Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  “There. You see?” Miss Stranje exudes confidence. She is the anchor for all of us—our safe harbor. She primly folds her hands in front of her. “When she recovers—”

  “If,” he reminds her.

  “When.” She dismisses his nay-saying and presses on. “She may be of considerable help. Most likely she will have some idea where the Iron Crown would dare imprison Britain’s Prince Regent.”

  “Aye. She might.” He steps back, rubbing his neck. As Lady Jane would say, Captain Grey is not a man to bet on uncertainties. Whether or not Lady Daneska will live, and if she does, whether she will disclose any useful information about the Iron Crown, are two enormous uncertainties.

  “Keep me informed.” The Captain straightens, all soldier again. “But for now, I have come to you on an errand of sorts. Lord Harston rides to London tonight. He is charged with presenting a full account to Lord Castlereagh and the Cabinet by morning light. He will require that accord your young ladies procured.”

  “You mean the one they stole,” she says proudly, and glides to her desk to retrieve the sheaf of papers now neatly tucked in a leather satchel. “I trust you’ll send riders with him? These are the only proof we have as to what he and Napoleon conspired to do.”

  “Yes! Upon my life, yes. There will be riders, our best, and I will be accompanying him as well.” He says this with a wistful glance in her direction. “How is Lord Kinsworth faring?”

  “Oohhh,” she huffs, and numbers his sins on her fingers. “That young man will not follow the doctor’s orders and stay in bed. He has already torn out two stitches. Refuses leeches. Won’t eat his broth unless we provide him with bread and cheese to go with it. He is an absolutely dreadful patient. Dreadful! The young scoundrel harasses Miss Barrington to the point of distraction. I’ve half a mind to tie him down or run him through him myself. I daresay, by tomorrow he shall be nigh unto impossible.”

  “Ah, that is good news. Good news, indeed.” He winks at me and turns to go, but wheels back around. “I meant to tell you—young Chadwick handled himself commendably. I’m pleased you spoke to me on his behalf. He’s a clever lad, and will make an excellent addition to the foreign office.”

  “Too clever, at times.” She smiles wistfully. “I trust Lord Wyatt is well—you know, Miss Fitzwilliam will ask me.”

  “Aye.” He chuckles. “As much of a rascal as ever. He and Sinclair are returning the ship to London.” He checks his pocket watch. “They should be rounding the straits about now.”

  “Ah, I see. Generous of the Navy to permit you to take the prototype, considering the sum they paid for it.”

  “Hmm.” He scuffs at the carpet. “I wouldn’t exactly say they granted permission.”

  “Ethan!” Her tone holds a scold, but a wry smile twists her lips.

  “Pax.” He holds up both hands, warding her off. “I’ve no doubt they would have granted it if we’d had time to make the request. As soon as I got your message, we had to set out.”

  “Yes, well . . . and thank goodness, you did.” Miss Stranje lowers her head, shaking it slightly. “Your fires disrupted Ghost’s crew. I dare not think what might have happened to my girls if you had not arrived when you did.”

  Except she does think of it.

  A cacophony of crashing notes emanates from Miss Stranje. She casts a grief-stricken look in my direction, and in that brief moment, I learn what it must feel like to have a mother who would lay down her life to save her daughter.

  Captain Grey clasps her shoulder, and her music immediately resumes its harmony. “I will always heed your call, Emma. You know that, don’t you?” He lets go. “And now, may I ask how long you plan to remain in Brighton?”

  “A day or two, I should think. We will return to Stranje House as soon as Lady Daneska is able to travel.”

  “Very good.” He watches her face closely. How very peculiar. Captain Grey’s methodical clockwork skips a beat, stumbles, and transforms into a surprisingly musical jumble. He reaches for her hand. “It is difficult to know where Castlereagh will send us next.”

  “I assumed as much.” Her voice catches.

  He does not tell her he will miss her. Instead, he holds her fingers loosely, carefully, the way one would hold the most precious jewels in the kingdom, and takes a long last regretful look at her, mourning all the lost moments of their past and future. “Until we meet again.”

