“Do not undress.” The words Rochefort whispered as our guests headed upstairs to their bedchambers for the night, might not have been what a new bride expects to hear from her husband, but I was swept by a surge of elation. Something was afoot. Had he decided to trust me, after all?
I left my door ajar, waiting for the house to quiet—no voices in the hall, no sound of shutting doors, just Rochefort’s footsteps or at least the creak of a nearby floorboard. But he surprised me, materializing from my dressing room, carrying a voluminous mass of black fabric. “Dominos,” he announced curtly, thrusting a mass of silk into my hand. “Here, put this on.”
I shook out the fabric, found the front opening. “We’re going to a masquerade?” I inquired with more than a hint of sarcasm as I fastened the hooded cloak around my shoulders.
Rochefort, having donned his own domino, reached out and pulled up my hood, effectively turning me into a giant ink blot, the only visible part of me a few inches of my face, and that only from directly in front. After surveying me from head to toe, he proffered a short grunt of approval and raised his own hood. Mr. and Mrs. Anonymous.
Carrying a dark lantern in one hand and clasping my hand firmly in the other, he led me to the ground floor via a narrow back staircase I had not yet discovered. He cautioned me to silence as we passed through a corridor quite close to the kitchen area, but I heard not so much as the scampering of a mouse hopeful for a tidbit from the pantry.
Up a few stone steps . . . Rochefort unbarred a door, and we were out. Out! I breathed in the cool, fresh night air, and my feet froze on the threshold.
“Minta?” Rochefort’s grip tightened until my hand hurt.
“I’m sorry, give me a moment.”
“A–ah,” Rochefort breathed. “You present such a brave front to the world—were you not out in the garden today?—I never stopped to think.” He folded his arms around me, his great black cape fluttering in the evening breeze.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into his chest. “I never expected to be such a coward.”
“Will you trust me, Minta? Trust the night, our cloaks, the guards?” His chin rested lightly on top of my hood. “We’ve finished the airship, and I wanted you to be the first to see it.”
Galsworthys weren’t raised to crumple at the first sign of adversity. Even if it was a bullet to the head. Rochefort deserved better. He had thought he was marrying a proud tigress from the royalty of creativity and had gotten a mewling kitten instead.
I straightened my shoulders, adjusted my hood. “I’m ready.”
We clung close to the Abbey wall. When it ended, Rochefort paused, holding me close until a cloud passed over the half moon above us. Then we ran across the cobbled space between the house and stables, passing the dark shadow of the Abbey’s miniature locomotive. After that, we kept to the shadows of the stable wall and, finally, the towering shadow of the workshop. The moon was back out, and I could clearly see the spot where one rifle shot had hit us both. I shivered. Rochefort pressed me to the wall, then stretched out his hand, knocking on the door in a pattern that was clearly a prearranged signal. The door opened and he dragged me inside.
I threw back my hood and gazed at the airship. I’d found it glorious by daylight, but illuminated by flickering gaslight, it was like some magical chariot of the gods. My fear fell away, banished by awe.
“Ain’t she grand?” Matt Black declared, and I had to agree.
“Come,” Rochefort said, “let me show you the inside.”
I followed eagerly, peering into the engine compartment in the rear, exclaiming over the three rows of seats with an aisle down the middle, the two pilots’ chairs and broad glass viewport constructed of six panes of thick glass at the rounded front. “The nose is counter-weighted to balance the weight of the engine,” he told me, “and the steering mechanism connects beneath the floor to the propeller in the rear.”
He motioned me into one of the captains’ chairs. Seating himself beside me, he gestured toward the panels of thick glass set into the front of the ship. “Imagine sitting here, the whole world laid out below you. Houses, farms, roads, rivers, bridges, London itself . . .” His voice trailed away, his mind obviously caught up in the miracle of flight.
“And you really think it will work?” Not a skeptical remark. My shining eyes and the hope in my voice attested to that.
Rochefort came back to earth. “We’ll find out tomorrow when we test it.”
“Tomorrow?” In broad daylight?”
