Airborne - The Hanover Restoration

by Blair Bancroft

  “I still think that’s what Prince George was trying to tell us.”

  Julian’s lips curled in a wry smile. “I think young George was offering himself as Prince Consort. Only the most optimistic interpretation suggests anything more.”

  I sighed. “But it would be so wonderful if the Wellington endorsed—”

  “Hush,” Julian whispered. “Moving from predictions of dire defeat to the Lord Protector’s blessing in the space of a few hours leaves me dizzy. Shall we stop worrying, snatch a few hours’ sleep, and be much too busy tomorrow to worry about anything?”

  I burrowed my head in his chest. “Agreed,” I murmured.

  Yet even snuggled close to Julian’s heart, I heard the whine of a bullet, remembered the pain. A single bullet, two wounded . . . and tomorrow we might face a whole company of riflemen.

  Chapter 25

  Saturday, 27 June 1840, 7:10 a.m.

  Cautiously, I opened my eyes and peeked at the light glowing around the edges of the summer draperies. Sun? Yes, thank goodness!

  My stomach heaved. Wha–at? Shame had me burying my face in my pillow. My stomach, it seemed, would have preferred a downpour, something catastrophic enough to postpone our plans to another day.

  Coward! my inner voice mocked for what must have been the hundredth time in the past few weeks.

  Be quiet! I’m entitled to my fears. I fail only when I let them keep me from my duty.

  I snuggled into Julian, who had slept like a log, even as I lay wide awake and worrying. Not about the flight of the Maia, but about Julian, Lexa, Lady Carlyon, the Wandsleys, and Matt who would be aboard Aurora. And Lord Carlyon, who was scheduled to greet them with the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Chancellor at his side, signifying their formal acceptance of the Princess Victoria as reigning monarch of the realm.

  Would Maia and I be able to keep the attention of both crowd and soldiers? (For I was certain there would be soldiers. Wellington was far too shrewd not to suspect trickery at the announcement of a Solo Ascension by Baroness Rochefort, wife of the notorious monarchist.) Had I been most horribly wrong? Instead of a diversion which allowed Aurora to make it to the ground without being riddled by bullets, would the sight of Lady Rochefort maneuvering a swing high above Green Park be more like waving a red cape before a bull? Signaling every red coat in London to take arms, the revolution was at hand?

  I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to picture disaster. Julian believed we would triumph. Lady Thistlewaite believed, the Carlyons and the Wandsleys believed. They were privy to all the plots and plans, and they assured me we were not alone. But monarchs had expected people to rise up and fight for them before, and it simply hadn’t happened. Or the rebels had been too few, and their heads ended up piked on the walls of the Tower.

  Being ninety-nine percent certain no one would shoot at a young baroness on a white wicker swing was slim comfort. In two short months Julian had become the center of my life. Losing him was beyond comprehension. It could not happen. And Lexa? Losing my friend or my monarch were equally unthinkable.

  As for Phoebe, Lady Wandsley had thrown a fit of the vapors over her daughter flying in Aurora, so she would be with me in Green Park. I had secretly instructed the guards who would be with us to see that she was whisked away to safety if our plans came to naught. Phoebe, I was determined, would survive, if none of the rest of us did.

  Visions of children playing in the Abbey courtyard rose up before me. Children playing hide and seek, rolling hoops, skipping rope, running, laughing, giggling. My children. Julian’s. Would they ever be?

  Stop this nonsense! Your destiny is saving a nation, not sorrowing over a gaggle of unborn brats.

  I see no reason I can’t do both, I snapped back, thoroughly annoyed with my inner voice, even as I noticed my common sense was strangely silent. I suspected I might have lost it somewhere along the way these past few days.

  With great care I detached myself from Julian, wriggled into my robe and slippers, and let myself out into the dim hallway. I roused Phoebe and, together, we made our way to Lexa’s room, where the guards gave way before our bright, “Good mornings” and winsome smiles. Though Lexa’s maid, still asleep in a trundle bed, seemed shocked by our early morning visit, Phoebe and I were soon settled on our friend’s bed. We stared at each other, and suddenly words wouldn’t come. The three of us, usually prepared to chatter nineteen to a dozen, clamped our teeth over our tongues and deliberately dragged a curtain over our thoughts.

