When a Rake Falls

by Sally Orr

  “Yes, yes. Let’s get to it.” He grabbed the cage with a crow inside.

  Why did he ask the question if he didn’t want to hear the answer? She dug through the wooden chest, looking for a pencil, mumbling, “In some animal societies, they abandon males at birth.”

  “Pardon?”

  She grabbed the pencil then faced him. “Your society is delightful because of your mirth.”

  He widened those striking green eyes. “I might have deserved that.”

  She laughed and then realized it was her first laughter of the day.

  “But you must forgive me,” he said. “I truly am excited about starting.”

  Actually, with all of the preparations and tension that normally came with making the arrangements for a flight, this was the first time she had laughed all week. “I’m sorry. I too am excited to begin. Now stand over there by the harness. That way I will have enough room to release the birds, and you will be in a good position to help me observe their flight. After they are released, I will write our observations down in the Results book. Ready?”

  He stepped to his assigned position. Two seconds later, he returned to her side and mimicked her every move. “This is so thrilling. We could make a big discovery too, right?”

  “Yes, any trip may find an important discovery. Our results today may even advance our understanding of many of nature’s secrets.” She elbowed him out of her way. The wind had died a little within the last fifteen minutes, making it imperative that she do her experiments before the day’s fine weather changed. She examined the barometer and calculated they had lost one hundred feet, so she released some ballast to gain altitude. The madman, to his credit, did not speak, but he continued to shadow her every move. All she had to do to complete her tasks was ignore him. Once her pencil and the Results book were at the ready on a small bench, she grabbed the cage with a large, black crow. “This fellow was hard to capture, believe me. I am going to remove him now. Are you in position?”

  “Right ho!” He jumped to his place by the harness, and the sway created by his vigorous movement caused them both to clutch the side of the basket.

  She fought to restrain the large wings of the black bird and not fall overboard. “Ow.”

  He rushed to her side. “You need my assistance. Let me help.”

  The bird had pecked—rather hard—on her arm, leaving her all too pleased to hand over the struggling crow into his capable grip. His height also gave him an advantage with the troublesome bird, and she was secretly glad of his assistance. “I think, under the circumstances, it would be best if you release all of the animals, while I record the results.” She sat on the bench, opened the Results book, and clasped her pencil. “Ready?”

  “Yes, yes.” He tossed the crow up in the air.

  The bird immediately flapped his wings and flew about twenty feet before turning to fly in a large circle. After four leisurely circles, the crow dove and was quickly out of sight.

  She started writing her observations in the Results book.

  “Shall I tell you what I saw now?”

  Glancing up from her entry, she noticed his knees, clad in butter-colored buckskins, directly in front of her. “Once I finish writing our observations of the crow’s behavior, we need to continue these experiments while our altitude remains steady.” She caught his fallen expression and soft sigh. “Very well, tell me what you saw.”

  “Bless your bonnet.” He proceeded to eagerly describe the crow’s descent using unscientific, emotional words like “bravery.”

  She duly wrote them down in the book.

  When he finished, he took the next cage, reached in, and carefully grabbed a small sparrow. “Hallo, little brown bird. Come, come. Time to fly away home.”

  “Don’t get too close to the edge. A Frenchman once tossed a goat overboard, lost his balance, and fell out of the balloon.”

  “That Frenchman got what he deserved. Goats cannot fly.” He crouched, stiffened his gait, and slowly approached the side. “Are you watching?”

  “Yes.”

  He tossed the sparrow out in front of him.

  All she saw was a dark-colored streak against white clouds. “What did you see?”

  Turning to face her, his happy countenance had disappeared. “I was too busy worrying about the edge of the basket. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” He dropped his head slightly. “Is there any way I can make amends?”

  She smiled and recalculated her opinion of him. He did have a good heart. From now on, she’d try to think of him not like a fashionable Tulip or a fearless madman, but more like an attractive puppy named Parker—a creature too adorable for her to look away. “I think you are doing fine. The important thing is to note our mistakes in the Results book and continue forward. So next up is the pigeon.”

  He smiled in penitent gratitude. “Thank you. I must admit I am having fun.” He carried the pigeon’s cage over to the bench, opened the top, then grabbed the bird. “Coo coo.”

  Eve turned to a new page, then noted the time and altitude. “Ready.”

  “Watching me?”

  “I’m watching the pigeon.” However, if she was completely honest, a good part of the time was spent admiring his overall appearance. He had wide shoulders on top of a slim, straight figure. His woolen clothes appeared expensive, serviceable, and tailored to perfection. Even now, after a wild ascension and tussle for the draw line, his outfit remained spotless and in proper order.

  He tossed the bird about a foot above his reach.

  The pigeon flapped his wings and began to fly. The bird’s wings beat furiously as it moved away, his altitude slowly sinking. Within a minute, the pigeon sunk below the bottom of the basket.

  She noted this in the Results book. Then on the next page, she discovered her father had written specific questions in regard to each bird. Since birds made various types of sounds, he had made a reminder to describe the noises made after each bird’s release. She hadn’t heard anything remarkable, so she asked Parker. “My father has written a question here. Did the pigeon coo at all, or make any other noise?”

