Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  Miss Stranje’s reply is too calm and melodic to hear through the doors. My father’s retort is not calm, not calm at all. “I’m well aware of the fact that I signed your ruddy contract. Contract or no, I’m her father!” Every word seems to blast through the house and shake me to the bone. “Lord Kinsworth ought to have applied to me! Not to you. You’re nothing but her headmistress.”

  Nothing but my headmistress?

  How can he say such a hurtful thing? The woman has been my salvation in this country. She welcomed me. Gave me hope, where I had none.

  I feel my cheeks flame red, and I want to crawl under the table and hide. Sera reaches for my shoulder, but my shame makes even her gentle touch scorch. I pull away covering my mouth as if that might somehow shield me from his embarrassing words.

  “No dowry?” My father is practically roaring. “Why would you tell him such a thing? I will provide a dowry for my daughter. To suggest otherwise is an insult.”

  Miss Stranje says something I cannot hear.

  “Of course, I remember your terms.” He is still loud but at least speaking in a more civil tone. “Yes. Yes! All right. No, I don’t wish to drag the matter into court.”

  Their voices lower. I cannot help myself, I stand, and like a sleepwalker, I stagger from the dining table, toward the agitated hum of voices. Except my feet refuse to move any closer than the hallway.

  Lord Barrington flings open the parlor door and stalks across the foyer, shoes clicking, crisp and slick with the shiny polish of an English gentleman. He brusquely demands, “My hat.”

  Mr. Peterson scurries to obey.

  “Papa?” My voice humiliates me with its limp weakness.

  He whips around, takes two forceful strides in my direction, and stops, irritation ricocheting off him in peppery gunshots. “And you, Maya, this engagement is acceptable to you?”

  Is he asking me if I want to marry Lord Kinsworth?

  Or is he wondering if I find the financial terms suitable?

  How do I answer? The truth is a hundred miles from either question.

  He grows impatient with my hesitation. “Does it please you? Yes, or no.”

  I blink, wanting to say a thousand things. I want to pour out the truth. But he has no time for the truth. Or me. I stare at the cold veined marble floor, listening, seeking steady songs of stone and earth to bring me peace, to give me comfort. But the marble is as foreign and lost here in this place as I am.

  “Maya?” His voice is softer now, and it seems to echo with the same vibrations as does the marble, and my own lost heart. I look up. Are you lost, too, Papa?

  I must be brave.

  For both of our sakes, I must be the lion.

  I find my tongue again, searching his face and soul for the papa I used to know. The man who used to laugh and throw me high into the air. “Yes,” I say with the gentleness of a marigold, the little sun lion. Still, I listen, ever hoping to hear an inkling of the father I used to know. “Yes, it pleases me.”

  Now, it is he who blinks. His shoulders bow slightly. He takes a deep breath and presses his lips together. Once again, I hear that strange woeful music, the same plaintive tune I heard at the ball. “Very well. This has all happened rather suddenly. I hadn’t expected it. . . not so soon.”

  He accepts his hat from Mr. Peterson and smooths his fingers around the brim before slapping it on his head. “My felicitations.”

  Felicitations?

  He wishes me happiness—the man who has withheld it for ten aching years. I choke back a lump of disappointment. “Thank you, Papa.” I say very properly, as if he is a stranger, an English stranger. And the words nearly strangle me.

  He swallows hard and rushes away, dragging a mournful cry in his wake. A cry that only I can hear.

  Pick A Patch of Pretty Poison

  Seven days later, Sera and I are bouncing along in a coach bound for Brighton. We are in a caravan of sorts, the Prince’s entourage, three carriages, and a dray filled with His Highness’s necessities.

  Lord Kinsworth and Lord Harston accompany us, but they ride alongside the coach for the time being. Our bandboxes and luggage sit on the seat and floor beside us. The top of the coach is stacked high with luggage belonging to several other guests. The road is long, bumpy, and with every passing mile my confidence in this inane plan shrinks.

  “I don’t see how this can work. How can I possibly influence either of these men?” The windows are open, so I speak softly, only loud enough for Sera to hear.

