Exile for Dreamers (14 page)

I looked down at my bare toes, and with a deep sigh, answered, “It's not my place.”

“Hmm. I wonder.”

We were a few minutes late to breakfast. As it turned out, it might have been better to skip it altogether.

 

Ten

QUESTIONS

The breakfast room is my second-favorite room at Stranje House. It always smells of bacon and toasted muffins. The walls are painted butter yellow and, no matter the season, light drifts through the broad windows and warms the soul. There is a secret passage through the cupboards along the south wall. I often sneak in here at other times of the day just to breathe in the homey scents and bask in its lovely warmth. I'm like a cat that way. I prowl and roam where I will. But today the breakfast room felt decidedly sullen, and it had nothing to do with the light.

We found it filled with silent, brooding occupants. Maya was the only one who didn't look disgruntled. She hummed to herself and cheerfully peeled an orange. Jane looked as if she planned to cut off someone's head, and not the one belonging to the hapless fish under her knife. Georgie stirred the contents of her plate into an unrecognizable smear. Sera studied everyone at the table with nervous intensity.

Upon our entering, Mr. Sinclair hopped up out of his chair, almost knocking it over. Miss Stranje greeted him and asked how he was getting on with his morning's work.

He bowed his head before answering and proceeded with cautiously chosen words. “I thank you for your hospitality, Miss Stranje. Your accommodations are generous and comfortable.” Then, rather more coldly, he added, “Lady Jane tells me you have some questions for me.”

Miss Stranje sent a wordless scold in Jane's direction.

“He goaded me,” Jane sputtered with indignation. “Tell her.” She nudged Georgie. “Tell her how he tricked me into saying something.”

Georgie shrugged at Jane's outburst and appealed to the two of us. “They are like fire and oil.”

Sera leaned across the table. “I think you might mean like fire and water. Opposites.”

“No. If that were true, they wouldn't keep bursting into flames, now would they?” Georgie turned to the food on her plate and began slicing a kipper.

“You may be seated.” Miss Stranje nodded to Mr. Sinclair and took her place at the head of the table as she always does. A footman presented her with a silver tray containing the day's notes and letters. She didn't go through them right away as she usually does. Instead, she clasped her hands in her lap and addressed our guest. “Jane is right, Mr. Sinclair. I do have a few questions about your sojourn in France, if you would be so good as to indulge my curiosity?”

“At your service, Miss Stranje. Ask away.”

“I appreciate your candor.” She motioned for the footman to bring her a boiled egg. This she dealt with as she always does. A swift swipe of her knife, and the egg, shell and all, was split cleanly in two. She scooped out each half with a spoon and pressed it atop her buttered toast.
I have attempted her method and sent my egg flying halfway across the room.

She dispatched egg and toast, wiped her mouth, and turned to Mr. Sinclair. “I would like to know exactly what information you gave the French.”

“Ah. So that's it, is it?” Mr. Sinclair nodded, and his normally amicable expression turned serious. “They asked me a great many questions about my uncle's steamships. I found it odd, considering Uncle Robert presented the idea to Napoleon himself and had been turned down flat.”

He warmed to his subject and forgot for a moment his indignation at being questioned. “If I remember correctly, the high and mighty emperor said something along these lines, ‘Fire is the great fear of all sailors, Mr. Fulton, and yet you would make a ship sail against the winds and currents by lighting a bonfire under her decks? I have no time for such nonsense.'” Mr. Sinclair forked a sliced potato and drew it through the egg yolk on his plate, scrawling something before continuing with his story. “And yet here come a half dozen of Napoleon's finest engineers with a flurry of questions for me about how to connect the paddle wheel to the steam engine and the like.”

“And did you tell them how to do it, Mr. Sinclair?”

He set his fork down with a plunk. “No, Miss Stranje, I did not. And it isn't because I fancied myself a great friend of Britain at the time. Because I'm not. I'm sure I need not remind you that we are at war with your fine country.” He held up his long tapered fingers, forestalling her reaction. “Before you sound the alarm and have me arrested, let me assure you I am no longer a friend of the French either. I am, however, loyal to my uncle. If I had given Napoleon's engineer patented information about the steamship mechanisms, I would be robbing Uncle Robert of the price he asked Napoleon to pay. That would make me worse than a thief. Whatever else you may think of me, and I gather from some of your students that the general opinion of me here is rather low—”

“Jane does not speak for all of us,” Georgie fumed.

