said, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with an ivory damask napkin.

  ‘That’s right.’ The mocking light had gone out of his eyes; suddenly he was completely serious. ‘ Maybe it sounds like an impossible dream but Max – my partner in crime – is a bit of a genius and we are certain that between us we can get a machine into the sky. We have studied all the layouts that seem to work, from the Wright brothers to Henry Farman’s Voison and come up with our own version – a biplane with the engine mounted in the fuselage and the crankshaft parallel with the wings. It will have two propellers but we believe we can improve on the
Wright brothers’ method of a crossed chain for opposite rotation by using bevel gears.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ Sarah said faintly. The catalogue of technicalities had quite lost her but she was unwilling to admit it for his amused dismissal of her ballooning feats still rankled.

  ‘It’s not brilliantly original,’ Adam admitted, ‘but we wanted to begin with something reasonably safe and improve by trial and error as we go along. But the most important thing is the engine. It’s that which causes most of the problems – it needs to be powerful enough to get airborne yet at the same time as light as possible. That’s where Max’s genius comes in. He has done all the drawings and tracings for a design he believes answers those requirements. Now we have to find someone to build it for us.’

  ‘And I suggested your friend Gilbert Morse,’ Eric put in. ‘ He is in the business and you told me he is interested in the concept of flying, Sarah.’

  ‘He certainly is,’ Sarah said, glad to be able to contribute something to the conversation. ‘He was in France when Santos-Dumont made his first flight.’

  ‘Ah – Santos-Dumont!’ Adam laid down his fork and again Sarah caught a glimpse of that amusement which she found so disconcerting. ‘The back-to-front pioneer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded.

  ‘Poor old Santos-Dumont’s design meant he had to stand up in his box kite and stagger into the air facing backwards,’ Adam said with a smile. ‘I must confess I would prefer to look where I am going.’

  ‘At least he flew,’ she returned a little sharply. ‘I hope you will be able to say the same some day.’

  Adam raised an eyebrow. ‘ Touché!’ His eyes held hers and the challenge in them was unmistakeable. ‘I am sure we will.’

  Confused she looked away. She could make no sense of the effect he was having on her; she could not make up her mind whether she liked or detested him. She should not have been tempted into sherry on an empty stomach, she decided.

  ‘Without a doubt the engine is the problem,’ Eric was saying seriously. ‘Everyone says the same – though of course it’s one thing we don’t have to worry about with balloons!’ He laughed a little self-consciously and went on swiftly, ‘Alliott Verdon-Roe solved the problem by borrowing an Antoinette from a friend, I understand.’

  ‘That’s right. But Max is convinced his design is best for our aeroplane and I have implicit faith in his judgement. I shall be only too happy to put my life in his hands, as it were, when the time comes.’

  ‘You’re going to fly the aeroplane then are you?’ Sarah asked before she could stop herself.

  A corner of his mouth lifted. ‘That is the part that really excites me, yes. As I say I am only a mediocre engineer compared to Max but when it comes to trying the thing out then I can provide the brute force and ignorance.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest, man!’ Eric chided and Sarah thought scornfully: he’s not being modest at all. He’ll let his friend do all the brainwork while he takes the glory!

  A waiter whisked away the plates of empty oyster shells; another served the main course from gleaming silver platters – roast beef, pink and rare for the men, a tender escalope of veal for Sarah. When their plates were full Eric took up the conversation once more.

  ‘So – do you think your Mr Morse could help, Sarah?’ he asked.

  Sarah nodded. ‘ I am certain he could. He would probably be pleased to. Though I am not so sure about Lawrence …’

  ‘Lawrence?’

  ‘His son. He’s in charge of the works. He’s a very conservative soul.’

  ‘I am sure you could persuade him, Sarah,’ Eric said, pride in his voice.

  Sarah looked down at her plate, remembering the last time she had seen Lawrence – on the day he had tried to intervene between her and Hugh. Like slides in a magic lantern show she caught glimpses of the scene – the two boys fighting, rolling over and over in the straw of the stable, Lawrence, his nose streaming blood, Hugh crowing over him, the victor and the vanquished. ‘How many girls have you had?’ ‘ Do you know what Sarah calls you? Sobersides and Stick in the Mud. Isn’t that true, Sarah?’ The ugly words rang in her ears and she cringed inwardly as she had cringed then. Once perhaps she could have influenced Lawrence. They had never been as close as she and Hugh had been but she had liked him well enough even if she had thought him a ‘sobersides’. Now she was uncomfortably sure Lawrence would not wish to see her. She had witnessed his humiliation. He would not readily forgive her that.

  ‘I don’t know …’ she said.

  ‘Come now, Sarah! I have assured Adam you have tremendous influence with the Morses!’ Eric’s voice was almost pleading; she looked at him and saw anxiety in his light eyes that puzzled her. Why should it matter to Eric whether she talked to Gilbert and Lawrence on Adam’s behalf? Surely if he wanted an engine built he could contact them himself? She was about to say as much when Adam spoke.

