When well past the Wellington Barracks, I swung back to the right, following the length of the long pond, where ducks sailed serenely on, undisturbed by my clockwork engine. As my flight continued without mishap, clearly proving the maneuverability of my strange craft, the shouts of the crowds became huzzahs.
Enjoying myself hugely, I followed the blue water of the pond to the very end of the park. Oh!
Pride goeth before a fall. There before me was Horse Guards, and in the front courtyard, a mounted army in red coats, their silver helmets gleaming in the sun. And every eye—even the horses, I swear—fixed on me.
Except for the ones looking behind me. Looking up. At Aurora on its way to Hyde Park.
I drifted, my hand frozen to the steering lever, until I was looking straight down at the captain of the guard. Only it wasn’t a captain. It was a colonel. Prince George.
Summoning courage I hadn’t know I possessed, I waved and smiled. Incredibly, Lexa’s cousin waved back. I gulped, sent up a quick prayer to what I hoped was the merciful God of the New Testament, and began my turnaround. If all went as planned, I would lead the multitude back down the length of St. James Park, through Green Park, past Apsley House (the Lord Protector’s private residence), and into Hyde Park in time to witness the arrival of Princess Victoria in her chariot from the sky.
But the moment the thousands of people in St. James and Green parks turned around, they would see Aurora, its size and majesty eclipsing poor little Maia. But wasn’t that exactly what we’d planned?
Though not the part about the Horse Guards joining the reception committee.
Julian, well aware of the location of Horse Guards, had to have anticipated this, fitted it into his plans. I could almost hear him: Minta, the Horse Guards are the sons of the aristocracy. Their fathers are already in Hyde Park, waiting to greet their future queen.
Perhaps. Surely he had not expected both Foot Guards and Horse Guards to be drawn up on parade, less than a half mile from Aurora’s landing site.
Fully turned now, I paused, gazing down the length of St. James Park toward Buckingham Palace.
Whose head would sleep in the royal bedchamber?
And whose heads would adorn the Tower walls?
Enough! I fixed my gaze on Aurora as it veered west, heading toward its landing site in Hyde Park.. As planned, the airship would be on the ground before the crowds reached the site. Before the Horse Guards or Foot Guards could reach the site. Unless they had no qualms about trampling the crowd. (Tales of the Peterborough Massacre in 1819 whispered through my mind. My stomach lurched, bile rising in my throat.) But surely Wellington had not anticipated our every move. Or were there closed carriages on Rotten Row, harboring soldiers of less aristocratic blood, eager to put down the monarchist cause? Foolishness! We’d discussed it a hundred times. Julian’s vantage point in the sky allowed him to view Hyde Park all the way to Kensington Gardens. And how many times had he stated he would not land if he saw anything suspicious?
I slowed to drifting speed as I approached the palace and took the time to crank my engine. It was good for ninety minutes, Julian had promised, but I was taking no chances. Who knew what lay ahead?
Aurora was coming down, flying the Union Jack at bow and stern, with four more red, white, and blue flags canted at angles from her wicker sides. Oh, dear heavens! Someone had affixed a giant gilded crown, four or five feet across, to the roof. Matt! It had to be Matt.
I didn’t bother to wave to the surging masses in front of the palace gates. They were already turning their heads west toward Hyde Park, pointing, shouting . . . Like a giant wave on a stormy sea, those on foot and horseback began to move toward the possibility of an even greater bit of entertainment. The crowd surged, flowing irregularly around two- and four-wheeled vehicles struggling to turn around in the midst of an undulating sea of people.
Until now, I had kept a leisurely pace, keeping the crowd’s attention fixed on me, giving Aurora time to reach her goal without hindrance. Now, however, I moved the small lever that increased Maia’s speed, soaring over Green Park, over busy streets with traffic brought to a standstill by the tide of humanity rushing toward Hyde Park. Past Apsley House . . . the blue water of the Serpentine loomed ahead on my left.
For a moment I took my eyes off Aurora, where men on the ground were reaching for her tether ropes. Grass, nothing but grass. I was ahead of the crowd. And not a soldier in sight. We’d done it!
