Perilous Journey of the Much-Too-Spontaneous Girl

by Leigh Statham

  “I’m ever so grateful for the gift you left on my bunk. I haven’t had pantaloons so fine since I left Paris. Ooh la la!” The girl posed and threw her amazing hair over her shoulder. The other two girls laughed quietly. Marguerite took two steps into the room and stared down at the pretty face with the jolly expression.

  “Those are mine, and I’d like them back please,” she said. Then she braced for a fight. Back at school and even on the ship ride to New France, every confrontation with these kinds of common girls came with a fight. But Marguerite was used to it now and even though she was exhausted, she was ready to put this horrid person with perfect curls in her place.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you claimed this space. I don’t see your name on it anywhere.” The girl’s eyes twinkled as she smiled a wicked grin. Marguerite leaned over and snatched the pantaloons from the girl’s lap before the girl could react. She pulled open the waistband and flashed her monogram in the girl’s face. LMV was stitched in meticulous, scrolling letters across the soft, silky fabric.

  “Lady Marguerite Vadnay,” she said with steely defiance. “Now please remove yourself from my bunk and hand over my camisole.” The girl flinched.

  Ah ha! Marguerite thought, I got her. She’s afraid of me. I am scary!

  “Alright, alright.” The girl stood, forcing Marguerite to back up to make room for her in the small space. She tossed the camisole onto Marguerite’s head and scampered up to the top bunk in one quick move. “Calm down. I’m just having a bit of fun with you, Lady Marguerite Vadnay. I’m Lucy; that’s Rori and Audrey.”

  Marguerite didn’t know who was who, but the sisters raised their hands simultaneously and smiled. She felt suddenly off guard. She wasn’t sure how to respond. It took her a moment to register the fact that it had been a very long time since a girl other than Outil, who was actually just a bot, had been nice to her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two more days passed as the ships flew at top speed to the aid of the convoy from France. Rain continued to pound down on the fleet, and high winds pushed them forward at top speeds with minimum fuel needed. The smaller ships tossed back and forth relentlessly, making Marguerite airsick for the first time in her life. If she could just get above deck for a breath of fresh air, she would feel better and get her legs beneath her, but there was no such luck. The high winds and dangerously cold temperatures meant that even the deck boys spent as little time out there as possible with the unrelenting storm.

  Even if she could have escaped for a morsel of air not laden with the smell of cow and fishpond, she didn’t have time. The Henrietta was a hive of activity at all hours, and she didn’t have a moment of free time from morning wakeup call until she fell into bed at night.

  If she thought her hands were a wreck on the first day, she wept over them as she tried to sleep the third night. Her fingers ached from cracks and cuts, and all of her once manicured nails were now gone, lost to shredders and peelers in the kitchens. In a matter of days, her hands had gone from those of an aristocrat to the maws of a dirty washerwoman.

  Her bunkmates continued to be kind to her. In fact, almost everyone on the ship was kind, with the exception of Lady Cook, who’d insisted Marguerite and everyone else in the kitchens call her that after Marguerite had arrived and announced her title. Marguerite still wasn’t sure how to handle these women who were kind and even funny. She tried to smile as much as she possibly could and otherwise kept her mouth shut.

  She had much more important things to think about than getting along with common aerwomen. Like how to get back at Jacques. It wasn’t enough that she had resolved never to have a thing to do with him again. Her anger had blossomed into schemes of revenge. She wanted to annoy him. She wanted him to feel like she felt—helpless, humiliated, and small. The fond memories she held for him were being persistently mashed to a pulp by the autohammer she used to tenderize the meat every night, and she made little effort to remember what it was she loved about him.

  She should have been cataloging weapons, testing trajectories, and preparing for war. Instead, she was scrubbing pots and pans, chopping leeks, and brushing a cow that hated her. At least Louis had stuck around to help her with the manure. Fifi loved him, but every time Marguerite tried to get close, the beast flipped her with her tail or head-butted her, and just this morning she’d kicked her square in the stomach, quick as a whip. Marguerite had never seen a cow move that fast in her life.

