Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  More importantly, if Lord Kinsworth continues trying to protect me, this mission to save England from Napoleon is doomed.

  I begin my rebellion by using a deadly resonance that vibrates deep inside the hearer. “You have no say over me, Lord Kinsworth. None whatsoever. I think you must have forgotten I am not actually your fiancée. This is only an act. A part we must play to save our country—no matter the danger.” Hard words, delivered with a tongue of iron, a hammer meant to split stone. I move closer, bearing down on him. “My lord, listen to me carefully. I will go where I am needed, and I will do as I please.”

  “But . . .” I see how stricken he is. It claws at my heart to hear his soul deflate like collapsing bagpipes.

  I do not want to hurt him. Wounding him, I bleed, too.

  If only there were another way, except there isn’t. I must put a stop to him thinking this way. Our mission will fail if he continues trying to protect me. So, I steel myself to deliver the final blow. “What did you think you would do? Confine me—as your mother did you?”

  He flinches as if I have kicked him in the stomach.

  “It will not work with me, my lord. A caged nightingale cannot live.” It may sing for a time, but in the end, the wild bird will bash itself against the bars until it dies.

  He holds out his hand to me. “I don’t want to cage you. Only protect you.”

  “There is no difference. You of all people should understand that.” I hear too many winds of hope still blowing within him. It grieves me, but I must push him further. “Did you think my kissing you meant more than it did?”

  His eyes widen, and he steps back.

  I clench my fists, forcing myself to finish this, to cure his romantic notions once and for all. “I only kissed you to aid in our deception. Those were your own words, were they not?”

  Ben’s shoulders sag, beaten.

  I want to rush to him, to wrap my arms around him, and tell him it isn’t true. I ache to tell him our kisses sang songs in my heart that will remain forever. But I cannot. Instead of comfort, my tone must harden to steel. “And now, my lord, we shall proceed with the plan and do what must be done in Brighton. If we are to succeed, you must never again question my safety. If I must die in the service of my friends, I am content to do so.”

  All three of them stare at me. I am fully aware I employed the sword tongue, but I did not expect all of them to look slain. Only Kinsworth.

  How long will they stand there in a stricken stupor? I am exhausted inside. I feel like crumpling up in the corner and crying, but I must speak again. This time, to warm them to action, I must sing them up some fortifying honey and tea. “There now. All that is settled, shall we return to the drawing-room?”

  Miss Stranje blinks. “Yes,” she breathes out softly. “Yes. I suppose we ought to, yes.” She brushes past me, still a little shaken, and opens the door.

  I follow her out, not waiting for Lord Kinsworth, who appears to be still recovering. His uncle leans close to Ben’s ear, but I catch his muffled words. “You warned me she was dangerous. You were right.”

  “You’re too late.” Lord Kinsworth’s music awakens and begins to play again. I catch the breathy strains of a bansuri, low, hushed, solemn eve, and yet faintly playful. Which alarms me. At least now, there are no trumpets. But he says, “Perhaps, uncle, you should’ve tried harder to keep me from galloping over that cliff.”

  Invasion of the Choirboy

  The following afternoon Miss Stranje summons all of us, Georgie, Tess, Lady Jane, Sera and me, upstairs to the study, the room Lady Daneska was seen exiting last night. She puts us to work trying to find what might be missing, or what documents Daneska might have seen.

  An hour later, after finding nothing amiss thus far, Lady Jane plants her hands on her hips. “She was probably hoping to find the formula.” She is referring to the undetectable invisible ink formula Georgie perfected.

  Georgie glances up from checking through her equipment case, a large black satchel crammed full of devices she insisted on bringing to London: calipers, compasses, scales, beakers, and whatnots. “Good thing I keep the ink and the formula hidden in a lockbox in the back of my wardrobe.”

  Tess scoffs. “That’s the first place I’d look if I were her.”

  “Well, she didn’t. I checked.” Georgie latches her tool case. “And there’s nothing missing here, either.”

