Dragons & Dirigibles

by Cindy Spencer Pape

  Melody scratched his ear, found the strap of his tightly-fitted goggles and pulled them off. That she let them fall to the floor was a mark of her fatigue. She was never careless with her equipment. “Just roll up the leg of my coveralls. Nothing else is injured, only the ankle.” Melody tried to smile. She could see the lord’s face clearly—he was perhaps thirty or thirty-five, tall, wiry and sandy-haired, with a craggy face, curly muttonchops and storm-gray eyes. The servants, however, were becoming blurry, just a hint of white hair and a nautical coat on the man, and steel-gray over steel-gray and a starched white apron on the woman.

  “Very well,” the lord said. “Barnaby, roll up her trousers a bit. Mrs. Ritchie, perhaps a blanket to cover our guest until the doctor arrives?”

  “Over here, Birch.” Melody repeated herself three times before it came out with enough authority to convince the dog. Finally he came around to the far side of the bed, jumped up and lay down beside her, startling a shriek from the housekeeper, who’d begun draping a quilt over Melody’s waist. Melody looked back up at her rescuer. “Who are you?” She hoped she’d remember the answer.

  “Captain Victor Arrington.” He dipped a cloth into a basin and held it against the cut on her forehead. The manservant coughed. “Quite right. I’m also the Earl of Blackwell. Welcome to my humble abode.”

  * * *

  The new silent-flight airship prototype was working like a dream. Melody held on to the tiller with one hand while she looked out over the Devonshire coastline through her smoke-tinted goggles. Birch lolled over the rail with his tongue hanging out, his own specially made goggles firmly in place.

  Here was bliss. Up above the smoke and fog that cloaked England’s urban centers like a toxic blanket, the world looked clean and bright. The moors were green, the ocean blue, the rough, craggy cliffs brown and gray. Here and there, fleecy white sheep or gray ponies dotted the landscape, along with the occasional village or manor. This was what England was supposed to be: green, fertile and lovely.

  Suddenly, a bright flash of light blinded her and the boiler began to hiss. When her eyes cleared, she saw a dragon sitting on it and realized that this was a dream. Dragons didn’t exist, or at least she’d never seen one. Lucid dreaming, though, was a familiar thing. Suddenly, she remembered everything—the boiler failing, along with the generator, the crash, the big brooding house just over the hill and its equally gloomy owner.

  Even in her dream state, Melody recognized two things. One—she was relatively unharmed. Spraining an ankle was too categorically feminine and silly to count. Two—something out of the ordinary had caused the boiler failure. The dragon was an old friend, often popping up in her dreams to warn her to take a closer look at something. In this case, the boiler. There could have been a mechanical failure, of course. She hated to admit it, but she was far from perfect. The dragon, however, indicated otherwise, which confirmed her own estimate. The boiler, along with the rest of the craft, had been working fine yesterday when she’d done all her preflight checks. It had also managed to make it from London all the way to Devonshire before failing.

  In the dream, Melody relived the whole event—her crash, being carried into the house, the servant who took the trouble to save her boots. She didn’t think any of them were involved—they’d seemed too surprised by the entire situation, and the dragon didn’t appear over anyone’s shoulder. They’d mentioned smugglers, though. Perhaps that had something to do with her accident. It bore looking into.

  “Miss MacKay.” The voice was unfamiliar and cut through her dream. She was back in bed and someone was shaking her shoulder very gently. “Miss MacKay, can you wake up, please?”

  Melody opened her eyes. This time, it wasn’t her host looming over her, but a very tidy, almost dapper young man in a navy suit and a necktie that matched his vivid blue eyes. “Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Farnsworth. Can you tell me your name?”

  “I’m not concussed.” She smiled back. “Believe me, I’m familiar with that sensation. My name is Melody Evelyn MacKay, aged twenty-five.” She reeled off the address of her family’s London townhouse, where she’d been staying most recently. “I landed here earlier today when my airship prototype crashed on the front lawn.”

  “Beautiful young ladies falling from the sky.” The young doctor’s eyes twinkled. “That’s new. I’m beginning to like this desolate corner of the kingdom. Now I hear you’ve done yourself some injury. May I look at your ankle?”

