Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  Diving down, I remove his other boot.

  Calling upon every ounce of ferocity within me, I clasp his arm and pull him toward the surface, showing him how to stroke smoothly and pull through the water. Fighting tide and fear and weakness, we surge upward. Despite his wounds, Kinsworth cups his hands and paddles with me.

  There is a rhythm to swimming. A beat with which to match our hearts. I show him the whip-like kick that cuts through currents. It is no different than a jig. Kinsworth is a quick study. The fact that he looks at my legs appreciatively gives me hope.

  Together we swim, and his music picks up speed joining mine in a strange symphony that only we can hear. The slosh, slosh, slap of the oars coming toward us, joins in, promising we will live.

  Ben’s glad music rings across the waves, and I wish he could hear how beautifully it mingles with all the songs of the sea.

  Perhaps he knows.

  Kinsworth is always full of surprises.

  “Here!” I shout to our friends. “We are here!”

  Alive.

  The Nightingale Sings

  Tess leans over the side of the rowboat and reaches down to pull me up from the water. It looks as if there might be a slight smile on her lips. Surely, I am mistaken. “Well done,” she says.

  “What?” I heard her, but Tess rarely grants approval, and I would dearly love to hear her say it again.

  Her scant smile vanishes. She has guessed my perfidy and yanks me onto the gunwale. “I didn’t think you could swim that well.”

  Seaweed is stuck in my hair. I am dripping like a watering pot, hanging halfway in the boat, my feet still dangling in the sea, but I look up at her and grin. “I couldn’t. Not until today.”

  Lord Harston shakes his head. “Extraordinary,” he mutters as he helps Kinsworth into the boat.

  Despite my sloshing into the hull with all the grace of a giant soaking-wet mackerel, Sera grabs me up and grips me in a fierce hug. “I was afraid you’d drowned.” She pulls back, her eyes watering, still clutching my shoulders as if she might never let go. “How did you do it? How did you find him, and get him to us? It looked as if he couldn’t swim at all.”

  “Couldn’t.” Kinsworth coughs up saltwater. “She taught me.” He blurts before heaving even more intensely.

  The rest of them gape at me as if I suddenly turned into a mythical mermaid.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” I’m not magic. “He must’ve had some knowledge, or he never would have dived in.”

  “No, Miss Barring—” Ben shakes his head and lunges to wretch over the side of the boat.

  “You’re delirious.” I turn to Tess and Sera and smile as if they, too, realize such a thing is impossible. But they are still squinting at me, so I busy myself with wringing out sections of my sodden ballgown. “He is imagining things.”

  “No.” Kinsworth wipes his mouth and leans wearily on the gunwale. “Never been in water deeper than my bath.”

  Lord Harston shakes his head. “You’re pale as Caesar’s ghost and bleeding quite badly, my boy.” He bends solicitously over his nephew, patting Kinsworth’s back as Ben coughs up more water. “Judging by the sound of your lungs, you nearly drowned.” Harston thumps Ben’s back with a tinge of irritation. “If you couldn’t swim, I’d jolly well like to know what were you thinking, jumping overboard like that?”

  Even though I had wondered the same thing earlier, it now seems such a needless question. Wishing I could spare Ben from having to respond, I smooth my hand over his arm, humming softly, letting him know I treasure the answer.

  Lord Harston glances at me, and comprehension quiets his irritation. “Never mind,” he grouses good-naturedly and hands his nephew a rather wet handkerchief with which to wipe his mouth.

  Kinsworth’s hair hangs over his face, dripping, and I cannot see his expression until he looks up at his uncle and grins roguishly. “I thought—” He pauses to sputter out more water. “I thought, how hard could it be? Swimming.”

  Harston laughs and shakes his head. “Guess you know the answer now.”

  “At least, he’s alive.” Tess has seated herself on one of the rowing thwarts. “Lady Daneska is barely breathing. We need to get both of them to a doctor. Lord Harston, if you help me row, we’ll get to shore faster. But first, we have to get close enough to the Mary Isabella to advise Captain Grey to chase Napoleon and retrieve Prince George.”

  “Right!” Harston leaves Kinsworth’s care to me and puts in the second set of oars. He and Tess speed us toward Alexander’s warship.

