Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  She jerks her head up. “Mortifying?”

  “Yes! I wish the patronesses weren’t trying to force me into this pretend engagement.” Forcing him.

  “I see.” She looks genuinely sorry for me, and I do not mind because she is my closest friend. “Do you dislike him that much?”

  “Yes!” I say a little too forcefully. “He . . . he is most annoying.”

  She slants her eyes at me, studying my face. She knows I’m not telling her the whole truth. Sera always knows things like that. She watches my face for telltale twitches and out of place grimaces.

  “Hmm. Then I expect the next few weeks are going to be exceedingly uncomfortable for you. Here.” She hands me a folded note. “Miss Stranje asked me to bring you this. It’s from him. It would seem the patronesses have succeeded in convincing Lord Kinsworth to go along with their plan. The note asks if he might call on you this evening after dinner.”

  Tonight?

  “No.” I shake my head. “I cannot. I am unwell.”

  She checks the bandage. “There’s no more bleeding. You are well enough. Read the note.”

  “I would rather not.” I reluctantly unfold it.

  “Miss Stranje already wrote back and told him yes. It’s all very formal. He and his uncle will meet with Miss Stranje beforehand. I believe that is how this sort of thing is done. Our parents granted her legal authority to act in their behalf in matters such as these.”

  Marriage contracts.

  “Tonight.” I swallow—try to swallow—but my throat has gone completely dry.

  She seats herself on the edge of the bed beside me. The blue walls with their ivory latticework wallpaper seem to close in around us. I slump forward and lean my head in my hands, humming to myself, trying to calm the typhoon winding up inside.

  “You are worried. That is only natural.” Sera rests her hand on my shoulder, the healing warmth of her palm seems to help still the torrent inside me. “They are asking a great deal of you.”

  It is as if she hears my thoughts. I know she cannot, but it seems that way. I look up and forget to control my tongue, forget to hide my fear. It is all I can do to hold back the storm. “I don’t think I can go through with this. The whole thing is impossible. How can I convince Napoleon of anything? Why do they expect this of me? I’m just a girl from a mountain village.”

  She does not push away from my qualms. She holds steady, and so my storm quiets somewhat. I try to explain with more tranquility. “It is a small thing to ease someone’s discomfort, to help them to relax, or convince them to change their mind about an inconsequential matter. My skills of persuasion will be of little use with a man as headstrong as Emperor Napoleon. Think of it, Sera. He has risen to become the most powerful man in Europe. He swayed countless people to follow him, to the death, if need be. How am I to sway him?”

  She does not answer, she waits as if she knows that is not the end of my tempest.

  “And then there is Lord Kinsworth . . .” I sink into my hands again. “He does not want to align himself with me. He wants the exact opposite—freedom. He’s going to be insufferable about this, I just know it. And, I . . .”

  I fear his foot-dragging will strike too near the still-bleeding wounds of my father’s indifference. “I don’t know if I can bear it.”

  “You can.” Sera tugs one of my hands into hers and holds it in her palm. “In many ways, Maya, you’re the bravest of us all. Think of it, in France, you disguised yourself and pretended to be a lowly serving girl. You infiltrated our enemy’s forces. And you did it so well that even Lady Daneska didn’t discover you. You lived and worked inside the Iron Crown stronghold—around Ghost himself.” She squeezes my hand tighter. “You did that to save Sebastian.”

  My throat tightens as I remember how afraid I was. But it had to be done. The alternative was unthinkable. The other girls were brave, too. “All of us played a part,” I rasp, my throat tightening as I remember that ghastly time and how close to death we all came.

  She takes a deep breath that matches my own. “Yes, but you—you marched into the lion’s den, and didn’t look back.”

  The lioness.

  She nods as if she has overheard my thought. “If you can do that terrifying thing, you can do this. It will be easy to pretend to be engaged to Lord Kinsworth after that.”

  She is right.

  “Even if he flusters you.”

