Airborne - The Hanover Restoration

by Blair Bancroft

  Ah. “But I’m not,” I protested softly after recovering my breath. “No one is after me. I’m only in danger when I’m mistaken for Lexa.”

  “You’d be totally exposed, Minta. No walls, no covering of any kind. Flying over the heart of London, over a crowd spotted with hired bully boys who will do anything to stop our cause. Nor is it the country, Minta. Besides people who might shoot you down for the fun of it, there are steeples and towers and smoke and—”

  “It’s Green Park, for heaven’s sake. Which leads to Hyde Park. All I have to do is avoid Wellington’s bloody great house. Do you think I don’t know how to steer?”

  “Minta!”

  I clamped a fist against my mouth and ducked my head. I dared not let him see me cry. That’s all the proof he’d need that I was unfit for the task I proposed to do.

  Rochefort plunged his head into his hands. Silence descended. In spite of the warm summer night, I was suddenly cold. It shouldn’t matter so much that no one would listen to me, consider using me. But I was part of this now and, God help me, I truly wanted to see Lexa—Princess Alexandrina Victoria—on the throne.

  And I wanted Elbert to take us to London, so Papa could be part of it all. Papa, whose dreams had gone far beyond the world of machines.

  “They will be suspicious,” Julian said at last. “Everyone knows you are my wife.”

  “They also know I am my father’s daughter. “Not so surprising the apple falls not far from the tree.”

  “But the timing—”

  “Let them be suspicious. That’s the whole point, is it not? They will be watching me, not you.”

  “Which means I will not be there to help you if something goes wrong.” Julian’s fingers wove through his hair. He shook his head.

  “We are a gallant and sporting nation, Julian. No one is going to harm a young lady daring enough to fly alone above the heart of London. And if I do it right, some of the admiration should descend on Lexa, another young woman presenting herself, alone, to the crowd.”

  “You’re mad,” he huffed. “As am I if I let you do it.”

  “Let me?” I shouted, jumping to my feet. “How dare—”

  But of course he dared. He was my husband, and I mere chattel. That was the way of our world. I could be a female Leonard da Vinci or Galileo, and still my husband would rule my life.

  Perhaps a queen on the throne would make a difference . . . but Lexa had been ruled so long by others, brought up to be a puppet instead of a princess royal . . .

  Merciful heavens, I was destroying our house of cards before it was begun.

  Strong arms enveloped me, pressing my head into Julian’s chest. “You are very bright and very brave,” he said, “and I would be a fool not to listen to you. A diversion it is. And may God help us all.”

  Cook used to wink and say, “Never ferget, dearie. The best part of a quarrel is making it up.”

  She was right.

  The euphoria of Matt’s encouraging news soon faded into the nightmare of logistics. The Abbey walls rang with the pros and cons of moving Aurora to London—to the point I feared Lord Carlyon might have an apoplexy. He turned positively purple as he shouted for the eighth or ninth time, “It’s impossible, I tell you. Quite impossible!”

  I had to bite my tongue to keep from joining the argument, for I knew anything I, a mere female, might say would only increase his stubborn determination to cling to his own highly negative point of view.

  “We have moved Aurora on and off our train at least a half dozen times,” Rochefort countered. “It can’t be that much more difficult to put her up on the open cars of the London & Birmingham.”

  “And let the whole world see her? There’ll be troops waiting at Euston Station, mark my words. End of the line for us all.”

  I watched, eyes wide, as Rochefort offered a reassuring smile. Truth was, I had to admit my suggested revision of the monarchists’ master plan created almost as many problems as it solved, and I was shamelessly counting on Julian to solve these tricky issues.

  “I am known for creating machines, am I not?” my husband asked. “And I am married to a woman who owns an engineering workshop north of Regency Park?” Around the crowded drawing room, heads nodded. “And it is logical that I might have created a machine, a large machine, for that workshop, a workshop with train tracks that run straight into the building?”

  A susurration of indrawn breaths and soft whispers as Rochefort’s point struck home. “Someday airships may be giant, carrying passengers ’round the world, but Aurora is not. We can wrap her up, transport her to Tring, tie her down on top of a second class carriage, and have her inside the Galsworthy workshop before dawn breaks over St. Paul’s.”

