Airborne - The Hanover Restoration

by Blair Bancroft

  “Hell and the devil, Minta, do you care for me or not?”

  “Of course I care for you,” I snapped in a tone as agitated as his, “but I would wish to be more of a wife and not simply your bedmate!”

  Julian’s eyebrows shot up, his scowl intensified. “You don’t feel like a wife?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and returned his glare. “I entertain your guests, I oversee the servants, approve the menus. If we eliminate conversations related to the monarchist cause, possible threats from the royal dukes, rival aeronauts, and terrified evangelicals, there is nothing left, except for our few moments of privacy in bed. I don’t believe I’d call that marriage, but perhaps that is my bourgeois heritage speaking. If I had been raised in the upper classes, perhaps I would know my place as an ornament and bed partner and not expect more.”

  “This from the woman whose life I just saved?”

  My turn to examine the artfully embroidered bedcover. “I beg your pardon, I did not mean to say so much. It’s just that . . .”

  “Yes?”

  I looked up, facing him eye to eye. “You asked, and it all came tumbling out. Forgive me. I can think of no one to whom I would rather be married. Truly. But—”

  “Chaos has ruled since the moment you arrived here.” Julian supplied, his tone more than a little rueful.

  “Indeed,” I whispered.

  “But when this is all over and we have time to know each other in something besides the biblical sense, you believe there is hope for us?”

  I reached out with both hands and Julian seized them in his. “Yes, oh yes.” And, as always in the shelter of our bedroom, our next hour was as warm as the mid-summer sun and sweetly blessed by the scent of blossoms drifting up from the garden below.

  Rain poured onto the Abbey from slate gray skies, and I was glad, for perhaps the clouds would rain themselves out, leaving no worse than a mizzle for off-loading Aurora from the Abbey train to Elbert tomorrow. But at the moment a cascade of water sluiced down the Abbey’s front steps as Lord and Lady Wandsley descended, with Donald and Jacob attempted to keep umbrellas fixed over their heads. The Marquess and Lady Carlyon had departed for London the night before, and with the Wandsleys gone, we would be down to our last move in the complicated maneuver of putting us all in London before the solo ascension of the Baroness Rochefort. And all that went with it.

  Not all the water was falling from the skies. Lady Wandsley was visibly shaken as she bid her daughter goodbye. And as Julian, Phoebe, and I waved the carriage on its way from the safety of the Abbey’s narrow portico, a glance revealed a tear or two rolling down my friend’s cheeks.

  “Shall I call them back?” I asked. “No matter what Rochefort says, I can ride with Lexa.”

  “You will not!” he exclaimed before Phoebe could answer.

  “No, no,” Phoebe protested. “I want to go with–ah–Her Highness. I am simply sad to see my mother so distressed.”

  Rochefort shook his head, obviously once again confounded by the ways of women. “You will be completely cocooned from here to the Galsworthy warehouse. You were not more safe in your mother’s womb.”

  “Julian!” Such language in front of a maiden of good family.

  “My apologies, Lady Phoebe,” he mumbled. “But now the moment is upon us, my thoughts are on the task ahead, and my tongue slips into the freedom of the workshop.”

  Julian’s workshops. The world of men. It’s a wonder he had thought to give me my own space. Or perhaps Papa had made him promise? Truth to tell, men are sometimes as much a mystery to women as women are to men, though I’d never let him know it.

  Tomorrow, Aurora, wrapped like a mummy, would be loaded on the Abbey train. And late that night—the skies would not be sufficiently dark until after ten—Phoebe, Lexa, and Matt would push one small section of canvas aside, mount wooden stairs especially made for the occasion, and climb aboard. More canvas to seal the door, and after a suitable interval the rest of the players would move into place. Drummond would drive the train to the station at Tring. The guards who would shift Aurora to Elbert would go by wagon; Lady Thistlewaite, Julian, and I in the family carriage, the servants following in a second carriage. The remainder of our guards would make their way to London as inconspicuously as possible by train, coach, and wagon.

