by Sadie Swift
The Liaison settled back down and gave Sir Percival a look that would’ve curdled cheese. If that were even possible.
It was always a pleasant feeling getting one over the Liaison and Sir Percival seemed quite chipper, even humming to himself whilst taking my empty cup to return it to the hamper with his own.
He glanced through the window on his side and announced, “Soon be there, Miss Lovelady.”
I looked through my window and saw crowds of people heading in the same direction as that of our travel. It seemed like a grand day out. The sun had even deigned to appear through the clouds. A thrill ran through me as I realised what we were going to see. The only black clouds were my thoughts of Katherine and her feelings about not being able to accompany us. Then and there I determined to make it up to her.
Two
We arrived at Battersea Park and studiously ignored Wilkins’ salty language as he exchanged vociferous banter with fellow carriage drivers in order to arrange a parking space. Before the carriage’s handbrake was even set Sir Percival was out of the door like a greyhound from the traps. I quickly followed knowing I may need to prevent him from possibly destroying the life we currently enjoyed.
The fresh air was a welcome change from the stuffy carriage interior and I caught a few titters from the closest of the crowd, more than likely due to our hair. Perhaps they thought we were eccentric (and seldom acknowledged) members of the royal family?
Like waves upon a beach the sounds of the large crowd, and a military band playing popular tunes, ebbed and flowed around us. A large state airship of the Russia’s was conspicuous by its absence, although I did catch sight of smaller ones bearing the British flag around the periphery and bobbing in amongst the trees.
Due to the importance of the visit a variety of security personnel were deployed around the park in a seemingly onion-type arrangement, all eyeing each other disdainfully. The outer layer was comprised of the metropolitan police (whose primary job seemed to be keeping the riff-raff at bay), then came the army, and finally the air force.
By waving the outrageously decorated invitation Sir Percival managed to navigate us through the layers. The Liaison tagged along behind us like a bad smell, making use of his ID whenever he was challenged. He seemed quite happy with this, his hippo-like face nearly breaking into a smile each time his questioner backed down.
A uniformed gentleman, sporting a well-trimmed moustache, who seemed to be in charge initially looked in shock at Sir Percival’s hirsuteness but then artfully gathered his wits about him after Sir Percival thrust the invitation in his face. He directed us towards a large marquee where other invitees lingered over wine glasses and plates with small bits of food on top. I was very glad to have stocked up while breaking my fast that morning if that was all we could look forward to.
Eyes slowly widened and conversations trailed off as we approached the marquee. Should I have worn a larger hat? Or made Sir Percival comb his hair? No matter, we weren’t here for them anyway.
I smiled sweetly at our fellow invitees and headed for the refreshment tables, attempting to make sure I got there before the Liaison engulfed the lot. With artful jabs of my umbrella and insincere apologies I attained prime position at the sandwich trays. Muffled swearing accompanied the liaison as he huffed up next to me. Quickly I tucked my umbrella in the crook of my arm and filled a plate with a fine selection; I’d discover what the contents were at my leisure – the important part was to obtain a supply.
I vacated my position before feeling the wrath of the Liaison’s elbows and realised Sir Percival was absent. Spying him speaking to an elderly lady in a deep purple dress I headed in his direction. Judging by their expressions they weren’t partaking of gay repartee. In point of fact I felt they’d be at each other’s throats very shortly. I bustled my way over and thrust my plate of sandwiches under Sir Percival’s nose. “Peckish, Sir Percival?” I enquired. “I have little idea of their contents. Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me?”
He ignored the offered sandwiches so I surreptitiously kicked him in the shin as an added inducement. He gave a satisfactory grunt of pain.
Turning to the elderly lady, who looked as if she’d just had a raw lemon enema, I offered my hand and said, “Pleased to meet you, I’m Miss Alice Lovelady. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
Sir Percival cleared his throat and said, “Miss Lovelady, I have the…” he paused, searching for a word, then gave up. “This is my aunt, Lady Featherwick. Lady Featherwick, my companion, Miss Alice Lovelady.”
