FORTY-FOUR

May 21, 1889, London, England

Seven months later, Gabrielle and I stood in Buckingham Palace, which is really nice, by the way. Liveried servants escorted us, along with a dozen or so others, up a curving marble double staircase, down a long corridor, and into a holding tank—they called it the Cross Gallery. I had mostly healed by then, but I still used a cane to take a little weight off my left foot.

A score of people already there fidgeted in formal attire and made nervous small talk. We watched them but didn’t mix. I didn’t know anyone there, I wasn’t particularly good at small talk, and I wasn’t nervous. I’d been through too much for a Royal Investiture to frighten me, or even excite me all that much. Besides, Gabi and I had grown comfortable with our own company.

I kept expecting to feel a sense of loss, the return of that black shroud of depression I’d fought so desperately ten years ago, but so far I remained free of it. I didn’t feel that I’d lost Sarah. She still lived, that world still lived, and I had not had to destroy this one—and my soul—to save it.

My faraway thoughts must have showed in my eyes. Gabi’s hand found its way into mine and brought me back. I smiled.

After a few minutes a familiar face appeared at the door—Sir Edward Bonseller, secretary to the prime minister, now completely recovered from the wound he had received at Dorset House eight months earlier. He scanned the small crowd, saw us, and walked briskly over. He thrust out his hand.

“I did not shake your hand before. I hope you will accept the offer now, Dr. Fargo, along with my congratulations.”

“Thanks. May I present Mademoiselle Courbiere of the DCRG?”

Bonseller hesitated for a moment, then smiled and kissed her hand.

“I am pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle. We have all heard of, and admire, your remarkable contribution to the expedition’s success.”

No one but Gabi and I knew what really took place in Tesla’s stronghold. What we’d told everyone else was a better story, better for all concerned.

“I hope you are enjoying your trip to England,” Bonseller continued. “Is this your first visit here?”

“Non, although it is the first time I come without the disguise.”

Bonseller froze, unsure what to say next, until Gabrielle put her hand on his arm.

“I made the joke,” she said.

He smiled uncertainly, and his face colored.

“How are you feeling?” I asked. I figured he’d welcome a change of subject.

“Splendid, now that this business with Tesla has been concluded.”

The cremated bodies we’d found in the burnt-out ruins of his house were unidentifiable, but I was satisfied it was over. We hadn’t cracked his network of assassins and spies yet, but with his passionate energy gone as a motivating force, the organization would probably unravel quickly.

“I don’t know if anyone has told you the order of precedence,” Bonseller said, “but the queen is meeting with the three new barons now. After that she will confer the six knighthoods. We have one new recipient of the Garter, a Thistle, two Baths, and then the two CMGs, including you.”

“Companion of the Order of St. Michael and St. George,” I said and shook my head. “Who’d a’ thunk it? I’d have settled for just the help getting a U.S. passport—and thanks for that, by the way—but the star will look good here.” I tapped the breast of my jacket next to my brand new Légion d’Honneur.

“Oui,” Gabrielle said and squeezed my arm. “I think the two will make a handsome couple.”

Bonseller shook his head with a sigh of resignation. “The invitation did specify the display of all orders, didn’t it? The Prince of Wales was quite insistent you receive the CMG. He will be present for your investiture, by the way. He was also insistent Gordon not receive the Distinguished Service Cross. All we could manage was the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal and a promotion to brevet major. It’s a damned shame, if you ask me, but the prince wouldn’t hear of it. Pity Gordon has to suffer for the prince’s animosity toward Gordon’s superior, Lord Chillingham, but I suppose there’s nothing for it. Royalty can be remarkably petty sometimes.”

“That seems unlike Renfrew,” Gabrielle said with a slight frown, and Bonseller colored again in embarrassment at the hint of intimacy.

I didn’t say anything. If the prince went to these lengths to keep Gordon’s cover secure, I wasn’t about to screw things up. Besides, Gordon had what he really wanted—an answer about himself, and a medal to confirm it.

The sliding panel doors which led to the ballroom opened. Thomson walked into the gallery and beamed as soon as he saw us. He made to kiss Gabrielle’s hand, but she embraced him and kissed him on the cheek, and he returned the gesture with sincere pleasure. I offered him my hand.

“May I be the first commoner to greet you as your lordship?” I asked.

He shook my hand and then Bonseller’s, who excused himself to round up the other candidates for knighthood.

“First Baron Kelvin,” Thomson said with a broad smile. “It has a ring, doesn’t it? They named the barony for the River Kelvin in Glasgow. It flows right by the university.”

“Yeah, and there’s something you should know. You’ve worried about your legacy, how history would remember you, and I haven’t been able to offer much comfort on that subject. I’d never heard of William Thomson, but then I’ve hardly heard of any scientists from this time.”

“It’s all right, laddie,” he said. “I’m satisfied with what I’ve accomplished, and that’s more important than fame, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. But I just want you to know that there’s a reason I never heard of you. I can think of only three scientists from this era who left such a lasting impression that any kid who ever took a science course learned their names: Thomas Edison, Nikola Tesla, and Lord Kelvin.”

He looked away and flushed, then he sniffed and cleared his throat, smoothed his beard.

“Well, that is . . . quite gratifying.”

I imagined it was. I hadn’t heard from Gordon since I’d returned to England the previous week, except for a brief note and an attached document hand-delivered three days earlier. The note simply read, “You may find this interesting. Best regards, G.” The enclosed letter from the Turkish general staff thanked Gordon for his detailed report on the action at Kokin Brod, and in particular for his description of the part played by Lieutenant-designate Ibrahim Durson.

Yes, quite gratifying.