A Gentleman of Means (24 page)

Three rosebushes had managed to bloom in the conservatory at Gwynn Place, so Maggie had gathered several blooms and buds into a nosegay with some glossy camellia leaves, some sea-grass, and one or two golden sickle feathers from the majestic Buff Orpington rooster who was the pride of the small breeding program with which she and her grandfather were experimenting. Titan had obligingly moulted in time for Claire’s wedding, which all parties concerned felt was most considerate of him.

Now Claire stood in the porch of the tiny chapel whose windows overlooked the sea. It was indeed a white Christmas, she thought with satisfaction—no, more than that. It was a sparkling, glorious, silver-and-gold Christmas. The sky was a brilliant blue and the light peculiar to Cornwall glimmered on glass and snowdrifts alike. She had not, after all, been able to convince the parish priest at the Baie des Sirenes that she ought to be married there, so she had taken her mother by the horns, as it were, and wrestled the Christmas Eve wedding she really wanted from her, practically by main force.

“Are you scared, Clary?” piped six-year-old Nicholas, Viscount St. Ives, resplendent in his very first morning coat and topper, at her side. “Your flowers are shaking.”

“A little,” she confessed in a whisper meant for his ears alone. “It’s rather momentous, getting married. One doesn’t do it every day.”

“Lady, after all you’ve faced?” Snouts, resplendent in the most astonishing embroidered waistcoat on her other side, grinned. “This will be a piece of cake.”

“There is cake?” Nicholas looked deeply interested in this new information.

“There is indeed, darling. Weddings are known for cake, you know, and you shall have the first piece once we have our breakfast. But now here is the curate to tell us that they are ready for us.”

The tiny organ began the wedding march and Maggie and Lizzie, holding matching prayer books bound in trailing ribbon and ivy, stepped into the aisle. The chapel only held twenty, so Claire was able to see nearly everyone through the door. Her family. Andrew’s widowed mother, already dabbing at her eyes. All the inhabitants of Carrick House under Lewis’s watchful eye. Lord and Lady Selwyn, holding hands and looking so adorably happy that Claire’s heart rejoiced. Captain Hollys and Alice, sitting in the second row, an heirloom sapphire on the fourth finger of her left hand. Peony Churchill, lovely in bronze silk, batting her eyes at Maggie’s cousin Michael Polgarth, though she had no business to do so. Polgarth the poultryman and his daughters and grandchildren. Her solicitor Mr. Arundel and his wife—and next to them—

She drew in a breath.

Nicholas looked up, and Snouts leaned in. “What is it, Lady?”

“The Count and the Baroness,” she breathed. “I did not think they would come.”

“I did,” Snouts said, nodding. “They landed an hour ago, while you were dressing. You know the man does not hold a grudge, nor can he refuse you anything.”

Claire could think of a number of things he had refused her, but today was not a day to dwell on them. Today was a day for happiness and celebration, and if she could number Count von Zeppelin among her friends again, then the day was truly complete.

“Our turn,” said Nicholas when Lizzie and Maggie passed the halfway point down the aisle, and reached up to take her hand. She slipped her right hand into the crook of Snouts’s arm and together, the three of them stepped forward.

Her dress rustled in the most delightful way as she paced slowly up the aisle. The only person missing from the happy scene was Gloria, who had shaken her head and hugged her at the suggestion that she stay another month and join in the celebrations.

“I would love nothing better,” she told Claire regretfully at the airfield at Hampstead Heath, where she was to board
Persephone
and connect with a Meriwether-Astor airship in Paris. “But every day I get another message from the bankers and the board members demanding my presence in Philadelphia, so for my own sanity I must go. But you can expect a wedding present in a week or two.”

Claire had kissed her and bidden her a safe journey, but she did not say good-bye. Between the three of them—Alice, Claire, and Gloria—there existed a bond so fine yet so strong that even oceans could not separate them. Sure enough, two weeks later, when Claire had forgotten all about it, came a box from the Atelier Worth in Paris containing the most beautiful wedding gown that she—or anyone in Cornwall—had ever seen.

When she had put it on this morning, she thought her mother would faint. “Oh, why would you not let me invite all of the County families with whom we dine?” she had wailed. “Every woman in Cornwall must see this dress. It must have cost a thousand pounds, Claire.”

Truly, it was lovely, with pleating and sashing and fans of beaded embroidery in which the discerning eye might detect either the curling of waves … or the graceful tails of chickens. It also possessed a waist so small that Claire had a feeling she would be giving her piece of cake to Nicholas, to say nothing of the array of sweets and delicacies that had been prepared.

