Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  She gulped for air in response to my question. “Sometimes. Except it’s more than that, I can’t seem to . . .”

  “Hide?” I ask, because that is what she does. Sera is forever hiding. Hiding her brilliant mind. Hiding what she knows. What she feels. There is an entirely different world tucked away inside her. An extraordinary world. I know, because every now and then, I catch glimpses of its divine melody.

  “Yes!” She brightens. “Exactly. When I’m in his company, I’m likely to say whatever springs into my mind. It’s most disconcerting. I’m not myself at all around him.”

  I wonder if she is mistaken. Perhaps the only time Sera is truly herself is when he is around. Mayhaps something about him frees her to be forthright, to stop hiding.

  As we sit crammed together on the damask sofa, I am eager to see what might spring forth from her today.

  Mr. Chadwick looks at Sera as if she is an angel seated among ordinary humans. “Naturally, I would very much like to call on you, Miss Wyndham. Would tomorrow afternoon suit you?”

  “Perhaps,” she answers, in a breathy whisper.

  His customarily buoyant demeanor shifts to a more somber requiem as he turns back to Miss Stranje and awaits the answer to his request for a private audience.

  Miss Stranje tries to lighten the conversation. “You’re wearing such a serious expression I find myself growing concerned. You obviously have something on your mind. Is something amiss, Mr. Chadwick? I trust your mother and father are well?”

  He shakes her inquiry off. “My parents are fine. I wish to speak to you about another matter—one of grave importance.”

  “Oh, my. How very mysterious you are today.” She smiles. “Don’t tell me, you’ve received bad news from Fairstone Meade. Have you come to inform me Stranje House has burned to the ground?”

  “No.” He flicks her question aside. “Nothing of the sort.”

  “Well then speak up, young man. What is it? Anything you have to say to me you can say to all of us. We have no secrets here.”

  No secrets. I nearly laugh.

  Whenever our headmistress lies, the music of her soul turns chilly, as if it must blow through a frozen horn, hard, icy, and brittle.

  “No secrets?” He shakes his head and appears saddened. “Begging your pardon, Miss Stranje, but I rather doubt that.” His skepticism does him credit.

  She looks down, smoothing out her black skirts, a pensive expression on her face, as if he has wounded her by calling out her lie. Except, Miss Stranje is not wounded. Not in the least. Her true music is playing a rather threatening march.

  “Very well. Have it your way.” He rises abruptly and begins to pace. “I’d hoped for a private word, but they may as well hear this, too.” He glances sideways at us, and a quick frown of regret passes before he continues. “I have given considerable thought to recent events. In particular, the two deaths surrounding the attempted abduction of Miss Aubreyson, followed by the inexplicable disappearance of Mr. Sinclair’s steamship—”

  “My dear boy, it didn’t disappear. Ships simply do not simply up and vanish.” Miss Stranje chortles as if he has made a joke, although it blows rather icily over us. “I explained all that.”

  “Yes, I remember your account. Pray, be at ease. I mean you no harm. I assure you this visit has no bearing on the coroner’s inquest. The matter is closed. Since then, however, I have given the, uh, the circumstances more thought. My father is completely unaware of the direction my thinking has taken. However, the facts of your case, when coupled with the unfortunate explosion that occurred recently at the navel yards, aroused certain suspicions. As a result, I took the liberty of investigating in more depth.”

  “I see.” Miss Stranje pours herself a glass of lemon water, as calmly as if he is merely commenting on the excessively warm weather instead of alluding to our covert activities.

  He stops and faces her, his arms at his side, very stiff, very formal. He certainly doesn’t look much like the amiable young pup she described earlier. Rather more like an earnest young soldier about to raise his weapon and take aim. “It is my understanding, Miss Stranje, that your father served in the foreign office, did he not?”

  The foreign office.

  His implication is obvious. He knows. I swallow hard.

  “Uh oh,” Georgie says under her breath and presses back against the sofa. Tess edges forward, her fists clenched, and I worry she might attack him at any moment. Sera sits still as a marble statue, but Lady Jane perks up and leans over the arm of the sofa as if she is intrigued.

