The Hounds of Winter, Chapter Two: Initial Engagements

Friday, 18 February 1870
Russian Ambassador's Residence
Paris, France
10:30 pm, local time

Alberto Santos-Dumont arrived as he usually did—in style, aboard his airship. He tied it to a convenient ornament on the Ambassador's roof and when his airship drifted clear, he let over the rope ladder and clambered down to the garden as agile as a monkey. A lackey stood ready to take the anchor rope and Santos-Dumont relinquished it with a bow to his admirers on the back terrace. That had been several hours ago. By the time Alberto Santos-Dumont had spotted the lady adventurer, Madame Josephine, he had grown bored with the ball. He had already danced with a dozen ladies, shared cigars with the gentlemen in the smoking parlor, and had talked to several investors to secure funding for his next project. And of course, the Russians were trying to convince him to come to Russia to work for their Czarina. How tedious. Yet the sight of Josephine lifted his spirits. He smoothed his mustache and immediately moved in her direction, a smile on his face. No sense in playing coy to one such as this. Particularly given how they were first introduced. She was on the arm of some Russian officer and as Santos-Dumont drew nearer, he heard them having a low conversation in English.

"You can't tell me that we're goin' all the way to Vienna in that thing. Are you crazy?" Quentin's drawl deepened in exasperation. He'd gotten a good look at the airship tethered outside and he didn't like it. "Did you see that thing? I swear, it might be nice flyin' from one side'a town to the other side'a town, but we're talkin' hundreds of miles, here. You some special kind of crazy?"

"Yes." Josephine spotted Santos-Dumont approaching. She knew the Brazilian was a charming but quite the scandalous flirt and she could not afford to have Quentin mistake his intentions. She kissed him affectionately on the cheek, gave him a discreet nudge toward the ballroom floor, and said softly, "Remember your cover. Say nothing. Please. I will join you in a moment."

She unfurled her fan and stepped aside.

"Madame Arceneaux," Santos-Dumont said with a deep bow once the coast was clear. "I hope your knives are sheathed this time as the Number Twelve is not as thick-skinned as the Pachyderm."

"Monsieur Santos-Dumont." Josephine turned with a smile and offered her hand. "How lovely to see you again."

"To what do I owe this singular pleasure, my dear?" He smiled roguishly, caressed her hand through her ball gloves, and kissed it in true Continental style. He lingered long enough to let the warmth of his lips penetrate the satin before releasing her hand.

"The one thing you do best." Josephine smiled, getting a raised an eyebrow from Santos-Dumont. The man so enjoyed a good innuendo. "I want to fly with you. To Vienna."

"Vienna, you say?"

"Yes."

"I do have plans to fly to Vienna. There is a lovely party there in just a few days." His eyes sparkled at the thought, along with a touch of mischief. The prospect of flying the distance with the lovely adventuress was quite appealing. "Yes! I shall take my airship. I shall set a speed record."

Santos-Dumont swept her up and they began to dance right where they stood, to the annoyance of those on the sidelines who had chosen to wait the current set out. Santos-Dumont did not deign to notice and neither did Josephine. Instead, she let him lead her steps and set the pace. It was not a waltz but something less regulated, punctuated with sudden spins and dips and unconventional holds. Josephine noted where his hands went. They went everywhere without being lewd yet she judged he'd done an admirable job of frisking her. Santos-Dumont spun her out at arms' length, then drew her close again and murmured low.

"Of course, you shall be the Princess of the Air. I might even let you fly the ship a little, yes? If you're nice. And why, mon petit chou-fleur, do you wish to fly to Vienna? Do you wish to be the Queen of the Skies again? Perhaps to embark on a career as an Aeronautrix? And who is that Russian officer with you? He sounded … American. Some young mercenary, perhaps? I tell you, Madame, you could do better." Another spin and dip. "Fly with me to Vienna. I shall bring wine and pâté."

Josephine had been unable to say a word past his enthusiasm and after a moment, decided to say nothing. Santos-Dumont had done a smashing job of convincing himself to help her. She also noted he was in full-on seduction mode and she smiled inwardly—yes, he was quite adept at it but it was time she brought it to a close.

"As to that," she smiled. "Pack enough for three. My époux will accompany me."

"Époux?" Santos-Dumont stopped a full beat and resumed dancing again. "Madame, you fly under a false flag."

"Perhaps just a little." She dropped her gaze and looked up at him through her lashes.

"That Russian oaf with that hideous scar on his neck? Surely you could do better." He dipped her again. "Like me, for instance. If you want to go to Vienna, you and I could go together. And as you are already flying a false flag, we can engage in a little … piratage."

