“There won’t be peace.” Alexander’s chest fills with evening air and he steps back. “Can’t be. As long as there are tyrants who love money and power more than life, and men who want to be free of them.”
Free.
I remember how overjoyed Lord Harston was when he thought he was rid of me.
I watch the way the setting sun turns Alexander’s hair a burnished gold. “You’re free.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. Of course.” I turn away because it hurts to see how beautiful he is, and it hurts even more to see that expression in his eyes, as if I’ve failed him somehow. “You can do anything you want. You’re going home. You have a family who loves you and a bright future. Most importantly, you’ll be safe from this wretched war.”
“Safety is overrated.” He sighs. “I think you ought to figure out what you want, Lady Jane.”
I turn away from him, it’s time for me to place Moonlight back with her mother.
“Do you want to marry Lord Harston?” His tender tone is gone. The question is hard and unyielding. It doesn’t leave me any quarter.
Why must he bring that up? My answer comes out too harsh. “What we want has nothing to do with it. I don’t think he wants to marry me any more than I do him. We will both do what must be done.”
He pauses. His jaw works back and forth. He paces and I am afraid he will walk away but he comes back. “Jane, one word from you, and I won’t go.”
I don’t say anything. How can I ask him to give up everything for me? That would be the height of selfishness. I stare at his new boots, remembering the hideous ill-fitting pair he wore that first day I met him at Stranje House. Boots he stole, because his captors had kept him barefoot. The thought of his poor feet in those wretched old things chokes me up. I can’t answer.
“My ship sails for New York in the morning. Will you come to bid me farewell?”
“Yes, of course.” I catch my bottom lip, because something is shattering inside me.
He’s leaving.
* * *
The next morning, I stand on the pier watching him walk away. Sea birds wheel and call to one another in the early-morning air. A frigate waits. A ship that will take him away forever.
I wave. Doing my best to smile.
What is this feeling?
What cruel fist is this, that reaches in, grabs my heart, and squeezes? All that is left is the feeble grudging drip of blood in my veins. No, this feeling is not some cruel fist. It is a hot desert wind. One that curls around the stone in my chest and hollows it out, leaving me with an aching emptiness that makes my eyes water.
I’m not sad.
How can I be? He never belonged to me.
What right do I have to grieve? I sent him on his way. He’s leaving—that’s all. We knew this day must come. It had to arrive sooner or later. I would’ve preferred later. But, of course, it would come. He must go to his home in America, where he belongs, where his family and friends await him.
And I …
Beat, heart. Beat.
Or stop if you like. What’s the use in beating?
Life stretches before me, a gaping pit of emptiness. Years of this hollow thudding. No, that is not true. I have my work. I have the school. I’m supposed to take over one day. Miss Stranje claims it is enough. It has been enough for her. Or so she says. Therefore, it will be enough for me. It has to be.
In time, I may grow to believe that.
In time.
Except every limping footstep Alexander Sinclair takes toward that ship echoes like a slamming dungeon door. Locking me away, where there is no golden-haired light, no impish irritating grins.
No Alexander.
Suddenly, my own footsteps are pulsing against the pier. My soles drum a full-on charge. A rush of new fire burns in the former hollow of my chest.
I’m shouting.
Calling his name.
Throwing open my prison doors.
“Wait!” I thunder up the pier. “Wait! Alexander. Wait! Come back. Don’t…”
He turns. His face, a burst of hopeful sunlight against the endless gray clouds. “Don’t what?”
In a ragged gasp, I know the answer. “Don’t leave me.”
Stay. Please.
I didn’t know I had those words in me—words to ask for what I so desperately want. To selfishly beg. To plead for something for myself. Something for me alone.
No, not something.
Someone. Someone for me.
Alexander drops his satchel and waits, arms open. He is as astonished as I am when I hurl myself into his embrace.
