Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  “But you’re faster.” Lady Jane limps more markedly than before hearing this news, but she hurries to catch up to Tess. “Daneska could never outrun you.”

  “Where was this?” Our headmistress bears down on Tess. “Where did you see her?”

  “I. . . that is, we, Lord Ravencross and I, um, were—”

  “Tess!” Her startling tone halts Tess’s evasive dance as effectively as a hawk’s screech. “Out with it.”

  The breath Tess has been holding rushes out in a resigned sigh. “If you must know, we were in the upstairs hallway.” She looks down and fidgets. “It was dark up there, and we were having a . . . a private moment.”

  Miss Stranje closes her eyes and turns her face heavenward for a split second. “Kissing. You were kissing.”

  “Yes, all right. But that’s all. Just kissing.” She glances past Miss Stranje’s shoulder to all of us. “We’re engaged. It’s perfectly normal.”

  Lady Castlereagh waves away Tess’s defense. “We shall discuss that later, young lady. Tell us what happened.”

  “I thought I heard footsteps and so Gabr—Lord Ravencross and I dashed into that little nook at the end of the hall and hid. We saw someone tiptoeing out of our library. At first, I thought it must be one of the maids, except it couldn’t be because she was wearing a ballgown. I leaned out to get a better look, but Lord Ravencross pulled me back into the alcove so we wouldn’t, um, get caught.” Her cheeks reddened.

  “Go on.” Miss Stranje sounds both disapproving and impatient.

  Tess is done feeling guilty. Her music no longer sounds wary and off-key. She meets our headmistress’s glare without a flinch. “You keep that room locked, do you not?” Miss Stranje nods, and Tess continues. “Knowing that—I had to find out who had sneaked into the room where we keep our papers. I thought it might be that shifty traitor Alice coming back to steal more information to sell. So, I crept out to see. By then, she was all the way at the other end of the hall. The floorboards must’ve creaked under my foot because she glanced back. Light from the stairway window shone on her face. It was Daneska!”

  Tess stared earnestly at Miss Stranje. “I know it was. She had on a black wig, but it was her. She whipped down the stairs, and I bolted after her. When I got to the first floor, she was nowhere in sight. I hunted everywhere—every nook and cranny, every cupboard and shadow between the third floor and the front door. She must’ve hidden somewhere in the house and then slipped out. Ravencross is still searching. But I know her, Daneska is gone.”

  “Stands to reason that plaguey girl would be here.” Lady Jersey snaps open her fan and flaps it as if she is the one overheated from having done raced up and downstairs hunting Daneska. “Mark my words, our conniving little countess is behind this peace with Napoleon nonsense. She’s bound to be the one carrying Bonaparte’s messages to Prinny. And no doubt, pandering to our Prince’s enormous vanity as well. Who else but that little trollop could convince our thimble-headed—”

  “My lady!” Miss Stranje cuts off Lady Jersey’s dangerously seditious tirade, and flashes a warning to her friend, reminding the lady that they are on the edge of a very crowded ballroom.

  Lady Jersey smiles serenely and brushes out her skirts as if she’d only been mentioning the weather. “What I meant to say is, who else could convince oouur beloved Prince that no haaaarm would befall him if he were to ally himself with that poisonous little toad Napoleon.” If it weren’t for the anger jangling beneath her forced genteel accent, the lady would’ve succeeded in making poisonous little toad sound like a compliment.

  “Whether it was Lady Daneska’s doing or not, we must press forward. We may only have two weeks.” Lady Castlereagh taps her chin. “That doesn’t give us much time to convince His Highness that he ought to meet Napoleon at Stranje House rather than risk doing so on French soil.”

  Lady Jersey fans herself, this time it is not for effect, little beads of sweat are forming on her brow.

  A Far Cry from Peace

  The musicians play lively gallops and jovial country-dances. For two more hours, our guests dance and laugh. We play the part of blissful debutantes, smiling and nodding at everyone as if funeral marches aren’t playing in our hearts. And all the while, we weave through the crowd silently scouring each face in the hope of finding a certain traitorous young lady. Daneska may have changed her wig, so we must look carefully at every face.

