Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (3 page)

“M’lord! M’lord!” The shout came from the far corner of the vast room. I swung my head around in time to see a man in workman’s clothing take the steps down from the outside door two at a time, then run toward us, nimbly dodging clanking machinery. “Fire in the stables, m’lord. Fire!”

My guardian wasted no words. “Matt, take Miss Galsworthy to the Mono, send her to Mrs. Biddle, then join me.” The last words were tossed over his shoulder as he ran for the door.

I was already off the table, standing on feet that were no longer wobbly. I wanted to run after him, see what was happening, but Matt Black took me firmly by the arm and walked me toward the odd device called the Mono. I had no right to protest. This was not yet my home, but I vowed not to be shut out again. For I was beginning to suspect Stonegrave Abbey might actually welcome a female who had inherited more than a surname from her father.

Matt made no secret of being in hurry, his thoughts clearly on whatever was happening in the stables. Before I had time to adjust my voluminous skirts, he punched the “1” button, and I was off, gliding away in what must be a circular route, as I was moving forward into space I had not traveled before. If I dared look back, I was certain Matt would be gone, running to catch up to Baron Rochefort. My guardian. My highly eccentric guardian. My much-too-young guardian. Whatever was Papa thinking?

Papa, you devil!

No, no, he couldn’t have planned . . .

There must be a Lady Rochefort. Had to be. My up-bringing might have been a trifle unusual, but in addition to learning about mechanical marvels, I’d been given the education of a young lady of good family. I knew quite well I could not reside in a single gentleman’s home without the chaperonage of a female of equal, or better, standing in society.

Another one of those heart-stopping swinging doors jogged my thoughts back to the here and now. I was creeping through the stone cellars of an ancient abbey on something called a Mono, on my way—hopefully—to a housekeeper named Mrs. Biddle. Who would presumably take me to my room, which would be above ground, perhaps with a view of the Abbey’s well-scythed lawns and, if I were lucky, the woods the little train had traversed.

I would be able to unpack my trunk, surround myself with familiar things, have time to remind myself I was Araminta Galsworthy of London, daughter of Josiah Galsworthy, master inventor. Heiress to a comfortable fortune. Budding inventor—though that last was a tight-kept secret. Ladies simply did not
do
things like that.

But Lord Rochefort knew.

And didn’t seem to mind.

I smiled.

A delicious scent wafted down the long, dark corridor stretching out in front of me. Food. Cooking food.
Dear God, thank you!
I’d begun to think I was destined to forever wander the underground
corridors
of the Abbey.

As the kitchen smells grew stronger, the corridor brightened with gaslights every twenty feet instead of forty. Civilization. People. I pictured a housekeeper like our Mrs. Jenkins in London—graying hair surrounding a face as round as her body, lips always ripe for a cheery smile, even when she was supervising the clean-up of one of Papa’s less successful experiments.

The Mono ground to a halt outside the open door of a brightly lit room. The kitchen at last! I dismounted, straightened my bonnet and skirts, tilted up my chin—

“You’ll roast in Hell. Mark my words, Evangeline Biddle, you’ll roast in Hell!”

“And you’ll dry up and blow away like the prudish old spinster you are, Hannah Biddle, loving your Bible more than people!”

“And why should I not?” the first voice roared, “when people are born in sin, live in sin, die in sin? And my own sister worse than most. It’s a witch you are, Evangeline Biddle, and naught but Hell awaits.”

Biddle.
There must be two Biddles. Neither of a jolly, comforting nature. I closed my eyes for a moment, wondering what more the day could bring. But I had run our household in London since I was twelve. The Biddles were staff. This I could handle.

Squaring my shoulders, I swept into the room as if I’d entered it a hundred times before.

Everything stopped. Tableaus had gone out of fashion, but this must have been what they looked like. Four people frozen in place—two kitchen maids with frightened faces and two women of imposing stature staring at me as if I’d materialized out of a magician’s cloud of smoke. One of the older women, a long wooden spoon in her hand, was poised over a large pot on the stove. Her dark brown hair was confined in a bun at the nape of her neck tight enough to exaggerate every frowning line on her face. Her gown, of severe cut, was as puritan gray as the streaks in her hair.