Thirty
THE COMING-OUT BALL
~Two weeks later~
All of us are out in the garden. Mr. Sinclair holds up a lamp, and although we are dressed in our finery, we’ve snuck out of the house to watch Moonlight take her first steps. The puppies opened their eyes last week, and Georgie has constructed a small wheel to help Moonlight walk. We’ve strapped it to the wolf cub’s hip and placed her on the ground. She looks up at us with big wary blue eyes. I can almost hear her asking us, what have you done to me?
I urge her forward. “Try it, Moonlight. Walk.”
The cub takes one tentative step, but promptly flips to her side and gnaws on the wheel and straps.
“I thought that might happen.” Tess steps back and crosses her arms. “It’s not going to work. She’ll never be able to resist chewing on that leather.”
“I should’ve thought of that.” Georgie’s shoulders sag. “Maybe if I wrap the straps with tin…”
“No, she’s just trying to figure it out. It’s a brilliant contraption.” Lord Wyatt puts his arm around her shoulders. “Besides, the pup is growing so fast you’ll need to make a bigger harness in a week anyway.”
“I agree, Georgie. It’s a marvel.” I reach down and set Moonlight back on her feet, giving her bum a little scoot. The pup yips as the wheel propels her forward. A moment later, she figures it out and gallops around my feet. “See! Look at her go.”
I clap, but my glee is short-lived. Moonlight twists sideways, snapping and growling at the leather straps. She rolls onto her back and wrestles with the device.
“There you are!” Miss Stranje calls to us from the garden door. “Time to greet our guests. There’s a line of carriages stretching around the block. Mr. Peterson is about to open the doors.”
Georgie quickly unbuckles the wheel and sets it on a shelf in the gardening shed. Sera kicks a pebble in the pathway. “I’d much rather stay out here.”
I loop my arm through hers. “Nonsense. You’ll have friends who’ve come to see you. Mr. Chadwick plans to come, and the Patronesses.”
She groans. “Too many people.”
I try to reassure her. “It’s going to be a wonderful evening, you’ll see.”
“That’s what you said the night of the soirée at Carlton House and that did not turn out wonderful at all.”
Mr. Sinclair chuckles as he opens the door for us. “Our Lady Jane is not much of a prophetess, is she?”
Sera laughs.
“I’m just trying to encourage her.” I sulk.
“Obviously, but she is more than capable of taking care of herself without any Banbury tales from you. Isn’t that so, Miss Wyndham?”
“Yes.” Sera answers with more force than I expected. “I believe so. Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.”
I squint at her. My mouth opens but nothing comes out. Great walloping dewberries! He’s done something I have tried to do for years. Sera looks positively radiant, simply because he expressed confidence in her.
I’ve no time to digest this alteration, because Miss Stranje is busy positioning us in her formal receiving line. She adjusts the ring of flowers in my hair. “You stand here.” She shoos Mr. Sinclair off with instructions for the musicians to begin playing.
The doors open and Peterson announces the first set of guests. Before long, Haversmythe House overflows with people, with admirals, dignitaries, other debuta
ntes and their parents. Lady de Lieven is the first of the Patronesses to make an appearance. I curtsy to her and she pats my hand wearing a mischievous little smile. “Welcome to our world, Lady Jane. I daresay you are already setting a new trend with those short curls of yours.”
“I did not come by them intentionally, my lady.”
“So I heard.” With a merry chuckle, Lady de Lieven moves on to greet Maya on my left. “I understand you and Lord Kinsworth intend to sing for us after supper. Your first performance was so memorable, I’m thrilled we’ll have the opportunity to hear the two of you again.”
Maya acknowledges the compliment, but I notice a fleeting pinch of consternation that wafts across her brow. Their practices have been pure heaven for those of us listening, but after each session, Maya is left more agitated and puzzled by him than before. She no longer complains of not understanding Lord Kinsworth. She now insists the young man intentionally eludes her. “How does he escape me?” she demanded of me one afternoon.
“I have no idea what you mean. Perhaps Sera might be of more assist—”
Maya huffed at me. Maya, who is the kindest gentlest person in the world, whirled away in a huff.