I slowed Maia, my heart attempting to slow with it. Not successfully. In these final moments before Lexa appeared before her people, my pulse pounded, my thoughts raced, refusing to coalesce into coherent thought. I scanned the group of dignitaries waiting to greet Her Royal Highness, Princess Alexandrina Victoria. At the forefront, the Marquess of Carlyon, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord Chancellor, the Lord Mayor of London, and Lord Melbourne, the future Prime Minister. Just behind them, thanks be, a surprisingly high number of the House of Lords willing to risk all to restore what was essentially a continental dynasty to the throne of the British Empire.
But I had no instructions for this moment. I was to keep the crowd’s attention, then lead them to Hyde Park. Beyond that, nothing. And yet . . .
I was here, I was airborne. I could see what others could not. A single urgent thought stabbed its way through the excitement of the moment. Perimeter search. I should do a perimeter search. Although there were a few carriages stopped on Rotten Row, gawping at the spectacle like everyone else, I saw only one closed coach that might contain soldiers, and I knew we had enough of our own men on guard to handle any threat a single carriage might hold.
Yet the area was rimmed by trees and bushes . . .
They were tying off Aurora’s four tethers. Next, the door would open, the steps would be lowered . . .
So little time . . . were our guards on the ground enough . . .?
I mustn’t fall into the trap of thinking we’d succeeded just because Aurora and her balloon hadn’t been shot full of holes before she landed. Nor should I fall into the trap of counting my chickens before they were hatched. Truth was, I had descended to about forty feet as I approached Aurora, staring at the reception committee like some baconbrained idiot just off the farm. Quickly, I increased both speed and height in a scramble to rise above the trees. My job wasn’t done.
So many leaves—how could I spot a man with a gun? For that’s all it would take. One well-placed shot from a rifle and Lexa would be gone, leaving Wellington—
No, never. Our Lord Protector would not stoop so low.
I had no such benign thoughts about Ernest Augustus, King of Hanover.
The trees were in a widely spaced ring, but each sported thick summer foliage. I swooped down as close as I could, but caught no hint of skin, fabric, or the gleam of metal.
On to a large cluster of low bushes. I was vaguely aware the noise level had increased. The crowd had caught up, and were being held back by a stout ring of our guards.
Again, all I could see was a mass of green leaves. I zipped behind Aurora, barely looking at the trees some distance away. Any assassin waiting in that area would have abandoned his post in search of a clear line of sight. Another glance at Aurora showed I was right. Crowds had surged in from both sides, ringing Aurora in a semi-circle, making a shot from the bushes impossible. Only from a tree . . .
And there it was. A glint of metal, a glimpse of something flesh-colored.
Around me, silence. Complete, awed silence. And I knew Lexa—my friend Lexa, Princess Royal of the House of Hanover—had made her appearance, every crystal on her gown sparkling in the sun as brightly as the diamonds in her tiara. Alas, I dared not look. I could only picture her in my mind, for my eyes were fixed on the man in the tree. The man who was about to bring our revolution to a tragic end.
Only one thing to do. I shoved the controls to speed, attacking him from the side like an avenging fury. He was so concentrated on the princess, he never saw me coming. Shielding my face with my arms agai
nst the tearing branches, I steered my precious Maia into the tree, using both feet as a battering ram, sending the man catapulting to the ground. His shot went wild as my basket crashed against branches too sturdy to break. Air whooshed out of me, pain everywhere as twigs penetrated my skin even as rough wood scraped me raw and leaves filled my mouth. My basket cracked, spilling me half out, clinging madly to an eight-inch branch. My balloon struggled to go airborne, cracking my head against a thick branch above me.
Was that the sound I heard? Had there been a second shot?
I swayed, the remains of my basket swayed. The balloon kept up its insistent tug, determined to go airborne. Dizzy, I kept a death grip on the branch the assassin had chosen for his vantage point.
Julian!
As my head cleared, I became aware that the screams and shouts from below had dulled to a low roar. Whatever had happened was over.
“My lady! My lady!”