  “Minta?” As the outside door closed, muffling the sound of pouring rain, Phoebe’s voice echoed through the front hall. I paused, turning toward her anxious face. Julian was already charging through the green baize door, undoubtedly heading for the lift. “Do you think Lexa is frightened?”

  “I think we’re all frightened,” I told her. “Maybe even terrified. But if we stick together . . .” I put on a brave smile. We climbed the stairs to spend our last hours at the Abbey with our friend. She might be a princess, our future monarch, but today we were simply three young women, encouraging each other, praying, and reassuring ourselves our cause was righteous. Secretly acknowledging the depths of my own doubts and fears, I could only guess how much worse it was for Lexa.

  “There’s nothing like a thousand years of monarchy to sway people’s minds,” I offered later that afternoon as we took tea in my sitting room.

  “More,” Lexa declared. “The monarchy goes back to the Dark Ages, when Arthur united the tribes.”

  “You think there really was an Arthur?” Phoebe asked.

  “The tales may be embroidered, but there had to be an Arthur,” Lexa returned. “A king strong enough to bring the warring tribes together and make us one.”

  “The people will see you and love you,” I said. “I know it.”

  Lexa stirred her tea, keeping her eyes on her porcelain cup. “It all seems so cowardly somehow, arriving in the belly of a whale.”

  I let out a highly unladylike noise, sputtering tea in a shocking spray over a blue sprigged muslin that might never be the same again. “I beg you, don’t let Rochefort hear you say that. He is so proud of his plan.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Lexa said hastily. “It is merely that I wished for a more heroic entrance.”

  “You’ll have it,” I assured her, “but, first, we must get you to London undetected, and I can’t think of a safer place than ‘the belly of a whale.’ Excuse me,” I added, “this gown must be put to soak immediately.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Lexa said, her face twisted in anxiety.

  I laughed. “If one gown is all the price we pay for this venture, we are indeed blessed.” I proffered a mock bow, and hurried into my bedchamber, where I rang the bell for Tillie.

  The plans for the move to London went so well that I wondered if Fate was laughing at us, smoothing our path while waiting to shower us with obstacles on the Great Day. Aurora was loaded onto Elbert’s second-class carriage with only a minimum of profanity. The rest of us rode in comfort in first class; the right switch was thrown outside Euston Station, sending Elbert straight into the Galsworthy giant warehouse workshop where he was born. The great doors swung shut, a thick wooden bar swung into place. And in moments, Aurora’s passengers popped out like corks from a bottle, smiling from ear to ear. Excitement crackled through the air around us. We’d done it!

  The remainder of the Abbey conspirators were waiting when we arrived at Galsworthy House in Regents Park. That night, after taking time for the sleep we’d missed, we gathered in the drawing room before dinner, eyes wide, every last one of us awed that we had arrived at this point in our plans without a mis-step. Lady Thistlewaite actually allowed her stiff spine to touch the back of her chair.

  Jacob poured sherry for the ladies, Madeira for the gentlemen. Solemnly, Julian raised his glass in a toast. “To the Hanover Restoration.”

  “To the Hanover Restoration,” we echoed, and drank.

  Ladies did not offer toasts, but then, technically, I was a lady only by marriage. “To Queen Victoria,” I cried, chin high, my gaze fixed on my friend, the squat, perfectly ordinary young woman we wished to make ruler of a goodly portion of the world.<
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  A moment of surprise at my boldness. Then glasses lifted, the room rang: “To Queen Victoria.”

  A shiver swept through me. Goosebumps. We were mad, all of us mad. For all our intricate planning, all the contingencies considered, revolution did not come easily. We were in the lull before the storm. And when the storm came, it would center on me.

  Chapter 24

  The next morning, I crept out of the silent house, where only Julian, the servants, and I were stirring, and made the short carriage ride to Papa’s workshop. “Stop frowning,” Julian admonished as we waited for the guards to approve our entry. “Matt will have everything all right and tight.”

  “It’s the lot of women to worry,” I returned, and wished I could take back the snappishness in my tone the moment I said it.

  “Last night you were surging at the head of the pack. This morning . . .?” He shrugged. “You’ve crumpled into a worry-wart.”

