Airborne - The Hanover Restoration

by Blair Bancroft

  I considered Julian Stonegrave . . . and shivered. If I had met him in the drawing room for the first time, clean-shaven and properly dressed, I would have thought him strikingly handsome in a dark, shivery way. Intriguing? Without doubt. Of romantic interest? That too.

  But I had met him in monster guise, dirty, bearded, and with what I now recognized as a carnal gleam in his eye. I was his, he knew it. The product of an inventive, unconventional household, the perfect wife for an inventive, unconventional baron.

  Except his bride was afflicted by that insidious disease, naivety. And that even worse disease, ignorance.

  My fists clenched. I snapped the draperies back in place.

  Just as the horse-mad set invested heavily in breeding stock, Rochefort had risked a considerable amount of money to buy my bloodlines. Not so much the duke, an earl, and a bishop on the family tree, but with an eagle eye on the creative genius of my father, which had begun to show in me by the time I was four. Not that I claimed to rival my father, but there was little doubt I’d bred true. And mixed with the Stonegrave bloodline . . .

  Josiah Galsworthy sired no fools. I could actually feel the heat draining from my blood, the angry flush from my cheeks. Returning to the comfortable chair in front of the fireplace, I contemplated my problem with a return of common sense, a trait I’d frequently been told I had in abundance. Well, someone had to. It was definitely not Papa’s forte.

  All this could be mine.

  I would have access to an extraordinarily fine workshop.

  I would have a husband who understood the joys of “tinkering.”

  I would have a husband who had bought me.

  I would have a husband who had exhibited the good sense to procure a wife of intelligence with interests similar to his own. Now that sounded better!

  I would have a husband who ruled the roost—I had few doubts about that. As single-minded about his work as Papa, but not as malleable. I might have seen very little of my guardian, but about that I had no doubt.

  I sighed, once again glaring at the innocent coal grate. Cupboard love. I had not thought myself so shallow. But, in truth, Rochefort was the very devil of a man. Ruggedly handsome, dynamic, intelligent. A woman might be willing to yield the reins to such a man. Occasionally, that is.

  A surprise thought penetrated my guilty contemplation of the baron’s assets. If I hadn’t been so shocked by his pronouncement, I might have had the presence of mind to realize a fiancée had every right to smooth salve on his burns. Which I should have done under any circumstances. It wasn’t like me to be so faint-hearted.

  I was across the room, digging in my trunk before I could stop and think about what I was doing. If Rochefort had gone to bed, then I was too late, for tracking a gentleman to his bedchamber was as forbidden as running naked down Bond Street. But if he was still up . . .

  I found the salve Mrs. Jenkins had concocted to soothe the many scratches, scrapes, and burns that occurred in Papa’s workshop. Back to my bedchamber, a quick peek in the mirror. Unfortunately, black was not my best color, and the strain of this long day showed in unnaturally pale skin and lines on my forehead and beneath my eyes that looked as if they weren’t going away any time soon. My blue eyes reflected doubts I refused to consider. Carefully, I patted my golden brown curls back into place. Those at least, thanks to Tillie and her curling iron, did not look as wilted as the rest of me.

  I slipped the jar of salve into my most commodious reticule and, clutching a candle encased in a narrow glass chimney, I opened the door and set out to retrace my steps to the first floor.

  At the foot of the curving staircase, I saw it—a faint glimmer of light through the open doorway on the opposite side of the entry hall from the rooms I’d seen earlier. The glimmer grew to a modest glow as I passed through two elegant reception rooms and a music room. At the rear of the house I found him, surrounded by a veritable sea of books, racked on shelves at least ten feet high, with more above on a gallery that extended along all four walls. No gaslight here, I noted idly, only candles in wall sconces shielded by glass. A cautious and realistic man, my guardian. He took no risks with his books.

  Rochefort was sprawled in a wing chair, eyes closed, a brandy glass clasped in one hand, a nearly empty decanter on a small table next to his chair. I paused, biting my lip. He certainly wasn’t the first drunken gentleman I’d had to deal with, but I suspected this one had more bite than most.

