Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  Sera wordlessly sinks onto the chair beside me and leans her head on my shoulder. We both fit comfortably on the one seat. She is so small. So fragile. It feels as if we are both helpless children. Then, I remember Sera is brilliant. Her gifts far surpass any of the rest of our talents. She may be small, but the force of her acumen makes up for it.

  And I may be the nightingale, armed with only a song, but at heart, I am also a lioness. God willing, we shall prevail. Straightening from my fearful slump, I pat her knee and say, “Come, we must take word to Miss Stranje and the others.”

  She looks up at me, as a little sister would. I do not deserve such admiration. I stand and brush out my skirts, precisely the way Miss Stranje does. “It will do us good to see our friends.”

  She brightens, and we quickly don our pelisses. Cloaked, armed, and ready for the out of doors, we slip quietly out of the palace, carefully avoiding notice. Miss Stranje had given us the address of her lodgings. We take the long way down North Street to Black Lion Street, purposely avoiding Parade or Marlboro Street where members of society might be walking. The day is cloudy but fine, the air crisp, and I find the cry of seabirds oddly comforting.

  Until then, Sera and I had walked in silence, but she startles me by saying wistfully, “I miss Stranje House, too.”

  How did she know?

  At my missed step, she glances at me with some annoyance. “Honestly, Maya, must you always look so surprised? I saw you watching the gulls circling above us, the same way you do at Stranje House.” She loops her arm through mine. “You do realize, don’t you, your face is an open book? Anyone would’ve noticed your nostalgia.”

  “I was not being nostalgic. Nothing so maudlin.” I bristle a bit, knowing she can so easily guess my mood. But I let her keep tugging me along because Sera is the most good-natured person I know. “I simply find their cries reassuring. That’s all.”

  “Oh, I see.” She smiles. “Is that because you had seagulls in your homeland?”

  River birds, yes, but not many seagulls that far inland. “Oh, very well. I do miss Stranje House,” I admit with a sigh. “The seagulls would fish early in the morning, while I meditated, and I suppose I grew accustomed to the sound.”

  “Ah. There, you see? Perfectly logical.”

  “I suppose.”

  We come to a standstill in front of the New Ship Inn, both of us staring at the imposing white façade. “This must be the place.”

  A footman opens the door for us, and we enter through the columns into what resembles a very elegant, but spacious captain’s compartment of a ship. The walls are oak-paneled and set off with gleaming brass sconces. The long-nosed innkeeper directs us to Miss Stranje’s apartments. He informs us that they are residing on the third floor, in one of the eight exclusive apartments overlooking the sea. As soon as we are out of public view, we scurry up the staircase like excited children eager to see our friends.

  The door to their suite opens, and we are met with exclamations of joy and a flurry of hugs. It is as if we have been parted for weeks rather than days. Georgie and Lady Jane ply us with a thousand questions.

  Before we can answer, Miss Stranje raises her hand. “Ladies! We would’ve seen Miss Barrington and Miss Wyndham later tonight at the Prince’s festivities. It should be obvious to you they would not be here at this hour of the day if they had not come bearing urgent news.”

  “True!” Sera blurts. “Lady Daneska paid us a visit. This very morning, after we returned from attending the Prince, she was waiting inside our bedchamber.”

  “Did she hurt you?” Tess pushes forward, looking at us closely for telltale marks or cuts.

  “No,” Sera assures her, not mentioning the small nick she had sustained. “She threatened us, but no.”

  I wave away the rest of their questions. “We’ve come with more serious news. We learned from the Prince himself, the meeting with Napoleon is to take place, not in two or three weeks as we’d thought, but in two days.”

  Two days.

  They fall back, stricken.

  Lady Jane huffs out her frustration. “Two days. That’s not enough time.” She turns to Miss Stranje, and I surmise from her singular consternation that Lady Jane is also aware of Alexander and Captain Grey’s plan to intercept Napoleon with the new steam-powered warship.

  Miss Stranje’s brow remains furrowed. She reveals nothing, but asks me, “You said you attended Prince George, for what reason?”