  He spun to face her. “You jest! That bird was too busy trying to fly.”

  “I will note your observations.”

  “Miss Mountfloy?” He placed both hands on his hips.

  She looked up from her notes. “Yes.”

  “What happens to these birds? I mean we have crows on the estate, and they really are fine birds—smart too. Well, that pigeon was frightened, and I don’t blame the fellow. I know our efforts will gather information to save humanity, but do these birds live after they are released from a balloon, or will we never know?”

  He was obviously concerned, so she replied to the best of her ability. “I don’t have a definite answer to your question. But our theory, and the evidence so far, is that they regain the ability to fly once they leave the rarefied atmosphere, and the air becomes thick again.”

  He sighed in relief. “Thank heavens. Mr. Pigeon should be home by nightfall. Right, next up?”

  “Next is our final bird, the duck.”

  “Never understood why my father loves to shoot God’s flying creatures. I mean the man can shoot ducks all day long. When I was young, he invited me to keep him company. I didn’t mind, really. Being the youngest of eight sons, it’s nice to feel needed.” He grabbed the duck, and the bird quacked in protest. “Right, little fellow. Thanks for saving humanity. Ready?”

  The duck quacked his answer.

  Eve was not ready. His physical charms, while substantive, were no match to the allure of his kind, open manners. So she forgave him for restraining her after their ascent. She also had no doubts that, in his father’s presence, he’d rather serenade the ducks than shoot them. She chuckled softly but stopped after realizing she might have a pang of regret when she let out the gas to double-cross him. “I’m ready now.�
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  In one smooth movement, he tossed the duck into the air, then leaned over the side.

  Since she missed the duck in flight, the bird must have fallen. “Well?”

  “Dropped like a stone.” He shook his head.

  She noted that fact in the Results book. “The duck precipitated to the ground.”

  “Huh? The duck was—is—a feeling animal, not a variable.”

  She ignored him. “My father has written here if the duck quacked with apparent satisfaction?”

  “Apparent satisfaction?” he yelled. “No! He quacked in frustration. He quacked from the cold. He quacked his bill off. He quacked, ‘Help, I’m falling!’”

  She wagged her finger at him. “That is not logical. You don’t speak duck. I will make a note that he quacked.”

  He stomped up to her, causing them both to clutch the sides of the swinging basket. “Do you speak duck?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Yes, and the duck quacked emotionally, not logically. So I repeated exactly what the duck said.” He pointed his finger at the book. “Now write that down.”

  “Very well.” Eve finished a notation about his belief in the duck’s feelings. When finished with her entry, she noticed him leaning over the edge of the basket, perhaps looking for the duck. “Ready for the next one?”

  He turned to face her. “What? The duck was the last birdcage.”

  She pointed to several small tightly woven baskets near the boxes. “In those small cages, you will find a bee, and in the other, a butterfly. Once we test those, we have completed this batch of experiments. Later we can perform tests that include taking air samples and tasting spices. Once in the laboratory, we will compare the animals’ ability to fly with the amount of oxygen in the atmosphere at various elevations.” While she waited for him to collect the cages, she checked the hygrometer, both the wet and dry thermometer, and the barometer. She then noted several observations about the clouds at their present elevation and temperature.

  After moving the larger boxes aside, he pulled out the two little baskets. He peeked inside one and turned to face her. “This is the bee. Ready?”

  “Ready.” He lifted the top, and the bee flew upward out of the basket only to quickly disappear into the thin air.

  He continued to scan the heavens for several minutes before addressing her. “Did you hear him? He definitely hummed, but I don’t speak bee, so write down what you will.”

  “Thank you.” She made a notation about the bee’s audible hum. “We’re almost finished. I’m ready for the butterfly now.”

  He found the last small basket and held it close to the edge. Then leaning over until his lips almost touched it, he spoke to the butterfly. “I’ve watched you in wonderment many times floating through the air, wishing I too had the freedom to fly. Now that I have joined you moving on a breeze, it’s even better than I had dreamed. Safe travel, my friend.” He opened the lid, and the butterfly rose into the air.

  The animal must have decided to remain with his new friend, because it flew down close to the floor of the balloon. The butterfly then circled a few times before landing on an empty cage.

  “I don’t blame you,” he said. “You just sit tight, and before you know it, we’ll be in France. I’m sure you will like France, little one.”

  She gasped. The pigeon had somehow returned and was perched on the edge of the basket. “Look!” She pointed to the bird.

  Once he caught sight of the pigeon, he slapped his knee and laughed.

  Somewhere deep inside her, floodgates opened, and she laughed like a madman too. Couldn’t stop it if she tried. His pure gaiety brought out the longest laugh she could remember.

  He stepped close and put one arm around her shoulder. “We really must capture the fellow so he’ll be safe.”

  She waved her hand. “The pigeon’s fine right where he is.”

  His laughter stopped, and he stepped away, pointing to the bird. “But he might be like the duck and fall.”