But best of all was Andrew’s face as she approached the altar and he saw her in the gown for the first time. Even through the mist of her veil she could see the moisture glistening on his cheeks—tears of sheer joy.

Which made her own eyes brim over, too.

Snouts kissed her cheek, and Nicholas, having been briefed on his duty, solemnly conveyed his sister’s hand into that of Andrew.

“Dearly beloved,” the rector began, “we are gathered here today in the presence of God and this company to unite this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”

As Claire and Andrew said their vows, knelt for the blessing, and Andrew lifted her veil to kiss her for the first time as her husband, Claire felt as though she were in a dream. But then, after they had signed the parish register, the rector said, “May I be the first to congratulate you, Doctor Malvern, and offer my very best wishes for your happiness, Mrs. Malvern.”

A wave of happiness broke over her. It was not a dream. She was really Andrew’s wife, and he her husband. Together, they would face the joys and triumphs and sorrows and dangers of life, with the confidence that each held the other’s heart in safekeeping.

She took his arm and laughed with sheer joy. In the first pew, Mama looked scandalized. But Andrew put his hand over hers and they walked down the aisle together, her thrown-back veil trailing like a banner of light. Jake escorted Maggie, and Tigg, of course, took Lizzie, holding Claire’s bouquet. Little Viscount St. Ives offered his hand to his mother, and Snouts took Mrs. Malvern. The guests began to cheer from the sheer exuberance of the recessional, and as the curate flung open the doors and the light poured in, Claire saw that Holly and Ivy were there, too, busily snapping up the seeds thrown into the air by the crowd of staff from the manor house. She was quite sure that somewhere in heaven—probably sitting on God’s knee—Rosie the chicken knew that all was finally as it should be, and was content.

The light burst over them and Andrew flung propriety utterly to the winds. “I love you,” he said, and kissed her again, right there in front of God and everyone.

“I love you,” she whispered, “and always will, no matter what our lives hold in store.”

Hand in hand, they ran down the steps and into the bright silver and gold of the first day of their lives together, the sound of the cheering and laughter of their friends and family rising like music into the sky.

January 3, 1895

Philadelphia, the Fifteen Colonies

Claire, my dear heart,

Thank you so much for the account of your wedding, for the piece of wedding cake (which I ate instead of putting under my pillow to dream of the man I will marry, which was much more satisfying, believe me), and for the lovely little watercolor painting from Maggie of the chapel on the cliffs, so that I might imagine it all. I am very happy that the dress arrived in time. I am sure you looked a perfect princess in it—and being that heavy cream color, you know, it can easily be worn on formal occasions afterward.

I can just imagine Julia’s and Catherine’s faces should they see you in it at the reception to which you’ve invited the Prince Consort. That alone would be worth the price of a transatlantic fare.

You’ll never guess whom I heard from in a letter this week—Captain Barnaby Hayes. If you can believe it, he wishes to press his suit! Well, I am sure you know the tenor of the reply I returned, for who could trust a man who had deceived one and treated one so abominably? It is a shame, really. He is so handsome and so kind. But such a man may smile and smile and be a villain, so I will put him out of my mind.

My mind is quite occupied, thank you, with business matters. It is going to take me some time to untangle the labyrinth of my father’s business dealings. The first thing on the agenda was to recall the fleet of undersea dirigibles from the Adriatic. Now that Captain Hayes has no doubt turned Neptune’s Fancy over to Her Majesty, I suspect they will use it as a prototype and this new method of transportation will become popular in the seas about England, giving me some competition. I am determined that the Meriwether-Astor name shall henceforth be known for its honesty and integrity, which means the dirigibles will be plying the waters off the Fifteen Colonies like good little vessels, with no more dealing in convicts and contraband.

This matter of the Californias has me a little worried, however. I am investigating just how far my father’s plans had gone in that regard, with a view to nipping them in the bud. Goodness knows how long that will take, or how complicated it will be, but rest assured that I will prevail in the end over board members and family connections alike. In moments when I doubt myself, I think of you and Alice, and my courage returns to me threefold.

I am sorry that the Admiralty continues to be obstinate about Alice captaining Swan. Actually, I am not sorry at all. For my devious plan is to encourage her to register the vessel here so that she may join my fleet. I will not only have her fly as captain, I will pay her handsomely to run cargo between here and England, once I am successful in having the embargo against us lifted. If Ian is to settle down to the life of the landed gentleman, it will be up to the women of his acquaintance to keep our various ships in the air, don’t you agree?

