Airborne - The Hanover Restoration

by Blair Bancroft

  As my eyes adjusted, I could make out a low bed along one wall, a rocking chair by the empty hearth. The furnishings were too meager for a hunting box . . . perhaps an abandoned gamekeeper’s cottage? No matter, Julian would find me.

  But wasn’t that the whole point? I was a valuable commodity, to be kept close-by until an exchange could be made.

  Yet what if I had it all wrong? What if the Frenchmen were merely hired bully-boys, their nationality designed to obscure their employer? Cumberland perhaps? For surely Wellington would never turn to his long-time enemy for help?

  I dragged myself up and tried the window. The shutters budged only enough to reveal the wide boards nailed across the window from the outside. Nonetheless, I tried again. Except for the first inch, the shutters held fast. Well, of course my captors wouldn’t confine me in a room with an easy way out. What had I expected?

  With a sigh of disgust, I made my way to the bed,. Hands fisted on the counterpane beside me, I stared at the thin line of light beneath the door to the outer room, where the Frenchmen were undoubtedly gloating about their success. Had Julian realized I was missing? Or had he fallen asleep, unaware that I was no longer happily occupied in my workshop?

  When would my captors deliver a ransom note? For surely, whatever cause these men worked for, there would be a ransom note. If they wanted me dead, my lifeless body would be crumpled on the earthen floor of my workshop.

  But no matter my captors’ intentions, Julian’s reaction would affect the monarchy. For without the high drama of Aurora disgorging a princess into the heart of London, there would be no revolution.

  My inner voice chose that moment to ask with considerable mockery, What’s the life of Araminta Galsworthy compared to placing Princess Victoria on the throne?

  He’ll never abandon you, my common sense insisted.

  The daughter of an inventor versus the restoration of the monarchy? I shivered. It was just the shock, the gloom of night, the fear. When daylight came, Julian would know I was gone, then all would be well. He would fix this, I knew it.

  Of course he would.

  Julian . . .?

  Chapter 22

  Inevitably, I tried the bars on the window again, a classic gesture in futility. I heaved a disgusted sigh and turned toward the narrow ribbon of light under the door to the outer room. But when I put my eye to the keyhole, there was nothing but the pitch blackness of a key firmly in place. Sound, however, was a different matter. I could hear the low murmur of voices but not enough to distinguish the words. Not enough to hear the sound of footsteps—

  I leapt back as the key turned in the lock, but the edge of the suddenly opening door struck me a glancing blow, and once again I found myself sprawled in an awkward heap on the floor. I shaded my eyes with one hand, blinded by the sudden light.

  “You are the woman who would fly?” my captor taunted. “Rochefort is mad to send such a cringing coward into the air. All London will laugh.”

  French he might be, but obviously my captor read the London newspapers. “I am not a coward! The door knocked me down.” I scrambled to my feet, facing the shadow that was beginning to take on the shape of a man.

  “What else can you expect if you listen at keyholes?” His English was excellent, though tinged with a faint French accent.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” My eyes were adjusting to the light, and more than his voice indicated this was not the man who had taken me from the Abbey. He was in his thirties, of medium height and slight of build, with the surprisingly elegant features of noble birth. Judging from his perfect English, he might be from an emigré family.

  He proffered a mock bow before reciting with chilling dispassion, “I am the man who is going to reveal all your husband’s fine plans to Wellington if he will not give up his airship. I am the man who will take you to Paris and sell you to a brothel if Rochefort will not give up his airship. I am the man who will put an end to a young girl’s dreams of being queen if Rochefort will not give up his airship.”

  He wanted Aurora? And yet he knew the monarchists’ plans . . . was threatening the restoration . . . “But why?” I asked. “Surely as a Frenchman you consider Wellington an enemy?”

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he returned smoothly. “I may not care who rules your benighted country, but I will do what I must to acquire the airship. For the glory of my family and for the glory of France.” He stood proudly before me, his voice ringing with genuine fervor.

  Merde! A fanatic.

  A fanatic with a spy in our household.