  ‘Please don’t trouble yourself on my account, Miss Thomas. Eric suggested the approach might come better from you but if you would prefer not to be involved then don’t give it a second thought.’

  His eyes held hers and she saw the unmistakeable challenge in them. It was almost as if he was looking inside her, she thought, seeing that she had a deep and secret reason for she wanting to approach the Morses and even knowing what it was. Briefly she felt naked, vulnerable. No-one had ever made her feel quite that way before. She did not like it but at the same time it aroused an instinct to fight. She did not relish the thought of contacting Lawrence but it was preferable to allowing this man to read and dismiss her so lightly. And besides …

  Ever since the day Gilbert had sought her out she had longed for an excuse to see him – and perhaps Chewton Leigh – again. Eric and Adam had just provided her with that excuse – if she had the courage to use it.

  Adam’s eyes were still holding hers; a tiny pulse that was half excitement, half determination, throbbed within her.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, taking up the gauntlet he had thrown down to her. ‘ Leave it to me. I will write to Mr Morse. If I ask I am sure they will build your aeroplane engine for you, Mr Bailey.’

  A faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth but he had one more challenge to make. ‘Please call me Adam,’ he said.

  In the breakfast room at Chewton Leigh House Lawrence Morse ladled a good sized portion of scrambled eggs onto his plate and carried it to the table. The years had done nothing to change the family custom of eating the meal together. Blanche was already in her place picking delicately at a wafer thin slice of toast while Alicia, her eyes dark shadowed from yet another night spent partying with her friends of the county set poured herself another cup of strong coffee and avoided the disapproving glances of her stepmother.

  Lawrence took his place and began on his eggs without speaking to either of them beyond the briefest of ‘good mornings’. His mind was busy with the problems of Morse Motors and he preferred to spend the hour before leaving for Bristol in preparing himself for the rigours of the day ahead.

  Lawrence took his responsibility for the running of the works with the utmost seriousness and though his diligence was regarded by many as a natural extension of the steady-going and unadventurous traits of his nature, in reality it was more than that. Deep down, well hidden by the suet-duff exterior, Lawrence suffered from a basic insecurity and a lack of confidence in his own abilities. He was well aware that compared to his brother Hugh he was a dull fish. As a child, although he was the elder, he had always felt himself to be in Hugh’s shadow, obliged to gain the approval of adults by good behaviour and sensible attitudes rather than by a winning personality. He had envied Hugh, who had been able to be outrageously mischievous and sometimes downright wicked and yet still be universally liked, and longed for some of that easy charm to rub off on him. But as they had grown to manhood nothing had changed. It was Hugh who excelled at sport and achieved better results with schoolwork without even trying, Hugh who attracted the attention of yo
ung ladies – and their match-making mamas – in spite of the fact that he treated them disgracefully, and Hugh who was the apple of his father’s eye.

  It was perhaps the knowledge that Hugh was Gilbert’s favourite which hurt Lawrence most. He hero-worshipped his father and craved his approval. When he left his public school, having failed to distinguish himself in any way, and Gilbert had suggested that the best place for him to carve out a future career would be in the family business he had seen his chance. If only he could do well enough perhaps at last he would be able to please and even impress his father. Lawrence threw himself wholeheartedly into learning the business. For the first time in his life Hugh was not on his heels offering direct competition and soon his hard work was paying off. Gilbert, busy with his city concerns, came to the works less and less and nominally at least control passed into Lawrence’s hands. He was under no illusion about the completeness of his power, of course. Behind him, rock solid, stood Frank Raisey, the Works Manager, who had been with Morses man and boy for close on forty years. But Lawrence was determined that in this field at least he could be a success. By the time Frank hung up his keys for the last time and collected the gold watch which Morses presented to all long serving employees he would be ready, having gradually shouldered the great decisions along with the day to day responsibilities. Even more important, his father would know he was ready.

  But success had never come easily to Lawrence and it did not come easily now. Maintaining and improving on his position was a constant struggle with countless facts to be assimilated and strategies to be decided upon. And he was uncomfortably aware of another threat to his position hovering on the horizon and growing larger with each passing year – a threat in the shape of Leo de Vere.

  Lawrence did not like his stepmother’s son any better than the other Morses did and he was fairly certain that Gilbert did not care for him either. But Leo was clever and ambitious – and he had the backing of his mother. As yet he was only eighteen years old and still at boarding school but he would be leaving at the end of the school year. The talk was that he would win a place at University, perhaps even Oxford or Cambridge, and if he did Lawrence would be granted a stay of execution before Leo came snapping at his heels, eager to make his mark on the family firm. But it would also mean that he would eventually arrive in a blaze of glory, the undisputed brains of the family, with all the vigour of a young man confident of himself and his ability. In nightmares Lawrence saw himself usurped by Leo, waking he was determined to make his position impregnable before the time came to face the assault.