Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  Harbor for the Nightingale

  A Stranje House Novel

  Kathleen Baldwin

  Thank you for buying an authorized copy of this ebook. Your investment keeps authors writing high quality stories for readers. Copyrights protect and encourage creativity.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe this ebook you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the author at: Kathleen@KathleenBaldwin.com

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  This story is a work of Fiction. All of the characters, entities, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally.

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  HARBOR FOR THE NIGHTINGALE

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  Copyright © 2019 Kathleen Baldwin

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Ink Lion Books

  5100 Eldorado Pkwy Ste 102-518

  McKinney TX 75070

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  This book and parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author or publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  First Edition September 2019

  Designed, written, and produced in the United States of America

  Contents

  1. Miss Maya Barrington’s Typhoon

  2. The Disquieting Dangers of Dining

  3. What Song of Woe is This?

  4. Ode to a Flower

  5. The Lion’s March

  6. A Far Cry from Peace

  7. A Chorus of Inharmonious Schemes

  8. Sing Me a Song of Duplicity, Sing Me a Song of Deceit

  9. Sound the Trumpets

  10. The Groom’s Tune

  11. A Roaring River

  12. Invasion of the Choirboy

  13. Pick A Patch of Pretty Poison

  14. Lyrics for A Lie

  15. The Nightingale’s New Cage

  16. Grandmother’s Lullaby

  17. Requiem for Spies

  18. Serenading a Serpent

  19. One Waltz Before Dying

  20. Death’s Dark Drums

  21. Duet with Fate

  22. Upon These Waves, I Cast My Heart

  23. The Nightingale Sings

  24. The Horns of Safe Harbor

  Afterword

  Also By Kathleen Baldwin

  What Critics are saying about the Stranje House Novels

  “Baldwin has a winning series here: her characters are intriguing and fully rendered.” —Booklist

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  “Kept me reading until late into the night…totally engrossing world, full of smart girls, handsome boys, and sinister mysteries.” —Meg Cabot, #1 NYT - USA Today bestselling author of The Princess Diaries on A School for Unusual Girls

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  “An outstanding alternative history series entry and a must-have for teen libraries.” —School Library Journal on Refuge for Masterminds

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  “Enticing from the first sentence…” –New York Times Book Review on A School for Unusual Girls

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  “Spellbinding! A School for Unusual Girls is a beautifully written tale that will appeal to every girl who has ever felt different . . . a true page-turner.” —Lorraine Heath, NYT - USA Today bestselling author

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  “Refuge for Masterminds moves at a fast pace from the first page and doesn’t stop. Although it is written with a young adult audience in mind, it is a fun and enjoyable novel and will also appeal to adult readers.” — Francesca Pelaccia, Historical Novel Society

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  “I enjoyed this story immensely and I closed my kindle with a satisfied sigh.” —YA Insider

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  “I am in love with the Stranje House novels. Seriously, in love.” —Book Briefs

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  “I could almost smell the tar and feel the rocking of the boat ... I felt right there with her. This series keeps getting better and better and the author continues to show a fascinating alternative history where small changes in events could lead to vastly different outcomes. I am loving this series.” — Greg’s Bookhaven Blog

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  “Leave it to Kathleen Baldwin to surprise us along the way! . . . a fantastic binge-read-worthy series!” — Mamma Reads Blog

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  “I loved this book. Within a few pages I felt the same sense of adventure I felt . . . as a pre-teen, that breathless eagerness to turn the page.” —Fresh Fiction Reviews

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  ~Dedication~

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  To Rel for loving the women of Stranje House as much as I do. Your edits were brilliant.

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  To Gurdeep for inspiring me with emails and your advice on language.

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  And to Tracine and the Reader-Ladies of Cache Valley for encouraging me to get it done.

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  Thank you!

  You all kept me smiling.

  Miss Maya Barrington’s Typhoon

  July 1814, Mayfair, London, Haversmythe House, Miss Stranje hosts a coming-out ball for her young ladies

  All the world is sound. Even if I were blind, I would still be able to see. It is as if everything hums—the trees, air, stones, and people—especially people. They all sing songs. Some songs are more dangerous than others.

  Most of the guests have already arrived at the ball, and our receiving line is dwindling. Georgie, Lady Jane, and Tess left us to join a lively country-dance. Seraphina still stands quietly beside me. Her inner music wraps around her as delicately as does the silk of her cloud-blue ballgown. With her white-blonde hair, Sera is the closest thing to an angel I have ever seen. On my other side, stands our rock, our headmistress, Miss Stranje, a woman made of iron.

  The footman at the doors announces another arrival. “Lord and Lady Barrington.”

  My father and his wife stand in the doorway. The instruments playing serenely within me crash to a stop and clatter to the floor of my soul.

  He came.