  Miss Stranje does not smile. Her hawk’s beak sharpens to a crisp point. “Yes, as a matter of fact, my father served in the foreign office at the request of William Pitt. How did you find out?”

  “It’s a matter of public record.” He waves away her question as if it’s a gnat. “Almost anything can be found in the Records Office, if one knows where to look.”

  “What a clever lad, you are.” She bites into a dry shortbread.

  “Captain Grey also serves in the foreign office, does he not?”

  She no longer pretends to be amused by his cleverness. “I couldn’t say. Perhaps you ought to ask him next time you see him.” A talon is poised in her voice. I hear it threatening him to tread carefully.

  Mr. Chadwick pushes on bravely. Or ignorantly. I’m not sure which. “And Lord Wyatt is a diplomatic attaché, which means he serves directly under Lord Castlereagh.”

  Miss Stranje drops the shortbread onto a plate with a decided plunk. “My goodness, but you certainly seem to have spent a great deal of time in the Records Office.”

  “Not only there, but also at our parish offices.” He sighs and taps his hand nervously against his thigh. “The truth is Miss Stranje, I also discovered Mr. Sinclair is not your cousin, as you claimed. You have no cousins in America. Your family is landed aristocracy, and as such, your genealogy is detailed in parish records. The inventor is not related to you. I checked before coming to London.”

  “I see.” She sits back, assessing the young man, her lips pressing and un-pressing. A blaze of anger melts Miss Stranje’s cold tone. “What is it you want from us, Mr. Chadwick?”

  Sera draws a quick breath and grips my hand even tighter. Madame Cho stands and abruptly closes the parlor doors. She crosses her arms and blocks his exit. I recognize the stance. She is ready to break this amiable young pup’s neck if Miss Stranje gives the signal.

  Mr. Chadwick stands his ground unflinching. “I want in.”

  The clock on the mantel ticks like a sledgehammer.

  “In?” Our headmistress says, in a low steely tenor. “In what?”

  He leans forward. “Please, Miss Stranje, do not mistake me for a country bumpkin with no education. I am a man with enough sense to know I can do something more with my life than rusticate on my father’s estate.”

  Miss Stranje only relaxes enough to sit back against her chair. Her spine remains ramrod straight and her tone could split apart brick. “There is a great deal to be said for rusticating, Mr. Chadwick. Your father is an excellent gentleman, a credit to our county, and, indeed, the entire country. His service as a magistrate is noble and invaluable to all of us. Your mother is one of the finest women of my acquaintance. I am pleased to call her a friend. Furthermore, Mr. Chadwick, I still haven’t the faintest idea of what you are requesting of me.”

  “I think you do.” Instead of cowering, he stands squarely before her. “You know exactly what I’m asking.”

  She says nothing.

  The symphony within him plays as clear and strong and pure as any I’ve ever heard. “I love my parents,” he says calmly. “I admire them prodigiously. My father would like me to follow his footsteps and become magistrate one day. To that end, I considered studying law, but—may I speak plainly?”

  Miss Stranje drum her fingers on the armrest. “Apparently, no one can stop you.”

  I glance sideways at Sera’s face and am surprised to see, not admiration, but anguish. Her
eyes are watering with pain. “How can this be?” she demands, her composure shredded. “How? Your parents have given you everything, blessed you with a superior education—yet you are unhappy?”

  “No, Miss Wyndham, I’m not unhappy. I simply crave something greater. I was certain you would understand. Can’t you see? I want what you have.”

  “What I have? Are you mad? You want to be an outcast, despised by your parents, sent away from your home? I would’ve given anything to have parents as understanding and kind as yours. Anything.”

  He rakes back his hair and shakes his head. “I’m deeply sorry, that isn’t what I meant. Not the outcast part. No. I was referring to this.” He gestures at Miss Stranje, at the five of us on the sofa, and even at Madame Cho. “I know what you are doing, Miss Stranje. I’ve done the math. This is no ordinary girl’s school.”

  She waits, letting silence force him to speak.

