The Prince’s outer apartments are papered in a muted green, the color of dry summer leaves. The green is painted with silver line-drawings of winged dragons. The dragons rise skyward out of a cacophony of impossibly ornate flowers, all hand-painted in silver.
The faint odor of putrefying flesh wafts into the sitting room. Sera sniffs. Rightly so. My nose wrinkles, too. Combine that stench with the chaotic visual noise from the décor, and it is enough to make anyone feel ill.
“This way.” Lord Kinsworth ushers us into the Prince’s bedchamber and the smell of sickly flesh increases. “His Highness is most anxious to try your remedy.”
“Indeed, we are.” The Prince’s voice booms through the smaller chamber. He lounges on a massive bed with pillows propping one foot higher than the other.
This is more than a simple case of gout. His elevated foot is red and swollen to twice normal proportions. It resembles a misshapen persimmon, bulging to the point of bursting. Three leeches are attached to his swollen ankle.
Inwardly, I groan as Sera and I drop into a low curtsey. The poor man must be in agony.
His bed is surrounded by attendants. Lord Harston is here, and nods to us in greeting. “Rise.” Prince George waves his hand. “Let us dispense with the formalities. Up. Up. Both of you, up.”
As we straighten, Sera leans close and says under her breath, “Dropsy.” Judging by the amount of swelling, she is right. If I could discern a cause, beyond his excessive drinking, I might be able to help with an actual cure. That is, after this misguided treaty business is over.
Sera nudges me to say something to our host in greeting. I swallow a dry wad of guilt. The bitter taste of that lone drop of tisane is still weighs heavily on my tongue. To speak without sounding overly nervous, I summon thoughts of my grandmother’s kind face, and conjure memories of the fresh wind that blows up from the river near our village.
I draw in a calming breath. “I have brought the tea, Sir, as you requested. I hope it serves you well. Lord Kinsworth has assured me that he rightly cautioned you that it is a blood-purgative. As such, the effects are unpredictable.”
The Prince’s physician, who until now stood stoically off to the side, struts forward. He looks me up and down, and with a disdain for my foreignness with which I am all too familiar, he asks, “What herb did you use to brew this, this . . .” He turns up his nose in the direction of the teapot on the footman’s tray. “Tea.”
I incline my head, not bowing, but acknowledging his right to question me. “I am not familiar with your English name for this particular herb.”
“Surely you must have some of the leaves left. You must bring them to me at once so that I may determine their origin and nature.”
“I cannot, sir. I used all of the leaves in my possession to make this tisane.”
“It won’t do.” He bristles and shakes his head. “I am loathe to administer anything with which I am unfamiliar. Unless I know exactly what science is at work, I must forbid—”
“Nonsense!” shouts the Prince, his face reddening. “You cannot forbid me. I’ve had enough of your confounded science. Leave us. Out! Out with you!”
“But, your Highness—”
“Go! We are sick to death of your useless leeches and bloodletting. Be gone!” Prince George flops back against the silk pillows, and his physician scowls, casting vicious frowns upon my head as he leaves the room.
Prince George lifts one weary finger and crooks it. “Bring your concoction, Miss Barrington. Whatever floats in that pot of yours, cannot be one wit worse than these demon-toothed leeches.”
I cringe inwardly but manage to smile and summon the most soothing voice I can muster at the moment. “I pray for your comfort, Your Highness.”
At that, he chuckles. “M’dear innocent Miss Barrington, thank you. But as m’sainted lady mother will tell you, given m’ reluctance to forego fleshly vices, one cannot expect assistance from heavenly quarters.”
Not knowing how to answer. I look to Sera, but she is staring intently at the Prince’s swollen foot and ankle.
It is Lord Kinsworth who comes to my rescue. “Surely, a merciful God will hear the plea of an innocent like our Miss Barrington.”
“Merciful, is He? Let us hope you are right. Confound this foot! We’ve half a mind to cut the ruddy thing off. Trouble is, in two days’ time, we need to be shipshape and ready to travel if we are to negotiate peace with Bonaparte.”
Two days!
Too soon.
