Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  She does not answer right away. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders as if arriving at some sort of momentous decision. “Quinton is brilliant. I’m certain he will be of great use to Captain Grey and the diplomatic corp.”

  “Undoubtedly.” I smile at the praise she bestows on him. “Although, I do wonder how he will manage to hide the truth. The life of a spy requires deception and, like you, there is no guile in him.”

  “Like me?” Sera raises her eyebrows, and her mouth opens as if I have inadvertently made some sort of outrageous statement. She pulls back and shakes her head. “You don’t know, do you? Of everyone at Stranje House, I thought you would have known, or at least guessed.”

  “Guessed what?”

  She frowns at me. “I keep secrets all the time. And apparently, no one realizes it. Not even you.” She crosses her arms defensively, and adds, “Don’t look so surprised. It’s not as if I use trickery. One needn’t be deceptive if one simply remains silent.”

  Her words ring true, and for the second time today, I have been caught completely off guard. I stare at her, my closest friend. The friend who knows me best. And yet, she has secrets, secrets I know nothing about.

  How had I missed this?

  I close my eyes and listen more closely to the wispy tendrils of sound that emanate from her, the tiptoeing children, the muffled wind-like chant of her soul. “Oh!” I finally understand and raise my eyes to hers. “You hide your secrets behind those shadowy curtains in your heart. But Mr. Chadwick, he—”

  “Has no such shadows.” Sera smiles with more than a hint of sadness and nods. “Not yet. Several months ago, Tess had a dream, and it’s possible that one day he will. For now, though, you are right. He is all innocence and uncloaked light. He has not yet learned how to bury his secrets. To be fair, I think he was under the impression we are privy to everything Captain Grey does.”

  “He has told you something?”

  She nods. “I’ve been keeping mum for his sake. But I believe our present situation warrants me telling you.” She stops for a moment, and I can hardly breathe in anticipation. ‘What secret’ I want to shout. Except I dare not speak a word for fear it will turn her skittish and she will not tell me.

  She wets her lips and quietly begins. “It is this—if your plan works, if this potion of yours can hold the Prince off from meeting with Napoleon for three or four weeks as we’d originally been told—there may be a more permanent solution on the horizon. A solution Captain Grey and his men have devised.”

  My mouth falls open. “You mean something other than my being drawn and quartered? And you didn’t think to share this with me until now?”

  She catches her lip for a moment. “It was a secret Mr. Chadwick should’ve kept. I remained quiet for his sake. He only told me because he thought I already knew.”

  “Knew what—exactly?”

  “The Navy has nearly finished building Mr. Sinclair’s new warship. He, Captain Grey, Admiral St. Vincent, and Lord Wyatt convinced the Admiralty to allow them to take a small crew and do a test run once it is completed. She’ll be out of drydock in a week or two. As soon as we send them word of when the meeting with Napoleon is to take place, they intend to sail the warship out of the Thames at night. They’ll head south, down through the Channel, taking the steamship toward Brighton. Their plan is to intercept and sink, or capture, the vessel Emperor Napoleon is sailing to the parley.”

  It is a far more reliable solution. A much sturdier straw.

  Hope.

  For the first time in days, I have hope.

  The Nightingale’s New Cage

  The Prince is, indeed, in a great hurry. We stop briefly at one more inn for a light supper and to change the horses, and then travel on until late that night. The sound of gulls screeching in the night air awakens me. Fog swirls in gusty ribbons around our coach as we finally slow on the cobbled streets of Brighton and arrive at the palace. Our horses snort and paw while they are made to wait until His Highness disembarks, followed by the occupants of two other coaches, until our vehicle can reach the porte-cochere.

  I watch from the window as Prince George makes his way into the palace. He is limping and leans heavily on Lord Harston’s arm. Lord Kinsworth follows and casts a worried look in my direction, but it is the dead of night, and while the portico is well lit, we remain shrouded in darkness. I doubt he can actually see me as he hurries through the massive doors behind his uncle and the Prince.

  It seems hours until our coach rolls forward, and at last, the footman opens our door. The night air is heavy with gnats, and a fine salty mist floats eerily around the lanterns. A servant guides us inside the grand palace.

