Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (27 page)

“Absurd, Minta. My calculations are sound.”

A second finger joined the first. “Two. If you use my idea for a diversion, you will have the perfect excuse for transporting equipment to London.” He opened his mouth for his usual counter-argument, and I waved him down.

“Three. “A sidetrack runs straight into my father’s workshop in London, which is a perfect hiding place.

“Four. “While I provide a diversion in Green Park, it is but a short journey for
Aurora
from our workshop to Hyde Park. Her Highness will arrive, unscathed, in all the glory of a descent from the heavens, straight into a welcome by the most noble in the land.”

“While everyone will be in Green Park watching you,” Rochefort countered with considerable sarcasm. “Not exactly a spectacular arrival for our future queen. And, besides,” he added, a triumphant gleam in his eye, “how do you plan to get Her Highness to London without exposing her to the very dangers we’re trying to avoid?”

I gulped back a mouthful of furious words. Unfortunately, he had a point. But a Galsworthy was nothing, if not resilient. “Inside
Aurora
, of course.”

“But we’d be wrapping it up to look like delivery of a giant machine—”

“The journey’s not far. I’ll accompany her—”

“You will not! You’re the center of attraction, the crazed woman who insists on demonstrating her flying machine. You will travel to London at my side. In plain view of every gawker and spy.”

I opened my mouth to suggest Phoebe accompany Lexa, but snapped it closed as his words sunk in. Did Julian realize he had all but accepted my plan? I put on the wide-eyed, hopeful face that had worked so well with Papa. “It requires precise timing, I admit. But
Aurora
will be down safely in Hyde Park, instead of her balloon shot full of holes or blown up by cannon fire. And I’ll lead the crowd straight to you.”

“Minta, we’ve been planning this for years—”

Men!
“I can’t believe you,” I cried. “You, the creative genius, the man who is always searching for something new, and yet you can’t tolerate an idea from someone else. Is it because I’m a woman? Would you listen if Matt proposed this plan—”

“Enough!” Julian slumped back into his chair, waving me to my seat on the sofa. A few moments of silence as we struggled to rein in our tempers. “In a way you are right,” he said at last. “If Matt were to create the diversion, I’d give it more credence. Not because he’s male, but because we wouldn’t be risking your life.”

Ah.
“But I’m not,” I protested softly after recovering my breath. “No one is after me. I’m only in danger when I’m mistaken for Lexa.”

“You’d be totally exposed, Minta. No walls, no covering of any kind. Flying over the heart of London, over a crowd spotted with hired bully boys who will do anything to stop our cause. Nor is it the country, Minta. Besides people who might shoot you down for the fun of it, there are steeples and towers and smoke and—”

“It’s Green Park, for heaven’s sake. Which leads to Hyde Park. All I have to do is avoid Wellington’s bloody great house. Do you think I don’t know how to steer?”

“Minta!”

I clamped a fist against my mouth and ducked my head. I dared not let him see me cry. That’s all the proof he’d need that I was unfit for the task I proposed to do.

Rochefort plunged his head into his hands. Silence descended. In spite of the warm summer night, I was suddenly cold. It shouldn’t matter so much that no one would listen to me, consider using me. But I was part of this now and, God help me, I truly wanted to see Lexa—Princess Alexandrina Victoria—on the throne.

And I wanted Elbert to take us to London, so Papa could be part of it all. Papa, whose dreams had gone far beyond the world of machines.

“They will be suspicious,” Julian said at last. “Everyone knows you are my wife.”

“They also know I am my father’s daughter. “Not so surprising the apple falls not far from the tree.”

“But the timing—”

“Let them be suspicious. That’s the whole point, is it not? They will be watching me, not you.”

“Which means I will not be there to help you if something goes wrong.” Julian’s fingers wove through his hair. He shook his head.

“We are a gallant and sporting nation, Julian. No one is going to harm a young lady daring enough to fly alone above the heart of London. And if I do it right, some of the admiration should descend on Lexa, another young woman presenting herself, alone, to the crowd.”

“You’re mad,” he huffed. “As am I if I let you do it.”

“Let me?” I shouted, jumping to my feet. “How dare—”

But of course he dared. He was my husband, and I mere chattel. That was the way of our world. I could be a female Leonard da Vinci or Galileo, and still my husband would rule my life.

Perhaps a queen on the throne would make a difference . . . but Lexa had been ruled so long by others, brought up to be a puppet instead of a princess
royal . . .

Merciful heavens, I was destroying our house of cards before it was begun.

Strong arms enveloped me, pressing my head into Julian’s chest. “You are very bright and very brave,” he said, “and I would be a fool not to listen to you. A diversion it is. And may God help us all.”

Cook used to wink and say, “Never ferget, dearie. The best part of a quarrel is making it up.”

She was right.

The euphoria of Matt’s encouraging news soon faded into the nightmare of logistics. The Abbey walls rang with the pros and cons of moving
Aurora
to London—to the point I feared Lord Carlyon might have an apoplexy. He turned positively purple as he shouted for the eighth or ninth time, “It’s impossible, I tell you. Quite impossible!”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from joining the argument, for I knew anything I, a mere female, might say would only increase his stubborn determination to cling to his own highly negative point of view.

“We have moved
Aurora
on and off our train at least a half dozen times,” Rochefort countered. “It can’t be that much more difficult to put her up on the open cars of the London & Birmingham.”

“And let the whole world see her? There’ll be troops waiting at Euston Station, mark my words. End of the line for us all.”

I watched, eyes wide, as Rochefort offered a reassuring smile. Truth was, I had to admit my suggested revision of the monarchists’ master plan created almost as many problems as it solved, and I was shamelessly counting on Julian to solve these tricky issues.