  She rubbed her still sore ribs with her aching hand. She seriously considered sending a note to her father asking him to come get her, but then she dismissed that thought immediately. She wouldn’t be able to bear his smug I-told-you-so laugh once he had her safely back in the luxury of his grasp. No, she was going to tough this out and get even, and make them all see that she was made of stronger stuff than they all thought.

  In the meantime, she was going to have a good cry. She turned her face into her pillow, took a deep shaking breath, and let the tears fall. She tried to stay silent so the other girls wouldn’t hear her and bother her—she didn’t want to deal with anyone right now. She knew at least two of them were asleep, as she heard the soft lady-like snores of tired girls. But when she accidentally sniffed a bit too loudly, she heard the bunk above her squeak as Lucy shifted and then slid down the ladder like a spectre in the night.

  She sat on the edge of Marguerite’s bed and put a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Are you alright there?” Marguerite wanted to swat her hand away and tell her to cog off, but she took another deep breath and tried to calm herself instead.

  “I know it’s hard being out here. I imagine you aren’t used to this kind of life. Anyone with drawers as fancy as yours hasn’t spent much time doing the kind of work we do on the ship. Are your hands ok? You’re on galley duty, right? That can be murder on the fingers. Hang on a second.” The girl stood up and started rummaging in her trunk then returned and sat on the bed again. “Let me see your fingers.”

  Marguerite reluctantly pulled her hands from under her rough wool blanket, wiped the tears from her face, and held them out. Lucy found them in the dark and pulled them toward her and let them rest on her knee. Marguerite could hear her opening a jar in the dark, and a pale red light from the hallway lit a silhouette of Lucy’s lovely curls.

  One by one, she rubbed an ointment on Marguerite’s poor fingers and palms. It felt amazing. Lucy was careful and quiet and didn’t push too hard on any of the cuts. “I heard Fifi got you in the gut today?” she asked softly.

  “Yes,” Marguerite finally whispered.

  “She is a nasty, nasty cow, that one. Only likes men. Typical woman.” Lucy finished with one hand and picked up the other. “Does that feel better?”

  “Yes.” Marguerite sniffed, emotion threatening to bubble out again. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Why not? You’re a human being, aren’t you? You seem pretty miserable, and I don’t like to see anyone in misery.”

  “But you don’t even know me or why I’m so miserable,” Marguerite protested

  “Does it matter?” Lucy asked as she finished with the last hand and set it on Marguerite’s bed. She screwed the cap back on her jar and stood to put it back in the trunk, leaving a cold spot on the bed where she had been sitting. Marguerite realized she didn’t want her to go.

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t matter.” Lucy sat back down. “Do you want to tell me your story?”

  “There’s not much to tell. I’m a fool stuck in a man’s world, trying to find a way to get out.” Marguerite realized how utterly pitiful that statement sounded and instantly felt self-conscious. She didn’t realize how huge the pity party was she was throwing for herself until this very moment.

  Lucy laughed quietly, “Aren’t we all? Listen, let me tell you my story and you can tell me yours. Then we’ll call it good for the night, yes?”

  “Deal,” Marguerite answered.

  “My parents were wealthy merchants
in Paris,” Lucy began, “but they thought living in New France would be an excellent adventure, so they packed my brother and me up, bought a dirigible, and took everything we owned to the skies. Everything was fun and exciting, until we got to Montreal. My father had made a deal with a land agent for a shop in town where he was going to set up an importing business. Only the agent turned out to be a crook, and we lost everything we had. Father went to work at a brick factory and mother did what she could here and there, cleaning or sewing for wealthy families. We lived in a tiny cottage on the outskirts of town, and when the pox came through, well, I was the only one who made it. How about you?”

  Lucy told this story like it was reporting the events of a very dull day. Not a hint of sadness in her voice.

