To my astonishment, when we arrived back at the Abbey, the entire indoor staff was lined up on the drive below the broad front steps. I could only wonder what Drummond had said to Mrs. E before he left in order to produce such a classic formal welcome for the newlyweds. I was willing to wager that Mrs. E was hiding fury behind her starched black façade.
Rochefort and I began our greetings with the lowliest tweeny, moving past the maids and footmen—all with faces as blank as Roberta’s, except for Tillie who flashed me a glowing smile. I complimented Mrs. H on the exceptional quality of the meals I’d tasted so far. And came face to face with Mrs. E. For some undoubtedly wicked reason my noble ancestors chose that moment to descend on me en masse. In an instant I went from a newly minted baroness to duchess, possibly a royal duchess.
Although Mrs. E topped me by at least three inches, I looked down my nose at her. “Mrs. Biddle,” I said, “I shall expect to see you in the reception room at the east front at nine in the morning.”
Her face didn’t changed, but somehow she sneered. Yes, definitely, she sneered. “Do you mean the morning room, my lady?”
“I mean the charming room at the east front of the first floor, Mrs. Biddle. I trust you will be able to find it.”
“Yes, my lady.” Remarkable how a bobbed curtsey could exhibit so much venom.
Well, it wasn’t as if I’d expected taking over the reins of Stonegrave Abbey to be easy. And coming to terms with Mrs. E paled in comparison with learning to live with Julian Stonegrave. I’d met him in monster guise and as a scruffy workman. I’d seen his temper flare, and I’d dined with him when he chose to play the gentleman. I’d seen him in his cups, vulnerable with burns that marked him as a hero.
And I’d seen him steely cold—in spite of a disastrous head from overindulgence—when he’d informed me we were to be married today. Well . . . perhaps he’d asked me. Had he?
I seem to recall that you have decided to honor our engagement, is that correct?
My inner voice snorted as Rochefort’s words ran through my mind. Not exactly a memorable proposal.
“Minta?”
We’d reached the top of the steps, where I’d unaccountably paused, staring at the front door and the footman who’d just sprinted to the top of the stairs so he could open it for us.
“Pardon my wool-gathering,” I murmured, ignoring the shivers running up my spine. Frantically, I searched for an excuse. “I just realized I’m not sure what happens next. I mean, there’s usually a wedding breakfast, but we’ve already eaten . . .” I stopped, realizing I was babbling. Humiliating to discover I was just another nervous bride.
Rochefort almost smiled, or maybe I saw nothing more than a gleam in his eyes. “I fear I have disregarded the traditional wedding breakfast, nor have I invited any neighbors to celebrate with us. You are, after all, still in mourning,” he pointed out with annoying accuracy. “And you don’t have to move,” he added as we entered the hall. “Your room is part of a master suite that extends along the entire east side of the house.”
When my eyes widened, he hastily added, “I slept in one of the guestrooms on the third floor last night. I am aware of the proprieties,” he added kindly.
If Rochefort slept on the third floor last night, it had taken at least two footmen to get him there!
“For now,” he said, “I’ve ordered cold meats and cheese laid out for luncheon, as I did not feel like eating this morning, and I suspect you may be a bit peckish as well.”
Should I add mind-reading to my husband’s many skills?
As we finished the small repast that would tide us over until dinner, Rochefort said, “If you would like, I will give you a tour of the old abbey and the grounds. Though I am sure you will wish to change first. You will not care to risk that gown in the workshops.”
Workshops! I was to see his workshops? He was going to make sense of the machines I’d seen . . . and show me the ones I hadn’t yet seen? I tried to repress the wonder in my eyes, but it was useless. I could see him peering into my machine-oiled soul, my thoughts as transparent as glass.
Rochefort pulled back my chair and offered his arm. “Come, Miss Curiosity, I’ll escort you up the stairs. Fifteen minutes,” he decreed as we reached the top. “Can you manage that?”