  I press my hand against my heart to keep it from flapping and shrieking like a strangled bird. Seraphina edges closer so that our shoulders touch. She is trying to lend me strength.

  The ballroom overflows with people. Dozens of strangers clad in shimmering finery, surround us, laughing and talking, but my very English stepmother ignores them all and marches straight for the receiving line. She holds her nose aloft, and her mouth pinched up so tight that her porcelain white face looks almost skeletal. An out of tune clarinet, she squeaks toward us, every step making me wish I could stop up my ears.

  People say she is beautiful. My father certainly must have thought so. I fail to see it, especially when her face prunes up as it is doing now. It is a familiar expression. One that causes me to quake nervously while simultaneously clenching my fists.

  Stepmother. That is what I was instructed to call her. I cannot bring myself to do it. Mother is a title of sacred honor. This woman, whose soul honks like an out of tune oboe, hasn’t the faintest motherly inclination toward me. To me, she will never be anything more than the woman who married my father. Never mind that my mother, his first wife, was a Maharajah’s daughter. To the new Lady Barrington, I am merely the brown-skinned embarrassment her husband acquired in India. Her hate roars at me like high tide slamming against a rocky shore.

  She halts, and her blond sausage curls quiver with distaste as she plants herself squarely in front of Miss Stranje. She does
not curtsey or even nod in response to our headmistress’s greeting.

  Her words trickle out so sweetly that most people would not notice she is gritting her teeth as she utters them. “Miss Stranje, a word if you please.”

  Naturally, Seraphina notices. She notices everything—it is her gift. And her curse. She reaches for my hand to reassure me. Of the five of us, we who are Miss Stranje’s students, Seraphina Wyndham is the only one who truly understands me, and I do not want my best friend to suffer if she is caught being supportive of me. So, I smile reassuringly and slip free of her fingers. This is my battle, and I must face it alone.

  Sera tugs my arm as I step away and furtively whispers, “Do something. Calm her.”

  She, like everyone else at Stranje House, mistakenly thinks my voice contains some sort of magical power to soothe. It is much simpler than that. My grandmother taught me how to use certain tones and cadences to relax people and communicate tranquility. Most souls are more than receptive, they hunger for it. My father’s wife is a different matter. I have tried in the past, and rather than succumb to my calming tactics, she resists. On several occasions, she even covered her ears and screeched at me. I remember well her accusations of witchcraft and demonic bedevilment. It was on those grounds she convinced my father to send me away to Stranje House.

  I wish, for Miss Stranje’s sake, Lady Barrington would let me quiet her rat-like tendency to snipe and bite. Although, I’m not worried. I am confident our headmistress has guessed what is coming and will manage my father’s wife quite handily without my help. After all, a rat does not surprise an owl.

  “This way, Lady Barrington.” Miss Stranje graciously directs our bristling guest to the side of the receiving line.

  Father’s charming wife clasps my shoulder and propels me forward with her. I could not possibly soothe her now. I’m not nearly composed enough to do it. Indeed, I am battling an overwhelming inclination to yank her boney claw from my shoulder and twist it until she cries off.

  “What have you done, Miss Stranje?” Lady Barrington releases me and waves her hand at my ensemble. She is objecting to Miss Stranje’s ingenious innovation, a traditional sari draped over an English ballgown.

  “Why have you dressed the child thus?” Lady Barrington’s fingers close in a fist around the embroidered veil covering my hair. “I’m mortified! You’ve garbed her like a heathen. Surely, this is an affront to everyone here.” She flicks the saffron silk away as if it has soiled her gloves. “How do you expect Lord Barrington and myself to weather this . . . this outrage!”

  She barks so loud that some of our guests turn to stare.

  “After the enormous sum we paid you, it is beyond my comprehension why you should do us such a disservice—”

  “Lady Barrington!” Miss Stranje’s tone chops through the woman’s tirade. “Calm yourself.” Our headmistress stands a good four or five inches taller than most women, and she straightens to make every inch count. “You sadly mistake the matter, my lady. The other guests are well acquainted with your husband’s daughter. In fact, a few weeks ago she was invited by no less a personage than Lady Jersey to sing at Carlton House for the Prince Regent. Miss Barrington’s voice impressed His Highness so greatly that he, the highest authority in the land, suggested your stepdaughter ought to be declared a national treasure.”

  “What?” Lady Barrington blinks at this news, but her astonishment is short-lived. She clears her throat and steps up emboldened. “Oh, that. I am well aware of Maya’s ability to mesmerize others with her voice. She uses demonic trickery, and you ought not allow—”

  Miss Stranje leans forward, her tone low and deadly. “Are you unaware of the fact that Lady Castlereagh issued Miss Barrington vouchers for Almack’s?”

