Victorian Dream

by Gini Rifkin

  “I didn’t really want you dead,” Beatrice cried tripping backward. “Keep away, keep away.”

  “Don’t be afraid. Just give me my darn cloak, and we can talk.”

  Tangled together in the billowing fabric, they stood face to face on the precipice of the wall.

  ****

  Gaining the edge of the trees, Walker and Sam paused to consider their next move. The Abbey was at least a hundred yards away, and the land between here and there was open field, uphill all the way.

  “Looks like we’ll just have to—” Walker stopped mid-sentence as a flash of burgundy at the top of the Abbey snared his attention. It was the same color as the cloak he’d given Trelayne yesterday. His mood spiraled upward at having found her. Then agonizing disbelief shredded all hope.

  “Oh, God, no.”

  She tumbled over the side of the parapet. Caught by the wind, the cape flapped and fluttered erratically like the fatal dance of a rare butterfly. Heart pumping, his breath trapped in his chest, he kicked his horse into action and galloped toward a destination he wished he’d never reach.

  Reining in hard, he skidded to a stop, launched himself out of the saddle, and ran forward. Bile rose in his throat as he knelt beside the crumpled body. A knot of sorrow constricted his breathing as he gathered his beloved into his arms. She was wearing her golden heart necklace. The one matching Ophelia’s. By all that was holy, how could the hand of destiny be so brutal as to see him suffer such a tragedy of heart and mind twice in one Lifetime?

  The hood of the cloak slid to one side. He forced himself to gaze upon her face. Shock and surprise replaced dread, nearly knocking him senseless. It was Beatrice, not Trelayne.

  He sobbed with relief then struggled with guilt for being so pleased to find it was someone other than his wife. Poor Beatrice. He knew she’d had a hard life. Now it had ended in a terrible death. Easing her broken body to the ground, he closed her eyes, and wrapped the wool around her. As he removed the heart locket and slipped it into his breast pocket, alarm returned full force. Why was Beatrice wearing Trelayne’s cloak and jewelry? Where was his wife? What had they done to her?

  He scrambled to his feet. Sam hurried to his side and gripped his shoulder as if to offer comfort.

  “It isn’t her, Sam. It’s Lanteen’s woman. Trelayne must be inside somewhere. There’s no time left for highfalutin’ strategies, or worrying about being quiet, we’re going in.”

  Pistols in hand, they stormed the Abbey. Halfway there, a shot rang out, missing Sam by a frog’s hair. Taking cover behind the capstone of an old cistern, they fired back. Two additional shots kept them pinned in place.

  ****

  Trelayne clamped both hands over her mouth, stifling the scream threatening to tear from her throat. Then screwing up her courage, she peered over the edge of the wall, knowing what she would find, but still needing to look.

  “Oh, Beatrice, I’m sorry,” she whispered and reached out, tears burning in the back of her eyes. She hadn’t meant for anything like this to happen.

  Dazed and confused as to what to do next, she clung to the wall and tried to calm the wild beating of her heart. Then she recalled having heard gunfire. It must be Walker—he’d come for her. She must go to him. Sprinting across the ramparts toward the stairs, she crashed into Lucien.

  “Here you are, my dove,” he said, wild-eyed and panting from running up the steps. “I see you took time for a hearty sampling of the monks’ wine.”

  He slammed the door shut at his back and wedged a rock up against it. Then pistol in hand, he wrapped one arm around her, jerked her up against his chest, and licked her cheek.

  “Not a terribly good vintage,” he noted. “Aged a bit too long. Where’s Beatrice?” He grabbed her by the arm and towed her back the way she’d come.

  Trelayne pointed to the low wall. “She fell. It was an accident.”

  “What the deuce.” He dragged her closer to see for himself.

  A grimace of sadness captured his visage then his expression brightened. “Well, she wasn’t to come with us anyway. Move along.”

  “Walker is here, isn’t he?” she goaded. “He’s found me, and now your plans are ruined.”

  “On the contrary. He’s here but nothing has changed. Everything is ready. We leave immediately.”

  He prodded her in the back with the muzzle of the pistol. Refusing to capitulate, she dug in her heels and balked.