  “I am so very sorry,” was the only thing Marguerite could think of to say.

  “Don’t be. It was about six years ago. The nuns took me in and took care of me. They tried to marry me off this spring, but I told them I wasn’t having any of it. So they got me a post on this ship. It was the best they could do for a penniless orphan. So far, so good. I love flying. I can’t wait to get out from under the deck. It’s driving me crazy to be locked up down here.”

  “Where do you serve?” Marguerite asked, anxious to change the topic.

  “Crow’s nest is my favorite, I have a good eye with a glass, but this week I’m on chute duty. I help pack the goods for the other ships at meal time, and I collect and service the chutes when they come back in the mornings. Doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a full time job. Lots of patching and cleaning to be done. What is your story?”

  Marguerite sighed and began her tale. She tried to keep it short and absent of melodrama, especially considering the events Lucy had just relayed. There was no competing with losing your whole family and having to strike out on your own. At least, Marguerite had known somewhere in the back of her heart that her Father was always there should she need him. There was always plenty of money and family, and if nothing else, Outil.

  Outil! How Marguerite missed her bot! She wondered quickly where she was, what they were having her do and if there was a competent smithie on board to help her oil her gears.

  “I can’t believe he took your bot,” Lucy said. “Kicking you off the boat is one thing, but commandeering your bot is completely out of bounds. It’s definitely his right, but you’d think someone who knows you and is worried about you would, at least, send you with your bot. What do you think he’s up to?”

  “What do you mean?” Marguerite asked.

  “Well, he must have something planned for her, right? Some reason to keep her?”

  Marguerite hadn’t thought about this. Why had he kept Outil? Was it really just to help around the Renegade? Outil was strong and excellent with gearwork. She took orders without complaint and was able to fly any vessel with only a short introduction. Still, Jacques knew just how much Outil meant to Marguerite. Lucy was right, he was up to something. “Whatever it is, it’s just one more reason I’m going to blast him into the next aethiosphere as soon as I can get my hands on him.”

  Lucy laughed. “Somehow I have a feeling Captain Laviolette knew you would react this way and is going to avoid you for quite a while after this.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t let him ignore me,” Marguerite growled. A light came on in the hallway, followed by a bell. Their bunkmates rolled over and moaned. Lucy sprang to her feet and opened her trunk. “What’s that sound?” Marguerite asked.

  “All hands call. We must have made contact with the shipment from France, and I bet the news isn’t good. Get dressed and report to the mess hall,” Lucy sounded like she’d been flying all her life.

  Marguerite sat up, weary to her bones, and willed herself to swing her legs out of bed and put her flight suit back on. The other girls did the same and all four of them stumbled down the corridor, joining the rest of the ship in the mess.

  Captain Bonnifield stood on a dirty brown crate of yams in order to see above the throng. All in all, the ship had a crew of about fifty people crammed into the small mess. Marguerite guessed a few were still at the bridge and in the engine rooms on deck. The rest standing here looked tired and disheveled. She wondered for a moment what she looked like. She hadn’t seen herself in a mirror for three days. She touched the knot of her hair on the top of her head self-consciously. Without Outil here to brush it and tie it up for her, she’d done the best she could with a piece of twine she’d nabbed in the galley, but she was sure she looked no better than the other girls around her. Lucy seemed to be the only one who looked as fresh and ready as if she’d just woken from a sweet dream on a feather bed. Marguerite made a mental note to ask her the secret to keeping her hair tame and her face from puffing up like a balloon.

  “Gather round. Push in, make room for everyone!” Captain Bonnifield called.

  Marguerite felt the people behind her push in, forcing her to move closer to those in front. The effect of all those bodies so close was a room that smelled almost as bad as Fifi’s stall. “Good, good. I’m sorry to have brought you here at this late hour after a hard day’s work, but we have made contact with the Royal Armada, and they are, in fact, being besieged by pirates as we speak.”