  As soon as we are within shouting distance, Sera leaves off attending to Lady Daneska, stands, and waves both arms. “Captain!” she yells and points at Napoleon’s ship in the distance. But instead of giving chase, the Mary Isabella chug-chugs straight toward us and pulls alongside.

  It surprises me to see Mr. Chadwick aboard. A quick glance at Sera’s reddening cheeks and I know she is equally taken aback. He casts out mooring line, which Lord Harston catches and quickly draws in until the two crafts knock against each other.

  Lord Wyatt sets his foot on our gunwale to steady the rocking and appraises our drenched attire. “Looks like you had a close call.” He leans forward and frowns at the slash marks on Lord Kinsworth and the wash of new blood spreading rapidly across Ben’s wet shirt. “What in blazes happened to you?”

  “He fought off Ghost and several of Ghost’s men,” I answer while trying to stop the blood using his soaked shirt. “That’s what happened.”

  “They outnumbered us, I’m afraid.” Lord Harston’s shirt is torn, and he, too, bears at least a dozen cuts and bruises. “Upshot is—they’ve abducted Prince George.”

  “Abducted by Ghost?” Captain Grey turns the ship’s wheel over to Alexander. “What happened?”

  “Napoleon and the Prince were aboard that ship.” Sera points. “That’s why I signaled for you to stop firing.”

  “Yes, we saw you and averted our aim. Well done.” The Captain grants Sera a quick nod of approval. “But how did they get Prince George aboard a French warship in the first place?” Captain Grey is one of my favorite people. Even upon hearing this dire news, news that will shake England to its very foundation, he remains as steady and reliable as clockwork.

  Lord Harston stares at the rope in his hand, toying with it nervously. “You knew Prince George was arranging a secret meeting with Napoleon. This was that meeting.”

  Lord Wyatt winces. “Never say he agreed to a meeting with Bonaparte at sea? On the enemy’s ship? Has he run mad?”

  “We tried to prevent him.” Lord Harston bristles. “He would not hear it.”

  Captain Grey remains silent and rubs his chin. Mr. Chadwick inhales deeply and turns his gaze up to the last few stars still twinkling in the dawn sky.

  Mr. Sinclair leans on the wheel and scratches at his forehead. “Whose brilliant idea was it?”

  “They cooked it up between themselves.” Lord Harston takes a deep breath and faces them squarely. “As I said, Prince George could not be persuaded to do otherwise. Believe me, we tried.”

  “Confound it!” Lord Wyatt jangles with frustration. “Not even you, Maya? You couldn’t make him change his mind?”

  “I was not given the opportunity. Even had I been, Napoleon promised your Regent a great many enticements. I doubt I could’ve succeeded against such irresistible temptations.”

  “Except she did succeed!” Sera rushes to my defense. “In part. Maya kept our Regent from signing the Emperor’s accord—an accord that would’ve put Britain under Napoleon’s thumb. She stopped him. That’s when Ghost came out of nowhere and attacked us.”

  “There was an accord?” Captain Grey keys in on the salient point.

  “Yes,” she says. “And we stole it.”

  “You did?” Lord Harston looks at her, a flute of hope whistling through him, and he doesn’t take a breath until she nods. “Thank God! That’s proof.” He sags with relief and then straightens with worry again. “Except the pape
rs got wet when you jumped, didn’t they? The ink will run, but maybe some of it will still be legible.”

  “I have them—dry and safe.” Tess pats her midsection, where she hid the papers inside her blouse.

  “Brilliant.” Lord Wyatt salutes her.

  “I’ll take them to Miss Stranje.” Tess sits on the thwart, the oars poised in her hands. “But for now, Napoleon has Prince George, and you need to go after him.”

  “There’ll be a fight.” Lord Kinsworth pushes up and stumbles wearily toward the steamboat. “You’ll need me with you.”

  “Hold up, Kinsworth.” Lord Wyatt holds up his hand. “You don’t look well.”

  “Fit as a fiddle. Prince George was my—” Ben labors to draw in enough breath to speak. “My responsibility. I will see this through.”

  Captain Grey eyes him skeptically. “Admirable notion, lad, but given your present state—”

  “Ben!” I lurch to my feet as Lord Kinsworth knees buckle, and he collapses beside the gunwale.