  In the end, we murmured words too private to repeat, and then Lexa—Her Royal Highness, Princess Victoria—led us in a prayer. We clasped hands for a moment before Phoebe and I went to our rooms to dress, leaving Lexa to the ministrations of her maid.

  I managed a bit of toast and strong sweet tea for breakfast, but the very sight of gammon, eggs, kippers, and blood pudding brought back my roiling stomach of early morning. Forgive me, Papa. I’m a disgrace to the House of Galsworthy.

  After breakfast, I sat quietly, letting the words roll over my head, while Lord Carlyon lectured us on the day’s timetable for what must have been the hundredth time. Perhaps only the tenth. What did it matter? The supposed events of each moment were etched in my soul.

  At half-eleven I went upstairs to dress. At noon Julian, garbed as finely as if he’d been summoned to St. James Palace, joined me. He kissed me soundly and hugged me tight, whispering a trifle hoarsely, “No unnecessary chances, my girl. When this day is over, I want you in one piece.”

  “You too,” I returned, my head buried in his chest to hide incipient tears.

  He grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me back so he could see my face. “Minta, we are not alone. We’ve been planning this for years. It’s going to happen, I promise you.”

  And if the world’s most famous general wasn’t ready to step down?

  Or Lexa’s ruthless Uncle Cumberland, King of Hanover, was determined to have the throne for himself?

  Or Prince George, Cambridge’s son, had lied, his ambitions running far beyond Prince Consort?

  I managed a credible, “Of course, Julian. Tonight we’ll dine in triumph.”

  “That’s my girl!” He flashed a smile, ducked his head to brush my lips with his, and then he was gone to join the others, including the next queen of the British Empire.

  I sat back against the dark blue velvet squabs of Papa’s closed carriage, refusing to look out as we drove from the northern end of Regency Park to Green Park, which lay just north and west of Buckingham Palace, right under the Lord Protector’s nose. I must have been mad when I proposed this plan.

  “You look very fine,” Phoebe said. “I had doubts about the design, but your costume will stand out beautifully. Every eye will be drawn to you.”

  I’d had a few doubts myself, but the whole purpose of a diversion is to divert. I must be the cynosure of every eye, and I’d dressed accordingly. My bloomers were royal blue and full enough to look like a skirt, if one didn’t examine them with too sharp an eye. A true skirt was out of the question, of course, for a young lady swinging above a crowd of avid-eyed watchers. But if they happened to think it was skirt . . . well, what better way to keep attention away from what was happening a few blocks away?

  I wore a short scarlet jacket in the military style, with epaulets in royal blue, edged in gold, and enough gold braid and buttons down the front to rival the most ornate officer’s uniform. The ruffled edges of my white linen blouse peeked out at neck and wrists. On my head was a shortened version of a military shako, done up in royal blue with gold trim and a shiny black patent brim. To avoid the ignominy of the hat falling off as I soared above the crowd, we tightened the chin strap until my jaw ached. To complete the image of a young girl on a garden swing, I’d left my hair loose, hoping the sun would gild the waves of brown tumbling down my back and over the front of my jacket.

  The carriage slowed, and Phoebe was unable to resist the temptation of a swift peek out the window. “We’re still on Bond Stree
t,” she said as she leaned back, “and it appears half London is headed for Green Park. The coachman is having difficulty getting through the crowd.”

  “It’s not just me,” I murmured. “They know. The town has been rife with rumors for weeks, yet somehow they sense this is the moment.”

  “Rochefort’s leanings toward the monarchy, your father’s—they’re no secret, Minta. People were bound to make the connection.”

  Indeed. Isn’t that exactly what we wanted? A huge crowd in Green Park watching the Baroness Rochefort display herself like an actress at Drury Lane. Allowing Aurora to fly without hindrance from Regents Park to Hyde Park, delivering the Princess Royal to a formal reception, which would include not only the Archbishop and Lord Chancellor, but the Lord Mayor, Lord Melbourne, and the members of the House of Lords with enough backbone to stand against the Lord Protector.

