Exile for Dreamers

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Exile for Dreamers Page 17

by Kathleen Baldwin


  “You know perfectly well she won’t tell me. It took almost four years before she would tell me about the two rivers.” I reflected again on how closemouthed everyone was in this house.

  “Probably not.” Miss Stranje suppressed a sly smirk. “But you might ask if she knows any good stories about pirates.”

  Pirates?

  I blinked, more curious than ever. And knowing full well that if Madame Cho had pirates in her history, she would keep mum about that unto death.

  Miss Stranje dusted the paper with drying powder and the two of us went downstairs. I followed along behind her, heavily preoccupied with trying to figure out how in blazes pirates might fit into Madame Cho’s background. We turned the corner into the first floor hallway and saw one of our two house maids, Alice, coming out of the workroom. She held a dust rag and a jar of lemon oil mixed with beeswax in one hand.

  Miss Stranje hailed her. “It’s awfully quiet down here, Alice. Where have they all gone off to?”

  Alice bobbed a curtsey. “I’ll tell you, miss, for I know exactly where they are, seein’ as they’ve had me running in and out and to and fro. Bring a pitcher of lemon water, Alice, says Lady Jane. Take that dish back to the house, says Miss Wyndham. Where are they, miss? They’re way out past the garden and beyond the roses, working with that odd gentleman from the Colonies, Mr. Sinclair. But as to what they’re getting up to, I cannot say. Building something, by the looks of it. Whatever it is, more’n likely it’s dangerous, because the young ladies shooed me away with strict orders to shake my rugs elsewhere. Miss Georgiana tells me I’d best take my rugs and go on over to the far side of the garden or I might get myself blown straight to kingdom come. Although what danger I could be in from that old copper tub is beyond me. Now, if anyone were to ask me, a young lady ought not—”

  “Thank you, Alice. We don’t mean to keep you from your work. You’ve been most helpful. And you needn’t run any more errands for the young ladies while they are out of doors. They’ve legs of their own.”

  “Just so, miss. I have dusting and polishing to do, that’s what I told them. Dusting, dusting, and more dusting.” Alice glanced guiltily over her shoulder and reached back to pull the workroom door shut as if she didn’t want us to notice it wasn’t quite as dusted and polished as her diatribe suggested.

  We left through the side door and found them, just as Alice had said, gathered together on the far side of the rose patch. All of them were there, even Lord Ravencross. He sat stretched out, sleeping in a chair. Sera perched on a bench nearby, working intently on a sketch of some kind. I suspected it was a sketch of Gabriel and experienced a twinge of jealousy. Maya was plucking a small finger harp that lay flat in her lap, while Georgie, Jane, and Mr. Sinclair huddled over some sort of tangled heap of copper and tin.

  At any other country house this would have been a perfectly idyllic scene. The weather was fine. Bees hummed. Roses perfumed the air. There was even the odd butterfly fluttering about. Except at any other manor house the gentry would have been engaged in a companionable game of ninepins or shuttlecocks, whereas here at Stranje House, the young people were building a weapon.

  Or a prototype for one.

  Sera was indeed sketching Gabriel. “Must you?” I whispered. She said nothing, intent on rubbing her finger over some shading on the drawing. I strolled quietly next to Lord Ravencross and stared down at him, unable to resist thinking what an intriguing-looking man he was. The contrast of the scar against the Greek god–like perfection of his features and the strength of his jaw, well, I couldn’t blame Sera for wanting to draw him. At my approach, his eyes blinked open. And whatever beauty his face contained was nothing compared to the soul-melting glory of his eyes.

  “You came back,” I said, swallowing my embarrassment for having been caught gawking at him.

  “Thought I ought to give Sinclair a hand with his invention.” He leaned up and squinted at the young inventor.

  “Yes.” I nodded in mock seriousness. “I see you are hard at work.”

  “I am.” The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. “I’m overseeing the work. Can’t you tell?” He flopped back against the chair and closed his eyes. “Sinclair appears to have all the manual labor he needs at the moment. What’s more, I have donated two skiffs to the project.” He pointed at two long boats resting on the grass next to the conglomeration of copper.

