Airborne - The Hanover Restoration

by Blair Bancroft

  I sat alone for some minutes in the far corner of the drawing room, wondering how I had gone wrong. What could I have done to lessen the tension at table, the after-dinner chill in the drawing room? It was a puzzle I had to solve, because it must not happen tomorrow with our illustrious new guests in attendance. Though why the Marquess and Marchioness of Carlyon continued to honor us with their presence—unless they were presenting Rochefort with another candidate for bride—remained a mystery.

  We would, of course, be a much larger party tomorrow, and hopefully that alone would help the conversation. I should, however, prepare a list of conversational topics. But if our guests had been immured in the wilds of Scotland for years, I could not embarrass them by introducing the latest topics in London society. Would Rochefort’s art collection interest them? Talk of his inventions seemed even less likely. Machines of every shape and description might have done for our table in London, but I suspected Lady Thistlewaite would be horrified. And perhaps Rochefort as well, for I could scarcely talk about the airship, which seemed to be a deep, dark secret.

  I made a face at the cold green marble fireplace in front of me while a few choice words overheard in Papa’s workshop grumbled through my mind. It seemed I would be confined to the commonplace, to asking the new guests about Scotland, about their journey south to Hertfordshire. Were they planning to visit London, enter society?

  “My dear.” Startled out of my plans for being a better hostess, I looked up to find Rochefort standing beside me. “You look pale,” he said. “I’m certain our guests will understand if you go up to bed. I will join you shortly.” He paused, looking as if he’d just swallowed a bitter medicinal potion. “There are things you need to know before our new guests arrive tomorrow.”

  It’s about time! my inner voice cried, even as I was swept by sharp disappointment. For a moment my heartbeat had surged when I thought Rochefort had something more husbandly in mind.

  I made my adieus with unseemly haste—another black mark against my hostessing skills—and hounded Tillie through my disrobing and the donning of my dragon robe over one of my prettier bedgowns. (No sense looking a dowd, I reasoned, no matter how unpromising Julian’s attitude.) Arranged against the all-too-familiar mound of pillows, I waited, nerves taut, only to feel myself flush scarlet as my husband entered and I realized the picture I presented. The eager young bride waiting for her husband to come to her bed. I’m quite certain even my toes blushed.

  When Rochefort pulled up a chair beside the bed, he found me totally red-faced and mortified. I swallowed my chagrin and, hoping my cheeks were rapidly fading to a more normal hue, raised my gaze to his.

  Julian’s charcoal gray eyes revealed a discomfort almost as strong as my own. He ran his fingers through his too-long dark hair, then fisted a hand in front of his mouth. Not good, declared my inner voice. My common sense agreed.

  “I had hoped for more time,” he said at last, “but our plans could not be postponed any longer. If you had not been hurt, I might have had at least a week to ease you into the role you must play, but . . .” He shrugged. “I am so very sorry, Minta, but I have a great deal to ask of you, more than I have a right. I am, after all, still a stranger to you.”

  I considered that last statement for a moment or two. “Did–did Papa think we would suit, or did he simply sell me for the money to build his locomotive?”

  “Minta!” I’d truly shocked him. This time he didn’t simply run his hands through his hair. He clutched his dark locks as if ready to tear them out by the roots. “Hell and the devil, Minta, how can you ask that?”

  “Quite easily under the circumstances.”

  “I took one look at you at age fourteen, screwdriver in hand, tinkering on some engine in your father’s workshop, and knew I had to have you. You were born for me, Minta, and I thought you realized I was the perfect husband for you.”

  I was beginning to see the possibilities, but it was about time he said it! Yet he was still a stranger—

  Reality crashed through his almost lover-like words. “You saw me?”

  “I saw you several times, Minta, but always from the anonymity of a crowd of assistants and hangers-on. You never noticed.”

  Not possible. Rochefort would stand out in any crowd.

  “I was careful not to be noticed,” he returned, sensing my unspoken question. “That was part of my agreement with your father. You were too young, he didn’t want me anywhere near you.”