I simply must see you at least once before spring. Either you and Alice and Andrew and the girls must come to me, or I shall come to you. We will contrive it somehow. Your friendship is like a good wine, and I have become quite fond of it!

With my best regards to that dashing man of yours,

I remain your friend always,

Gloria

THE END

Dear reader,

I hope you enjoy reading the adventures of Lady Claire and the gang in the Magnificent Devices world as much as I enjoy writing them. It is your support and enthusiasm that is like the steam in an airship’s boiler, keeping the entire enterprise afloat and ready for the next adventure.

You might leave a review on your favorite retailer’s site to tell others about the books. And you can find the print editions of the entire series online, as well as audiobooks. I’ll see you over at
www.shelleyadina.com
, where you can sign up for my newsletter and be the first to know of new releases and special promotions.

And now, read on for an excerpt from
Immortal Faith
, a novel of vampires and unholy love, the first book in a new series I’m working on …

In the small, Old Order Mennonite community of Mitternacht, Iowa, the people pray that God will deliver them from evil. They should have been more specific.

Sophia Brucker is on the threshold of womanhood, standing in the door between her religion’s way of life and the possibilities of the world outside. She is also torn between two young men: David Fischer, whom she has known since childhood, and Gabriel Langford, the new arrival. In a community that only grows when people are born into it, a convert—young, single, and male—is the most exciting thing that has happened in years.

When Sophia’s uncle is found dead in the barn with his throat slashed and bitten, the community grieves—except Sophia, who has been abused by him for years. And when the local mean girl is killed the same way, Sophia hardly dares to voice what she suspects: that only the worst among them are being weeded out. Under the elders’ approving eyes, it seems Gabriel is dedicated to worshipping God. But his methods may not stand up to too close a scrutiny . . . and Sophia is getting very close indeed . . .

Sophia

The baby chick, hatched just yesterday and half the size of my palm, peeped as I stroked its downy yellow back with one finger. The two halves of its tiny beak crossed at the tips, which was why it had been peeping. It couldn’t pick up the feed and it was hungry.

Mamm would be out any moment, but I couldn’t help myself—I had to do something for it, even if all I had to offer was the warmth of my hands. I knew it had to be culled; if it managed to grow up and have chicks of its own, it would pass on the defect. On an Old Order Mennonite farm, even a tiny scrap of life such as this still had to do its best and pull its weight, and my mother had no tolerance for things that didn’t pull their weight.

Unless we were speaking of my youngest brother, Jonah.

Sometimes you didn’t know until a creature was half grown that it would need to be culled. When one of the young roosters decided it was going to challenge Dat for the rule of the farmyard, and attacked his leg in a fury of male aggression, Dat simply pulled it off his boot and ended that discussion with a quick twist. “I’ll not have that bird passing on his bad seed,” was all he’d said, and we had chicken and dumplings for dinner that night.

Jonah and Caleb laughed and called me softheaded as well as softhearted because I couldn’t bring myself to do some of the things that were necessary on a working farm. And while I knew God had a purpose for every animal and human here—even Jonah—and we all had to fill our places … I gazed down at the defenseless fluffball in my hand. We were taught to strive after perfection, but couldn’t there be a little room for mercy, too?

But questioning was a sure path to a bad spirit, which led to discontent and pride.
Father, forgive me for my resentful thoughts
.

“Sophia, are you out here?”

“
Ja, Mamm
.”

The sunlight streaming in the barn door darkened briefly, throwing my mother’s body into silhouette and shining through her
kapp
to show the smooth braided bun beneath it. “You’re not mooning over those chicks, are you? You know we can’t keep the ones that aren’t up to standard.”

“I know.”

“You’ll have to learn to do this some day.” Her tone softened as she joined me at the pen where the broody hens lived until the chicks were big enough to go out into the barn. “When you’re married and have a fine farm of your own, you’ll be overrun with rickety, good-for-nothing birds if you don’t cull the bad ones.”

No one I knew kept chickens as pets, but in the rare moments that I sat down on the back steps and one would jump into my lap, I would swear that, like my baby sister, they wanted to be cuddled. I wished I could keep this one as a pet.

“She’s not bad,” I said softly. The chick had settled in my palm, and I covered it with my other hand. “It isn’t her fault she’s not perfect.”

“And would you have a yard full of cross-beaks that can’t eat their food? That grow up spindly and thin and won’t fill the stomachs of your family?”