“I am known for creating machines, am I not?” my husband asked. “And I am married to a woman who owns an engineering workshop north of Regency Park?” Around the crowded drawing room, heads nodded. “And it is logical that I might have created a machine, a large machine, for that workshop, a workshop with train tracks that run straight into the building?”

A susurration of indrawn breaths and soft whispers as Rochefort’s point struck home. “Someday airships may be giant, carrying passengers ’round the world, but
Aurora
is not. We can wrap her up, transport her to Tring, tie her down on top of a second class carriage, and have her inside the Galsworthy workshop before dawn breaks over St. Paul’s.”

“You have the London & Birmingham at your beck and call?” Carlyon demanded, skepticism dripping from every word.

“I believe my wife does,” Rochefort responded smoothly. “Without Josiah Galsworthy there would be no London & Birmingham.”

One of the finest moments of my life, and all I could feel were the goosebumps rising on my arms.

“Minta?” Julian’s face was so full of pride I wanted to savor the moment, wallow in my husband’s approval, but it was the daughter of Josiah Galsworthy who was needed now, not the socially acceptable Baroness Rochefort who never sullied her hands with commerce.

I rose to my feet, knowing this was it, the moment I must convince them that my idea could increase the likelihood of our success. “During the last years of my father’s illness,” I told my house guests, “I handled all Galsworthy business. I will have no difficulty arranging a special night run to London.” I smiled, hoping a touch of levity would ease the disapproval, even shock, on the faces around the room. “As long, of course, as the L & B receives a little something extra for their trouble.”

Lexa clapped her hands. “What a treasure you are, Lady Rochefort! And a credit to our fair sex.”

I bowed my head in her direction. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Silence crashed in, plunging the Abbey drawing room into the ambiance of a graveyard at midnight. Startled, I looked to Julian, who was staring at Lexa as if he’d never seen her before. And, finally, what should have been obvious dawned on me. They’d all worked and planned and kept their secret for so long that when they heard Lexa addressed as “Your Highness,” it was almost as if they had not actually thought of
her
, of the diminutive young woman in our midst, as the person of legal age they hoped to make queen. She was simply the child they had planned
for
, not a living, breathing person who was about to take the power of a great nation into her hands.

Assuming the role of herald, I declared in ringing tones, “From now on our Miss Smythe wishes to be addressed as befits her station. Until her crowning, she will be known as Princess Victoria and addressed as ‘Your Highness.’”

“What about Alexandrina?” Lady Carlyon cried.

Lexa sat straight-backed in her chair, head high, hands folded primly in her lap. “I do not care for it,” she decreed. “And though I am not pleased to use the same name as my mama, I assure you it is preferable to Alexandrina.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Rochefort declared. “And we will do our best to transform your mode of address from ‘Your Highness’ to ‘Your Majesty.’”

Bless him. He could be quite wonderful at times. Though I could wish more of those moments, outside the bedchamber, were centered on me.

Hope burgeoned into excitement. At long last, we were so close we could almost smell victory, hear the cheering crowds.

But, alas, as Cook used to say, “Don’t you fergit, dearie, there’s many a slip betwixt cup and lip.”

Chapter 21

I sat at the small marquet
ry desk in my bedchamber, with Julian leaning over my shoulder, as we attempted to compose an announcement to be sent to the London newspapers. Three long sheets of foolscap, marked by hasty scratch-outs and blobs of ink, lay crumpled in the wicker discard basket on the floor.

I had begun with a headline
,
“Amazing Ascension,” but Rochefort preferred “Solo Ascension,” pointing out that a balloon ascension by a lone female would draw more avid interest. We had also debated, rather hotly, the date and time. For I have to admit, now the moment was upon us, the immensity of what we were doing descended on me like a great black cloud, scattering my enthusiasm and my optimism like a leaf before a thunderstorm.

Surely a month from now . . .

Three weeks . . .?

Rochefort swept my objections aside. With rumors of momentous events sweeping the teeming streets of London, the sooner we acted the better, giving our enemies less opportunity to organize their forces. And with Mid-summer Eve almost upon us, we must act before the nobility abandoned London for their country estates. Ten days, he decreed. That was all the time we needed.

Ten days.
Heart pounding, I inserted the date into our announcement. My hand shook as I returned the quill to its stand before gazing at the final copy.

SOLO ASCENSION!

Baroness Rochefort will

demonstrate the maneuverability of

her amazing clockwork flying machine

Saturday, 27 June 1840

at 2:00 post meridian

Green Park

“It will do,” Rochefort declared. “I’ll also have posters printed and make sure the chaunterers spread the news as well.”

“Julian?”

“Yes?” he returned absently as he calculated the number of fair copies I must make.

“I should like to add something.”

“Um . . .
what?
” He jerked upright, glaring at me. Clearly, with a date set at last, he wanted no additions or interruptions, not even from his wife.

“It can be in small letters at the bottom,” I said quickly, “but I would like the announcement to say that Baroness Rochefort is the daughter of the inventor, Josiah Galsworthy.”

Julian kneaded fingers against his forehead and heaved a sigh. Too late I recognized my error. I should have asked for an addendum that read, “Baroness Rochefort is the wife
of the well-known inventor,
Baron Rochefort.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “Your papa made you what you are, Minta. You are quite right to include him.”

Oh. “Thank you.” Would I ever stop being a fool, leaping from outspoken wife to quivering coward to rank pessimist in the blink of an eye? Silly twit that I was, with my heart torn between my old life and the new, my emotions as flighty as a hummingbird, while living in an abbey anchored to the bedrock of the ages. One moment I was able to hold my own in a roomful of my elders, the next I was crushed because I might have said the wrong thing to my husband. And since Julian was the epitome of
noblesse oblige
, I’d never know if I’d actually hurt him.