  “It’s a catamaran design.” Georgie popped up from behind the metal heap with a screwdriver in her hand. “Thank you, my lord, for the loan of your skiffs. It speeds the work along considerably not having to build the pontoons from scratch.” She waved Miss Stranje and me over excitedly. “You really must come see what we’re doing. It’s quite brilliant.”

  I was not impressed. It looked as if a perfectly good tub had been cut apart with tin snips and reshaped into a small furnace. There were screws and bolts of various sizes sitting in dishes on the ground around them, and Mr. Sinclair was piercing metal sheets with a hammer and punch.

  I didn’t understand Georgie’s enthusiasm for this pile of disassembled copper sheeting and tubing. So I turned to Jane for an explanation. “What is it?”

  “A small boiler for the steam engine. Or at least the beginnings of one.”

  “Why are you constructing it out here in the open?” I glanced with worry toward the woods and then in the direction of Lady Pinswary’s manor.

  “Why wouldn’t we?” Mr. Sinclair asked, still tapping the hammer against his metal punch. “Miss Stranje instructed me not to build anything explosive indoors.”

  “Because, Mr. Sinclair—”

  “I do wish someone around here would call me by my given name.” He huffed and straightened from where he’d been hunched over his work. “It’s Alexander, and I confess I am lonesome to hear the sound of it and heartily tired of hearing Mr. Sinclair this and Mr. Sinclair that.”

  “Very well, then, Alexander,” I began again. “I am concerned about you constructing it out here in the open, because there is a distinct possibility one of Lady Daneska’s spies from the Iron Crown will see it.”

  “Oh well, then.” He swatted my concerns away with the metal punch as if shooing away a gnat. “In that case, you needn’t worry. There’s nothing sacred about a steam engine, miss.” Sinclair stretched his back and strolled closer to tower over me. “These engines have been around since before either of us were born. Why, back in 1770, a fellow in France made a steam-powered wagon for the army. Trouble was, the folks with the guillotines threatened to chop off his head because they decided science was evil and they hated progress.”

  Alexander gave his blond curls a brisk rub, knocking loose a shard of copper. “Interesting people, the French. On the one hand, some are smarter than a pack of hungry foxes. On the other hand, you’ve got a passel of ’em who are crazier than badgers in heat.”

  “Badgers in…” Jane exhaled loudly and rolled her gaze to the small fluffy clouds flitting across the sky. “Please, Mr. Sinclair. Try not to pepper your speech with bodily functions. A little civility would not go amiss.”

  He ignored her. “As far as I’m concerned, if someone from the Iron Crown wants to stand out here and take notes rather than torture me, I’m more than happy to let him have a go at it.”

  Jane leaned in and whispered in an aside to me, “When I charged him with that very same question, he told me not to worry. He says he is a practicalist. Whatever that might mean. As near as I can tell, it is a philosophy held by American gentlemen who wish to find the easiest way out of a pickle.”

  “Ah,” I said, surprised to hear Jane refer to him as a gentleman when his manners were so atrocious.

  The American gentleman had definitely captured Miss Stranje’s attention, although not for his uncouth speech. “Are you saying, Mr. Sinclair, that this is not the contraption the Iron Crown is interested in?”

  He stepped back, jammed his hands in his pockets, and glanced down nervously before answering. “That’s right, miss. This
is not exactly the piece they’re after.”

  “And what exactly are they after?”

  “Well, you see, it’s not so very difficult to build a steam engine. Not if you know what you’re doing. Oh, these boilers blow up now and again. But after you’ve put one or two together, it’s not as risky.” He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. “However, it is a mite trickier to make a steam engine actually do the work you want it to perform. Like say, for instance, turn a wagon wheel or paddle a warship.”

  “I see.” Miss Stranje chewed her lip for a moment. “So that is the information they wanted from you? The connections that would make a paddlewheel turn properly.”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Alexander,” he corrected.

  She waited.

  “All I know, miss, is that Napoleon did some reading while he was cooped up on Elba. He read all about my uncle’s commission to build a steam-powered warship for the U.S. Navy a couple of months ago. Why, Uncle Robert has had a steamship, The Clermont, running up and down the Hudson since 1807. Apparently Napoleon got letters from one of his French engineers who had a gander at our Clermont when we had her dry-docked in New York. So you see, they’ve already seen all this and more.”

