Refuge for Masterminds

by Kathleen Baldwin

  Maya hides a sudden burst of laughter behind her hand.

  Sera frowns at Alexander and turns to me. “How could you?”

  “It isn’t what you think.” I grimace and give them a rather abbreviated account of his role in the adventure. When I relate the part where I threw Mr. Sinclair to the ground and pounced upon him with my knife, Tess almost smiles.

  It is not easy to win a smile out of her. “At least you did that much correctly.”

  He edges into the room, and I prickle up at him for intruding. “Mr. Sinclair, I gave you strict instructions to wait down the hall.”

  He pierces me with that impudent look of his, the irritating expression that always makes me think he thinks I’m a slow top. “Yes, your highness. You ordered me to stay put, but only until you discovered which of these lovely young ladies is our culprit. You’ll have to excuse me for figuring you’d have accomplished the task by now.”

  I refuse to let him rattle me, and lift my chin to prove it. “I’m delighted to report, none of them are the traitor. Not only that, but I’m quite certain I know exactly who has betrayed us.”

  At those words, everyone’s attention snaps back to me.

  “And if I am correct, we must act quickly to circumvent their plans. But in the meantime, Mr. Sinclair, you really must wait in the hall. You simply cannot be in a girls’ dormitorium. It isn’t at all proper.”

  “It certainly is not!” Miss Stranje marches up and stands directly behind him.

  He shuffles to attention as if he is a soldier in the presence of a general.

  “What is the meaning of this appalling breach of etiquette, Mr. Sinclair?” She glares at him.

  The other four girls snap to perfect posture as rapidly as did Mr. Sinclair. She sweeps in and levels all of us with one of her fiercest stares. “This is disgraceful. I am shocked at you young ladies, entertaining a gentleman at this hour, and in such an appalling state of undress.”

  They are all cloaked, every one of them, head to toe, in heavy nightdresses that cover far more of their person than even the most conservative day gown. I sit calmly on the bed as our headmistress continues to ring a peal over our heads.

  “I’ve a good mind to take Madame Cho’s cane to all of you.” She marches up and down our ranks. “This is an outrage. Madame Cho, if she were well enough to be here, would be livid. I consider myself a tolerant woman, but this sort of behavior is outside of enough, completely unacceptable—”

  Miss Stranje, who is not actually as tolerant as she just claimed, freezes in her tracks and frowns at me.

  There is a magnificent ferociousness about our headmistress, a trait I hope to master one day. I’d wager a considerable sum she is able to stop a person’s heart from beating simply by applying that cold hard glare of hers. If she can’t make a heart stop altogether, she is certainly able to make it skip a few beats.

  I want to be just like her someday.

  Today, however, I have fallen a wee bit short.

  “What in blazes happened to you?” Miss Stranje never curses or uses strong language. She claims it is a device only employed by individuals with minds too weak to command suitably descriptive speech. I excuse her verbal lapse on account of it being such an extraordinary hour of the night, or morning, depending upon your perspective.

  I smile serenely, as if I have merely been out for a Sunday stroll, and say, “I chased our traitor.” I pause, allowing her a moment to digest this intelligence. “I caught said traitor delivering information to a rather unsavory gentleman who I can only presume must be affiliated with the Iron Crown. Well, I didn’t actually catch her, I observed her. More importantly, it is my considered opinion that unless we take action within the next few hours, Mr. Sinclair’s steamship will fall into enemy hands.”

  She sighs and massages her forehead. “I see.” She turns to Mr. Sinclair. “Am I to assume you were party to this disturbing turn of events?”

  He does his best to smooth down the front of his rumpled shirt. “I’m afraid so.”

  “In that case, we shall reconvene in the workroom in a half hour’s time. Mr. Sinclair, you may be excused to go and tidy yourself up before we meet. You will require clean clothing. Ring for Mr. Greaves and he will see to your needs.”

  I am filled with positively sinful pride that our headmistress doesn’t question my judgment on the matter of our impending disaster. Not even for a moment. But poor astonished Mr. Sinclair stands there like a man caught in the path of a cyclone, not certain which way to bolt.

