by Sandra Heath
Mr. William Grenfell was a flamboyant young gentleman, with blond hair and a good-looking, sunburnt face. He wore a full-sleeved white shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, and his gray silk neckcloth hung loose. His waistcoat was made of fine electric-blue armazine, and his trousers were striped in gray and white. It was this latter item of apparel that caught Jane’s astonished attention. “Why, he’s wearing trousers! I thought only sailors wore such things.”
“Trousers are set to be the new fashion for all gentlemen,” replied Christina.
“They are? How do you know that?” demanded Jane, tearing her attention from the balloon and its pilot to look at her sister.
“I read it in a journal,” replied Christina, grinning. “Reading is very informative, you know. You should try it.”
“I shall ignore your sarcasm,” responded her sister, leaning out of the window again. “I don’t believe it about trousers, anyway, they’re not going to become universally fashionable. Nothing will ever take the place of breeches, you mark my words.”
“You’re probably right. I think he looks a little foppish, don’t you?”
“Maybe a little, but he’s very dashing, isn’t he?” Jane gazed admiringly at the young pilot, who had by now perceived them leaning from the window.
The removal of the more immediate danger had evidently bolstered his spirits, for a broad grin spread across his face and he waved boldly at them.
Christina refrained from responding, knowing it would hardly be the thing, but Jane forgot herself completely, leaning forward even more and waving back with complete abandon.
Appalled, Christina pulled her back inside. “You mustn’t, Jane!”
“Why not? I’m only waving.”
“You’re not, you’re positively jumping up and down with enthusiasm!”
“But it’s so exciting,” protested Jane, wrenching her arm free and leaning out again.
A breath of wind had lifted the balloon, and Mr. Grenfell had put the two ladies from his mind. His back was toward them now, and he was tugging upon a rope that hung down from inside the neck of the balloon. He kept tugging, then glancing up at the billowing orb above, as the breeze wafted him away over the rooftops in the direction of Argyle Street and Pulteney Bridge.
Jane craned her neck to watch, only drawing back inside when the balloon had drifted completely out of sight, pursued by the great gaggle of people and vehicles on the ground. She glanced hopefully at Christina. “I don’t suppose we could ... ?”
“No, we could not.”
“But Father only said we weren’t to go to Sydney Gardens.”
“He said we weren’t to have anything to do with the balloon, and he meant precisely that,” replied Christina firmly.
Jane sighed a little petulantly. “Father’s being very tiresome.”
“A trait you’ve more than inherited.”
Jane smiled ruefully. “What an acid tongue you have, to be sure.”
“Come on, I’ve a mind to sit out in the garden.”
“Oh, all right.” Jane glanced wistfully out of the window again. “I still think the balloon is the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen, and I’d love more than anything to actually make an ascent.”
“Do that and you’d have to marry Mr. Grenfell, for to be sure, you’d have compromised yourself out of any hope of becoming Lady St. Clement,” replied Christina, taking her arm and steering her from the room.
Chapter Five
The garden at the rear of the house was, in its way, as stylish and superior as the residence itself, for Sir Archibald was very horticulturally inclined, and expected flowers to bloom throughout the year, even though he was seldom there to see. He employed two full-time gardeners to attend to matters, and their endeavors did him proud, for although it was October, the flowerbeds were very colorful indeed.
There were asters and dahlias, Michaelmas daisies and goldenrod, and a rose arbor that was still adorned with sweet-scented pink blooms. Ivy grew over the perimeter wall, pansies, geraniums, and nasturtiums edged the stone-flagged paths, and lily pads floated on the raised pond.
The fruit trees were heavy with apples and pears, and two maids were engaged in picking walnuts from a gnarled tree growing against the wall. The gardeners were busy, one preparing potted fuchsias to overwinter in the greenhouse, the other taking cuttings from a laurel bush by the path leading to the coach house at the bottom of the garden.
After strolling all over the garden, Christina and Jane at last sat down on a wrought-iron bench that was sheltered by the wall. A sumac tree grew next to it, its foliage just on the point of turning into the fiery autumn glory that made it such a popular addition to any garden.
Christina surveyed the garden with immense approval. “I admire Sir Archibald’s taste, for this is indeed a splendid October garden.”
“As colorful as the ball will be.”
Christina had to smile. “Are we back to the ball again? I swear you talked of nothing else every inch we walked along those paths.”
Jane gave her a sly look. “Well, we could always talk about the balloon.
“No, thank you very much.”
“Then I shall talk about the ball. You do think Madame Gilbert will be able to prepare our gowns in time, don’t you?”
“I’m sure she will. She’s already sent word that she’ll see us today, and I’m quite certain she’ll be only too glad to do any necessary work, if only so that she can crow to the world that she’s saved the day for the future Lady St. Clement.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Stop worrying, Jane, everything’s going to be all right.”
“I can’t help worrying. I want to look absolutely perfect that night.”
“And so you will. That plowman’s gauze is exquisite, and suits you more than anything else I’ve ever seen you in. Robert is going to be charmed when he sees you.”
Jane flushed a little with pleasure. “Do you really think so?”
