Airborne - The Hanover Restoration

by Blair Bancroft

  To the government, you’re the traitor, my inner voice declared.

  Oh, for Heaven’s sake, my common sense retorted. Britain was meant to be a monarchy.

  And when had I become an advocate for revolution? During the length of my Papa’s many lectures on the subject? When I married it? When I met Lexa?

  After the guards came, I had been able to put assassination to the back of my mind. But murder in the wine cellar said it wasn’t so. We were all vulnerable. Perhaps Aurora’s next flight would encounter a regiment of rifles hiding in a copse, ready to blow both gondola and balloons full of holes.

  Merde!

  And my prime candidates for murderer? Somehow I couldn’t quite see Mrs. E stabbing a man, even though the large knife found in the picture taker’s chest had been traced back to the Abbey kitchen.

  Drummond? I suppose I found him suspicious because he had run the household in Scotland of Princess Victoria of Saxe-Coburg Saalford, also known as the Duchess of Kent. Or more simply, Lexa’s mama. Drummond also seemed far too well acquainted with Lady Carlyon. And yet, from what I could determine, the marchioness and the duchess were equally determined to place Lexa on the throne, even if their motives might be suspect. The Duchess of Kent presumed to ascend to all the prestige of Queen Mother. Lady Carlyon, I surmised, saw herself as the queen’s trusted advisor.

  Soames? He might look ineffectual, but I’d been at the Abbey long enough to know that Soames was indispensable, the man who tended to details so Julian might create in peace. Personally, Byram Soames might fade into the woodwork, but his competency was unquestioned. I’d also learned he had evangelical leanings, which could mean . . . almost anything. He seemed irreproachable, the last man to commit murder. And for what possible motive? Evidently, he’d been with the family since before Julian was born.

  Matt? No. I absolutely refused to think Matt capable of being anything but Julian’s right hand in the workshops. I liked Matt. And yet . . . he came from poverty and if offered enough money . . .

  Lord Wandsley? The thought of that portly gentleman creeping about the cellars with a knife almost sent me into whoops. The truth was, the killer could be anyone from a footman to one of our guards masquerading under false colors. There were simply too many people on the Abbey grounds at the moment. Finding the killer was like searching for a needle in the proverbial haystack.

  I attempted a different approach to the problem. Not who killed the poor daguerreotypist, but why? Had he been eliminated so he would not reveal who hired him? Or because he was seen as a threat to the monarchist cause? In short, he could have been killed by friends instead of enemies.

  And what had happened to his camera plates? I must remember to ask Julian about them. Hopefully, they were nothing more than shattered bits of glass. Yet Julian was always so curious about how things worked . . . and how could he resist keeping images of his airship as it flew over the Abbey grounds?

  I muttered a few more choice words and threw up my hands, literally and figuratively giving up the fight. For half my life Lord Protector Wellington had symbolized peace, a firm hand on the realm, Britain moving onward to new glories. He was a hero, standing over our lives like a colossus. Keeping us safe. We saw his noble visage on every public wall, his piercing eyes staring at us from behind the glass in every print shop. I suppose they’ll find a word someday for those who cling to the familiar, rather than embrace the new and frequently better. But at the moment I suffered wrenching confusion. I would, of course, follow where Julian led, and I was willing to believe Lexa had a right to the throne, yet what would happen to the gallant but autocratic general who saved Britain and the continent from Napoleon Bonaparte?

  “M–my lady!” A panting Tillie paused, clutching the door jamb, eyes wide with fear. “The vicar’s come, m’lady, riding his poor old Mollie like the devil was after him. Or so Donald says. Somethin’ bad is happening. Mr. Drummond’s sent for his lordship and told me to come for you.”

  “The vicar?” I repeated while my mind raced. Dear God, Wellington had assembled an army and was about to walk over our thin line of guards as if they didn’t exist.

  “It’s got to be bad, m’lady, for him to ride his poor old horse like that. You must come now!”

  I stood, shook out my skirts, patted my unruly hair back into place, and headed for the front staircase.