  Lord Harston catches his nephew mid-fall. “Not so. Prince George was—is my responsibility.” He strains under Ben’s weight, holding him until I settle in the hull and he eases Kinsworth into my waiting arms. “Take care of him, lass.”

  “With my life,” I murmur.

  Lord Harston nods and rises. “Captain Grey, I would very much like to come with you. If one of your men would be so good as to make certain these young ladies make it to safety?”

  “Go!” Tess blows an irritated trumpet of air through her lips. “We can see to ourselves.”

  “Chadwick!” Captain Grey ignores her and gestures to his newest recruit. “If you would assist with their rowing.”

  Sera is leaning over checking Daneska’s pulse, but when Captain Grey calls Mr. Chadwick’s name, she straightens as if someone fired a rifle.

  “Certainly, sir.” Mr. Chadwick climbs into our wobbly rowboat, and Lord Harston steps out, taking the mooring line with him.

  “Godspeed, ladies.” Captain Grey pulls out his spyglass and sights it on Napoleon’s sloop. “Wyatt, throw an extra log on the fire. Sinclair set our course south by southeast. We have an Emperor to catch.”

  With that, the Mary Isabella churns past us. Spray from the paddlewheel flings a fine mist of seawater over us. Mr. Chadwick whips off his coat and wraps it carefully over Sera’s shoulders, and I shield Kinsworth. His breathing is regular but shallow. I hum, hiding my worries from the tune.

  Sera stares after Mr. Chadwick, red-faced, fidgeting nervously with his coat sleeve, ringing with confusion, and yet, she also chimes with a few delicate bells of excitement.

  He takes his place on the bench in front of Tess. “Heave ho, Miss Aubreyson. Heave ho!”

  Tess smiles. A rare occurrence for her. “Finally,” she mutters. “A man who doesn’t treat me like I’m some sort of wilting lily.” Her oars splash into the water. “Heave ho, yourself, Mr. Chadwick. And do try to put some back into it.”

  He does.

  He puts a surprising amount of muscle into it, especially for someone whom I had considered to be primarily a scholar. Soon, we are crashing through the waves, fairly flying toward Brighton.

  I apply pressure to slow the bleeding on one of the largest of the gashes across Kinsworth’s chest, but all I have is this miserable wet cloth. It is a losing battle. Suddenly, he groans, and he starts to shake.

  “Wake-up.” I pat his cheek. “Wake-up, Ben.” But he doesn’t wake up. He is far too pale, and the quaking is too violent. “Oh-no, this is not good. No good at all.”

  Sera turns from attending Daneska, takes one look at Kinsworth and worry tramples through her like the clatter of too many running feet. “He must’ve lost a great deal of blood.”

  I cannot listen to the sound of worry-feet right now. Calm, I must stay calm. “Yes, I’m trying to staunch it, but it is nearly impossible without a proper bandage. And now I’m worried he might be developing wound shock.”

  “This might help.” Sera tears a long strip of muslin from Daneska’s underskirt. “At least it’s moderately dry. How is his breathing?”

  “Steady enough. It is his shivering that worries me.” I fold the cloth into a thick pad and wrap the rest of it across his wound to hold it in place. Brushing wet hair away from his forehead I gauge the temperature of his skin. “Cold. Clammy. But at least, there’s no fever.”

  Not yet.

  “Here.” She hands me Mr. Chadwick’s coat. “Take it.”

  “But you—”

  “He needs it more.”

  I cover him with the coat and inch him higher, moving him farther from the dampness in the bottom of the boat. “Live,” I whisper in his ear. “Live and be well.” Folding my arms around him, I hold Ben close, hoping to lend him whatever warmth I have left. I don’t know what else I can do for him, except sing.

  So, I do.

  The song is nothing—certainly not magic. I am, after all, only a nightingale. This is a soft simple tune, a gently murmured lullaby, that speaks of peaceful breezes and soothing sands. If there is love laced through the melody, he deserves every note. If there is hope hidden in the harmony, well, that is a gift from far beyond my lips—a gift for both of us.

  A half-hour passes, and when the rising sun turns the sea to molten gold, it is not Kinsworth, but Lady Daneska, who stirs. Sera strokes our enemy’s hand reassuringly. “You are safe, Daneska. Among friends. Rest. When we get ashore, we’ll fetch a doctor for you.”