  He’s hurting. You know he’s hurting. The whisper of an inner voice. Not Papa. After what I’d learned today, I refused to let him in. But the pain my guardian was suffering would explain his present condition, for I doubted the man who had created the machines I’d seen today was an habitual drunkard.

  I tiptoed forward, feeling like Daniel in the lion’s den. At least I assumed Daniel had been this wary. As I looked down at my betrothed—so much less frightening with his eyes closed, though the beard I’d seen in his workshop was once again sprouting on his chin—I was very aware of the brandy glass, which had not crashed from slack fingers to the carpet.

  He knew I was here, I was certain of it.

  “Go away.” Even mumbling, his words held the snap of authority.

  “I’ve brought a salve that helped my father’s workers. With your permission?”

  His dark eyes snapped open; he struggled to sit up, not quite making it. “What the devil? What are you doing here?”

  Oh. Though somewhat deflated, I had to ask. “Who did you think I was?”

  He waved the hand holding the brandy glass. “Never mind. You too can go away.”

  I stood my ground. “Don’t be foolish, this salve does wonders.”

  “Idiot female,” he growled, “don’t you have sense enough to stay away from a man when he’s in his cups?”

  “I could scarcely anticipate you were drinking away your pain,” I informed him. “And as your betrothed, I felt an obligation to help if I could.” I removed the jar of salve from my reticule and waved it at him.

  This time he made it all the way to upright, his shoes flat to the floor. With the exaggerated care of the considerably drunk, he set his glass on the table beside the decanter. “You’re honoring the betrothal?” he inquired, his face a perfect blank.

  “A Galsworthy always honors his agreements,” I pronounced grandly.

  “The ‘his’ is duly noted. Females, I’ve discovered, have a tendency to alter agreements to suit themselves.”

  I came close to bouncing the jar of salve off his head, using the ugly burn as a bulls-eye. Carrying out my resolve as healer, or as fiancée, was not going to be easy. “Since I’m bought and paid for,” I told him with some asperity, “I might as well be useful.”

  Five seconds. Ten. When no protest was forthcoming, I opened the jar and went to work. And discovered how very different this moment was from all the other times I’d applied Mrs. Jenkins’s salve to a wounded workman. As I bent over the man who was to be my husband, my stomach churned, my fingers shook. Sensations I’d never before experienced flooded through me, threatening to take my breath away. I blinked to clear my vision.

  My quivering fingers spread the salve over the red patch on his forehead as lightly as I could. He flinched, but I suspected pain from his burn was not the cause. Was it possible he was experiencing sensations as disturbing as my own?

  I stepped back, gulped, and reminded myself I was a woman with a mission. It was my duty. “Your fingers,” I said rather too harshly. “They need the salve too.”

  Eyes closed, he extended a hand. I held it in my palm while smoothing on the salve. If I’d thought touching his forehead was intimate . . . by the time I finished both hands, I was breathless, consumed by a fire as hot as the burns I was treating. Was this arousal? I wondered. If so, perhaps there was hope for this strange marriage, after all.

  I capped the salve, thrust it into my reticule, grabbed my candle, and all but ran for the door. I thought I heard him call, “Minta!” But I must have been mistaken. How
could he possibly know the name my father called me?

  I was halfway up the staircase when it hit me. Of course he knew. He knew everything about me, while my father had kept Julian Stonegrave a deep, dark secret.

  Why? I could only ask myself, Why?

  Chapter 4

  The events and revelations of the day warred with each other, turning sleep into a futile hope. In the past month I’d buried my father, authorized my father’s primary assistant—through Papa’s solicitor, of course, as a twenty-year-old female hasn’t an ounce of legal standing—to complete all projects in progress. I had found new positions for our household staff and closed up our house, leaving open only the warehouse where Elbert was born.

  Today, I had left all that I knew behind and journeyed into . . . madness. Into a world of mechanical marvels, peopled by a displaced Scotsman, a cheeky street boy, a witch, and a cook of a decidedly evangelistic turn. Thank the Lord for Tillie, who actually seemed to be normal.

  And all them—all of us—living under the dictates of an enigmatic inventor, who didn’t need his cylindrical metal mask to turn into a monster.

  Well . . . I suppose that’s a trifle unfair, but I never wanted to be the object of the anger I’d witnessed when he ordered the place settings changed. If he could exhibit such fury over nothing . . .?