  Our brave stalwart headmistress does not answer. She tamps down a flood of wildly wishful flutes, and hides a thousand violins of would-be kisses behind a towering wall of dammed-up love for this man. All she can do is nod stiffly and try to smile.

  Does he know? I wonder. Can he hear her heart?

  Their parting hurts too much.

  I cannot bear it.

  I rush back into Daneska’s bedroom and close the door. “Life is too complicated,” I whisper. “How are we to love in such a confusing world?” I sit down beside my unconscious enemy, wishing she could hear. Wishing anyone could hear and teach me how to swim in these waters.

  * * *

  The next day, news of Prince George’s abduction spreads all over England. Runners descend on our little seaside town. Messengers ride like a horde of wasps into Brighton, knocking on doors, rousing citizens, carrying orders for admirals, lieutenants, and their underlings to report immediately to London.

  As if summer has abruptly come to an early close, Brighton’s streets fill with loaded drays and coaches piled high with luggage. Guests are fleeing the coast. Wives and daughters are being sent home to their country estates to hunker down in case of war and a possible invasion.

  We are not packing. Not yet. Lady Daneska is too ill to travel.

  Miss Stranje’s prediction that we would not be able to confine Lord Kinsworth to his bed proves accurate. He is up and restless today. She invites him to join us for a light repast at one o’clock in Ship’s dining room. Tess is off riding with Lord Ravencross and will not be joining us. Georgie and Lady Jane are here, but they have both been moping about because Lord Wyatt and Mr. Sinclair followed their orders, and sailed the steamship back to London.

  Lady Jane drearily drags a lone strawberry through the cream on her plate. “One would think they might’ve taken at least one day here in Brighton.”

  “Nonsense!” Miss Stranje scolds while slicing rye bread. “What’s more, I grow weary of these long faces.” She slows the knife and stares pointedly at Jane and Georgie. “We have enough weighty matters pressing upon us without you two mooning about like lovesick puppies. I won’t have it.” She plops the bread down on her plate and leans forward. “Bear in mind, ladies, it is easy to be pleasant when life is handing you sunshine and roses. How one conducts oneself amid conflict is the truest watermark of one’s character.”

  Lady Jane looks away sheepishly, but Georgie raises one finger. “But what if the war worsens—”

  “Tch!” Miss Stranje glares at her, holding the knife upright as if she might use it for more than cutting bread if Georgie persists. When her most quizzical student realizes her error and presses her lips tight, Miss Stranje continues sawing the rye. “To that end, I suggest the two of you join me this afternoon for a shopping spree.”

  “Shopping?” Georgie turns to Jane in amazement.

  “Ah, I see. So, this the sort of punishment you’re so famous for?” Lord Kinsworth dares to tease her.

  “Phfft.” She waves him away, slaps a piece of ham on her bread, and frowns at Jane and Georgie. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. It’s not a punishment. Given the turn of events, shops will be nearly empty. The merchants shall be at our mercy.” One eyebrow lifts diabolically. “It will be a fine test of your negotiating skills.”

  Given the somber chants arising from her own inner chorus lately, I suspect the shopping spree is as much for Miss Stranje’s benefit as it is theirs.

  “Miss Wyndham, I realize you do not care much for shopping, but if you would care to join us, you are welcome. Madame Cho will be sitting with Lady D
aneska this afternoon, so you needn’t feel you must stay indoors.” She looks up from cutting several slices of cheese. “Unless you had other plans?”

  “I, uh, that is to say . . .” Sera turns bright red. Sly as a fox our headmistress, she must know what Sera has already confided to me. “Mr. Chadwick asked if I might accompany him to the Marine Library. I meant to ask your permission, but Madame Cho said—”

  “Yes, yes. I know all about it. Of course, you may go.” She turns to me. “Miss Barrington, I am entrusting this young rascal into your care.” She points the knife at Lord Kinsworth. “He may take a light walk. Nothing strenuous. See that he does not overdo and tear out more of his stitches, if you please.”

  A gentleman strides into the dining room. One of our waiters tries to stop him, “But sir, if you will allow me to assist you—”

  “My lord,” the gentleman corrects the servant with an irritated tone. “Furthermore, I am quite capable of speaking to the lady without any assistance from you.”