  He takes a deep breath and recites his tally sheet. “First, you are an exceptionally good shot, Miss Stranje. You felled one of the marauders at a distance that would challenge a seasoned hunter. In and of itself, that might not have aroused my suspicions. As you mentioned, my mother is also an excellent marksman. But when I accidentally startled Miss Aubreyson, she tossed me over her shoulder without a moment’s hesitation. She also threw a knife and dropped her attacker at twenty paces. A French-born sailor, I might add. A man who surely possessed the requisite fighting skills. According to my hypothesis, those assailants were thugs sent after something Miss Fitzwilliam possessed or knew, something of value to the French. Next, much to my delight, I discovered Miss Wyndham, here, has perfect recall. Not only that, she seems to notice the finest of details, crucial details. And from those scant details, she draws impressively logical conclusions.”

  He stares at us as if we are a row of awe-inspiring Roman goddesses rather than five outcast girls who had nowhere else to go except for Miss Stranje’s reform school.

  He turns back to our headmistress. “Next, I took into consideration your American guest, Mr. Sinclair, who built that marvel of a steamship. You must’ve forgotten I saw it the night you were shooting down Chinese lanterns.”

  She straightens the cuff of her sleeve. “I did not forget. I remember quite distinctly the night you intruded upon our birthday celebration.”

  The night Lady Daneska captured Tess, cut Madame Cho’s throat and left her for dead. The night Lord Ravencross nearly drowned trying to save Tess. Oh yes, all of us remember that night.

  He clears his throat. “A most peculiar birthday celebration. Then you hid the steamship in your cove until it’s equally peculiar disappearance.”

  “You are grasping at straws, young man,” Miss Stranje snaps, but most of her vehemence seems to have drained away.

  “Not straws. Facts. I was present at the Naval yards. I heard Lady Jane cry out to warn His Highness and the Admirals of the bomb. Did no one else find it noteworthy that a young lady was the first to sound the alarm?”

  The five of us, wedged together on the sofa, exchange veiled looks.

  “No one ever suspects a young lady of such complexities, do they?” He paces toward us, radiant with admiration. “The five of you possess extraordinary skills, and unless I miss my guess you are all being trained to do more with your lives than sit and darn socks and paint watercolors.” He swings wide his arms. “You are doing something worthwhile. You’re fighting Napoleon. You’re using your mental acuity. You ask, what do I want. The answer is simple. I want to help you.”

  “Impossible.” Miss Stranje shakes her head. “You are a young man with a gentleman’s responsibilities.”

  “Phfft! A gentleman’s responsibilities.” He throws up one hand and begins to wear a path in the Turkish carpet again. “No, no, you must allow me to work with you. I’ll go mad doing nothing. I’m not like the other gentlemen here in town. They seem oblivious to the fact that a tyrant is rampaging across Europe, and that any day he’ll mount an attack on us. They go to their clubs, drink their port, and gamble as if tomorrow may not bring an end to England as we know it.” His hands tighten into fists. “What I want to do—what I must do, Miss Stranje, is serve my country.”

  She stirs in her chair. No longer queen. Her soul echoes with the heavy song of a teacher, a friend. The hawk disappears and she growls, as wary as Tromos for one of her cubs.

  He opens his palms to her. “I have a decent mind. I beg you, put me to work.”

  More than decent, although, I dare not say so amidst this skirmish.

  Miss Stranje glances at Madame Cho. They have known each other for so many years they often speak as sisters do, in wordless expressions. Madame walks away from the door and sits in a straight-back chair, folding her hands in her lap.

  Miss Stranje rubs her temple for a moment. “I run a school for young ladies. I’m in no position to take on a male student.”

  “I thought of that.” He perches on the edge of the chair beside her. “But your Captain Grey, he might be able to put me to work, to train me. I’m a quick study, you’ll see.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that.” She sighs. “No doubt at all. The problem is, there is so much to learn, and usually . . .” She brushes away the idea with her hand. “This is highly irregular. Ordinarily, we start training our protégés when they are in their early teens. There are languages to master, combat skills, and—”

  “But I’m not yet twenty-one. I’m already fluent in three other languages, French, Prussian, and . . . Latin.” He shrugs. “I don’t suppose Latin is of much use, but I’ll learn more if needed.” He leans forward, almost in a manner of prayer. “Ask Captain Grey for me. Please.”