  Lucy bumped Marguerite with her elbow and whispered, “I told you so.”

  “We are now seven ships to their three, and we are under a strict no light policy. If your bunk has a porthole, your power has already been shut off. The Henrietta is even now being tacked into a safe spot on the winds behind the skirmish where we can continue to provide food, support, and aid to our fellow countrymen. Captain Laviolette of the Renegade has spoken with Admiral Lautrec on the Dame de Guerre, who has escorted the shipments this far from France, and they have relayed to us that this battle will be over by the morning. In the meantime, I expect you to be prepared for anything. Sleep in your uniforms. If the bell sounds three times, it is all hands to the ready stations, five times, all hands to deck. Dismissed.” The round little woman jumped down from her box and walked quickly through the crowd toward the bridge.

  “She’s such a funny little Captain,” Marguerite said. “I’m not sure I’ve ever met a woman like her in the military.”

  “Oh, she’s not in the military, this isn’t a military vessel. Didn’t you know?” Lucy explained.

  “No, I didn’t realize.” Marguerite felt foolish once again.

  “Captain Butterfield is a privateer. She operates as a free agent for whoever pays the best price. She owns the Henrietta outright and has sailed her all over the world. I think she’s amazing.” Lucy beamed as she watched the round lady walk out of the room.

  “That explains a lot,” Marguerite said as she thought about Fifi and the unprecedented farm operating in the aft. She couldn’t wait to get back to Montreal and talk to her professors about the possibilities of improving on the idea. Imagine, fully self-sustaining ecosystems in the air. Marvelous!

  The girls were still chatting as they made their way back to their bunks. Marguerite felt better, body and soul, as she lay down on the hard mattress again and covered herself with the rough blanket. She felt Lucy climb the ladder and settle into her own bed above. As the three girls wished each other goodnight, for the first time since arriving, Marguerite joined their tradition and whispered through the dark, “Sleep well.”

  “You too, Lady Dungslinger,” Lucy giggled.

  “Very funny,” Marguerite smiled and fell instantly asleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The morning call came far too early. Despite her rough surroundings and tiny space, Marguerite dreamed she was at her Father’s house in Montreal, lounging in her lovely feather bed. Outil had just arrived with tea and a pastry for her breakfast.

  Then a siren wailed, and she was back to reality. The sights and sounds, and especially the smells, of the Henrietta crashed in all around her. But today was different. Today there would be action. She jumped from her bunk, nearly knocking her head on the
rail above her, and dressed quickly, making sure to grab her new goggles. She put them over her head like a headband to help hold her hair back. “Off to the races then?” Lucy asked. “We’re only a gust of wind away from your beau.”

  “Yes, I am well aware of that. I have a lot of things planned for today.” Marguerite replied.

  “Oh, things, eh?” Lucy wiggled her eyebrows.

  “Yes, many, many things. Do you think it might be possible to borrow a chute and a box or two?”

  “You’re not thinking of dropping into the middle of the battle are you?”

  “There may not even be a battle, Lucy, especially considering the size of our fleet. I doubt any pirates would be brave enough to take us on. No, there will probably be a parlay and much strutting, flexing of cannons, and then the pirates will fly off with their envelopes between their legs.”

  “True that. But what do you want a chute for?” Lucy asked while climbing down carefully from her bunk.

  “I don’t want to explain right now. Do you know where I might find one?” Marguerite dug through her trunk as she spoke.

  “It may be possible if you know the right people. We have loads in storage toward the aft,” Lucy answered.

  “Excellent. I’ll see you in a bit then.” Marguerite knew her new friend wanted her to expound, but she didn’t have time. There was much to do. She smiled and headed out to the farm. Louis was there already, brushing the cow and whistling a merry tune.

  “Good morning, Louis!” Marguerite smiled in genuine happiness at the boy. He certainly was reliable.

  “Good morning, m’lady. If I might say, it’s good to see you in such fine spirits.”