  And then he’d dared inform me we were betrothed, the marriage settlements gathering dust these past six years. “Devil it!” I muttered, borrowing one of Papa’s favorite expressions. The night breeze wafting through the open window appeared unoffended.

  Betrothed. Stonegrave Abbey. Rochefort. Monster. Mono. Kilt. Witch. Paintings. Fire. The visions marched in cadence through my head, moving faster and faster, jumbling into a kaleidoscope of fragmented shapes, colors, and sounds.

  I must have slept at last, for I opened my eyes to the dim light of day peeking through the opening I’d left in the draperies so I could breathe the cool, fresh, country air. I had not drawn the filmy bedcurtains, so the room was open to my view. I saw nothing I had not seen the night before, yet I knew I was not alone. Something other than the pale, early morning sun had waked me.

  A faint whirr, a soft rattle to my left—in an area hidden by the sweep of the tied-back bedcurtains. Courage, you idiot! It’s not Mrs. Biddle with a sacrificial knife.

  Fine, I told my inner voice. Then you turn and look!

  Whirr . . . thud. Definitely not Mrs. Biddle. I couldn’t imagine the lithe housekeeper bumping into anything. Softly, I turned back the bedcoverings, ready to run if necessary. I leaned forward, peeked around the bedcurtain. And clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. Galsworthys don’t scream. Galsworthys are not faint-hearted. Galsworthys understand machines, truly they do.

  Nothing helped. The creature before me was almost as shocking as discovering I was betrothed. An oval blob of metal, evidently intended to be a head, extended on a pipe neck above a chunky body that was mostly obscured by a shapeless blue muslin gown with, quite incredibly, a crisp white apron fastened where a waist should have been. A metal cylinder, similar to my guardian’s monster mask, only larger, peeked from beneath the gown’s hem, revealing—I bent down for a closer look—four metal balls which seemed to allow it to move.

  Amazing. Rochefort was even more of a genius than I had thought.

  I got out of bed, donned my robe, and watched this remarkable invention go about its work. Metal arms extended out to each side of the cylindrical body, one of them gripping a feather duster, the other a polishing cloth. Ignoring me, it moved from chaise to dressing table to tallboy, dusting and polishing. Incongruously, the oval metal head was topped by a white mob cap with a perky blue bow. As for its face, only the two slits that functioned as eyes were real, glowing with an odd green light I found more than a little disconcerting.

  Was that a twinge of professional jealousy? Could it be the creature annoyed me because I had no idea how it worked?

  I took some small satisfaction in the fact that the rest of the creature’s face—nose, mouth, and ears—were merely paint, the slightly askew drawings of an artist who should have stuck to mechanics. My guardian’s young apprentice perhaps?

  Whirr . . . thud. The blasted machine, having found the bed, was beginning to polish the bedposts. Devil it! I like machines. I love machines. But not a creature with a decidedly male face dressed in female garb, and not at half-five in the morning.

  “Go away!” I ordered, adding irrationally, “And you can tell whoever sent you that I don’t appreciate the joke.”

  The automaton continued its cleaning chores as if I didn’t exist.

  No doubt I had Mrs. Biddle to thank for my early morning visitor. I retreated to my dressing room, shutting the door with a decided snap.

  Fortunately, I had commissioned two corsets that laced up the front. They did nicely for daily dress if I was going no farther from home than Papa’s workshop. I dragged a chemise over my head, fastened the corset, and after opting for only one petticoat, I donned a gown that had not dyed well when the household was plunged into mourning. Its current charcoal color did not quite cover the rose sprigged muslin it used to be.

  I told myself it was the perfect gown for exploring, but I had the nagging notion I was trying to encourage my guardian to look elsewhere for a bride.

  Last night you thought Stonegrave Abbey worth the sacrifice!

  This was morning. With the sun rising behind the trees and casting light into the Abbey’s dark corners, I was less certain.

  I recalled the feel of him, the scent of him—the smell of machine oil and metal shavings that clung to him in spite of his elegant evening dress. The burns . . . his vulnerability. As odd as it seemed, I suspected Rochefort needed me. Though not for any romantic reason. Humans are not intended to go through life alone. Nonetheless, here we were, both of us, alone.