I would if I had to resort to my front-laced corset and bloomers. I turned left, Rochefort turned right. Our footsteps matched pace as we hurried toward our rooms. It was only later, as Tillie gave a horrified gasp when she saw my bloomers, that the irony struck me. My wedding day, and my husband and I had hastened to our chambers to prepare ourselves for an orgy with steam machines.
Chapter 6
For a tour of Rochefort’s workshops, my blue serge bloomers—made of the rugged cotton fabric some called denim from its medieval origins in de Nîmes, France—would have been my most practical choice. But challenging my husband’s sensibilities a scant two hours after the wedding did not seem a wise move. It was quite possible he was not yet ready for a wife in trousers.
I settled for the gown I had shortened to ease my movements while packing up the London house. Once a jaunty spring green, now a muddy black, it revealed not only my half-boots but a glimpse of black stocking as well. Rochefort, I surmised, would take no notice beyond approving my ability to negotiate his workshops without falling into the machinery.
I sighed, tucked all thoughts of intimacy in marriage to a far back corner of my mind and slammed the door shut. My marriage was what it was. With any luck our partnership would be—
Shut, tight shut. No more!
We took the lift, which wheezed as well as shimmied with Rochefort’s added weight. A quick trip through the kitchen—I nodded, graciously I hoped, to Mrs. H, two kitchen maids, and a kitchen boy. Fortunately, Mrs. E was not in sight.
Rochefort seated me on the Mono, then walked beside me, easily keeping up with machine’s slow pace. Matt Black greeted us with a broad smile as we entered the workshop in the Abbey cellar, and followed close behind while my husband showed me the great boiler and pumps that provided hot, as well as cold, water for the house. He explained the machine that ran the lift and the amazing invention that ran the Mono. He even showed me how fire came out of the hose he was using the day we met. “Welding,” he called it. Throughout the tour Rochefort showed less emotion than a housekeeper giving a perfect stranger a tour of a great country house. He was, I feared, not best pleased to have acquired such a shocked, angry, and reluctant bride. In all fairness it was not his fault guilt had kept Papa from preparing me for my fate. But just when I most needed comfort, why must Rochefort be so cool?
Matt, however, had no such reservations. “Ain’t ’e the one, Miss?” he chortled as Rochefort laid the hose back on the worktable. “A genius, that’s what ’e is.”
It wasn’t easy to admit Matt was right—that compared to Rochefort, Papa was only a superior sort of engineer. I had to give the devil his due. “You’re right, Matt. These are the most amazing machines I’ve ever seen.”
“And when did you two become so well acquainted?” my husband inquired, a trifle too silkily.
“We ’ad a bit of a natter early this morning, Guv,” said Matt. “Your lady was out fer a walk.”
“Indeed.” Dark eyes sparked in Rochefort’s maddeningly immobile face. “Then you must call me Julian.” A frown rippled across the burn on his forehead. He winced. “In private and in the workshops,” he qualified. “With all the guests descending on us in the next week, I fear we must be more formal in public. My mother and her friends tend to be . . . shall we say, higher in the instep than most.”
A baby step forward in our relationship, but enough for my spirits to soar by more than admiration for my husband’s inventions. We exited the workshop by the outside stairs and crossed the cobbled area behind the old abbey. Rochefort—Julian—gave me a hand over the train tracks, and then we were standing outside the great doors of the oversize structure I had seen earlier that morning.
“I
built this two years ago,” he said, “when I conceived an idea for something too large for the Abbey workshop. Now . . .” He paused, looking down at me, his face cracking into a faint smile. “Now, I am beginning to think we didn’t build it big enough.”
Since the structure was half again the height and length of a barn, I decided he must be funning. But, true daughter of an inventor, I was prepared for anything.
Or thought I was.
“It’s not functional yet,” Rochefort cautioned me, “but I believe we’ve found a way around each problem that has plagued us. “I am hoping another week or so will do it.”
He drew a deep breath, ran his fingers through his dark hair, and I realized he was nervous. He truly cared what I thought about the mysterious creation inside this building. And suddenly I knew it was going to be all right. We both loved machines and what they could do. Somehow that would lead our most peculiar marriage into a relationship that would work, no matter how cobbled together by a shrewd mix of pragmatism and wishful thinking.
