“It is,” I say, smiling at him. “When yeast feeds on sugar, it produces carbon dioxide, and that makes bread rise.”
And here, I must admit that I have already begun to feed my son information he may not be able to reveal to the Victorian world. When I was in the twenty-first century, I tried to soothe my fears the way many people deal with the anxieties of modern life—by losing myself in television. For me, as the daughter of a doctor, I’d been particularly fascinated with the advances in science, and I’d spent endless hours watching documentaries and science shows, giving my mind something else to do when it threatened to devour itself with worry.
Then I returned and took over my son’s schooling with somewhat unorthodox methods, having discovered that his dyslexia had spawned a fear of formal learning. I incorporate lessons into everyday life, including baking, and here I have told him something that I believe Louis Pasteur is just beginning to discover.
Was that wrong? Should I instead have perpetuated the misunderstandings of Victorian science? My father would be appalled at the thought. So too, would August. No, I will tell Edmund the truth as I know it, and if that means he may also have to later be told what he can and cannot pass along, we will deal with that.
August takes Edmund closer to the running motor, and they both examine it from a safe distance.
“So it is a horseless carriage,” Edmund says.
I laugh. “That is exactly what they will call it, when it is invented.”
He gives me that crafty look. “Perhaps because I will invent it.”
I walk over and kiss his hair. “Perhaps so. Now, let us go back inside, and we shall see whether there is anything we can ready here for the baby’s arrival before we return to our time.”
“Are we not going for a ride in the horseless carriage?” Edmund says. “You know how to drive it, yes?”
I hesitate. I’d obtained my license mostly so I could rent a car for my regular pilgrimages to Thorne Manor, to try crossing through the stitch, back before Bronwyn inherited the house.
“I think that means yes,” August stage-whispers in Edmund’s ear.
“I do know how,” I say slowly. “But this is not our car, Edmund.”
“If that is truly why you are refusing, Rosie, let me remind you who does own it. My oldest and dearest friend, who would never deny me such an opportunity, at least, not after informing me that, should I crash, he will hand me the repair bill.” A smug smile. “Which is not a concern.”
“Can you afford such a repair?”
He arches his brows, as if I did not nearly faint seeing his account books last month. August has always had money—he’s an earl’s son, after all. But he is also in business with William, who recovered his own family fortune speculating on technological advances, based on the stories a teenage Bronwyn had told him about the future. August has both hereditary and independent wealth, more than I had realized in the early days of our marriage.
Still . . .
“All right,” I say. “The worst that can happen is that we crash the car beyond repair, and it must be replaced. It is an antique but not a particularly rare one, so I estimate perhaps twenty or thirty thousand would cover it.”
“Twenty or thirty thousand . . . what?” August asks carefully.
“Pounds, of course.”
He looks from me to the car and back. “Twenty or thirty thousand pounds. How—how does anyone afford to drive a vehicle? I was under the impression they are extremely common.”
“They are. The answer, my dear husband, is a financial concept I’m certain you have encountered.” I pause for a beat. “Inflation.”
August winces. “Yes, of course. It is quite bad enough on an annual basis. I can only imagine what it is on a centenary one.” He looks at the convertible and sighs. “All right. Perhaps I do not want to spend half my life’s savings on a single car ride.”
He pauses and then gives me the twin of his son’s crafty look. “Wait. I recall William saying that the trick to transferring wealth is to do so in forms other than money. To find rare coins and jewelry in our world and bring them here, in pristine condition, where they might fetch a small fortune. I shall do that if I crash the car.”
“If you crash it?”
“Er, I meant you.”
I shake my head. “The Thornes will have automobile insurance, should anything catastrophic occur. If not, yes, we could repay it. I could point out it is Bronwyn’s car—William having no love for a carriage without a horse—but that is beside the point. She would not begrudge us a short ride.” I walk out the garage door. “There is no snow or ice, and the day is overcast but clear. It is safe for driving.”
6
I take my time with the car. The sun is dropping, which does make it a little more dangerous, but I don’t want to rush. It’s been six months since I’ve been behind the wheel, and one lesson I learned with rentals is to fully examine the vehicle first and then take it around the block before leaving the lot. Be certain I know where to find the switch for the headlamps and the turn indicator and that I don’t accidentally pop open the boot while trying to lower my window. Get a feel for the pedals and the cornering, too. Yes, perhaps I overdo it, but that has been my way since I was a child, testing one step before the next where others rush headlong.
I do consider whether we ought to look for clothing better suited to the twenty-first century. I decide that would add an unnecessary complication that would only plunge us into the full dark of night. We had already found jackets and scarves and hats. Those will disguise us to anyone seeing us drive past. I don’t expect to stop anywhere, but even if we are seen? It’s the holiday season. We are attending a fancy dress ball, outfitted as a Victorian family.
Once I have thoroughly examined the vehicle, I strap Edmund into Amelia’s car seat. He does not appreciate that—are you certain this is not for babies, Mama?—but with some adjustments, it fits. He is a small and slender child and well under the weight limit listed on the seat. Once he’s in, I check August’s seatbelt.
“I do not believe it’s possible to mis-fasten it,” he says as I check the buckle. “It tightens automatically.”
I ignore him, check again and then round the car, climb in and put on my own belt.
I start driving so slowly we could walk at a quicker pace. August groans. Even Edmund makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. Then I am out of the driveway and perched at the top of the hill.
“All right,” I say. “So, you have both had your first car ride. Exciting, was it not? Let us pull back into the laneway—”
I can’t even finish, sputtering in laughter at their expressions. “I’m teasing. I was thinking perhaps we shall drive to Whitby and back.”
“Whitby?” Edmund says. “Is that not a very long way from Uncle William’s house?”
I smile at him. “Not when you are driving a horseless carriage. Why do you think I was being so careful with the safety restraints? Now, again, are you ready?”
Edmund nods.
I glance at August. “I don’t hear anything from you.”
“Because you are having far too much fun torturing us, and I will not give you the satisfaction.” He waves at the windshield. “Just ride already.”