"As lovely as your offer sounds, Monsieur, I am afraid I cannot accept," Josephine gave him a little smile filled with genuine regret. Santos-Dumont might be a womanizer but he had style and was reputed to treat his women well. She had no wish to alienate so charming and useful an ally. "You must visit me in London when you are free. Our first flight did neither the Pachyderm nor her captain proper justice."

"Very well, I suppose we can bring the lunk with us." He spun and dipped her again and smiled at her wolfishly. "When do you wish to leave?"

Bent nearly backward, Josephine let her arm trail artfully to the floor and breathed deeply to let Santos-Dumont admire the effect at her neckline. The dance was his reward and she did not scruple to add value to it. She smiled again as he drew her upright. "As soon as possible."

"I shall need at least a few hours to acquire gas and fuel. Meet me at my townhouse. Bring no more than fifty kilograms of luggage." His arms tightened around her, drawing her close. "You might want to reconsider my offer, Madame. It appears Monsieur Lunk has found an engagement of his own." Santos-Dumont expertly spun Josephine around to show her what he meant.

Josephine spied Quentin dancing with a woman in a Russian Hussars uniform. The other woman was tall and blonde, as befitting a Russian. She was healthy and fit, as befitting the famed Hussars. She didn't allow her gaze to linger but swept the room instead, making it a natural move in the dance as Santos-Dumont dipped her and slowly brought her up again.

"Russian winters are hard and long, mais non?" he whispered silkily into Josephine's ear. "Plus tard, ma chérie."

Waiting for Josephine at Trumpshaw's upon her return:

To: J.G.A.
From: M.D.B.
ELEM USE ENERGY STOP ALSO STABLE STEAL STOP MEETING EMPL STOP CATS STILL LOST STOP

Saturday, 19 February 1870
45 Avenue de La Bourdonnaye
Champ De Mars, Paris
4:09 am, local time

They exited the ball without trouble and quickly changed back into their traveling clothes at Trumpshaw's. While Quentin divested himself of his uniform and fake scar, Josephine discreetly drew MacEwan aside. Why did he burden Quentin with a Russian costume when he could not support it in character? He gave her a Gallic shrug and replied it was the only one in his size. Josephine kept her thoughts behind her teeth and sent a message to have Quentin's trunk delivered from their hotel. She suspected MacEwan had a puckish streak and while she sympathized with his situation, she resolved to keep a firmer hand on the reins when dealing with him in the future. Currently waiting for Santos-Dumont on the Champ De Mars, she and Quentin discussed what they'd gleaned from the ball. Or rather …

"She just walked up to you and you started dancing?" Josephine asked.

"I already told you what happened. I was standin' there and this lady walks up to me in that fancy officer's uniform. She don't talk an' I don't talk an' we started dancin'," Quentin said with asperity. He wasn't some rube freshly fallen off the turnip wagon. He was a well-reared educated gentleman. He knew how to negotiate the intricate social dance of the wealthy. He'd already been around the world on his own, successfully relying on his wits and resources yet he'd been treated like a simpleton at every turn once he'd answered the Colonel's summons. Dancing with the Russian had been a relief and a pleasure and no small revenge for the treatment he'd suffered. "I know my way around a party," he added. "I was at a ball. It would've been odd for me to be not dancin'. Should have blown my cover and not accepted an invitation to dance?"

Before she could answer, the rhythmic sputter of an engine drifted down from above and looking up, they both saw the airship approaching. It moved gracefully above the broad park and as they watched, Santos-Dumont expertly brought it to ground. Quentin hoisted his trunk on his back and followed Josephine across the avenue to the airship. Hunting game in Africa was certainly easier than playing spy in civilized Europe. At least in Africa, Quentin had the freedom to act as he chose.

"Well, I see the young lovers are doing what young lovers—no, what young marrieds do. Argue," Santos-Dumont said, jumping out to tether his airship to a chain-and-stanchion railing. It was dark and the side lanterns on the airship were too small to fully light his expression, but his tone made his amusement clear. "I have brought the pâté. You may bring along Monsieur Lunk if you desire."

"Monsieur Lunk?" Quentin shifted his trunk and cast a sour eye at Josephine. "Who the hell is Monsieur Lunk?"

Quentin muscled his trunk aboard and handed Josephine into the gondola before the smarmy Brazilian could do it. The gondola itself was bare-bones for comfort: open to the air, with the minimum of furnishings, it was dominated at the bow-end by the steering apparatus and mechanical equipment whose function Quentin couldn't identify. He'd have plenty of time to eyeball it later. There wasn't anything else aboard to do. Amidships were two narrow cots facing each other across the aisle thus formed, leaving a smallish open space at the rear for Josephine's bags and his trunk.

