Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (21 page)

“Not designed with females in mind,” I noted.

“Heaven forfend. Sorry,” Julian added as he saw the disgust on my face. “I have no doubt two or three determined ladies could manage it if they had to.” He shoved the rack back against the wall. Dark eyes gleaming with challenge, he took my hand and guided it behind the rack. “There. Feel that? Shove the handle down. Hard.”

Click.
“Now help me push,” Julian ordered. “Well?” he demanded when the opening to the tunnel was once again revealed.

“Moral of this story—I’d better not try to escape alone.”

Julian groaned. “Minta, it’s a secret tunnel. It’s not supposed to be easy. And, besides, I’m going to leave it open for instant access. If you ladies have to use it, just pull it shut behind you.”

I gulped. The idea of entering that dark opening under the earth and pulling the wine rack shut behind me was one of the least appealing thoughts I’d ever had. I gulped. “Where does it go?”

“It comes out in a thicket at the edge of the ha-ha, with covering enough to get you safely into the woods.

And then what?

“Minta! Now’s not the time to lose your courage. You’ll have lanterns. And, besides, it’s highly unlikely matters will ever reach the point where you’ll need the tunnel at all.”

“What about the female servants? The Biddles and the maids?”

“I promise you, Minta, the mob has no interest in servants.”

“The
sans culottes
spared the
aristos’
servants?”

Hard eyes glared down into mine. “I believe the servants joined the attackers, but that was France, Minta, not England.”

“And you think Mrs. H will defend the Abbey, rolling pin in hand, when the attackers are members of her church?”

“I think,” my husband snapped back, “that
Evangeline
Biddle is quite capable of protecting her entire flock, no matter what her sister does. And I also think I need to be upstairs, seeing to our defenses. ”

“I beg you pardon,” I murmured. After one last glance at the yawning gap that marked the tunnel entrance, I scurried past the other racks of wine, past the blood stain on the floor, and out into the stone-walled corridor. Julian seemed as eager as I to escape the miasma of damp earth, stale air, and the taint of murder. I had to move quickly to keep up with him as we made our way back to the upper reaches of the house.

Nearly two hours later, Julian joined me in our sitting room, assuring me both guards and guests had been alerted and the airship returned to the safety of the workshop. Every one of our private army had been called to duty, a solid cordon ringing the outer workshop, the rest at posts encircling the Abbey.

When I opened my mouth to ask the myriad questions churning through my head, Julian put his fingers against my lips. “Hush, Minta. All’s been done that can be done. Now we wait.”

Hush Araminta Galsworthy? Rochefort might be a genius, but when it came to women, he could be as jingle-brained as any man. “Couldn’t this be much ado about nothing?” I demanded. “Look outside. It’s a perfect spring night, the park as serene as a millpond.”

Rochefort proffered his arm. Would you care for a stroll to the woods, my lady?”

Conceding the point, I shook my head. But it was so nonsensical. A mob attacking the Abbey over a glorious new invention . . .

Or was that just an excuse?

My speculations were left unresolved as a footman entered, announcing the return of Rochefort’s spy. Julian rushed downstairs to speak with him and I followed, shamelessly eavesdropping from the gallery at the top of the stairs.

The messenger’s words tumbled out in haste. The evangelicals, whipped to a fury by an
agent provocateur
from London, had surged from the meeting house onto the high street. There, they were joined by the crowd from the tavern, which had been plied with drink and harangued to a fever pitch by yet another mystery man with a silver tongue.

“Armed?” Julian asked.

“Oh aye, m’lord, well-armed they was. Shotguns, rifles, clubs, pitchforks, a ladder or two. And plenty o’ torches as well.”

Armed men flowing toward the Abbey like some massive destructive flood. Or at least that’s how I pictured them. Surging along the road, tramping down the railroad tracks—for surely half the village knew about those swinging doors. Others climbing over the fence, for wasn’t there a ladder in every barn? But I feared the torches most, for whether their target was the airship or the Abbey, fire could wreak the most destruction.

Surely they wouldn’t . . . not
Aurora
. Yet to the evangelicals and the ale-fired riff-raff, no matter who stirred them up, Rochefort’s crowning achievement was an ungodly creation that defied the laws of nature.

Julian looked up, not even blinking to find me leaning over the railing above his head. “At the very first indication of violence, take and women and go,” he called to me.

My throat closed, I couldn’t speak. Instead, I offered what I hoped was a confident wave, indicating I understood.

Drummond and Mr. Soames appeared in the hall below, weighed down with armaments. Drummond had a rifle strapped to his back, a sword hanging from his waist, and a pistol tucked into his sword belt. In his arms he held another rifle, which he fitted over Julian’s back. Soames handed him a sword and two pistols. Like squires arming a knight for battle. But where was the armor? Could they not, at least, have offered one of the boiled leather aprons from the workshop?

As if Julian would have worn it.

Dear God, my husband, the inventor, was going to war. He was going outside to confront a mob high flown on ale and righteousness, and God alone could help him. And I had a few doubts about God taking pity on a man who hadn’t set foot in church for years.

I stood on the gallery, my mind numb, until Julian and Drummond departed and Soames instructed Daniel to bar the front door behind them.

Think, think, think!

Slowly, ever so slowly, the wheels and cogs of my mind began to turn. Unfortunately, they conjured images of a bloodied Julian, fighting for his life. And for all those who depended on him. Including me.

Surely he would talk to them, make them see it was futile to attack the solid stone walls of the Abbey. Futile to protest against progress. And then I recalled Papa’s tales of Luddites, those violent protesters against progress a generation past. The many years of broken farm machinery, broken knitting machines, burned hayricks and cottages.