Napoleon is coming too soon. I turn to Sera, and she squeezes my hand. “Let us hope the tea provides relief.”
“I’m sure it will be just the thing.” Lord Kinsworth signals for the footman to set the tray down.
The prince props himself up again and flicks two fingers at the tea service. “Do us the honors, Miss Barrington. How much of this stuff must I pour down m’ gullet?”
“For the sake of caution, let us start with one cup and see how Your Highness fares.” With shaky hands, I fill his teacup. And I pray. Nay, it is more than praying, I am begging earnestly, that this greenish-brown poison will not kill the monarch of England.
Full to the brim, walking with the solemnity of a nun bearing a cask of saintly bones, I carry the dangerous teacup forward, and with a steadiness I do not feel, present it to him.
He whisks it out of my hands and takes a fearless sip. With hardly a grimace, he looks up at me as if he is surprised it didn’t taste worse. He smacks his lips. “Cherry brandy. M’ favorite. Well done, Miss Barrington. Well done.”
I stare at him attentively, and so does Sera. I think we are both fearing a sudden constriction of his throat. When all seems well, I step back.
He then tosses down the rest of the tisane as if it is nothing more than a swig of brandy. “There. That’s done.” He plunks the teacup on his side table and collapses on the pile of pillows, closing his eyes. “Now, t’would seem a bit of rest is in order. We would like a bit of privacy. Wake us at two, gentlemen. And, Kinsworth, if you would be so good as to escort these young ladies to—” He walks his fingers through the air. “To wherever it is they wish to go. Take them away.”
Thus, we are dismissed.
Sera holds my hand, and we walk quickly toward the door. It is all I can do to keep from running out of his apartments and tearing down the hall. I think we both worry there could be screams of agony erupting at any moment.
“Wait!” It is the Prince.
His command arrests us, and neither of us turns.
“A song,” he says in a drowsy voice. “Stay. Sing for me, little nightingale. One song. Something restful.”
Nightingale.
Panic rises in my throat. I feel the cage doors slamming shut, trapping me.
Grandmother’s Lullaby
Sing, little nightingale.
Sing.
With a sigh, I accept my fate and turn back. I will sing for him. The Prince commands it. What else can a caged bird do?
He, who holds my fate in his hands, utters a single word that melts my heart. “Please.” Prince George says it with a groan, as pain stomps heavy boots across his chest. And I ache for him.
In that moment, I see the truth. I am not the only one trapped. Whether it is of his own making or a consequence of his position in the world, Prince George is imprisoned in a cage, too. A gilded cage, but he suffers nonetheless.
And so, I search my memory for a tune to ease his pain.
There is a ballad my grandmother used to sing when I felt sad or unable to sleep, a song about a lonely river winding gently through the mountains at night. I find English words to interpret this ballad about Mother Moon leaning down to listen to the sad melody Daughter River sings; tumbling over rocks, whistling over fallen trees.
Deeply moved, mother moon pours out a bright stream of white flowing milk for daughter river to drink. Silver-skinned fish hum happily in river’s now rich waters. Brother wind dips close to wash his cheek in the river’s sweetness. Night birds swoop pla
yfully in river’s lapping waters.
No longer lonely, daughter river rushes on her way, singing with joy . . .
Prince George’s fists uncurl, and he sinks deeper into the pillows. The song is not yet over when he begins to snore. Lord Kinsworth signals for us to tiptoe out of the bedchamber. I back out, still singing but allowing my voice to drift softer and softer until his snoring completely overpowers it.
Lord Harston follows us into the outer room, and bows slightly to me. “Bravo, Miss Barrington. Even though I was standing on my feet, you nearly had me falling asleep. Those notes, that voice of yours, so entrancing. How do you do it?”
I cannot tell him the truth, that it is an art one must study from childhood. Instead, I lower my eyes and blush. “I merely sing from the heart, my lord.”
He rubs his neck. “Be that as it may, with a voice like that, you could ask for the moon you sang about, and a fellow would be inclined to start building a frightfully tall ladder.” He chuckles at his own jest.
Lord Kinsworth laughs, too, but also noisily gulps a knot of fear.