  Sera brushes off her hands. “Our maps and papers appear undisturbed, too. That doesn’t mean Lady Daneska didn’t read them and carefully replace them.”

  We have all been taught how to do precisely that, and since Daneska was once a student at Stranje House, she is certainly capable of doing so.

  “Right. I haven’t found any evidence of what she was after either.” Miss Stranje turns the key and locks the study door. “We had best move on to the problem at hand.” She unrolls, onto our worktable, two large detailed drawings of Prince George’s Brighton Palace. “These plans may have been the objective of her search. Regardless of whether she found them or not, you must all memorize these floor plans.”

  Prince George’s Brighton Pavilion, with its onion-domed roof and minarets, looks more like a Hindu temple than a palace. Except, according to these drawings, the inside is decorated from top to bottom in the fantastical style of a Chinese pagoda, with enormous vases, Chinese statues, brightly painted wallpapers, and turned up cornices everywhere.

  “Obviously, there are no spyholes or priest holes in a palace this newly constructed.” Miss Stranje uses the plume tip of her quill, a long quail feather, to indicate three narrow passages. “However, there are a series of private hallways running down the center of the building. Here. Here. And here. They can be accessed from outside through the servants’ entrance, here, near the kitchens.”

  Lady Jane pulls out a chair and sits down. “That means Lady Daneska and Ghost can enter as they please.” The rest of us join her at the table.

  Our headmistress squares her shoulders. “It is entirely possible Lady Daneska may be invited in the front door. But yes, we must assume the Iron Crown will know about the passages. We must also presume their spies will have infiltrated the palace staff.” She directs our attention back to the drawing, tipping her feather to a large room marked music chamber. “The Chinese wallpapers cleverly conceal the entrances, but you should find a door hidden along this wall. And in the Grand Salon, there is one located near this corner.”

  She sets the quill down and stands back surveying all of us. “If you find it necessary to enter one of these passages, use extreme caution. You must not get caught in them—especially unaccompanied. The architect, Mr. Nash, installed these passages primarily for the servants’ convenience. They do use them, and you may be sure they will report it to their masters if they see you.”

  She pauses, making sure each of us grasps the seriousness of her warning. “That is not my only concern. In a palace of this sort, especially considering the company Prince George keeps, guests sometimes use backstairs and private passages to sneak into other peoples’ rooms for trysts. Should anyone catch you in those secluded corridors, it could ruin your reputation. Even more problematic, if Ghost and Lady Daneska are in the vicinity, you may be certain they and their cohorts will use the passages for other purposes. If a member of the Iron Crown discovers you in those dimly lit hallways, it may very well cost you your life.”

  At our resounding silence, she clasps her hands together. “Excellent. Now, let’s move on to the difficult part.”

  Difficult? Was memorizing the layout of an immense palace and discussing the risks involved not difficult enough?

  She continues with her customary determination. “You all heard Lord Harston’s announcement. His Highness only invited Maya and one companion to reside inside the palace. Stranje House is a full day’s ride from Brighton. The rest of us will follow along and take lodgings as near to the palace as possible so we may be of assistance. Miss Barrington, I cannot act as your chaperone. My duty lies outside
the palace walls. I must be free to move about unchecked, that will allow me to orchestrate the external situation more efficiently. You may count on all of us to be present at the Prince’s gatherings, but between times, you will be somewhat cut off. Bearing that in mind, I leave it to you to choose who you would like to accompany you. Madame Cho has offered, and she would be an excellent advisor and companion. However, you may think it more prudent to bring someone who can mingle easily with the other guests and help you gather information.”

  I would prefer to have all of you there with me.

  “Learning to make a difficult decision, such as this, is an integral part of your training.” Miss Stranje leans forward and taps the oak table with her fingertip. “You must ask yourself this question, what assistance will I need? Once you determine your needs, you will know what choice to make. For example, if you think you may require strategizing or lock-picking, you would be wise to bring along Lady Jane. On the other hand, if you foresee you may need help climbing out of a third story window, it’s rather obvious Tess would be your logical choice.”