  “Let the pigeon choose. Why don’t you leave the cage open? Maybe he will return by himself.”

  He piled the cages into a row and opened all of the doors, giving the bird every opportunity to find shelter. “Now that we have completed these experiments, you must agree to be my witness. My assistance with the birds surely meets the definition of Service to a Lady. I know Lady Sarah will appreciate my efforts. Not to mention my father will be impressed.”

  The catch in his voice when he spoke of his father surprised her. “I’m sure your father is impressed with you. How could he not be?”

  “Thank you.” He flashed a wry grin. “Got all the prizes at school, never spent my evenings foxed or in the arms of a housemaid. Some of my other brothers were experts in that regard. But when Richard returned from America a big hero, my father now speaks of no one else. Richard is the favorite son, and he ignores the seven remaining sons. Especially me, on account of…”

  Her throat seized, and she bit her lower lip. How could she possibly bludgeon him now or even tie him up for that matter? She had waited too long and had grown fond of him. No longer could she even consider double-crossing him. It appeared that her best option was to land the balloon now. Otherwise, she’d have to accept the risk, try to ignore any thoughts of glory, and continue onward to France.

  After checking her instruments, she calculated their elevation, estimated their speed, and examined the status of the shimmering balloon above them. While she did her work, he stood with his gaze fixed on the pigeon and waving an arm toward the cage, obviously inviting the bird to return.

  “Parker, as captain, I must tell you that this is a good time for us to land. I hope you have reconsidered your journey to France today.”

  He dropped his jaw. “No! Of course not. I bet we are almost there, right?”

  She paused and decided she needed more current data to evaluate the dangers of attempting to reach the shores of France. She then took measurements and discovered that they were over the plains of Kent and would be reaching the coast soon. The sun hung low in the sky, and the light wind would probably propel them to France before darkness fell. Since the temperature was tolerable at their current elevation, if she gained altitude, they would reach France sooner. Except higher elevations meant colder temperatures, so she calculated the possible temperatures at various elevations using one degree per four thousand feet—not exact calculations, but adequate to make a decision. She then chose the highest elevation that matched an acceptable temperature. Aeronauts routinely huddled to retain warmth, and she wondered if Parker could efficiently huddle. Huddle with a Tulip…

  Stop. Do not attempt dangerous calculations.

  She made sure she did not glance his way, so her decision did not suffer bias by his warmhearted personality or his attractive person. She then asked herself for an honest evaluation of their chances of success. Unfortunately, she had enough experience to easily answer her own question. History proved anything could happen. In the worst case, the wind could die or change directions, the balloon could rent, and the weather, which had been exceptional up to this point, might change into a violent storm.

  Upon further evaluation of the serious dangers ahead, if the wind died during the night, they might never reach the shores of France alive. The gas would condense in the cold night air, causing the balloon to lose altitude and crash into the ocean. Once they were in cold water, their survival would be measured in minutes, unless they could be rescued by a boat. What were the chances of a boat about at night, much less witnessing their crash in the dark?

  However, on the bright side, after Major Money’s rescue in 1785, cutters that normally rescued mariners now followed balloons out to sea. The major’s balloon lost its lift, and he spent hours in the North Sea. A cutter that headed in the direction of his flight, followed him, and saved his life. She glanced up. Her balloon still had plenty o
f lift, the light wind remained steady, and the day continued to be an unusually warm one. Considering all of these facts, she gained the conviction they would eventually succeed and reach France.

  Parker, her all-too-handsome passenger, stood in front of the pigeon and cooed softly.

  She chuckled to herself. A coo really is a lovely sound. If he could speak duck, maybe he could speak pigeon as well. The thought of disappointing him now seemed unbearable. Besides, there was every indication his resolve to reach France had remained steadfast, so he’d probably tie her up if she tried to descend. Nevertheless, she explained the hazards of their current situation. “Knowing we may perish in the cold ocean, do you still want to continue?”

  After an examination of the heavens and the balloon, he hesitated, a soft empathy filling his emerald eyes. “Yes, I acknowledge your concerns and the dangers ahead. I take full responsibility for our journey, but I just have this feeling that we will reach the shores of France safely.”

  The pigeon took two hops down into its old cage.

  “Ha,” he said, closing the cage door. “You were right, my smart miss. I have every confidence your abilities will guarantee our success. So what do we do now?”

  Eve stared at the golden tips on the gray clouds ahead. “Pray the wind holds.”

  Four

  Boyce moved the pigeon to the end of the balloon’s basket and stacked several boxes in front of the bird’s cage. This would provide a shield from the cold wind after they gained altitude. He wondered how much higher she intended to go. “What elevation are you aiming for?”

  She cut a bag of sand and straightened to face him. “I estimate six thousand feet. That elevation should be high enough to clear the Channel at our current trajectory. Unfortunately, the wind might alter direction or fall off completely. Even with blue skies, a troublesome storm can brew within an hour. Success will also depend upon where we cross. A crossing further north is considerably wider and will take longer than if we cross near Dover. Still, my calculations indicate we have plenty of ballast for our descent, unless the conditions become steadily worse.”