Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  Low murmurs punctuate the beating war drums. Admiral Gambier slams down his cup and rises, striding out of the dining room. His wife hurries after him, looking fearful, as she should. In other countries, they might lop off the admiral’s head for rudely walking out on the ruler.

  Lord Kinsworth slants toward me. “Interesting kettle of fish His Highness dumped on the table, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I survey the worried faces surrounding us and whisper, “A rather dangerous kettle of fish, I should think.” More like a kettle of foul-smelling poisonous snakes.

  “Uh-oh!” Lord Kinsworth’s sudden alarm causes me to start. He grabs his spoon and holds it as one would a weapon. “Your strawberry ice is melting, my dear.” He reaches over, stabs my ice and scoops up a spoonful from my plate.

  The gray-haired lady across the table huffs loudly. “Manners, young man. Manners.”

  Without a morsel of shame, Lord Kinsworth chuckles and conspiratorially whispers into my ear, “I wonder how Lady Dreyfus will react when Boney’s troops march into town and snatch the food from her plate.”

  He doesn’t wait for my retort, which is a good thing since I cannot think of one. Instead, he helps himself to another spoonful of my ice and holds it up in tribute to the indignant lady. Closing his eyes and humming with pleasure, he leans close to me and adds, “This is a miracle, Miss Barrington. You really ought to give it a try.”

  He is incorrigible. I shake my head in a scolding manner, but cannot keep the corners of my lips from quirking up. “I would, my lord, except you seem to be devouring it for me.”

  With an impish grin, he sets down his spoon and gestures for me to taste it for myself. It is only then, after I have scooped up a spoonful of strawberry ice and it is dancing divinely on my tongue, that I realize Lord Kinsworth has managed to distract me from both the confusion my father caused and the gravity of Prince George’s dreadful announcement.

  What Song of Woe is This?

  A glooming peace this morning with it brings.

  The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head...

  For never was there a story of more woe

  Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

  After dinner, despite the Prince’s unsettling announcement, Miss Stranje continues with her plan for Lord Kinsworth and me to sing for our guests. “Are you certain?” I ask, fighting to moderate the slight quiver in my throat. “The ballad, after what the Prince said . . . I’m not sure it is quite—”

  “We shall stay on course, Miss Barrington.” Miss Stranje moves past me, graciously herding the guests to their seats. Seraphina takes her place at the piano, behind her a violinist and violoncellist warm up. The low rumbling notes of the violoncello vibrate through me, adding to the shakiness of my legs. Lord Kinsworth and I turn and face a very gloomy gathering of England’s high society. The room throbs with so many heated emotions, confusion and worry, fear and anger, the force of it nearly topples me.

  The ballad we practiced is a retelling of Romeo and Juliet. It will not lift our guests’ spirits. In hushed tones, I confide this concern to Lord Kinsworth, “I wish we had chosen a different song. Perhaps we ought to switch it to something else.”

  “Difficult this late in the game.” With a guiding hand on my back, he situates us closer to the piano. “I suspect this song may be the very thing they need.” He winks at me as if we are sharing a secret. “It’ll be cathartic. Let’s give them someone else’s troubles to think on.”

  I hope he is right. I am still staring at him, considering the idea, when Sera and the other musicians begin playing the introduction. Very well. If this sad story is to distract them from their turmoil, let us make it exquisitely sad.

  Lord Kinsworth opens the song with a bravado I envy. His bold cheerful notes startle our listeners. They sit up in their chairs as Romeo teases Juliet upon their first meeting. We are dancing again, he and I, only this time it is with our voices. Juliet cleverly evades Romeo’s advances, until he holds up his palm and sings to her of kisses. Sings to me. Lord Kinsworth mimes the actions of the song and holds his palm up—awaiting mine.

  Impertinent. We did not practice it that way, but what can I do except lift mine to his? Impossible to miss the breathless quality in my answering refrain. I cannot stop the slight tremor in each note as he steps closer, pressing his palm to mine.

  I must not let him fluster me. Singing with more force, I struggle to calm my silly heart. He is an expert charmer—so very like Romeo. And everyone knows, it did not end well for them. I do not run from the room. I can’t. Twice today, I ought to have fled. Instead, I stay and harmonize with him.