  Sera sits beside me and suddenly her inner music jumbles. Her normally quiet, albeit highly-structured melodies gallop wildly and collide. She hangs her head and hides behind the white curtain of hair that always refuses to stay tucked back in a knot.

  Miss Stranje continues advising me. “Consider carefully, and choose the person most able to assist you in this critical assignment.”

  I don’t need time to consider. I already know who I ought to bring, and I know she would like to help me, but I also feel her reluctance.

  I look around the table at them—my sisters. My mentors. My friends. “I wish I could bring all of you with me.”

  Georgie nods and stares at the map. “Yes, we are stronger together. But since we can’t all come, I’ll pack a supply of ink and developer for you. You can send us messages every day.”

  Her invisible ink will be very helpful. I smile with gratitude and, remembering her English ways, I remember to say, “Thank you.”

  “You’ll need time to consider.” Miss Stranje starts to turn away. “I will return—”

  “Wait. I already know,” I say.

  She whirls back, her brow pinched in surprise. “You do?”

  “Yes. I need someone with me who is far more observant than I am.”

  Everyone turns to Sera. She shrinks down in her chair.

  She is afraid. I apply a bolstering cadence to my request. “It would be a great help to have someone beside me who notices crucial details, someone who catches the subtle nuances in people’s expressions.”

  And someone who knows how to calm the raging storm inside me.

  I lean close and quietly offer her an escape. “But if the risks overset you too much, if you are not comfortable, I shall not require it of you.”

  I hear the shadow of a laugh from behind the curtain of her hair. She raises up with a twist to her lips and looks pointedly at me. “You know perfectly well I am never comfortable. Ergo, I may as well come with you.”

  Tess and Lady Jane laugh aloud.

  “Well done.” Miss Stranje hums with approval, looking from me to Sera. “Excellent choice. Now, let us turn our attention back to these drawings of the palace. We must all learn this layout by heart.”

  We lean over the sketches, and not two minutes pass before there is a scratch on the study door. She hurriedly rolls up the papers, and we scramble to take out our textbooks and pretend to be studying.

  Miss Stranje cracks open the door to our butler, Mr. Peterson, who strains to peek into the room. At being given only a narrow slit with which to peer into our inner sanctum, he sniffs. “Begging your pardon, miss, but there is a young man calling. He insists he must speak with you on a matter of grave importance. If it were anyone else, I would’ve sent him on his way. However, as he claims to be a magistrate’s son, I thought it circumspect to allow him to wait in the front parlor.”

  “Pray, does this magistrate’s son have a name?” she asks, even though Sera is already cringing, and it isn’t hard to guess who our caller is.

  “Yes. Mr. Chadwick, miss. Seems a quality young gentleman, good manners, well-groomed, but if you prefer not to meet with him, I shall turn him away.”

  “No, I’ll see him.” Miss Stranje studies the card the butler handed her. “Thank you, Mr. Peterson. Please, tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  She closes the door and wheels on us.

  Sera snaps her history book shut and grips it tightly. She stands without shoving back her chair, and I catch it to prevent it from toppling.

  “What can Mr. Chadwick want?” Sera turns and paces toward the wall as if she intends to disappear into it. “I’ve given him no cause to think—”

  “Calm yourself, Miss Wyndham.” Miss Stranje guides her back to the table. “It may not have anything to do with you. His note specifically asks if he might speak with me.” She flips his calling card over so Sera can read the message scrawled on the back. “In all likelihood, he has more questions about the two deaths that occurred at Stranje House last month. He never did fully accept the coroner’s conclusions. Even so, I would like you to come down to the drawing-room with me. You are the perfect distraction for him. We must keep him from becoming any more inquisitive about our school than he already is.”

  Sera gnaws at the corner of her lip for a moment. “Yes, all right, but we should all go. More of us to divert him.”

  “Very well.” Miss Stranje retrieves the card and pats Sera’s hand. “Do try to cheer up, Miss Wyndham. I assure you Mr. Chadwick does not bite.”

  Sera heaves in a much-needed breath. “I’m not so sure.”