Her sharp blue eyes speared mine and her mouth widened slightly, whether due to a smile or wind I wasn’t sure. My welcoming hand was ignored.
Ah, so this was the aunt he often swore about whilst deep in among the recalcitrant pipe-work of a new experiment. If even part of what he’d said underneath his breath were true then she could wait in vain for an invitation to afternoon tea.
Excited sounds came from outside the marquee. It seemed like something was definitely happening. I moved between Sir Percival and his relative to break their eyesight wresting match and uncompromisingly grabbed his elbow to lead him away from the poisonous atmosphere and also catch sight of the cause of the commotion.
Following the other invitees out from underneath the marquee I heard the military band wrap up their most recent ditty and saw that all of the crowd’s heads were looking upwards and to the south as a flotilla of airships came into view over the London skyline. The largest airship was in the middle with smaller ones, more than likely military, surrounding it like piglets around their mother.
Startled shouts and orders broke out among the security forces as they seemed surprised by the size of the Russian contingent, with the result that several of the bobbing British airships slowly rose to meet their foreign counterparts in a belated show of strength. A steam carriage hurried away, probably to warn those protecting the royal family of the show of force.
I saw the sides of the Russian airships lit by flashes of white light as orders were passed to and fro, and a few minutes later the accompanying airships ceased their forwards motion to let the central ship proceed down towards us.
Like some stately metal whale the airship came to a halt above us blocking out the bright sunshine. The crowd was hushed, in awe at its size. Four ropes were thrown over the sides and figures rappelled down them to the ground to safely guide it lower. Orders in a foreign tongue rang out and large spikes were hammered into the turf and then the ropes secured to them.
As one the surrounding crowd moved back as the airship lowered itself more. When it reached a mere six feet a railed boarding ramp was swung out from the side to settle between where the crew now stood lined up facing each other.
Sir Percival seemed to have completely forgotten Lady Featherstone as he now appeared to be overly engaged in examining the stiff Russian crewmen.
A door opened on the airship and a portly officer wearing a white suit with an excessive amount of gold braid exited and made his way down the ramp. The crowd were still silent, so his heavy steps were clear for all to hear.
Movement to my left made me turn and I saw the officer that greeted us head out to meet his counterpart. Salutes were made and hands were shaken and they seemed be getting off to a splendid start. The Russian gentleman said something and waved his arm as if to encompass the behemoth floating above us. The British officer seemed stuck for words. After listening to something else said by the Russian officer he turned to head back in our direction.
Stopping within speaking distance of those of us in the marquee he said loudly, “The Russian royal family wish to extend their hand of friendship by inviting a small number of you to view their airship.”
This was an invitation I’d race Houdini across burning coals to partake of and I thrust my plate of uneaten sandwiches at the closest bewhiskered royal-type I could find (her husband wore a fine hat hiding a likely bald patch). Just as I’d planned she took the plate thereby momentarily taking them out of
the running. With both hands free I held Sir Percival’s arm in a death grip with one and used the other to clear a path for us to the officer with my umbrella. Judging by the black looks Sir Percival and I received Christmas cards would not be expected this year.
Arriving in front of the officer I said rather breathlessly, “We’d be delighted to extend our hand in friendship to the Russian visitors, wouldn’t we, Sir Percival?”
He seemed to be looking at the crewmen and thinking of something else (I decided not to enquire) and replied, “Um, yes. Er… hand. Certainly.”
The officer examined us, possibly wondering if we were safe to represent the British people. His eyes flicked over the rest of the invitees, some of whom were querulously wondering just what the blazes was going on, and he must have figured we were the best of a poor bunch as he indicated with his head we should proceed to the boarding ramp. I caught a look in his eyes saying ‘Please, please, don’t let me down’ as I led Sir Percival towards the Russian military manhood.