  I look up and smile at her. Sera is wonderful. Sometimes she seems almost angelic—it makes one wonder. This much I know for certain, she is a true friend. A true friend, in this world where very few souls actually sing with love.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly, wishing I had better English words to express the gratitude and kinship I feel. In my country, we rarely say thank you. We bring food if one of us is sick. If a wagon wheel is broken, we gather around to help fix it. There is no need to say thank you. We strengthen one another, we help one another because that is how a village stays strong. That is what people who care for one another do.

  Today, Sera has become a sister to me.

  Instinctively, we bow until our foreheads touch. This reverence lasts for only a moment, but it is enough. I know she senses my gratitude.

  I will do this thing my sisters need me to do.

  And if Lord Kinsworth annoys me, or flusters me, or humiliates me in any way, he shall feel the sharp sting of the lion’s claws.

  The Groom’s Tune

  I did not expect to see the Patronesses, nor Captain Grey or Lord Wyatt along with Mr. Sinclair and Lord Ravencross standing in the drawing-room this evening. The way they have gathered in their finery one would think this sham engagement, this farce for political purposes, was genuine. I dressed like an Englishwoman for the occasion, in a pale gold silk gown. If I am to pretend to be engaged to an English lord, I suppose I ought to dress the part.

  Apparently not.

  The minute the ladies catch sight of me, they rush me back upstairs, ordering me to don my sari and veil. Lady Jersey scolds me in hushed tones all the way to the foot of the staircase. “You must remind the world of your exotic heritage at all times. Aaat aaahll times!” she drawls. “It sets you apart. It will remind Prince George of why you will be an asset when he meets with Napoleon.”

  “But he is not here.”

  “Ah, but child, he will hear. By tomorrow afternoon, all of London will have heard about this evening.” Lady Castlereagh pats my hand and shoos me onto the stairs.

  “London loves her gossip.” Lady De Lieven suppresses a smirk.

  “Yes.” Lady Jersey acts as if this is a compliment rather than a slur on her beloved London. “Precisely the reason why you must conduct yourself as if you are a mysterious foreign dignitary—an Indian princess if you will.”

  I cringe at the word.

  Lady De Lieven must have noticed. She places an arresting hand on Lady Jersey’s forearm. “My dear, that is exactly what the young lady is, a Maharajah’s granddaughter. Remember?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, then, do try and remember who you are.”

  I scurry up the stairs and return some minutes later, properly wrapped and draped in a veil trimmed with elaborate gold embroidery. If they want a princess, they shall have one. I enter the drawing-room, and the gentlemen stare for a moment before remembering to bow. I curtsey in return, and Lady Jersey gives me an approving nod.

  I have not yet taken a seat when Miss Stranje hurries through the doorway, her black bombazine skirts rustling. She must’ve completed the necessary contracts and arrangements with Lord Kinsworth and his uncle. She wears a pleasant smile as if their meeting proceeded satisfactorily. I turn toward the entrance, expecting Lord Kinsworth to walk in, dragging behind his uncle, sulking like a beaten dog, whipped into grudgingly doing his duty.

  Instead, Lord Harston fills the doorway. “Ah, my dear Miss Barrington. How lovely you look this evening. Allow me to be the first to wish you felicitations and welcome you to the family.” He bows effusively.

  I c
urtsey, confused. Lord Harston is doing it up a bit brown. Everyone here knows, don’t they, that this is all an act? I glance around the room. Perhaps they don’t. Lord Ravencross is frowning as if he doesn’t approve, but then he is not prone to joyful expressions except when he looks at Tess. Mr. Sinclair glances from Lord Harston and back to me, looking confused. Perhaps it is because Lord Harston was once engaged to his beloved Lady Jane. Mr. Sinclair turns to her, his face ringing with questions. She acts as if nothing is amiss. Lord Wyatt seems genuinely pleased, and I wonder if perhaps the situation has not yet been explained to him or Captain Grey.

  Mr. Peterson, the butler here at Haversmythe house, carries in three bottles of champagne. A footman follows, laden with a large tray of more than a dozen crystal flutes. The delicate glasses clink softly as he sets down the tray. I glance at the doorway, and there stands my would-be fiancé.

  Not beaten.

  Not whipped.

  Beaming!

  Lord Kinsworth is grinning like the rascal just gobbled down the last ginger cookie in all of England. He strides confidently across the floor and bows to me as if I am the only woman in the room.