  I looked down at my garish garb and sighed. Lexa was wearing white silk peau de soie, embroidered in masses of translucent crystals which would catch the sun as she stepped from Aurora, sparkling brilliantly below the fresh young face of the future. On her head, a diamond tiara would emphasize her royal origins. Princess Victoria, about to be queen. Unless . . .

  I squeezed Phoebe’s hand, worried about our slow pace. Timing was all. But wasn’t that why Julian had insisted we set out ninety minutes before Maia’s scheduled ascent? I pulled my time piece from a hidden pocket in my bloomers. Silly girl. Everything was going to go exactly as planned.

  “Make way! Make way for the Baroness Rochefort! Make way!”

  A moment of panic as we entered the park, our vanguard parting the milling crowd so the carriage could get through. We were enveloped in people. Craning necks, peering eyes, faces actually pressing against the carriage windows as we inched our way to the heart of Green Park. And somewhere, deep down, I recognized the irony. I had, on occasion, suspected I might actually relish my role as the girl who would fly. That I wanted to disport myself to all and sundry, swinging high above their heads. See what a clever girl am I!

  But now, with the moment at hand, I wanted to yank the carriage curtains closed, cower in a corner, and never see another flying machine as long as I lived.

  Stage fright, Minta! Nothing but stage fright.

  Finally displaying good sense, are you?

  I opened my eyes to Phoebe’s anxious stare. I gulped, straightening my features into the stoic outward calm Lexa had developed during the uncertain, and sometimes chaotic, twenty-one years before Lord and Lady Carlyon whisked her away from her mama and brought her to Stonegrave Abbey. If Lexa could do it, so could I.

  “We must smile and wave,” I said. “We are delighted to be here. Delighted to entertain the crowd.” I leaned forward in my seat, smiling into the face of a young buck with more hair than wit. Heavens! Any moment he was going to be under our wheels. “Wave, Phoebe!”

  I cranked down the window. What had been a dull roar nearly sent me reeling back against the squabs. And the smell! After two months in the country, I’d forgotten the pungent odors of London. Unwashed bodies, horse dung, and coal smoke blotted out the smell of fresh grass and blooming flowers. I was home. This was my town, these my people. And I was about to dazzle them with a flying machine that was not subject to the vagary of the wind. I was going to fly, dip, soar, turn, keeping every eye fixed in my direction as I floated over St. James Park, in quite the opposite direction from Hyde Park, where Aurora would be preparing to descend.

  The faces disappeared, the carriage stopped. I peered out just as one of the guards drove a stake back into the ground, once again closing off the cordoned area around Maia. My shoulders slumped and I heaved a sigh of relief before glancing at my time piece. Good. We’d made it with thirty-five minutes to spare.

  “Change places,” Phoebe said, scooting across the seat. Maia is on my side.”

  And there she was, her balloon almost fully inflated, my white wicker swing lying canted on its side, resting against its clockwork engine, the propeller hidden from the crowd. A–ah, but she was beautiful! A giant globe of heavy oiled silk, rippling into life, gleaming more scarlet than burgundy under the strong rays of the summer sun. The noise of the crowd faded. So did my fear. For a short while I would hold the stage, do my part for my country, for my queen. For my friend, Lexa.

  And pray that tonight would find Julian and me safely tucked up in bed at Galsworthy House.

  I sat back against the soft blue velvet squabs and closed my eyes. The roar of the crowd alerted me to the moment when the balloon was fully inflated, surging against the ropes that held it down, my swing swaying gently at the proper height. Waiting for me.

  Another glance at my time piece. Ten minutes to ascension. I turned to Phoebe. “How do I look?”

  She adjusted my shako, tucked in a stray curl. “I wish I might go with you,” she burst out. It’s glorious, quite glorious!”

  I hugged her so tightly we had to readjust the shako. We signaled the closest guard, who swung open the carriage door and helped us down. The crowd screamed. I paused, allowing my gaze to move slowly over the mixed array of humanity—those on foot standing shoulder to shoulder and the privileged looking down from the vantage point of their landaus, barouches, curricles, high perch phaetons, and high-spirited horses. Incredible! They were all here to see me.

  And hoping for something more. How many were monarchists? How many simply curious, out for a cracking bit of entertainment, the chance to catch a glimpse of a shapely ankle?

  I smiled, I waved.

  How many were here to put down rebellion wherever it might rear its ugly head?

