Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (16 page)

I heard a shout. Hands waving, pointing. Straight at the house. I leaned out the window, looked up, and a dangling rope promptly swatted me in the face. I gasped, popped back inside, grateful the rope hadn’t sent me plunging to the ground below. I heard Papa’s voice quite clearly.
Now, Minta, I always told you experiments are not without risk

I clung to the window frame as the airship, ropes dangling from all four corners, nosed its way from directly over the house to its mooring, where men reached high into the air, ready to grab the tether ropes. The sneak! Coming at us from the opposite direction. I could wring his neck.

His daring, startlingly successful neck.

Heedless of any danger, I bolted out of the room, down the stairs, and ran for the park.

I arrived just in time to see Matt hop out of the airship, put down the steps, then stand proudly at attention, waiting for Rochefort to descend. I nearly skidded to a halt, the strict rules of female behavior rearing their ugly heads as I plunged into a sea of all males.

Oh, no. Surely I, too, was part of Rochefort’s dream. I had a right to be here.

My speed unchecked, I raced around men tethering a rope to one of the sturdy metal rings, pushed through a crowd of bystanders, and flung myself into Rochefort’s arms just as his feet came back to
terra firma
.

A grunt of surprise, and his arms enfolded me. Lips to my ear, he whispered, “I should beat you, you know, but I find I rather like it.”

If only I could learn to control my blushes!

He kept me there, tucked to his side, as he supervised the secure mooring of the airship and ordered the deflation of the balloon.

“Will you not go up again tomorrow?” I asked.

“Inflated balloons cry for someone to take a shot at them.”

Of course they did. For a moment the successful flight had banished all fear of danger. Embarrassed by my thoughtlessness, I retired to keeping my eyes open and my mouth shut. In spite of the mysterious threats hanging over our heads, I reveled in the moment. Controlled flight. Papa would have been so thrilled, so proud I had a part in it. Even though I had fully intended to be the first to do it.

Was this why Papa had been willing to sell his only child? He had seen Julian’s genius and believed he was doing the right thing? Clearly, I would never know, but today sheer joy overwhelmed my anger. Foolish to fight what was so obviously my rightful place in the world just because the decision had not been mine. Julian and I were well matched.

If only he weren’t involved in treason.

To the victor belong the spoils.
Through all the celebrations that night, through Julian’s calm reminders that testing had barely begun, through Phoebe’s exclamations and Lexa’s far more controlled words of praise, my husband’s words kept popping up like jumping jacks, startling me at the most inopportune moments. Did he mean what I thought he meant? Or was I in for a grave disappointment?

At dinner, a river of toasts flowed around Mrs. H’s delectable offerings. Toasts to Rochefort, to his many assistants, to the airship itself, to the new Age of Flight. And finally, daringly, when the wine had flowed too freely, a toast to the Hanoverian dynasty. To the monarchy.

Blatant treason.

I drank sparingly, anticipating what I hoped would be a late evening more special than the major excitement of the day, I noticed Lexa merely lifted her glass, but did not drink to the monarchy. Disapproval? I thought not. But that was a worry for another time

To the victor belong the spoils.

Dessert passed in a haze that had nothing to do with the amount of wine I had consumed. I stood, signaling the ladies to leave the gentlemen to their port and more gloating over today’s triumph. In the drawing room, I encouraged Lexa and Phoebe to play the piano, but Lexa, unaccountably gloomy, demurred.

“Surely flight isn’t a bad thing,” I said to her, while Phoebe continued to play and the older ladies engaged in conversation. Frankly, she was such a solemn little thing, I expected her to say it was against God’s will.

“It’s the reality of it all,” Lexa returned, not meeting my eyes. “I thought they were mad, and now I see it’s truly going to happen.”

“It?” I echoed, hoping for enlightenment.

“The plan they have devised. I believe Lord Rochefort was instrumental in its design.” Lexa’s voice trailed away as she seemed to realize she was saying more than she should.

“All our guests are aware of this plan?”

Lexa gave me an odd look. “Indeed. That’s why we are here.”

Everyone but me. How
dared
he keep me in the dark? Angry now, I didn’t hesitate to do a bit of fishing. “Julian is very close-mouthed with his plans,” I admitted. “Surely there must be others involved. Our small group cannot mount a revolution alone.”

Lexa sighed. “I, too, am told very little, but I believe the monarchist adherents are widespread. But it is your husband who has added imagination, produced the spark that should ignite the drive toward victory.”

Dear God, they were really going to do it.
Revolution.

Should ignite
, not
will ignite
. Lexa’s confidence seemed far from certain—which would account for her fear in the midst of triumph.

I clasped the hands she had fisted in her lap. “I understand your fear,” I told her. All our heads are at risk, but I have faith in Rochefort. He will not fail.”

Lexa’s clear blue eyes looked past me toward a destiny no one could predict with confidence. “They risk their lives,” she said, “for a concept I cannot completely understand, no matter how hard I try. The British monarchy had not been absolute for some time before its demise. Parliament rules, so what difference does it make if someone sits on the throne?”

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by a discussion of the rights and wrongs of monarchy leaping at me out of the blue in the Abbey drawing room, but it took a moment to settle into it. “The British people like a figurehead they can look up to and admire,” I managed at last. “Which is why Wellington was so easily able to
overthrow
George IV
.
“The king was generally scorned or hated, while everyone adored the duke for his
triumph
over Napoleon.”

“A very great accomplishment,” Lexa murmured, her lower lip quivering.

“But the old King George was a good man,” I pointed out.