  Mr. Sinclair and Lord Wyatt are assisting Lord Ravencross, searching the darker parts of our townhouse, the servants’ quarters below stairs, the attic, the grounds in back, surrounding alleyways, and streets. Georgie carries messages back and forth between all of us. She hurries through the ballroom doors and shakes her head at Miss Stranje. Which can only mean Lady Daneska has vanished.

  Escaped.

  And yet I feel her presence tiptoeing among us, breathing dark tunes like an angel of death.

  The next hour trickles by as slowly as a desert creek. The Prince Regent wobbles out of the card room, reeking of brandy, and makes his way to Miss Stranje. The music grows softer in anticipation of the Regent leaving.

  “We have had a splendid evening, Miss Stranje.” His Highness lifts Miss Stranje’s hand elegantly, and with a soldierly click of his heels, he says, “Had a spot of luck at cards tonight.” He touches the side of his nose as if sharing a secret. “Daresay, Lord Dreyfus will be slightly less plump in the pocket after our last hand of whist. What! What. Ha-ha!” He pats his gold-embroidered coat pocket and leans closer to her, slurring his words. “All in all, ‘twas a jolly affair—no, wait! P’rhaps not so jolly come to think on it. But splendid. Yes, that’s what we shall say. Splendid evening. Well done, Miss Stranje. Well done.”

  Our headmistress sinks in a respectful curtsy, and we do the same alongside her.

  He twirls his hand high into the air in a flamboyant wave. “Farewell, ladies.” Lord Harston does his best to guide the Prince toward the doors, but Prince George wheels back around, throws his arms wide and shouts, “And a fine good evening to one and all!”

  Everyone in the room drops into a courtesy in response. He laughs heartily as if bidding the entire roomful of guests farewell is a hilarious joke. He and his entourage finally funnel out of our ballroom.

  Lord Kinsworth trails behind Prince George and his uncle, but he turns back before leaving and casts me a soldierly salute. I have no idea what he means by it. Nor do I care. Let him think whatever he chooses. It makes no difference to me.

  I only wish his mock salute hadn’t looked as if he found something highly amusing. If he has truly guessed the purpose of Miss Stranje’s school, it ought not to amuse him. Quite the opposite, ours is a serious business. Life and death. Oppression or freedom. The survival of his English homeland may very well depend upon us. There should not be fireflies of laughter flitting about in his eyes. If I had something to throw at him, I would be sorely tempted.

  Now that the Prince Regent has departed, everyone else is free to do so, and soon after our guests trickle out.

  * * *

  It is nearly four o’clock in the morning before we are able to retire to our bedrooms. Lady Jane, Sera, and I share a room. Drooping with exhaustion, we help each other out of our ballgowns.

  “I wonder what Lady Daneska stole from the study.” Lady Jane pulls a white cotton nightrail over her head. “And how in blazes did she escape from Tess.”

  Sera climbs under the covers. “We’ll figure it out in the morning. I’ll go over the workroom. When it’s daylight, we’ll be able to spot what’s out of place.” Her voice trails off, and her breathing falls into an even and regular pattern.

  Lady Jane turns out the oil lamp. In the darkness, I rest my head on the pillow, but it is useless. I’m over-tired and unable to sleep. Events of the night race back and forth in my mind—Lord Kinsworth’s unsettling words, the Prince’s dangerous plans with Napoleon, and my father.

  Papa.

  I watched him thank Miss Stranje as he and his wife were d
eparting. I thought, for a moment, that he glanced over his shoulder in my direction. Although, it was only an instant, less than an instant, a blink, and he turned away. Perhaps, I’d imagined it. If he did look back, he did not linger in doing so. There was no wistful, “farewell, my daughter. I am terribly sorry for abandoning you to the care of others.”

  His words from earlier skip around my head, taunting me. “I’m pleased to see you are making your way in the world—flourishing on your own.”

  Flourishing?

  That is a bit farfetched. Yes, I am surviving. And, yes, thanks to his wife, I have developed a few skills that the English find advantageous in their political maneuvers. On occasions, I am even assigned tasks the other girls know nothing about. I suppose one might say, I am useful.

  Useful.

  I roll over in disgust.

  Useful is a thousand miles away from flourishing.