  “Run along, young man.” Miss Stranje shoos him out and he takes off down the hall. She turns back to us. “Now then, I will send Phillip to the dower house with a note apprising Captain Grey and Lord Wyatt of this turn of events. In the meantime, one of you must fetch warm water so Lady Jane’s wounds can be properly cleaned. Maya, come with me to retrieve my medicinal kit. I will leave it to you to tend to those ghastly abrasions, while I see to writing the note.” She waves her hand at my scraped arms as if I am an inanimate object rather than her most devoted understudy.

  At the last moment before she hurries away, Miss Stranje turns and presses two fingers to her temple as if something pains her. “Lady Jane, I ought to have inquired, are any of your injuries serious?”

  I draw in a gratified breath. “Not in the least.”

  Miss Stranje leaves and Georgie dresses quickly so she can run down to the kitchen to get the warm water. Sera resumes wiping away dirt and plucking thorns and gravel out of my wounds. But Tess wheels on me, bothered by the problem of the boots. “I understand why you thought one of us was the traitor. Given the events of the last few days, we’ve all been suspects. What I don’t understand is this. You thought you’d uncover the traitor by checking our boots, and since it isn’t one of us, how can you be so certain you know who it is?”

  “The traitor was female.” Sera glances up from her work. “After ruling us out, that only leaves the two maids.”

  Tess paces the floor in front of us. “I don’t see how either of them could outrun Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Fear does remarkable things to one’s speed,” I explain.

  She stops and gallops her fingers on the bedpost. “Do you think it might’ve been our footman, Phillip, dressed up to look like a girl?”

  “Doubtful,” I say, trying not to wince, as Sera digs out a tiny stone lodged in my elbow. “I considered that, but Phillip is much taller than the person I followed, and she had a high-pitched voice.”

  Sera blots blood from a lengthy scratch on my forearm. “Phillip would only have adopted a disguise if he thought he might be followed. At that hour, the traitor would’ve assumed he or she was free to move about unobserved.”

  “Just so.” I stand and Sera helps untie the tapes in my gown. “We know it can’t be Cook. The woman is a veritable mountain, taller than most men and, even though the traitor wore a hooded cloak, even a strand of Cook’s white hair slipping loose would have gleamed like silver in the moonlight. As Sera said, that only leaves Alice and Peggy and, of course, Miss Stranje and Madame Cho.”

  Tess glares at me as if she might draw her knife and come after me for even suggesting either of her beloved mentors might be the perpetrator of such treachery. “Madame Cho is still recovering from the blow Daneska dealt her. She’s barely able to conduct our defensive arts lessons. For pity’s sake, she still has to take laudanum at night for the pain—”

  “I’m well aware of that. It can’t be either of them,” I snap. “Which explains how we know exactly who it is.”

  Tess plops down on the bed. “Well, it can’t be Peggy. She’s been here forever, and she’s plump enough you would’ve recognized…” With a groan, Tess sinks back against the pillows. “Alice.” She exhales loudly. “Has to be Alice.”

  “Exactly.”

  Tess slaps the coverlet. “That’s why she kept peering over my shoulder when I was working on the maps. And here I had excused her behavior, thinking she was simply nosy.”

  Se
ra inhales sharply. “You know what this means.” Her arms drop to her sides and her voice lowers to a mournful whisper. “They’ll hang her.”

  “Probably.” Tess stares at the quilt as if seeing the gallows. “It’ll be up to the courts. We’ve no say in the matter.”

  Sera presses her hand over her own throat. “I can’t bear the thought of it. We can’t turn her in. We can’t. Poor Alice. Hanging would be too horrible.”

  “Poor Alice?” Tess sits up suddenly. “I shan’t like to see Napoleon come charging up the shore leading an army of Frenchmen with their swords drawn and muskets aimed at us, either. That would be even more horrible.” She jumps up, hands on her hips. “Not only for us, but for all of England, and that is precisely what will happen if little Miss Double-dealing, Two-faced Alice gives our plans and secrets to Lady Daneska. Think, Sera, it will mean all of our necks.” Tess makes the sign for slitting a throat. “Not just Alice’s.”