My husband nodded to Matt, who unlocked the padlock on a heavy chain that was wrapped around a thick wooden bar. Straining, Matt lifted the bar, then pulled one side of the huge double doors back, revealing nothing more than a dimly lit cavern beyond. Rochefort held out his hand and led me to the doorway, where we paused to let our eyes adjust to the dim interior.
Fortunately, the capricious English sun had remained out today, unobscured by clouds of either white or gray. With light streaming in from high windows on all four sides of the building, the shadows before me gradually took shape.
Shape without meaning. I saw, but could make no sense of it.
Rochefort was waiting for me to say something—to exclaim, praise, gasp with wonder—and all I could do was stare with my brow furrowed, my mouth sagging open like a fish without water.
It was large. Larger than Elbert, though not as long as a railway carriage. Yet it seemed to be a vehicle of some kind, for it had windows. Round windows, like a ship’s portholes. I’d think it a submarine—I’d heard of experiments with underwater craft—but surely such a ship would have to be constructed entirely of metal, and this was not.
I moved a few feet left until I could see the end of the craft. A propeller. Definitely a propeller. I moved closer. The construction appeared to be . . . canvas and wicker? Truthfully, it looked a bit like an elongated covered basket, the sides gently rounded and reenforced by thin strips of metal spaced at regular intervals.
Basket. Propeller. No. It couldn’t be!
“Matt.” Evidently, Rochefort had grown tired of waiting.
I heard the sound of an engine starting, and an amorphous shadow to the right of the strange vehicle began to stir.
There was another part to this strange beast?
Only thirty seconds of pumping, and I knew, this time without a doubt. I covered my face with my hands, rocking back and forth, completely speechless. My greatest dream—to fly through the air like a bird and see the world from above. To be free of the earth, to touch the sky. Controlled flight. Rochefort had done it. Built a machine that wasn’t a slave to the vagaries of the wind, but soared like an eagle—
No, that was too much to ask. More like a plump pigeon lumbering through the skies with a will of its own.
I took another look, blinked, and looked again. Next to the submarine-shaped vehicle, a giant mass of silk was still inching its way upward, most definitely becoming a balloon. Rochefort, evidently taking the wonder on my face as comprehension, signaled for Matt to shut down the pump. Point made.
“Well?”he demanded.
My dream had been so small, just a lightweight one-person swing that could be steered, instead of drifting with the wind. But Rochefort had created a—
“What do you call it?” I asked, getting words out of my mouth at last.
“An airship.”
Of course. “You’ll stun the world,” I told him, hoping my praise wasn’t coming too late.
“Perhaps. There are others working on the problem, some eager to steal my ideas. And we won’t know if it really works until we take it out to the park and test it.”
Swallowing my chagrin that Rochefort’s airship eclipsed my own efforts to fly, I allowed the full force of my admiration to show. “It’s quite wonderful,” I told him. “I know you’ll get it to work.”
He actually smiled. A radiance that lit our little corner of the workspace and took my breath away. Dear God, I was married to this man.
He offered his arm. “Shall we continue our tour, Lady Rochefort? I believe you haven’t seen the Abbey courtyard yet? Matt,” he called over his shoulder. “I leave you to close up.”
“Aye, Guv.” His voice came faintly from the far corner of the room.
As we walked toward the light outside, my heart was singing, as it always did for a fine new machine. For Elbert. For this incredible thing called an airship. And . . .
Yes, today it was singing for something that wasn’t a machine. This was my wedding day, and at last I was certain I had done the right thing. My heart was singing for . . .
Coward. Admit it!
My heart was singing for my husband. For Julian.
We walked out into the sunshine, and all was well with the world.
I didn’t hear the sound of the shot. One moment I was clinging to his arm—the next, my world went black.
“Call it off, lad.”
“And give them exactly what they want?”
“A stubborn ox ye are! The risk is too high.”
“It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.”
“Aye, I’ll drink to that. A spy one day, an assassin the next.”