"It's going to be very difficult to carry on like we're somethin' other than either spies or lowlifes if we don't even got one change of clothes." Quentin kept his voice low. He wasn't about to advertise the lack to Santos-Dumont.

"We will resupply in Vienna. We have the funds and the contacts to pad out the details there." Josephine sat on the cot nearest. "Perhaps I should have packed more but at this juncture I felt speed was more important than luggage. As to our cover, one could simply surmise I'd sent my dozen trunks ahead. No, I'm more worried about our arrival. Santos-Dumont is not known for his quiet entrances. I would rather avoid the attention if possible."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you started dancin' with him," Quentin shot back tightly, stung. After all, she came in on my arm, not that Brazilian's.

"Maybe you should have thought the same before you started dancing with her," Josephine replied, stung in turn.

"I didn't tell her anything. I wasn't supposed to speak, remember?" Quentin frowned. Helluva thing. Shut up and look pretty. Nuts to that.

"You did the best you could under the circumstances, I realize that." Josephine relented, looked up and gave his hand a squeeze. "I want you to know that the Russian uniform was not my idea. I had expected MacEwan to provide you with something better suited to your background. By the time I joined you it was too late to change anything. We'd barely arrived respectably, if you'll recall, coming in on the train of that rather large party from Belgium." It was, she judged, the one task MacEwan had performed as expected: the Station maintained inside connections to select events wherever possible and it was how they'd gained admittance. "Quentin … I might be backward in saying it but please do not believe what happened tonight is a true representation of our working relationship. I would rather leave this behind us and go forward as partners in more than name."

"Partners in more than name, eh? I like the sound of that."

"It will be a chilly ride aloft." Josephine tugged gently on his hand in a silent invitation to sit beside her.

"Madame, are you invitin' me to be forward with you?" The ship gave a lurch as it began ascending above the city. Quentin looked over the side as the buildings receded. "Perhaps it would be best to distract ourselves for the moment."

"Apologies, mes amis," Dumont shouted from the bow of the ship. "We need to rise quickly before the air in the lower altitude begins to warm. Also, you may want to raise the side panels. We will need to maintain a steady 80 kilometers per hour if we are to break my speed record."

"No rest for the wicked," Josephine murmured wryly. She would have sworn Santos-Dumont deliberately picked that moment to interrupt. Why not? The man enjoys the chase and Quentin's a worthy competitor. She rose and grabbed the nearest rope for the panels, spared a second to see how the rigging lay, and started hauling. She worked quickly and methodically, moving from the stern of the gondola toward the bow.

Quentin began helping to raise the panels. The man surely knows a good time to interrupt. The panels were little more waterproofed sailcloth with small glass windows worked in every few feet. It was the work of several minutes to get all of the panels in place and the gondola swung and dipped alarmingly as they did the work.

Josephine finished first and moved aft to raise the panels astern. She had to step around Quentin's trunk to do so. She spoke over her shoulder as she hauled, "Have you sailed, Quentin? You certainly know how to raise canvas."

"My family's house is near Alexandria. We had a boat I used to sail in the summertime." He looked down for a moment. "This ain't much like that though."

"Raising canvas is nothing new to me, either. I ran away and joined the circus as a girl. I daresay the main tent was somewhat larger than this gondola," she added with a soft laugh. If that doesn't pique his interest …

"Yeah, but probably a little less dangerous."

"Only a little."

Santos-Dumont stabilized their altitude at fifteen hundred meters. The views were spectacular. At Quentin's insistence, they broke out the Dubroni and took a picture of Paris, still visible from the air, as dawn broke. Their course set, Santos-Dumont poured on the speed. They breakfasted on bread, cheese, and pâté, washing it down with water and wine. Josephine thought that while it would have made a fine breakfast in Paris, it lacked the substance needed to ward off the cold. She eyed their host's seal skin greatcoat with a twinge of envy and regret: she'd decided to stay inside her cover and that meant dressing accordingly. What she wouldn't have given for her own adventuring gear at that moment … Something must have shown in her expression, for Santos-Dumont dug into the food hamper and produced a teapot with a flourish worthy of a stage magician. Hot water bled off the steam engine made an admirable pot of tea and though she would never admit it aloud, Josephine was deeply grateful for it.

