Airborne - The Hanover Restoration

by Blair Bancroft

  “No!” Lexa and Phoebe spoke together, eyes wide, totally shocked.

  “I would agree,” I told them, “but we have not been party to the planning. We sit in the calm center while the storm swirls around us, all that plotting and planning from the Highlands to Cornwall and across the sea to Ireland—”

  “Precisely,” Lexa exclaimed. “Surely we are far past the time when it can be stopped.”

  “But we are discovered, and no one wishes to risk your life. If a delay means success at another time . . .” Incredibly, I heard myself arguing against my own inclinations.

  “But stirring up the crowds in London has already begun,” Lexa asserted. I had never seen her look so stubborn. She was becoming more of a monarch every day.

  “What I’m trying to say . . .” I took a deep breath and began again. “As much as I dislike admitting it, I think we must defer to those who have been doing the planning, most particularly Rochefort. And you, Lexa, must also have a say, for no one has more to risk.”

  To my surprise, the future queen’s lips curled into a smile. “My opinion counts for very little if Rochefort will not take me.”

  Shaking my head, I responded with a rueful smile of my own. “Will the day ever come when women lead men into battle?”

  “Boudicca, Joan of Arc,” Phoebe announced triumphantly.

  “And look what happened to them,” I countered.

  “Most women have better sense than to want to go to war,” Lexa decreed. “Wars are costly and drain away the best of our young men. Far better to engage in commerce and expand our horizons.”

  Phoebe and I stared, our mouths inelegantly open. This from Lexa who had previously shown no depth of knowledge, or even interest in, the country she would govern. I had the impression she merely flowed with the Carlyon tide, a figurehead riding the crest of the monarchist wave. Not that monarchs ruled as they had in the old days. The cracks in absolute monarchy that began with the Magna Carta had long since become Parliamentarian rule.

  Until the Lord Protector seized power.

  Inwardly, I groaned. If Parliament, not George IV, had held power, what excuse did Wellington have for taking over the government?

  But of course the answer was clear. Because the monarchy was a glorious figurehead, which should never be tarnished. And George the Fourth had been a disgrace to the nation for at least a quarter century before Wellington’s coup.

  But was living under a dictatorship better than a dissolute monarch? And, merciful heavens, I’d never asked what kind of government the monarchists had in mind. Surely they didn’t expect Lexa to actually rule . . .

  No, of course not. The only way to win the backing of the peers of the realm and the Members of Parliament was to assure them their power would be restored.

  No wonder Prince George had come dashing to the Abbey. With so many people aware of the projected rebellion, it was a wonder it had taken this long . . .

  But it hadn’t.

  I’d been shot the day after I arrived.

  But how had anyone outside the heart of the conspiracy known that the Abbey was the center of the plot? That Lexa would be here?

  A useless speculation. Each home, from Balmoral to Lord Carlyon’s vast country estate, contained a multitude of servants. Any one of them might have let slip a careless word. Then again, who killed the daguerrotypist? Did we truly have a traitor in our midst?

  I rang for tea, but the camaraderie the three of us usually enjoyed was sadly subdued. Whether Prince George was friend or foe, there was little doubt—the enemy was among us.

  Good manners demanded that Julian invite the prince to spend the night at the Abbey before beginning his long journey back to his post in Ireland. Lexa dined in her room, with six well-armed guards at her door and our entire private army on alert outside. Another sleepless night for Julian, as he anticipated Prince George proving to be a Trojan horse.

  Nothing happened. The sun came up, spreading diffused light behind banks of gray clouds promising rain, but the countryside lay calm and peaceful, with no more sound than the twitter of birds and the ever-present hum of the machines in the cellar. As Julian and I bid farewell to the prince, we were only moments from breathing mutual sighs of relief when he said, “I regret I did not have the opportunity to meet my cousin Drina. Please convey my compliments to her and assure her that if the monarchy should be revived, I fully acknowledge her claim to the throne.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was more stunned by his certainty Lexa was here or by his open statement of treason.