  “Of course.” Melody sat up, punching a pillow into shape behind her. Birch sprawled on the bed beside her, eyeing the doctor suspiciously. Melody patted his head. “I’m all right, boy. Stay.”

  He snorted, letting her know how he felt about that command.

  “Some friend you’ve got there.” Dr. Farnsworth rotated her ankle left and right, which hurt but wasn’t impossible. “Is that an Irish wolfhound?”

  “Scottish deerhound,” Melody replied through clenched teeth as she tried to point her toes. “They’re similar breeds, but the deerhound is less common and just a tiny bit smaller. My grandparents breed them.”

  “Well, I think you’re right. The ankle is just sprained.” He reached for a roll of gauze and began to wrap it tightly. “Have you injured it before?”

  Melody nodded. “I broke it in my teens.” Testing her first flying machine, with the help of her brother and their friends Wink and Tom. “Since then, it’s been sprained a couple times.” It was only a small understatement. A half dozen counted as a couple, right?

  “That explains your stoicism.” He gave her a grin. “Nonetheless, I want you to stay in bed for at least few days with the leg elevated. The swelling isn’t negligible and you don’t want to risk aggravating the injury. After that, you can use crutches, but no putting weight on the foot for at least a week, maybe two.”

  “When can I travel?” Not that she had any plans to follow his instructions anyway. By tomorrow, she needed to be out on the lawn, examining the boiler for sabotage. It would be too dark tonight.

  “At the end of the week, most likely. Assuming Lord Blackwell will let you stay here.” He looked over at the housekeeper, who gave a curt nod.

  “Excellent. Now let’s take a look at that wound on your forehead.”

  Melody reached up to find someone had cleaned and bandaged her face while she slept. Blood still smeared the front of her coverall flight suit and her hand. A wash was clearly in order. She’d forgotten all about the gash from hitting the steering wheel. The doctor peeled back the bandage and examined it with gentle hands before smearing on some ointment and covering it again. “Just a small cut, despite the bleeding. No need for stitches.” He jotted something on his notebook before asking, “Any other pain in your head? Your abdomen? How about your back?”

  When the examination was done, he concluded that she had some bruised ribs, but no other internal injuries. “I’ll be by tomorrow,” he said cheerfully as he washed his hands. “Remember, stay in bed, no matter what. Understood?”

  Melody nodded. No way on this green earth was she using a bedpan, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “Is there anything else?” He began to pack up his bag. “Can Mrs. Ritchie send up a meal or a maidservant for anything?”

  “There is,” Melody said, turning to the housekeeper and mimicking the dowager Duchess of Trowbridge’s best autocratic manner. She was already tired of the old besom looking down her nose. “I’d like supper, for both myself and my dog, including tea—well, make that water for Birch. Also, send someone outside to check the state of my ship and let me know how it looks. Someone with mechanical skills would be best.”

  The woman snorted. “Ought to just burn it, but I’ll tell the master.”

  “Thank you.” Melody couldn’t quite look down her nose while she was lying in bed but she did her best. Burn her invention, indeed! “Also, send someone up who can walk my dog.” Birch probably needed to relieve himself as badly as she did.

  The doctor eyes crinkled at the corners when h
e smiled. “I bid you good day, Miss MacKay.” He lifted her hand and kissed the air just above it. “I’ll be back to call on you tomorrow.”

  The housekeeper showed him out, allowing Melody precious time to find and use the commode and wash up, at least her hands and forearms. Unfortunately, her room wasn’t equipped with modern plumbing. She was back in bed before a maidservant arrived with a tea tray and a leash for Birch, a boy of perhaps twelve on her heels. “Supper will be along in an hour or so, Mrs. Ritchie says. This is my Fred,” she said. “Good with dogs and horses.”

  Melody thanked them both, accepted the tray and leaned back against the pillows. She instructed the boy on walking Birch and smiled at the maid. It would be good to have an ally on the household staff if she was to be stuck here for a day or two. “Please let me know when word arrives from my employer.”