  She is struggling with traveling sickness and stares steadily out the window to steady herself. “It is a great deal to ask of you.”

  At that, I almost laugh. “A great deal? It is an impossibility. I have no idea why Lady Daneska thinks I can influence the Prince. Nor why the rest of you think I can sway Napoleon, which is even more outlandish.”

  “Not really. We’ve seen your powers of persuasion at work.” She looks positively green but straightens and fans dust away from her mouth.

  I hand her a corked bottle of ginger and lemon water. “Here, drink some of this.” “You’ve seen me use my voice to persuade guards, maids, cooks—people of far less intellect than the Emperor of France, or the Prince of England.”

  “Not so.” Sera starts to shake her head but stops and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “We’ve seen you influence entire audiences, and Prince George was among them, along with several admirals, dukes, and key members of Parliament.”

  “That was different. Singing provides me with certain advantages.”

  She swallows a swig of lemon water, and her normally solemn lips spread in what almost appears to be a smile. “If that is so, perhaps you should sing for Napoleon.”

  I wave her jest away.

  She leans forward, somber and earnest again. “Maya, there have been times when you’ve used your gift on those of us at Stranje House.” She grasps the seat as we bounce over a rut in the road. “Are you saying we’re of low intellect?”

  “No! I never used it on any of you unless you were agreeable—willing to cooperate.”

  “You used it on Lady Daneska, and she is never cooperative.”

  I sigh. “Perhaps.”

  “And Lady Daneska has an exceptionally sharp intellect.”

  “Yes, and a sharp knife as well.” I rub my arm where the cut Daneska gave me is beginning to heal. “I have not always succeeded with her.”

  Sera sits back, nervously drumming her fingers on her knee. “If you have doubts, perhaps we ought to consider an alternative solution.”

  “An alternative?” I squint at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t have Lady Jane’s gift for strategizing, but it seems to me if our objective is to keep Prince George from conceding to Napoleon, there might be other ways to achieve that end.”

  She has a point. I’ve been pinning myself to the situation instead of taking the broader view and looking for another way around the problem. “Why didn’t you say something when we were planning all this with Miss Stranje?”

  She glances at the floorboards for a moment. “I thought you were amenable to the task at hand.”

  “Amenable?” I gape at her. “How can you say so? I was forced into it.”

  “Were you?” She refuses to look at me and returns to gazing out the window. “Even the engagement?”

  “Yes!” I cross my arms, irritated that she should suggest I wanted to go along with this outrageous scheme. “Most assuredly.”

  “I saw signs indicating you felt otherwise.” She peeks sideways at me. “For instance, your obvious attraction to Lord Kinsworth.”

  “Obvious. How?”

  She hesitates, hiding for a moment, but then she takes a breath and surprises me with her directness. “Very well, since it is just you and me, I will tell you. There are other symptoms, things I find it difficult to explain. Suffice it to say, the colors that normally surround you change when he approaches. But I have more solid evidence. In his presence your pupils widen, yo
ur cheeks flush, your voice changes tenor, and the fingers of your left hand flutter ever so slightly, almost as if you are playing a harp or counting the time musically-speaking.”

  “My fingers?” I clutch the offending appendages. “They do not.”

  She shrugs.

  I sit back and glance out the window at him, worried he might have overheard her. Except Sera’s voice is feather-soft. It could not possibly have carried over the clatter of our coach.

  Lord Kinsworth does sit very fine atop his horse.

  Oh, dog’s breath!

  She is right. My fingers twitched.

  This farcical engagement has muddled my thinking. Tantalized me. Lured me into this dangerous and insanely impossible situation. All in the vain hope of finding out what it might feel like if such a relationship were possible.

  I open my mouth to deny her allegation, except I haven’t the heart to try to deceive her. It would be useless anyway. Sera always knows when I am lying.

  She watches me, tapping her pointer finger atop one of the bandboxes stacked beside her.

  “All right,” I say, admitting defeat. “I see your point.”