  Once again I was reduced to a possession, a parcel to be gifted where Papa and Rochefort willed. Just as I thought I was breaking out of the mold still confining the females in this age of enlightenment, I was brought up short, realizing how helpless I was. I could only scowl at my bedcover and wish I’d been born a boy. Even a child of the streets, like Matt Black, was free to be my husband’s apprentice, while I . . . I was expected to play whatever role Rochefort had devised for me. And I doubted it had anything to do with his precious machines.

  I supposed I should nod, confirming I had heard him. Baron Rochefort had, after all, indicated a genuine desire to marry me, though I still suspected he was more attracted by a merger of our bloodlines than anything remotely resembling physical attraction.

  But I sat there, saying and doing nothing, because the words which might have mended our peculiar situation refused to form as I waffled from resenting male dominance in my life to thinking Rochefort had demonstrated great good sense in choosing me, to railing against all the mystery and secrets that permeated the atmosphere at Stonegrave Abbey.

  I glared. Rochefort sighed.

  And then he told me the quite incredible plot with Stonegrave Abbey at its very heart.

  Chapter 10

  Rochefort leaned forward, speaking softly, as if the walls themselves might eavesdrop. And perhaps they could—at Stonegrave Abbey the existence of secret passages seemed all too likely. “Minta,” he said, looking as solemn as I’d ever seen him, “you must know your father supported a return of the monarchy.”

  My stomach heaved, and for a moment I feared I might bring up the syllabub Mrs. H had provided for tonight’s dessert. Just when I was beginning to contemplate the possibility of a rosy future in this strange new world, my husband was on the verge of speaking treason. I knew it as surely as I knew we had signed the registry in the village church in Tring.

  “But no one speaks good of Cumberland,” I protested. “I cannot believe you would want him as king.”

  “Agreed.” Rochefort left the one word hanging, his penetrating eyes urging me to think the problem through.

  “His son, George?” I shook my head. “But surely I’ve heard he has no ambitions beyond Hanover?”

  “Indeed.” My husband continued his steady gaze, waiting for me to puzzle it out.

  I frowned, searching my head for what I knew of the many children of mad George III. “Cambridge?” I suggested, naming the youngest of the royal dukes. “Or his son George?”

  “A possibility,” Rochefort conceded. “They at least are in England, while Cumberland reigns on the continent as King of Hanover. But,” he added in significant tones, “I believe we can do better.”

  Fine. If he wanted to play games, I’d let him. Information was information, no matter what convoluted road I had to follow to discover it.

  “How can you do better?” I challenged. “Clarence’s children all died at birth.”

  “But not Kent’s,” he returned softly.

  “A girl,” I scoffed, “returned with her mother to the continent as soon as Kent died. And wasn’t there something about her dying of the typhoid—I’m sure I heard Papa mention it. He was quite upset, as I recall.”

  Julian’s lips curled into the smile the wolf might have offered just before he ate Red Riding Hood’s grandmother. “A near truth, amended to a convenient falsehood,” he murmured.

  “But she is foreign,” I protested, “not raised a proper Englishwoman. How could she possibly govern?”

  “You might recall W
illiam the Conqueror and the more recent Hanoverian dynasty,” Rochefort pointed out with no little irony. “And besides, the Duchess of Kent and her daughter returned with great stealth from the continent a good many years ago. The daughter is, I assure you, as British as anyone might wish.”

  “Merciful heavens,” I murmured, “I had no idea.” But what about Papa? I strongly suspected he’d been well aware of Rochefort’s monarchist schemes.

  “And even if she were as Germanic as the continental Hanovers,” Julian added, “we are not proposing giving up our parliamentary form of government, merely restoring the glorious figurehead that defines what we are.”

  “And ridding ourselves of a government that is slipping into . . . something else,” I finished lamely, unable to speak more condemning words aloud.

  “Then you do understand,” my husband declared with all the fervor of a Crusader poised to depart for the Holyland. “The three eldest royal dukes died without living issue, leaving Kent’s daughter next in line for the throne. It is our duty to do whatever it takes to put her there.”