  Despite the many candles lighting our way, it feels as if we are sleepwalking through some sort of fantastic Chinese dream world, flickering with deep pinks, stunning reds, and gold filigree glimmering everywhere. Gigantic carved lotus blossoms, the size of barrels, grace every column.

  Miss Stranje’s drawings did not do this palace justice.

  We wind through a maze of rooms and halls, and I struggle to recall the map we memorized. Sera probably remembers, but I am overwhelmed by dimly lit glimpses of this wildly imaginative palace. It is unlike anything I have ever seen.

  I stop—startled by the face of a dragon coiled around a pillar.

  It stares back at me, and a full tick of the clock passes before I comprehend the creature is not real. Granted, I am exhausted from traveling, but my grandmother used to tell stories of dragons, terrifying creatures, who long ago, roamed the countryside and flew across our skies. Only I never expected to come face to face with one.

  I stumble forward and find his leering grin is mirrored across the hall on yet another dragon embellishing a column. We are surrounded by carved palm fronds, giant lotuses, coiling snakes, and a host of other mythical creatures.

  At last, we are shown into a small guest bedroom in one of the wings of the palace. Sera and I are to share this room. A maid helps us unpack, and we hurriedly prepare for bed. Just as we are about to turn out our oil lamp, a soft rap sounds at our door.

  A droopy-eyed servant stands on the threshold with a note bearing Lord Kinsworth’s seal. I open it and hold it over the lamp, inspecting the missive for hidden messages. Finding none, I read:

  The Prince is in the throes of a severe gout attack. I explained the dangers of your herbal remedy, but His Highness says, he doesn’t care if your potion kills him. He insists you make it for him a soon as possible.

  My throat instantly goes dry, and I hand the edict to Sera. She reads it and frowns. “But it is too soon.”

  I remember to breathe. “Yes, but what else can we do?”

  I turn back to Lord Kinsworth’s servant. “Tell my lord that the herbs need to cure before a draught can be made. I will set them to drying immediately, but I cannot possibly prepare the tisane until tomorrow morning. This is very important. You must convey those exact words to Lord Kinsworth.”

  “Yes, miss.” He bobs his head and hurries off down the hall.

  “Morning.” I groan and shut the door. “I must make the potion in the morning.”

  Sera shakes her head. “I will help you.”

  “No.” I lay out the leaves, pressing them between the pages of a book to help them dry more quickly. “You should stay as far away from this scheme as possible. If something should go wrong—”

  “Make certain it doesn’t.” She crawls into bed.

  The next morning, I ask our maid if the palace has a still room where I might prepare a special tea for His Highness. The girl stares at me as if I am an ostrich poking my head up in a nest of doves. I have never understood why it is hardest for the servants to accept me as a member of the peerage. One would assume they would be less snobbish about such things, but such is not the case. “Well?” I snap. “Do you have such a place? I will also require a mortar and pestle.”

  She stops blinking and stammers, “N-no stillroom, as such. B-but we’ve a mortar and pes
tle certainly, miss, in the kitchen. An’ I expect chef might allow you to use one ‘o the tables seeing as yer preparing something for Hisself. Shall I ask, miss?”

  “Yes. Please do, and be quick about it. Prince George is demanding this potion, and I daresay he does not care to be left waiting.”

  “No, miss.” She hurries out of the room, having only tied back one side of the curtains.

  Sera sets down her hair brush and goes to finish the task. “I’ll wager she’s never heard that request before. They don’t know you here, Maya. I really think I ought to go with you.”

  “No. You mustn’t be seen anywhere near this potion.” I place the now brittle leaves in a small muslin bag. “I can manage perfectly well on my own.”

  A lie.

  Twenty minutes later, I stand, with shaking hands, at one of the long wooden tables in the palace kitchen, trying to crumble the not-quite-dry-enough leaves into a large mortar. Dozens of servants scurry about this enormous kitchen, and every single one of them gapes at me as if I am a cobra in their cornfield. And maybe I am. After all, this is poison I am mixing.