  “Rochefort will never give it up,” I returned with more fervor than good sense. “He will gobble you up like a platter of escargot, spit you out on good English soil, and grow cabbages on your remains.”

  He cocked his eyebrows, slowly shook his head. “Pauvre petite. We can only hope Rochefort cares as much for you as you do for him.” He put the tips of his fingers to his lips, blew me a kiss. “The passion of the newly wed . . . so touching.”

  Beware! My inner voice and my common sense screamed at once. This was not the moment to taunt my captor.

  And if I were wrong . . .

  If it came down to Araminta Galsworthy or Aurora . . .?

  If it came down to Araminta Galsworthy or the Princess Victoria . . .?

  There was a Paris brothel waiting for me.

  I turned my back on the Frenchman and seated myself in the rocking chair by the fireplace. After a few moments of silence, the door closed, the room went dark. But I could see Julian, clear as day, asleep in my bed, unaware that I was gone.

  And when he did know . . .?

  Julian, dear God, Julian, come and get me!

  The old rocking chair might as well have had four sturdy legs, for I sat motionless as the minutes dragged by, my mind numb, able only to repeat, Julian, Julian, Julian, interspersed with prayers to what I hoped was a merciful God. Fifteen minutes, twenty? Or was it only five before I finally faced reality. The only way I was getting out of here was if I managed it myself.

  I crept back to the window. If I slammed the rocker against it, the noise would have my captors on me in a flash, and, besides, I suspected the chair would be reduced to kindling, while the boards over the window continued to mock my feeble attempts to escape.

  Which didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try. I returned to the bed and grabbed up the quilt. Balling it into a cushion to protect my shoulder and muffle the noise, I ran at the window from across the room, slamming my right shoulder into the shutters. They might as well have been stone. In a burst of pain, I collapsed to the floor, shuddering. After a minute or two, I was able to pull the quilt up around my neck, and I sat there, gently rocking back and forth, while I damned all Frenchmen, the government, the King of Hanover, monarchists, and husbands. I wanted to fly, not be a pawn on multiple chessboards.

  But broken shoulder or not, I was never, ever, going to a Parisian brothel!

  “Minta?” A whisper directly above my head.

  Dear God, I’d damaged more than my shoulder, I must be hallucinating. But on the off chance I wasn’t . . .

  Pain forgotten, I scrambled to my knees, nose pressed to the crack between the shutters. “Julian?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many in the other room?”

  “Four, I think. French.”

  My husband resorted to a moment of basic Anglo-Saxon, before adding, “Give me time to get my men in place. Ten minutes at most.” And then he was gone.

  Tears threatened. Julian was not sound asleep, oblivious to my danger. He was not weighing my worth against the monarchist revolution. He was here, rescuing me, just as I’d dreamed.

  I was not going to a French brothel.

  Julian loved me.

  At least enough to protect his property.

  A creak at the window, a soft groan of wood versus nails. Using my good left arm, I hauled myself to my feet, eyes fixed on the shutters. More creaks and groans,
and suddenly the shutters burst outward. My face glowing, I reached for Julian . . . only to find Matt Black standing outside. I gulped, choking back my cry of joy. Of course Julian was out front, ready to burst into the cottage and surprise the Frenchmen. What else could I expect?

  With Matt’s help, I was soon out the window. We were several yards into the woods when Julian shouted, telling the Frenchmen they were surrounded, to lay down their weapons and come out.

  “Down!” Matt ordered. “Stray bullets can be the very devil.”

  My bruised shoulder screamed as it encountered a tree root, but Matt’s caution was unnecessary. We heard nothing more than a few shouts, soon reduced to a mere murmur of voices.

  “How did you find me?” I whispered, as we lay prone on the damp ground.

  “We begun to suspect the newest footman, ’ired not long afore you come ’ere, so the Guv went for ’im first, and he cracked like an egg.”

  “But how did anyone even know I was gone?”

  “Y’think ’e don’t know when you’re not in ’is bed?”

  Oh.