  As for making my way in the world—this world, my father’s world—it isn’t true.

  I ache to go home. I don’t belong here. My father should never have brought me here. I suppose one might think I am adapting, growing accustomed to England’s unrelenting cold, learning to live with how the chill bites into me in the winter. Even in the summer, gray skies smother this bleak little island too often.

  I would trade everything I have to feel India’s sun warming my skin. I long to hear the women in our village singing as they bake bread together. I miss the noise of village children laughing and playing, the chortle of brown doves early in the morning, and the whoop of cranes overhead in the evenings.

  Most of all, I miss my grandmother. I miss the way her wisdom hums through my soul, the calm reliable rhythm of her heart as she holds me in her arms. Oh, how I want to feel those arms around me, right now. She is a blanket of peace that quiets the echoing loneliness that has always haunted me.

  Lady Jane murmurs in her sleep, reminding me I am not all by myself. Although, I doubt being physically alone has anything to do with this ache in my heart. Sera curls tighter in her kitten-like coil of sleep, snuggling deeper under the covers. How dear she is. The night feels a little less lonely. I do have a few friends here.

  It is my great good fortune to have chanced upon the young women of Stranje House. They are treasures of light hidden here in this gray land. True friends like Sera, Georgie, Tess, and Lady Jane, are rare in this world. I smooth the coverlet up over Jane’s shoulders.

  Perhaps this is what it feels like to have sisters or cousins. I have no way of knowing. My grandmother and her family are thousands of miles away on the other side of the earth.

  I may never see them again.

  Unhappy thoughts.

  I clasp the bedding and pull it up to my chin. I must not drown in these thoughts. Grandmother taught me how to manage sorrow. “Sadness is like a flash flood,” she explained. “Storms come. The river flows faster and faster. Then in a mighty rush, a wall of water rolls upon you, carrying uprooted trees and all manner of debris. You must not let it drown you, child. To escape a flood of anguish, clear your mind, and focus on one sound. One sound only.”

  And so, I sort through all the noises of the night, searching for one lone noise worthy of my devoted attention. This is the quietest hour in London. By this time, most of the gentry have gone home. Their carriages do not clatter over the cobblestones. In another hour or two, the streets will fill with workers rolling their carts or walking to shops and places of business. I close off Lady Jane’s restless tossing and turning, and Sera's muffled breathing. The house creaks, as all houses do. The windows purr as the soft breeze ruffles through. There are mice in the walls, and—

  Something is out of place.

  It is offbeat pulse emanating from the fourth floor above us, a rustle, a half step against a loose floorboard. Faint. Very faint. The housekeeper and the maids are forever whispering about ghosts on that floor. I doubt I am hearing ghosts tonight, and yet something is stirring in those unoccupied rooms, something with cat-like stealth.

  Still as a corpse, I lay, and quiet my heart, slow my breathing, blotting out all other sounds. The longer I listen, the more I begin to think I am sensing a presence rather than hearing anything of substance.

  There! A hollow otherworldly stirring, like death’s dark robes dragging back and forth across the floor.

  I close my eyes to concentrate more closely. Now I recognize that empty tune.

  Lady Daneska.

  “Jane. Wake up. Jane!” I jostle her shoulder and then nudge Sera. “Sera! I hear Daneska.”

  “Can’t be,” Jane grumbles in her sleep and pushes my hand away. “We searched the house. Go back to sleep.”

  “It’s her. I know it is.”

  She sticks her head up from the pillow, her short hair sticking out every which way as she listens with half-shuttered eyes. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Sera wriggles out from under her cave of pillows and sheets. “What did it sound like?”

  How can I explain the way a person’s soul emits sounds? I shake my head. “It is more of a feeling. I sense her.”

  Jane flops back down on her pillow. “It’s late, you’re exhausted. Your mind is playing tricks.”

  No longer certain, I whisper, “But couldn’t she be upstairs? I feel so uneasy.”

  “Most likely, it’s the effects of too much excitement.” Sera pats my arm sympathetically and lays back down. “It was a difficult night. We’re all terribly tired.” The end of her sentence drifts off, but she rambles on sleepily, “I’m quite certain Lord Wyatt searched those rooms. . . yes.” She struggles to keep her eyes open. “Several times.”