  When I arrived in the drawing room, the vicar was pacing the floor while Drummond stood sentry at the door. “Mr. Truesdale,” I said, mindful of the manners my governess had drummed into my head, “how nice to see you again. And I must thank you for your calls during my illness—and the Book of Prayer. Most thoughtful.”

  For a moment he gazed at me as if he had no idea what I was talking about. He coughed, his eyes focused, and he managed, “Indeed, Lady Rochefort, it was the least I could do. And thank you for your most gracious note.”

  I took pity on him, and, truthfully, my curiosity refused to put up with any further conventional exchanges. I sat on the gold brocade sofa and motioned him to a nearby chair. “I understand there is a problem?”

  “Evangelicals.” He spat the word. “There’s been a great deal of agitation among them, ever since his lordship launched his airship. But today, rumors are rampant in the village. Several of my parishioners, loyal to the Stonegrave family, have come to me today, saying a mob is gathering at the Evangelical’s meeting hall, whipped into fury by men come from London. Each hour more strangers are arriving—by train, wagon, cart, and shank’s mare. ’Tis said they plan to attack, to burn the devil’s airship. Man was never intended to fly.”

  Mr. Truesdale’s words ran out as he gasped for breath, his kindly face distorted in anxiety.

  I looked to Drummond, but he had anticipated my request and was pouring out a tot of brandy, which the vicar accepted with considerable gratitude.

  At that point Julian strode through the door, and the story was repeated. “How many?” he asked, but the vicar could only shake his head. Certainly more than the meeting house could hold, with more arriving by the minute.

  “Clever,” Julian said softly. I stared. “This isn’t local. As much as our Mrs. H and her friends fear my inventions, they wouldn’t do this. They think I’m peculiar, they might even think I do the work of the devil, but their families have lived here for generations. They’d never attack a Stonegrave. Not on their own.”

  “Outside agitators,” I said.

  “Indeed.”

  “But we can’t have a war on the Abbey grounds,” I said. “That would be all the excuse the military needs to—”

  “Precisely.”

  I slumped on the sofa, staring straight ahead, seeing only the yawning pit opening at our feet. All Julian’s plans, my dreams. Lexa. The monarchist revolution cut off before it had a chance to flower.

  “Are they armed?” It took a moment for Julian’s question to the vicar to sink in. I tossed my faint-heartedness into the pit instead of myself and paid attention to their conversation.

  Mr. Truesdale frowned, obviously searching his memory. “Clubs, yes. I saw no guns, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a cache of them somewhere.”

  “Thank you, Vicar.” Julian held out his hand. “Let me assure you, your warning has saved far more than bloodshed at the Abbey. I am eternally grateful. I will have two of my most experienced men scout the village, and I trust we will come up with a suitable plan before it comes to blood and mayhem.”

  They shook hands, and Drummond showed the vicar out.

  “Dammit, Minta, don’t look like that. Do you think I can’t handle this?”

  “If this incident is an excuse to bring Wellington’s troops down on our heads, then it doesn’t matter what we do. Win or lose, we’ll find ourselves in the Tower, and Lexa along with us. If she doesn’t just ‘disappear’ along the way.”

  “O ye of little faith.”

  Julian’s scorn sliced through me, but I saw no way out of this tangle.

  “I must consider the worst
aspects of this, Minta, but it may yet prove to be nothing more than a few religious hysterics exciting a mob against what they see as the devil’s handiwork.”

  “And if it’s a convoluted Machiavellian plot by the government?”

  “We’ll find a way around it.”

  I let sarcasm get the better of me. “Any secret rooms, a tunnel or two, some way to get Lexa out of here?”

  “As a matter of fact . . .” Julian grinned at me.

  The Evangelicals were right. My husband might very well have a touch of the devil.

  Chapter 16

  “The tunnel is very old,” Julian said, as he slid his fingers behind a dusty wine rack, “but the family has always kept it in good repair. After all, it served the monks well—almost all of them managed to escape old Henry’s troops.”