  Insufficient excuse for marriage.

  An then there was Mrs. Biddle. I suspected my guardian was not as alone as he seemed. Which would explain the housekeeper’s animosity, Rochefort’s over-reaction to my place at table, and an automaton invading my bedchamber at first light.

  And yet Rochefort did not strike me as a rake. Eccentric, perhaps, but not a man who would take his housekeeper to bed. Nor did he seem the type of man who would dismiss his housekeeper for having ambitions above her station. A more innocent surmise that also fit the facts.

  The latter explanation seemed most likely, I decided, perhaps naively. And found myself swung back to chatelaine of this great pile after less than five minutes of wavering. I stomped my feet into half-boots, pinned my night braid into a coil—Tillie could cope with its unruliness later. Opening the door to the bedchamber with caution, I peered into every corner of the room before I stepped out. The room sparkled. The automaton was gone.

  The time was still well before any but the kitchen staff should be up. And thank you, Mrs. Evangeline Biddle, for an automaton maid at dawn! I tiptoed down the corridor and descended the graceful staircase to the front hall, where I paused, ears on the prick. Not a sound from the rooms around me, nor did any voices penetrate the green baize door that led to the partially underground kitchen area below.

  Good. I needed the solitude. I needed to be alone under the sun’s dawning rays. The same sun that had shone through the smoke and fog of London. The same sky that became more blue with each mile Elbert traveled north, taking me away from the only home I had ever known. Araminta Galsworthy, child of town, not country.

  I needed to explore, to see my new home without anyone by my side. I needed to feel this remarkably eccentric country house, breathe its essence. I needed to decide if I could spend my life here. With him.

  Can one do that, all alone at six in the morning? I would have to. For if the answer was no, I must pack my carpet bag, follow the tracks to Tring, and take Elbert back to London, where I did not lack friends.

  All of whom could find themselves in a good deal of trouble if they hid me from my legal guardian.

&nb
sp; Botheration!

  I lifted the bar on the front door, opened it, and paused to examine the view from the top of a long flight of steps. A pebbled carriage drive stretched the full length of the Abbey front. To the left, the drive curved gradually toward a break in the treeline, evidently leading to Tring by an entirely different route than the small train that brought me here. There were no gardens on this side of the house, merely a slightly rolling expanse of green park framed in spring-green trees.

  In the distance to the right, I could see sheep grazing at a lower level, undoubtedly tucked up below a ha-ha. Wisps of fog hovered over them, making me wonder if there was a stream nearby. I made a half-hearted effort to find something wrong with the view, but couldn’t. My own private Regency Park lay before me, taunting me with scenic beauty surrounded by air so clean and fresh it nearly brought tears to my eyes.

  Enough! Time to explore. A frustrating task, I soon discovered, as the ground floor of the old abbey was as stubbornly blank as the rear aspect. Was it built as a fortress? I wondered. Or were the windowless walls merely intended to shut out the outside world, leaving the monks with only an inward view—toward God or possibly something as mundane as a central courtyard? Perhaps they were an outgoing order, merry monks who brewed beer, healed the sick, and chanted plainsong with a right good will. I’d assume the latter, I decided, and shut out all thoughts of what happened to them when Henry VIII decided he had to marry Ann Boleyn, come Hell, the Pope, the Archbishop of Canterbury, or Parliament.

  With nothing more to see but stone and grass, I moved swiftly along the outer wall and soon rounded the far corner. Ah! Stretched out before me were the train tracks and the miniature locomotive that had brought me from Tring. It was housed in an open-sided pavilion at the rear of the house, though I noticed the tracks extended on into the park.

  I turned toward Stonegrave Abbey’s other outbuildings, which loomed not more than twenty feet to the left of the engine house. Not just the obligatory stables but . . .? I frowned. If we were in London, I’d call the strange building a warehouse. Large, and of obviously new construction, it extended outward from the west side of the stables. Its windows were high off the ground, as if to provide light while keeping anyone from peeking in. A second workshop, I suspected. Just as Papa had needed space outside our house to build the final model of his locomotive, so Rochefort needed a larger space to build . . . what?