  “Silly twit, y’re ’is wife!”

  In spite of the cold ground and my hurting shoulder, I smiled.

  It was over without a shot being fired. Julian found a suitable dungeon, not the wine cellar, for the four Frenchmen, and as the sun was beginning to burn off the mist, we finally made it to bed. I was battered, older, and much, much wiser. Even though we were too exhausted to actively demonstrate our affections, a warm glow enveloped me. We had reached a major milestone in our marriage tonight. I was appreciated, protected.

  I might even be loved.

  No magistrate for our Frenchmen. Julian recognized his suave rival and accepted his motives, but someone had revealed to him our closest-held secrets. So with the fate of the realm at stake, Julian took no chances. The four Frenchmen and their henchman, the traitorous footman, would remain in a windowless room in the Abbey cellars until after our foray to London. Mrs. E had orders to feed them, but there they would stay until . . . until . . .

  I lifted my chin, took a deep breath. I refused to consider worst case.

  Until the Hanover Restoration. There! I’d actually allowed myself to put treason into words. Well . . . into my thoughts. But somehow the term “Hanover Restoration” cast unrelenting light on the reality of what we were doing. We were not playing games or indulging in vague dreams. We were seriously plotting to overthrow the Lord Protector’s government, restore the monarchy, and put Alexandrina Victoria of Kent on the throne. And I was to be part of it.

  I had volunteered. Nay, insisted.

  But when the moment came, would I be able to maintain my courage, pursue my role, no matter what happened?

  Aye, there’s the rub. Trust Shakespeare to have a phrase to fit my emotions.

  It would be wiser, Julian said the next morning, not to mention the night’s activities or our new guests in the cellars. Our late awakening, he informed me coolly, could be attributed to the fact we were newly wed. Our guests were much too well bred to pry, or even imagine anything as bizarre as my being kidnapped by a French aeronaut and his bully boys.

  Stunned, I stared at him. I was not to tell Phoebe and Lexa? Not a word?

  Noting the look on my face, Julian uttered a long-suffering sigh. “Minta, we are about to embark for London and a revolution. Do you truly think we should add last night’s events to our guests’ fears?”

  “But—”

  “It has no bearing on the monarchy, Minta,” he added sternly. “They have no need to know.”

  I had need for them to know. They were my friends. Being safe and sound at the Abbey didn’t mean I couldn’t use some sympathy. I’d been threatened with a French brothel, for heaven’s sake!

  Julian proffered one of his adult-to-child admonishing looks. “Min-ta?”

  How rapidly our rapport of last night had dissolved. “Oh, very well,” I muttered, knowing I was being unnecessarily mulish.

  Which didn’t make his demand for secrecy one whit more palatable. Why, oh why, did we only seem to be compatible in bed . . .?

  What about your workshop?

  He accepted your suggestion to be the diversion.

  Fine. I hadn’t married an ogre. Just someone as stubborn, strong-willed, and accustomed to giving orders as myself.

  Maybe a bit more so.

  Sympathy from your friends is worth a quarrel with your husband?

  The possible jeopardy of the plans in London?

  My common sense was right, of course. As Julian was. Our Frenchmen might actually be in the pay of Wellington or Hanover. Even a rival aeronaut might be used in the greater struggle over who ruled the British Empire.

  So I offered Julian a pert curtsey and a somewhat wry, “I will be silent as a clam, my lord,” before proceeding downstairs to smile at my guests and blush quite prettily (I hoped) when chided about the lateness of the hour.

  We settled in to planning the final details of how each of us would reach London. Lady Thistlewaite and Drummond would travel with Julian and me aboard Elbert. The Carlyons and the Wandsleys would travel by separate carriages, setting off at different times. No crests, no liveried servants, and with the curtains drawn. The staff necessary to prepare Galsworthy House for visitors would travel in a separate carriage by a different road. All would enter the London house through the mews and kitchen door, as would Phoebe and Lexa after Elbert transported them to Papa’s workshop. No one would be surprised at the re-opening of Galsworthy House because every newspaper and broadsheet in London was advertising the solo ascension of Baroness Rochefort, née Araminta Galsworthy, from Green Park on 27 June.