The other woman was of a different cut altogether. Her chestnut brown hair was stylishly dressed around the strikingly attractive features of a woman not much older than my guardian. Her face was unmarked by frown lines, but her high cheekbones and pursed mouth gave her an arrogant cast not quite compatible with the role of housekeeper. Yet she had to be the Mrs. Biddle my guardian spoke of, for the other woman was obviously the cook.

“Mrs. Biddle?” I said.

“Miss Galsworthy.” She dropped a curtsey so slight it bordered on insolence. “I fear you have caught us at our worst. My apologies. May I introduce my sister, Hannah? A master cook is our Hannah, but of an evangelical bent. You may as well know from the outset that she and I quarrel continually. As much a part of the Abbey as his lordship’s tinkerings.”

“She’s a witch,” Hannah Biddle declared, pointing the long wooden spoon straight at her sister’s heart.

Evangeline Biddle proffered a smile that would have frozen the bones of most young misses. “My sister considers anyone not of her faith a spawn of the devil,” she declared. “Ignore her maunderings. I do.”

I offered poor Hannah Biddle a sympathetic smile. I suspected she meant well. I wasn’t so certain about her sister. “I should like to see my room,” I said more forcefully than I had intended. It was, after all, my first experience dealing with a witch. Alleged witch.

“Of course, Miss Galsworthy. Please follow me.” With a clink of her chatelaine keys, the younger Mrs. Biddle turned toward an archway in the far corner of the kitchen.

In case you’re not aware of the tradition, housekeepers are always given the title of “Mrs,” whether married or not. I suspect it’s because on our tight little island “Miss” implies a young, bubble-headed female or an eccentric, cat-keeping spinster. Being married, even falsely, gives a cachet of responsibility, wisdom, and common sense. Unfair? Absurd? Of course it is, but that is the world I live in. A female must have a “Mrs.” before her name for anyone to take her seriously.

Mrs. Biddle, the alleged witch, swept before me like the prow of a ship parting stormy seas, leaving me to trail in her wake. Evangeline Biddle did not like me, did not want me here. Every move, from the set of her shoulders to her tone of voice when she spoke to me, screamed, “Enemy!”

I didn’t have time to consider why. We were now in a corridor outside the kitchen and the housekeeper was stopped before what looked like a black, wrought-iron gate set into the wall. When she was certain I was giving her my full attention, she pulled the gate to one side, enjoying my surprise as the metal folded in on itself, like a collapsing fan. Who cared about a hostile housekeeper? Stonegrave Abbey was becoming more fascinating by the moment.

The room behind the wall was small, no more than four feet square, but I didn’t hesitate when Mrs. Biddle indicated I should step inside. She followed me in, then pulled the collapsing metal gate back into place.
A
t such close proximity to
the housekeeper’s
hostility,
a shiver shook my spine.

She pressed a button remarkably similar to the ones on the Mono. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, with a creak and a groan, our tiny room shimmied into life.
Ah, as I suspected, a lifting device!
Slowly, slowly, we ascended. I glanced at Mrs. Biddle, who seemed disappointed that I wasn’t crying, screaming, or demanding to be let out.

“Quite wonderful,” I announced coolly. “Is Lord Rochefort responsible for all these remarkable machines?”

“He is a great man.” The temperature in our enclosed space dropped a few more degrees.

A faint light broke through the witch’s animosity. Evidently, her devotion to my guardian went beyond the expected loyalty of a housekeeper. But how could that account for her disliking me on sight?

The lift machine ground to a halt, shimmied, and settled into place. Mrs. Biddle slid back the gate. Once again, I trailed her down a long corridor, but what a difference! We were now in a light, airy world I recognized. To my left, the corridor was walled with evenly spaced windows set deep into the sandstone, revealing a courtyard below, with a fountain in the center and leading to it, symmetrical pathways criss-crossing well-tended flower beds. A lovely sheltered place that won my heart on sight. Our “garden” in London was scarcely the size of the stone-paved circle around the fountain
below
.

