Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (14 page)

I drew myself up to my full five feet, two inches and declared, “If my guests and I are confined to the house, Mrs. Biddle, I see no reason why the maids should have more freedom. I will inform you when Lord Rochefort tells me it is safe to go out.”

“And who is to go to the market, pray tell?” Flat out defiance, not a hint of obsequiousness in her stance or tone.

“On that topic you may consult with Drummond or Mr. Soames,” I responded, calling on my most freezing accents. “I am certain one of them will find an equitable solution.”

The look she shot at me before stalking out promised poison in my soup. I sighed, and went in search of our female guests, who informed me the gentlemen had gone for a morning ride.

Gone for a ride when the rest of us were confined to the house! Gone for a ride and left me with a houseful of women to entertain!
Gone for a ride when I so longed to do the same?
I seethed.

Isn’t this why he married you?

I pasted a smile on my face and after ascertaining the older ladies were quite content with their own company, I winkled Phoebe and Lexa away, planning to spend a delightful few hours demonstrating the lift, the Mono, and Rochefort’s machine-filled lair at the far end of Abbey. But Lexa suddenly asserted herself, asking if we might view Rochefort’s art collection.

“I have heard it is quite splendid,” she said, her blue eyes so eager I dismissed my own plans on the spot. “I draw a bit,” she added, eyes suddenly downcast. “Nothing of any note, of course, but I do so enjoy looking at great works of art.”

“A capital idea,” Phoebe agreed.

Silently, I thanked Papa for exposing me to the works of the great masters. I would not make a complete fool of myself as we examined paintings ranging from the voluptuousness of Rubens to the stark reality of Goya. But I couldn’t help but feel my new acquaintances were missing a rare treat when they preferred art over Rochefort’s amazing machines.

Foolish girl. They are normal, you the aberration.

I summoned a bright smile, shifted the gears in my head to art mode, and off we went. Truthfully, I was pleased to discover that shy mouse, Lexa, had enough courage to state her preference. From what I’d seen, Lady Carlyon ruled the roost, poor little Lexa trailing in her shadow.

When we finished our extensive tour, we dragged our weary feet to Lexa’s bedchamber, where Phoebe and I coaxed her into showing us her sketchbook. She was, indeed, remarkably skilled. Inwardly, I sighed. I had to struggle to create clear drawings of my flying machine, when Lexa could bring people to life.

But by the end of the afternoon one happy thought shone above all. I, who had never had a female friend my own age, now had two. I smiled all the way back to my room, where I would freshen up before the light mid-day meal planned for our guests.

Freedom at last! At luncheon Rochefort announced we might walk in the gardens, as long as we gave Drummond or Soames a half hour’s notice to provide additional guards. And tomorrow we might even ride around the park, provided two mounted guards went with us. My surge of joy did not last a full minute as my mind heard the distinct whine of a bullet. A sharp pain stabbed through my head. My whole body shook.

Coward!
mocked my inner voice.

Common sense came to my rescue.
Anyone who has been shot has a right to be cautious about exposing themselves to further harm.

But a proper justification for my alarm didn’t help. I
wanted
to go out into the sunshine. I
wanted
to ride a horse. I
wanted
to see the airship again. I needed to entertain my guests. But part of me continued to refuse such a suicidal excursion, resulting in a furious argument between me, my common sense, and my always difficult inner voice.

Little did I realize the full extent of what I was taking on when I repeated my marriage vows.

To do what was expected of the Baroness Rochefort, I had to leave the safety of the Abbey. Take a risk.

I
would
go out. I would not be sick. My knees would not crumple. Galsworthys were made of sterner stuff.

Sunshine and fresh air would aid my recovery. There were armed guards everywhere. No sniper could get close enough . . .

My stomach churned, bile rose in my throat.

I hung on, determined not to disgrace myself before our grand guests. Conversation flowed around me like the faint buzz of gnats on a summer’s evening. I looked up to find Julian’s anxious gaze fixed on my face.