  “You have the London & Birmingham at your beck and call?” Carlyon demanded, skepticism dripping from every word.

  “I believe my wife does,” Rochefort responded smoothly. “Without Josiah Galsworthy there would be no London & Birmingham.”

  One of the finest moments of my life, and all I could feel were the goosebumps rising on my arms.

  “Minta?” Julian’s face was so full of pride I wanted to savor the moment, wallow in my husband’s approval, but it was the daughter of Josiah Galsworthy who was needed now, not the socially acceptable Baroness Rochefort who never sullied her hands with commerce.

  I rose to my feet, knowing this was it, the moment I must convince them that my idea could increase the likelihood of our success. “During the last years of my father’s illness,” I told my house guests, “I handled all Galsworthy business. I will have no difficulty arranging a special night run to London.” I smiled, hoping a touch of levity would ease the disapproval, even shock, on the faces around the room. “As long, of course, as the L & B receives a little something extra for their trouble.”

  Lexa clapped her hands. “What a treasure you are, Lady Rochefort! And a credit to our fair sex.”

  I bowed my head in her direction. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  Silence crashed in, plunging the Abbey drawing room into the ambiance of a graveyard at midnight. Startled, I looked to Julian, who was staring at Lexa as if he’d never seen her before. And, finally, what should have been obvious dawned on me. They’d all worked and planned and kept their secret for so long that when they heard Lexa addressed as “Your Highness,” it was almost as if they had not actually thought of her, of the diminutive young woman in our midst, as the person of legal age they hoped to make queen. She was simply the child they had planned for, not a living, breathing person who was about to take the power of a great nation into her hands.

  Assuming the role of herald, I declared in ringing tones, “From now on our Miss Smythe wishes to be addressed as befits her station. Until her crowning, she will be known as Princess Victoria and addressed as ‘Your Highness.’”

  “What about Alexandrina?” Lady Carlyon cried.

  Lexa sat straight-backed in her chair, head high, hands folded primly in her lap. “I do not care for it,” she decreed. “And though I am not pleased to use the same name as my mama, I assure you it is preferable to Alexandrina.”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Rochefort declared. “And we will do our best to transform your mode of address from ‘Your Highness’ to ‘Your Majesty.’”

  Bless him. He could be quite wonderful at times. Though I could wish more of those moments, outside the bedchamber, were centered on me.

  Hope burgeoned into excitement. At long last, we were so close we could almost smell victory, hear the cheering crowds.

  But, alas, as Cook used to say, “Don’t you fergit, dearie, there’s many a slip betwixt cup and lip.”

  Chapter 21

  I sat at the small marquetry desk in my bedchamber, with Julian leaning over my shoulder, as we attempted to compose an announcement to be sent to the London newspapers. Three long sheets of foolscap, marked by hasty scratch-outs and blobs of ink, lay crumpled in the wicker discard basket on the floor.

  I had begun with a he
adline, “Amazing Ascension,” but Rochefort preferred “Solo Ascension,” pointing out that a balloon ascension by a lone female would draw more avid interest. We had also debated, rather hotly, the date and time. For I have to admit, now the moment was upon us, the immensity of what we were doing descended on me like a great black cloud, scattering my enthusiasm and my optimism like a leaf before a thunderstorm.

  Surely a month from now . . .

  Three weeks . . .?

  Rochefort swept my objections aside. With rumors of momentous events sweeping the teeming streets of London, the sooner we acted the better, giving our enemies less opportunity to organize their forces. And with Mid-summer Eve almost upon us, we must act before the nobility abandoned London for their country estates. Ten days, he decreed. That was all the time we needed.

  Ten days. Heart pounding, I inserted the date into our announcement. My hand shook as I returned the quill to its stand before gazing at the final copy.

  SOLO ASCENSION!