  I back away, not wishing to tell her about my treachery. Sera speaks up for us both. “He is suffering from a severe case of dropsy. Maya made a tea for him from an herb she found in the woods near one of the coaching inns. It . . .” She looks to me, not wishing to divulge the fact that I concocted a somewhat poison tea.

  I cannot look directly at our headmistress. I tip up on my toes, straining to see Madame Cho’s face. She stands quietly behind everyone else, watching me as if she already suspects the truth. “This tea,” Madame Cho says. “It may not relieve his discomfort?”

  I look down and nod.

  “I see.” Miss Stranje stiffens. “Is there a chance it might make him worse?”

  “Possibly.” I glance up, hoping for absolution, but she does not give it.

  Our headmistress frowns. Gargoyles are friendlier looking than she is when she glowers. She exhales loudly and studies an oil painting on the far wall. Anyone might think those two ships engaged in some unknown battle are of more importance. “Tell me it is not . . .” She turns her sharp-eyed stare on me, the one that makes me feel like a mouse kneeling before an owl. “Tell me the concoction you gave him will not make him permanently ill.”

  Did I give him a lethal dose of poison?

  “It won’t. It shouldn’t. I was careful.” I look to Madame Cho. “But the herbs I used were from an unproven source. I measured twice and tried to evaluate the potency as well as I could.”

  Madame Cho purses her lips and grants me an almost imperceptible nod of understanding. Understanding—not approval. If I have killed the monarch of England, the blame will land squarely on my neck. Along with the executioner’s axe.

  Miss Stranje says nothing for a few seconds, massaging her brow as if I have given her a severe headache. “Of course, you were cautious. I would expect nothing less of you.” It does not sound as condemning as I had expected. Even so, a bell of worry clangs behind her shrewd eyes, ringing unmistakably beneath that rigidly restrained tone. “While this was not a decision I would’ve made, it may serve the purpose.” Instead of chastising me for taking such a dangerous risk, she turns to the others. “It may buy us a few extra days.” She holds up her hands, suppressing the other girls’ sudden brightening. “We need to plan for all contingencies. First, however, word must be sent to Captain Grey.”

  She shakes out her skirts and clasps her palms together. It is what she always does before donning her schoolteacher persona. “Georgiana, would you be so good as to compose a love note to Lord Wyatt?”

  Georgie’s eyes widen. “What? But isn’t that scandalous? How many times have you told us, only a young lady of low—”

  “Yes. I’m aware of what I have told you. This is an exception. Today, we must breach societal standards because it is exactly what the situation requires.” Miss Stranje holds up one finger. “Write something sentimental and scandalous. Something no young lady should write to anyone except her properly betrothed fiancé. Then, if you would be so good as to prepare your special ink so that I might write our actual message between the lines.”

  “Oh.” Georgie grasps our teacher’s strategy. “And afterward, shall I post it?”

  “No, the post would be delayed too long.” Miss Stranje reaches for her purse. “There are any number of runners for hire at the Old Ship Tavern next door. Give the missive to a capable runner specifying Lord Wyatt’s direction along with these coins. Be sure to hire a man with a horse.” She drops two shillings into Georgie’s palm. “We don’t want any delays.”

  Tess frowns. “Two
shillings? That’s too much.”

  “The point is to overpay. Tess, you will go with Miss Fitzwilliam to make sure she does not get into any difficulties. Do try and pretend to be girlish—giggle and titter as if you are up to no good.”

  “Giggle?” Tess grimaces as if she’s just been asked to muck out the stables.

  Miss Stranje rolls her eyes heavenward. “Yes. It shan’t kill you.”

  “Might,” Tess mutters.

  I remind Miss Stranje, “Lady Daneska’s men will be watching, I’m sure of it. She was very well-informed as to our movements.”

  “No doubt. She will have had you followed.” Miss Stranje focuses in on me like a swooping bird of prey. “Precisely why it must appear as if Miss Fitzwilliam is foolishly sneaking out to send a note to her lover.” Our teacher surveys all of us. “Much better, don’t you think, than having Lady Daneska’s spies believe I am sending a warning to Captain Grey. Which she will expect me to do, of course.”