Once the tea had warmed her through, Josephine found it very difficult to stay awake. When was the last time she'd slept? Thursday morning. She lingered over her tea as long as she could before begging off for a nap. Josephine curled up on one of the cots with her carpetbag for a pillow and let sleep overtake her.

Saturday, 19 February 1870
Somewhere over Europe
3:37 pm, Paris time

"Dormez-vous, mon petit? Réveille-toi, ma chérie."

Something warm tickled her ear and Josephine blinked awake to find Santos-Dumont leaning over her. Daylight lit the canvas sides of the gondola and by the beams slanting through the gaps, she judged she'd slept well into the afternoon. Santos-Dumont waved theatrically toward the bow as she sat up.

"Would you like to fly the ship? Be Queen of the Skies?"

Josephine followed his gesture and saw Quentin at the controls, his capable hands on the steering yoke, his feet planted firmly on the deck, his face split by a gleeful boyish grin. She gave Santos-Dumont her hand and a coquettish smile.

"Yes, I would."

The deck lurched as she stood …

Josephine gripped the plank with her bare toes, her arms windmilling for balance. She almost recovered but William gave the wheel a hard spin and she was flung off. Josephine hit the ground rolling and came up on her feet. The summer sun shone hotly on her back as she spat grass and frustration. She stood in a thin cotton shift tucked into an old pair of Anton's breeches. Her hair escaped in tendrils from its tight braid and it tickled her neck as she climbed onto the teeter board. The board's shallow groove rested on a ball, the ball rolled in a trough mounted on a horizontal wheel, and both shifted and moved treacherously underfoot … which was the point of the exercise.

"Find your center," William warned her and gave the wheel a spin …

Josephine swayed with the airship and maintained her footing. Santos-Dumont turned it into a waltz and together they danced toward the controls, then acknowledged each other with bow and curtsy.

"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur," Josephine murmured and turned to Quentin. She peered through the glass pane front of him and saw a rolling green valley far below. A river ran through it and purple shadows from the westering winter sun grew long. She tried to match the landscape to the maps she knew and failed. "Where are we?" she asked the general air.

"That is the Danube and that," Santos-Dumont said, pointing with a gloved finger to a town visible directly below, "is Melk. Due east from here, we should be in Vienna three hours."

Josephine did the calculations in her head and realized that Santos-Dumont might indeed achieve a speed record. Twelve and a half hours. We'll only be a day and a half behind. She estimated that Panculescu would have been travelling for the better part of a day and a night by the time he'd arrived, and would want to rest before continuing to Romania. If the connecting train were delayed or Panculescu proved more wearied by his journey, he might yet be there.

"We should be in Vienna in plenty of time for a short parade and then the Count's ball," Dumont continued "but I suspect you wish to arrive with somewhat less fanfare, mais non? There is a small rail yard just to the west of the city. Perhaps we should lower the ship and perhaps you and Monsieur Lee can debark there?"

"That would be good." They would avoid notice if they were not seen in Santos-Dumont's company. "If you would be so kind, could you send our luggage on to the Nord Bahnhof when you land? We will pick it up there." It was the busiest of Vienna's train stations. Luggage delivery and acceptance would be nothing remarkable.

"But of course, we could send it to a hotel instead. I always stay at the Imperial. I could arrange a different room for you . . . on a separate floor of course."

"C'est magnifique. Merci." Josephine gave Santos-Dumont a quick kiss on the cheek. It would save them the extra step and all eyes would be on the celebrated airman. Little notice would be paid to those arriving later.

He held a gloved hand to his cheek in mock amazement, "Ma cherie, you are too forward." He turned to Quentin at the ships controls, his voice suddenly oddly level. "Monsieur Lee, it is time for your lovely fiancée to take a hand at the controls. Be ready to counteract with the shifting weight, if you need to. We need to stay level, at least for now."

Josephine stepped up to the yoke and with her cover firmly in place, smiled at Quentin. "Are you enjoying yourself, James dear?"

"Oh yeah," Quentin said, a huge smile on his face. "You've gotta try this."

"Like this?" Josephine put her hands over Quentin's on the yoke, well aware of the flirtatious manner of it. Perhaps it was the breakneck speed at which they'd travelled over the past 48 hours making her careless. Or perhaps it was as Santos-Dumont had said: she was a forward woman.

"Yeah, like that. Here you get in front," Quentin said, stepping aside. "It's like a steamboat only you have to be careful to keep it level."

"Ah," Josephine said, becoming aware of the warmth radiating from Quentin beside her. It was a measure of the cold that she could feel it so keenly. Or is it something else, Jo? It was a thought that occupied her for several minutes as she maintained a steady course. "What are the steamboats like in your country? Have you ever piloted one?"