My husband laughed. “Do not sound so horrified, Minta. You know this moment comes for every invention.”
“But now . . . after what happened. And with all these witnesses?”
“This is a secret whose time has come,” he responded with patience. “If we can but keep its purpose secret, I’ll be satisfied.”
Purpose. Inventors created for the sake of bringing new ideas to life, did they not? Or bringing breaths of fresh air to old ideas. Like Roberta, who was only a grand step up from the intricate automatons of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
Once again, I was shaken by chagrin. I had thought only of the glory of Rochefort creating a machine for controlled flight. That it had a purpose beyond its existence never occurred to me. Did he envision a transportation fleet, the next step up from railways?
Clearly, living in my husband’s world was going to be even more stimulating and edifying than I had imagined. And far more dangerous.
“Are you planning to rival the railway?” I asked.
Rochefort smiled. “Eventually. Right now my target is a trifle more specific.”
“And you were going to tell me when?”
“Knowledge is dangerous, Minta. Let us see first if this thing will fly.”
I wondered if he could hear the grinding of my teeth.
“Do we start ’er moving at first light, Guv?” I turned to see Matt’s head sticking through the door behind us.
“Not a jot before half six,” Rochefort told him. “I’d prefer a few winks before we get up steam.”
“Aye, Guv, half six it is.” Matt flashed one of his cocky grins and popped back out.
“The best view will be from the rear corner of the west wing,” Rochefort said. “I told Mrs. E to keep it empty, with precisely this occasion in mind.”
We’d been adversaries, my husband and I, from the moment I learned of our long engagement. And just as I’d begun to allow myself a ray of hope, he’d plunged me into treason. But this . . . this marvelous machine demanded that I rise above our personal conflict and admit what I was thinking.
“Rochefort . . . Julian?” He stared down at me, eyes solemn, as if sensing the significance of the moment. “No matter what happens, I want you to know how wonderful this airship is. It’s a grand accomplishment. And if it does not work tomorrow, I know you’ll make it happen soon.”
He had the most peculiar look on his face. For the life of me I couldn’t place it. Possibly somewhere between hope and the urge to strangle me. “I hope,” he said carefully, “you will continue to think of me as Julian . . . and that you will consider, when we are successful, what an American senator put so aptly—‘to the victor belong the spoils.’”
Dear God, did he mean what I thought he meant? I turned away to hide the scarlet I could feel rushing from my toes to my head. Again. I so lacked the sophistication necessary to a titled lady.
My husband stood, reaching out a hand to help me to my feet. “As I said, a short night. Time to get some sleep before tomorrow’s unveiling.”
We returned to the house as furtively as we’d come, seeing no one. With so many new, very private thoughts chasing through my head, I was settling into my pillow before I recalled that I would not be alone for the airship trial. Since it would no longer be a secret, I could share the moment with Phoebe and Lexa.
My joy dimmed a bit when I realized we would be a crowd in the west wing’s north corner, as it was unlikely even the older ladies could contain their curio
sity over something so unusual. Lord Carlyon and Lord Wandsley would, I assumed, join the men at the launch site.
Launch site. Merciful heavens, Rochefort—Julian—was really going to do it. Tomorrow he was going to fly.
I scarcely slept at all.
Chapter 12
I finally slept as predawn crept in at some ungodly early hour, only to dream of Mrs. E prancing, stark naked, around a bonfire-lit pentagram while Mrs. H fell to her knees, weeping and wailing, a cross in one hand and a bible in the other. The bonfire suddenly exploded into a fireball, consuming both sisters and the equally bare witches and warlocks who had joined Mrs. E in revelry.
I woke, quivering, eyes wide, peering into the gloom. Nothing stirred, not even Roberta. My nightmare must have been conjured from some odd combination of the rapidly approaching Mid-summer’s Eve and the fire in the stables. I peered at the clock on the mantel. Half seven! I muttered a few of the choice words my Papa reserved for a crisis and scrambled out of bed. The airship had begun its journey to the park a full hour ago. Evidently, after several days of sunshine, the weather had reverted to a more typical spring mizzle.