  Spoon upraised, I freeze in place. I know that voice—the unmistakably familiar marching cadence.

  My father.

  “Papa.” I plunk down my spoon and stand.

  “Maya!” He whips off his hat and strides straight for me. “Thank heavens.” For one unbelievable moment, it seems as if he might wrap me up in a hug. Except he stops short, standing a foot and a half in front of me, staring. His eyes glisten with mist, the way things do after the morning fog lifts.

  I hear it then, a song I have not heard since I was a small child. In my country, there is a long neck lute, and its strings vibrate with joy, but there is a softly dissonant melancholy that reverberates in it, too. The song washes over me, his hidden melody, breaking my heart with its tenderness, and then Papa snaps shut the door to his soul.

  He turns on his heel and marches around the table to my headmistress. “Miss Stranje, I will be collecting my daughter. I have lost confidence in your ability to keep her from scandal and mayhem.”

  She sets down her meal of meat and cheese, and wearing a pleasant smile, glances up at him. “Scandal and mayhem—those are indeed serious accusations.”

  The words slid insincerely over my father’s tongue as if they were sent directly from his wife to me. I am surprised she is not trailing in behind him. One can only hope he left her at home or in the carriage.

  Miss Stranje dusts off her hands on the tablecloth, as is the custom, and stands. “I assure you, my lord, there has been no scandal and only a modicum of mayhem.”

  “A modicum?” He pulls a copy of the Times out from his coat pocket and slaps it on the table. “We have heard stories.”

  We? Is my father using the royal ‘we,’ or is he referring to himself and Lady Barrington, and perhaps the maid and butler at his estate?

  “Stories?” Miss Stranje doesn’t appear the least bit worried. She picks up the Times and opens it out. “Ah, yes. I read this one.” She hands the paper to me.

  The front page is covered with the story of Napoleon abducting the Prince Regent.

  “Is it true, my daughter was present when our Prince was kidnapped? That she barely escaped with her life?”

  I hand the paper to Sera. “As you can see Papa, I am perfectly well.”

  He bristles for a moment, “Well, that is more than I can say for your fiancé.” He points at Kinsworth. “He does not look perfectly well.”

  Lord Kinsworth rises. “I assure you, my lord, I am quite well. In a few days, I will be shed of this bandage and right as rain.”

  My father only gives him the slightest glance. “I have never understood why anyone thinks rain is right. Or wrong. It is wet. That’s all.”

  “Precisely,” I say under my breath. At least, we agree on that much.

  Miss Stranje decides this is the ideal moment to make proper introductions. “Lord Kinsworth, may I present your future father-in-law, Lord Barrington.”

  My fiancé and father perform the English gentleman act, bowing to one another, but only as much as is socially required, exchanging forced smiles like two seasoned thespians.

  “Won’t you join us, Lord Barrington? I’m told the fish soup is quite flavorful today.” Miss Stranje reseats herself.

  My father does not sit. He broods and shifts from one leg to the other. “A young lady on Napoleon’s ship—accompanied by the Prince Regent, no less. Everyone knows his abysmal reputation. It wasn’t a suitable place for a delicate young lady. My wife feels this entire situation is beyond scandalous.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m familiar with your wife’s opinions.” Miss Stranje spreads mustard on her ham. “And what do you hear other people saying about your daughter?” With her pinky finger, Miss Stranje indicates the Times in Sera’s hand. “What have you read?”

  “They are calling her a . . .” he glances guiltily toward me. “A hero.” He looks down, but when the carpet proves uninteresting, he shoots a stern glare at Miss Stranje. “But Maya is a fragile young lady.”

  “Fragile?” Lord Kinsworth nearly chokes. “I’ll have you know, this fragile young lady saved my life.”

  “And she kept England from falling into Napoleon’s hands.” Georgie scoots back her chair as if she is ready to do battle for me. “Did the papers tell you that?”

  Sera scans the Times on the table beside her. “They allude to it, but they aren’t giving the details. The Cabinet must be keeping the accord secret.”