  If only my husband would look at me with such passion.

  “You do recall what happened to others who attempted to place their personal candidates on the British throne?” I offered.

  “Some succeeded,” he snapped back.

  “And some lost their heads. Treason is treason, no matter how finely you dress it in robes of righteousness.”

  His jaw squared, his charcoal eyes deepened to black. “It cannot be treason to put the rightful monarch on the throne.”

  “Tell that to Wellington and the Horse Guards!” Swiftly, I waved both hands before my face, indicating I took it all back. Indeed, I was sorry for my words, but playing Devil’s Advocate came naturally to me. Papa had raised me to look at both sides of a situation.

  I gave my head a brisk shake, hoping to clear out the morass of qualms that insisted on rearing their ugly heads. I drew a deep breath, still struggling to resign myself to the reality of committing treason. “You know I will support you,”I told him. “I was indeed raised in a monarchist household. And though I prefer to ignore politics and keep my thoughts confined to the world of invention, I accept that by marrying you I have become part of whatever conspiracy you are plotting.”

  “But you wish you had known of my so-called treason before you said your vows.”

  “I would have preferred to be treated as a person of reason and intelligence,” I returned as calmly as I could, “instead of a convenience.”

  “Touché,” he admitted. “I am guilty of tunnel vision, charging ahead toward my goals, using every tool at my disposal . . . and paying no heed to the fact that the woman I have wanted to marry for the last six years is being carried, willy-nilly, into danger.” Plunging his tousled head into his hands, Rochefort lapsed into silence.

  My lips refused to part and absolve him of his crimes, at least as far as I was concerned. Unwise perhaps, but Papa always said I could be stubborn as a mule.

  “You’re right,” my husband said at last, “I should have told you before we were married, but I could not take the chance. I feared you would pack your carpet bag and walk all the way to Tring, waiting for your precious Elbert to take you back to London. And after you learned of our plans, I could not let you go.”

  Dear God in Heaven, of course he couldn’t. A shiver ran from my toes all the way up to my swirling head. Until Rochefort’s plans came to fruition, I was a prisoner here. Or until I exchanged the walls of Stonegrave Abbey for Newgate prison.

  “So you and I are cast as revolutionaries,” I said, making no effort to disguise a certain tartness in my voice. “And just what part in your daring plot do our new guests play? Surely I should be familiar with their roles, lest I make some shocking faux pas that rings the curtain down.”

  Rochefort sat back in his chair, heaving a long-drawn sigh. Clearly, he found my plain-speaking a disappointment. Had he truly expected me to be thrilled at the prospect of aiding and abetting a revolution?

  “The marquess and his lady,” he said, “are devoted monarchists—as are the Wandsleys and my mother. We are meeting to further our plans. I ask only that you act the proper hostess, easing the tensions that are bound to arise. Since you find the subject so distasteful,” he added coldly, “you need not participate in our discussions.”

  “Do not be absurd!” Keep me out of it, would he? I thought not! “If I am to lose my head, I’d rather it be for something I know rather than for merely being your wife.”

  Merely being your wife. He actually winced. Excellent! How dare he wait ’til now to tell me I was risking my life when I married him! Nor had he as yet told me the whole, of that I was certain. When I hadn’t thanked him prettily for dragging me into rebellion against the government, he had ceased his confidences, leaving me to surmise the remainder on my own. Fine. I’d do exactly that.

  Rochefort stood, looking down at me like Zeus from Mount Olympus. “I will consider it,” he said. The thud of the door emphasized the end of my innocence.

  Rochefort and I stood at the top of the Abbey’s broad front staircase, watching the approach of a carriage emblazoned with his family crest. Evidently, our guests had come by train and my husband had sent the carriage to meet them at the station. Noticing my ever-so-faint frown, he bent down to whisper in my ear, “I knew quite well Josiah Galsworthy’s daughter would prefer the Abbey train.”

