Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (22 page)

Surely she was loyal to Rochefort, if not to me.

Then again—horrid thought!—the invaders might have come through the tunnel, and who more likely than Mrs. E to show them the way. Which would account for the picture-taker being murdered in a locked room.

But she’s here. Warning us.

No time for speculation. Plan B it was.

“Thank you, Mrs. Biddle. Gather your people in the jumble room as planned. Tillie, go with her. I’ll see to the ladies.” Even in the dim light I caught the odd look she gave me, as if I couldn’t possibly find any place of safety by myself, but she bobbed a curtsey and strode down the corridor toward the servants’ stairs, purpose in every step. The Abbey housekeeper off to gather her flock after warning her mistress of danger? Or off to join the enemy? Too bad her witching powers were a figment of her sister’s imagination. We could use a spell or two at this moment. Invisibility perhaps?

No time for whimsy either.

“Ladies, follow me.” Dutifully, Lady Thistlewaite, Lady Carlyon, and Lady Wandsley dogged my heels, with Phoebe and Lexa bringing up the rear. Not far to go—the lift shaft was hidden behind dark wood paneling just outside the sitting room door. I pressed my fingers to the proper place, sections of paneling slid to each side. I wrestled the folding metal gate, drawing it open. I wouldn’t, of course, mention that I’d never operated the lift before, that I’d only watched Julian or Mrs. E do it.

Somehow the six of us squeezed in, our way lit by a single candle encased in a narrow glass chimney. Thank God no one was wearing hoops, but the close confinement was far from comfortable. Unfortunately, the lift was the only alternative that had come to mind. With Phoebe’s help, since I could scarcely move, we shut the gate. By some ingenious plan of Julian’s, the wooden panels closed automatically behind us. I swallowed hard, offered up a rather desperate prayer, and turned the lever that operated the lift. Down, down. I swung the lever to Off.

The ladies gasped.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but between floors seems the safest place at the moment. “Phoebe, there should be a pole fastened to the wall behind you. Can you find it?”

A bit of twisting and twining before she had it in her grasp, nearly knocking her mother in the head as she removed it from the wall.

“Please hand it to Lady Carlyon, Phoebe. She is closest to the center. “Lady Carlyon, there’s a trap door above your head. Please use the pole to raise the trap, so we will have fresh air. Fortunately, Rochefort showed me how it works.”

A general sigh of relief as the trap door rose. Lady Carlyon, looking pleased with herself, handed the pole back to Phoebe, who restored it to its place on the side of the lift.

For the first time in hours, I allowed myself to relax. As long as we had air, we would manage. And even though the opening above our heads was small, we no longer felt so horribly confined. Our cage was open to the world.

We would survive.

As long as Evangeline Biddle wasn’t a traitor to our cause.

As long as no one set fire to the rooms around us.

Chapter 17

Pounding feet. Shouts clamoring along the corridors . . . coming closer.

I clamped my hand over my mouth, signaling the other ladies to keep quiet, no matter how frightened they were. More shouts—mounting anger and frustration as our attackers found each room on the bedroom floor empty.

I prayed the smoke I smelled was only from the torches.

A few moments of relief as the voices and tramping feet faded away. And then the screams began, echoing down the lift shaft as if the women were right outside. The invaders had found the female servants in the attic.

“They know nothing,” I whispered to the others.

“They know there’s a lift,” Lady Thistlewaite countered.

Lady Wandsley stifled a sob. Phoebe snaked a hand around Lexa and gripped her mother’s arm. “They won’t find us,” she promised. “Minta has found us an excellent hiding place.”

The wailing above us stopped abruptly. A voice rang out, surprisingly clear. Mrs. E. “The ladies escaped hours ago. When we first heard news of a mob gathering in the village, Lord Rochefort sent them away.”

A low grumble I couldn’t understand.