  I nod. She and Jane are probably right. It is unlikely that Lady Daneska could’ve hidden that effectively. Sera smiles drowsily and burrows back under the covers. Jane is already snoring softly.

  It may be my imagination. Except I still hear it. And whatever it is, it is as out of place here as I am.

  Perhaps the servants are right, and this house has a ghost. I’ve never met one before, and as I have no fear of the dead, if there is a phantom upstairs, I intend to see it.

  I slip carefully out from under the covers and tiptoe into the hall. I hear it more clearly out here. The hollow echo is unsettlingly off-key, like the dull clang of the monk’s gong calling mourners to prayer. Each beat seeps into one’s sinew and bone, reeking of emptiness and loss. This cannot be Lady Daneska I’m hearing. She has never seemed sad to me. Never to be pitied. Malicious, yes. Full of greed and wanton ambition, most assuredly, but she has never sounded woeful.

  Perhaps I am merely dreaming, but like a hapless dreamer, I am drawn forward, transfixed on that unearthly sound.

  Following it, I climb the winding staircase in murky darkness, treading as lightly as possible to keep the steps from creaking. A narrow shaft of faded moonlight filters from the upper rose window, casting shadows along the walls.

  Members of the household staff avoid the next floor, the fourth floor. The maid told us it is because Lady Haversmythe was thrown from this balcony three years ago. They think her ghost lingers here. The between-stairs maid always crosses herself whenever she passes this landing to go up to the attic, where a few of the braver servants reside. The more senior servants have rooms below stairs. The scullery maid is so afraid of the haunted floor that she prefers to sleep on the hearth in the kitchen.

  Never mind all that, if I want to find the source of this troubling sound, I must search this floor. One lone candle in an old brass holder sits on the hallway side table. I consider using the striker and lighting it, but then I would be seen long before I see whomever or whatever is interrupting my peace. I prefer to have stealth on my side. My eyes are adapting to the dim light, and this floor looks much like our own, three bedrooms, and a sitting room at the far end. I can make my way without a candle.

  The presence hums louder with every step I take.

  I have heard the plaintive songs of snow and ice at night. This is a darker vibration, colder, and far more bl
eak. I shiver—despite the heat of summer. The haunting murmur that chills the air fans the curiosity raging within me. I should turn back, and yet I cannot. I am as driven as a bloodhound following the scent of a bear. I must hunt down this sound, even though the creature I find might tear me to bits.

  My toe bumps against the corner of a chest of drawers. I wince but clamp my lips tight to keep silent. It’s darker here in the first bedroom. The heavy drapery blocks out any trickle of moonlight, and for a moment, I regret not lighting that candle.

  I try to calm my thundering heart and listen for the way objects bounce or absorb sound. I regain my bearings and more carefully pick my way through the room. There is a thick carpet on the floor, soft beneath my toes, and my shoulder brushes against an armoire.

  I’m close now. Except there is no breathing. This near, if this creature is human, I ought to hear breath sounds. Instead, there is only that off-key thud picking up speed, thumping faster.

  It’s cold in here for July. I’ve heard ghosts can cause a chill in the air. So can fear. Deciding to go back for that candle, I turn.

  She flies at me.

  Silent as an owl snagging a mouse, she slams me against the wall and whispers in my ear, “I knew it would be you.”

  She whisks the cover off of a dimly flickering oil lamp

  Not a ghost.

  “Lady Daneska,” I say in casual greeting. As if I am not at all concerned about the sharp blade she holds to my throat. I’d expect nothing less from her. She presses the dagger, and I feel the cold nip of steel against my neck. Death does not frighten me. I wait. Listening.

  It surprises me to hear fear pulsing through her. No. Fear is not the correct word. Raw anguish. I have heard something like it before. Years ago, I saw a small Muntjac deer feeding in the underbrush beside the river near our village. A leopard pounced on her, and I will never forget how that deer screamed. It was not loud. It was the strangled cry of the lost. A pitiful hopeless sound, filled with the certainty of death. How can that be? Why would such a dreadful tune be coming from Lady Daneska?