  With smoke in my face, cinders in my hair, my terrifying ride on the Mono, and Rochefort greeting me from behind an iron mask instead of at the top of the front stairs! I sighed. Whatever my chagrin, I must swallow it, for footmen were dashing forward to throw open the carriage door and put down the steps. Our guests had arrived.

  One look at Elizabeth, Lady Carlyon and I assumed her to be no less than the daughter of a duke. From her exquisitely cut carriage dress to her haughty bearing, she was the epitome of the days when royalty and the peerage ruled the land. Though a full generation too old to be Kent’s daughter, she was regally tall and slender, with hair the color of polished mahogany and patrician features that far outshone any of the ci-devant Hanoverian royalty. My full attention captured by such a distinguished visitor, I missed her husband. Until Rochefort’s sharp hiss brought my gaze to the gentlemen directly in front of me. As much as I recognized the devotion of Lord and Lady Wandsley to the cause, here before me was the steel of the revolution. A man with power beyond inventions, beyond baronies and clever ideas. In the marquess’s clear-eyed gray gaze, in his imposing height, his air of command, I knew that here was the heart of the monarchist movement. The rest of us, no matter how vital, were merely allowed to assist.

  Behind the marquess and his wife trailed a poor squab of a girl, eyes down, watching her step on the marble stairs. Although she was about my own age, with height and coloring similar to my own, I hoped I never displayed so little spirit. Beside Lady Carlyon the poor girl faded into obscurity. Instantly, I felt sorry for her and determined to pay particular attention to this shy little creature.

  “My lord, my lady,” Rochefort said with a bow, “a great pleasure to see you again. May I present my wife, Lady Rochefort? Minta, the Marquess and Marchioness of Carlyon.”

  I proffered my best curtsey. “Welcome to Stonegrave Abbey. I hope your stay will be a pleasant one.” I received nearly matching regal nods in return.

  “Drina,” the marchioness snapped, “come forward and make your curtsey to Lord and Lady Rochefort.” Eyes still on her toes, the girl slid out from behind Lady Carlyon’s broad skirts. “Lady Rochefort, my lord, may I present Miss Smythe, a connection of the family who serves as my companion.”

  The girl offered a deep curtsey. Good breeding, I thought . . . and yet another anomaly, for this drab companion had been assigned a suite of her own. I chalked up another question for Rochefort.

  The secrets were mounting. Apparently I made a serious mistake when I did not wholeheartedly support my husband’s venture into treason.

  �
��I trust Drummond was on hand to see to your luggage,” Rochefort said, guiding our guests toward the front hall and leaving me to walk with Miss Smythe.

  Lady Carlyon turned toward Julian, offering a striking profile and a sparkle I found entirely too flirtatious. “Indeed, Rochefort. What a clever device, your miniature train, though I fear the maids required a good deal of reassurance before they would set foot in it. Poor Drummond practically had to set them in place.” As they passed through the front door, I heard her add, “You must forgive us all our luggage. There was so much the footmen had to stay behind with half of it, forcing dear Drummond to make a second trip on your darling pufferbelly to fetch them.”

  I gritted my teeth. The lady was entirely too familiar. And though certainly older than Rochefort, not by half enough!

  As Rochefort ushered our new guests into the drawing room, where my mother-in-law and the Wandsleys had chosen to wait for their arrival, I turned to the overly solemn Miss Smythe. “Shall we leave them to it?” I asked with a deliberately conspiratorial air. “Perhaps you would care to go straight to your suite? I shall be glad to take you up myself.”

  She managed a flash of a shy smile, and I renewed my resolve to befriend her. We were, after all, both strangers here—each burdened with those older, supposedly wiser, and determined to tell us what to do.

  The girl called Drina and I ascended the stairs and turned left toward the west wing of Stonegrave Abbey.

  “Oh, but this is lovely!” Miss Smythe cried when she saw her set of rooms next to the Carlyon’s corner suite. “I have seen nothing like it since I lived on the con—” She broke off, once more snapping her drab shell tight around her. But I had caught a glimpse of the pearl inside. Not so dull after all, our Miss Smythe.