Page 40 of Inventing Vivian

“I think it’s romantic,” Dahlia said.

“More like suspicious,” Elizabeth muttered. But Vivian knew her friend’s gruff performance was all in good humor.

A man wearing a striped waistcoat stepped out of the crowd and came toward the booth. “Kirby’s Personal Propulsion Vehicle.” He read the words in a loud voice and looked closer at the diagrams on the walls. He put his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and nodded his head slowly, the corners of his mouth turned downward beneath his thick mustache. “Interesting design.” He looked at the women. “And where is Mr. Kirby? Sent his women ahead to do the dirty work? I like his style.” He grinned, flashing a gold tooth.

“Typical,” Elizabeth said. She scowled at the man. “I’ll have you know, sir,MissKirby is right here.”

Vivian stepped forward. “How do you do, sir? I’m Vivian Kirby.” She held a hand toward the diagrams. “The Personal Propulsion Vehicle is my design.”

His eyes went wide, his mouth opening as if he were going to reply, but instead, his face broke into a grin. He wagged a finger at her and chuckled. “Good one, that. You almost had me—didn’t even crack a smile, did you?” He shook his head. “Jolly good joke. A lady inventor, indeed.”

Vivian glanced back at her friends, unsure what to say.

Elizabeth looked ready to explode with anger, so Vivian turned back to the man, hoping to dispel the situation before her friend did. “I’m not making a joke, sir. I really am the machine’s creator.”

The man squinted. “Who’s your sponsor, then, miss?” He spoke as if he were testing her, ready to catch her in a lie.

“Professor Clifford Wallis is my academic sponsor,” she said.

The man’s brows raised. “Always wondered about that chap.” His gaze moved over Vivian. “Guess he’s not too old to be enticed by a pretty lady.”

From the corner of her eye, Vivian saw Sophie grab on to Elizabeth’s arm and lead her away, saving the man from a tongue-lashing or worse.

“And what’s your name, sir?” Vivian tried to keep her voice polite in spite of his insinuation.

“Lawrence Fernsby.” He motioned with a jerk of his head. “That’s my booth over there.”

She looked across the aisle to where he indicated. “We’re to be neighbors, Mr. Fernsby. What are you exhibiting?”

“Pistols, miss. Small ones. Guns that can be hidden in a belt or on a bootleg.” He walked toward the booth as he spoke, holding out a hand for her to follow. “Ever worry about being garroted in the street at night?” Mr. Fernsby asked, his voice taking on a dramatic tone. “A street thug grabs you from behind, wraps a rope around your neck, and demands your billfold—or... er—your handbag?”

He stepped aside with a flourish, revealing a case displaying pistols close to the size of a card deck. The barrel of each was scarcely more than an inch long, with a firing mechanism mounted on the side.

“Fascinating.” Vivian peered closer. “A curved trigger—very clever. How is it fired?”

“The trigger is discharged by pulling this wire.” He held up a belt with a flat pistol attached, showing a wire connected to a long string. “The string is threaded into the sleeve and this small weight rests at the wrist near the palm.” He held the weight in his hand, lifting it over his head. “Bloke tells you to raise your arms, you tug on the weight, and... bang! He’s got a lead ball in his navel.”

Mr. Fernsby demonstrated the entire scenario, even groaning and holding his stomach when an imaginary bullet was fired.

“Amazing.” Vivian wasn’t sure if she was meant to applaud the performance. She settled for a few soft claps.

“It is at that,” Mr. Fernsby preened. He set the belt and its weapon back in the case. “Imagine I’ll have quite a number of offers to buy the patent and sales of my inventory. This exhibition promises to be very successful for me.”

“I’m sure it shall be.” In spite of his gloating, Vivian was envious of the man’s confidence. “I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Fernsby. I’ll see you on opening day.”

She returned across the aisle to her friends.

“Guns. What a surprise.” Elizabeth stood with her arms folded, glaring toward Mr. Fernsby’s booth. “Of course he invents weapons. Why must men always associate strength with violence?”

“I’m surprised the exhibition committee allowed projectile weapons of any sort in a building made of glass,” Hazel said. She glanced at Mr. Fernsby’s booth with worried eyes as if a gun might discharge at any second and shatter the entire place.

“I think he is a pompous bag of air,” Elizabeth said.

“He did have an interesting invention,” Vivian pointed out. “Very original.”

“But he did not ask you one question about your PPV,” Sophie said. “It seems the polite thing to do when one comes to a person’s booth.”

“Too busy boasting about his blasted guns.” Elizabeth huffed. “And he probably worried you’d give too clever an answer for him to be able to understand. Wouldn’t that injure his manly feelings?”

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