Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (31 page)

“Say what you will, Wandsley,” Lord Carlyon added, “tomorrow we will triumph.” The lords want their consequence back, the MPs have lost their starry-eyed worship of our once-great general, and the people long for a fresh, young face to lead the world into a new age of expansion. Wellington is done for, with no strongman in sight to take his place. Even our military grows tired of our so-called Lord Protector. Our timing, therefore, is impeccable.” The marquess had the grace to pause for a nod to Princess Victoria, sitting on Julian’s right. Considering Lord Carlyon’s arrogant, sometimes bombastic, tendencies, I was surprised he recalled her existence.

“Tomorrow, Highness,” he pronounced with what I considered overly arrogant certainty, “you will be queen.”

Lexa blanched. For a moment I feared her soup might come back up. But blood will tell, and she, thank goodness, seemed to have inherited the better qualities of a long line of Hanovers. She blinked, swallowed, and returned a graciously regal nod. “Thank you, Lord Carlyon. I am most grateful for what you and all those here”—she gazed at each of us in turn—“have done for me. I shall not forget.”

Unfortunately, Lord Wandsley was as stubborn about sharing his dire thoughts as he was about adhering to the monarchist cause. In spite of hints from his wife, he continued his litany of ominous predictions until, even from the far end of the table I could feel Rochefort building up to a roar. The explosion came just as Daniel was serving raspberry tarts.

“Enough!” Julian thundered, his palms slapping the table on each side of his plate. Though I’d expected his outburst, my fork dropped from my fingers, denting my tart before clattering off my plate and dropping onto the tablecloth.

Julian pushed back his chair, standing straight and proud. “We did not spend all this time and money to fail. Tomorrow we will do what we came here to do. Put her Royal Highness Princess Victoria on the throne. Almost every lord in the kingdom, at least half the MPs, a good number of our military, and close to the entire population of London are on our side. I am so confident of success I am allowing my wife to risk herself in this venture.” For a moment his eyes flicked to mine, caught and held, promising more than the restoration of the Hanovers.

“No one said it will go as easily tomorrow as it has so far,” Julian added, “but we will not be out there alone. We’ve brought our men from the Abbey, and many in the crowd are pledged to us. One way or another,” Julian concluded, “I promise you 27 June 1840, will go down in history. And I fully expect it to be remembered as the day Queen Victoria began her reign.” He proffered a deep bow to the future queen. “So let it be.”

I gulped, wondering if any one of us at this table would get a wink of sleep. Heart pounding, I signaled Daniel to finish serving the raspberry tarts.

Later that night, my thoughts of Julian were neither so proud nor sanguine as they had been at dinner. He refused to allow me one more check of
Maia
. Refused my plea to return to the workshop when my life might depend on it. I begged, I cried, I tried to box his ears.

He grabbed my hands and held on tight, while I squirmed like a fish at the end of a line. How
dare
he?

“Minta! Listen to me, Minta. Your equipment is perfect. You’ve checked it, I’ve checked it, Matt has checked it. You need sleep far more than you need one last look at your precious
Maia
.”

I kicked him in the shins.

“Damn it, Minta, stop that!
Maia
will work. You know it will work, I know it will work.”

I twisted, struggling to raise my knee to his most vulnerable spot. I suppose it’s a good thing I failed. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure how much damage a knee could do, and I still hoped our future might a include a child or two.

“Bloody hell, Minta, we’re on the same side!”

So we were. And our side was Lexa’s side. That of Alexandrina Victoria, Princess Royal of the House of Hanover. I deflated as fast as
Maia
’s small balloon. Once again, I’d acted the child when I was Araminta, Baroness Rochefort, daughter of Josiah Galsworthy, and about to play a crucial role in what we hoped would be a bloodless revolution.

“I beg your pardon,” I murmured. “I am as bad as Lord Wandsley, both of us suffering a bout of nerves just before the curtain goes up.