  I am forced to admit to myself, the way our voices intertwine, I would not run away even if I could. It is pure heaven. My traitorous vocal cords follow his as surely as if he were the Pied Piper and I, a witless child.

  The ballad is another chase of sorts, a furtive dance of hidden passion. In and out of joy we run, teased with the promise of happiness and hope, until the end. When Juliet discovers Romeo is poisoned, saltwater stings my cheeks.

  Save me! It means these tears leaking from my eyes are real. Lord Kinsworth has wrapped me so tight in the imagery that I cannot escape grief. It is fiction, I know this, but he has cast me under his spell so thoroughly that, like Juliet, I cannot bear thinking of life without the warming touch of his voice.

  They feel it, too. Lady Jersey’s cheeks are wet as I raise an imaginary dagger. Even my father’s eyes are watering. I plunge the invisible blade into my heart, and sing, “Oh happy dagger, this is thy sheath. There rust and let me die.”

  The ballad concludes with Juliet’s soaring declaration of grief, and the violoncello dragging a low mournful sob across the strings. This is how our song ends. The Prince of Verona does not ride in and scold us for our folly, nor does he summarize the tragedy. It is over.

  A weighty silence nearly suffocates us all.

  The audience does not leap to their feet and applaud. Instead of clapping, most of the ladies are blotting their eyes. Several gentlemen pull out handkerchiefs and dab at their own cheeks. Lady Jersey hunches forward, and her shoulders shake as she surrenders to racking sobs.

  This is a disaster.

  We have grieved them when they so desperately needed cheering.

  I turn to Lord Kinsworth for reassurance. He seems distressed, as well. A rare thing for him. I strain to understand. It cannot have been the ballad—we practiced it at least a dozen times. Was I off-key? It felt as if every note hit its mark.

  What can be vexing him? I would swear I hear trepidation whirring in his soul. And his heart—his heart is pattering like running feet. How can this be?

  Any second, I expect Lord Kinsworth to paste on his cocksure smile or don his lopsided grin. Surely, he will turn me upside down with one of his teasing remarks. Except he doesn’t. When he finally looks at me, his lips are pressed in a tight straight line, and . . .

  Oh. He is unhappy. With me.

  My stomach sinks, and I rest my hand on the edge of the piano to steady myself. I don’t know what I did, but clearly, I am the cause of his consternation. He steps back, forcing his shoulders to relax, and bows. Except it is far too extravagant. Flamboyant. The sort of thing an actor might do. He means to be amusing, but I brace myself for what may come next.

  “Fair Juliet . . .” He hides behind a performer’s mask, pretending he is still playing the part of Romeo. “T’was an honor to have sung at your side, m’lady. Ne’er was there a voice that called more sweetly to the heart than thine.” He winces as if stung by his own tomfoolery.

  I incline my head, silently accepting his compliment. If, that is what it was.

  His gaze flits off to the distance, anywhere but to me. “And now, I must be off. For lo, I hear the lark heralding the morn.”

  It’s obvious he does not intend for me to answer, but I cannot stop myself from uttering Juliet’s response. “Nay, my lord, ‘tis not the lark. It is the nightingale, you hear.”

  He l
aughs, low in his neck, like a man being choked. With a curt nod, he strides away as if he has urgent business elsewhere.

  Perplexing man! What are you running from?

  Most of our guests drift toward the ballroom, but Lady Jersey remains in her seat, struggling to dry her eyes. Lady Castlereagh, ever stoic, takes the chair vacated beside Lady Jersey and rests a consoling hand on her friend’s shoulder.

  Here sit two of the most powerful women in England. Lady Jersey pretends to care about nothing except the latest fashion when all the while she has a finger in every political pie cooked up in Britain. And dear Lady Castlereagh, everyone thinks she is the most formidable of the patronesses, a stickler for the rules. In reality, she is a tenderhearted woman who quietly sacrificed all to support her husband. Lord Castlereagh holds the very thorny office of Minister of Foreign Affairs, and he would be lost without her.

  These great matriarchs of society have been remarkably gracious to me, the least I can do is go to Lady Jersey and apologize for upsetting her. I approach and wait until Lady Castlereagh gives me a nod of approval to speak. “I am very sorry, my lady, for causing you such distress. In light of the evening’s events, I do wish we had chosen a different song—”

  Lady Jersey waves away my apology.