“Stop fishing for compliments,” replied Christina, smiling.
“Beast.”
Across the Avon the bells of the abbey began to ring out, a joyous sound that echoed all around so loudly that at first they didn’t clearly hear the shout of warning.
“Watch out below!”
Christina gave a start, glancing around. “What was that?”
“Mm?”
Something, Christina didn’t know what, made her glance up into the sky suddenly, and her heart almost stopped with shock, for there, floating barely thirty feet overhead, was Mr. Grenfell’s balloon. It was descending toward them, its shadow suddenly blotting out the sun.
The pilot’s face peered anxiously down from the car. “Watch out below!” he shouted again, holding another sandbag aloft ready to toss down in an effort to lighten the balloon.
Jane glanced up with a shocked gasp, then gathered her skirts and fled toward the house. For a moment Christina was too startled to move, but then she collected her wits, dashing from the seat just as the sandbag hurtled earthward, thudding in a bombburst of sand on the path behind her.
The two maids picking walnuts ran shrieking into the house, and the gardeners left their tasks with some alacrity, making for the relative shelter of the coach house.
Jane had halted by the French window into the dining room, and she caught Christina’s arm, staring up with a mixture of alarm and fascination at the balloon as it billowed above the garden. The ejection of the sandbag had been to no avail, for the car was only just above the fruit trees now, and Mr. Grenfell could be seen frantically tugging at the rope that vanished into the neck of the balloon.
Christina pressed her hands to her mouth as the car swung slowly from side to side, snapping the topmost twigs of the pear tree. Still more height was lost, and with a dreadful splintering sound the car crashed further into the tree. Pears tumbled to the ground, rolling in all directions, and leaves fluttered after them. Mr. Grenfell gripped one of the ropes supporting the car, which was tilting ala
rmingly to one side as the balloon continued to descend, and Christina could see now that the globe was deflating, its surface rippling in the breeze.
At last the car became wedged between the branches, remaining at a precarious angle. The pilot held on for dear life as the balloon settled over the trees, the orb shrinking all the time so that in a few minutes it would look like a huge crimson-and-blue sheet draped there to dry in the sun.
Christina took a hesitant step toward the tree. “Are ... are you all right?” she called, her voice almost lost in the continuing pealing of the bells.
More pears fell to the ground as Mr. Grenfell struggled to ease himself from the car onto the relative safety of a branch. Torn leaves and broken twigs followed the pears as he lowered his legs before dropping down onto the grass. His full-sleeved shirt was torn and spoiled, and his gray silk neckcloth had disappeared altogether. Pausing only to straighten his waistcoat, he came toward Christina, who’d been joined by Jane now.
Smiling more than a little ruefully, he sketched an elegant bow. “A thousand apologies, ladies. I trust my sudden arrival hasn’t frightened you too much,” he said, raising his voice above the abbey bells.
He was well-spoken, and close to, was decidedly good-looking, with roguish green eyes. He ran his hand through his disheveled blond hair, his glance lingering admiringly on Jane for a moment.
“I’m mortified to have come such a humiliating cropper. Indeed, Icarus and I would appear to have rather too much in common for comfort at this very moment. That was my first free flight, and was definitely unplanned; first the anchor rope broke, and then the flap valve jammed open.”
Jane had been staring at him, but now looked toward the balloon. “The ... the flap valve?”
“Yes. It’s used to release hydrogen and thus lower the balloon. On this occasion it chose to remain open, releasing hydrogen all the time.”
Jane was none the wiser. “Forgive me, but I don’t know what hydrogen is either.”
“Perhaps you know it as inflammable air,” he replied, the admiration still plain in his green eyes as he looked at her. When she was being prettily puzzled, Jane was quite devastatingly appealing to the opposite sex, and Mr. Grenfell was no exception to the rule. He gazed at her, suddenly tongue-tied.
Christina felt uncomfortable, and not only because he was obviously captivated by her sister; their father might return at any moment, and the Lord alone knew what his reaction would be to finding the loathed aerostation actually ensconced over the pear tree.
Even as the dread thought crossed her mind, there was an angry roar from the French window behind them, clearly audible above the bells. “I say, sir! You, sir! What’s the meaning of this outrage?” Mr. Richmond stood there, his gouty foot held up carefully from the ground as he. leaned on his stick. He was glowering at the unfortunate pilot.
Mr. Grenfell tore his gaze away from Jane, looking in some surprise at the quivering, furious figure behind them. He sketched another bow. “Mr. William Grenfell. Your servant, sir.”
“How dare you violate this garden, sirrah! How dare you place your infernal contraption on these premises! I won’t have it, d’you hear? I won’t have it!”
“I ... I apologize most profusely, sir ...” began the aeronaut, a little taken aback by the other’s strong tone.
“That’s not good enough, sirrah! Tampering with the laws of nature brings retribution, as this debacle has more than proved. Leave this property at once, sir.”
“But, sir, my balloon ...”
“Can remain where it is for the moment. It’s you I wish to see removed from this garden. Out, sir, this very minute, or I’ll have the authorities upon you for trespass!”