  “You’d best co-operate,” he threatened, “unless you’d like to join poor Beatrice.”

  By the look in his eyes, she feared he meant every word. Giving in she followed. Besides, it didn’t matter; there wasn’t anywhere to go. They were trapped on top of the abbey. Lucien had made a grave error. There was no way off the roof other than down the steps. He had a weapon though. That was a worry. After the exchange of gunfire Walker would be aware Lucien was armed, but that wouldn’t stop her brave Captain from rushing to her rescue.

  As they made their way around to the far side of the tower, the optimism she harbored dissolved away. Dumbfounded, she stopped dead in her tracks. A huge flying balloon awaited on the far side of the central tower. As if in a trance, she drew closer, mesmerized, as well as terrified by the grandeur of the orb.

  Lucien lovingly ran his hand over the varnished silk. “Exquisite, isn’t she,” he crooned. “State of the art, as well as a work of art. And it cost a pretty penny, I’ll tell you.”

  Predominately blue, the sides were embellished with signs of the zodiac, fleur-de-lis, and the frightful faces of lions and eagles. Only the splendor of the balloon rivaled her fear of it.

  “It took five hours to fill,” he said with pride, kicking aside the still smoldering remains of wood. “But we’ve finished just in time.”

  This was lunacy. She glanced around, seeking the quickest route to the steps and freedom.

  “Even the gods are with us,” he declared, “it’s a perfect day for flying. Tonight we dine in Paris.”

  As if equally anxious to take to the sky, the monstrous globe fought the tether keeping it earthbound.

  “We’ll never make it. It’s too far. You don’t know the first thing about aeronautics.”

  “Oh, but I do. I spent nearly a month with Charles Green. Took a crash course in ballooning as it were. Oops, poor choice of words. And it is not too far. Fifteen years ago, Green went all the way from Vauxhall Gardens to Nassau in one night. Why, we’ll be in France in a jiffy, ready to start a new life in a new country.”

  With a crazed look upon his face, Lucien muscled her closer to the towering monstrosity. This could only end in disaster. It was true there had been a few successful crossings. But others had tried, and many had died.

  “I can’t swim,” she uttered, doubting it would make a difference to Lucien.

  “One must hope there’ll be no necessity for swimming. Now climb aboard, and we’ll be off.”

  The fragile wicker undercarriage appeared barely large enough for two. She struggled in his grasp. “I won’t go. I would rather die here.”

  Agitated at her refusal, Lucian waved the pistol in her face, all too ready to make her commitment come true.

  “Do as I say or we shall both regret it. No matter what it takes, Trelayne, I’ll not be thwarted at this juncture. Perhaps I should give you more chloroform. Magical stuff that, although it does leave one with a wretched headache, or so I’m told.”

  What should she do? Unconscious she’d be in no position to help herself or to escape when Walker breeched the rooftop. She gritted her teeth, and taking as much time as possible, climbed aboard. Hurry Walker, she prayed, hurry.

  Lucien scrambled in beside her, jammed the pistol into the waistband of his trousers, and reached to untie the tether. She yelped in surprise and grabbed the basket-rail as the craft lifted off with a jolt. Immediately caught in a cross-breeze, it lurched sideways, trailing a long second line behind.

  As they drifted along just above the surface of the roof, she caught a movement from
the corner of her eye. It was Walker and another man she couldn’t make out. Gripping Lucien by the lapels, she garnered his attention, making sure his back was toward the approaching men. At the run, and never breaking stride, Walker shed his hat and coat.

  “Lucien, it isn’t too late. Let me go.”

  He snarled, and pulled free of her grip.

  “I know you were involved in my parents’ accident,” she divulged, trying to shock him into rational thinking. “And I can only assume you tried to sabotage the negotiations of the Romney Maiden. Save yourself. Go to Paris. Just let me go free.”

  He remained silent, lost in the delusion they could run away and begin some idyllic life together.

  As they drifted near the edge of the rooftop, her expectations for a quick rescue were dashed. Walker was too far away. Not meaning to, she groaned in defeat. Perceiving the change in her demeanor, Lucien glanced back over his shoulder. Then with a hiss of anger, he shoved her aside, and went for his pistol.

