A Heart in Flight

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  “We must do something,” Phoebe said the minute the door closed behind them. “We must make Mama understand.”

  “I wish we could,” said Aurelia sadly. “But there is no way. She simply hates air flight.”

  Phoebe sighed. “I know. But we must think of something. How ... how can we get Mama’s consent?”

  Absently she picked up The Dark Stranger. They had written nothing in it since Aurelia had forsaken The Plan. But the copy still lay on her desk, a mute reminder that all had not gone well.

  Phoebe paced, back and forth, clutching the book. “There is nothing for it,” she said finally. “We must fly to Gretna Green.”

  Aurelia did not like this look in Phoebe’s eyes. Such wildness could only lead to more distress.

  “Now dear. You cannot do that. You must wait. The Earl said he would help.”

  Phoebe snorted. “Ranfield! Ranfield has done nothing. Except tell us to wait. Aurelia, I cannot wait much longer.”

  She dropped the book on the desk. “Oh, we have made such wonderful plans. We shall call ourselves the Aeronautical Amesleys and go up together. Oh, it will be grand.” And she burst into tears.

  Aurelia hurried to comfort her. “Come dear. Sit here on the chaise beside me.”

  Phoebe cried for some time. Finally she raised her head. “Mama will not permit our marriage. Unless Harold gives up ballooning. You know he cannot do that. I would not ask it of him. Gretna Green is our only hope.”

  Aurelia shook her head. “Phoebe, dear. Scotland is a long way off. Don’t you see? Someone would catch up with you long before you reached there.”

  Phoebe sniffled. “We must do something. Please, Aurelia, help us plan something.”

  Aurelia sighed. Plan, indeed. She was the last one to turn to for success in such a venture. “So far all my plans have come to naught. But let me think about it.”

  Another week passed, and the heat of July was fully upon them. Phoebe was wilting away. Harold, in spite of hours in the sun, grew paler. One hot afternoon, Aurelia found Phoebe in the library. Her friend was huddled on the divan, clutching The Dark Stranger, and weeping copiously. Her face was all splotchy and her clothes were in disarray. Aurelia wiped the perspiration from her forehead. The weather had been truly beastly, and her own nerves were ready to ignite. “Please, Phoebe. You must stop this.”

  “Oh, Aurelia. I was reading. And it’s just so beautiful. Such true love.”

  Patience, Aurelia cautioned herself. She sought the right words. “My dear, it’s a story. A fiction. It’s not real.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “No. No. It is real. It’s exactly how I feel about Harold. And he about me.”

  “Oh, Phoebe. You will make yourself ill with all these tears. You must stop crying. Be brave.”

  Phoebe wiped at her eyes with a sodden handkerchief. “I have tried. I really have. But if I may not marry Harold, then ... Then I wish to die!”

  “Phoebe!” Aurelia looked anxiously toward the door. “Think what your mama would have to say to such a sentiment. We should be drowned in Scriptures instead of tears.”

  But Phoebe could not be brought to smile. Tears continued to trickle down her cheeks. “We must do something,” she insisted. “Perhaps we should go to London. To the Fleet.”

  Aurelia swallowed hard. Above all Phoebe must not have a Fleet marriage. She must not go to that dangerous neighborhood where an illegal marriage could be bought for very little, where unscrupulous men often brought unsuspecting women. Even Gretna Green was to be preferred to a marriage that might not be a marriage at all.

  She turned away to pace the carpet before the fireplace. There must be some other way out of this situation. If only Ranfield would help. Why couldn’t he make Cousin Prudence give her consent? Living on his largess as she did, she could hardly defy his authority.

  “Yes,” Phoebe continued. “We could be married in the Fleet. Maybe Ranfield wouldn’t think to follow us there.” She sniffled. “Mama will be sorry when I’m gone from her. So sorry.”

  Aurelia paused and stared thoughtfully into space, Phoebe’s words echoing in her ears. What if ... ?

  “We must do something,” Phoebe repeated. “Either Gretna Green or the Fleet. One or the other.” She sat up suddenly, The Dark Stranger slipping unheeded from her grasp. “I tell you, Aurelia, I shall marry Harold. No one shall stop me.”