  “Of course, miss.” The woman, probably just a few years older than Melody herself, curtsied and left the chamber.

  Chapter Two

  Victor saw the doctor out. He liked Farnsworth, an intelligent, amiable chap who was almost as new to the village as Victor himself. That Victor considered himself a newcomer might seem odd, considering he’d been born here at Black Heath, but he’d boarded his first ship at twelve and hadn’t looked back. Not until his older brother had died, leaving all the responsibility for this pile to Victor. It was a legacy he’d never wanted, having expected to die on the waves or under them. At best, he’d thought to breathe his last as an admiral, perhaps in the arms of some exotic beauty who wouldn’t feel a pang at his loss as long as she’d been paid. No attachments except to his ship, no commitments except to Her Majesty, the navy and his crew. That had been Victor’s plan. Bugger Dick for dying young.

  “So they found no trace of the crab or its hideaway?” Victor growled at Barnaby as they watched the doctor ride away. “How the hell did that happen?”

  Barnaby snorted. “Seems the thing just burrowed into the rocks and disappeared.”

  “Not bloody likely.” Victor crossed his arms over his chest.

  Barnaby shook his head. “No. Obviously one of those rocks hides a latch of some kind. But there are thousands down there, plus the sand at the very edge of the water. The lads didn’t have time to search each one. They came running up here to see what crashed.”

  “Our illustrious pilot.” Victor rubbed his eyes. Did she really work for the crown? “She wants to examine the wreckage when she’s able. Seems pointless to me, but if she is with the smugglers, we might be able to use it to draw them out. Look for her paperwork and bring it to me. Then have someone move it to one of the barns and set a guard on the door. Use Walter and Ben, rotating through the night.” The two men, like Barnaby, had been members of Victor’s crew, so were loyal to him, not anyone else here at Black Heath. “While you’re at it—find out whose arse I have to kiss or kick to get this house on the telephone line, will you?” Ridiculous that the primary seat of an earl was so far behind the times. What could his brother have been thinking?

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Barnaby winked and moved off to see it done. As he passed Mrs. Ritchie, the old sailor pinched the starchy housekeeper’s bum, making her shriek.

  “Sorry, ma’am. Slipped.” With that, he all but ran out the door. Mrs. Ritchie stomped off in a huff to see to their visitor’s tea.

  Victor sighed as he moved through his house to what were normally considered the servants’ regions. It was a habit that Mrs. Ritchie deplored, but a house wasn’t that different from a ship in some ways. Not every captain, and certainly most landholders didn’t agree, but Victor had a need to know how every area worked. How else to manage all of it? Integrating a handful of sailors into this household hadn’t been easy, but he was grateful for the few men who had retired with him. At the rear vestibule, where everyone from belowstairs came and went, he watched as one of the stable boys walked the enormous dog out the back door. The beast was amazingly gentle with the lad.

  A half-formed idea in his head, Victor slipped into the kitchen for a bit of meat. The cook had been here when Victor was young, and didn’t mind his quirks, waving at him with a smile on her plump face. Armed with a handful of beef scraps, Victor strode across the yard to where the dog, now off his lead, romped in one of the smaller paddocks, usually reserved for foaling mares or ailing livestock.

  “Here, Birch.” Victor leaned over the rail and held out a strip of steak. “Come, Birch.”

  “He’s a big dog, milord.” The boy leaned against the lower rail. “I’ve never seen one like that.”

  “I’ve seen some big dogs, but none like this.” Birch ambled over and sat down on his haunches, making him almost as tall as the boy. His pale gray coat was rough and wiry like a terrier’s, but his body was shaped more like a greyhound, long and lean. He cautiously sniffed Victor’s offering, then took it as gently as if it were china. Then with a wag of his long, ropy tail, he gulped it down and licked his chops.

  Next, Victor held out his hand, open, palm up. He let the dog sniff and lick him, then scratched the big beast’s ear. “Remember me, boy? Your mistress said I was a friend.”

  At the word friend Birch thumped his tail and licked Victor’s hand.

  “Good dog.” Victor gave him another piece of beef. “Now let’s get you back to your mistress, shall we?”

