The Last Days of Night(85)

These were vivid.

Westinghouse had made the introduction to Bell via telegram, having known him casually from years of engineering conferences. Bell had replied that he did not often receive visitors, remote as his home was. He would thus be delighted to receive some intelligent company for lunch. Paul guessed that this was easily the longest distance he would ever travel for salmon sandwiches and a pot of tea.

Bell and his wife, Mabel, lived on a six-hundred-acre estate on the island of Cape Breton, in Nova Scotia. Nestled within the indigo rim of Bras d’Or Lake, the estate occupied its own private peninsula. Mr. Bell and Mabel had named the place Beinn Bhreagh. It was Gaelic for “beautiful mountain,” in reference to the rising slopes just across the harbor, in the shadow of which rested their secluded kingdom. Paul and Agnes’s carriage climbed a lush hill, leaving the sky-blue lake and the red-rock formations of the bay behind them. The shape of Bell’s home suddenly came into view. To describe the structure as “palatial” would have been not understatement but misidentification. It resembled a small city more than any sort of house.

The Bell compound was a series of interlocking buildings, stretching out from a three-story mansion in the center to nearby sheds, cabins, boathouses, warehouses, laboratories, and servants’ cottages. Through the thick woods, paths had been carved to connect most of these structures to one another. Some buildings were even linked by covered passageways for pedestrian travel in the snowy winter. The style of the estate stood in some contrast to its size, for its dark-wood rustic design gave the impression that the whole thing had blossomed from the great forest around it. Alexander and Mabel Bell waited outside to greet their arriving guests. A row of servants claimed the travelers’ valises, scurrying their bags into the house as Paul and Agnes shook the hands of their hosts.

“Good Lord,” said Mr. Bell. “George said you were young, but he did not say you were still in your swaddling clothes.”

Bell was large, almost as tall as Paul. While only forty-two years of age, Bell was possessed of a face that made him look much older. His white muttonchop beard, four inches in length, completed the effect. Yet the man—easily richer than any of the other inventors Paul had met—wore loose work pants tucked into his faded boots. His vest did not match his coat, and instead of a proper tie he wore a simple kerchief around his neck. Mabel wore her gray hair tied back into a schoolgirl’s bun. Her beige coat had been designed for warmth, not for fashion, and her plain linen dress did not appear to have been sewn within the past decade.

“You must be the famed Miss Huntington,” said Bell, kissing her outstretched hand. “I regret never having seen you on the stage, but now we must make an effort to get to New York more often.”

“I’m flattered,” replied Agnes. “But if you can dig up a piano, I’ll spare you the train fare.”

There followed an hour of pleasant introductions as Paul and Agnes sipped tea in one of the mansion’s many sitting rooms. Mabel talked about their time on the lake, how their children had learned to sail and how lovely it was for the family to take picnics in the wooded hills. Every Christmas Day the children were allowed to toboggan down the cape and across the solid ice. Mabel watched them each year with her heart pounding. Mr. Bell described the laboratory he’d built just yards down the dirt path, eagerly promising to give his guests a tour after lunch. He’d been working on hydrofoils, gasoline-powered ships that glided just above the surface of the water. He’d begun work on a flying machine as well, a winged device that threatened to carry its occupant as far as a few hundred feet through the air. He’d exchanged a few encouraging letters with a pair of bicycle designers from Ohio at work on something similar. Bell’s own work wasn’t as far along, but early tests were promising.

Sure enough, an old rosewood piano made its appearance. Agnes sang “You’ll Miss Lots of Fun When You’re Married.” Mabel accompanied her on the piano. The older woman lost her fingerings a few times, the chords shifting into accidental minors. Agnes covered the mistakes with a smile and a higher harmony, her musicianship skilled enough to make up for her partner’s lack thereof. There was much laughter in the sun-dappled drawing room.

Paul waited until everyone’s cup had been drained of its tea before broaching the subject of their visit.

“The elegance of your home, Mr. Bell, certainly befits the only man alive who can claim to have bested Thomas Edison.”

“I will take my cue to check on the salmon,” said Mabel as she stood.

“No, no,” said Paul. “Please. You needn’t leave. It’s only that we’ve found ourselves in dire straits, and we’ve come to you for guidance.”

“Well then, I hope you find what you’ve come for,” replied Mabel. “But for my part, I did not move to Canada so that I could spend another minute of my life talking about Thomas Edison.”

Bell watched her go, a loving smile on his face as his wife shut the wooden door behind her.

“She exaggerates,” said Bell as he was left alone with Paul and Agnes. “She unfortunately still has to spend more than a few minutes of her life talking about Edison, though I try to leave her out of it.”

“How do you mean?” asked Agnes.

“How many times do you two think I’ve been sued by the Wizard of Menlo Park?” he asked.

“Mr. Westinghouse has been sued three hundred twelve times by Edison,” answered Paul. “I cannot imagine you faced a lesser onslaught.”