Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (32 page)

The carriage slowed, and Phoebe was unable to resist the temptation of a swift peek out the window. “We’re still on Bond Street,” she said as she leaned back, “and it appears half London is headed for Green Park. The coachman is having difficulty getting through the crowd.”

“It’s not just me,” I murmured. “They
know
. The town has been rife with rumors for weeks, yet somehow they sense this is the moment.”

“Rochefort’s leanings toward the monarchy, your father’s—they’re no secret, Minta. People were bound to make the connection.”

Indeed. Isn’t that exactly what we wanted? A huge crowd in Green Park watching the Baroness Rochefort display herself like an actress at Drury Lane. Allowing
Aurora
to fly without hindrance from Regents Park to Hyde Park, delivering the Princess Royal to a formal reception, which would include not only the Archbishop and Lord Chancellor, but the Lord Mayor, Lord Melbourne, and the members of the House of Lords with enough backbone to stand against the Lord Protector.

I looked down at my garish garb and sighed. Lexa was wearing white silk peau de soie, embroidered in masses of translucent crystals which would catch the sun as she stepped from
Aurora
, sparkling brilliantly below the fresh young face of the future. On her head, a diamond tiara would emphasize her royal origins. Princess Victoria, about to be queen. Unless . . .

I squeezed Phoebe’s hand, worried about our slow pace. Timing was all. But wasn’t that why Julian had insisted we set out ninety minutes before
Maia
’s scheduled ascent? I pulled my time piece from a hidden pocket in my bloomers. Silly girl. Everything was going to go exactly as planned.

“Make way! Make way for the Baroness Rochefort! Make way!”

A moment of panic as we entered the park, our vanguard parting the milling crowd so the carriage could get through. We were enveloped in people. Craning necks, peering eyes, faces actually pressing against the carriage windows as we inched our way to the heart of Green Park. And somewhere, deep down, I recognized the irony. I had, on occasion, suspected I might actually relish my role as the girl who would fly. That I
wanted
to disport myself to all and sundry, swinging high above their heads.
See what a clever girl am I!

But now, with the moment at hand, I wanted to yank the carriage curtains closed, cower in a corner, and never see another flying machine as long as I lived.

Stage fright, Minta! Nothing but stage fright.

Finally displaying good sense, are you?

I opened my eyes to Phoebe’s anxious stare. I gulped, straightening my features into the stoic outward calm Lexa had developed during the uncertain, and sometimes chaotic, twenty-one years before Lord and Lady Carlyon whisked her away from her mama and brought her to Stonegrave Abbey. If Lexa could do it, so could I.

“We must smile and wave,” I said. “We are delighted to be here. Delighted to entertain the crowd.” I leaned forward in my seat, smiling into the face of a young buck with more hair than wit. Heavens! Any moment he was going to be under our wheels. “Wave, Phoebe!”

I cranked down the window. What had been a dull roar nearly sent me reeling back against the squabs. And the smell! After two months in the country, I’d forgotten the pungent odors of London. Unwashed bodies, horse dung, and coal smoke blotted out the smell of fresh grass and blooming flowers. I was home. This was my town, these my people. And I was about to dazzle them with a flying machine that was not subject to the vagary of the wind. I was going to fly, dip, soar, turn, keeping every eye
fixed
in my direction as I floated over St. James Park, in quite the opposite direction from Hyde Park, where
Aurora
would be preparing to descend.

The faces disappeared, the carriage stopped. I peered out just as one of the guards drove a stake back into the ground, once again closing off the cordoned area around
Maia
. My shoulders slumped and I heaved a sigh of relief before glancing at my time piece. Good. We’d made it with thirty-five minutes to spare.

“Change places,” Phoebe said, scooting across the seat.
Maia
is on my side.”

And there she was, her balloon almost fully inflated, my white wicker swing lying canted on its side, resting against its clockwork engine, the propeller hidden from the crowd. A–ah, but she was beautiful! A giant globe of heavy oiled silk, rippling into life, gleaming more scarlet than burgundy under the strong rays of the summer sun. The noise of the crowd faded. So did my fear. For a short while I would hold the stage, do my part for my country, for my queen. For my friend, Lexa.

And pray that tonight would find Julian and me safely tucked up in bed at Galsworthy House.

I sat back against the soft blue velvet squabs and closed my eyes. The roar of the crowd alerted me to the moment when the balloon was fully inflated, surging against the ropes that held it down, my swing swaying gently at the proper height. Waiting for me.

Another glance at my time piece. Ten minutes to ascension. I turned to Phoebe. “How do I look?”

She adjusted my shako, tucked in a stray curl. “I wish I might go with you,” she burst out. It’s glorious, quite glorious!”

I hugged her so tightly we had to readjust the shako. We signaled the closest guard, who swung open the carriage door and helped us down. The crowd screamed. I paused, allowing my gaze to move slowly over the mixed array of humanity—those on foot standing shoulder to shoulder and the privileged looking down from the vantage point of their landaus, barouches, curricles, high perch phaetons, and high-spirited horses. Incredible! They were all here to see me.

And hoping for something more. How many were monarchists? How many simply curious, out for a cracking bit of entertainment, the chance to catch a glimpse of a shapely ankle?

I smiled, I waved.

How many were here to put down rebellion wherever it might rear its ugly head?

And if it came to a fight, which way would the ordinary citizens of London jump?

I turned toward
Maia.
It was time. Two crewmen, the same men who had assisted in
Maia
’s trials in Hertfordshire, lifted me into my seat with ease, then fastened the wooden bar across the front. My bright red half-boots peeked out below my bloomers, revealing a naughty glimpse of white stockings, clocked in red.