I needn’t have panicked. By the time I dressed and raced to the far end of the house, with Tillie chasing after me juggling coffee and toast, a team of men was just settling the airship on top of the little train’s open passenger cars. Of course! For the first time I understood why the train tracks extended beyond the pavilion. Looking toward the park beyond, I saw that the great balloon had already made the trip, as had a huge pumping engine, mounted on its own set of train wheels.
Fortunately, the two windows in the west bedchamber which overlooked the park bowed out, leaving space for a padded seat. The window I chose was reluctant to open, but after I’d managed it, I could hear the engine clearly. Thunk-athunk-athunk, very likely pumping in the special gas compound I planned to use in Maia. For where else had Papa acquired the formula but from his friend, Baron Rochefort?
“Oo-oo, m’lady,” Tillie breathed in my ear as she peered over my shoulder.
“A grand sight, is it not?” We exchanged smiles. Clearly, Tillie was almost as excited as I was. “Would you please wake Lady Phoebe and Miss Smythe? I’m sure they would like to see this.”
“And the older ladies, m’lady?”
“I see Lord Carlyon and Lord Wandsley below, so I expect their wives are aware of what is going on. But you might make sure Lady Thistlewaite is up and about.”
Even before Tillie bobbed her head and left the room, I was back to peering out the window. The airship, now roped firmly to the train’s open passenger seats began to move slowly forward, a phalanx of men on each side. Drummond drove the locomotive, with Rochefort walking backward only a foot or two from the tracks, never taking his gaze off his precious airship. Matt Black matched him, step for step.
By the time Phoebe and Lexa arrived, reacting with incredulous gasps as they settled themselves on the window seat next to mine, the balloon was nearly inflated, tugging at the ropes that held it down. And the airship, still perched on top of the small train’s bench seats, had successfully made the journey to the test site.
“Lady Thistlewaite and her guests have settled into the bedchamber next to this, my lady,” Tillie told me. “And requested breakfast be sent up. Shall I do the same for you?”
“A grand idea,” Phoebe cried.
“Indeed, Tillie, thank you,” I said.
“I’m not sure I could swallow a single morsel,” Lexa added so quietly we almost missed her words. A quick glance in her direction revealed a face more solemn than excited, with perhaps a dash of . . . terror? Surely not. It wasn’t as if anyone was asking her to fly in the thing. Was she suffering from an attack of overly vivid imagination? Too much sensitivity? Somehow I doubted it. In spite of what appeared to be an unusually sheltered upbringing, Lexa did not seem to be one of those flighty young women given to an excess of sensibility.
All thoughts of Lexa disappeared as I saw the men begin to take the ropes off the airship. They were about to trundle it the final few feet to the park, where they would hook it to the balloon. I’d experienced the maneuver often enough with Maia, even though we had yet to perfect the engine.
I thought I caught Julian’s voice shouting instructions, but perhaps that was simply wishful thinking. I longed to be there, part of this great moment, but the men below were tempting fate enough without having to worry about the safety of females. Hopefully, the armed guards had discouraged the person who had set fire to the workshop and the assassin with a rifle. But woods ringed the park. Not even so many armed guards could adequately defend. . .
Stop!
For once, my frequently annoying inner voice, my common sense, and I all agreed. We would ignore outside threats, accept that we must watch from the Abbey windows, and thoroughly enjoy observing the airship’s maiden voyage from a judicious distance.
A voyage which was going agonizingly slowly, but at last a ring of men managed to lower it to the ground next to the balloon. Julian closely supervised the latching of the hooks on the balloon to the sturdy rings on top of the airship. I must have made a choking sound as he hopped up into the ship, followed by Matt, for Phoebe said, “It’s all right, Minta. Father says Rochefort is a genius. It’s going to work, I know it is.”
“She’s right,” Lexa echoed. “We have all put our faith in Lord Rochefort’s airship. It simply has to work.”
I bit my lip and waited, never taking my eyes off the tableau below. It seemed to take forever, even though I knew the engine had to get up a good head of steam before Julian would be able to steer it.