  She pushes back from his entreaty, stands, and now she is the one pacing. “Ours is not an easy life, Mr. Chadwick.” She looks past him to Sera. Her face draws down into a profound sadness. “I had hoped for better things for you. Then, there are your parents to consider.”

  He nods. “I understand. But the truth is, if they had their way, they’d keep me closeted at home for the rest of my life. I can’t do that. God help me, I love them, but I can’t sit at home with them and do nothing.”

  “But they love you!” Sera squeezes her crossed arms tight against her middle and looks stricken.

  “I know,” he turns to her. “Too much. There is such a thing you know.”

  “No,” she shakes her head. “No, I don’t.” I stare at the two of them. As alike as they are in intelligence, in some respects, no two people on earth could be more different.

  “Try to understand—I feel trapped.” He claps his hands together as if he has caught a fly. “Wrapped in a cocoon so tight, it’s suffocating me.”

  I have heard Lord Kinsworth sing this same tune. I wonder, do all Englishmen feel trapped?

  Sera is nearly in tears. She looks from me to Miss Stranje and back to him. She doesn’t understand. How can she? Mr. Chadwick has the nurturing family she has always dreamed of having, and yet, he is willing to leave them behind for our life as exiled children.

  He stands and reaches out to her, but she refuses to look at him. Saddened, he steps back to the fireplace and leans against the mantel. “England’s fight with the colonies soured my father on all war. He insists Parliament ought to have settled the colonists’ grievances peaceably. Which is a good point, but this battle with Napoleon is different. If Britain doesn’t do something soon, we will be under attack on British soil. We stand to lose everything.”

  Miss Stranje braces herself behind her chair, poised behind it like a captain steering a ship. “If it is a battle you’re seeking—”

  “No. If I’ve guessed correctly, the work you do is on a more . . .” He hunts for the right word, drawing with his finger on the mantle. “Your fight is on a more subtle level, is it not? That is where I believe I can be of the most service.”

  Miss Stranje stares at him for a long uncomfortable minute. The inner music in the room is so discordant it gives me a headache. When she still does not answer, his hands
fall to his sides. “I ask only that you consider my petition. Whatever your answer, you may rely upon my discretion. I would die rather than tell anyone your secret.”

  “That, Mr. Chadwick, is not an oath to be taken lightly. Given what we do, it may very well come down to it.”

  * * *

  The next morning, another visitor surprises us, arriving at an hour when visitors are rarely expected. Miss Stranje sits at the head of the table, briefing us on the day’s schedule while we finish our breakfast. Mr. Peterson glides in and interrupts, wearing his out-of-joint butler nose high in the air. He leans down and murmurs next to her ear. She immediately glances at me. A fleeting arrow of worry whistles my way, but she turns quickly, and without explanation, excuses herself to go meet our unexpected guest.

  Lady Jane casts a sideways glance at Georgie, who has the best view of the doorway. She strains to peek out, but when that fails, she sags back against her chair. “Couldn’t see. Can’t be one of the patronesses, not at this hour of the morning.”

  Jane sips the last of her tea. “Of course not, if it had been one of them Mr. Peterson wouldn’t have been so secretive.”

  “She looked at Maya before leaving.” Sera toys with her empty juice glass, and tilts her worried gaze toward me. “It has something to do with you.”

  Jane studies me shrewdly, mimicking our headmistress more and more every day. “Lord Kinsworth, perhaps?”

  I shake my head. “Doubtful. As Georgie said, not this early.”

  Madame Cho sets her fork down with a decided plunk. “Enough chatter. We will find out soon enough.”

  We find out almost immediately—or at least I do.

  Miss Stranje met our guest in the parlor and, although she shut the doors, his loud accusation carries rather clearly. “I should’ve been consulted.”

  Papa!

  My spoon drops with an embarrassing clatter, and I sink lower in my chair.

  “What about the marriage settlements?” he demands.

  “Your father?” Georgie mouths.

  I cannot even bring myself to nod in agreement.