“You’ve searched the house, turned it upside down, and found no one but us. Believe your eyes, you fools. Do you actually think Rochefort would take a chance with his bride of less than a month?”

She had a point. Alas, that’s exactly what Rochefort had done.

Tunnel, Minta, he showed you the tunnel.
Fine. So Julian failed to anticipate an attack from the rear.

He should have
, my inner voice hissed.

I squeezed my hands together so tightly my bones ached. We would survive this. We
would
.

“Come, I’ll . . . servants’ stairs . . .” Mrs. E’s words, less strident now, did not carry as well as before. But I guessed she was chivvying the men down the servants’ stairs, demonstrating that we weren’t hiding there either. She was also getting them moving, leading them down and away from the female servants. And from us. Clearly, I must do some fence mending with Evangeline Biddle when this night was over.

Our single candle burned to a nub, finally drowning in its own wax. Before it last dim glow flickered out, we settled ourselves onto the floor, the stark facts of what this raid meant not only to our lives but to the monarchist cause undoubtedly playing through all our heads. Now that abject terror was fading away, the best word to describe our situation was
disheartening
. The mob from the village was a distraction for a stealthy attack on the house. On the
occupants
of the house. How could the monarchists triumph when secrecy was no longer an option?

Nonetheless, in the here and now I had a role to play. Safety first, monarchist rebellion later. Each time one of the older ladies urged me to return to the bedroom floor, I refused. We were safe. Here we would stay.

Head drooping, eyes closed, I tried to will away the images chasing through my mind. The mob overrunning our guards. The airship in flames. A bloody, dying Julian stretched full length on the grass. I made a determined effort to picture him triumphant, the sheer power of his presence sending the mob scampering back to town. I failed. Then again, perhaps the older ladies were right, our would-be assailants long gone . . .

I thought of Lexa and knew we could not move until someone signaled an all-clear. Even if Julian were gone, someone would come. The Abbey seemed to have survived the night. So would we.

But when I thought of my husband, sharp pains stabbed from my chest, up through my throat, and into my brain. I felt I must be breathing in noxious fumes. Panic, pure panic. I clamped my hands over my nose and mouth and willed myself to calm. No matter what was happening outside, here I was the leader. These women—including Lexa, my friend and future monarch—were my responsibility. Even if my husband lay dead, I could not fail them.

Gradually, oh-so-gradually, the piercing pains diminished.

I opened my eyes . . . and was surprised to see Phoebe, head back against the side of the lift. The gray light of pre-dawn was filtering down from windows at the top of the lift shaft far above. Around us, nothing but silence.

Time to move?

No. I could not trust the silence.

Phoebe’s head came up. Her gray eyes, questioning, met mine. I shook my head. Shoulders slumping, she once again laid her head back against the wall.

The paneling above our heads shook. Someone pounding hard enough to put a fist through it. A surge of fear closed my throat. The other ladies’ heads jerked upright, eyes as terror-filled as mine.

“Minta! Are you in there? Dammit, Minta, answer me!”

Julian.
I couldn’t speak, but the other ladies set up enough of a screech to shake the rafters. Helping hands hauled me to my feet . . . someone placed my hand on the lift controls. How the ladies managed it when we were all so stiff, I didn’t know. Suddenly, I was surrounded by smiles, tears, thank-yous. I stared at the lever as if I’d never seen it before, my mind flooded with the litany of
Julian, Julian, Julian . . .

Lift. Up. Now!

I growled at the imperious command of both inner voice and common sense and moved the lever, sighing with relief as the lift shuddered, then ascended slowly, taking us inch by inch back toward the light. To survival. To Julian, who had no trouble figuring out where we were.

The paneling parted, Phoebe and I heaved the gate open, and Julian snatched me up. Tucked hard into his chest, I scarcely noticed Mrs. E, Drummond, and Matt helping the others out.

“Ah, Minta, I was such a fool,” Julian breathed into the top of my head. “I stood out there and argued them down, thinking I was so clever, and all the time . . .” He squeezed me tight. “What if I’d lost you?”