  I do my best to ignore them and go about my work. I take up the pestle and begin crushing the leaves. I refuse to pay any attention to their gawking until a hush falls over the kitchen.

  A pastry chef drops a pan, and the clatter echoes throughout the room.

  “What is this?” utters a footman. “M’lady, are you lost?” I finally look up, but he strides past me.

  Lady Jersey swishes into the kitchen. Her silk skirts rustle as she wends her way between the tables toward me. “Nooo, young man. Certaaainly not. I am never lost.” She dismisses him with a wave of her hand.

  “Theere you are, my deeaar giurl. I’ve been looking all over for you.” She smiles briefly at me and glances up at the towering palm trees which disguise the enormous columns stretching up to the high ceiling and an expansive skylight. “Eexxtraooordinary. So, this I what a kitchen looks like? I confess I have never been in one before. How delightfully bright and airy they are. I daresay, one could hold a musical evening in a room of this size.”

  I laugh aloud. “Sadly, most English kitchens are far from being this grand, my lady. They are generally below ground, have low ceilings, soot on the walls, and very little light. This one is exceptional.”

  “Humph.” She seems disappointed to hear it. “You’ve set down a challenge, young lady. I shall have to visit mine to see how they compare.”

  I suppress a smile and return to grinding.

  “I heard what you are doooing.” Her lips pinch up.

  The pestle stills in my hand. “Sera told you?”

  “Phfft. Of course, not. That young lady is as close-lipped as a fox at a hound picnic.”

  I do not understand this expression, fox at a hound picnic, but many English expressions elude me. I shrug. “Then who told you?”

  “That fine-looking young buck who is in love with you, that’s who.” Her accent has vanished.

  “If you mean Lord Kinsworth, he is not in love with me.” I grip the pestle tighter.

  “Don’t be daft. Of course, he is. Any fool can see that.” She flicks my shoulder by way of a scold. When I say nothing in return, she bristles. “I did not come all the way here and invade Chef Carême’s kitchens to discuss your rickety love life.”

  She awaits my response, like a cat watching to see which way the mouse will dart. When I say nothing, and continue mashing the leaves into an oily clump, she leans in. “I could tell by how carefully Miss Wyndham side-stepped my questions that this remedy of yours is not as simple as your beloved Lord Kinsworth thinks it is.”

  “He isn’t my beloved.” I grind the pestle harder.

  “Piffle. He most certainly is.” She sniffs the concoction in my mortar and wrinkles her nose. “Smells ghastly.”

  I say nothing.

  “Smells dangerousss,” she hisses. She has guessed the truth. If it were anyone else, I might be afraid. Lady Jersey likes to intimidate people, or at the very least make them underestimate her. She wants them to assume anything other than the truth. Hence, the flamboyant diva she pretends to be. But beneath her ostentatious trappings, stands a brilliant, caring woman whose integrity chimes as solidly as a church bell. She will understand my reasoning.

  I carefully set down the pestle, and watch as oil oozes from the concoction. “It has been known to purge the blood.”

  “Purge it? Judging by the smell, I say it would curdle it.”

  My voice lowers to a gentle register, not a whisper, which might arouse suspicion, yet soft enough not to be overheard. “It might make him a trifle sick.” I look at her pointedly. “For a day or two.”

  “Ohhh,” she mouths and nods almost imperceptibly. “I seeeee. How very inconvenient for him. And are you quite certain it will only discomfit him for a few days?”

  Am I certain?

  I frown at the slimy green pulp and take a deep breath. “As certain as one can be. It is a wild herb. Soil may change its properties. And these leaves were picked only yesterday. They have not dried properly. It is impossible to predict their potency.”

  She exhales sharply, and mutters, “You’d jolly well better make a good guess then, my girl.” Lady Jersey never mutters, which only serves to make me more nervous. I bite my bottom lip and pulverize the leaves even more vigorously. When they are finally mashed beyond recognition, I set down the pestle.

  “How can I help?” Lady Jersey acts as if she is about to roll up her silk sleeves and knead dough.