Let them look. Every second the crowd was focused on me, people were not seeing
Aurora
launching from the fenced mews behind Papa’s workshop. They were not seeing
Aurora
making her way over Regency Park, crossing the Regency Canal, Marlyebone Road, casting shadows on a sea of tall chimneys dotting the roofs of Mayfair’s finest. They were not watching as
Aurora
descended toward the chosen landing site near Park Lane, at the easternmost edge of Hyde Park. They were not watching the carefully chosen array of dignitaries who would greet the Princess Royal when she stepped out of her flying chariot like an angel come to save the souls of her people.

“One minute, my lady.” Peters, my chief crewman, slipped a gold watch back into his pocket. A gift from Julian, of which he was suitably proud.

I nodded. Lost in the glory of the moment, I knew only joy. I’d dreamed of this venture for years. I was about to soar alone into the sky, showing these people what a girl could do.

I was about to demonstrate that a girl could fly.

That a girl could be queen.

Chapter 26

I was facing south, with the bulk of Buckingham Palace rising at the back of the crowd. Behind me, to the north, was Regency Park.
Are you ready, Julian? Don’t be frightened, Lexa.
I flashed an encouraging smile to Phoebe, who looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. I looked at Peters and nodded.

“Hands on!” he ordered. The men standing by the two thick ropes that kept
Maia
earthbound pulled up the stakes, wrapped the ropes around their forearms, and braced their boots against the grass. A swell of sound, almost like the rumble of thunder, swept through the crowd. “Loose!”

I was airborne, the wonder of it so great, for a moment I simply drifted, basking in the glow, the supreme triumph of flying. The sudden silence brought me back to reality. I glanced down. Yes, the crowd was still there, but the roar of the launch had dwindled to a faint buzz. Were they holding their breaths, waiting for me to fall? I was, after all, ascending rapidly, perched on little more than a garden swing, my body fully exposed, my bloomer-clad legs dangling in the air.

I pulled up the tether ropes and dropped them into small baskets on either side of my swing. With the launch process accomplished, I was free to show off a bit, pumping the swing, increasing its natural motion. Showing off. Making certain the crowd could clearly see me flying through the air, rivaling the angels themselves. A collective gasp as the arc of my swing increased. Even the faint buzz died away. I had them, every last one of them, fixed on me as closely as hawks eyeing their next meal.

I risked a swift glance behind and to my right. Yes, there it was:
Aurora
rising. Tears misted my eyes. I modified the arc of my swing, waved to the crowd, and reached for the steering lever. And at that moment I knew what I had to do. Even as I heard Julian’s horrified, “No!” I determined to do it. I was so close . . . why should I not add one more feat of daring to this day? Rub the new age of flight right in the Lord Protector’s face?

Instead of turning immediately toward St. James Park, I headed for the palace, soaring above the crowds filling the park, then up and over the massive building, over the green courtyard, behind the pole flying the Lord Protector’s flag. A small deviation from plan, but soul-satisfying. As if my symbolic overflight of Buckingham Palace had claimed it for Queen Victoria.

I executed what I hoped was a graceful turn to the left and returned to our original plan, passing over the crowd in front of the palace and over the long pond that marked the center of St. James Park. Keeping every eye on me, every back to
Aurora
.

The noise revived as people discovered I wasn’t in imminent danger of death, that I could maneuver
Maia
almost as easily as equestrians maneuvered their horses. People waved, shouted, with a cat-call or two from men who thought women had no place in the sky. I smiled, angled left again, almost to St. James Palace, which kept me safely away from the Wellington Barracks, where a rather large contingent of soldiers in red coats and the tall black bearskin shakos of the Foot Guard stood on parade. The first soldiers I’d seen. Hopefully, they were mustered there because they were being allowed to watch the ascension of
Maia
, but somehow their sabers struck me as more than ceremonial. A shiver shook me.

When well past the Wellington Barracks, I swung back to the right, following the length of the long pond, where ducks sailed serenely on, undisturbed by my clockwork engine. As my flight continued without mishap, clearly proving the maneuverability of my strange craft, the shouts of the crowds became huzzahs.

Enjoying myself hugely, I followed the blue water of the pond to the very end of the park.
Oh!

Pride goeth before a fall.
There before me was Horse Guards, and in the front courtyard, a mounted army in red coats, their silver helmets gleaming in the sun. And every eye—even the horses, I swear—fixed on me.

Except for the ones looking behind me. Looking up. At
Aurora
on its way to Hyde Park.

I drifted, my hand frozen to the steering lever, until I was looking straight down at the captain of the guard. Only it wasn’t a captain. It was a colonel. Prince George.

Summoning courage I hadn’t know I possessed, I waved and smiled. Incredibly, Lexa’s cousin waved back. I gulped, sent up a quick prayer to what I hoped was the merciful God of the New Testament, and began my turnaround. If all went as planned, I would lead the multitude back down the length of St. James Park, through Green Park, past Apsley House (the Lord Protector’s private residence), and into Hyde Park in time to witness the arrival of Princess Victoria in her chariot from the sky.

But the moment the thousands of people in St. James and Green parks turned around, they would see
Aurora
, its size and majesty eclipsing poor little
Maia
. But wasn’t that exactly what we’d planned?

Though not the part about the Horse Guards joining the reception committee.

Julian, well aware of the location of Horse Guards, had to have anticipated this, fitted it into his plans. I could almost hear him:
Minta, the Horse Guards are the sons of the aristocracy. Their fathers are already in Hyde Park, waiting to greet their future queen.

Perhaps. Surely he had not expected both Foot Guards and Horse Guards to be drawn up on parade, less than a half mile from
Aurora
’s landing site.

Fully turned now, I paused, gazing down the length of St. James Park toward Buckingham Palace.