Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  Jackdaws, with their raucous squawks, frighten a flock of sparrows. The smaller birds swirl up in a whirlwind of chirps.

  If only I could hold onto this moment forever. Before long, I find myself in a stand of trees, wending through the underbrush on a narrow sheep path, listening to the voices of grasses, and...

  “What is this?” I stoop down. “Can it be?” Kneeling, I remove one glove so I can examine a broad-leafed plant growing among the weeds at the side of the path. Mindful of the prickles along the stalk, I bruise one of the leaves and sniff my fingers. “Ah-ha! It is you.” I know this plant. At the top of the stem sits a clutch of tiny white berries, but it is the leaves that interest me.

  This little plant might save my life. It offers a possibility, an alternative solution, as Sera calls it. I pull out a handkerchief and pluck several sprigs, carefully laying them in the open cloth.

  “What are you doing?”

  Startled, I answer hastily, “Nothing.” Except it sounds guilty. I swallow my chagrin at having been caught unaware. Why didn’t I hear Lord Kinsworth coming?

  I should have.

  The lioness in me growls inwardly. I have failed my training. I ought to have noticed his approach. In my excitement at having found a possible solution, I must have stopped listening to the world around me. Or perhaps he’d been exceptionally quiet. I’m not sure which.

  Sometimes I wonder if Lord Kinsworth understands more about inner music than he lets on. I am almost certain he knows how to hide his life sounds. Admirable, since even I have trouble quieting my inner music. It took years of practice to learn to be truly silent.

  He leans over me, trying to peek at my deadly collection. “Well, obviously, you are doing something.”

  “Nothing of importance.” I quickly wrap the leaves into a tidy cloth bundle, stand, and point at the plant near our feet. “I noticed this rare herb and thought it might be useful, so I collected a few of the leaves.” I force a cheery tone, and don an aloof cadence. “And what, may I ask, are you doing out here in the woods?”

  “Hunting for you,” he says, with a cocky grin. “Medicinal herbs? You have knowledge of such things?” He watches me a bit too closely as I tuck the packet of leaves into my pocket.

  “Of course.” I slip the glove back on my naked fingers and brush out my skirts, pleased that I do not have to lie to him. “In my country, depending upon where one lives, it can sometimes be several days’ journey to the nearest doctor. Even as children, those of us in small villages learned about herbal remedies.”

  I do not tell him I also have an extensive knowledge of poisons, having made a careful study of it under Madame Cho’s tutelage. Nor do I mention that this particular plant is never used for a cure. Although, it may prove an extremely helpful curative for my problem with Napoleon and Prince George.

  I take his arm, and we stroll back out of the woods.

  Lyrics for A Lie

  Lord Kinsworth covers my hand as it rests on his arm and toys with my fingers. “What sort of ailments does that particular plant cure?”

  Fiddlesticks!

  I thought I’d neatly escaped any problematic questions. Why is he looking at me like he knows I’m up to something?

  I stammer in an attempt to avoid a lie. “Oh, um, it is a cure for any number of problems.” Such as the problem of how to stall our beloved monarch from meeting with the tyrant who wants to take over the world.

  “I see.” He rubs his chin. “Does it help with fever and ague?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Is it for stomach complaints, then?”

  I press my lips tight, knowing a tea made of these leaves might cause a myriad of gastric disturbances, and shake my head. “No.”

  “What then?” He lowers his voice as if the flowers and trees might be embarrassed should his next question be overheard. “Female problems?”

  I almost laugh. “Hardly.”

  “Gout, perhaps?” He stops walking and studies me with such obvious suspicion that he leaves me no choice. Either I must tell him the truth, in which case I might hang for treason, or I must lie. I choose the latter.

  “Well,” I pause for a moment, thinking. “It does tend to purge the blood. So, I suppose it might help with gout.” Purge is an overly gentle way of stating the effect of this herb, a pale word in comparison to how the veins will burn and pump blood with such force into the extremities it will feel as if one’s hands and feet are going to burst.

  “Does it, now?” He leans in, overly interested. “You’re quite sure?”

  “As certain as one can be with herbs.” I kick a small stone in the path.