  “Hmm,” she said, tapping her forefinger nervously and waiting for him to continue.

  “Turns out, even before Napoleon got back on the French throne he commissioned some of his Iron Crown engineers to secretly build a steam-powered warship like the one my uncle tried to sell him back in 1797.”

  Miss Stranje groaned.

  “Not to worry, miss. Bonaparte should’ve paid Uncle Robert to build it for him back when he had a chance, because you can bet your best bonnet, Robbie won’t do it now. The French went ahead and tried to copy his design. They built something, all right, but apparently it’s dead in the water. A great hulking tub and no way to propel her. Seems all those French engineers can’t figure out how to get the moving parts moving any faster than one of those fancy snails they like to eat so much.” His eyes danced with mischief.

  “I take it you do know how.”

  “Aye, miss, that I do.” He smiled crookedly and blushed slightly as if bragging made him uncomfortable.

  Miss Stranje glanced down at the note in her hands and back up at our American guest. “You must be perfectly candid with me, Alexander. No one knows better than I how brutal members of the Iron Crown can be. I must ask you again, when they questioned you, were they able to make you tell them anything that would help with this warship of theirs?”

  His mouth quirked up and dimples formed in his cheeks. “I’m an affable fellow, miss. I told them a great many things. None of which will do them any good.”

  Jane studied his dimples with considerable consternation.

  “Excellent.” Miss Stranje’s posture relaxed just a trifle. “I should like to discuss this in more depth later, Mr. Sinclair. I have the distinct impression you are holding back a few things that may be important. But for now, I beg you will excuse me. I must send this message off as soon as possible.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at me and then knowingly at Lord Ravencross. “I can manage the pigeons without your help, Tess. You may stay here, if you like.”

  Instantly, Georgie’s interest shifted from tightening bolts to Miss Stranje. “You’re going to send the message to Captain Grey?” She set down a ratchet and stood up, clasping the pocket watch that hung around her neck, Lord Wyatt’s pocket watch. She had an unconscious habit of closing her hand around it whenever she thought of him.

  “Yes.” Our headmistress backed away. “But I can attend to it alone. You may go back to your work.”

  Georgie couldn’t help herself. She trailed after Miss Stranje and so did I. Not that there was any need. It certainly wouldn’t take three of us to send a pigeon. I knew why Georgie followed our headmistress, because a note to Captain Grey was a note to Lord Wyatt, and anything that had to do with him drew her like a lodestone.

  I, on the other hand, came along to avoid Lord Ravencross’s unsettling gaze. Even when he wasn’t looking at me I could feel his thoughts curling around me. Good heavens, the man might as well stand up and wrap his arm around my shoulder. It was outrageous how, without a word or even a touch, he had a way of making me feel like an overwarm caramel, all weak, and gooey, and melted inside.

  In that respect Gabriel reminded me once again of my wolf-dogs, the way they could communicate without so much as a yip between them. But Phobos and Tromos were mates. Lord Ravencross and I were definitely not mates, nor would we ever be. We were barely friends.

  Miss Stranje does not keep the pigeons in a real dovecote, not like the stone turret cotes at many manors. Ours is a small, simple coop that stands across from the henhouse. Miss Stranje shooed the chickens out. The clucky hens were always invading pigeon territory. It seemed as if they liked showing off to the caged pigeons, boasting that they were allowed to roam free. Had I known how to communicate with those blustery hens, I might’ve pointed out that our pigeons had the glorious task of flying clear across the channel and that not a one of them would ever end up stuffed and roasted for dinner. But chickens are a thimble-headed lot.

  Miss Stranje pointed to an occupied cage. “That one.”

  I unlatched it and lifted out a large male pigeon, stroking his purple and blue-gray plumage.

  “We’ve only three carriers left.” She sounded worried. “Two after today.”