  With another hurried look at the door, Aurelia crossed the room. “Ssssh, Phoebe. You shall get married. But listen, I’ve just thought of something.”

  Phoebe turned an eager face. “Oh, tell me. Do tell me. I will do anything.”

  Despite the heat, Aurelia shivered. If Ranfield ever found out she’d suggested such a thing to his cousin ... “This is The Plan.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Late the next afternoon, Ranfield looked across the tea table at Aurelia. The heat had lessened somewhat, and she looked fetching in her gown of azure blue highlighted by a matching ribbon twined among her curls. He sighed. In spite of his very sensible conviction that he should keep away from all of them, and from Aurelia in particular, he had given in to the temptation to look at her face, to hear the soft tones of her voice. Perhaps to touch ...

  “So,” she inquired. “Do you think linen or silk better for the manufacture of balloons?”

  He swallowed another sigh. Balloons. Balloons. Always balloons. “Linen or ...”

  “Where is that confounded boy?” Arthur Amesley complained, bursting into the room. “He ought to be back by now.”

  Ranfield looked at Aurelia. “Now, uncle,” she said. “You know these errands take time.”

  Her uncle nodded, but it was apparent he wasn’t really hearing her words. “Didn’t send him that far,” he muttered. “Shouldn’t have let him take the girl along with him. Probably stopped to buy her ribbons and other gewgaws.”

  What was the meaning of that strange expression on Aurelia’s face? Something wasn’t right here. “Phoebe went with him?” he asked.

  Arthur Amesley nodded. “Should have been back by now.”

  Ranfield frowned, his eyes still on Aurelia. There was something about her look, something ... secretive.

  Cousin Prudence bustled in, cap askew. “Where is that girl? She promised to pick some flowers for me. To decorate the table for dinner.”

  Aurelia got to her feet with an alacrity that made her immediately more suspect in his eyes. “I’ll pick them,” she said. “What kind do you want?”

  Ranfield watched her turn toward the French doors. He was right. She was uncommonly eager to get shut of this discussion.

  “Wait!” His voice rang out louder than he intended, and they all turned to stare at him. “There’s something going on here,” he told her sternly. “And I mean to get to the bottom of it.”

  He had never seen anyone look guiltier. But his sternest look did not elicit a confession. She simply shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. Obviously it was going to take more than a hard look to make her give him the truth.

  He reached for the bellpull and Pratt appeared. “Send someone to Miss Phoebe’s room. See if there’s a note for one of us.”

  Another strange expression crossed Aurelia’s face. Guilt? Or relief?

  The silence grew. A million thoughts crossed his mind, but he voiced none of them. Shortly Pratt returned. “I found this, milord.”

  Ranfield ripped open the envelope that bore his name and read the note aloud.

  Dear Ranfield,

  We don’t want to do this. But we cannot wait any longer. We’ve run off to be married. Please tell Mama we love each other dearly. And we love her, too.

  Phoebe

  “Ohhhhh!” Cousin Prudence wailed. “My poor baby! That monster has made off with my baby.”

  Arthur Amesley bristled. “Monster, is it? You’re the one that’s the cause of all this. My boy loves your Phoebe. He wanted to marry her right and proper. But oh no, you wouldn’t have that.”

  Cousin Prude
nce burst into tears. “Oh, dear Lord. What have I done?”

  Though Ranfield found the little drama most interesting, he was still watching Aurelia. Her surprise at hearing the note’s contents had been contrived. She was such an abominably poor liar. He was convinced she had known exactly what the note would say before a word of it left his lips.

  So, Phoebe and Harold were on their way to get married. What a bumble broth this was! Perhaps he should have told them. But how then could he have tested Harold’s sincerity? One more week of their devotion to each other, and he had planned to elicit Cousin Prudence’s consent himself. He would have preferred to have it given voluntarily, but he was not above using his authority if the occasion demanded. There would have been no problems. He usually accomplished what he set out to do.