Prince George sent a courier to Miss Stranje yesterday, announcing his plans to attend our ball. I understand the Prince and members of the Admiralty are attending our ball because they remember that we are the young ladies who first noticed Lieutenant Baker’s bomb that fateful day at Woolwich. However, considering the dark reputation of Miss Stranje’s school, it astounds me that so many other members of high society are willing to grace us with their presence. I suppose there is no accounting for curiosity.
Lord Harston comes down the receiving line. I greet him as formally as if we are strangers, but he holds my hand a moment longer than necessary. Bowing over it, he looks up with a wry grin. “My dear Lady Jane. I see your young inventor did not board a ship and sail away to America after all.” His eyes glitter with humor. “Does this mean I have won my wager?”
I cannot stop the corners of my mouth from twisting up with mirth. “Yes, my lord. You won. Mr. Sinclair intends to remain in England. I have followed the pattern of the rest of my family and lost my wager with you.”
He presses a hand over his heart, and drops his chin to his chest feigning sadness. “Then, as we agreed in our wager, you are no longer obligated by our contract.”
“Oh, pray, do not pretend to be wounded. Not when I can see that you’re barely able to keep from doing a jig in celebration of your freedom.”
He laughs. “You are one of a kind, my lady. I cannot help but wonder if I have not gotten the wrong end of our wager after all.”
“Whatever the case, I owe you a debt of gratitude for what you did for me all those many years ago. Thank you, my lord.”
He bows graciously. What I see over his shoulder makes me wince. “Speaking of debts, my brothers have arrived. I do hope you will put them to work mucking out your stables to make them pay off their debts to you.”
“Your wish is my command. Now that you mention it, I could use another groom or two.” He chuckles and moves down the line.
His nephew, Lord Kinsworth, is next and bows elegantly over my hand, although his eyes flit eagerly in Maya’s direction, so I mercifully pass him on to her. She greets him coolly, scarcely meeting his eyes. He tilts sideways to peer beneath her veil. “Would you be so good as to reserve the dinner dance for me? I should like to accompany you into dinner.”
I miss her answer because Lord Ravencross stalks down the line looking as if he is about to draw swords with every gentleman in the room. He stops in front of Tess on my right, and bows curtly. “Would you like to ride in the morning?”
“I would.” Tess curtsies prettily. “Please, do try to smile, my lord. You are frightening away the other girls’ beaus.”
“So long as I frighten any of yours, I’m satisfied.”
“You might take a turn out in the garden to see how the wolves are doing. I daresay you are better suited to their company than in here.”
His voice softens. “I will, if you’ll meet me out there?”
She answers with a coy tilt of her head as she turns to greet our next guest.
His cheeks are still blotching pink as he bows to me and I feel for him. It cannot be easy being in love with Tess. It must be a little like trying to cage the wind.
Captain Grey is at Miss Stranje’s side, serving as host. Lord Wyatt stands behind Georgie as if he’s a footman or her fiancé, and refuses to leave. Earlier, I heard Georgie turn around and scold him. “Must you stand there like a sentinel? We are not engaged. It is not at all appropriate for you to hang over my shoulder.”
“I don’t care. Let them assume what they will. I refuse to abandon you to this riffraff.”
“Riffraff? These people are not footpads and pickpockets. They’re the haut ton, the cream of the beau monde—” The next guest in line, a young lieutenant, interrupts her argument.
Someone steals up behind me. Instinctively, I make certain my dagger is handy. It’s Mr. Sinclair and he leans down over my shoulder. “How long must you stand in line?”
“Only a little longer, the line is beginning to slow.”
“Don’t forget the waltz belongs to me,” he whispers, his words tickling my ear.
“I haven’t forgotten.” How can I when I’m counting every second until then?
“Good.” He straightens and I miss his nearness. “I will be heartily glad when we return to Stranje House next week.”
I’m as impatient to go home as he is. We are never alone here. Even though when we go back Mr. Sinclair will be residing at Captain Grey’s cottage, it’s bound to be better than here.
Mr. Peterson announces in a booming voice, “His Royal Majesty, Prince George.”