  His face brightens suddenly, and he swoops me up, swinging me in a wild circle. “My dear Miss Barrington, you are a wonder. An absolute wonder!”

  “What are you doing?” I shout at him and thump his shoulder. “Put me down this instant!”

  He laughs, completely unchastised, and allows my feet to touch the ground in front of him. He still has hold of my arms as he grins broadly. “You truly are a marvel. I mean it. You are probably not aware of this, but our Prince suffers terribly from painful attacks of gout. I shall tell him of your remedy.”

  Frog’s teeth.

  It had only been a thought, a wild possibility to debate with Sera. And now he was turning the idea into reality.

  “Oh, no! No, you mustn’t.” I try to pull out of his grasp. “My poor skills are not worthy of a member of the royal family, much less the Prince Regent himself. The very idea is ludicrous.”

  He shakes his head. “Maya, Maya, you are too modest. His Highness will be thrilled to hear of it.” He tugs me closer. “We must go and tell him straightway.”

  “No. Wait. Stop.” I wrench out of his arms. “You mustn’t—I beg of you.”

  He tilts his head, watching me intently. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

  Afraid of being executed for accidently poisoning the Prince? Yes!

  I nod and hang my head.

  “All right, then.” He lets go of me. “I won’t mention it to him, not just yet. But next time Prince George is groaning in agony I must. I must! To withhold a possible cure would be cruel. Some mornings the poor man cannot even bear to get out of bed. His whole foot swells and his big toe turns red as a plum. I’ve seen it! His physicians set leeches on him, bleed him, and pack his feet in compresses of every sort. You’ve no idea how he suffers. He hides it admirably.” He takes off his hat and stares at the interior before slapping it back over his honey-kissed curls.

  Genuine concern rings through his words and guilt crashes over my head. In a dozen or so days, Lord Kinsworth seems to have developed a deep empathy for our eccentric Prince George, a man who many people consider a blight on Britain.

  I plunge my hand into my pocket clutching the bundle of leaves, wishing I’d never run across them. These wretched herbs will only make the poor Prince’s pain worse. I cannot go through with this. But if we don’t stop him from meeting with Napoleon, Britain will be crushed under the Emperor’s boot. Not just Britain, her people, my father, Miss Stranje, Captain Grey, Lord Wyatt, Sera, Georgie—all of my friends. And even though he does not yet realize it, the Prince himself. I want to roar with frustration.

  Except I cannot.

  I clamp my lips tight to keep silent, pressing my heels into the dirt to keep from running away. I am bound by duty to my father’s country. Bound by loyalty to Miss Stranje and the faith she has placed in me. Bound by love for my friends.

  No longer the lioness, I am the caged nightingale.

  And if I must sing myself to death, so be it.

  I weigh the costs, Britain’s future against the Prince’s pain. Grinding my guilty conscience between my teeth, I tell myself, if I am very very careful, it will only mean two or three days of discomfort for him. And Lord Kinsworth’s compassion may prove to be the perfect means of delivering Britain’s salvation, but I need to make sure he stands clear of any repercussions.

  I wet my dry lips and ch
oose my next words with caution. “My Lord, the Royal Physicians are far more knowledgeable than I, and even they have not found a cure.” I shake my head. “I’m not an apothecary or a physician. I simply cannot offer a treatment to His Highness—especially not one of my homemade tisanes—it’s unthinkable. It would be the height of presumptuousness. And what’s worse, suppose something were to go wrong?”

  I clutch Ben’s forearm, allowing fear to chase panic over my tongue. “What if he has a dreadful reaction of some kind? It could happen! One must always be prepared for such things when dealing with herbal cures.”

  “True.” Ben’s normally jovial eyes darken as he perceives the risk and adds up the ramifications. “That could be troubling.” Not a minute passes before he brightens again. “I know how to handle this. We must tell him the truth. I shall convey your concerns and reservations. If Prince George is willing to take the risk, I will call upon you to prepare the remedy.”

  I lower my head and draw a ragged breath. “Very well. If you think that is the best way to proceed.” I close the gap between us. “But you must promise me you will convey my concerns to him in a serious manner.”