  I step between them, hoping to stave off Tess’s anger. “I don’t think it will come down to that. I’ve an idea—”

  “Won’t come down to what?” Georgie carries in two kettles of steaming hot water.

  “Hanging Alice, or Napoleon’s soldiers shooting us.” Tess opens her wardrobe and pulls out her running dress.

  “We shouldn’t make these assumptions without proof. I’m going to find Alice’s boots so we can be certain.” Sera heads for the door.

  “Wait!” I grab her arm. “I’ve got a plan. Whether it is Alice or not, we mustn’t let the traitor know we’re on to her. Everything depends upon her believing she has gotten away with it. There is a chance, if this works, she might be spared the hangman’s waltz.”

  Georgiana hefts the two kettles, reminding us that we are in a rush. “We can discuss it later. Miss Stranje won’t like it if we’re late and your water isn’t going to stay hot much longer.”

  Miss Stranje is not one to let innovations pass her by. Our indoor privy has one of those newfangled water closets, and also a glorious bathing apparatus, called the Feetham machine. This miraculous contraption is one of my favorite things about Stranje House. Many members of the aristocracy are convinced bathing is detrimental to their health. Miss Stranje insists the exact opposite is true, that cleanliness is a healthful practice. I hope she is right, because it is an absolutely heavenly thing to bathe under warm running water.

  Georgie climbs a stepstool and pours the kettles of hot water into the basin at the top of the apparatus. She uses the hand pump to circulate the water, while I stand under the fount allowing hot water to sprinkle down atop my head and soothe my bruises. I close my eyes, and droplets trickle over my lashes and cheeks. All too soon, the water raining over my head begins to chill and I know the extravagance of this bath must end.

  Maya rustles around outside the bathing tank, and knocks on one of the pipes. “I have prepared a salve for your wounds.”

  Whatever time providence allotted me is spent. Evil will not stop and wait for me. I step out of the bathing machine and wrap myself in warm linen towels. I dry quickly and slip into the comfort of a fresh chemise and gown.

  Sera does her best to towel off my wet hair. I close my eyes as she plaits it into a braid. “You’re fretting,” she scolds.

  “I am not,” I lie. Maya chuckles to herself, but it’s Sera’s gentle silence that makes me confess. “How did you know?”

  “You’re here, but your mind seems to be elsewhere. You must be thinking about what the Iron Crown will do next and what we ought to do as a countermeasure.”

  I twist to look up at her. “Aren’t you doing the same?”

  She shakes her head and tugs my braid back into place. “I can only see what is. Pondering what might happen would overwhelm me.”

  “You would do well to learn this from Sera.” Maya wipes something that stings over the cuts on my arm and I blow on them to reduce the burn. “You worry too much. These burdens are not yours alone to carry.”

  She’s right, I tell myself. Miss Stranje and Captain Grey are capable and clever, and far more experienced than I am. Why, then, does it still feel as if a twelve-stone weight is crushing my shoulders?

  It’s him. I’m worried about Alexander. No, it’s more than that. I’m worried about Stranje House, about my friends, about England.

  Millstone about my neck or not, I must march forward. She’s right, I am not alone. We must march on. We must do what is required. No one will ever know the things we at this school do for England. No one will ever know what we have done to keep our countrymen free from Napoleon’s ravages.

  Maya daubs a thick soothing paste over my scrapes and binds them with a soft linen cloth. “There. That should heal quite well.”

  My nose crinkles at the strong smell coming from the bound-up concoction. “It smells like one of Cook’s soups.”

  She smiles. “I am not surprised. The salve has onion, garlic, and wine in it.”

  Georgie dries her hands after draining the Feetham machine for me. “Are you ready to go down?”

  Ready? No.

  My ideas are not perfected yet. I can only see a short way ahead. It’s so much better when the whole board is visible and I can see more of the possibilities. If only we had more time to make certain of the details.

  “Ready.” I nod with more confidence than I feel.

  Georgie and Sera head out of the bathing room. Maya rests her hand on my shoulder. “You must trust that wisdom will come when you need it. You were made for a time such as this.”

  Made for a time such as this.