Julian folded me into his arms, the warmth, the scent of him going a long way to calm my fluttering heart. Or at least turn my emotions in a different direction. “Believe me,” he said, “we all feel qualms. It’s just that we’ve had more years to learn how to hide our fear. The truth is, anything could happen tomorrow. The greatest threat to the princess may come from her Uncle Cumberland, the wily King of Hanover. Though why he cannot accept the rightful succession of Kent’s child is beyond my comprehension. It’s not as if we’ve never had a queen before.”

“If only Good Queen Bess might rise and box his ears.” Julian’s laughter faded as he saw my face turn grave. “Is there any possibility Wellington may step aside?” I asked.

Julian pressed a thumb against his lips, considering. “He has to be haunted by what power did to Napoleon,” he offered.

“I still think that’s what Prince George was trying to tell us.”

Julian’s lips curled in a wry smile. “I think young George was offering himself as Prince Consort. Only the most optimistic interpretation suggests anything more.”

I sighed. “But it would be so wonderful if the Wellington endorsed—”

“Hush,” Julian whispered. “Moving from predictions of dire defeat to the Lord Protector’s blessing in the space of a few hours leaves me dizzy. Shall we stop worrying, snatch a few hours’ sleep, and be much too busy tomorrow to worry about anything?”

I burrowed my head in his chest. “Agreed,” I murmured.

Yet even snuggled close to Julian’s heart, I heard the whine of a bullet, remembered the pain. A single bullet, two wounded . . . and tomorrow we might face a whole company of riflemen.

Chapter 25

Saturday, 27 June 1840
,
7:10 a.m.

Cautiously, I opened my eyes and peeked at the light glowing around the edges of the summer draperies. Sun? Yes, thank goodness!

My stomach heaved.
Wha–at?
Shame had me burying my face in my pillow. My stomach, it seemed, would have preferred a downpour, something catastrophic enough to postpone our plans to another day.

Coward!
my inner voice mocked for what must have been the hundredth time in the past few weeks.

Be quiet! I’m entitled to my fears. I fail only when I let them keep me from my duty.

I snuggled into Julian, who had slept like a log, even as I lay wide awake and worrying. Not about the flight of the
Maia
, but about Julian, Lexa, Lady Carlyon, the Wandsleys, and Matt who would be aboard
Aurora
. And Lord Carlyon, who was scheduled to greet them with the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Chancellor at his side, signifying their formal acceptance of the Princess Victoria as reigning monarch of the realm.

Would
Maia
and I be able to keep the attention of both crowd and soldiers? (For I was certain there would be soldiers. Wellington was far too shrewd not to suspect trickery at the announcement of a Solo Ascension by Baroness Rochefort, wife of the notorious monarchist.) Had I been most horribly wrong? Instead of a diversion which allowed
Aurora
to make it to the ground without being riddled by bullets, would the sight of Lady Rochefort maneuvering a swing high above Green Park be more like waving a red cape before a bull? Signaling every red coat in London to take arms, the revolution was at hand?

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to picture disaster. Julian believed we would triumph. Lady Thistlewaite believed, the Carlyons and the Wandsleys believed. They were privy to all the plots and plans, and they assured me we were not alone. But monarchs had expected people to rise up and fight for them before, and it simply hadn’t happened. Or the rebels had been too few, and their heads ended up piked on the walls of the Tower.

Being ninety-nine percent certain no one would shoot at a young baroness on a white wicker swing was slim comfort. In two short months Julian had become the center of my life. Losing him was beyond comprehension. It could not happen. And Lexa? Losing my friend or my monarch were equally unthinkable.

As for Phoebe, Lady Wandsley had thrown a fit of the vapors over her daughter flying in
Aurora
, so she would be with me in Green Park. I had secretly instructed the guards who would be with us to see that she was whisked away to safety if our plans came to naught. Phoebe, I was determined, would survive, if none of the rest of us did.

Visions of children playing in the Abbey courtyard rose up before me. Children playing hide and seek, rolling hoops, skipping rope, running, laughing, giggling. My children. Julian’s. Would they ever be?