  The dog, of course, didn’t understand and nudged Victor’s hand as if searching for more treats. “Melody?” Victor handed over the final bit of steak. “Let’s go back to Melody.”

  That did the trick. Birch let out a loud “Woof” that practically curled Victor’s hair, and jumped at the paddock gate. “Hand me the lead, please,” Victor said to the lad. “Were there any commands for him about walking?” He’d never met such a well-trained dog, but of course there hadn’t been any canines on the ship.

  “Heel, milord. I was to say that so he didn’t pull me over while we walked.” The boy reached out to pet the dog, completely unafraid, though Birch was probably twice his weight. “He stayed right beside me, the whole way.”

  “Good for both of you. What’s your name?” Victor had seen this lad in the stables but hadn’t yet gotten to know every servant the way he wanted to.

  “Alec, sir. Alec Bates, stableboy. Me mum’s an upstairs maid.” The boy gave what was probably his interpretation of a naval salute.

  Victor saluted back. “At ease, Mr. Bates. You’ve done good work today. Now go tell Mr. Hatch I sent you to help clear up the wreckage. I particularly want you to search for anything small that the other men might overlook. Got it?”

  “Aye, sir!” Alec saluted again and ran off, grinning.

  “A good recruit there,” Victor said to the dog. “Now come along. I want to talk to your mistress.” He looped the lead around Birch’s lean neck and opened the gate. “Heel, Birch. Good dog.”

  To his delight, Birch behaved perfectly, trotting right alongside Victor into the house and up the stairs. Maybe Victor needed to get some dogs. He knew there were some sheep and cattle dogs about on the local farms, but there were none here in the house or in the stables. It was worth considering, especially if they were trained guard animals. One more weapon to protect his people and property from the smugglers—not that they’d attacked the house yet, but Victor didn’t believe in taking chances.

  He knocked on the MacKay woman’s door. It was time for him to do a little investigation, without the housekeeper looking on.

  “Come in.” The voice was as pleasant as he remembered, a little husky for a woman, but so sensual it wrapped around a man like a glove. The Scottish accent was tempered with the arch tones of an upper-class education.

  “Just returning your dog, Miss MacKay.” He eased open the door, expecting to find her lying, ill, in bed. Instead, she was perched on the window seat with her leg up on a pillow in front of her and a book in her hands. She’d changed into a nightgown and wrapper that Mrs. Ritchie must have unearthed from somewhere, but they were made for a much bigger woman, so she looked like sh
e was wrapped in blankets. At least she was mostly covered from head to toe. Even so, she was lovely, in a gamine sort of way, with her long dark hair in a loose braid falling over her shoulder. He tamped down his instinctive male reaction, reminding himself that she wasn’t the sort of woman he needed to be thinking about. He needed to find a wife, not an adventuress.

  “Thank you.” She clicked her tongue at the dog, who ran over and gave her a big wet lick. She burrowed her face into his fur and hugged him. “He isn’t limping or anything, is he? Did you see him running? Do you think he was hurt at all in the crash?”

  Victor shook his head, taking her question as invitation to ease into the room. For propriety’s sake, he left the door open a few inches and leaned against the hearth, on the wall opposite the windows. “He seems completely fine. He ran around the paddock like a pup.”

  “That’s such a relief.” She smiled up at him and her pixielike face seemed to light from within. “I’m sorry to impose myself on you, my lord. Hopefully I can be out of your hair within a few days.”

  “Didn’t the doctor say a week?” He found himself smiling back.

  She shrugged. “Do you always listen to what the quacks have to say?”

  “I’ll have to admit I don’t.” Then he remembered that she’d nearly gotten herself killed—on his property. “But I’m not a gently reared young woman. You really ought to be prostrate with shock and horror.” Of course he wasn’t at all sure that she was gently bred, despite her posh accent. So far she was simply a mass of contradictions.

  “Probably.” Her smile dimmed and she turned to look out the window. “But I’m more than just a woman. I’m an engineer and a pilot. I’m also good at what I do, Lord Blackwell. As soon as I can examine the wreckage, load the debris and haul it back to London, I’ll be on my way.”