  And if it came to a fight, which way would the ordinary citizens of London jump?

  I turned toward Maia. It was time. Two crewmen, the same men who had assisted in Maia’s trials in Hertfordshire, lifted me into my seat with ease, then fastened the wooden bar across the front. My bright red half-boots peeked out below my bloomers, revealing a naughty glimpse of white stockings, clocked in red.

  Let them look. Every second the crowd was focused on me, people were not seeing Aurora launching from the fenced mews behind Papa’s workshop. They were not seeing Aurora making her way over Regency Park, crossing the Regency Canal, Marlyebone Road, casting shadows on a sea of tall chimneys dotting the roofs of Mayfair’s finest. They were not watching as Aurora descended toward the chosen landing site near Park Lane, at the easternmost edge of Hyde Park. They were not watching the carefully chosen array of dignitaries who would greet the Princess Royal when she stepped out of her flying chariot like an angel come to save the souls of her people.

  “One minute, my lady.” Peters, my chief crewman, slipped a gold watch back into his pocket. A gift from Julian, of which he was suitably proud.

  I nodded. Lost in the glory of the moment, I knew only joy. I’d dreamed of this venture for years. I was about to soar alone into the sky, showing these people what a girl could do.

  I was about to demonstrate that a girl could fly.

  That a girl could be queen.

  Chapter 26

  I was facing south, with the bulk of Buckingham Palace rising at the back of the crowd. Behind me, to the north, was Regency Park. Are you ready, Julian? Don’t be frightened, Lexa. I flashed an encouraging smile to Phoebe, who looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. I looked at Peters and nodded.

  “Hands on!” he ordered. The men standing by the two thick ropes that kept Maia earthbound pulled up the stakes, wrapped the ropes around their forearms, and braced their boots against the grass. A swell of sound, almost like the rumble of thunder, swept through the crowd. “Loose!”

  I was airborne, the wonder of it so great, for a moment I simply drifted, basking in the glow, the supreme triumph of flying. The sudden silence brought me back to reality. I glanced down. Yes, the crowd was still there, but the roar of the launch had dwindled to a faint buzz. Were they holding their breaths, waiting for me to fall? I was, after all, ascending rapidly, perched on little more than a
garden swing, my body fully exposed, my bloomer-clad legs dangling in the air.

  I pulled up the tether ropes and dropped them into small baskets on either side of my swing. With the launch process accomplished, I was free to show off a bit, pumping the swing, increasing its natural motion. Showing off. Making certain the crowd could clearly see me flying through the air, rivaling the angels themselves. A collective gasp as the arc of my swing increased. Even the faint buzz died away. I had them, every last one of them, fixed on me as closely as hawks eyeing their next meal.

  I risked a swift glance behind and to my right. Yes, there it was: Aurora rising. Tears misted my eyes. I modified the arc of my swing, waved to the crowd, and reached for the steering lever. And at that moment I knew what I had to do. Even as I heard Julian’s horrified, “No!” I determined to do it. I was so close . . . why should I not add one more feat of daring to this day? Rub the new age of flight right in the Lord Protector’s face?

  Instead of turning immediately toward St. James Park, I headed for the palace, soaring above the crowds filling the park, then up and over the massive building, over the green courtyard, behind the pole flying the Lord Protector’s flag. A small deviation from plan, but soul-satisfying. As if my symbolic overflight of Buckingham Palace had claimed it for Queen Victoria.

  I executed what I hoped was a graceful turn to the left and returned to our original plan, passing over the crowd in front of the palace and over the long pond that marked the center of St. James Park. Keeping every eye on me, every back to Aurora.

  The noise revived as people discovered I wasn’t in imminent danger of death, that I could maneuver Maia almost as easily as equestrians maneuvered their horses. People waved, shouted, with a cat-call or two from men who thought women had no place in the sky. I smiled, angled left again, almost to St. James Palace, which kept me safely away from the Wellington Barracks, where a rather large contingent of soldiers in red coats and the tall black bearskin shakos of the Foot Guard stood on parade. The first soldiers I’d seen. Hopefully, they were mustered there because they were being allowed to watch the ascension of Maia, but somehow their sabers struck me as more than ceremonial. A shiver shook me.