I do not know whether to join in their awkward laughter, whether to feel complimented or insulted. Choosing neither, I smile serenely at Lord Kinsworth. “You need not fear, my lord, I would never ask for the moon.”
“Ha-ha. Just so.” His humor is forced. “Now, where may I escort you, ladies? Would you like to visit Parade Street or walk along the Steyne?”
“Not I. Perhaps another time. Having arisen early this morning to prepare the herbs, I should prefer a short nap.” I turn to Sera. “But if you—?”
“No, no.” Sera chirps with uncustomary sureness. “I am tired as well.”
Lord Kinsworth looks crestfallen, when I should’ve thought him relieved. “Very well, perhaps another time. I shall escort you to your rooms.”
Sera scoops her arm through mine. “You needn’t trouble yourself, my lord. I’m certain we can find our way. Thank you, gentlemen.” She dips in a quick curtsey and tugs me backward toward the open double doors.
“As you wish,” Ben says, a pinch to his brow. Confusing man. One minute he is all attention, and the next he behaves like a man caught in a noose.
It is not until we are in the hall and well away from him, that Sera offers an explanation for her hurry. “I need to keep you away from him. He is falling too much in love with you. It is unacceptable. Given our vocation in life—”
“Our vocation!? What about Georgie and Sebastian? Or Tess and Ravencross?”
She shrugs. “Georgie is a scientist, not a spy. I doubt she’ll spend her life in the diplomatic world, unless, of course, Lord Wyatt survives all this and they marry. Then who knows. As for Tess, I believe she will be the one who follows in Miss Stranje’s stead and trains the next generation of young ladies to do what we do. If so, it would be fairly convenient married to Lord Ravencross, living directly across from Stranje House.”
“But I thought Miss Stranje was grooming Lady Jane to take her place.”
“I think she was. Then along came Alexander Sinclair. He will need to be in London, amidst engineers and inventors of his caliber. Like Lady Jersey, Lady Jane may provide a London connection for future students of the diplomatic arts. But you and I, we are destined to a different life. For us, falling in love is a detriment. Too great a risk. And your Lord Kinsworth has a gentle heart despite his claim that he hungers for adventure. You mustn’t let him fall too deeply in love with you. Think of the bruise—”
“Don’t be silly. He is not in love.”
“You know perfectly well I am never ever silly.” She purses her lips before exploding into one of the sternest speeches she has ever delivered to me. “You were too busy singing to observe the way he looked at you. I did.” She tightens her hold on my arm. “Not that every other man in the room wasn’t prepared to, as Lord Harston put it, build a ladder to the moon for you, but Lord Kinsworth’s expression was different. He watched you as if he expected you to sprout wings at any moment and flutter off to heaven. The man is smitten, Maya. And it won’t do. It won’t do at all.” She stops for a breath. “Aside from the hurt you will cause him, he is a distraction. We need to—”
“Yes, yes, I know. We need to get word to Miss Stranje. We thought we had a week or more before the parley. But now, only two days. If the herbs do not slow him down, we are done for. England is done for. And I . . .
I am dead.”
“Precisely.”
We quicken our pace, and I whisper in her ear, “Not to mention, I was terrified Prince George would awaken at any moment, convulsing with pain from the tea.”
“Right,” she says, and we walk as fast as humanly possible without kicking into an outright run. “Your singing seemed to relax him greatly. But his circulation is dreadful. Did you notice how bad his dropsy is?”
“His foot was so terribly swollen—I was afraid it might burst. He cannot possibly walk on it. And the tea may complicate his symptoms.” I shake my head, picturing his stomach convulsing and the poor man trying to hobble over a chamber pot. “Tea or no tea, I don’t see how he can attend the meeting with Napoleon. Not in two days.”
“It seems unlikely. But I can tell by the scars on his foot, leeches have been used successfully in the past. He very well may recover in time. We have to get word to Miss Stranje.”
“Agreed. I shall slip out this afternoon and—”
“No, we should go together. You will be safer if I am with you, and together we will draw less suspicion.” She stops at our door, her hand on the knob, and even though she is smaller than I am, she takes on the air of an older sister. “Shopping, we will say—or walking down to the Marine Parade to take in the sea air.”