Matt. Of course it was Matt come to my rescue. Why should I expect Julian when his duty kept him at Lexa’s side?
With Matt’s calm encouragement, I disentangled myself from the remains of my beloved Maia, crawled along the branch, trying not to look at my bloody hands and arms. A dozen willing hands helped me to the ground. I looked toward Aurora, but the crowd blocked my view. I could, however, clearly see the assassin, flat on the ground with two burly men sitting on him and two constables breaking through the gawking crowd, heading straight toward them.
Good! My surge of satisfaction wavered as reality hit me almost as hard as I’d hit the tree. Matt’s grip tightened as my knees threatened to buckle. I had attacked a man with a rifle. I had saved Lexa’s life. Lexa, my friend and sovereign.
“Listen to me, my lady.” Matt, lips to my ear, broke into my self-congratulations. “You’ve no cause to panic, but there was a second assassin. What you did warned the Guv and he stepped in front of the princess, taking the bullet meant for ’er.”
Black burst over my world, obliterating triumph, blotting out the sun. “He’s d—?”
“Not by a long shot he ain’t. The doc’s with ’im now, but he refuses to be put in a carriage ’til the deed’s done, just as we planned.”
“Take me to him this instant!”
“Truth to tell, m’lady, seein’ you all bloody will likely be more of a shock than the Guv should have. In his condition and all.”
“Now, Matt!”
To my amazement, the crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses. Vaguely, I heard cries of, “Huzzah for the little lady!” “Bless you, my lady!” “You’re a right one, Baroness!” And then a loud, “Three cheers for Lady Rochefort! Hip, hip, huzzah!” The shouted refrain propelled me forward, my ears ringing, my feet floating over the grass as I spotted what I hoped was Julian at the end of the opened path.
“Hip, hip, huzzah!”
Someone was sitting on the ground, propped against Aurora’s steps, but almost obscured by what I could only hope was a doctor kneeling beside him, plus the broad skirts of four ladies—his mama, Lady Carlyon, Lady Wandsley, and the sparkling white glory of Her Royal Highness, the Princess Victoria. Behind them hovered the Marquess of Carlyon.
“Hip, hip, huzzah!”
I plowed through them all, even laying hands on the girl who was about to be queen. My knees hit the ground. “Julian!” I gasped, eyes wide with terror as I saw the gaping wound in his shoulder.
“Good God, Minta, you look worse than I do!”
I’d forgotten the blood. “’Tis nothing, just scratches, but you—”
“I’ll mend.” I wasn’t so sure about that. A pain far worse than slamming into the tree stabbed through me. What a fool I’d been not to recognize how much I loved him until threatened by his loss.
The doctor spoke up. “He needs to go home, my lady, where I can properly tend his wound, but he won’t budge. Says ‘it’s not over yet,’ whatever that means.”
I glanced up to find the dignitaries, still in line and staring intently in our direction. “Oh. Have you not been acknowledged, Lexa–ah–Your Highness?”
“I fear not. I was whisked back into the airship and allowed out but a moment ago.”
I looked over the princess’s head to the marquess. “Then it’s time,” I declared. “Lord Carlyon, will you please present Her Highness?”
The temerity of giving orders to a marquess, however politely worded, was not lost on me. And Julian’s lips definitely curled into a tight smile. My fate in life—to amuse my husband.
The marquess stepped forward, offering the tips of his gloved fingers to the princess, and escorted her to within a few feet of the men who had risked their lives, their titles, and their fortunes to greet her.
“Your Grace.” Carlyon inclined his head to the archbishop before including the others. “My Lord Chancellor, my Lord Mayor, my lords”—he took his time as he surveyed the array of peers of the realm. Making a list, no doubt. These were the men who would find favor with the new government. “I have the great honor to present to you Her Royal Highness Alexandrina Victoria of Kent, rightful heir to the throne.”
I could only see her back, but I knew Lexa looked radiant. Providing the promise of something young and fresh and wonderful. Hope for a nation that was surging to the forefront of world power.
“Your Royal Highness,” the archbishop acknowledged, and went down to one knee before her. The other dignitaries did the same.