  I squint, studying him, as I perform my curtsey. For once, his inner music is not elusive. I do not have to strain to find it. It is so loud and clear that I daresay everyone in the house can hear it, even mice in the attic rafters must be startled by the sound. Where I expected to hear dark brooding thuds, exuberant horns are trumpeting with excitement.

  My ears must be deceiving me.

  This is all wrong.

  I draw back expecting some sort of trick. He cannot possibly be pleased about this engagement the Patronesses are foisting on us. What is he playing at? What game is this?

  He turns to the butler, who is quietly displaying one of the bottles of champagne to Miss Stranje for her approval. “A moment, my good man.” Lord Kinsworth indicates the bottle. “I’m afraid this is a bit premature.”

  Everyone’s attention snaps his way, but he smiles sideways at me as if we share some sort of private joke. “You see, the young lady has not yet given me her consent. Miss Stranje, I believe on occasions such as this, a young lady and gentleman might be granted a few moments alone. Is that not the custom?”

  Miss Stranje inhales deeply and steps forward, donning her most formidable headmistress expression, not that it dampens Lord Kinsworth’s buoyant spirits in the least. “Yes, I understand that is sometimes allowed,” Miss Stranje says as if she has no intention of granting his request. “However—”

  “Excellent!” He ignores her hesitancy and smiles broadly at all fourteen faces staring expectantly at him. “Rather than displacing all of you, I think it might be more convenient if Miss Barrington and I take a stroll around your garden?”

  “The garden. Hmm.” Our headmistress squints hard at him. “Yes, well, I suppose that might be acceptable.” She consults her timepiece. “You may have fifteen minutes, and not one minute more. We have Miss Barrington’s reputation to consider.”

  “Of course.” He bows and offers me his arm.

  As we walk out of the drawing-room, Tess warns him, “Mind the wolves.”

  “Wolves?” His shoe catches briefly on the Turkish carpet.

  Tess answers with a wry smirk.

  “Our dogs,” Georgie explains.

  “Oh, a jest. I see.” He grins amicably.

  Several quiet chuckles follow us out of the room. On our way through the foyer, the back hall, and out to the garden, I decide not to tell him that our ‘dogs’ actually are half wolf. He will find out soon enough, and when he does, I shall relish his alarm.

  He opens the garden door, and we step down into the yard.

  The sun sits low on the horizon, draping the sky with streaks of burnt orange and magenta. In the evenings, the haze of smoke and ash that hangs over London during the day drifts lower to earth. Tonight, at least, there is a breeze to alleviate the heaviness in the air. In this dusky light, our lawn turns a deeper green and shadows appear almost as dark as the wolves’ black fur. Hollyhocks, their tall stalks laden with white blooms, stand like cheerful sentinels along the path.

  As we walk deeper into the garden, Lord Kinsworth pats my hand on his arm. He doesn’t know, but the wolves are watching from the shadows. They dart silently from hedge to hedge, stalking us to see if we are friend, foe, or prey. Suddenly Phobos springs out from the bushes and blocks our path, his teeth bared. Tromos leaps out, too, and stands guardedly behind her mate.

  “Don’t move,” I caution. Phobos and Tromos know me, but I fully expect they will growl and snap at Lord Kinsworth.

  “Oh!” he says excitedly, not heeding my warning. “They really are wolves. And black wolves, at that!”

  Phobos studies his quarry, looking from me to Ben, sniffing the air warily and then he takes a menacing step toward us. I worry he might attack Ben. Lord Kinsworth is a stranger, after all, and the wolves have puppies to protect. Instead, Phobos’s back relaxes, and trots up to the intruder and sniffs his hand as if they are old friends. A moment later, Phobos yips to his mate, and she yips in answer. Immediately, two black pups tumble out from where they were hiding in the hedge.

  “Good gracious. You have an entire wolf pack.” Ben stoops down to greet the newcomers. Moonlight, a silver cub, scoots out behind her brothers, her makeshift wheel and harness snag briefly on the bushes, but she yanks it free. “What in the world is that—? Oh! I see. The little one is lame, and this contraption allows her to walk.”