Seeing there was no reasoning with him, Mr. Grenfell turned apologetically to Christina and Jane. “My apologies are sincerely meant, ladies, and I trust that you at least forgive my intrusion.”
Jane smiled at him, her brown eyes large and lustrous. “Of course we do, Mr. Grenfell.”
He took her hand, raising it to his lips. “May I know your name?” he inquired.
“Miss Jane Richmond, and this is my elder sister, Christina.”
He gazed into her eyes, not even glancing at Christina. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance,” he murmured.
Mr. Richmond was almost beside himself with rage. “I ordered you off this property, sir, and yet I perceive you to be still very much in evidence! I intend to have you ejected!” Turning, he stomped painfully back into the house, shouting for the butler to go for a constable.
Christina quickly put a warning hand on the pilot’s arm. “I think you’d better leave, Mr. Grenfell.”
He nodded reluctantly. “Is he always like this?” he asked with some feeling.
“Only where balloons are concerned, I’m afraid,” she replied. “Come this way, I’ll show you out through the coach house. Jane, you go and calm Father down, otherwise he really will bring the constables.”
“All right.” Jane gathered her skirts and hurried into the house.
Mr. Grenfell stared wistfully after her, but allowed Christina to draw him away along the path.
The green traveling carriage loomed in the shadows of the coach house, and a cat slipped away like a wraith into a corner, disturbed in its hunting. There was a strange murmuring sound from beyond the outer door, a sound that became suddenly clear as Christina opened the door to allow the pilot to escape.
A fairly large crowd had congregated on the open land sweeping down to the river, having evidently followed the balloon’s disastrous progress. The only reason the murmuring hadn’t been heard earlier was that the abbey bells were still pealing out gladly.
The aeronaut turned apologetically to her again. “I really am sorry about all this, Miss Richmond.”
“You hardly did it on purpose, Mr. Grenfell.”
“May I inquire when I will be permitted to retrieve my balloon?”
“How long will it take you?”
“With my men, about an hour, I should think.”
“My father is due to call on Mr. Tyson, the master of ceremonies, at two o’clock, so if you come then ...”
“Thank heaven for Bath ritual,” he said, smiling. “Will you and Miss Jane be at home then?”
“Yes, sir, but I think it a little remiss of you to ask,” she replied coolly, knowing that the question was solely owing to his ill-concealed interest in Jane.
He had the grace to smile ruefully. “I don’t mean to be obvious, Miss Richmond.”
“Nevertheless that is what you are being, sir. Perhaps I should inform you that my sister is soon to be betrothed, and that therefore any hopes you may be entertaining of furthering her acquaintance should be well and truly quashed.”
Disappointment entered his green eyes. “Then quashed they will have to be,” he murmured, taking her hand and kissing it. “A bientôt, Miss Richmond.”
“Mr. Grenfell.” Uncomfortably aware of the curious stares of the onlookers, she drew gladly back into the coach house, closing the door.
As she hurried through the garden to the house, Jane came out to meet her. “It’s all right, Christina, I’ve persuaded Father that there’s no need to send for anyone.”
“Thank goodness.”
Jane glanced back toward the coach house. “I take it he’s made good his escape?”
“Yes, but he’s returning later to collect his balloon. I’ve told him to come when Father goes to the master of ceremonies at two.”
“Oh, good.”
“We’re not going to have anything more to do with him, Jane,” warned Christina.
“Oh, but—”
“Nothing whatsoever,” repeated Christina firmly.
Jane sighed, gazing at the balloon, which had now collapsed sadly all over the tree, hanging so limply it was hard to believe it had ever been inflated to float above the rooftops.
Christina looked crossly at her. “Just remember why you’re here in Bath, Jane Richmond.”
“I wo
n’t forget.”
“Mr. William Grenfell would like nothing better than for you to forget,” replied Christina. “I thought he would melt away when he gazed into your eyes.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t use that airy tone with me, I know you too well. You enjoyed exerting your charm over him like that.”
“And if I did?”
“It was misplaced, Jane. Now, then, I’m going to try to wheedle Father into allowing the balloon to be taken away this afternoon when he’s out.” Christina walked on into the house.
Chapter Six
Mr. Richmond wasn’t at all pleased with his elder daughter, whom he saw fit to blame on several counts. As the elder sister, she should have ushered Jane into the house the moment the balloon appeared, instead of remaining outside to watch the entire disgraceful episode, and she certainly shouldn’t have encouraged a conversation with the pilot, escorted him from the premises in full view of a staring crowd, or gone so far as to tell him when it would be convenient for him to retrieve his balloon!
As he at last grudgingly consented to allow Mr. Grenfell to collect his property from the pear tree, Christina was left wondering greatly what lay behind the vitriolic dislike. Balloons weren’t exactly a common occurrence—indeed they were very few and far between—and yet he’d somehow formed what appeared to be a completely unreasonable antagonism toward them. It was very intriguing, so much so that she was on the point of asking him outright what it was all about, when Madame Gilbert, the couturiere, arrived, preventing the question.