Three
We arrived at the line of men and I felt Sir Percival slow down. I queried him with a glance and he said sotto voce “We represent the Royal family, Miss Lovelady. Appearances must be maintained at all times.” I realised what he meant when he began to formally examine the Russian crewmen lined up either side. I just hoped he’d not try to speak to any of them, although whether he was actually able to speak Russian was a mystery to me. I didn’t know if they included Russian lessons in Cossack Horserider Weekly.
I caught sight of the crewmen widen their eyes in surprise as Sir Percival examined their uniforms, and suspected they’d not seen someone with such unruly hair before now.
Not wanting to miss the opportunity of boarding the Czar Nicholas I kept an eye on the fellow invitees following behind us. Four others had passed the officer’s inspection and had taken Sir Percival’s lead in examining the Russian airmen as well. I studiously avoided looking back towards the British officer.
Ahead of us was the rather portly officer wearing the white uniform with gold braid. I tugged Sir Percival’s arm before he got too engaged with the belt buckle of the closest airman and smiled into the officer’s wide face. A huffing body forced itself next to mine and I realised the Liaison had joined us.
I offered my hand to the officer and said, “Thank you so much for inviting us. I’m Miss Lovelady and this is Sir Percival.”
His eyes flicked between our hair and then my hand was engulfed by a large white glove and enthusiastically shaken.
“Delighted. Delighted, to meet you,” he replied in a thick accent. He turned to the Liaison, and asked, “And this is?”
I too turned to the Liaison wondering how he’d respond as his Departmental ID would probably prevent him from accompanying us aboard the Russian state airship.
“I’m, er… the butler,” he said rather quietly.
My hand was released and the large white glove slapped down on the Liaison’s shoulder. “Welcome! Welcome!”
Without further ado we were ushered aboard the ramp and I led the way, enjoying the sight of the Liaison’s lemon-sucking face. The ramp bobbed slightly as we walked up it and I tucked my umbrella in my elbow and used one hand to keep my matching blue hat on and the other to hold onto the rail.
Strange eddies of wind found my face and it suddenly came to me that I’d never been in an airship before. With nothing below me but air. Nothing solid. Just air. Even though we were only a few feet above the ground the sounds of the crowd became strangely muted and I hoped I’d not disgrace myself, or the Royal family for that matter, by fainting. Luckily Sir Percival was intent on getting aboard, possibly to learn much more about the Russian military way of life, and almost dragged me the rest of the way up.
We entered into a sumptuously decorated reception room with rich dark red walls, a cream ceiling and highly polished wood trim. The thick cream carpet below our feet must have been the very devil to keep clean. Two chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light falling upon a welcoming committee of uniformed servants with, next to them, a table with a large metal tea urn, or ‘samovar’ as Sir Percival whispered to me (I could see that he would shortly become insufferable at informing me of everything Russian), and tea cups and saucers.
Still slightly light-headed I gratefully accepted a cup of the blackest tea I’d ever seen. Before tasting it I saw that Sir Percival carefully sipped his. “Takes some getting used to, Miss Lovelady,” he advised, after pulling an accidentally humorous face.
Thusly forewarned I added a few more spoonfuls of sugar than usual and tasted the dark brew. Subtle it wasn’t and it also had an astonishing aftertaste. I was put in mind of gunpowder tea which I’d tried a while back. If I didn’t know any better I’d say if I had any more than one cup it would’ve put hairs on my chest. It did though take my mind off the yawning chasm (of at least several feet) below my shoes. The Liaison seemed to have taken a shine to it and was already on his second cup.
We waited for the rest of the contingent to arrive and partake of the tea. I caught some sly smiles among the Russian crew at the faces some of us were pulling.
The portly officer arrived through the door and said in a loud voice, “This way.” The speed the partly-finished cups were put down on the tables spoke volumes.
I made sure that Sir Percival and I were right behind the officer as we exited the reception room. A short corridor with curtains either side of a wide staircase led upwards. I could imagine the staff we’d just left having their rooms behind it.