  “That wasn’t the only reason.” She sits a little taller, her inward music playing a little more bravely. “I considered Lady Daneska’s offer to be a powerful incentive. Even if you fail to persuade Napoleon on our behalf, she might assume you did as she bade. In that event, it is possible she might actually provide you with passage home to India. Should Napoleon win, I daresay she won’t want you remaining in England or France and becoming one of his favorites.”

  “Phfft.” I spurt indignantly. “I would never become one of his favorites. He’s a horrible tyrant. Not to mention, if Lady Daneska thought I threatened her position, she would be far more inclined to cut my throat rather than pay for my very expensive six-month voyage back to India.”

  “True enough.” Sera stares thoughtfully out the window. “It seems your life is at risk no matter the outcome of Prince George’s meeting with Napoleon. And if Napoleon doesn’t get what he wants I daresay Ghost will see to it all of us suffer.”

  The plague.

  “Exactly.” I try to swallow, but dust and the thought of plague clog my throat. We travel on in an unspoken cacophony, wheels thumping and kicking up gravel, the jangle of horse harnesses, and the coach creaking and swaying to the rhythm of my future demise.

  A half-hour passes, and I can take this dreariness no longer. “You mentioned an alternative solution?”

  She nods and chews the corner of her lip before answering. “Except there was another reason I didn’t say anything sooner.”

  “And that is?”

  “I cannot see another way around the problem.”

  “Neither can I.” Still bound on a journey to my grave, I prop my elbow on the window and watch Lord Kinsworth ride his horse. He does not look as if my set down the other day quelled his spirit one wit. In point of fact, he seems positively jubilant. I can almost hear his music prancing as boldly as his horse. He glances in my direction and with a cheeky wink, tips his hat to me. The rogue.

  Sera sighs. “You’re lucky. He’s a fine-looking gentleman. I see why so many debutantes preen and giggle when he enters the ballroom. He’s strong, broad-shouldered, has a sturdy jaw—”

  “A sturdy jaw?” I glare out the window at Lord Kinsworth. “A stubborn willful jaw, you mean.”

  “If you say so. Is he willful? He seems to have a rather pleasant countenance. Playful, I would say, always on the verge of a smile.”

  “Or a smirk.” I frown at her. “You seem to have studied him quite carefully.”

  She shrugs. “I study everyone carefully. That is why you brought me along, remember?”

  “Yes.” An exasperated puff of air passes through my lips. “But I’m not lucky. You know as well as I do, my relationship with Lord Kinsworth is all an act.”

  “Is it?” And now she smirks—Miss Seraphina Wyndham, a young lady who does not have a smirky bone in her body. She twists her lips as if she is holding back a private joke.

  “Yes! It is an act—all of it. A complete farce.” I breathe out my irritation and turn away, watching Lord Kinsworth rein in his horse, a large spirited blood-red mare fond of rearing or kicking up her heels when her rider tries to hold her to a pace she does not like. The ornery horse bucks, but Kinsworth maintains his seat and pats the animal’s sleek red neck, using soothing tones to coax her into cooperating. Soon he has sweet-talked the bay into a pleasant canter, and they disappear from view. Typical. He charms even his horse.

  If only my problems could be so easily resolved. I turn back to the black interior of our coach, considering Sera’s suggestion that there might be another way around our problem. “What if Prince George were unable to attend the meeting?”

  “Unable?” She perks up. “Why? How?”

  “I don’t know—suppose he could not travel to the meeting place. What if all of his horses were to go lame?”

  “All of his horses?” Sera’s eyes widen as if I’ve lost my mind. “That could be dozens, or more. What are the chances that all of his horses would go lame? Even if they did, to bring England into his clutches, Napoleon would be willing to come to him.”

  “Drat. Bonaparte would, wouldn’t he.” I trace my finger over the black leather of our seat, thinking, stewing, and lacking even a morsel of an idea. Out of pure frustration, I blurt, “What if the Prince were kidnapped?”

  “Maya!” Her eyes widen, and she leans close to whisper, “You mustn’t even suggest such a thing. Kidnapping a ruler of England is a hanging offense.” She shakes her head. “No, no, I take it back. It would be a drawn-and-quartered, head-on-a-spike sort of offense. Far too risky. Out of the question.”