A hush falls over the room. As one, everyone lowers into a curtsy or a bow, even Alexander. I half expect Lady Daneska to flounce in behind him. I wouldn’t put it past her, except rumor has it she returned to France. No one is certain, we only know no one has seen her or Ghost since the explosion at Woolwich Naval Yards. According to Lady Castlereagh, Lady Daneska packed up and left town that afternoon. She sent a note to Prince George claiming Napoleon requested she return to Paris immediately.
My dance card is filled with the names of strangers. The evening whirls by in a flurry of dancing and polite conversation, and all the while I am wishing it was Alexander talking to me, Alexander pressing his palm against mine in the dance. Lord Harston stands up with me for a cotillion while Alexander broods on the sidelines. The last set before dinner is with Captain Maitland who thanks me for crying “bomb” at the unveiling.
As we circle one another, I ask him something that has bothered me ever since that day. “I’ve been told that it might have been more effective if I had cried out hit the deck.”
“No.” He turns to circle the corner lady. When he returns he assures me, “I doubt it would’ve changed the outcome. Having heard the command from a female rather than a seaman, the gentlemen would still have turned to see who was issuing the order.”
Happily, I am also seated next to Alexander at dinner. Miss Stranje spared no expense. The table is spread with a meal worthy of a king. During the third course, Prince George rises to offer a toast. “To the brave young ladies of Stranje House. We are graced by your loveliness, charmed by your elegance, and most grateful you know when to shout a warning.”
“Here! Here!” The Admiralty, Lord Castlereagh, and all the gentlemen that were on the platform that day, stand to honor us. All men who might have died. Alexander scoots back his chair and raises his glass along with theirs. “To the young ladies! To their health and long life!”
“Huzzah!”
When they finally sit, the Prince remains standing and lifts his cup again. “And to peace.”
“To peace!” We all raise our glasses. This is no idle wish. No mere whim. All of my life we have been at war. England hungers for peace. Crippled and wounded soldie
rs haunt us on every street corner.
The clinking and cheering subsides, but still the Prince stands. “Peace.” He stares into the blood-colored wine in his cup. “We have been at war with Napoleon Bonaparte for eleven long years. Eleven years our men have given their lives. It is time to bring it to a close.” He lifts his goblet. “I am pleased to tell you that I have agreed to meet with Napoleon in order to negotiate a settlement. In two weeks’ time we may finally have the peace we have so desperately wanted.”
Gasps ripple across the table.
Peace at what price?
Raised cups droop to half-mast. Only the Prince tosses back the remainder of his wine. A few naïve debutantes and their mothers follow suit. Suddenly the toast to our good health and long lives feels tainted, sullied by the shock of his willingness to meet with Napoleon.
Admiral Gambier sets down his cup and rises, wordlessly he bows to Miss Stranje and stomps out of the dining room. His wife jumps up from her chair hurriedly and rushes after him.
Lord Castlereagh, ever the diplomat, holds his cup steady. “To our prince.”
There are murmurs of agreement, and cups raised out of obligation. His announcement dampens the mood. Forks resume working, lifting food to mouths, but at a much slower pace as if the roast beef has lost its savor. My appetite has disappeared entirely. I turn to Mr. Sinclair. “I doubt we shall be returning to Stranje House next week. It may be some time before we have that luxury.”
He nods solemnly. “I shall remain here, too. No doubt, the Admiralty will be pleased to have my assistance for a few more weeks.”
Our coming-out ball turns into mournful wake for England’s future. Most of the guests understand the underlying menace beneath Prince George’s announcement. Those that don’t are left to wonder what the Prince intends to trade in exchange for a treaty with Emperor Napoleon. Everyone in England knows Napoleon will only be satisfied with complete power.
After dinner, Maya and Lord Kinsworth do their best to soothe our bruised spirits with a musical rendition of “Romeo and Juliet,” a clever adaptation of Shakespeare’s play as a ballad. From the very first note, their voices transport us into the hearts and minds of two innocent young lovers in Verona. We feel the joy of their first love. We swoon and sigh with the sweetness of their passion. But in the end, the song’s anguished ending breaks our hearts and leaves us grieving even deeper.
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