  I shuddered in the cellar’s cold. The picture-taker’s body was gone, but the place where blood had seeped into the hard-packed dirt floor was still clearly visible.

  Click. Julian put his shoulder to the six-foot wooden wine rack, filled top to bottom with bottles, and heaved. The rack inched forward, revealing an opening just wide enough for a person to slip through.

  “Not designed with females in mind,” I noted.

  “Heaven forfend. Sorry,” Julian added as he saw the disgust on my face. “I have no doubt two or three determined ladies could manage it if they had to.” He shoved the rack back against the wall. Dark eyes gleaming with challenge, he took my hand and guided it behind the rack. “There. Feel that? Shove the handle down. Hard.”

  Click. “Now help me push,” Julian ordered. “Well?” he demanded when the opening to the tunnel was once again revealed.

  “Moral of this story—I’d better not try to escape alone.”

  Julian groaned. “Minta, it’s a secret tunnel. It’s not supposed to be easy. And, besides, I’m going to leave it open for instant access. If you ladies have to use it, just pull it shut behind you.”

  I gulped. The idea of entering that dark opening under the earth and pulling the wine rack shut behind me was one of the least appealing thoughts I’d ever had. I gulped. “Where does it go?”

  “It comes out in a thicket at the edge of the ha-ha, with covering enough to get you safely into the woods.

  And then what?

  “Minta! Now’s not the time to lose your courage. You’ll have lanterns. And, besides, it’s highly unlikely matters will ever reach the point where you’ll need the tunnel at all.”

  “What about the female servants? The Biddles and the maids?”

  “I promise you, Minta, the mob has no interest in servants.”

  “The sans culottes spared the aristos’ servants?”

  Hard eyes glared down into mine. “I believe the servants joined the attackers, but that was France, Minta, not England.”

  “And you think Mrs. H will defend the Abbey, rolling pin in hand, when the attackers are members of her church?”

  “I think,” my husband snapped back, “that Evangeline Biddle is quite capable of protecting her entire flock, no matter what her sister does. And I also think I need to be upstairs, seeing to our defenses. ”

  “I beg you pardon,” I murmured. After one last glance at the yawning gap that marked the tunnel entrance, I scurried past the other racks of wine, past the blood stain on the floor, and out into the stone-walled corridor. Julian seemed as eager as I to escape the miasma of damp earth, stale air, and the taint of murder. I had to move quickly to keep up with him as we made our way back to the upper reaches of the house.

  Nearly two hours later, Julian joined me in our sitting room, assuring me both guards and guests had been alerted and the airship returned to the safety of the workshop. Every one of our private army had been called to duty, a solid cordon ringing the outer workshop, the rest at posts encircling the Abbey.

  When I opened my mouth to ask the myriad questions churning through my head, Julian put his fingers against my lips. “Hush, Minta. All’s been done that can be done. Now we wait.”

  Hush Araminta Galsworthy? Rochefort might be a genius, but when it came to women, he could be as jingle-brained as any man. “Couldn’t this be much ado about nothing?” I demanded. “Look outside. It’s a perfect spring night, the park as serene as a millpond.”

  Rochefort proffered his arm. Would you care for a stroll to the woods, my lady?”

  Conceding the point, I shook my head. But it was so nonsensical. A mob attacking the Abbey over a glorious new invention . . .

  Or was that just an excuse?

  My speculations were left unresolved as a footman entered, announcing the return of Rochefort’s spy. Julian rushed downstairs to speak with him and I followed, shamelessly eavesdropping from the gallery at the top of the stairs.

  The messenger’s words tumbled out in haste. The evangelicals, whipped to a fury by an agent provocateur from London, had surged from the meeting house onto the high street. There, they were joined by the crowd from the tavern, which had been plied with drink and harangued to a fever pitch by yet another mystery man with a silver tongue.

  “Armed?” Julian asked.

  “Oh aye, m’lord, well-armed they was. Shotguns, rifles, clubs, pitchforks, a ladder or two. And plenty o’ torches as well.”