  Ten pigeon coops lined the wall. On the top row, two coops were occupied by birds pecking loudly at their wooden cages. They tapped so insistently, I could almost hear them demanding to be let out so they could fly home. Each empty cage represented a message sent. On the row below, three nests held cooing pairs. Their mates had come home, carrying with them a message for us. Next to them on that same row, two lone birds sat in nests quietly awaiting their mates’ return.

  I felt sorry for them and opened the grain bin, tossing an extra portion of seed into their dishes. I held out my palm to allow the bird on my arm to peck up a few grains.

  Georgie viewed this tableau with barely contained anxiety. “What did you tell the captain?”

  Miss Stranje answered patiently, “I explained the situation, of course. Although I was mindful not to say too much lest our pigeon goes astray and lands in the wrong hands.”

  “Did you tell Captain Grey we suspect an invasion?”

  “I’m sure he is already aware of that possibility.”

  “Of course.” But that didn’t stop Georgie from ticking off a list of things she thought ought to be included in the note. “… and you told them that Lady Daneska and Ghost are probably here in England. They may even be in Sussex.” She stopped talking, and her eyes widened. “You don’t think Daneska might be staying with her aunt, do you?”

  “Absolutely not.” Miss Stranje took the pigeon from me. “Daneska wouldn’t be that foolish. Not after Calais. She knows we could have her arrested and that Lady Pinswary’s servants can’t be relied upon not to gossip.”

  Georgie was momentarily appeased. “Did you send my regards to Lord Wyatt? It also might be good to mention that Mr. Sinclair is respectful and that there is no danger there.”

  Miss Stranje looked askance at her prize student. “It is a very small piece of paper, Georgiana. There is very little room on a pigeon’s leg to write long narratives about kidnappings and Mr. Sinclair’s behavior in the workroom, but yes, I did my best.”

  “I see.” Georgie looked crestfallen. “Did you at least assure them that I am all right? And that I suffered no harm in the attempted kidnapping? I wouldn’t want Lord Wyatt to worry.”

  Miss Stranje sighed loudly. “Oh, very well.” She thrust the pigeon back into my hands. “Hold him.”

  She opened a small inkwell kept on the shelf beside the grain bin and dipped her quill. She studiously scratched a few more words along the very edge of the narrow strip of vellum.

  Georgie tr
ied to peer over our teacher’s shoulder. “Are you calling Captain Grey home?”

  At this, Miss Stranje left off writing and frowned at Georgie. “Calling him home? Why would you say such a thing, Georgiana? He’s not mine to command.”

  “But…” Stung by Miss Stranje’s reprimand, Georgie lowered her eyes and kicked softly at the straw on the floor. “I thought—”

  “You thought with your heart, not your head. Begging him to come home would be overstepping my bounds. I’m simply apprising him of our latest suspicions. I suggested he might be able to find proof on his side of the channel that Napoleon is building a fleet in preparation for an attack so that we could alert the admiralty. Although what Britain would do about it now challenges the imagination.”

  She brusquely took the pigeon from me, tucked him into the crook of her arm, and wound a folded strip of vellum around his leg. “Here.” She handed me a silk thread. “Tie this on. Not too tight. That’s it. Again, and now double the knot.”

  The bird’s trepidation was obvious as we secured the message around his leg. The moment we finished, however, I felt his flutter of eagerness. He knew that soon he would be winging once more across the wide sky, homing for his nest in France.

  With one finger, Miss Stranje lifted Georgie’s chin. “I used your ink, Georgiana, for the more sensitive bits. And I didn’t mean to be harsh with you. I understand how hard this must be for you.” She sighed and glanced out the window. “I miss them, too.”

  Georgie left off sulking and asked, “How long will it take for the message to reach them?”

  “Pigeons fly surprisingly fast.” Miss Stranje gently smoothed her finger over our courier’s breast feathers. “He could get there in a matter of only a few hours. Or it could take a full day. Maybe more. It depends upon the faithfulness of this little bird, how often he diverts from his path, and whether his sense of direction holds true. Then there is providence. He might meet with a storm and have to seek shelter. Or he could be shot down. Everyone is suspicious of a pigeon during war. And even if he makes it to his nest, there is the question of when, or even if, Captain Grey will be able to retrieve the message.”

 

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