I had to face the truth. To many, progress was feared to the point of violence and hatred. Which did not bode well for the monarchists . . . or did it? After a thousand years of kings and queens, was Wellington not the aberration that needed to be rectified?

Stupid! A mob’s descending on the Abbey and you’re standing at the head of the staircase like some grande dame ready to welcome guests.

After telling my inner voice to take a leap onto the marble tiles below, I squeezed my eyes shut and summoned my common sense. Julian chose me because he wanted a strong woman, a woman who knew how to use her brain, a woman who could cope.

At the moment I rather thought he’d made a disastrous error.

Think!

A mob, not an army, was at our door. Not disciplined troops with siege machines, but men crazed on drink or religious fervor. Against them we had the strength of the Abbey walls, a ring of professional guards, most of them former soldiers, and the power of Julian’s title. Baron Rochefort and his ancestors had lived on this land since the time of Henry VIII. He was landlord to most of the local men. When push came to shove . . .

Niggling tendrils of doubt insinuated themselves thro
ugh my fear. But what if . . .?

What if the mob was a feint? What if—while the mob and our guards confronted each other
on the east side of the Abbey—
a small, much more deadly, group of men approached from the west?

For what purpose?

To fire
Aurora
? Seize Lexa? For surely they would never go so far as to kill the legitimate heir to the throne.

Would they?

Foolish speculation. They couldn’t get in—the Abbey was locked up tight.

But if the Abbey was so secure, then who killed the daguerreotypist? And how?

I pried my fingers from the railing and forced myself back toward the sitting room, still thinking hard. As Papa frequently told me, it is always wise to have a Plan B.

I gathered our female guests in the sitting room that lay between Julian’s suite of rooms and mine. “One of the guards is on the roof,” I told them. “He will give us first warning when he sees the mob.” I decided not to mention the torches. We were frightened enough as it was.

“Surely the fence will stop them,” Lady Thistlewaite said.

“They’ll come prepared,” Lady Carlyon countered. “The younger among them were undoubtedly raised on tales of the storming of Salamanca and Badahoz
. A
mong the older men will be those who served with Wellington in his days of glory.”

“But Wellington is not here,” I said rather sharply, “nor do I believe these men are of the same caliber or experience. This is not the moment for Cassandra-like utterances, Lady Carlyon. And, besides, the
provocateurs
might be Hanover’s agents or rival aeronauts.”

Lady Wandsley gasped, even as Lady Carlyon favored me with a look of scathing disdain before turning to speak with Lexa.

After that, we lapsed into silence, each of us no doubt conjuring up perfectly horrid thoughts of our own.

We waited, the strain enveloping us, freezing mind and soul. Except for two single candles, widely spaced, we sat in darkness, not wanting to reveal our location. I perched on the window seat behind drawn draperies, constantly peeking through a crack to see if anything was happening, even though no shout had come from the lookout on the roof.

“Do you believe this is Wellington’s work?” Lexa whispered in my ear.

Ah. The sheltered girl was growing queenly, beginning to comprehend the intricacies of the situation, that outside forces were at work here. “It seems likely,” I told her, “but I have no idea of the strength of other monarchist groups. Either of your uncles might be behind this.”

“Wellington is more dangerous.”

“Are you sure? I acquit him of wanting you dead.”

Lexa placed her dainty hand on my shoulder. “You must realize you were nearly killed because an assassin thought you were I.”

I did, but I didn’t think she knew. I needed to remember that Lexa might be reserved and overly sheltered, but she didn’t lack for intelligence.

“Perhaps it was some minion of Wellington’s, operating on his own,” I offered. “I cannot believe our Lord Protector would stoop so low.”

A shout from the roof. I peered out, sucked in a sharp breath. A broad ribbon of light was emerging from the road through the woods. Enough light to illuminate the massive shadow beast moving beneath the torches. A beast more disciplined than I anticipated as it suddenly split in half, forming a phalanx of men to the left and right of the road. A hundred? Maybe more.

“Candles,” I called. The last light in the sitting room vanished, the other women flocked to the windows.

“Look!” Phoebe cried. A much narrower ribbon of light had suddenly appeared to our left. The intruders who had followed the railroad tracks. As they exited the woods, they made a sharp left turn and joined the first group, forming a solid line of flickering light and shadows against the eastern tree line.

Not a ragged mob, this. Surely only a military man of the Lord Protector’s skill could have orchestrated a mob into a disciplined army. Not that he was here in person, of course, but someone military was out there, whipping diverse clusters of men into line. Impossible to estimate their number in the dark, but one thing I knew: they outnumbered our small private army at least two to one.

Julian, I beg you, do not be stupid. No heroics!

Futile thought. For there he was, a tall, dark, unmistakably erect silhouette, emerging from behind our guards and walking steadily across the park toward the line of torches poised in front of the trees. Did mobs observe the rules of war? Would they send someone out to talk? Or would they put a bullet through him, then storm the Abbey over his dead body?

At least Julian wasn’t foolish enough to carry a torch himself, but that made it difficult to follow his progress. I thought I saw a shadow detach itself from the torch-lit enemy line, but I couldn’t be sure.
Ah, dear God, let them settle it without a fight!

“My lady!” Mrs. E burst through the sitting room door, silhouetted by the light from the wall sconces in the corridor. “There’s men inside. In the west cellars! Young Matt came to warn us.”

I admit it, for a moment my mind couldn’t take it in.
Impossible.
The cellars—the west cellars—were our escape route.

“A dozen or so, my lady,” Mrs. E gasped. “Someone’s let them in, how I don’t know.”

Could I trust Mrs. E, or was she luring us into a trap?