  Lady Jane steps forward excitedly. “And you will, won’t you?”

  “Naturally. Except, I shall hire a more experienced runner, a runner suspected of being a spy, one of our men posted at Castle Tavern.”

  “Ah! Now I understand. Castle Tavern lies in the other direction from The Old Ship Tavern.” Lady Jane grins broadly. “Perfect.”

  “Why? Why is that perfect?” Tess demands. “Their spies are going to follow you both.”

  “Yes! That’s the beauty of it.” Lady Jane trumpets with delight. “This way, she splits up their pursuit.”

  Sera, her inner melodies much more sedate, turns her head sideways contemplating the scheme. “You expect both notes to be intercepted, do you not?”

  “I do.” Miss Stranje smiles approvingly at Sera. “Although, in my missive, I will use an invisible ink that is much easier to discover—lemon juice or something rudimentary. One pass over a candle, and they should be able to see the hidden text. Text that will lead them to believe we know far less than we do.”

  “Games. I hate games,” Tess mutters. “Give me a dagger and someone to fight. Anything is better than these blasted charades.”

  “These charades are intended to save lives, my dear.” Miss Stranje clasps Tess’s shoulder. “You and Georgiana should be seen sneaking out of our hotel shortly after I depart for Castle Tavern. Mind you, I want the two of you to make a hash of it. Do not be too clever. Be clumsily sneaky, but neither should you be too obvious.”

  She whirls to Sera and me. “You two will leave the hotel at the same time I do, but take a roundabout route back to the palace, choose a few back streets. Lead them on a merry chase.”

  “Brilliant.” Lady Jane rocks up on her toes. “Daneska’s spies will be forced to divide their efforts even further.”

  “Yes.” Miss Stranje does not share Jane’s enthusiasm. She sighs wearily. “Hopefully, after our misleading missive has fallen into enemy hands, this ruse will have thinned them out enough to give my runner a chance to escape after he is captured. I should not like to see a life taken unnecessarily.”

  “No.” Lady Jane’s exuberance crashes to a halt. Deflated, she drops into a nearby chair. “Nor should I. Daneska’s men can be so very brutal.”

  Her music darkens, and I know she must be remembering the night the Iron Crown captured her, that terrible night when Ghost and Daneska tied her to a chair and tortured her. I rest my hand on her shoulder in a feeble attempt to offer comfort. She smooths the sprigged muslin of her skirt, slowing her hand as she passes it over the scar on her thigh, a reminder she will always carry from that dreadful night.

  Georgie, deep in thought, raises a finger. “One point perplexes me. If both runners are captured, how will the real letter reach Lord Wyatt and Captain Grey?”

  “Ahh.” Rather than being annoyed, Miss Stranje seems pleased Georgie asked. This is one of the things I love about our headmistress—she encourages our questions. “If you and Tess play your part well, it is possible your runner may not even get waylaid. But should he be stopped and questioned, as soon as your letter is inspected, his assailants will most likely conclude the lad is innocent of any subterfuge. And in actuality, your man will be. In all likelihood, they will give him back your foolish sounding letter and allow him to go on his way. Don’t forget, whoever is following him will have witnessed you and Tess sneaking about like silly schoolgirls, tittering about your beaus. With any luck, your runner may avoid suspicion altogether.”

  “Quite possible.” Sera takes a deep breath. “Lady Daneska’s shrewdest men will already be trailing after Maya and me, or Miss Stranje.”

  True enough. The three of us will be the ones in danger. Miss Stranje glances at Sera and me, her lips press tight with worry. She says nothing, but her uneasiness hums as loud as a hive of wasps, and that says more than enough.

  Requiem for Spies

  It is late afternoon, everything is in place, and we are ready to execute Miss Stranje’s plan. Now, it is up to Sera and me to exit the inn and lead away at least one of Daneska’s spies. We follow Miss Stranje out and make a great show of bidding her farewell in front of The Ship. A breeze catches the wind and blasts over the cliffs. As I press my cheek against Miss Stranje’s, we are hit with a delicate mist of sea spray. “Be careful,” she whispers in my ear. “And watch over Sera.”