Voices roused me from the void, but like a wounded animal gone to ground, I lay frozen, eyes closed, knowing only that something was very wrong. I had to assess my surroundings before returning to the world.
Head. Must clear my head. But pain pounded through it with the inexorable rhythm of one of Papa’s locomotives at full speed.
No. Rochefort, not Papa. His was one of the voices. The Scottish steward, the other. Good. The spinning sensation was slowing, a bit of sense popping out of the red haze of pain.
“Take heed, lad. That bullet was meant for you.”
“But why?”
“Take your choice,” said the steward—Drummond, that was his name. “Destroy the competition. Or put a stop to our plans at the source.”
“I know the competition. In Germany and the south of France. Neither is that venal. Spy on me, yes. Kill me, no.”
“So it’s the other business.”
“They could not possibly know—”
“Don’t be daft! Your family’s sentiments have never been a secret. And your staff is far too large for rumors of what you’re doing not to drift into the village.”
“But how could anyone connect my airship with—”
“Treason?” Drummond pronounced.
“Not a word I care to have said out loud,” Rochefort muttered.
“Face up to it, lad. Most geniuses are odd little men shut up in their workshops, nose to their inventions or their art every moment of the day. You, however, are a wealthy baron from a known monarchist family. Your inventions are in scientific journals, even the chaunting sheets. You’ve become too well known, Rochefort, too powerful. That shot could have been ordered by Wellington, Cumberland, Cambridge. Aye,” he added after a slight pause, “I’d be particularly leery of Cumberland.”
The Stonegraves were monarchists?
Like Papa.
Then why would George IV’s younger brothers be enemies? That made no sense at all.
“Cumberland is already King of Hanover, with a son to follow him.”
“Hanover?” Drummond scoffed. “A mite of land on the continent when he could have Britain and her colonies?”
A long sigh. “I suppose it’s possible.”
Curiosity overcame my inertia. I eased my eyes open to find my vision hazy, but not so severe I couldn’t
make out Rochefort and Drummond ensconced in the upholstered chairs that sat before the fireplace. They had turned them round to face my bed, evidently so they could keep watch over me.
Which was almost as shocking as whatever had put me in this bed.
Or perhaps not, as the alternative was likely Mrs. E.
Pain shot through my head as I squinted, attempting to see more clearly. One of Rochefort’s arms was supported by a black sling. Had he too been hurt? But how? They talked of assassins, but I remembered nothing.
With his good arm, Rochefort reached for a brandy decanter, sitting on a small table in front of him. “I repeat,” he said, “they cannot possibly know of our plans.”
“Secrets of this magnitude have wings, lad. Impossible to keep them caged.”
After refilling both glasses, Rochefort started to put the stopper back into the decanter. His eyes met mine.
“Minta!” He projected himself across the room as if he really cared. If my head hadn’t hurt so badly, I’d have been gratified. But only a little. I’d just discovered our marriage was providing him with more than a convenient hostess and protection from matchmaking mamas. Whatever treasonous plot my husband had devised, a wife was part of his plans.
Treason! As I allowed him to fuss over me, my heart grew cold.
Papa, papa, what have you done?
Chapter 7
My aching head woke me long minutes before Tillie brought me coffee, toast, and jam. Time enough for my skeptical inner voice and my pragmatic common sense to battle it out. Common sense won. Plus the sheer impossibility of rebelling against anyone’s plans when flat on my back in bed, weak as a newborn housemouse, and irrevocably married.
However Rochefort had planned to use me—and our hasty wedding proved the matter urgent—I had failed him. No matter how valid my excuse for being confined to bed, his plans were now askew. And since I, Araminta Galsworthy, was an acquisition, bought and paid for, I owed my husband good service. I was, therefore, ready for him when he strode into my room directly after an early morning visit from the doctor. A curt nod to Tillie, and she scuttled out. He seized the chair from my desk and set it down beside me, a scant two feet from my face. Before he could utter a word, I burst out, “I am sorry, so very sorry. You married me to play hostess to your guests and now—”
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