“I am the oldest of the two of us,” I remind her. “You needn’t feel as if you must take care of me.”
Her shoulders relax. “Oh, good. Because I am dreadful at it. Although, you may have forgotten, but . . .” She opens the door, and we step into the room. “I have been Miss Stranje’s student two years longer than you.”
I do not answer. Someone else speaks for me. “Ma oui. Two years is practically a lifetime. Bonjour, my darlings.”
“Daneska!” I blurt.
Sera retreats a step.
Lady Daneska lounges in a chair, as if it is perfectly normal for her to intrude upon our privacy. She flicks her finger at Sera, giving her an order, “Do shut the door, ma petite souris. We wouldn’t want everyone in the world to overhear us, now would we?”
Sera complies, grumbling, “I am not a little mouse.”
“No? A white mouse, then. Souris blanche. But I did not come here to discuss your character failing, mes chéries.”
“Why did you come?” I snap and step between her and Sera. One never knows if Lady Daneska already has her dagger drawn.
“Why do you think? To see how fares our arrangement.”
I catch my lip before responding and decide the truth is our best defense. “Prince George is very sick.”
“So, I heard. And you took your portly Prince a tea to help him recover. How very gracious of you.”
I look away, biting my lip, and shake my head. “His swelling is quite severe. We believe he has a serious case of—”
“Yes. Yes. Dreadful dropsy. All this, I know.” She waves away my concern and stands, turning her back to us, gazing out the window. “It is nothing new. Prinny will recover. He always does.”
I think to myself how easy it might be to grab her from behind, tie her up, and . . . and what?
What would we do with her?
Hide her under our bed? Throw her off a pier?
Sera glances at me, and I know she is thinking the same thing. We both step forward, but Daneska whirls around. “Prinny will recover. He must. And you will see to it.”
“My lady, I am not God. I cannot work miracles.” I test to see what she knows. “Two days is a very short time—”
Anger distorts her perfect features. “Then make more tea for him. Sing to him. Do what
ever you must, Princess.”
She calls me Princess, not to honor, but to antagonize me, and remind me of our arrangement.
Her frown narrows, her voice, too, focuses, like a tiger growling before she pounces. “Mark my words, Georgie-Porgy will be well in two days, or you will not rise to see the sun on the third.” She opens her hand, and from a slit in her glove, a dagger springs into her palm. “And neither will your precious little white mouse.”
She twirls around us as if doing a country dance and nicks Sera’s arm. A small prick, but enough to distract us, and enough to remind us of how lethal her blade is. In a trice, she opens the door. “I am watching you, my darlings.” She blows us a kiss before disappearing into the hall.
“She is aware the parley is only two days away.” I stare at the closed door, knowing there is no point in chasing after her.
Sera blots away the dribble of blood on her arm. “I suspect she and Ghost are the ones coordinating this misbegotten meeting of the monarchs.”
“She is,” I mumble, hunting for a bandage to tie around Sera’s arm. “But I’m not certain Ghost has much to do with it. The night she asked me to help her, I got the impression Daneska views this as our last chance to save England from Ghost’s fury. Not that she cares. It is simply that she would prefer Napoleon takes captive a habitable Britain, rather than one burned to the ground and seething with disease. I think she envisions herself sitting on the English throne one day.”
“You believe her then?” Sera’s voice lowers to a nearly a whisper. “About the fires and plague?”
“I do. More importantly—she believes it.”
“It’s monstrous.” She sucks in air as if smoke and pestilence have already made it difficult to breathe. “Why would Ghost do such awful things? This is his homeland. How can he hate England so much? Why?”
“Why, indeed.” Sinking onto the nearest upholstered chair, I shake my head. “Tess told me once that Lord Ravencross’s father was brutal to both of his sons, beating them mercilessly whenever they failed to live up to his expectations of an English lord. Beyond that, I have no idea. Some people, like some animals, are born vicious. Others are molded into hatefulness. I only know that Daneska fears Ghost. And it is unlike her to be afraid of anything.”
Harbor for the Nightingale Page 17