  Her words land on me like warming praise, but also a weighty burden. “I will,” I say, wishing she wouldn’t trust me so much. I do not deserve it, not when half of me feels like running away. If I had the wherewithal to buy passage back to India, I am afraid I might do it.

  But for now, I remain steadfast. No, not steadfast—I cannot claim such a virtue. But for now, at least my feet continue moving in the right direction. I have obligations here, obligations to my friends, and to my father’s country. Never mind if those obligations are perilous, one does not desert one’s friends.

  Rather than returning to the palace by way of Black Lion Street, Sera and I turn to the west and walk briskly toward Middle Street. Without a doubt, we are being followed. This is easily ascertained when we take a sudden turn, and the footsteps break from their quiet rhythm, hesitate, and then weave into step behind us. We test our theory two more times, and our follower maintains his pace.

  In keeping with our training, we must enter a building and try to identify our pursuer. The first establishment we find with the necessary features for the task is a narrow shop on North Street containing only one window—a window the spy trailing behind us will most certainly attempt to peek through. A placard on the door reads, J. Marchant, Private Writing Master. The interior is too small for our spy to risk following us inside.

  It is ideal for our purpose, maps and framed documents hang on the walls, counters are stacked with papers, handwriting samples, and booklets. The proprietor, a fusty old gentleman with an old-fashioned powdered wig, peers at us over his spectacles. Our presence is obviously an annoyance. I set my reticule on the counter. “We should like to purchase a map of Brighton.”

  He perks up. “You mean Brighthelmstone,” he corrects. “T’was the name of the original settlement.”

  “Yes, but I should prefer a modern rendering.”

  He smirks and hands me an exquisite etching of Brighton’s new streets and surrounds.

  “Oh, I see.” I bend over the map. Everything is labeled, even the New Ship Inn from which we have just come. “This is quite good.”

  “Yes,” he smiles fondly at the parchment, but then his nose lifts as if the etching is too fine for the likes of me. “And the cost is two shillings, miss.”

  “Two shillings? That is quite dear.” Having noted a shadow crossing his window, I cease dickering, purchase the map, and furtively slide the coins across the counter. With any luck, our spy will suspect we are exchanging a secret communication with the writing master.

  As we leave, I lean close to Sera and ask, “Did you get a look at the man following us?”

  She lengthens her stride. “No. His broad-brimmed hat shade
d his face, but there was something familiar about his stride.”

  “I thought so, too. He will likely check inside the shop before resuming his chase. Perhaps if we double back—”

  “My thoughts exactly.” She tugs me into the narrow gap between buildings, and we peer out from around the corner, watching the writing master’s shop. Waiting.

  A few moments later, a man emerges with his hat tugged low and his high collar coat obscuring his face. He hurries down the street in the same direction we had taken. We bide our time before slipping out to follow him, allowing him enough distance that he won’t notice us.

  At this juncture, I wish at least one of us had brought one of the clever parasols Miss Stranje provided for us. Lacey little sun-shades, each armed with a retractable blade in the tip. Before setting out on this venture, we decided against it, thinking the frilly concoction might be too easily spotted in the event we should need to evade someone. A decision I regret.

  But we are not wholly unarmed. Naturally, we always have our wits. And, of course, we each carry a pair of daggers strapped to our legs, hidden beneath our skirts.

  “Now.” Sera pulls me onto the street, and we follow our spy. He rushes ahead in a vain attempt to catch up with us. When he gets to the end of the cobbled road, he looks both ways, and doesn’t see us. His fists double in frustration. A moment passes before he turns right, which must mean he assumes we took North Street back to the palace. We follow at a distance. But when he rushes down North and doesn’t see us, he stops and stands for a moment rubbing his chin.

  We press into a doorway, watching. He reverses his direction, coming straight toward us. We are sunk—about to be discovered. Sera grips my hand as if it is a lifeline.

  His footsteps thud distinctively on the cobblestones. Any minute, he will pass by and we will be caught. Both of us hold our breath. I silently try to open the door latch behind us, but it is locked. I vow to pay attention next time Jane tries to teach me how to pick locks.