  Maya’s voice is so unusual, it seems to vibrate from some place deep in her chest, almost like a cat’s purr. A cat’s purr is perhaps a childish way to describe such an extraordinary gift. All I know is, when Maya speaks, the warmth and depth of her pitch causes something to ease inside me.

  “Thank you,” I say, and before I realize it, she has walked me halfway down the stairs. We move quiet as monks through the old house, winding through the dark corridors on the main floor leading to the workroom.

  Only two oil lamps light the room, and without speaking, the five of us take our seats around the large table and await our headmistress.

  Four

  PLANS AND PIRATES

  One oil lamp sits on the table and another casts its amber glow from the sideboard. Our shadows float like grim gray phantoms against the walls. An 1811 map of Britain and Europe rests in the center of our table. Several sheets of vellum are tacked over it, with new lines marking where Napoleon has altered Europe’s many borders.

  I lean forward, calculating the time it will take to travel by sea from here to the mouth of the Thames, the river Alexander will need to navigate in order to reach London. A rustle at the door draws my attention.

  Mr. Sinclair steps hesitantly into the room and my breath stands still in my lungs.

  It is an unbearably early hour of the morning, and yet Greaves has done something extraordinary to our quirky American inventor. I cannot decide whether to call it a miracle or a tragedy. Alexander is wearing a new set of clothes, his shirt is clean and neatly pressed, the cravat articulately tied rather than hanging in a haphazard loop, and even his hair is freshly combed.

  He … he looks … like a gentleman.

  I find this unsettling in the extreme. He ought to look like our rough, unpolished Mr. Sinclair. Not this pattern-card Adonis. I have a nearly irresistible urge to go and mess him up, to rumple his shirt, to tousle his hair, and to muddle up his cravat.

  Georgie’s mouth hangs open, as astonished as I am.

  “I know.” He gestures at his attire. “A bit much, isn’t it? I look like a great, galloping gadfly.”

  “Nothing of the kind.” Georgie points him to a chair at the table. “You look quite handsome, very respectable. You shall be a credit to us in London.”

  He looks to me to confirm this opinion. Despite the room being chilly, heat singes my cheeks, and I look away, finding myself at a loss for words.

  Alexander t
ugs at the sleeves of his coat. “Mr. Greaves said we ought to try it out, seeing as all the ladies would be present. And, as he put it, the maids would need a month of Sundays to get the stains out of my other clothes.” Again, he waits for some sort of response from me.

  It is impossible to gather my thoughts into a coherent string of words.

  His expression transforms into a challenge. “I take it you do not approve?”

  “No, it’s not that. I … I…”

  Devil take it. I am stuttering like a toddler in leading strings. Ladies do not stutter. I swallow a fur ball of confusion and struggle to master my useless tongue. Agitated in the extreme, I blurt, “It is satisfactory.”

  The compliment lands on the table like a two-day-old gutted fish. So, I try again. “Miss Fitzwilliam is right.” I wave my hand at his ensemble. “It will do for London.”

  “I see. Satisfactory.” He gives me a curt bow before taking his seat. “High praise coming from your ladyship.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, do stop mixing up your forms of address. I’m not a duchess.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters.

  “I have excellent hearing, Mr. Sinclair. If you mean to deliver a slight under your breath, you must endeavor to do so more quietly.”

  He opens his mouth, undoubtedly intending to toss out another insult, but at that very moment Miss Stranje walks in, so he stands as is required of a gentleman.

  “You may be seated.” She shuts the door and waves him back to his chair. “Good, you are all here. We’ve no time to waste.” Except she stops and squanders two perfectly good seconds appraising Alexander’s attire. “Splendid. The new clothing suits you, Mr. Sinclair. Do give Greaves my compliments. He has outdone himself.”

  Alexander slants a quick gloat in my direction, one bursting with righteous indignation. Then he turns to Miss Stranje and inclines his head, accepting the compliment as if he were born to the role of a London gentleman.

  I fiddle with the knot on one of my bandages, fighting some darker part of my nature. Some untamable part of me wishes to vigorously shake the lordly Englishman nonsense out of him. Mr. Sinclair is a rustic, an American, and he ought to have the decency to maintain his proper role.