At that moment I believed him. He actually seemed to care more about losing me than losing the future queen of England. I doubted his sentiments would last long, but for a few lovely moments I allowed myself to bask in it.

Some ninety minutes later, after all the trapped ladies had bathed and changed their clothes, we heard the men’s story over a hearty breakfast.

“Rochefort was quite splendid,” Lord Wandsley proclaimed. “Walked straight toward the mob and spoke his piece. Lord of the Manor to the inch.”

“Damn fool,” Lord Carlyon growled. “Risking our whole venture on the vagaries of a mob.”

“They’re mine, Carlyon,” Julian retorted. “They wouldn’t hurt me.”

“A single sniper, boy, with orders from Wellington, and you’d be dead.”

“But it didn’t happen, did it?” Julian dropped his challenging gaze, turning toward the ladies. “I was indeed a fool, but not in the way Lord Carlyon believes. I crossed the park to meet people who are my tenants and friends. And when I saw the delegate coming toward me was the evangelical pastor, I was even more certain I had made the right decision.”

Julian paused to take a hefty swallow of coffee. “I should have sensed it was too easy, that I was missing something, but—fool that I was—I didn’t. Never having confronted a mob before, I thought I was a very fine fellow, negotiating, offering tidbits . . . saving the day. And all the time”—he paused, shaking his head—“and all the time I was promising rides in the airship, the women in my household were clustered in a cage, expecting to be murdered at any moment.”

“It wasn’t . . .”

“Oh, no, my lord . . .”

“We weren’t . . .”

We all protested at once. We’d been safe, we assured him. Our fears were for him.

We lied, of course. Just a bit. There’d been enough fear to go around for everyone. Perhaps it was time to change the subject before we all became maudlin. “Did you say you offered rides in
Aurora
?” I asked, more than a trifle incredulous.

“I explained that the airship was simply another move forward in transportation,” Rochefort said, “ like our canal system and the railways. I offered to take some of them on board, show them how fine it is to fly.” Lips twitching, he shook his head. “After considerable reluctance and what seemed like hours of discussion, they agreed. They are choosing a delegation.”

“Choosing the delegation will likely start another riot,” Lady Thistlewaite declared.

We all laughed, snatching at the slightest hint of humor to ease our nerves.

“An excellent idea,” Lady Carlyon pronounced as the laughter died down. “You can drop them all into the nearest pond.”

“Elizabeth!” Lady Thistlewaite glared.

Lady Carlyon shrugged. I strongly suspected her suggestion had been more than whimsy. “Whatever we do,” she said, “’tis clear we must move quickly. This incident will bring attention from every direction. The evangelicals must wait for their moment in the sky.”

“No. I gave my word.” Julian at his most intransigent.

“Troops could be on the march, even as we sit here, doing nothing!”

“We are not doing nothing!” Julian asserted. “We are recovering from a very nasty night and making certain it doesn’t happen again.” Julian pushed back his chair and stood, solemnly regarding our noble guests. “I am aware that you have been planning this moment for years, but there is no way you can present the spectacle you need to catch the people’s imaginations without me. That puts me in charge. I am the originator of the London plan. I am also its executor.

“And, yes, I am aware I failed to anticipate an attack from the rear last night, but our enemies, whoever they might be, did not succeed. Believe me, I will not make the same mistake again. I, too, can learn to be a soldier. Do as I say and I will get you to London. Otherwise, you may all pack your bags and return home. Do I make myself clear?”

“Bravo!” As one, we turned to Lexa who was clapping her hands, eyes glowing.

Julian bowed. “Thank you . . . Your Highness.”

Lexa glowed. “I put my life in your hands, Rochefort. As I put my life in your wife’s hands last night. I have complete faith in you both.”

Oh dear God. If only I could have as much confidence in us as she did.