  And then Lexa’s young cousin added, “I knew Drina when she was no more than a dumpling of a child, but a match was spoken of, even then. I would be obliged if you would express my warmest regards to my cousin and assure her I stand ready to share her burden.” Prince George straightened his shoulders, as if only now becoming conscious of the startling effect of his words. “If, that is,” he added stiffly, “she wishes my help.”

  I gaped. Prince George was offering himself as Prince Consort?

  Even Rochefort let two beats go by before he summoned a smooth, “If I should have the pleasure of meeting your cousin, Highness, I will gladly pass on your message.” He proffered a precise bow before escorting the prince down the steps to his carriage.

  The moment Julian returned to the house, I dragged him into the morning room. “He knew. All the time he knew Lexa was here!”

  Julian sank into a well-upholstered chair, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “So it would seem,” he muttered.

  “Not a well-kept secret.”

  “Obviously not.”

  Was the prince’s offer of marriage sincere? I wondered as I stood at the window watching the dust settle behind his coach. Or would we find the entire British army camped in London’s parks, ready to annihilate our small band of monarchists?

  I plumped myself down in the chair next to Julian and leaned close. “Perhaps the whispering campaign has been so successful that everyone truly believes the rightful queen is about to appear in their midst. You, your mother, the Carlyons, and the Wandsleys are all known monarchists. As was my father. And here we all are at the Abbey with a mysterious young lady from Scotland, while you darken the skies of Hertfordshire with a giant flying machine. Really, Rochefort, the astonishing fact is that you thought you could keep such a secret.”

  He glowered, still and silent as one of Lord Elgin’s marbles. “You cannot have it both ways,” I added. “The whispering campaign was designed to pave Lexa’s way, was it not? So she would find London eagerly expecting the arrival of its rightful monarch. Without the whispers and the broadsheets, Lexa remains the deep, dark secret you wanted her to be. She arrives in town unheralded, is snapped up by Horse Guards, and hauled off to the Tower without so much as a whimper of protest. Believe me, secrecy is not your friend at the moment, although,” I conceded, “it might be a deal more comfortable.”

  Julian raised his head, eyes narrowed above his steepled fingers. “I knew there was some reason I married you,” he growled.

  Not quite the praise a new bride wishes to hear. I sighed and patted his hand. “A little sleep and you’ll feel more the thing.” Unwise words—evidently the final straw for a man accustomed to being in charge.

  Julian straightened in his chair, regarding me more like a stern parent than a husband. “Minta, we are talking about the future of the country. You are entitled to keep your rosy view of our situation, but it is my responsibility to look to the worst that can happen. Particularly as I have failed so abominably over the past few days. I appreciate your attempt to cheer me up, but kindly remember who must say yea or nay to this enterprise.”

  Thoroughly rebuked, I sat back in my chair, tears threatening.

  Silly twit.

  Coward.

  Am not!

  Well? my annoying inner voice and my common sense chimed in unison.

  Fine. There had to be something . . .

  “Rochefort?” I ventured. A grunt was my sol
e reply. “We must go to London. Not just send someone, but go ourselves. I have business there, after all. I must make sure Papa’s engineers are maintaining his high standards. And naturally, as my husband, you would accompany me.”

  “Leave the Abbey? Leave the queen? Are you mad?”

  “Then I will go alone.”

  “You will not!” Across the twelve inches of space between our chairs, we glared at each other. “I’ll send Drummond,” Julian asserted.

  “Londoners confide in a Scot? Don’t be daft!”

  Julian heaved a sigh, ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “I’ll think on it,” he conceded.

  Which meant he’d confer with Lord Carlyon, Lord Wandsley, and Drummond, leaving Lexa and me with no say at all. Not that I had any right . . . but I was Lexa’s friend. I cared what happened to her. As a person, not solely as a queen.

  A wave of goosebumps shook me. Had Papa known about the long-term monarchist plot when he sold me to Rochefort? Had he realized he was gambling my life for Elbert? Or had he thought to tie me to the tail of a comet, my life and Julian’s soaring with the rise of the girl destined to be queen?