  She grabbed his arm. The weapon discharged, sending a bullet through the floor of the wicker basket. Their struggle set the gondola to swinging wildly. Lucien lost his footing, and she struck out again, knocking the gun from his hand. It fell from the basket, clattering onto the rooftop. One leg over the side, she tried to follow suit. Too late—there was nothing beneath them now but a long sheer drop to the ground. Lucien grabbed her by the hair, and yanked her back inside the basket.

  Walker, running at top speed, kept coming toward them. He must stop, it was pointless, he couldn’t reach them now. Then what he had in mind became apparent, and she screamed in alarm.

  “It’s too dangerous. Don’t do it.”

  Her words of caution were flung wide by the wind as Walker leaped off the roof and grabbed the trail-rope.

  Seizing the edge of the basket, she leaned over trying to catch a glimpse of her husband as he dangled far below. His added weight caused the balloon to lose altitude, and they dipped closer to the tree-covered terrain. Branches smashed into Walker as he worked to haul himself, hand over hand, upward toward the basket. All the while, Lucien worked at untying the rope from the inside, but the tension on the sisal was too great, and he couldn’t work the knot.

  Down below a man was running along the west wall of the Abbey. She recognized him now—it was Sam Colt. He mounted one of the tethered horses, caught the reins of the other, and chased after them. Renewed expectations for a happy ending quivered in her breast until Lucien tore the sleeve off her dress. At first she thought he was attacking her then she realized it was a far worse scenario. He wrapped the fabric around his hand and ripped a metal brace off the funnel used to direct the scorching-hot air into the balloon. Employing the still glowing metal he worked to sear through the rope upon which Walker dangled. It was a slow process, but promised eventual success. She wrestled with him, trying to slow his progress.

  A cold blast of wind sent them rushing toward the coast. The atmosphere nearer the ocean was blustery, their path chaotic. The basket tipped from side to side, causing Walker to swing riotously beneath them. At least he was no longer battered by the trees. But as the balloon’s shadow flittered crossed the sandy beach and slipped beyond the shoreline, her palms began to sweat. They were heading straight out to sea.

  The rope Lucian labored over smoldered, and then burned halfway through. She pummeled his back and slapped at the line trying to put out the sparks. Ignoring her assault, he began sawing the line with the jagged edge of metal.

  Peering over the edge of the basket, she squinted against the rush of air coming at her full force. They were gaining altitude. Her panic increased, and she decided when the rope holding Walker broke, she would be on it too. Better to die with Walker than live without him. Hiking up her skirts, she shimmied over the edge of the basket, and with one hand still on the top rail she reached for the twisted hemp draped over the side. Wedging one foot in the cross-rigging beneath the basket she secured a tenuous position.

  Walker grappled up the last few feet. His hand clasped the calf of her left leg then her thigh.

  “What in God’s name are you doing? Get back onboard,” he ordered, coming face to face with her. The sight of the bloody cuts and dark bruises on his face and hands made her wince.

  They clung to one another near the bottom of the basket. “The rope is almost burned through,” she warned. “It won’t last much longer.”

  He slid his foot in the rigging beside hers, and wrapped one arm around her.

  Without thinking, she glanced down. Then she snapped her eyes shut, and began to shake. She wanted to be strong, but all she could think of was how they were never going to raise a family, or grow old together.

  She began to cry, couldn’t stop, the hysteria welling up in her chest.

  “Can you swim?” he asked.

  “Not a stroke,” she uttered, between great sobs, eyes still closed.

  “Not to worry,” he said, “the drop will probably kill us.”

  At his sarcasm, she gave him a horrified look, as well as her full attention.

  “That’s better,” he said, with the grin she so favored. “Do you trust me?”

  “Always and forever,” she sniffled.

  Reaching down with one hand, he pulled off his left boot and then the right. Freeing a pistol from its holster, he fired at the balloon.

  The air began to leak out, sending them on a wild descent. Visions of a wet crash landing flooded her thoughts. Then the rope broke, and her mind went blank.