  “I promise.” He moves even closer, leaving only a few inches between us. In hushed tones he says, “You are a great favorite of his, you know. He told me so in confidence, when he hears you sing it is a balm to his soul.”

  The nightingale’s song.

  I shudder, contemplating the effect the brittle leaves in my pocket will have upon Prince George, and how very un-balm-like this remedy will be.

  Ben leans down and cups my chin. “Come, come, you mustn’t fret. I have every confidence in you. The Prince will adore you for trying. Think on it, Maya. Offering him a cure can only continue to improve your standing in his eyes.”

  I look up at him, knowing fear wails from deep in my soul. Fear of what will happen when the Prince gets so sick he feels like ripping his stomach out.

  Lord Kinsworth’s smile is gentle and soft and caring, there is no teasing boy ready to laugh and dash away as he studies me. His manner turns languid and warm. His heart music enfolds me as if he is softly strumming a guitar. He leans closer, and I can tell he wants to comfort me with kisses.

  I dampen my bottom lip in anticipation. I have not forgotten our first kiss. Cannot forget it. The memory teases me. Taunts me. And despite my dreadful lies and our false engagement, I want him to kiss me again. It is a mistake, I know. I remind myself he does not love me. He will break my heart someday. Yet, my lips seem to thicken and warm just thinking about touching his. But we cannot kiss.

  Not here. Not now. Not ever.

  We shouldn’t.

  We mustn’t.

  We have strayed into the garden. The inn is only a stone’s throw away. I inch back and glance furtively at the inn’s window overlooking the flowers. We are clearly visible to anyone in the parlor who might be standing near it.

  Lord Kinsworth does not seem to care that we might be observed. “It’s all right. We are engaged,” he whispers huskily and smooths a lock of hair behind my ear.

  His breath lightly caresses my cheek, and I can’t help but lean toward him. “Yes, but—.”

  “Kinsworth!” A shout comes from that ill-placed window. It is Ben’s uncle. Lord Harston leans out and motions for us to come back. “Look lively, lad. The Prince wishes to leave in ten minutes. We must see to our mounts.”

  Lord Kinsworth grabs my hand and tugs me along the path. “I meant to tell you, His Highness seems to be in a great hurry to reach Brighton. It may mean his parley with Napoleon is set to happen sooner than we anticipated.”

  How soon, I wondered. How long before that dreaded day? Three weeks? Two? I’d hoped for four. We race back to the inn, my heart thundering like a frightened herd of chital antelope.

  Too soon. this is all happening too soon.

  * * *

  By the time we reach the front of the inn, Sera is already climbing into the coach. “There you are!” she scolds. “We’re leaving, and you’ve not had anything to eat or drink.”

  I climb in, and the footman closes the coach door. “Lord Kinsworth gave me a scone.” I seat myself and try to catch my breath. “There is still some lemon water in our provisions. I shall make do.”

  As soon as we are settled in place and I can manage to steady myself I confide, “Lord Kinsworth says the Prince’s parley may be happening sooner than we expected.”

  She groans. “How soon?”

  “He does not know. But I may have come upon a solution.”

  She tilts her head quizzically. “Did you?” It isn’t really a question. It is a prompt. Sera sits quietly, waiting for me to explain.

  “I believe so.” The gravity of the whole idea pulls my words into airy wisps. I bolster my shoulders and correct my posture. “I’ll explain as soon as we are out of earshot.”

  The driver whistles to the team and snaps the traces. Our coach wheels crunch over gravel as the Prince’s caravan rolls out of the inn yard. Sera switches to the seat directly across from me and leans forward. “You found something in the woods.”

  I press back against the leather seats. “How did you know?”

  Sera leans away, retreating behind wayward strands of hair, and sniffs defensively. She thinks it vexes me when she figures something out before I reveal it to her. Except I am not vexed, not at all. I’m curious.

  “How?” I ask again.

  She points to my knees. “There are two spots of moisture and dirt on your skirts where you must’ve knelt briefly on the ground.”

  “Ah. So, there is.” I hasten to brush the evidence off my carriage gown. “Yes, well you are right, I found something quite unexpected.”

