Airborne - The Hanover Restoration

by Blair Bancroft

  “I am happy you are pleased,” I told her. “I have not been at the Abbey long myself, and I clearly recall how I felt when I first saw the rooms assigned to me.”

  She removed her bonnet, revealing hair of light brown, nearly the same shade as mine. “You are newly married then?” she inquired.

  “Very.” I felt pink stain my cheeks. Would I never learn to control my blushes?

  Miss Smythe’s blue eyes suddenly sparkled at me from a remarkably animated face that transformed her from colorless and easily forgettable to an attractive young woman with the same interests as any other girl her age. Men and marriage.

  “I should like to be married,” she confided, “but the way we live—forever cut off from the rest of the world—it is not easy.”

  “But surely now that you’ve come as far south to Hertfordshire, London is only a step away.”

  Miss Smythe removed her gloves, tossing them on the bed beside her bonnet. “So I am told,” she said, her voice so faint I barely heard her.

  A girl who wished to be married, but seemed to fear London? Perhaps she was merely painfully shy. A change of subject seemed wise. “I have never heard the name Drina before. Is it Scottish?”

  She spun round to face me, suddenly fierce. “Indeed, no. It is merely what my mother calls me. I do not like it. My mother can be . . . rather grand and autocratic, always certain she is right. I was quite delighted to leave her behind with her Irish lover.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Further words failed me.

  “I have long wished for a friend who might call me Lexa,” declared my guest who seemed to have as many facets as a kaleidoscope. “We must observe all the conventions, of course, but in private I should be pleased to have you call me Lexa. And you are . . .?”

  “Araminta,” I managed, “but please call me Minta.” And who, I wondered, was befriending whom? Add one more anomaly to Stonegrave Abbey.

  “And I am Phoebe,” announced a voice from the open doorway. “I am so sorry to intrude, but Mama ordered me out of the drawing room—though how the ladies could have found anything to gossip about this far out in the country I cannot imagine. I suppose it’s more of their dreary monarchist talk. They think I don’t know,” she added with wink, “but of course I do. How could one not in a household positively brimming with it?”

  Miss Smythe and I gaped at her. Phoebe Fortescue had burst out with what I dared not even think.

  “I beg your pardon!” Lady Phoebe cried. “I suppose I should not have said that.”

  “It’s quite all right,” I said, “but my husband does caution that the walls have ears. We should, perhaps, be a trifle more discreet.” I made the necessary introductions and we settled into chairs in the sitting room, where for the better part of an hour we chatted in a remarkably normal fashion—urging Phoebe to tell us tales of London society from fashion to gossip, Lexa offering bits about living in Scotland, while I inserted some of the more amusing adventures I’d experienced while living in a household overrun by men of creative genius.

  After one tale I thought particularly amusing, Lexa and Phoebe simply stared at me. “Oh, how I envy you,” Phoebe declared. “I have never dreamed of such freedom.”

  “And all those men,” Lexa added, wide-eyed. “Was it not . . . did you not find it . . . embarrassing? I mean”—she ducked her head, gazing at the hands clenched in her lap—“I have lived a life surrounded by women and often longed to know more gentlemen. But so many of them, constantly around—was it not overwhelming?”

  “It was . . . stimulating,” I told her. “I envied their ability to go where they would, do what they would, and some of it rubbed off, I suspect. I am aware I tend to be more independent than most young women my age.”

  “I feared coming here,” Lexa said quietly, “but no longer. To have friends is a very good thing.” She stretched her hands to either side, clasping our hands in hers. A moment of silence added Amen.

  “I know,” Phoebe said brightly, jumping to her feet. “Let us take a turn in the gardens before tea time. We have been shut in this stuffy house quite long enough.”

  “No!”

  Both girls turned to me in shock. I had, perhaps, been a bit vehement. “I beg your pardon,” I said, “but Rochefort made me promise neither I nor my guests would venture out of the house for a day or two.” Both girls’ eyes grew wide as I explained. Although I kept the details minimal, emphasizing the threats to Rochefort’s inventions, the girls’ eyes kept straying to the small patch of bandage visible when I lifted the ruffle on my cap. Phoebe appeared more puzzled than frightened, but Lexa looked more solemn than ever. Terrified, in fact.