  My father stares at Sera and Georgie, then back again to Lord Kinsworth. His lips are pressed almost white with frustration until he blurts, “She never ought to have been in such a violent situation! It’s . . . it’s unseemly.”

  “Unseemly?” Miss Stranje sighs and clears her throat. “I believe the word you are looking for is dangerous.”

  “Yes! Dangerous. Precisely the point.”

  “I understand.” She carefully sets down her silverware. “And you would very much like to protect your daughter from danger, correct?”

  His shoulders wilt. My big strong father slumps. “I would.” He glances at me, and I hear it again, a lute, this time plunking low notes of regret.

  “So would I.” Miss Stranje stands, waiting until he meets her gaze. “You were acquainted with my father, were you not? When you were a young man in India.”

  Papa tugs at his collar as if it is inordinately hot inside the Ship, despite the windows allowing the ocean breeze to waft through. “Yes, I knew him. An extraordinary man, your father. He was largely the reason I entrusted Maya into your care.”

  He knew her father. I lean in, listening closer, scarcely able to believe it. My father did not abandon me to a stranger.

  Miss Stranje speaks to my father in a kindly manner, as if they are old friends. “And were you aware of the sort of business my father conducted for the Foreign Office?”

  “I, uh . . .” He exhales loudly. “I had some notion of it.”

  She traces her finger on the tablecloth, marking the facts. “You admired my father. You understood something of the life he led, and that I assisted him from time to time.”

  A warm shade of red creeps up my father’s neck. “I did.” He glances apologetically at me.

  “You knew all these things, and yet you trusted me to train your only child—your fragile young daughter.” Still standing, Miss Stranje plucks the top off of a strawberry and sets it on her plate. “How very puzzling.”

  “Because she was—” He turns to me. “Because she is a remarkable young woman.” No regret rings from him now, only pride. “I thought if anyone could guide her, it would be you. Her stepmother . . . wasn’t . . .” He looks away. Shame breaking strings, muddling his music until he shutters it away. Like always.

  Except now, I know.

  He sent me to Miss Stranje, not because he didn’t care, but because he respected her and thought it the best place for me.

  “If this is true, Lord Barrington, why you are questioning my ability to do so now? Especially when, and I do not say this lightly, your daughter ha
s shown herself to be extremely capable. And she has done so in dozens of situations.” She gazes at me with approval she rarely displays. “Miss Fitzwilliam spoke the truth. Maya kept our country from falling into Emperor Bonaparte’s clutches. Most of Britain will never know it, but they owe her a debt of gratitude. Yet, here you are, wanting to remove her from my care. I am perplexed.”

  Lord Kinsworth reaches for my hand as if he expects my father to try and snatch me away at any moment. “She belongs here. With us. With Miss Stranje.” Ben uses a deep manly tone. “And someday, when the time is right, she belongs with me—as my wife.”

  That sounded awfully much like a real proposal.

  “This is all highly irregular.” My father looks to me as if the decision is better left in my hands. “I worry for your safety, Maya.”

  “Ooh,” Lady Jane sighs as if his sentiment is the tenderest thing she has ever heard, but then Lady Jane coos the same way when our wolf puppies yip. “My lord, we all love your daughter. Parting with her would be excruciating. She is like a sister to us. Rest assured, any of us would give our lives to protect her.”

  Sera reaches for my other hand. “It’s true.”

  “And she protects us.” Georgie rises and comes to stand beside me.

  “So, I see.” My father’s eyes begin to mist ever so slightly. “Maya?”

  My heart is singing in ways I never thought it would. How can I find the right words? I did not even realize I was humming until all of them stare at me expectantly.

  There is only one thing to say.

  “I love you, Papa.” I try to smile as stoically as Miss Stranje does when her heart is overflowing.

  But I cannot.

  My lips spread even more broadly, and instead of being brave, the smile breaks me open, and a chorus of joyous tears pour out. “I’m so happy you came, Papa. And I am pleased you brought me to Miss Stranje. Grateful. This is where I belong. Here. With them.”

  I open my arms out to my friends, who wrap me in their warmth.