“No.” I sighed. We had this same conversation every spring, and every spring I hated it just as much. The part about getting married and having my own farm hadn’t come up before, though. I wondered what had brought that on.

“Sophia.” Mamm held out her hand. Gently, I put the chick into it and turned away. With no sound but a sudden rustle of the dark blue cotton of her sleeves, it was over. “Are there any more?”

“The one with the yellow spot on its head can’t walk. There, by the Wyandotte mama.” Another rustle of movement. “I’ll bury them, Mamm.”

“Don’t be long bringing in the eggs. I want to speak to you.”

After I’d done my sad duty, I comforted myself watching the rest of the chicks tumble over each other, nip food away from their companions, and collapse in happy abandon for a nap under their mamas’ wings, which kept them warm on this sullen day in the hind part of April. The chicks could not know what had happened to the others, and their innocence was a joy in itself. But how fair was it that they’d only escaped because they met a standard they didn’t even know existed?

The chicken barn was sectioned off from the field horses’ stalls and the neat area where the buggies and tack were stored. That part belonged to Dat and the boys. This part belonged in name to Mamm, and in reality to me. It was dry, cozy, and safe, and on rainy days the birds made themselves comfortable in the deep bedding of wood shavings or perched on the hay bales stacked along the wall. For me, it felt peaceful and industrious at the same time, as the hens got on with the business of laying, raising chicks, and eating. Once I’d collected the eggs, I walked slowly across the yard, drying now as spring advanced, to the kitchen door.

What did Mamm want to speak to me about? We talked all day long. As the second eldest girl in the family, and since graduating from eighth grade three summers ago, I was her biggest help. That had been my older sister Hannah’s place, but no longer. During her season of
Rumspringa
, of running around, last year, Hannah had said in her letters that she’d fallen in love with life in Council Bluffs and would wait a little longer to come back to Mitternacht. Why wouldn’t she? She could stay out all night if she wanted. Talk to a boy without a dozen relatives leaping to conclusions and then into wedding plans. Learn how to drive a car like the
Englisch
, and even go to high school.

That was all well and good—for her. But she shouldn’t wait too long to decide whether she was coming back. My father had taken to falling into silence whenever her name was mentioned, and that was not so good. The thought of having to treat my own sister as
Englisch
made my skin go cold and coiled a sick knot of apprehension in my stomach. What crazy girl would sacrifice her family and her church just to stay out late and drive a car?

I ran warm water into the sink and began to wash the eggs while Mamm put a couple more sticks of wood in the stove and sliced into the pile of scrubbed potatoes on the counter. Dat and the boys were out planting, now that winter had released its iron grip on the ground and the days were long enough, and they’d be hungry as bears when they came in.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

On the rug my grandmother had braided as a bride when she’d come to Mitternacht, baby Miriam kicked her legs with great energy, and Mamm glanced at her to make sure she wasn’t going anywhere. At this rate, she’d roll over and start crawling, without any of the in-between. My mother seemed to be taking an awfully long time to reply.

Oh, dear.

I ran the last several hours through my head, and when nothing popped up that would rate a talking-to, I ran through yesterday, too. I’d dropped an egg on the way out of the barn, but the birds had eaten it so fast there couldn’t have been any evidence left to tell the tale.

This silence couldn’t have anything to do with marriage and new farms, could it? I was only sixteen. I hadn’t even gone on
Rumspringa
yet, like several of my friends had. Didn’t even know if I wanted to. Then what—

“Gabriel Langford helped your father and brothers with the planting yesterday,” she began with a “this isn’t important but I thought I’d pass it on” kind of tone.

“That was kind of him,” I said, “though I’m sure he has plenty to do in Joshua Hodder’s fields.”

“He does. Which is why it meant something, Sophia, for him to finish there and then do nearly a full day’s work here.”

“Why would he do that? Does Joshua think that if he works him to death, he’ll be less likely to want to join church?”

“That boy’s capacity for work puts even your father to shame,” Mamm said. “Not to mention his willingness to try his hand at anything, from planting to construction.”

“Have the men got a competition going to see who can wear him out first?” I was only half joking. My friends and I complained to each other that even if Gabriel Langford was the one we most wanted to bump into, with him it was the least likely to happen. He worked from dawn until dark, and when he wasn’t working, he was taking
Deitsch
lessons with Bishop Stolz, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was in meeting. Head bowed, glossy black hair combed, clothes spotless, he occupied his bench in a way that made heads turn.