  So even Lexa knew something I did not.

  “I have a solution,” I said. “We will walk in the courtyard. The gardens are smaller, but there is a fountain, and you can even see the ancient well once used by the monks who lived here.”

  For three privileged young women who should have had no cares beyond the frivolous, we were remarkably subdued as we descended the stairs to the sunny courtyard below. Where a new thought occurred to me. Lady Thistlewaite and her guests had enjoyed the garden only a few days ago. Why, today, was it forbidden?

  Chapter 11

  When I looked out my rear window the next morning, the customary serenity of Stonegrave Abbey more closely resembled a bustling military encampment. Armed guards ringed the sprawling house, the stables, and Rochefort’s vast workshop. My dignity swiftly lost the battle with curiosity, and I leaned far out the window, craning my neck to see what other changes had come to the Abbey while I slept. Tents. To the west, beyond the stables and the pavilion that sheltered the small Abbey train, beyond Rochefort’s towering workshop, a double row of white canvas tents stood out along the edge of the woods. An armed man on horseback moved into view, his head constantly swiveling to take in both park and trees as he rode the perimeter. I looked east and, sure enough, another mounted guard soon came into view.

  If this was an example of what Mr. Soames could procure, no wonder he was so essential to—

  “Miss! M’lady! Best to stay inside.”

  Horrors! One of the guards in the garden had caught me out. And me in my nightgown! I popped back inside so fast I knocked my head on the window frame. Fortunately not on the same spot as my previous injury.

  I plumped myself down on a chair in front of the fireplace and thought about it. If one were planning treason, I supposed an army was necessary. But an army that looked impressive ringing Stonegrave Abbey would be as nothing to the armies the Lord Protector commanded. Horse Guards alone could have this lot down in a trice. Unless . . . the monarchist conspiracy was far larger than I had assumed. The officer corps, the backbone of Britain’s army were, almost to a man, sons of the nobility. Many with fathers who were peers of the realm. Presented with a choice, would they choose the hero of the Napoleonic wars, or would they recall a thousand years of tradition? More importantly, would they come down on the side of a Lord Protector who was fast becoming a despot, or would they return power to the rule to Parliament? To their fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins, and friends?

  Impossible! my inner voice scolded. Soldiers worship that ultimate soldier, Wellington. They would never . . .

  Would they?

  Tillie interrupted my thoughts by bringing in my morning tea tray and insisting on wrapping me in my dragon robe before she would allow me to eat. As I munched on a slice of toast and apricot jam, I wondered if the coming of the guards meant more freedom. Perhaps, at last, we could move about outside the house. I wanted to see Rochefort’s airship again, wanted to watch Phoebe’s and Lexa’s faces when they saw . . .

  Secrets, Minta. Secrets!

  Altogether too many secrets. Rochefort had remained immovable last night when I attempted to discover more about our houseguests. I’d lost my temper, snapping, “I might as well be talking to a stone.” He stood, bowed, and left me lying in my bed like a recalcitrant child unworthy of argument. If I’d had anything other
than my lighted candle to throw after him, I would have.

  While conferring with Mrs. E about menus, I endured her rant about the invasion of the Abbey—they would eat us out of house and home, rape the maids, forever ruin the reputation of the Stonegraves and Stonegrave Abbey. But I had anticipated her rant and tracked Rochefort all the way to his Abbey workshop for questions I refused to let him dismiss. “They have their own supplies, Mrs. Biddle,” I assured her, “and their own mess. Lord Rochefort assures me none of them will come into the house, other than for a dire emergency. And we trust there will be none of those, do we not?” I added briskly.

  “And what do you call a fire and a shooting?” she demanded far too pertly for a housekeeper to her mistress.

  “Enough provocation to hire armed guards.”

  Mrs. E stood her ground, demanding, “And what of the young women on staff? Must I lock them up?”