“An hour in the garden before tea would be delightful,” I announced brightly. “Will you tell Mr. Soames the ladies will be ready at half three?” A glance at our guests revealed smiles and nods of approval. “And please tell Mr. Soames we require his presence at dinner to balance our table. Drummond as well.”

Rochefort’s concern had shifted to amusement, and I realized I was ordering my husband about as if he were the butler. Then again, I was quite certain the request for Mr. Soames and Drummond to dine with us each night would be accepted with less protest if coming from him.

“I shall, of course, do as you request, my lady,” my husband returned blandly, but I saw his lips twitch. Could I help it if Papa left me to give all the orders in our household?

I survived the garden—even though I was well aware twice the number of armed guards could not protect us from a sniper at a higher elevation. I could only pray any and all enemies had been frightened off long since.

But the sun graced the day by shining brightly, a rare day for an English spring, and the garden was glorious, even if the perennial borders were not yet at their best. We walked down a series of parterres, past colorful flowers spilling from giant urns, while a fountain broadcast the sound of
a
tinkling waterfall. We paused to examine the intricacies of a knot garden, eyed the buds in the rose garden that would soon burst into bloom, adding even more sweet scents to the exotic blend of fragrances around us. Eventually, we made our way back to the fountain, where we rested on white marble benches, continuing to enjoy the spectacle around us. Almost . . . almost I found solace for my troubled soul. Until I overheard my mother-in-law complaining about the amount of money dear Julian had spent refurbishing the Abbey for his new bride when it had been perfectly fine just as it was.

Evidently the target I felt on my back was for a different kind of sniper than I’d feared. After rather abrupt apologies to my older guests, I swept up Phoebe and Lexa and set out for the house, where we spent the remainder of the afternoon hiding in my room and once again indulging in girl-talk. Something I had never had an opportunity to do. Nor, I suspected, had Lexa. Phoebe, however, admitted to a traditional upbringing, surrounded by many young women her age. But, she added, she had always been the one who was different—too bookish, too outspoken to be “unexceptional,” the term of approval for young ladies of quality. Phoebe, like Lexa and myself, never quite conformed to the expectations for a young lady of her class.

Right then and there, the three of us agreed we did not want to be butter stamps of the young ladies who
had
gone before us. We wanted to live on our own terms, be the women our vision saw for ourselves, not what—

I was married. Yet my thoughts were those of Araminta Galsworthy of London, not Lady Rochefort of Stonegrave Abbey. There was still hope for Phoebe—if she wished to join the pack, that is—but I had sold my soul to the devil for his machines. (Been sold by my Papa, I swiftly amended.) And Lexa? I suspected she would never have the opportunity to choose her own fate
either
. Too many powerful people seemed determined to do it for her. Sometimes a girl simply had no choice but to make the best of what Fate dictated.

My inner voice still echoed a faint protest, but my common sense knew better. My fate had been sealed with that Marriage Settlement six long years ago. I was caught up in treason with no hope of escape. And beginning to realize, oh-so-reluctantly, that I didn’t want to.

When Drummond and Mr. Soames joined us in the drawing room just before supper, I strongly suspected Soames would have turned tail and run if the Scotsman had not clamped his beefy hand over the smaller man’s arm. I felt sorry for him, but this would give me an opportunity to become better acquainted with the men who kept our household running smoothly.

Drummond, I’d been told, had come to us from a Scottish household, one of Lord Carlyon’s many properties. He, I knew, must be accustomed to making up the numbers at table, but Soames . . .? I sighed, fearing his conversation would be as insignificant as his looks. With nondescript brown hair, pale gray eyes, a thin, angular face, and pointed nose, his countenance was rather off-putting. Nor was his appearance aided by clothing that tended toward the evangelical. I reminded myself that this was the man who had produced an army, seemingly overnight.