The balloon strained toward the sky, held to the earth only by ropes tethered to iron rings on rods thrust deep into the ground. And then it happened. Julian waved from the airship’s doorway and the ropes were untied, now held fast only by four clusters of men with muscles bulging under the strain. I fisted my hands over my mouth. I forgot to breathe.
Drummond waved his hand, evidently responding to a signal from inside the airship. The men let go. At first I thought nothing was happening, that it wasn’t going to work. The balloon, almost like a horse not quite realizing the fence gate was open, seemed to sniff at the air, testing its freedom, before rising slowly, gradually taking up the slack between it and the airship.
And then, like the burst of speed at the start of a horse-race, the balloon charged upward, opening a gap between the airship and the ground, revealing both rudder and propeller. Dear heavens, it wasn’t balanced, the tail hung heavier than the nose. The airship door opened, and several objects fell to earth.
“What was that?” Lexa cried.
“Ballast,” I told her around the lump in my throat. “They’re balancing the load.”
And, sure enough, the tail rose. One more ballast dump, and the airship’s keel was as flat as the Abbey’s drawing room floor. I heaved a great sigh. Galsworthys might not be faint-hearted, but I had not fully realized how much I cared about my husband and his airship until I saw something go wrong.
But of course things went wrong. Things always went wrong on first tests.
But when one tested a locomotive, or any of Papa’s other inventions, lives were not at risk. Well, perhaps in the early days when boilers had a tendency to run amok . . .
Up, up, up. Blast it, any balloon could do that. I was holding my breath again. Someone, probably Matt, was pulling the tether ropes into the ship, one by one. And then the airship moved forward, heading out over the park, over the ha-ha and the sheep, over the woods, over the outer fence . . .
Drifting on the wind?
No! Still climbing, it moved to the right of its previous course. Back to the left, nose slightly down. Dear God in Heaven, it was working! Julian was steering it where he willed.
Arms hugged me tight—Phoebe and Lexa joining me in triumph . . . and sympathizing with my fear. The power of friendship played games with my fragile emotions, comforting me but also reminding me how alone I’d been through
all the years until now. When I got past my moment of weakness and once again concentrated on the airship, I almost screamed. It was no more than a small blot on the misty horizon.
He wouldn’t, he couldn’t . . . Surely Julian never intended to leave the Abbey grounds on this first trial. Insanity! It was too soon. The engine had failed, they were drifting on the wind—that must be it. They could come down in the trees . . . or the river . . . on top of a house, destroying all Julian’s hard work.
And Julian with it.
Low-hanging gray clouds swallowed the dot in the sky that held my husband and his crew. They were gone. Wordlessly, Phoebe, Lexa, and I looked at each other.
“Never you fear, my lady,” Tillie declared from her position just behind us. “He’ll be back, and right as rain. Just you wait and see.”
We sat at our respective windows and did just that, our conversation desultory at best. But no matter how I strained my eyes, nothing but an occasional bird came out of the mist. Drummond and the men waited below—some, like me, straining for sight of the ship, others with shoulders slumped, obviously fearing the worst.
I heard a shout. Hands waving, pointing. Straight at the house. I leaned out the window, looked up, and a dangling rope promptly swatted me in the face. I gasped, popped back inside, grateful the rope hadn’t sent me plunging to the ground below. I heard Papa’s voice quite clearly. Now, Minta, I always told you experiments are not without risk
I clung to the window frame as the airship, ropes dangling from all four corners, nosed its way from directly over the house to its mooring, where men reached high into the air, ready to grab the tether ropes. The sneak! Coming at us from the opposite direction. I could wring his neck.
His daring, startlingly successful neck.
Heedless of any danger, I bolted out of the room, down the stairs, and ran for the park.
I arrived just in time to see Matt hop out of the airship, put down the steps, then stand proudly at attention, waiting for Rochefort to descend. I nearly skidded to a halt, the strict rules of female behavior rearing their ugly heads as I plunged into a sea of all males.
Airborne - The Hanover Restoration Page 11