  Lady Castlereagh speaks for her. “Nonsense, Miss Barrington. I doubt either of us has ever heard anything so moving. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

  “Yes. Yes.” Lady Jersey crumples her handkerchief and straightens her back. Tears left wide tracks in her powder. Yet she looks even more beautiful because the tears have washed away her artifice. And now, an intensity throbs from her, so strong that it weakens my knees.

  Miss Stranje, Lady Jane, and Sera come up quietly and stand behind me.

  “We will not—” Lady Jersey takes a shuddering breath, her hands tighten into fists, and she strikes them against her lap, digging her knuckles into the red silk. “—we must not make their mistake.” She stares up at me as if I grasp her meaning. “Romeo and Juliet.”

  In truth, her words baffle me, but I nod in agreement. What I do hear and understand is the river of strength and conviction flowing out from beneath each syllable. With that river, the sound of a thousand horses thunders in my ears. It is with that, I wholeheartedly agree.

  Lady Jersey looks past us, squinting at the Prince Regent standing across the room. Her jaw flexes. “We must save Romeo from his poison.”

  She whips back to Lady Castlereagh and me, her tone punctuating each word like an iron hammer. “And if that fails, we shall not fall upon our daggers.”

  “Certainly not.” Miss Stranje takes a soldier-like step forward. “Not now. Not ever.”

  Eyes glistening fiercely, Lady Jersey lifts her chin and meets Miss Stranje’s warrior gaze. “For we are made of sterner stuff than Juliet.”

  Lady Castlereagh claps her hand over Lady Jersey’s fist in a silent pact of agreement, and the two of them turn to us expectantly.

  Are we, their protégés, strong enough to face what may come?

  Sera nods solemnly, and Lady Jane steps up beside me, her chin raised courageously. Across the ballroom, Tess and Georgie are lining up for a country dance, and both of them cast concerned looks in our direction. I answer for all of us, echoing our mentors’ brave words, hoping that the coming storm will not prove them false.

  “For we are made of sterner stuff.”

  Ode to a Flower

  Silence follows our solemn vow. For a moment, all we do is breathe and take solace in one another’s company. Our reverie dissolves when Mr. Chadwick, son of the magistrate from our home county, intrudes on our circle and formally bows. Although he is our friend, Quinton Chadwick is not privy to what Miss Stranje is actually training us to do in her school. Sera and the others worry that he is too inquisitive. I think it shows he is a clear-headed fellow with keen powers of observation.

  It is only natural that he would be suspicious. Anyone, who knows us as well as he does, has ample cause to wonder. There is something solid and refreshing about the young man. His inner music rings as true as church bells echoing across a valley.

  Tonight, he hesitates politely. “Your pardon ladies, but I believe Miss Wyndham promised me this set.”

  Sera’s cheeks turn a vibrant shade of pink.

  “Haaas she now?” Lady Jersey resumes her aristocratic drawl and lifts her quizzing glass to scrutinize young Chadwick as if she, and she alone, will decide who dances with whom. The great lady is toying with him.

  “I did, my lady.” Sera pipes up, not loudly, but with enough shaky determination to make her wishes evident to us. “I promised him.” She rests her hand on his offered arm.

  “I seeee. Very well.” Lady Jersey lowers her glass. “Off with you, then.”

  Sera allows him to lead her away to the promenade. As they leave, Alexander Sinclair saunters up and bows to all of us as if we are queens. “Ladies. Unless I miss my guess, you are knee-deep in, er, uh, plans. I, for one, am terrified of vexing you, truly I am.”

  He does not look terrified at all. Nor does he sound worried in the least. Alexander Sinclair always seems as if he is about to tell everyone a walloping-good joke. He is the opposite of Lady Jane.

  “However,” he says, bowing again, putting on an air of seriousness. “I must insist on extracting Lady Jane from your midst. By my reckoning, a plum-awful riot is likely to break out in your ballroom if she doesn’t come and fulfill her obligations on the dance floor.”