The truth was, I could sympathize with Soames, who was likely longing for the peace and quiet of his office. I wished myself back in my basement workshop at Galsworthy House, bent over
Maia
’s engine, finding ways to make it smaller and lighter, so I could soar—

“My lords, my ladies, dinner is served.” Daniel’s voice pierced my wandering mind. I accepted Lord Carlyon’s arm and led the parade into the dining room.

“Do not undress.” The words Rochefort whispered as our guests headed upstairs to their bedchambers for the night, might not have been what a new bride expects to hear from her husband, but I was swept by a surge of elation. Something was afoot. Had he decided to trust me, after all?

I left my door ajar, waiting for the house to quiet—no voices in the hall, no sound of shutting doors, just Rochefort’s footsteps or at least the creak of a nearby floorboard. But he surprised me, materializing from my dressing room, carrying a voluminous mass of black fabric. “Dominos,” he announced curtly, thrusting a mass of silk into my hand. “Here, put this on.”

I shook out the fabric, found the front opening. “We’re going to a masquerade?” I inquired with more than a hint of sarcasm as I fastened the hooded cloak around my shoulders.

Rochefort, having donned his own domino, reached out and pulled up my hood, effectively turning me into a giant ink blot, the only visible part of me a few inches of my face, and that only from directly in front. After surveying me from head to toe, he proffered a short grunt of approval and raised his own hood. Mr. and Mrs. Anonymous.

Carrying a dark lantern in one hand and clasping my hand firmly in the other, he led me to the ground floor via a narrow back staircase I had not yet discovered. He cautioned me to silence as we passed through a corridor quite close to the kitchen area, but I heard not so much as the scampering of a mouse hopeful for a tidbit from the pantry.

Up a few stone steps . . . Rochefort unbarred a door, and we were out.
Out!
I breathed in the cool, fresh night air, and my feet froze on the threshold.

“Minta?” Rochefort’s grip tightened until my hand hurt.

“I’m sorry, give me a moment.”

“A–ah,” Rochefort breathed. “You present such a brave front to the world—were you not out in the garden today?—I never stopped to think.” He folded his arms around me, his great black cape fluttering in the evening breeze.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into his chest. “I never expected to be such a coward.”

“Will you trust me, Minta? Trust the night, our cloaks, the guards?” His chin rested lightly on top of my hood. “We’ve finished the airship, and I wanted you to be the first to see it.”

Galsworthys weren’t raised to crumple at the first sign of adversity. Even if it was a bullet to the head. Rochefort deserved better. He had thought he was marrying a proud tigress from the royalty of creativity and had gotten a mewling kitten instead.

I straightened my shoulders, adjusted my hood. “I’m ready.”

We clung close to the Abbey wall. When it ended, Rochefort paused, holding me close until a cloud passed over the half moon above us. Then we ran across the cobbled space between the house and stables, passing the dark shadow of the Abbey’s miniature locomotive. After that, we kept to the shadows of the stable wall and, finally, the towering shadow of the workshop. The moon was back out, and I could clearly see the spot where one rifle shot had hit us both. I shivered. Rochefort pressed me to the wall, then stretched out his hand, knocking on the door in a pattern that was clearly a prearranged signal. The door opened and he dragged me inside.

I threw back my hood and gazed at the airship. I’d found it glorious by daylight, but illuminated by flickering gaslight, it was like some magical chariot of the gods. My fear fell away, banished by awe.

“Ain’t she grand?” Matt Black declared, and I had to agree.

“Come,” Rochefort said, “let me show you the inside.”

I followed eagerly, peering into the engine compartment in the rear, exclaiming over the three rows of seats with an aisle down the middle, the two pilots’ chairs and broad glass viewport constructed of six panes of thick glass at the rounded front. “The nose is counter-weighted to balance the weight of the engine,” he told me, “and the steering mechanism connects beneath the floor to the propeller in the rear.”