The Abbey’s interior walls were of painted plaster, eggshell with a trim of leaf green. A fine dis
play of family portraits and
occasional landscapes marked the spaces between the bedchamber doors. I wanted to take a closer look, but Mrs. Biddle moved ahead of me like Elbert with a good head of steam. At the far end of the corridor she paused at last, swinging open a door before standing aside to let me enter first.

I stepped over the threshold and came to an abrupt halt, eyes wide, lips firmed to keep them from betraying my astonishment. It was a corner room, more than twice the size of my bedchamber in London. The bed covering, draperies, and upholstery glowed in the waning afternoon sun, displaying my favorite shades of blue and green. The summer bedhangings were pale blue gauze, embroidered in white. A French rococo dressing table, a marquetry writing desk, a chaise longue, two comfortably upholstered chairs, a tallboy with ceramic basin and pitcher (and undoubtedly a chamber pot hidden in the cupboard below) completed the furnishings. Except for the rug. I gazed down at a blue and white Oriental carpet, so finely woven my boots did not sink into its depths.

My eyes misted. From Mrs. Biddle’s attitude, I’d expected a room in the attic with the maids. I drew myself up to my full five feet two inches. “This will do nicely,” I said.

“Tillie!” Mrs. Biddle called. A maid popped through a side door I had not noticed.

“Tillie will do for you while you are here,” the housekeeper said, as if I were a guest for nothing more than a week’s visit in the country. “At the moment she is unpacking your trunk. I believe you will find her satisfactory.” Tillie, a girl of not more than seventeen, bobbed a curtsey.

We had lived simply in London, my needs not demanding enough to warrant a full-time maid. One of the housemaids fitted my corset each morning, helped me off with it at night, trundled my clothes to and from the laundry, and assisted when I had to dress for a party. Otherwise, I did for myself. What on earth would I find for Tillie to do?

But I smiled and welcomed her. At least the girl presented a friendly face.

With a curtsey that might have lowered her head a half-inch, Evangeline Biddle departed, leaving me with my new maid. “Would you like to see, Miss?” she said, glancing behind her. “Make sure I’m doing it right?” Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I dragged my weary feet to the room next door.

Merciful heavens
, I had a dressing room! Tillie moved past my gaping trunk and the row of dresses she had already hung in the wardrobe along the wall, continuing through yet another door. I followed . . .and didn’t bother to hide my gasp of surprise. I was in a bathing chamber. I’d never actually seen one, but I knew they existed. Papa had always talked about constructing one, but inventions that brought in money rather than paying it out were always more important.

In yet another of Stonegrave Abbey’s mechanical marvels, pipes, controlled by round metal knobs, ran to a great copper tub. I peered in. There was a drain hole, with a stopper of some material I didn’t recognize. The floor around the tub was tiled and towels, much fatter and fluffier than the linen I was accustomed to, hung on metal rods along the wall.

“His lordship’s right smart,” Tillie boasted. “Thinks up all kinds of strange things, he does.”

“Indeed,” I murmured, my head threatening to go into that whirl I felt when I first saw the Mono. “Tell me, Tillie, do you have any idea when I will meet Lady Rochefort? I forgot to ask Mrs. Biddle.”

“There’s no Lady Rochefort, Miss. She’s been Lady Thistlewaite for many a year now.”

I’ve been told my comprehension is superior, but Tillie’s response was the final straw, sending my brain spinning. It simply didn’t make sense. “Lady Rochefort is now Lady Thistlewaite?” I echoed blankly.

“Yes, Miss.” Clearly, Tillie thought me more than a trifle slow.

I would re-phrase. “I was referring to Lord Rochefort’s wife. I should pay her my respects.”

Tillie’s face brightened to near laughter. “Lor’, Miss, he ain’t got no wife. ’Tis his mum as is Lady Thistlewaite.”

Oh. “But Lady Thistlewaite lives here at the Abbey,” I persisted.

“‘As little as possible’—least that’s what his lordship always says
—
but I heard as she’s comin’ fer a visit any day now. We’ve been readying rooms t’past few days.”