  Our coach jerks as it circles out of the drive and lurches onto the main road. We are underway, and the clatter of the hooves and wheels cloaks our conversation.

  “A plant of some sort?” she asks.

  I don’t inquire how she deduced the nature of my discovery. I merely raise my eyebrow in question.

  She shrugs. “The glove on your right hand is not soiled, indicating you removed it to pluck something. Whereas the fingertips of your left glove have a slightly green tinge. I can only conclude that you handled a plant briefly with your left for some reason.”

  I pull out the handkerchief and unwrap it to show her the leaves hidden inside.

  “What is it?”

  I study the prickled sprigs. “I don’t know the English name for this plant, but in my part of the world it can be used as a . . .” I stop and frown, not wanting to say the word.

  “A poison?” she supplies.

  I nod.

  Sera draws back, sucking in her breath. “You don’t mean to kill him, do you? I know the Prince is a stumbling block for England, but you can’t. It’s too—”

  “No, no!” I sit to attention and quickly fold up the packet of leaves. “I wouldn’t. It’s all a matter of cautiously applying the proper dosage—a little, and he will merely get sick. Too sick to travel to his meeting with Napoleon.”

  Sera shrinks back against the seat. “Too much, and what happens?”

  I chew my lip for a moment and stow the leaves back in my pocket. “Too much, and you may visit me at London Tower. You will find my head there, on a pike.”

  She curls into herself, chin on her fist, lips pressed into a taut line.

  “It makes my stomach knot up, too. But it is the only solution we have at the moment.” The words sound more brusque and confident than I feel.

  She winces, and rightly so. I know I’m clutching at straws. No, not straws. Only one straw. One very flimsy lethal straw, but it is all we have.

  “We have to do something, Sera. Britain hangs in the balance. If Napoleon doesn’t destroy it, Ghost will. We have to stop this meeting or at least delay it. It is not just Britain we have to consider. Captain Grey, Lord Wyatt, now Mr. Chadwick, and even Miss Stranje, their lives are all forfeit if Napoleon succeeds. If Prince George goes through with the parle
y, it does not matter whether he concedes to Napoleon, or not—I am dead. I will be considered a traitor to Britain, or to Lady Daneska. Done for either way.”

  My heart slows to a dull funereal beat, as if it is already thudding out its last farewell. I remind myself I am not dead yet and take a breath. “If this solution works, I may stand a chance of surviving, and England might remain under British rule.”

  She shakes her head and shoves away the silky white strands that have fallen across her eyes. “But you can’t. What if he dies?”

  “He won’t, if I am careful.”

  Extremely careful.

  I do not add that caution aloud, nor do I mention that I wish Georgie or Madame Cho were here to help me calculate the proper amounts. Even if they were, I wouldn’t allow it. By helping me, if it goes awry, they would be complicit. It is best if I take the risk alone.

  Sera folds her arms tight, brooding, thinking so hard the silence in the coach feels crowded and noisy. At long last, her attention whips back to me. “How do you intend to administer it?”

  “Originally, I’d thought to use my poison ring and sprinkle it in his wine or food, but Lord Kinsworth has supplied me with a safer option.” I explain my fiancé’s eagerness to bring my ‘cure’ for gout to the Prince, and that I warned him about the risks of a detrimental reaction. “So, you see, when the Prince falls ill after having been properly warned, perhaps he will merely be angry with me. There’s a chance I won’t stand trial for treason.”

  “A small chance.” She leans forward her hands clasped as if in prayer. “You do realize, even if you succeed in not killing him, this tea of yours will only postpone this wretched meeting for a few days.”

  I sag against the seat. My head back in the noose.

  Sera falls silent, too, weighing our predicament, sinking deeper into the recesses of her mind, her inner singing is a far-away echo. So distant and drowned in a misty fog that I can scarcely hear the dismal notes.

  She is hiding again, and we are both surrendering too much to the gloom. I scramble to provide a distraction. “Sera, you have not yet told me how you feel about Captain Grey taking Mr. Chadwick on as one of his protégés. Did it surprise you?”