“He lost the American colonies and ended a madman,” Lexa countered.

“Nonetheless, for many years he set a fine example for his people.”

“And then came the Prince of Wales and Cumberland.”

And how on earth had Lexa become an advocate for Wellington? “What about
York,
Kent
,
Clarence
,
and Cambridge?” I asked, naming the unlamented George IV’s younger brothers. “Surely,
not bad men
.”

“
York and his wife could not abide each other, leaving no children.
Clarence had ten children with his mistress, yet was unable to produce a single live infant with his wife.”

My temper flared. “What I’m trying to say, Lexa, is that while the country tends to rise in protest against profligate monarchs, it does not demand perfection. Just someone to provide a fine figurehead, someone who wears the crown with modesty while offering the masses the pomp, ceremony, and grand spectacle they love. “And all without spending too much money,” I added, attempting to lighten the moment. “I beg your pardon,” I said as I failed to raise a smile. “I had not realized how much of my father’s passion I absorbed over the years. But it’s true, you know. As Wellington ages, he becomes more and more a tyrant, inflexible, with no thought to the rising power of the middle class, let alone to the great mass of the lower classes. We are in dire need of a change.”

I might have learned more from her, but at this crucial moment the men joined us. This time, Lexa played the piano when coaxed to do so by gentlemen whose spirits had been even more elevated by the passing of the port. But after the tea tray came in, we were a bit like the airship’s balloons after today’s flight, our buoyant spirits deflating into crumpled exhaustion. A series of good-nights drifted through the drawing room. Phoebe kissed me on the cheek before climbing the stairs to bed. To my surprise, the much more reserved Lexa did the same. Perhaps my impromptu lecture had accomplished something after all, affirming our friendship.

“Good-night,” I said to Julian, imitating my friends’ formal curtsies, and turned toward the drawing room door.

“Rather, a
u revoir.
” His words followed me up the stairs and into my bedchamber where, heart pounding, I told Tillie to select my finest nightwear. Smirking, she did as told before hastily unpinning my hair and leaving it free, rather than braiding it for the night. When I gathered the courage to look her in the face, her eyes were dancing. I scowled.

Undeterred, she winked at me before leaving the room. I climbed into bed and settled down to wait.

If the man didn’t come, I was going to march into his room and . . .

To the victor belong the spoils.

Well, he wasn’t victorious with me.

Not yet.

Chapter 13

Mind numb, I shivered. An absurd reaction for a woman only three months short of her majority. Most young women my age were married and with a child or two. So just because my marriage had come as such a surprise . . .

Because my husband had bought me with all the thought to bloodlines he might give to purchasing a mare at Tattersall’s . . .

Because my husband was more interested in his airship than in me—

Unfair. Rochefort was a genius who had chosen me six long years ago. I should be flattered, not incensed. And what opportunity had he had to demonstrate whatever affection he might have for me? We had spent our wedding night bleeding into our respective bandages. And the nine days since, recuperating.

Think of something else, silly goose.

And so I should. The airship leaped to mind. While I had been struggling to make an engine lightweight enough not to drag
Maia
to the ground, Rochefort had been designing a craft strong enough to support a heavy steam engine. I could not fault his genius. Nor could I ignore the pride I’d felt this morning, nor the terror when the airship disappeared from sight. My fear had not been for the ship but for the man.

My husband. Who was coming to me tonight.

Instant chaos.
Think airship, Minta. Airship.

Julian’s creation needed a name.
Yes, think name.
I scrolled through the list of Greek and Roman gods my governess had forced me to memorize. After all, that was how I had named
Maia
. Not wanting a male name for my invention, I had turned to
Maia
, mother of Hermes, the Greek god of travel. As for Julian’s airship . . .

Aphrodite? Surely the goddess of love and beauty would make a fine name. Athena, goddess of wisdom? Juno, the Roman queen of the gods? Perhaps Mercury, the messenger god? But, no, Julian’s airship must be feminine. Were not all ships of the sea considered feminine? Why not ships of the air as well?

Aurora. Oh, yes, goddess of the dawn was a perfect fit. Were we not at the dawn of a new age?
Aurora
it would be. I could hardly wait to tell Julian—

Devil it, I’d done it again. Julian’s ship, Julian’s right to name it. I was no more than a bride trapped at the heart of a revolution against the Lord Protector of the British Empire. A bride whose husband did not trust her enough to tell her the whole. A bride who had nearly been killed, then left to speculate about why.

No wonder I was scowling when Rochefort walked through the dressing room door. He looked quite delicious, I had to admit. The glass-encased candle he carried illuminated his lean and rugged face, his tousled hair, and
the
dark eyes
that masked so many secrets
. As he came closer, I saw he was wearing a burgundy banyan with a paisley design in black. It suited him. All those intricate swirling lines—flowers, leaves, and stems—intertwined in endless convolutions. Black on burgundy. The dark twists and turns of a devious mind.

He paused a foot from the bed, plunked his candle on the tallboy, and glared at me. “What now, Minta?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry? I’ve thought about his moment all day, even while fighting that lumbering behemoth from one end of Hertfordshire to the other . . . and you’re
sorry
?”

Dear God, he thought I was refusing him.
And just when I needed it most, my idiot tongue refused to form words.

My arm did what my tongue could not, stretching its full length in silent supplication. After what seemed an eon, his long fingers closed around mine. I tugged, and he came to me, though almost as slowly as the airship left the ground this morning. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking not quite so fierce as he studied my face. “Explain,” he ordered.