William John humphed. “Indeed.” He crouched and ran his hands over the sides of the boiler. “I wonder if we can beat it out and resolder...”
Rand stared at the crumpled, folded-back metal. “No. We can’t.” He’d learned enough from other inventors about the risks one ran in resoldering such things—namely an increased risk of re-rupturing. “The second soldered seam will be weaker than the first.” William John looked up, and Rand caught the younger man’s eyes. “We don’t have time to take that risk. If it explodes again, we’ll have lost days and got no further. We need a new boiler.”
William John stared at him for a moment, then grimaced. “Yes. You’re right. I keep forgetting...”
About the exhibition and their deadline. From their earlier discussions, Rand had already realized that. He turned his mind to the logistics required. “I assume you have a cart we can use to ferry the boiler to the nearest blacksmith’s. He can reuse the metal, which will get us a better price on the replacement.”
His gaze on the destroyed boiler, William John waved toward the stables. “Struthers—our stableman—knows which cart to use.”
“Shields?” Rand glanced at his man.
Shields nodded and made for the double doors. “I’ll fetch it.”
Rand looked at William John. “Where is the nearest blacksmith?”
With a sigh, William John straightened. “In the village. The forge is at the far end of the village street.” He frowned. “Mind you, I’m not sure Ferguson will agree to do the job. He wasn’t best pleased last time, when he made this one—I only just talked him around.” William John glanced sidelong at Rand. “We might have to beat out and resolder this one after all.”
Rand didn’t bother wasting breath restating his refusal to hear of any such thing. It was increasingly apparent that there was an ongoing need for someone to steer William John—to unrelentingly herd him along the surest path to success. Rand turned to the doors as the distant rattle of a cart’s wheels reached them. “We’ll see,” he replied. And was determined that they would.
After they’d loaded the ruptured boiler into the back of the cart, Rand took the reins and, with William John beside him, drove out along the drive and into the lane leading to Hampstead Norreys.
Throughout the short journey, William John remained sunk in his inventor’s thoughts, occasionally muttering about pressures and gauges.
When they reached the intersection with the village street, Rand turned the plodding horse and set it walking northward, through the center of the village. Although Hampstead Norreys was by any measure a small village, in addition to the inn, it possessed a Norman church in a well-kept yard and several shops. Rand noted a large and prosperous-looking general store and post office, a bakery, a butcher’s shop, a shop that, from the goods displayed in the window, he took to be a haberdashery, and a gentleman’s outfitters.
The blacksmith’s forge lay at the far end of the village, separated by a row of old trees from the shops along the west side of the street.
Rand drew the cart to a halt in the yard in front of the smithy.
William John blinked and returned to the here and now. He shook himself and climbed down from the cart.
Rand set the brake, tied off the reins, and joined him.
A large man with heavily muscled arms came slowly out from the shadows of the smithy. Behind him, in the depths of his workshop, a furnace glowed and spat the occasional spark. Wiping his hands on a rag, the man nodded to Rand, then, with significantly less enthusiasm, nodded to William John. “Mr. Throgmorton. What is it today?”
“Ah yes. Good morning, Ferguson.” William John waved to the boiler in the back of the cart. “I’m afraid we’ve had another accident.”
The blacksmith seemed to sigh. He lumbered up to the side of the cart and looked down at the lump of crumpled metal. He shook his head. “You will keep putting them under too much pressure. There’s ought I can do to help you, and no point at all trying to repair that.”
“Yes, well.” William John shifted. “We want you to make a new one.”
“A new one.” Ferguson frowned. “I don’t rightly know whether there’s any point in that, either. With what you’re doing to them, the seams just won’t hold.”
A thought occurred to Rand. While William John applied himself to securing Ferguson’s assistance, Rand turned his sudden notion around in his mind...and decided it was worth pursuing. Or at least, asking if it was possible.
Ferguson was still shaking his head, a craftsman patently fed up with having his creations mangled.
When William John paused for breath, Rand spoke up. “Mr. Ferguson. I’m Lord Randolph Cavanaugh. I’m the lead investor in a syndicate backing Mr. Throgmorton’s invention. I appreciate your point about the seams being necessarily a weak point in the construction of the boiler, especially as Mr. Throgmorton is putting the system under pressure. However”—Rand threw a glance at William John, including him in Rand’s question—“I wonder if it’s possible to construct a boiler that’s balloon-like—with no seams but only an inlet and outlet.”
Rand saw blankness overtake William John’s expression as his mind turned inward to evaluate the notion. Rand looked at the blacksmith. He was frowning, too, but more in the way of working out how to do what Rand had suggested.
William John blinked several times, then his face came alight. “By golly, I think that would work.” Eagerly, he looked at Ferguson. “Can you create such a thing, Ferguson?”
The big man was looking distinctly more interested. “If I was to work from a sheet and bend it...” He stared unseeing between Rand and William John for several more seconds, then he refocused on Rand and nodded. “Aye, I think I can do it—and you’re right. It’ll get around a lot of the problems Mr. Throgmorton here has been having.”
Rand smiled. “Well, then, the only question remaining is how fast you can have the new boiler ready.”
William John leapt in to describe the outlets he would need added to the top of the boiler, and, in turn, Ferguson questioned William John as to the connection between the heating system and the boiler.