"One or two," Quentin said easily, his drawl faintly amused. "Mostly a steam launch that traveled across the James River."

"For pleasure?" She risked a glance his way. "Or business?" He was, she remembered, from a wealthy plantation family and steamboats could carry goods as well as people.

"Well, the trip was for business but the pilotin'? That was pure pleasure."

"What sort of business? And what sort of pleasure?"

"My family owns tobacco farms and we were deliverin'. Sometimes shippin' it across river, sometimes checkin' up on the plantations, sometimes just travelin' up to Richmond. It's a lot easier to do on a steamboat than sailin'." Quentin slipped his hands from under hers to cover them with his, his arms on either side of her. He leaned in and adjusted her hold on the controls, saying softly in her ear, "As for the pleasure ... Have you done this before?"

"No," she said, shivering as his breath sent a frisson down her neck. "And yes."

"Which is it?" Quentin asked, enjoying himself. "No? Or yes?"

"Both."

"You are a tease."

"So are you." Josephine slanted a look over her shoulder at him, well aware of the territory she trod and glad of Quentin's willingness to tread it with her. Give him this, Jo. He's not a prude.

"Madame, Monsieur." Santos-Dumont said in equal parts exasperation and amusement. "Save your flirtation for when you are not flying an aircraft."

"Of course," Josephine said, stepping aside and relinquishing the controls to Quentin. "Business before pleasure. Gentlemen." She took her leave with a nod and went aft. She wanted to double check their gear before Santos-Dumont dropped them off outside Vienna proper.

Santos-Dumont murmured confidentially to Quentin once the adventuress passed beyond earshot. "You have to be careful with a woman like that, yes? Let me take the controls."

Saturday, 19 February 1870
Railyard Office, Railyard
West of Vienna
7:30 pm, local time

Quentin dragged on his miniature cigar and tried not to fidget. He leaned against the rail office wall and wondered what was taking Josephine so long. She'd picked the lock to get at the freight records while he remained outside. As he had no skill at burglary, he acquiesced to the decidedly passive role of lookout, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy it. Dumont expertly dropped them off before going on to Vienna with their luggage. It was full dark as befitting the season and no one noticed their approach. Even so, Quentin kept an eye peeled for any night watchmen making their rounds. He'd nearly smoked his cigar down to the end when he heard a click and Josephine stepped out onto the platform with him.

"Did you find it?" Quentin asked.

"It's still here. It will be coupled to the two-fifteen train to Budapest tomorrow. Panculescu likewise will be on it." Josephine sighed. "It's about time we caught a lucky break."

"Yeah," he drawled, lowering his voice. He squinted past her shoulder, seeing movement on the tracks. The watchman, dammit. "I think we'd better go now if we wanna stay lucky."

They eluded the watchman and found their way clear of the railyards. Santos-Dumont hadn't been kidding, Quentin saw. They really were out of the city proper. There wasn't much in the way of houses and such. Just fields and some outbuildings whose function Quentin could only guess at. The moon was four days past full and there was enough light to see by as it rose. They walked for a couple of miles until they were met by a wagon heading into the city. Quentin waved the driver down and using the French he'd polished in Paris, got them a ride aboard. He and Josephine kept the man entertained with their cover story, recounting their fictitious adventures as a honeymooning couple on a winter jaunt through Europe. They got off at a park near Kärtnering and walked the remaining few blocks for the hotel.

HOW TO SPEAK FRENCH

Madame = Mah-dam = Madam, Mrs. Sound clip
Monsieur = Muh-syoor = Mister, Sir, Master Sound clip
mon petit chou-fleur = mon pet-teet shoo-flair = my little cauliflower Sound clip
époux = Ey-pooh = husband, spouse, consort, partner, helpmate Sound clip
piratage = peer-ruh-tazh = piracy Sound clip
mais non = "may" nohn = but no? Sound clip
Plus tard, ma chérie = Ploo tar, mah share-ree = Until later, my dear (fem.) Sound clip
mes amis = maze ah-mee = my friends Sound clip
Dormez-vous, mon petit? Réveille-toi, ma chérie = Door-may voo, mohn peh-tee? Reh-vay-twah, mah sheh-ree. = Are you sleeping, my little one? Wake up, my dearie. Sound clip
Merci beaucoup, Monsier = Mehr-see boh-coo, Muh-syoor = Thank you very much, Mister/Sir Sound clip
C'est magnifique. Merci. = Say man-nuh-feek. Mehr-see. = That is magnificent. Thank you.Sound clip

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