Stop this nonsense! Your destiny is saving a nation, not sorrowing over a gaggle of unborn brats.

I see no reason I can’t do both
, I snapped back, thoroughly annoyed with my inner voice, even as I noticed my common sense was strangely silent. I suspected I might have lost it somewhere along the way these past few days.

With great care I detached myself from Julian, wriggled into my robe and slippers, and let myself out into the dim hallway. I roused Phoebe and, together, we made our way to Lexa’s room, where the guards gave way before our bright, “Good mornings” and winsome smiles. Though Lexa’s maid, still asleep in a trundle bed, seemed shocked by our early morning visit, Phoebe and I were soon settled on our friend’s bed. We stared at each other, and suddenly words wouldn’t come. The three of us, usually prepared to chatter nineteen to a dozen, clamped our teeth over our tongues and deliberately dragged a curtain over our thoughts.

In the end, we murmured words too private to repeat, and then Lexa—Her Royal Highness, Princess Victoria—led us in a prayer. We clasped hands for a moment before Phoebe and I went to our rooms to dress, leaving Lexa to the ministrations of her maid.

I managed a bit of toast and strong sweet tea for breakfast, but the very sight of gammon, eggs, kippers, and blood pudding brought back my roiling stomach of early morning.
Forgive me, Papa. I’m a disgrace to the House of Galsworthy.

After breakfast, I sat quietly, letting the words roll over my head, while Lord Carlyon lectured us on the day’s timetable for what must have been the hundredth time. Perhaps only the tenth. What did it matter? The supposed events of each moment were etched in my soul.

At half-eleven I went upstairs to dress. At noon Julian, garbed as finely as if he’d been summoned to St. James Palace, joined me. He kissed me soundly and hugged me tight, whispering a trifle hoarsely, “No unnecessary chances, my girl. When this day is over, I want you in one piece.”

“You too,” I returned, my head buried in his chest to hide incipient tears.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me back so he could see my face. “Minta, we are not alone. We’ve been planning this for years. It’s going to happen, I promise you.”

And if the world’s most famous general wasn’t ready to step down?

Or Lexa’s ruthless Uncle Cumberland, King of Hanover, was determined to have the throne for himself?

Or Prince George, Cambridge’s son, had lied, his ambitions running far beyond Prince Consort?

I managed a credible, “Of course, Julian. Tonight we’ll dine in triumph.”

“That’s my girl!” He flashed a smile, ducked his head to brush my lips with his, and then he was gone to join the others, including the next queen of the British Empire.

I sat back against the dark blue velvet squabs of Papa’s closed carriage, refusing to look out as we drove from the northern end of Regency Park to Green Park, which lay just north and west of Buckingham Palace, right under the Lord Protector’s nose. I must have been mad when I proposed this plan.

“You look very fine,” Phoebe said. “I had doubts about the design, but your costume will stand out beautifully. Every eye will be drawn to you.”

I’d had a few doubts myself, but the whole purpose of a diversion is to
divert
. I must be the cynosure of every eye, and I’d dressed accordingly. My bloomers were royal blue and full enough to look like a skirt, if one didn’t examine them with too sharp an eye. A true skirt was out of the question, of course, for a young lady swinging above a crowd of avid-eyed watchers. But if they happened to think it was skirt . . . well, what better way to keep attention away from what was happening a few blocks away?

I wore a short scarlet jacket in the military style, with epaulets in royal blue, edged in gold, and enough gold braid and buttons down the front to rival the most ornate officer’s uniform. The ruffled edges of my white linen blouse peeked out at neck and wrists. On my head was a shortened version of a military shako, done up in royal blue with gold trim and a shiny black patent brim. To avoid the ignominy of the hat falling off as I soared above the crowd, we tightened the chin strap until my jaw ached. To complete the image of a young girl on a garden swing, I’d left my hair loose, hoping the sun would gild the waves of brown tumbling down my back and over the front of my jacket.