  “I still cannot like it,” Lady Wandsley proclaimed. “My Phoebe and the princess alone with that young man.”

  “Surely you would not wish the girls shut up in Aurora alone?” I asked.

  “I would wish them not shut up in that horrible airship at all!” she wailed.

  I was exhausted, I was annoyed with Rochefort, and now this . .

  I drew a deep breath, attempting to follow Julian’s example—Remember the cause, always the cause. “Lady Wandsley, every ounce we add to Aurora makes it more difficult for the men to move her. Matt will be on board to provide protection for Phoebe and Lex—Her Highness. He will keep the girls from feeling lost and alone, and, more importantly, he will make certain the venting system works properly. His presence is essential. And, believe me, I would trust him with my life.” (Hadn’t I done exactly that last night?) “I assure you they could not be in better hands.”

  Perhaps not the best phrase, for Lady Wandsley seemed to be swelling up like Aurora’s balloon as it filled with gas.

  To my surprise, Lady Carlyon laid a hand on Lady Wandsley’s arm. “Matilda, my dear, do not fret. If Rochefort trusts the young man, then so must we. The fate of the nation is at stake.”

  Lady Wandsley huffed, shook her head, and subsided into her well-upholstered chair. Using the excuse that I must consult with Mrs. E, I fled the room.

  Chapter 23

  “One threat down, two to go,” Julian muttered as he sat on the edge of my bed. “What say you, Lady Rochefort, are you sorry you married me?”

  I suppose I was expected to leap onto his manly chest, thrust my arms around his neck, and cry, “No, no, never!” in dramatic accents. Instead, I took the time to think about it. The expectant gleam in Julian’s eyes transformed into a scowl.

  “Marriage is expected to change lives,” I said into the ominous silence, “but in my case . . .” I paused, searching for the right words and finding them all woefully inadequate. I would have to make do with pale intimations of the tumult inside me. “When I came to Stonegrave Abbey, I was a daughter mourning her beloved papa. I was alone in a world I knew little of, Elbert my only link to the life I had known. I understood I was more fortunate than most—though I could not control my inheritance, I was not some poor orphan threatened with starvation or earning her bread on her back. I had a guardian,
a mysterious being I was prepared to resent because I had been controlling the Galsworthy family monies for years, and now . . .”

  I squirmed a bit, as a grim Julian never took his gaze from my face. “And then I arrived at the Abbey,” I continued, “and in twenty-four hours I met you, married you, and discovered I had also espoused Aurora and a monarchist revolution. I have seen Hertfordshire from the viewpoint of a bird. I have been shot, threatened by a mob, imprisoned in a lift, kidnapped . . . and can call the Princess Victoria friend.”

  With a soft groan, Julian ran a hand through his hair, leaving it delightfully rumpled. He switched his gaze to an intent study of my embroidered bedcover. “I have discovered the intimacies of marriage,” I added more softly, “and that I like being married. I like having a husband I can admire. I am even learning to like being a baroness, though I had considerable doubts at first.” Julian’s gaze was back on my face. Was that a dawn of hope I saw in his dark eyes? Or only my imagining?

  I repressed a sigh, as I acknowledged my continuing failure to gauge whether our marriage of convenience was becoming something more.

  “But . . .” Once again I paused. How to say what needed to be said without turning him away? “I think our future can be bright, but right now, at this crucial moment, there is no way to know if we have any future at all, other than the hangman.”

  “Minta!”

  “No! Let me finish.” I pushed away the hand he held out to me. “With all that’s been happening here in the last few weeks, we’ve had no time to discover ourselves. We cleave to each other for support, but there’s been no time for more. We are at the forefront of a revolution against the Lord Protector, trapped by a great cause that demands our full attention. If—when we win, I hope we may truly begin to be married. To talk about something other than plans for revolution. To discover each other’s likes and dislikes, spend time together outside the bedroom—”