  I peruse the nearby shelves, hunting for items I need to prepare the mixture. Reaching for a small pitcher, I answer, “We also need a straining cloth, a kettle of boiling water, and a cup of cherry brandy.”

  “More than a cup, I should think. I could use a glass myself.” Instead of helping me locate the items, she puffs up and snaps her fingers at a passing footman. “You there! This young lady requires a clean straining cloth, a kettle of boiling water, and a bottle of the Prince’s favorite cherry brandy.”

  Before she has finished issuing these orders, two kitchen maids gather at the young fellow’s side. Any moment I expect a mutiny at two strangers ordering them about their kitchen. But Lady Jersey claps her hands, “Step lively, lad. His Highness is waiting.”

  The footman dispatches the maids in various directions and then dashes off to procure the liqueur. Meanwhile, I lean over the mortar sniffing the ground leaves in an attempt to determine the strength of the herb. It is pungent, to be sure. I dip the tip of my finger in and taste it. My tongue curls at the bitter oil.

  Lady Jersey watches my face. “Good heavens. That bad, is it?”

  “The brandy will help,” I assure her, hoping it is true. If only Madam Cho were here to advise me.

  The maids return, and set a steaming kettle on a trivet with the cheesecloth beside it. The footman presents the wine to us.

  “That will be all.” Lady Jersey sends them away, and I stare at the deadly mush pooling in the white marble mortar and realize I have begun to sweat. Was it that lone drop of poison on my tongue? Or nerves?

  I swallow hard. “God save us all,” I say under my breath.

  “Amen.” Lady Jersey uncorks the brandy and pours herself a glass. She hands me the bottle and with a trembling hand I pour a small amount over the mixture. The green sludge bubbles for a moment, but soon settles. The alcohol has emulsified the oiliness. I scoop the paste into the cloth, knot the top, place it in the pitcher, and pour hot water over the herbs to let it steep. A nose-stinging wreath of steam rises from the mixture.

  When the hot water turns green, I remove the cloth bag. “It’s ready.”

  “Not quite.” She pours a generous splash of brandy into it. “He’ll like it better with a little more of this.” Lady Jersey signals a footman to prepare a small tea tray and turns to me. “You, my dear Miss Barrington, will deliver it to him.”

  I gulp down my misgivings at watching him drink the stuff, but these are girlish fears, and I k
now what Lady Jersey would say in answer.

  There is no room for fear in our business.

  A plausible excuse comes to mind. I wet my dry lips and argue, “I cannot possibly deliver it. According to Lord Kinsworth’s note, Prince George is laid up in bed.” When Lady Jersey doesn’t even blink, I add. “In his bedchamber.”

  “Nonsense. Don’t be missish, child. There’ve been troops of people in and out of that room already this morning. Advisors, maids, lords, and ladies galore. I, myself, stopped in to wish him well.” She leans closer and pinches my arm, talking through her teeth in a low but somehow pleasant voice. “You will do as I say. Paste a smile on that pretty face of yours, and personally deliver this excessively helpful tea to Prinny.”

  Her meaning is clear. This is what I must do to avoid suspicion of wrongdoing. I curtsey obediently. “Yes, my lady.”

  She straightens, sniffs, and flicks her hand for me to be on my way. “And take that annoyingly observant Miss Wyndham with you.”

  Not fifteen minutes later, Sera and I trail behind a fast-walking footman as he guides us to the opposite end of the Pavilion where the Prince Regent’s apartments are located. Every hallway spews a new style of chinoiserie. The patterns are as confusing and volcanic as my nerves. Here, bamboo latticework is plastered atop a startlingly blue background. Turn a corner, and one is plunged into a ruby-red gilt-work jungle.

  Walls do not usually make much noise, but these are an exception. They vibrate with the screams of imaginary parrots and shrieks from wild creatures peeking out of lavish bamboo forests. My steps slow as I try to make sense of it, and I nearly fall behind.

  “There you are!” Lord Kinsworth rushes out from an open doorway at the far end of the hall. “I thought you would never get here.” He waves the footman inside, and motions to Sera and me. “Come quickly. He’s in a bad way. Traveling worsened his swelling.”