  “Nonsense. Everything we do is a risk.” I wave away her objection, but offer a new proposition. “Perhaps our dear Prince could merely be waylaid somehow.”

  “Waylaid?” She sniffs skeptically and retreats, sinking back into the bandboxes and luggage surrounding us as if she is afraid talking to me is too dangerous. “How?”

  It is difficult to suppress the desperation I feel, but I fight to keep my voice calm and soothing. “There must be a hundred ways.”

  “A hundred,” she mutters.

  “Well, at least, dozens.” I smile with a confidence I don’t feel. “All we need is one. Only one. Surely, we can think of one useful stratagem.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, when the Prince and his entourage stop at a coaching inn, neither of us have thought of one single solitary satisfactory plan.

  We follow the others into the inn for tea and a bit of refreshment. The moment I step into the inn, I am overwhelmed. The building is packed with so many strangers, too many sounds and smells. We make our way through the crowded public rooms, to the back of the building. The Prince rented two private parlors, one for himself and his attendants, and the other for the rest of us. Our private parlor is not much better than the common rooms. We are a large company of travelers, and the room is hot and stuffy despite the luxury of having a window.

  I sit at the long trestle table, but the noise is too much, and my head throbs. I rise abruptly and explain to Sera, “I should like to take a walk.”

  Both she and Lord Kinsworth spring up, ready to accompany me. “No, no,” I wave them away. “I shall be quite all right on my own. Stay. Enjoy the bread and stew. I need to walk in the fresh air to clear my head.”

  Neither of them looks convinced.

  “Please, I need a moment or two of quiet.” I point out the window at the roses and hollyhocks blooming outside. “I shall take a turn around the garden and come back in short order. You will be able to see me quite clearly from your table.”

  “As you wish.” Sera reluctantly sits back down and sends me a suspicious frown, as if she thinks I might try running away.

  Even though the idea of escaping has a strong appeal, I do my best to reassure her. “I promise to return in a few minutes.” Sera nod
s, and reluctantly resumes her place on the bench, staring down at her bowl of mutton stew.

  Lord Kinsworth accompanies me to the door. “I shall join you shortly.”

  I hurry to dismiss his offer. “No need.”

  He leans close and tickles my ear with a whisper. “Must keep up appearances.” He straightens and bestows a conspiratorial grin upon me. “Besides, I need to walk off my sore muscles. Rosy has been giving me a beating.”

  “Rosy?”

  “My horse.” He pats his thighs to indicate the pain.

  “Oh.” I should not have looked at his legs. It is a most unladylike thing to gawp at a man’s leg muscles, even if a gentleman is rude enough to discuss them and point them out. It happens before I catch my error. Instantly, my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. I quickly turn away and inspect the door frame. Well, that is a silly thing to do. So, I gaze across the room, to where his uncle is flirting with Lady Devonshire. Then I peer at a platter of cheese and nuts on the side table. I look at anything except him and his knowing grin. Even in this noisy room I can hear his inner music rippling with laughter.

  I turn to flee, but he reaches for my hand. “Here, take this. You’ll be hungry otherwise.” He presses a warm scone into my palm. I accept it and hurry from the room, rush into the hallway, and leave through a side door, scurrying down the steps until my feet finally touch the earth. The air is warm but not nearly as stifling as London this time of year.

  I breathe in deep, and a gentle wind blesses my face with cooling flute-like fingers. The trees call to me with their creaky ancient songs. And so, I walk in that direction, listening to the flowers and rows of cabbages, corn, and potatoes, all murmuring blissfully in the garden. Bugs and bees and butterflies twirl by me singing busy little tunes.

  This is freedom—if only for a moment.

  Freedom from the dark failure looming ahead of me. I glance over my shoulder at the inn. Lord Kinsworth is watching me from the window. I suppose I felt him watching me long before I turned and saw him standing there, following me with his gaze. I nibble at the buttery scone he gave me, breaking off a morsel and savoring it until the sweetness melts away in my mouth.