Well, the heads of all my friends, anyway. I never would have believed it would be so hard to keep one’s gaze facing front and not let it slide to the men’s side of the meetinghouse during worship. To ignore those long-lashed eyes and beautiful cheekbones turned up toward the preacher. To pretend not to see the sunlight make its way through a curtain or a window and light up that skin. A blemish would never dare appear on his face. What an awful thought.

Some of the boys—cornfed nobodies who had the mistaken idea they were somebody—had tried to pick a fight with him when he first came last winter, calling him “Gabrielle” and telling people he wrote poetry. That had lasted about five minutes. The boys said that Adam Hertzfeld had broken his collarbone falling out of the haymow, but his sister Katie, my best friend, told me the truth. After that no one accused anyone of writing poetry. Those boys kept their mouths shut and tried to look friendly when Joshua hired Gabriel out to their fathers’ farms.

“There’s no competition that I know of.” My mother gave me a look. “A hard worker he might be, but he’s still
Englisch
and no daughter of ours will be thinking thoughts about him.”

She’d brought him up, not me. “I’m not thinking thoughts.” Was that a lie? Just in case, I sent up a breath of a prayer for forgiveness. “I just wondered if he planned to join church. Have you heard anything?”

“I haven’t heard a word about his plans, nor do I want to,” Mamm said with disregard for the life of any
Englisch
, which from her tone of voice, had nothing to do with hers, now or in the hereafter. Even though the alfalfa Gabriel had put in our fields would go to feed our cows and make the milk we sold to the cooperative every week. “Plans are nothing. When he actually kneels in front of the bishop and the church and gives his life to God, then his plans will have some substance. In the meantime, you’re not to behave as if he’s plain. No talking with him among the
Youngie
after Singing, no accepting a ride on a rainy day, nothing. Understood?”

“Can I say
guder mariye
if I pass him on the road?”

Narrow eyes examined my face to see if I was talking back. Maybe I was. Or maybe I honestly wanted to know. The words had just popped out and it was too late to unsay them.

“Just good morning,” Mamm said at last, evidently not finding what she was looking for. “Nothing more than you would say to any
Englisch
in town. A plain woman is always modest and polite, especially to people outside the church.”

I don’t think my lips moved in unison with hers, but they could have. I’d heard those words approximately ten thousand, five hundred and eighty times during the course of my life.

“And why are we discussing Gabriel Langford anyway?” Mamm asked. “I wanted to talk about something else.”

Thank goodness
. “What?”

“After meeting on Sunday, David Fischer asked your father for permission to walk out with you. What do you think about that?”

I dropped an egg into the soapy water and heard the sickening sound of a crack. “Me?!”

“Sophia Brucker, watch yourself!”

“Sorry.” I pulled the plug and let the broken yolk wash down the drain, then picked the shell fragments out of the trap. “Are you sure? David Fischer? This isn’t Dat’s idea of a joke, is it? Who asks the parents’ permission anymore?”

Mamm allowed herself a smile. “When it comes to the subject of courtship, your father does not make jokes. Just ask me. And there’s nothing wrong with asking his permission. I think it was a fine way to show respect and have everything above board. After all, it’s David. Why should that surprise you?”

My mouth opened and closed like a fish on a riverbank.
Surprised
didn’t even begin to cover it.
Astonished
might be a start. Me and David? That was crazy. We’d known each other since we were babies and I thought of him as another of my brothers—when I thought of him at all. There was no room in my brain for David when Gabriel haunted it. Oh, if only he were plain! Every girl in Mitternacht over the age of twelve would give her eyeteeth to walk out with him.

“Gabriel has to be planning to join church,” Katie had said after that very same meeting. No wonder I hadn’t seen David, if he’d been lying in wait for Dat by the hitching rail in the Millers’ lane. “No one would devote so much of himself to work and worship if he didn’t.”

I couldn’t think of any other reason, either. Converts were rare in Mitternacht, and as for good-looking single male converts … well, there had never been one in
my
lifetime. But even if that was God’s will for Gabriel, I didn’t dare let hope blossom in my chest and warm me with possibility. The simple fact was that there were lots more girls in our district than ordinary brown-haired, gray-eyed me. Girls like merry, laughing Katie or Ellie Stolz, whose parents had left her a bed-and-breakfast when they died, even though her aunt ran it. Or Rebecca Hodder, who was tall, beautiful, and eighteen and lived right there where Gabriel was boarding. The fact that she had run through every boy under twenty-one within a twelve-mile radius just made it seem more inevitable that she’d settle on him … when he joined church.