  “Surely you know by now I’m not at my best early in the morning.”

  “Is that so, my lady?” Julian drawled. “How odd that I recall some remarkably lively moments early in the morning.”

  “Julian!”

  The carriage jerked as it moved forward, and I would have gone sprawling, except for Julian holding me hard against his chest, where his chuckles were all too clear. Oh, dear Lord, the guards had come and gone while we were talking. How much had they heard?

  Considering the rest of the drama around us, did it really matter that the private affairs of the Baron and Baroness Rochefort were served up for our guards’ amusement?

  Leaving the carriage inside the large fenced courtyard at the rear of the Galsworthy workshop, we entered the main building to find that Julian, as usual, had been right. Aurora still sat on top of the second-class carriage, but she had been unwrapped, with only two thick ropes now holding her in place. Aurora—ready for her illustrious passengers. Ready for revolution.

  And Maia? I turned in a circle, searching . . . Matt flashed a grin and pointed toward a section of the vast wooden floor where the rays of the morning sun were just beginning to streak through a high window, shining through a myriad dust motes onto my precious flying machine. On the white wicker swing, its seat and back cushioned in blue velvet the shade of a summer sky. On Julian’s marvelously intricate clockwork engine. On the winding crank, which he guaranteed could keep Maia in the air indefinitely. Or, as he put it, “barring a storm, the need to eat, or the urge to satisfy less salubrious bodily functions.”

  Casting Julian’s teasing aside, I turned to Matt. “Have you slept at all?” I demanded.

  “’Course I ’ave. Sleep on my feet, I do. How else did I escape the bobbies afore I met the Guv?”

  Bold words, but I swear he’d aged five years since we left the Abbey. “Go now,” I told him. “We need you fresh for tomorrow.”

  “In a mo’,” he returned with a cheeky grin. “Just ’av to tell the Guv a thing or two.”

  Before heading for Maia, I watched Matt and Julian, head to head, obviously lost in the complex technicalities of our great venture. What odd places genius popped up, I thought. In a titled gentleman of mixed Saxon and Norman ancestry, a man who should have been nothing more than a member of the idle rich, and in a street urchin who shouldn’t have been able to read and write, let alone assist in creating the intricate and powerful machines that were changing our world.

  I inspected Maia and found her in as perfect condition as she’d been in my workshop at the Abbey. The crumpled burgundy folds of her balloon lay in a heap beside her. Tomorrow. It was all happening tomorrow. And where was the opposition? How had we been able to bring Aurora and Maia into the heart of London without seeing so much as a single red coat?

  Hard to believe the old general was slipping, loosening his hands on the reins. Lord Protector of England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, the Canadas, Australia, India, Jamaica, and realms whose names I could not recall. Odds were, he was biding his time, ready to pounce just as we thought we’d won.

  Devil it! Not after we’d come this far! Not after all the planning, from subverting the aristocracy and Members of Parliament to the broadsheets, songs, and theatrics designed to appeal to the masses . . .

  Victoria would sit on the throne. And all of us, right down to Matt and me, would make it happen.

  Poor Lexa. Did she really want such a burden?

  Too late now. Too late for all of us.

  “It’s a trap, I tell you,” Lord Wandsley declared, scowling at a plate of Mrs. H’s dressed crab. “Town’s too quiet. Wellington’s no fool. Horse Guards are polishing their swords, I promise you.”

  “Nonsense!” Lady Carlyon declared. “We’ve outwitted the lot of them. All has gone as planned so far. All will go well tomorrow.”

  “Say what you will, Wandsley,” Lord Carlyon added, “tomorrow we will triumph.” The lords want their consequence back, the MPs have lost their starry-eyed worship of our once-great general, and the people long for a fresh, young face to lead the world into a new age of expansion. Wellington is done for, with no strongman in sight to take his place. Even our military grows tired of our so-called Lord Protector. Our timing, therefore, is impeccable.” The marquess had the grace to pause for a nod to Princess Victoria, sitting on Julian’s right. Considering Lord Carlyon’s arrogant, sometimes bombastic, tendencies, I was surprised he recalled her existence.