  A serious gamble.

  An exciting one.

  The sword of Damocles hung over our heads, suspended by a thread, yet, to my astonishment, I realized there was no where on earth I would rather be.

  Chapter 19

  We didn’t go to London, of course. If the Abbey weren’t so solidly constructed, the chorus of protests that met Rochefort’s announcement would have blown the roof off. The gist of it seemed to be that Julian was too well known and too vital to the cause. And a disguise was out of the question. I might pass for a flower vendor or even a milkmaid—I had an ear for the varied accents of London’s streets—but Rochefort? Quite impossible. He’d never look or sound like anything but the aristocrat he was.

  When we faced reality, the solution was obvious. Who better suited to find out what was happening on the streets of London than Matt Black? Who more worthy of Rochefort’s trust?

  Well-armed with a jingling money pouch, Matt took the next train to town. While we waited, the tension was so thick we could almost slice it and serve it for supper. We might as well have, for we had little appetite for the fine food Mrs. H labored to put on our plates. Was London ready to rise for its true queen? Or would Matt find a vast sea of red coats waiting with swords, rifles, and cannon?

  Or, worst case, would he find both factions with roiling tempers, the threat of blood running like a river through London’s West End?

  Surely all those military sons of peers in the House of Lords would come down on the side of monarchy? And those who remembered what had happened the last time we strayed from monarchy—the turbulent times when Cromwell seized power? And those who simply reveled in the pomp and circumstance of royalty, so much more colorful and inspiring than an aging, autocratic field marshal, who was beginning to act more like his ancient foe, Napoleon Bonaparte? Could Wellington truly compete with a fresh-faced young queen who radiated the hope of new beginnings?

  Keep this up and you’ll begin to feel sorry for the old crank.

  I stopped pacing the drawing room carpet and told my inner voice to be quiet.

  Perhaps he’s ready to retire, I countered. And far too full of himself to think anyone in the present government can take his place.

  “Melbourne . . .” As if echoing my conversation with myself, Lady Thistlewaite’s voice rose above the voices at the card table. “Are you sure he’s with us? If Wellington names him his successor, will not the role of emperor triumph over our offer of Prime Minister?”

  “He is not ambitious,” Rochefort intoned from the far side of the room, where he stood stiffly, hands behind his back, obviously even more worried about Matt than I was. “It was not easy to get Melbourne to consider the post of Prime Minister, and I can guarantee the thought of reigning as uncrowned emperor, as Wellington has, chills him to the soul.”

  “All those troubles with his wife—God rest her soul,” Lady Thistlewaite declared. “I fear they scarred him for life. Twelve years a widower, and he’s never remarried.”

  “Can you blame him, poor man?” Lady Wandsley huffed.”

  “Melbourne’s much too kindly to follow in the Lord Protector’s footsteps,” Lord Wandsley barked. “Not even sure he was the right choice for P.M., but beggars can’t be choosers. All too many willing to be followers, but few enough ready to stand up and declare openly for the monarchy.”

  “What about the Lord Chamberlain and Canterbury?” Lady Thistlewaite asked.

  “Pale but willing,” Carlyon returned after a snort of derision. “At the moment the fence is decidedly crowded. Everything depends on how well we carry off our part in the plot.”

  “The power of the ultimate presentation,” Lady Thistlewaite pronounced in ringing tones. Proving that, on occasion, my mother-in-law and I could actually agree.

  Silence reigned, signaling, I was certain, a whole host of prayers being sent heavenward from the Abbey drawing room.

  The heavy silence was broken only when Jacob brought in the evening tea tray. After I poured for everyone and passed around a plate of Mrs. H’s delicacies, I took a deep breath and said, “I have an idea I’d like to suggest.”