  I drew myself up to my full five feet, two inches and declared, “If my guests and I are confined to the house, Mrs. Biddle, I see no reason why the maids should have more freedom. I will inform you when Lord Rochefort tells me it is safe to go out.”

  “And who is to go to the market, pray tell?” Flat out defiance, not a hint of obsequiousness in her stance or tone.

  “On that topic you may consult with Drummond or Mr. Soames,” I responded, calling on my most freezing accents. “I am certain one of them will find an equitable solution.”

  The look she shot at me before stalking out promised poison in my soup. I sighed, and went in search of our female guests, who informed me the gentlemen had gone for a morning ride.

  Gone for a ride when the rest of us were confined to the house! Gone for a ride and left me with a houseful of women to entertain! Gone for a ride when I so longed to do the same? I seethed.

  Isn’t this why he married you?

  I pasted a smile on my face and after ascertaining the older ladies were quite content with their own company, I winkled Phoebe and Lexa away, planning to spend a delightful few hours demonstrating the lift, the Mono, and Rochefort’s machine-filled lair at the far end of Abbey. But Lexa suddenly asserted herself, asking if we might view Rochefort’s art collection.

  “I have heard it is quite splendid,” she said, her blue eyes so eager I dismissed my own plans on the spot. “I draw a bit,” she added, eyes suddenly downcast. “Nothing of any note, of course, but I do so enjoy looking at great works of art.”

  “A capital idea,” Phoebe agreed.

  Silently, I thanked Papa for exposing me to the works of the great masters. I would not make a complete fool of myself as we examined paintings ranging from the voluptuousness of Rubens to the stark reality of Goya. But I couldn’t help but feel my new acquaintances were missing a rare treat when they preferred art over Rochefort’s amazing machines.

  Foolish girl. They are normal, you the aberration.

  I summoned a bright smile, shifted the gears in my head to art mode, and off we went. Truthfully, I was pleased to discover that shy mouse, Lexa, had enough courage to state her preference. From what I’d seen, Lady Carlyon ruled the roost, poor little Lexa trailing in her shadow.

  When we finished our extensive tour, we dragged our weary feet to Lexa’s bedchamber, where Phoebe and I coaxed her into showing us her sketchbook. She was, indeed, remarkably skilled. Inwardly, I sighed. I had to struggle to create clear drawings of my flying machine, when Lexa could bring people to life.

  But by the end of the afternoon one happy thought shone above all. I, who had never had a female friend my own age, now had two. I smiled all the way back to my room, where I would freshen up before the light mid-day meal planned for our guests.

  Freedom at last! At luncheon Rochefort announced we might walk in the gardens, as long as we gave Drummond or Soames a half hour’s notice to provide additional guards. And tomorrow we might even ride around the park, provided two mounted guards went with us. My surge of joy did not last a full minute as my mind heard the distinct whine of a bullet. A sharp pain stabbed through my head. My whole body shook.

  Coward! mocked my inner voice.

  Common sense came to my rescue. Anyone who has been shot has a right to be cautious about exposing themselves to further harm.

  But a proper justification for my alarm didn’t help. I wanted to go out into the sunshine. I wanted to ride a horse. I wanted to see the airship again. I needed to entertain my guests. But part of me continued to refuse such a suicidal excursion, resulting in a furious argument between me, my common sense, and my always difficult inner voice.

  Little did I realize the full extent of what I was taking on when I repeated my marriage vows.

  To do what was expected of the Baroness Rochefort, I had to leave the safety of the Abbey. Take a risk.

  I would go out. I would not be sick. My knees would not crumple. Galsworthys were made of sterner stuff.

  Sunshine and fresh air would aid my recovery. There were armed guards everywhere. No sniper could get close enough . . .

  My stomach churned, bile rose in my throat.

  I hung on, determined not to disgrace myself before our grand guests. Conversation flowed around me like the faint buzz of gnats on a summer’s evening. I looked up to find Julian’s anxious gaze fixed on my face.

  “An hour in the garden before tea would be delightful,” I announced brightly. “Will you tell Mr. Soames the ladies will be ready at half three?” A glance at our guests revealed smiles and nods of approval. “And please tell Mr. Soames we require his presence at dinner to balance our table. Drummond as well.”