  Well, enough of that. He must do something now. “Let us be calm,” he began. But Prudence pressed a hand to her brow in the exact manner of a Cheltenham tragedienne and moaned, “Oh my, I feel so faint.”

  And right there in front of him, she collapsed into Arthur Amesley’s arms. Such a look of astonishment Ranfield had never before witnessed on a man’s face. Amesley stood like stone, the limp woman clasped against his waistcoat, his face a study in consternation.

  Ranfield hastened forward. Swooning women were nothing new to him. “Here, let me help you,” he told the paralyzed Amesley. “Let’s put her on the divan. Aurelia, ring for Pratt.”

  With trembling hands Aurelia turned away to pull the bell rope. Whatever had made her invent such a foolish plan? Cousin Prudence looked absolutely white. If something terrible happened to her mama, Phoebe would never forgive her.

  The Earl was chaffing Cousin Prudence’s wrists when Pratt appeared. “Bring smelling salts,” the Earl ordered. “And a cool cloth for her head.”

  Pratt was gone in an instant and Aurelia hurried to the couch. “What shall we do?” It was more a question to herself than to Ranfield.

  But he looked up, his eyes meeting hers. She fought to keep her gaze steady. She could not let him know ...

  “She’ll come round,” he said, in that excessively polite tone she had learned to dislike. “Here, Prudence ...”

  Cousin Prudence sat up, her eyes wide. “Where is he?” she demanded shrilly.

  Ranfield sighed. “Where is who?”

  “That man.”

  “I’m right here.” Uncle Arthur moved around so he could be seen. His face was crimson, but his expression remained resolute. “I’m sorry you took faint, ma’am. Indeed, I am. But I don’t take back what I said. Not one word of it.” He rubbed his head. “If you’d have let them get hitched, none of this would have happened.”

  Cousin Prudence drew a long shuddering breath. “You’re right,” she said. “You’re quite right.”

  Outside the window a bird caroled. Inside the room there was complete silence. Aurelia could hear her own breath echoing in her ears as she stared at the woman on the divan. Turning, she saw that Ranfield and her uncle were staring, too.

  “There’s no call to goggle at me,” Cousin Prudence declared in aggrieved tones. “I hope I can recognize the error of my ways.” She moaned. “Oh, if only I’d realized sooner. My poor baby. My only child.”

  Two great tears rolled down her cheeks, an effect somewhat marred by the fact that her cap had fallen over one ear and gave her a decidedly rakish appearance. “I do so want to see her properly married.”

  “Perhaps you can,” the Earl said. “If I set out right away, I may be able to overtake the culprits.”

  Cousin Prudence clasped her hands. “Oh, milord, would you? Would you really do that? I’d be eternally grateful.”

  The Earl considered this. “And you won’t obstruct the marriage?”

  “No, milord. No, indeed. Just bring my little girl back. I’ll give them my blessing, I will. I promise before God.”

  Slowly Aurelia let the breath from her lungs.

  The Earl regarded his cousin, his eyes stern. “And you will refrain from all railing against aeronautics?”

  Aurelia gnawed at her bottom lip. This was more than they had hoped for. But they had never supposed the Earl would ask for so much. Phoebe’s mama blanched, but she swallowed and said bravely, “Yes, milord. I will refrain.”

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll have my horse saddled and be off.”

  He turned to Aurelia and she felt her knees go weak. “Have you any idea of their destination?”

  She swallowed. When he looked at her like that, so fierce and unyielding, she knew The Plan had been nothing but a foolish dream. “I don’t know for sure. I mean, I did not ...” There was no sense in going on in that line; plainly he didn’t believe she was unaware of what had happened. She pulled herself together. “I suppose ... Well, perhaps Gretna Green ...”

  “I thought as much. Take care of Prudence. I’ll be back when I’ve found them.”

  And he strode out, leaving Aurelia and her uncle staring at each other in dismay.

  * * * *

  The road north fell away under the stallion’s hooves, and Ranfield, sitting easily in the saddle, gave himself up to thought. What an addlepated scheme. And he had thought Harold a sensible fellow.