  Baroness Rochefort will

  demonstrate the maneuverability of

  her amazing clockwork flying machine

  Saturday, 27 June 1840

  at 2:00 post meridian

  Green Park

  “It will do,” Rochefort declared. “I’ll also have posters printed and make sure the chaunterers spread the news as well.”

  “Julian?”

  “Yes?” he returned absently as he calculated the number of fair copies I must make.

  “I should like to add something.”

  “Um . . . what?” He jerked upright, glaring at me. Clearly, with a date set at last, he wanted no additions or interruptions, not even from his wife.

  “It can be in small letters at the bottom,” I said quickly, “but I would like the announcement to say that Baroness Rochefort is the daughter of the inventor, Josiah Galsworthy.”

  Julian kneaded fingers against his forehead and heaved a sigh. Too late I recognized my error. I should have asked for an addendum that read, “Baroness Rochefort is the wife of the well-known inventor, Baron Rochefort.”

  “Of course,” he murmured. “Your papa made you what you are, Minta. You are quite right to include him.”

  Oh. “Thank you.” Would I ever stop being a fool, leaping from outspoken wife to quivering coward to rank pessimist in the blink of an eye? Silly twit that I was, with my heart torn between my old life and the new, my emotions as flighty as a hummingbird, while living in an abbey anchored to the bedrock of the ages. One moment I was able to hold my own in a roomful of my elders, the next I was crushed because I might have said the wrong thing to my husband. And since Julian was the epitome of noblesse oblige, I’d never know if I’d actually hurt him.

  Idiot! my inner voice mocked. It’s his name on the second line of the announcement. People will see Rochefort, and know he is the genius inventor. You, my girl, are nothing more than his wife.

  Nothing more? Nothing more, indeed. I was Araminta Christabel Galsworthy Rochefort, the girl who was going to fly!

  While Julian finished his calculations, I retrieved a stack of good writing paper from the desk drawer, sharpened my quill, and began the first fair copy of the announcement. But when I reached the date line, I paused, my doubts flooding back. “When I write this, we are committed,” I said. “Only ten days, Julian? Can we do it?”

  “Would I have insisted on the date if I thought we could not?”

  Men!

  I settled in for a marathon session of writing. After the third copy, I suggested a trifle tartly, “You might write one or two yourself.”

  Julian, seated on the sofa, looked up from the list he was making at his portable writing desk. “With my handwriting, my dear? Half London would be gathering in Regency Park for a fireworks display.”

  A point I could not argue. With a sigh I returned to the announcement of the diversion we hoped would play a pivotal role in changing our world.

  I set the oil can down on the workbench, wiped my hands on a rag, and heaved a small sigh. My clockwork engine was ready, my basket-swing ready; the oiled silk balloon of rich burgundy red, also ready. No matter how many times I visited my workshop, no matter how many times I checked each gear and pin, each rope, ring, hinge, and clasp, there was nothing more to be done. Tomorrow, the various pieces would be moved to the park, next to Aurora, and assembled. Julian was so certain it would work, he had allowed only three days for testing before Maia would be tucked inside Aurora, along with Lexa and Phoebe, for the journey to London.

  I untied my leather apron and hung it on a hook, then paused for one last look around. When we returned to the Abbey, would it be in triumph? Or was this my last look at my workshop, the precious gift which told me more certainly than anything else that Julian cared about me, that he wanted me for more than an ornament and mother of his children.

  Julian. Who was strong enough to appreciate a woman with a mind of her own.

  A smile hovered as I re-lit my candle and slipped the glass cylinder over it. I turned down the gaslights and took one last, loving look at the pieces of my long-time, very special project, which was about to be launched into life, thanks to Julian’s lightweight clockwork device.

  My smile broadened, touched with whimsy. A well-matched pair, that’s what we were, even if love still flirted around the edges of our preoccupation with machines, darting this way and that, looking for a way in. One of these days our enjoyment of each other would make its way out of the bedroom. Oh yes, I promised myself it would.

  If we lived long enough.

  I opened the door to Julian’s vast workshop, nodded to the guard—

  No guard.