  Rochefort’s concern had shifted to amusement, and I realized I was ordering my husband about as if he were the butler. Then again, I was quite certain the request for Mr. Soames and Drummond to dine with us each night would be accepted with less protest if coming from him.

  “I shall, of course, do as you request, my lady,” my husband returned blandly, but I saw his lips twitch. Could I help it if Papa left me to give all the orders in our household?

  I survived the garden—even though I was well aware twice the number of armed guards could not protect us from a sniper at a higher elevation. I could only pray any and all enemies had been frightened off long since.

  But the sun graced the day by shining brightly, a rare day for an English spring, and the garden was glorious, even if the perennial borders were not yet at their best. We walked down a series of parterres, past colorful flowers spilling from giant urns, while a fountain broadcast the sound of a tinkling waterfall. We paused to examine the intricacies of a knot garden, eyed the buds in the rose garden that would soon burst into bloom, adding even more sweet scents to the exotic blend of fragrances around us. Eventually, we made our way back to the fountain, where we rested on white marble benches, continuing to enjoy the spectacle around us. Almost . . . almost I found solace for my troubled soul. Until I overheard my mother-in-law complaining about the amount of money dear Julian had spent refurbishing the Abbey for his new bride when it had been perfectly fine just as it was.

  Evidently the target I felt on my back was for a different kind of sniper than I’d feared. After rather abrupt apologies to my older guests, I swept up Phoebe and Lexa and set out for the house, where we spent the remainder of the afternoon hiding in my room and once again indulging in girl-talk. Something I had never had an opportunity to do. Nor, I suspected, had Lexa. Phoebe, however, admitted to a traditional upbringing, surrounded by many young women her age. But, she added, she had always been the one who was different—too bookish, too outspoken to be “unexceptional,” the term of approval for young ladies of quality. Phoebe, like Lexa and myself, never quite conformed to the expectations for a young lady of her class.

  Right then and there, the three of us agreed we did not want to be butter stamps of the young ladies who had gone before us. We wanted to live on our own terms, be the women our vision saw for ourselves, not what—

  I was married. Yet my thoughts were those of Araminta Galsworthy of London
, not Lady Rochefort of Stonegrave Abbey. There was still hope for Phoebe—if she wished to join the pack, that is—but I had sold my soul to the devil for his machines. (Been sold by my Papa, I swiftly amended.) And Lexa? I suspected she would never have the opportunity to choose her own fate either. Too many powerful people seemed determined to do it for her. Sometimes a girl simply had no choice but to make the best of what Fate dictated.

  My inner voice still echoed a faint protest, but my common sense knew better. My fate had been sealed with that Marriage Settlement six long years ago. I was caught up in treason with no hope of escape. And beginning to realize, oh-so-reluctantly, that I didn’t want to.

  When Drummond and Mr. Soames joined us in the drawing room just before supper, I strongly suspected Soames would have turned tail and run if the Scotsman had not clamped his beefy hand over the smaller man’s arm. I felt sorry for him, but this would give me an opportunity to become better acquainted with the men who kept our household running smoothly.

  Drummond, I’d been told, had come to us from a Scottish household, one of Lord Carlyon’s many properties. He, I knew, must be accustomed to making up the numbers at table, but Soames . . .? I sighed, fearing his conversation would be as insignificant as his looks. With nondescript brown hair, pale gray eyes, a thin, angular face, and pointed nose, his countenance was rather off-putting. Nor was his appearance aided by clothing that tended toward the evangelical. I reminded myself that this was the man who had produced an army, seemingly overnight.

  The truth was, I could sympathize with Soames, who was likely longing for the peace and quiet of his office. I wished myself back in my basement workshop at Galsworthy House, bent over Maia’s engine, finding ways to make it smaller and lighter, so I could soar—

  “My lords, my ladies, dinner is served.” Daniel’s voice pierced my wandering mind. I accepted Lord Carlyon’s arm and led the parade into the dining room.