“Whatever the case,” continued Mr. Sinclair, “I would not do such a disservice to my uncle. A more generous man does not exist. Uncle Robert bought my mother a farm and handed the deed over to her and my da without strings of any sort. He did the same for my grandmother and aunts. He undertook my education and brought me to work alongside him as if I were his own son. I would not betray him.” He picked up his fork and gave the potato on the end a shake. “Not even at the cost of my life.”

Miss Stranje acknowledged his devotion to his uncle with a squaring of her shoulders and one of her rare expressions of respect. Mr. Sinclair's speech pleased her, but she pressed on. Her voice held no inflection that might indicate her deep concern, no current of condemnation or approval. “When you refused to help their engineers, what happened then?”

Mr. Sinclair's countenance fell. His lips pressed together and he stared at the fork as if he'd like to stab it into something besides a potato. “They hauled me off to that house outside of Paris. The one where your friend, Lord Wyatt, found me.”

Despite his sudden dark mood, our relentless headmistress gave him no quarter. “And is that all?”

He stared at her as if she had all the diplomacy of a wide-mouthed cannon. “No, Miss Stranje, that is not all. They tried to persuade me.” He abandoned his fork for a swig of apple juice. “Here's where I'm faced with a dilemma.” He raised the glass as if to toast us. “I was given to understand you all found my conversation coarse and unfit for the drawing room. Begging your pardon, I meant to say unfit for your
workroom.
So you can understand why I hesitate to regale you at your breakfast table with the details of my torture.”

He lowered the goblet and tugged down his cuff, just enough that we could see a scabbed line of cuts and the purple bruises marking where he'd worn heavy irons on his wrists.

Georgie set her spoon down with a decided plunk and glared at Jane, who turned white with shame and stared at her plate.

Miss Stranje nodded and said, “I apologize, Mr. Sinclair. You must forgive me for having asked these questions. I would not have intentionally stirred such unhappy memories. You need not say more. We know firsthand the sort of cruelty one may expect from Napoleon's secret order of knights. The Iron Crown is—”

Loud pounding at the main door startled us.

The thumping got louder and more insistent until Greaves scraped the door open. After which, we were treated to a booming Scottish brogue ordering our butler to “Stand aside, man, afore we chop ye down.”

An even louder and more agitated voice, belonging to Lord Ravencross, carried into our breakfast room. “I don't care if they are in the middle of tea with the Queen, you'll let me in. Where are they?”

“Not that way, yer lordship,” MacDougal called after his master and sniffed loudly. “Unless m' nose deceives me, they'll be at breakfast. I smell sausage and it's straight down this way.”

Greaves is sturdy as a pike, but he is an old man and no match for MacDougal and Ravencross. Greaves shuffled after them, maintaining a dignified tone despite repeating numerous times, “I'm warning you, my lord. I shall summon a footman.”

Our only footman, Philip, was already trailing along behind Greaves, no match for the burly Scot and Lord Ravencross, who was a great bear of a man, even though he was down to the use of only one arm, the other being in a sling.

At that point, Lord Ravencross had already charged like a bull into our breakfast room.

Philip and Greaves made a desperate lunge to apprehend him.

I stood abruptly and shouted, “Leave him be.” They turned to me in alarm. Miss Stranje rose and nodded permission for her servants to stand down.

After that, my wits went begging and all I could do was gape at Lord Ravencross like a foolish besotted schoolgirl. He was still rumpled from sleep. He wore a simple cambric work shirt, which hung open at the throat, buckskin trousers, and riding boots. This was not a social call.

Miss Stranje indicated a chair. “Lord Ravencross, perhaps you would care for some breakfast?”

“No. No, I…” His eyes did not leave my face. He appeared to be completely astounded to see me standing there looking back at him.

The breakfast table was lined with spectators, but Lord Ravencross didn't give them even a cursory glance. “I … I thought you were hurt … that is to say … I heard a scream. Several screams.”