  Miss Stranje gives Sera’s shoulders a quick squeeze. “As men go, my dear, he’s fairly harmless. Nothing like that rascal, Lord Kinsworth.” She squints, sending a hawk’s shrill scree of disapproval in my direction, before turning back to Sera. “You’ll see. Mr. Chadwick is an amiable young pup. Distract him with your smile, and we shall sail through his visit undetected.”

  Undetected.

  I am not so certain, and I can tell Sera is not convinced either. As female political intriguers, we rely upon passing ourselves off as innocent debutantes who have nothing but frivolity on our minds. Trouble is, Mr. Chadwick has a sharp intellect and is nearly as observant as Sera. His inner music plays with all the complexity and mathematical genius of Mozart. It seems odd to me that Miss Stranje thinks Mr. Chadwick will be easily distracted from the truth.

  As we leave the room, I caution her quietly, “I would not underestimate him.”

  Miss Stranje stops, purses her lips and arches one eyebrow rather high, before responding. “Very well, Miss Barrington. I shall try not to be blinded by the fact that I’ve known him since he was in the cradle and his parents are bulwarks of the community.”

  I understand why she is inclined to trust him. He is that kind of person. One need only listen for a few minutes to the crisp bright symphonies resounding from him to recognize the trueness of his heart. Never mind his tousled curls, which would rival those of an archangel, the threat lies in his extraordinary cleverness.

  Sera and I lag behind the others as we descend the stairs. “I heard what you said,” she whispers. “You’re right. He already suspects far too much. Miss Stranje is cloaked in mystery and riddles, and his insatiable curiosity is bound to keep him hunting for answers.”

  * * *

  The moment Sera steps foot in the parlor, I hear a shift in Mr. Chadwick’s music. Mozart stutters to a stop, and suddenly a serenade intrudes, yet there remains a steady and logical rhythm. He bows. “Miss Stranje. Miss Wyndham. Ladies.”

  “Mr. Chadwick.” Our headmistress gives him a genteel curtsey, and we all follow suit. “Lovely to see you this fine afternoon. What brings you to our door?”

  He bows again as if that might help answer. “Forgive the precipitousness of my visit. I should’ve sent a note around first. Your butler took some convincing. Quite the watc
hdog you have there, Miss Stranje. His protectiveness makes me worry less for your safety.”

  “How very kind of you to concern yourself with our welfare, but I assure you we are perfectly safe here in Mayfair.” She takes a seat in the largest armchair, and we arrange ourselves on the sofa.

  “Are you?” His question rings with genuine concern.

  “Yes, of course. Quite safe. I shall speak to Mr. Peterson about being more hospitable to our callers.” She smooths out her black skirts. “That is why you’re here, is it not? To call on Miss Wyndham?”

  “No,” he blurts. “Er, I meant to say, I had hoped for a private interview with you, Miss Stranje.”

  “Me? Whatever for?” Her lips press together briefly before she forces a smile. “I see the footman has provided us with a tray. Would you care for some refreshment? Some tea, perhaps? A biscuit?” She holds out a plate to him, but glances sidelong at me with a slight flare to her nostrils, meaning she is reconsidering my warning.

  “Thank you, no.” He sits in the chair closest to her and leans forward earnestly. “I was hoping you might spare me a few moments in private? I’ve a few things to, er, discuss.”

  Sera clutches my hand and shoots me a look that fairly screams, oh no, this is trouble. Is she afraid he’ll propose? Before our coming-out ball, I questioned her about him. “Why do you always run away from Mr. Chadwick? Anyone might think you dislike him.”

  She turned to me, her eyes wide, and her inner song skittering like swallows caught in a whirlwind. “No, I don’t dislike him at all. How could I? He’s . . . he’s . . . it’s just that when I’m around him, I feel excessively—oh, what is the right word? Uncomfortable? Yes. No, that’s not right. Rattled? No, that’s not it either. I can’t describe it. I only know that around him, I find it difficult to . . .”

  “Breathe?”