  “Tomorrow, Highness,” he pronounced with what I considered overly arrogant certainty, “you will be queen.”

  Lexa blanched. For a moment I feared her soup might come back up. But blood will tell, and she, thank goodness, seemed to have inherited the better qualities of a long line of Hanovers. She blinked, swallowed, and returned a graciously regal nod. “Thank you, Lord Carlyon. I am most grateful for what you and all those here”—she gazed at each of us in turn—“have done for me. I shall not forget.”

  Unfortunately, Lord Wandsley was as stubborn about sharing his dire thoughts as he was about adhering to the monarchist cause. In spite of hints from his wife, he continued his litany of ominous predictions until, even from the far end of the table I could feel Rochefort building up to a roar. The explosion came just as Daniel was serving raspberry tarts.

  “Enough!” Julian thundered, his palms slapping the table on each side of his plate. Though I’d expected his outburst, my fork dropped from my fingers, denting my tart before clattering off my plate and dropping onto the tablecloth.

  Julian pushed back his chair, standing straight and proud. “We did not spend all this time and money to fail. Tomorrow we will do what we came here to do. Put her Royal Highness Princess Victoria on the throne. Almost every lord in the kingdom, at least half the MPs, a good number of our military, and close to the entire population of London are on our side. I am so confident of success I am allowing my wife to risk herself in this venture.” For a moment his eyes flicked to mine, caught and held, promising more than the restoration of the Hanovers.

  “No one said it will go as easily tomorrow as it has so far,” Julian added, “but we will not be out there alone. We’ve brought our men from the Abbey, and many in the crowd are pledged to us. One way or another,” Julian concluded, “I promise you 27 June 1840, will go down in history. And I fully expect it to be remembered as the day Queen Victoria began her reign.” He proffered a deep bow to the future queen. “So let it be.”

  I gulped, wondering if any one of us at this table would get a wink of sleep. Heart pounding, I signaled Daniel to finish serving the raspberry tarts.

  Later that night, my thoughts of Julian were neither so proud nor sanguine as they had been at dinner. He refused to allow me one more check of Maia. Refused my plea to return to the workshop when my life might depend on it. I begged, I cried, I tried to box his ears.

  He grabbed my hands and held on tight, while I squirmed like a fish at the end of a line. How dare he?

  “Minta! Listen to me, Minta. Your equipment is perfect. You’ve checked it, I’ve checked it, Matt
has checked it. You need sleep far more than you need one last look at your precious Maia.”

  I kicked him in the shins.

  “Damn it, Minta, stop that! Maia will work. You know it will work, I know it will work.”

  I twisted, struggling to raise my knee to his most vulnerable spot. I suppose it’s a good thing I failed. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure how much damage a knee could do, and I still hoped our future might a include a child or two.

  “Bloody hell, Minta, we’re on the same side!”

  So we were. And our side was Lexa’s side. That of Alexandrina Victoria, Princess Royal of the House of Hanover. I deflated as fast as Maia’s small balloon. Once again, I’d acted the child when I was Araminta, Baroness Rochefort, daughter of Josiah Galsworthy, and about to play a crucial role in what we hoped would be a bloodless revolution.

  “I beg your pardon,” I murmured. “I am as bad as Lord Wandsley, both of us suffering a bout of nerves just before the curtain goes up.

  Julian folded me into his arms, the warmth, the scent of him going a long way to calm my fluttering heart. Or at least turn my emotions in a different direction. “Believe me,” he said, “we all feel qualms. It’s just that we’ve had more years to learn how to hide our fear. The truth is, anything could happen tomorrow. The greatest threat to the princess may come from her Uncle Cumberland, the wily King of Hanover. Though why he cannot accept the rightful succession of Kent’s child is beyond my comprehension. It’s not as if we’ve never had a queen before.”

  “If only Good Queen Bess might rise and box his ears.” Julian’s laughter faded as he saw my face turn grave. “Is there any possibility Wellington may step aside?” I asked.

  Julian pressed a thumb against his lips, considering. “He has to be haunted by what power did to Napoleon,” he offered.