Lifting his gaze away, he found the tall grandfather clock in the corner of the room for perhaps the tenth time in the past hour. Unfortunately, it was still too early to politely call the evening well and done.
More young men and a few couples joined their group as the ladies nattered on about the ranking of English titles versus those of other countries. Who had married which count or grand duke or Prussian prince.
James squinted at the clock again. Was the bloody thing moving?
“Have you somewhere to be, Mr. MacKintosh?”
“Beg pardon?” He shifted his wandering gaze back to one of the ladies among the group who had gathered.
“I was only wondering if you’ll be directing any of your attention to the company before you tonight or if it will all be reserved for that very fine clock in the corner?”
Uncertain whether he’d heard correctly, James blinked, staring back at the lady in amazement. Surely he’d not just been censured by the notoriously meek and soft-spoken Mrs. Primrose Eames? A lady who thus far in their brief acquaintance had managed in every way to live up to her nickname, Prim.
“My apologies, madam.” He gave a faint bow, because it was the only polite option when the truth would be considered rude.
Prim’s pursed lips told him she didn’t care for his answer, or believe it, before she focused her attention down at her hands. He didn’t have a care which it was. He’d developed a severe aversion to Knickerbocker society over the past two years…hence his frequent checking of the clock.
“I hear you’ve ordered a Benz Velo from Germany. Are you not a proponent of the new American models, then?” Mr. Bilker across the group from him began conversationally, earning a glare from his wife as well as Mrs. Eames.
That was the fundamental problem with society, any society really. No talking about anything of interest. Only the most blasé and boring topics would do. Well, too bad. If it would make the evening quicken its tedious pace, James welcomed a topic that held some interest for him.
“Nay, I believe the many attempts by the American inventors to successfully develop a steam engine won’t come to fruition.”
Most of the younger ladies brandished their fans, kicking up a heavy breeze to indicate their displeasure at the topic. Namely, James supposed, that it had drifted from them. Bilker’s wife even gave her husband a sharp rap on the knuckles, but the man seemed even more bored than James and ignored the warning.
“I read Mr. West in Rochester has produced a promising model.”
“Mr. Bilker! Please!”
The stern reprimand didn’t deter James any more than it did the woman’s browbeaten spouse. He was glad for a moment of stimulating conversation.
“Mr. West hasn’t found the financial backing he’ll need to go into production. I believe the future will belong to the gasoline powered piston engines.”
Mrs. Eames’s lashes fluttered up briefly, giving him a glimpse of her wide eyes, before the top of her dark head was once again all he saw.
“There are many up and coming companies exploring those options as well,” Bilker countered.
“Aye, but many of the newer developments here have only been to modify the Benz engine.”
Rather than berate him with a scowl as she had before, Mrs. Eames only cocked her neatly coifed head, speaking softly. “I believe the newest Benz model has four cylinders, increased horsepower, and can reach thirty miles per hour. A solid choice, Mr. MacKintosh.”
Gawking at her, his jaw dropped even further when she continued, “I read some years ago that unbeknownst to him, Mr. Benz’s wife drove one of his autos herself from Mannheim to Pforzheim with only her two young sons to accompany her. And when needed, acted as a mechanic as well. A journey of more than one hundred miles.”
“This is hardly a conversation for young ladies,” Mrs. Bilker cut in imperiously. “Gentlemen, please converse upon a more appropriate topic!”
In the two years he’d been in New York, ‘appropriate topics’ had educated James more thoroughly about ladies’ fashions than any man should have been without intimate experience. He’d been lectured on the benefits of custom gowns versus those ready-made, and listened to one-sided debates regarding whether B. Altman & Co, Gimbals, or Mr. Macy’s department stores carried the finest goods…as if he had a care. He’d been told of the wonders to be found in the stores of the Ladies’ Mile, a nickname given to an area of Manhattan between 15thand 24thStreets and from Park Avenue South to the Avenue of the Americas. That he could name the geographic region with such accuracy appalled him.
Knickerbocker society overflowed with vacuous conversation with ladies more fearful of commanding intelligent conversation than any of those filling London’s drawing rooms.
Herself, Mrs. Primrose Eames had never offered more than polite niceties in their few interactions previously. And yet, in just two sentences she’d displayed more cleverness than any lady of his acquaintance outside of his family and Mrs. Preston.
Even while she continued to stare at her own fan as if it would snap open and bite her for speaking aloud. She was such a wee shy mouse, she’d never caught his attention despite her widowed status. Even now, out for an evening, her dark hair was scraped back tight, her dinner gown stylish but drab brown with a lace collar right up to her chin. Everything about her blended into the woodwork.
He wouldn’t have thought her bold enough to say boo to a ghost much less talk knowledgeably of automobiles.
Intrigued, he leaned forward. “I’ve read that when her brakes wore down, she had a shoemaker nail leather to the brake blocks.”
“And she cleaned her carburetor with her hat pin.”