  He cursed. He should have known better. What man in the throes of love was ever sensible? Look at the antics of his own mind. He who had once considered only dark willowy beauties with classic features was now captivated by a small, gamine-faced chit, with the reprehensible habit of courting disaster.

  Probably her face and form had nothing to do with his feelings, though. Mama had told him that many times— that outward attributes were fine but the inward ones more important. He had laughed then, in the callowness of his green years. But now ... He could see she was right.

  Inward attributes. Well, Aurelia was loyal enough. And brave. No one had ever before stood up to his fiercest look and refused him the information he demanded. He was still convinced of her involvement in this bumble broth. Phoebe and Harold would scarcely have taken such a step without confiding in her.

  But what did they hope to accomplish? The women might suppose the pair could elude him. But Harold should know better.

  And that was another thing. How had they convinced Harold to undertake such a lame-brained scheme? The fellow might have little regard for the amenities of society, but where women were concerned he was a tower of respectability.

  Ranfield glanced at the sinking sun. Another hour and the pair would have to stop for the night. He would find them before the darkness was well along.

  Actually, it was almost three in the morning before he discovered the particular inn that housed the runaways. He satisfied himself that it was indeed they by identifying his curricle. Then he gave orders to have his horse cared for and had himself a hearty meal. By the time daylight broke, he was feeling half-human again.

  * * * *

  Phoebe was first down the stairs. She had come to request the carriage be readied. Ranfield waited till she had spoken to the innkeeper, then he stepped from the shadows of the great room and confronted her. “Good morning, cousin.”

  Her face turned pale and he thought for a moment she might swoon. But she rallied. “R ... Ranfield. How did you ...?”

  “It wasn’t difficult to guess your destination.”

  “Mama? What did Mama say?”

  “Your mama fainted dead away.”

  She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh dear! Did she injure herself?”

  “No. Mr. Amesley caught her.”

  The door above opened. “Phoebe,” Harold called. “Where ...?”

  “Harold.” There was only a faint quiver in her voice. “Ranfield is come.”

  “Oh.” Harold came down the stairs, a sheepish expression on his face. “Morning, milord.”

  “Good morning. Well, what have you to say for yourselves?”

  He made his voice stern, but he couldn’t help feeling a certain tenderness. The two of them were such innocents.

  Harold took Phoebe’s hand
. “We said it already. We want to be married. We tried, Ranfield. But Phoebe’s mama ... she just couldn’t be brought round. And Phoebe ...” He swallowed. “That is, I decided Gretna Green was our only choice.”

  “Didn’t you know I’d catch up with you?”

  Harold nodded. “Had to consider that.” He dropped Phoebe’s hand and stepped forward. “Deal me a facer if ...”

  “Harold! No!”

  Harold turned. “Phoebe, my love. He’s got a right to be angry. I’d be up in the boughs if I was him.” He swung back. “So see, as I was saying, deal me a facer if you like. But I love her. And we’ll persist till we get married.”

  A tearful Phoebe nodded.

  Ranfield knew he ought to give them a good scare. But try as he would to frown, he kept wanting to smile. “You are not going to Gretna Green,” he said. “Not ever.”

  “Begging your pardon.” Harold looked a little pale, as though he expected the aforementioned facer to be delivered at any moment. “We might not make it this time. But we will be married.”

  “All right! All right!” Ranfield was tired of his role as righteous guardian. “You’ve made your point. Now come home. We’ve a wedding to prepare for.”

  “A wedding?” Phoebe echoed.

  “Yes. Your mama has given her permission.”

  For a moment the two of them stared at him in shock. Then Harold chuckled. “By Jove,” he began. “It actually ...”

  Phoebe gave him a strange look and threw herself into his arms. “Oh Harold, it’s so wonderful.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “It actually what?” Ranfield asked.

  Harold stuttered. “Ah, a ... actually going to happen, of course.”

  Ranfield was not satisfied with this answer. There was something evasive about Harold’s eyes.

  But Phoebe turned and hurried him up the stairs. “Oh, do let us be going. I can’t wait to get home. My wedding! I’m going to plan my wedding. There’s so much to do.”