  I was the same age, size, and coloring as the future queen of England, and they looked at me almost exactly as they looked at Lexa. As if the teapot had suddenly decided to enter the conversation. Well, not Julian perhaps, but the way the others were regarding me . . . Me, Araminta Galsworthy, who had been raised in a household where new ideas were our life’s blood. Literally. How else could we afford to live in relative luxury? But to these people who had never earned a single penny in their entire lives—”

  “Go ahead, Minta,” Julian said, his tone hedging a trifle too close to indulgence. “Tell us.”

  I ceased my mental grumbling and got on with it. “Even if Matt brings back good news, even if London is waiting for its queen with baited breath, there’s bound to be resistance. An attack could come from Cumberland’s mercenaries almost as easily as from the Lord Protector’s soldiers.”

  “Cumberland?” Lady Wandsley exclaimed.

  “His son may be blind, but his ambitions run high,” Rochefort responded. “What is Hanover when he could have Britain?”

  “We think he is more likely to be behind the violence against us than Wellington,” I added.

  “Merciful heavens,” Lady Wandsley murmured, while the others registered varying degrees of surprise that I had dared speak for Rochefort as well as myself.

  “But what does that mean?” Lexa asked, speaking up for the first time.

  “There was something odd about Prince George’s visit,” I began.

  “Agreed,” Rochefort interjected.

  Encouraged, I plunged ahead. “He may have come solely on his own behalf, sniffing after the role of Prince Consort, but it’s possible Rochefort was right all along, that Prince George was an emissary from Wellington.” I paused for effect. “But not in the way we imagined.”

  A ring of doubting eyes surrounded me, but at least I had their full attention. “I had the strangest feeling the prince was trying to tell us something he couldn’t say out loud. As if, perhaps . . . Wellington has run his course.” I spoke slowly, struggling to grab threads of random ideas and organize them into coherent thought. “He is a man who has held great power since his days long ago on the Peninsula. An abrupt, autocratic man who seized the government because he felt he must. As he saw it, the monarchy was failing in leadership while spending the country into oblivion.”

  A sound much like a growl came from Lord Carlyon. “Which, damn the king and his profligacies, was all too true.”

  Heads nodded, lips pursed, but I had caught their attention. “In many ways the Lord Protector did us a service, but he proved he was all-too-human when he let power go to his head.” Soft murmurs of agreement flowed around me. “But possibly, just possibly,” I continued, “now t
hat he is past seventy, he has begun to recognize his faults. Or perhaps he is simply tired and ready to give it all up—”

  “Unrealistic,” Lord Wandsley snapped. “Typical female maunderings.”

  “I’ve told you, Minta, we must always plan for worst case,” Rochefort added, shifting from patronizingly tolerant to stern. “We can’t afford to be influenced by wishful thinking and girlish speculation.”

  He would pay for that. But I forged ahead, determined to make my point. “Worst case or best case,” I declared in a voice that carried over the murmurs of agreement with Rochefort’s words, “we need a diversion.”

  Julian promptly topped his condescending attitude by sweeping my suggestion aside, saying we needed to hear what Matt had to report before considering any additional plans. Sensible perhaps, but that didn’t keep my feelings from being hurt. Just wait until I got him alone . . .

  No, a quarrel with Rochefort over such a slight would be Childish. But if I weren’t in my room when he came to me . . .

  My lips tended to twitch as I presided over the evening tea tray, smiling graciously while my thoughts were elsewhere. My duties as hostess had kept me from my beautiful workshop—for which, admittedly, I had Julian to thank. But there was no reason, other than the thought of ghosts, goblins, and long-dead monks, that I could not work at night. Particularly now that a diversion was needed. I might be the sole person who saw the benefit of it, but when the time came I would be ready.

  Later that night, a shocked Tillie helped me out of my gown and corset and into a loose-fitting fustian gown that had been new when Elbert was still on the drawing table. “M’lady, you ain’t never going down t’the cellars at this time of night.”

  “When else?” I responded lightly. “By day, I must play Lady of the Manor, coping with a houseful of guests, some more than a trifle demanding, I might add.”

  “M’lady! A man was murdered down there. Less’n a week past. It’s not right, m’lady, not right a’tall.”