Now the huzzahs were for Victoria, as they should be. I clutched Julian’s hand tight as tears filled my eyes.
Behind me, the final huzzahs faltered, dwindling to shocked whispers, followed by silence. The rest of the crowd gradually quieted, aware that something was wrong, but not knowing what.
An opening appeared in the tightly packed crowd, another parting of the Red Sea. And through it walked a tall, lean, elderly man, wearing not the uniform of a Field Marshal in the British Army, but a blue tailcoat, similar to the one he had worn during the Peninsular War and at the battle of Waterloo. I blinked, used my sleeve to wipe away my tears. Wellington, the Lord Protector. Behind him walked Prince George and an array of generals.
The silence was palpable. I’m quite certain we all held our breaths, from the archbishop right on down to the lowliest crossing sweep. I couldn’t even imagine what Lexa was thinking. I could only pray the best traits of the House of Hanover would prevail, keeping her upright and unquailing.
And then it happened. The Lord Protector of the realm, the man who had saved the nation from conquest by Napoleon Bonaparte and from the profligacies of George the Fourth, and the venal tendencies of Ernest Augustus, King of Hanover, dropped to one knee before the Princess Victoria and bowed his head. Despite his age, his voice had lost none of its power. “Your Royal Highness, for eleven years I have stood caretaker to this realm. I now gladly relinquish my authority to the rightful monarch. May God bless the reign of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.” Prince George helped the old man to his feet, and peers of the realm surged forward, enveloping all the chess pieces in the long-term match to restore the House of Hanover.
I stopped watching. “Now,” I declared sternly, “will you go home?” Julian simply stared at me, his eyes shining as brightly as the sun. “You were right,” he said. “The old man did it.”
My momentary euphoria exploded as my guilt came rushing back. “I failed you,” I wailed. “I never saw—”
“The leaves were thick—”
“No, no, I should have seen—”
“Save your recriminations, if you will,” the doctor barked. “We must get Rochefort home.”
I looked up to find a carriage making its way through the crowd, with Matt leading the way. Of course. Who else would keep his head in the midst of such an earth-shaking event?
Meekly, I followed Matt’s orders to enter the carriage first so I could take Julian in my arms, with the doctor and Matt fitting themselves onto the opposite seats. Terror came crashing back. What if I should lose him?
Chapter 27
“I’d had a enough schooling before m’ma died of the typhoid, so’s I c’d read and write,” Matt said, his voice hushed in the darkened bedchamber where we kept vigil over Julian. “I read about this nob what was making grand things—automatons what could clean, cages that c’d move up and down, engines small and lightweight enough to steer a balloon. And I had to see it, be part of it, no matter what it took.”
I could swear I heard the wet cloth hiss as I pressed it to Julian’s fevered skin. He was burning up, and there was little we could do to alleviate his suffering except cooling cloths and drops of laudanum at regular intervals. It had been four days now, with Julian growing worse with each hour that passed. Tonight was the worst.
Earlier, the doctor had left his instructions and then paused, looking grave. “Lady Rochefort, I have done everything in my power to treat his lordship—hot and cold compresses seem to have drawn out some of the infection—but I must warn you he may not see the dawn. Fortunately, his constitution is strong,” he added, “and if he survives the night, I believe he will mend.”
I sent for another pitcher of water and a fresh supply of cloths, then resumed my seat by Julian’s bed, the bed in which my father had died. After four days of hovering by his side, my movements as I poured water into the basin, dipped the cloth, wrung it out, and once again bathed his face were automatic. My mind whirled into a chaotic montage of scenes from the day Elbert brought me to Stonegrave Abbey and its owner, Baron Julian Rochefort, right up to the moment I crashed, feet first, into the tree at Hyde Park.
Julian groaned and thrashed about. Matt, on the opposite side of the bed, lifted his mentor’s shoulders, and I poured a small amount of water between his parched lips. Matt laid Julian back on his pillows and pulled up the covers, before turning his face abruptly away to hide what I suspected were tears.
Airborne - The Hanover Restoration Page 24