If anything the decorations in the corridor above the reception room were even more lavish and I could imagine Mr Faberge rolling up his sleeves and sticking precious gems and applying pure gold leaf to anything he could touch. Sunlight coming through round portholes on one side set the gemstones off delightfully and caused gasps of surprise from those behind as they took in the incredible decoration. I was merely after seeing one thing, whereas Sir Percival was after seeing several things that were usually contained within uniforms.
The portly officer glanced behind him taking in the awed looks and gasps of surprise at the interior décor. Spying my and Sir Percival’s unimpressed visages he frowned slightly and came to a stop.
“Royal family appointed Gustav Faberge to do decoration of airship,” he portentously announced, waiting for us to be suitably impressed.
He soaked up the appreciative ‘ooh’s’ and ‘aah’s’ this information produced, but still seemed taken aback at my and Sir Percival’s lack of response.
While those behind us were examining the gemstones stuck to the walls he leant forwards slightly and whispered, “Why you not excited?”
Mirroring him I leant forwards, fixed him in my sights, and quietly replied, “My companion is not interested in gems, whereas I want to see the Caspian Star.”
He stood back upright and carefully regarded us, again his eyes flicked to our hair. He seemed to come to a decision and nodded with his head to someone to our rear. Then, leaning forwards again, he whispered, “Wait for man.”
Our fellow visitors had spread out around us and were busy exclaiming at each new discovery. The tea the Liaison had imbibed seemed to have made him quite forget about us as he was examining the seed pearl decoration around a large portrait; of whom I hadn’t the foggiest.
“Come!” the officer said loudly, while his eyes advised myself and Sir Percival to wait.
While the Liaison and the rest followed the officer I turned my head slightly to see a tall, dark haired member of staff approach us. He stood and bowed slightly, “Please come with me,” he said in only slightly accented English.
Letting the rest of the visitors leave the corridor first he led us to an area of the corridor between two large portraits. After pressing several seemingly random parts of the wall the outline of a door artfully designed to blend in with the lavish decoration appeared. With a smug look he pushed it open and led us into a large dark room.
Closing the door behind us he flicked
a switch next to the door and small lights lit the room. I looked at the lights in surprise as they were powered by electricity (something I’d been meaning to press Sir Percival to request be installed in the laboratory – possibly safer around aether than a naked gas flame). The room we were in was part of a larger one with gem-encrusted wooden panels separating the two. Above us was a dark chandelier. But why didn’t he light it?
Sounds coming from behind the wooden panels told me the rest of the visitors were in the other section of the room; where we were seemed to be a more private meeting area. To my left was an alcove with a pedestal inside it. I heard another switch flicked somewhere else inside the room and I caught my breath as a kaleidoscope of blue patterns burst over the walls, ceiling, and floor, originating from a large blue stone atop the pedestal.
Slowly, as if mesmerised, I approached the alcove. Small lights shone upon a deep blue stone the size of a grapefruit. It could be nothing else except the Caspian Star.
The captivating blue light was extinguished as the chandelier was lit and I realised there were other people in the room with us. Draping herself over an ornate chair was a beautiful dark-haired lady in a bright red dress. Standing next to her were two dark-haired men, one wore a dark blue military-type uniform whereas the other wore a servant outfit. For some reason I felt I’d seen him somewhere else before.
A gasp came from Sir Percival behind me. Before I could ask him what the matter was the lady said, “Beautiful, No?”
I didn’t know if she meant the stone or herself.
Slowly, holding me with her blue eyes, she stretched like a cat. Her lithe movements spoke a secret language my body responded to. But something even deeper inside of me sparked, and seemed to be coloured purple. Was this another side-effect of imbibing Sir Percival’s anti-aether medicine? There was no time to ponder the matter - something definitely seemed wrong here. I tore my eyes away from her and turned to Sir Percival. Just why had he gasped a few moments ago?