  A flurry of movement. Shadow men. A sack engulfed my head. Hands at my throat, a jerk as ties closed around my neck. I choked on a miasma of dust and was taken by a fit of coughing so severe it took me a full minute to realize I was hanging over someone’s shoulder, bouncing roughly with every hurried step. Dear God, no! Not when we were this close . . .

  Devil it! I was as bad as the rest of them. I was being kidnapped, and my first thought was for the fate of the monarchist plot. Time to consider myself. The blasted revolution could wait.

  The creak of heavy wooden shelves, a rush of dank air. Wine cellar. Tunnel. I shuddered. A brief pause in my captor’s pace, a soft thud as the shelves moved back in place. My eyes stung, my nose was running, the sack pressed against my nose and mouth, making breathing difficult. Julian!

  Calm. Calm! Panic would gain me nothing. Slowly, I forced myself to stop gasping for air, to take shallow breaths, to drag my mind from edge of the abyss back to the prime working mode expected from the daughter of Josiah Galsworthy, wife of Julian, Baron Rochefort.

  Yes . . . better. My mind was coming back. Focusing, though still far from prime working order. But under the circumstances . . .

  A pause, another creak of wood and ancient hinges, followed by a rush of fresh night air. We were outside. Cool air penetrated the sack; gratefully, I sucked it in. A dozen more steps and I heard a whinny, an answering nicker, the soft thud of multiple hooves on earth.

  Or, dear God, I was to be whisked away on horseback to some place where I’d never be found.

  Julian!

  My captor threw me up into a saddle. (Thank God I was wearing my bloomers.) Blessed with a moment of freedom, I reached for the sack’s ties. “Non!” A solid body landed hard on the horse’s withers; strong hands forced my fingers away from the drawstring. “Foolish girl. You wish to be dead?”

  My captor had a French accent? As the horse began to move at a cautious walk through the copse, I examined this surprise. Surely any attempt to kidnap me must be associated with the monarchist plot . . . I was to be held hostage for . . . what? To keep Julian and Aurora from participating in the revolution? Surely no one would be mad enough to think they could exchange me for Lexa?

  But if my captors were French . . .

  Merciful heavens, how could we have forgotten Julian had enemies beyond Wellingto
n and the government, beyond Cumberland, King of Hanover? He had told me himself that the fire in Aurora’s barn was likely set by rivals. And the picture-taker . . . he, too, was more likely a spy for a rival aeronautical company than for the Lord Protector.

  In the last few weeks we had become so caught up in our dreams of monarchy we’d ignored the other threat.

  Well . . . merde!

  If my captors were Julian’s French rivals, they had not the slightest interest in British politics. Their goal?—the plans for Aurora, if not the capture of the airship herself. It was possible they had no idea they were interfering with a grand plot to restore the British monarchy.

  A vicious sneeze cut off my thoughts. Although I could breathe better in the open air, the sack’s rough weave rubbed against my skin, and the remains of whatever it had once held still tickled my nose. I settled down to enduring the ride, praying with every clop of the horses’ hooves that Julian had somehow become omniscient and would know just where to find me.

  Hope surged when we halted after a ride of not more than ten or fifteen minutes. Or had we simply reached the road and I was to be thrust into a carriage? But no, my captor told his companion, in French, to take care of the horses. I was hauled down from the saddle, walked across rough ground, up one step. Light poured through the rough weave of the sack, I felt the glow of a fire. A cottage? I allowed myself a small smile. A cottage not more than a fifteen minutes’ ride from the Abbey, Julian would find. I knew it.

  I could grasp only a few words of the rapid exchange of French between my captor and what sounded like two men waiting inside the cottage. But triumph sounded in every syllable, success was within their grasp. The secrets of Aurora would make them rich.

  I stiffened as I felt hands at my throat. In a moment the sack was whisked away and a hard push propelled me forward. I hit the floor hard, my breath whooshing out of me. A door slammed shut. Darkness . . . but I was free of the miserable sack. Free to breathe. I stayed on my hands and knees, gulping huge breaths of clean night air. When I finally lifted my head and looked around, I could see almost nothing. I was alone. My captors had provided no candle, and the room’s single window was shuttered, letting in very little of the half-moon’s light.