  Armed men flowing toward the Abbey like some massive destructive flood. Or at least that’s how I pictured them. Surging along the road, tramping down the railroad tracks—for surely half the village knew about those swinging doors. Others climbing over the fence, for wasn’t there a ladder in every barn? But I feared the torches most, for whether their target was the airship or the Abbey, fire could wreak the most destruction.

  Surely they wouldn’t . . . not Aurora. Yet to the evangelicals and the ale-fired riff-raff, no matter who stirred them up, Rochefort’s crowning achievement was an ungodly creation that defied the laws of nature.

  Julian looked up, not even blinking to find me leaning over the railing above his head. “At the very first indication of violence, take and women and go,” he called to me.

  My throat closed, I couldn’t speak. Instead, I offered what I hoped was a confident wave, indicating I understood.

  Drummond and Mr. Soames appeared in the hall below, weighed down with armaments. Drummond had a rifle strapped to his back, a sword hanging from his waist, and a pistol tucked into his sword belt. In his arms he held another rifle, which he fitted over Julian’s back. Soames handed him a sword and two pistols. Like squires arming a knight for battle. But where was the armor? Could they not, at least, have offered one of the boiled leather aprons from the workshop?

  As if Julian would have worn it.

  Dear God, my husband, the inventor, was going to war. He was going outside to confront a mob high flown on ale and righteousness, and God alone could help him. And I had a few doubts about God taking pity on a man who hadn’t set foot in church for years.

  I stood on the gallery, my mind numb, until Julian and Drummond departed and Soames instructed Daniel to bar the front door behind them.

  Think, think, think!

  Slowly, ever so slowly, the wheels and cogs of my mind began to turn. Unfortunately, they conjured images of a bloodied Julian, fighting for his life. And for all those who depended on him. Including me.

  Surely he would talk to them, make them see it was futile to attack the solid stone walls of the Abbey. Futile to protest against progress. And then I recalled Papa’s tales of Luddites, those violent protesters against progress a generation past. The many years of broken farm machinery, broken knitting machines, burned hayricks and cottages.

  I had to face the truth. To many, progress was feared to the point of violence and hatred. Which did not bode well for the monarchists . . . or did it? After a thousand years of kings and queens, was Wellington not the aberration that needed to be rectified?

  Stupid! A mob’s descending on the Abbey and you’re standing at the head of the staircase like some grande dame ready to welcome guests.

  After t
elling my inner voice to take a leap onto the marble tiles below, I squeezed my eyes shut and summoned my common sense. Julian chose me because he wanted a strong woman, a woman who knew how to use her brain, a woman who could cope.

  At the moment I rather thought he’d made a disastrous error.

  Think!

  A mob, not an army, was at our door. Not disciplined troops with siege machines, but men crazed on drink or religious fervor. Against them we had the strength of the Abbey walls, a ring of professional guards, most of them former soldiers, and the power of Julian’s title. Baron Rochefort and his ancestors had lived on this land since the time of Henry VIII. He was landlord to most of the local men. When push came to shove . . .

  Niggling tendrils of doubt insinuated themselves through my fear. But what if . . .?

  What if the mob was a feint? What if—while the mob and our guards confronted each other on the east side of the Abbey—a small, much more deadly, group of men approached from the west?

  For what purpose?

  To fire Aurora? Seize Lexa? For surely they would never go so far as to kill the legitimate heir to the throne.

  Would they?

  Foolish speculation. They couldn’t get in—the Abbey was locked up tight.

  But if the Abbey was so secure, then who killed the daguerreotypist? And how?

  I pried my fingers from the railing and forced myself back toward the sitting room, still thinking hard. As Papa frequently told me, it is always wise to have a Plan B.

  I gathered our female guests in the sitting room that lay between Julian’s suite of rooms and mine. “One of the guards is on the roof,” I told them. “He will give us first warning when he sees the mob.” I decided not to mention the torches. We were frightened enough as it was.