  She buried her face against Walker’s shoulder. He held her tight and wrapped his legs around her. They plummeted like a rock, hit the water, and went under.

  Having no idea which way was up, she thrashed about, sucking in saltwater. Strong hands pushed her to the surface, and sputtering and choking she gulped great breaths of air as Walker bobbed up beside her.

  “Hang on,” he instructed, dog paddling to keep them both afloat, “and try not to drown me.”

  He swam for shore, one powerful stroke after another. She held onto his belt, barely keeping her head above water as he dragged them toward land. The tide was out, offering a sandy beach rather than deadly rocks, and the waves were surprisingly cooperative.

  Sam Colt was waiting. He slogged through the shallows, helping them to their feet and shepherding them to dry land.

  “Enjoy the ride?” Sam asked, slapping Walker on the back.

  “The view was nice, but the accommodations lacking.”

  “Glad you’re all right, Mrs. Garrison,” Sam said, handing over his coat.

  Walker snuggled it around her, and in unison, they turned toward the horizon to search for the balloon.

  “I’ll be damned,” Walker said, and pointed. “He’s losing altitude, but still airborne.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Trelayne’s physical injuries, being relatively minor, quickly healed. The scars on her mind ran deeper, her emotions slower to recover.

  At first she feared to leave the house. And when they weren’t in bed together, she insisted on knowing every minute where Walker was and if he was safe. Ever patient, he finally convinced her that allowing her fear to rule her life was keeping her as much a prisoner as Lanteen ever could.

  Taking Walker’s advice, she worked hard at relegating thoughts of Lucien to the wasteland of her mind. There was nary a word regarding his whereabouts, or if he had even survived his maniacal escape. Walker was correct. There was too much happiness in her world to spend one moment on unsettling reflections. Her parents were making great progress, and now she discovered her best friend was soon to be married.

  “Oh Pen,” she laughed, clapping her hands, “what positively splendid news. I’m so happy for you and Jeffery. A winter wedding sounds beautiful,”

  “Are you sorry you didn’t have a proper wedding of your own?” Penelope asked. “One with all the trimmings?”

  She thought about it for a moment then shook her head. “Perhaps a few more flowers and a suitable dress would h
ave been nice,” she admitted. “But being whisked away to Gretna Greene was utterly romantic. Just like in the books we used too read.”

  “Used to? You mean we have to stop reading them now?”

  “No, of course not. If we don’t keep reading, we won’t keep learning. But we must take care our husbands never find them, lest they think we are dissatisfied or dreaming of another man while in their arms. They’re funny that way.”

  “I’m afraid of the first time,” Pen admitted. “You promise it didn’t hurt over much?”

  “Only a little. And only for a little while.” She squirmed on the settee recalling the first time Walker had made love to her—or as he put it, the first time they shared lust and desire. “You want it so badly,” she confessed, “the trepidation gets lost in the passion.”

  Penelope leaped up, starry eyed and flighty as a hummingbird. “You must help me with the wedding plans, Laynie. You have brilliant ideas, and this way it will be partly your wedding, too.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you Pen, it sounds wonderful. I’d love to be your co-conspirator.” She gained her feet, and arm in arm the women ambled to the front door. “Can’t you stay a little while longer?”

  “I dare not. Madame Bodane has just received a new shipment of tulle. And before the best of the collection is taken, I must select what is to be used for my veil. Come visit later this week. The sketches she prepared are divine. It’s to be a wedding gown beyond compare.” Penelope’s voice held a dreamy quality, and her eyes shone with visions of her perfect wedding and her perfect future.

  “I’m sure it will be the best of the season, and I promise to see you soon.”

  She gave her friend a hug and a farewell peck on the cheek then watched and waved as Penelope took to her carriage. Alone and left to her own devices she wandered through the house. It was quiet as a mausoleum. Where was everyone?

  “Do you know where Aunt Abigail might be?” she asked Merrick, as he sat reviewing tenant records in the east wing.

  “I believe,” he replied, with a grin, “she’s enjoying a carriage ride with Mr. Colt.”