  “Friends?” Daneska mutters a string of what sounds like acerbic oaths in her native language. Clearly, she believes she is neither safe nor among friends.

  Kinsworth’s shaking lessens. He shifts restlessly, uttering incoherent murmurs of pain. I resume singing, and he rouses a bit more. His groans cease, and he turns his head, adjusting his position so that his ear rests against my chest. “Maya?” he says drowsily.

  “I am here.”

  “Mmm,” He breathes. “I hear your heart.”

  He will live.

  “Of course, you do.” I smile with relief.

  “No,” His eyes flutter open, and he blinks at me as if I have completely misunderstood his meaning. “I’ve always heard it.” He closes his eyes again with a satisfied half-smile playing on his mouth. “Your music.”

  Are these delirium ravings? Or—

  Suddenly it all makes sense. How his inner music was able to allude me. The way he could walk up behind me, and I wouldn’t hear. Why he always seems to know what I am feeling.

  I knew it!

  He can hear.

  “You scoundrel,” I say without proper force. “All this time, and you never told me.” I ought to be angry. Instead, I hold him closer and press my lips against the wet cherubic curls on his head. “We are almost to shore. As soon as we find a doctor for you, and the minute you are well enough, I am going to deliver a resounding peal over your annoyingly beautiful head—the sternest reprimand ever given. A scold, you shall never forget. Ever.”

  He smirks as if he is looking forward to it.

  The Horns of Safe Harbor

  Upon our return, Miss Stranje turns into a veritable field marshal. She employs multiple surgeons, the best in the region. At her behest, Dr. Meredith even travels all the way from London, but our headmistress supervises Lady Daneska and Lord Kinsworth’s care as if she is the queen of all medical knowledge and these men of science are merely her minions.

  And anyone would think Sera and I had just returned from the dead. She will not let either of us leave her sight. Straightway, she sends for our things and moves us out of the palace into her suite of rooms at the Ship Inn. I promise, if she thanks Tess one more time for saving our lives, I might explode.

  Truly, I might.

  After all, Sera and I did have a little something to do with our escape, and Tess was merely doing what a sister does—risking her life to rescue us. The same thing Miss Stranje would do without a second thought. That same thing any of us at Stranje House would do for one anot
her.

  * * *

  A day and a half later, Captain Grey tramps into our suite. I hear him greeting Miss Stranje and hurry out of the bedroom after changing the dressing on Lady Daneska’s wound. “Did you catch them?” I rush to ask.

  The Captain stands tall and straight, his inner clockwork as steady as always, except today his beat is somber, a little slower and sadder. “They caught the wind,” he shakes his head and scuffs the toe of his boot at the carpet slightly. “Disappeared in a fog along the coast. We weren’t sure if they turned north or south. Logically they would sail south toward Le Havre to take the Seine to Paris. We took that chance. It could be they dodged us somehow, or went north.”

  “Either way, we lost them.” He takes a deep breath, and Miss Stranje closes the distance between them.

  He takes her elbows in his hands and leans his forehead against hers. “We lost them, Emma. Gone. Searched up and down the French coast. Steamed as near as we dared to the Seine. By now, Boney will have Prince George locked away in Paris, holding him hostage.”

  “You know what this means . . .” He straightens, backs away from her, and I have never seen him look so much like a lost young man—not our Captain. Not the man upon whom we all rely. “This blasted war is going to get worse. Much worse.”

  Much bloodier.

  At least, I think, having captured the Prince Regent, Ghost will be appeased for the moment, and he won’t be catapulting plague into Britain.

  “We don’t know that it will get worse.” Miss Stranje squares her shoulders and reaches up to cup his cheek in her hand. “You’ll send out men to rescue him. That’s how you found Alexander. And Lord Wyatt. We thought we’d never get Sebastian back, remember. And yet, you did.”

  Captain Grey doesn’t look convinced, so she presses the point. “You will find Prince George. You’ll stop Napoleon. Surely, you will. And we can help. There is still the possibility Lady Daneska will recover. . .” She glances in my direction, the question ringing in every syllable.

  “Yes.” I nod. “She has a strong constitution. Her fever broke early this morning, and that was the doctor’s primary concern.”