Miss Stranje sighed heavily and muttered, “I must remember to make certain those upstairs windows are shut tight.”

Georgie squinted up studiously. “I don't see how he could've heard—”

Miss Stranje cleared her throat and, in a tone that demanded attention, she said, “My lord, clearly, you've not had your breakfast yet. Won't you please have a seat?”

MacDougal spoke up in place of his tongue-tied master. “Right you are, miss. He hasn't had a bite to eat since yesterday. Even then, it weren't no more than weak broth. Not near enough by my way of thinkin'. Came roaring up from his bed as if the devil were jabbing 'im wi' a pitchfork. Shoutin' and carryin' on, saying as how the young lady must be in trouble. On account of he could hear 'er screaming, y'see?” MacDougal scratched at his side-whiskers. “Tried to calm him, miss. I did. Me and the doctor held 'im down for as long as we could manage. Told 'im as how I'd been awake the whole time an' not heard a peep, save the cock crowing. But it weren't no good. He fought us and flung the covers at me, demanding his clothes and boots. And here we are.” He gestured at me as if I was the source of all the commotion. “And there she is wi' not a scratch on 'er just as I promised.”

A blush climbed up Ravencross's neck. He rubbed at his forearm, the shoulder still wrapped in bloody bandages. “I feel a fool.”

“No, my lord. You were concerned, and rightly so.” Miss Stranje sounded surprisingly conciliatory. “Miss Aubreyson did, indeed, scream this morning because of a particularly bad nightmare. The sound alarmed me as well. As you know, I am not easily alarmed.” She gestured to a chair at the end of the table. “Won't you please sit down? Miss Aubreyson will explain it all to you after you've eaten. You, too, Mr. MacDougal.”

The burly Scot backed away, waving his hands. “No, miss, couldn't do that. T'wouldn't be proper fer the likes of me to sit at yer table, what wi' me being his lordship's servant an' all.” He eyed the warming pan full of crispy fish on the side table. “But I wouldn't say no to takin' one of these kippers with me to the kitchen. I'll just wait for you there, shall I, sir?”

Sir. Lordship.
MacDougal's wobbly forms of address would leave the listener confused as to whether Lord Ravencross was a duke or a baronet. Miss Stranje waved her fingers, and the footman took the hungry Scot away to the kitchen with a heaping plate dressed with fried fish and potatoes.

Lord Ravencross remained standing where he was. “I wouldn't want to impose.”

“Sit, my lord. You are more than welcome at our table.”

He continued to stare at me, as if staring reassured him that I was truly alive and well. “You're all right, then?”

I nodded, still astonished.

“It was just a bad dream?”

“Yes.”

Jane muttered under her breath as I took my seat. “
We are nothing to each other.
”

Her sly remark jarred me from my stupor.

“
No more than neighbors,
” she mocked, only loud enough for me to hear.

“Enough.” I pinched her as she sat down. A trick I'd learned from Daneska, how to pinch while pretending to smile and be polite.

Had I'd truly screamed so loud he heard it all the way across both parks? I shook the idea away. It seemed impossible. Or had he dreamt of me? Perhaps he'd had a worry nightmare like the one Sera accused me of having. Was he worried about me just as I was about Georgie? I felt absurdly pleased at the prospect. I shouldn't be happy that he'd had a nightmare, and yet the thought that I might be that much in his thoughts made my blood gallop and my heart dance.

The footman brought him a plate heaped with food. Lord Ravencross glanced with little interest at the bacon, curried eggs, sliced oranges, and toast. He looked around the table, moving from face to face until he landed with a jarring thud on the personage of Mr. Sinclair.

“Who the devil are you?” Lord Ravencross did not say this with the gentility one might expect from a guest. His tone made it clear he expected a prompt answer. He issued his demand with the force of a man having discovered a gentleman caller in his wife's bedchamber instead of finding a perfectly civil male visitor seated across the breakfast table in a girls' school.

“Apparently, I am the fox in this henhouse.”

Jane groaned and rolled her eyes. Miss Stranje performed the introductions, but Lord Ravencross continued to frown at Mr. Sinclair.