  “Miss Fitzwilliam designed it. Mr. Sinclair made a few improvements and helped her build this latest version.” I explain all this, still astonished, and a little aggravated, to see the wolves accepting him so quickly. Charm, as effective as his, is dangerous. The puppies, even Moonlight, are enthusiastically sniffing him, barraging him with licks and whimpers for attention.

  “What an ingenious device.” He stands and brushes off his hands. Phobos and Tromos circle our legs, trying to nudge their exuberant offspring back into the hedges where they are training the young ones to hunt mice and voles. Moonlight knocks against me while trying to evade her mother, and Lord Kinsworth clasps my arm to steady me. “I envy the lot of you,” he says, running his hand up and down my arm. His heart hums dangerously close to mine. “You and the other young ladies at Miss Stranje’s school, you’re almost like a family, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Although, it was only this very afternoon that I realized how close a family we are.

  I look up and see he is grinning broadly at me. Too broadly. He whispers, “Miss Stranje told me everything.”

  Everything?

  I click my tongue. “I sincerely doubt that.”

  “She told me enough.” Louder, he says, “How lucky you are. What adventures you all must have had. Why didn’t you tell me you were . . .” He lowers his voice again and leans close. “Spies?”

  I step back, aghast. Miss Stranje could not have told him that. She wouldn’t have. Never. My mouth opens, but I cannot find the right words. Finally, I fling out an inane retort. “If I had, I would be doing a very bad job of it, now wouldn’t I?”

  He smirks. “I suppose.”

  “Aside from that, we are not spies.” I try to unclench my teeth and sound less snappish. “Miss Stranje would never have said such a thing. I know her. She wouldn’t have said it. The very notion is absurd. We are no such thing. Not really. We are . . . we are diplomatic . . .”

  I suddenly realize that I do not have a word for what we are. Lord Wyatt and Captain Grey officially work for the government as diplomatic attachés. But Miss Stranje and the Patronesses, what are they? As their understudies, what are we? “We are, um, we are students . . . and she is teaching us how to, um, how to help out. Here and there. Behind the scenes, so to speak. Diplomatically.”

  He shrugs. “Yes, she tried to tell me something along those same lines. But isn’t that exactly what a spy does?”

  “No! Not exactly.” I cross my arms, and not because I’m col
d. “A spy tries to procure information from the enemy. They sneak behind the lines into enemy camps and infiltrate—”

  “You and the others, you’ve never done that?”

  I look away, hoping that in the dim orange of the setting sun, he can’t see my cheeks heating up. “No.”

  He takes my shoulders in his palms and turns me toward him. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “Lying is not my specialty.”

  “No. And yet, for this assignment we must lie. We must pretend to be in love.”

  “Engaged,” I protest. “Not necessarily in love.”

  One side of his mouth curves up, and I know he is up to something. “Perhaps not, but it will be a great deal easier to convince everyone our engagement is real if we pretend to be smitten with one another.”

  “Smitten?”

  “Ah, you don’t know this word.” Mischief sneaks into his eyes. “It means passionately in love.”

  “I know the word.” I squint at him, doing my best to look severe.

  He tugs me closer. “And do you also know it is customary for couples to kiss when they get engaged?”

  Kiss? He cannot mean it. I swallow air a little too loudly. “I may have heard such a thing. But we cannot. In my culture such a thing is forbidden. Besides, it is completely unnecessary. We are merely pretending to be engaged.”

  “But we are in England. Your father is English. And our customs allow for such small discretions.”

  “Indiscretions, you mean.” I cross my arms.

  “Come, Maya. You said yourself you are not a good liar. To that end, the more authentic we make this engagement of ours, the easier it will be for you.”

  “I see. Easier for me. And you—are you so very accomplished at the art of deception?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, I am not. All the more reason if we are to convince the world we are truly engaged, I will need a great deal of help from you.”

  “Oh, yes, it will be hard to convince them because everyone knows you are terrified of losing your freedom?”

  His hands, which have been roaming far too intimately up and down my arms, still. His head tilts and his jubilant music stutters. “How did you—?” Then it dawns on him at what time and place he exposed his feelings on the matter. “You overheard me at the ball, didn’t you?”