  “Humph. A riot started by you, no doubt.” Lady Jersey tilts her head up so she can peer down her nose at him. “And see here, young man, we are not knee-deep in anything. If you intend to court Lady Jane, I insist you learn to mind your tongue.”

  He responds to her scold with a relaxed grin. “Therein lies the problem, my lady. My wretched tongue seems to have a mind of its own.”

  “And all the subtlety of a . . .” She sniffs derisively. “An American.”

  He bows again. “Why thank you, my lady. High praise indeed.”

  Lady Castlereagh chuckles and taps Jane with her fan. “I suggest you take your cheeky young man away before Lady Jersey runs him through with the dagger she has stowed in her reticule.”

  The instant they leave, Lady Jersey turns to us and abandons her haughty accent once more. “Don’t look now,” she whispers. “But Prince George is embroiled in a rather heated argument with Admiral St. Vincent—no, don’t all of you turn around at once. Wouldn’t you just love to be a fly on the Admiral’s ear.”

  “Goodness gracious. Oh, my dear . . .” Lady Castlereagh subtly glances over her shoulder. “Not only is Lord St. Vincent Admiral of the Channel Fleet—the fellow also has Wellington’s ear, as well as most of Parliament. This does not bode well, not well at all. I shall find Lord Harston and send him over to see what’s ado. Harston is a clever-boots at sidling into sticky conversations.”

  “Hmm, yes. A pity it will take so long to find Lord Harston in this crowd. It would be quite advantageous to know what they’re saying right now.” Miss Stranje says this while staring straight at me. I know what she wants—she wants me to spy on them, to eavesdrop.

  With a sigh, I acquiesce. “If you wish.”

  “I do.” Miss Stranje brightens and turns to her friends. “Miss Barrington is a marvel at overhearing. Observe how skillfully she blends into the scenery. She becomes nearly invisible.”

  “Does she now?” Lady Jersey’s eyebrows lift with interest. “Go on, then. Go!” She flicks her hands at me, shooing me off to the task. “Let us see this magical feat.”

  Miss Stranje is exaggerating. I am not really a marvel at this, and it certainly isn’t a feat of magic. It is a skill I acquired while living with my father and his new wife. A necessary skill. I taught myself how to become invisible, how to blend quietly into the furniture, how to move from room to room without being heard. I had superb motivation. If the new Lady Barrington didn’t see me, she couldn’t bark her disapproval at me.

 
However, the ability to slip past my stepmother hardly qualifies me to disappear in a ballroom crammed full of people. Especially dressed like this. It is a challenge, but I manage to drift across the room without drawing attention. One must breathe softly, holding one’s inner music very quiet, while at the same time avoiding anyone’s direct gaze. Fortunately, most everyone in the ballroom is preoccupied with watching dancers, or flirting and chatting with one another. It is so crowded that the traitorous Lady Daneska and Ghost could stroll through the room unseen. It is also to my advantage that Miss Stranje instructed the servants to set up dozens of magnificent flower arrangements, and several lush rows of potted shrubberies.

  Prince George and Admiral St. Vincent stand away from the crowd, taking advantage of the breeze by a window next to a bank of greenery. They are ludicrously mismatched. The Prince is fat and bloated. I doubt the poor man has seen his toes this decade lest his feet are propped on a stool. The Admiral, on the other hand, is older but lanky and muscular, with a beaky hooked nose and birdlike quickness to match.

  I move toward them with cautious flowing steps, gliding silently past potted palms and massive ferns. Like an unnoticed breeze, I weave alongside a hedge of greenery and wedge myself against the wall, tucking between a panel of velvet draperies and the bank of flowering jasmine. The cloyingly sweet fragrance tickles my nose, but I stay. Completely hidden, this is the perfect position for me to overhear their conversation.

  I peek between the leaves, and see Prince George is red-in-the-face mad at the Admiral. So much so, he forgets to use the royal ‘we.’ “Now listen here! Parliament may force me to pick the Prime Minister they prefer, and I may not have any say-so over taxes, but I still have the right to declare war, do I not?”

  “Yes, Sir, you do. But—”

  “No buts. I do, and you know it. And since that is the case, it stands to reason I have the power to declare peace. I will do what I jolly well think is best for England, and there’s an end to the matter.”