  “Al-Almack’s . . .” Lady Barrington sputters at the mention of high society’s most exclusive social club. Her hands flutter to her mouth in disbelief. “No. That can’t be. Lady Castlereagh approved of her?” She glances sideways at me and her upper lips curls as if she tastes something foul in the air.

  “Yes. Her vouchers were signed and sealed by the great lady herself.” Miss Stranje’s face transforms into a mask of hardened steel under which most people tremble in fear. “Not to put too fine a point on it, my lady, but Miss Barrington has been granted entry into the highest social circles. And, more to the point, it is my understanding that the patronesses refused to grant you vouchers. You were denied, is that not so?”

  Lady Barrington steps back, unwilling to answer, a hand clutching her throat.

  Miss Stranje refuses to let her quarry wriggle away. “In fact, my dear lady, anyone planning a soiree or ball during the remainder of the season, anyone who is anyone, has invited Miss Barrington to attend. I have stacks of invitations, dozens of notes, all of them begging your husband’s daughter to do them the honor of singing at their gatherings. Indeed, society has taken her under their wing so thoroughly I had rather thought you would be offering me a bonus, instead of this ill-conceived reprimand.”

  Miss Stranje turns and levels a shrewd gaze at my father, who until this moment stood behind us silently observing.

  He places a hand on his wife’s waist and moves her aside. This stranger, this formidable Englishman who I used to call Papa with such glee, steps up to my headmistress and takes her measure. After a moment that stretches long enough to hammer my stomach into mincemeat, he nods respectfully. “Very well, Miss Stranje. I shall send additional remuneration to you in the morning.”

  His wife gasps, and indignation squeals off her like sour yellow gas.

  He turns to me and reaches for my hand. Every instinct in me shouts to pull back. Do not let him touch you. It has been many long years since I have seen anything resembling a fatherly mannerism from him. I am terrified of what I might feel, and yet even more terrified of what I might miss if I pull away.

  A sharp intake of breath crosses my lips, but then all other sounds cease. I no longer hear laughter or talking from the guests in the ballroom. No footsteps. No shuffling or clattering. The hum of impenetrable silence muffles everything else as I watch him lift my hand.

  My father bows slightly, the way all the other gentlemen did as they came through the receiving line. He holds my fingers loosely as if we are mere acquaintances. “You look lovely, Maya, very much like your mother.” He straightens, and I think I hear a whiff of sound—a soft keening, low and mournful. Except it is so brief and distant, I cannot be certain.

  “You have her fire in your eyes. She would be proud.” He squares his shoulders. “I’m pleased to see you making your way in the world—flourishing on your own.”

  Flourishing?

  Hardly.

  Unable to summon enough breath for words, I dip in an English curtsey that has become a habit. When I am able to speak, it sounds embarrassingly weak and fluttery, like a frightened bird. “I am glad you think so, my lord.”

  He lets go of my gloved fingers, offers his arm to his wife, and leaves me. Without a backward glance, he walks away. His measured gait is aloof and elegant, no different from that of a hundred other strangers in this room. The hollow thump of his heels as he abandons me hurts far worse than anything the spiteful woman he married has ever said.

  I wish now that I had not allowed him to touch me. I ought to have run from the house—anything would be better than this grinding loneliness that darkens my insides. I would rather rip out my heart than to fall into the chasm threatening to swallow me. I’ve been in that dark place before.

  The way he dismisses me without a second thought sends me spiraling back to India. I’m there again, in the stifling heat of his sickroom. Worried, I sneaked in to see him and stood quietly at the foot of his bed. Fear thumped through me like an elephant march as I watched him thrash under the sheets, fevered with the same epidemic that had only days earlier taken my mother’s life.

  I remember his wide-eyed alarm when he noticed me standing by his bedpost. I was only six, but I can still hear his hoarse shout fo
r the servants. “Get her out of here. Send her away!”

  “No! No. I want to stay with you. Let me stay with you,” I begged. Crying, I clung to his bedpost, refusing to leave.

  “Go! Take the chi—” Retching cut his rebuke short. Next came a string of muffled curses. “Out!”

  “Come, miss. You cannot stay. Your father is very sick.” Servants dragged me, kicking and screaming from his room. Later, my ayah told me Papa wanted me to stay away so that I would not catch his illness. I will never know if that was true or not. My ayah may have been trying to spare my feelings. I do remember telling her I didn’t care if I got sick and died. I would rather stay with my papa.

  “No, kanya. No, little girl. You must not say such things.” She brushed my hair until it gleamed like my papa’s black boots. “You will live, child. I see this. The future blooms in you. You are gende ka phool.” She pulled a marigold out of a small vase and placed it in my palms. “Protector. Sun lion.” I touched the bright orange petals and thought to myself, what good is such a small flower. It is too fragile—too easily crushed.