Exile for Dreamers (23 page)

“I think so.”

“You
think
so, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Alexander,” he corrected.

She waited.

“All I know, miss, is that Napoleon did some reading while he was cooped up on Elba. He read all about my uncle's commission to build a steam-powered warship for the U.S. Navy a couple of months ago. Why, Uncle Robert has had a steamship,
The Clermont
, running up and down the Hudson since 1807. Apparently Napoleon got letters from one of his French engineers who had a gander at our
Clermont
when we had her dry-docked in New York. So you see, they've already seen all this and more.”

“Hmm,” she said, tapping her forefinger nervously and waiting for him to continue.

“Turns out, even before Napoleon got back on the French throne he commissioned some of his Iron Crown engineers to secretly build a steam-powered warship like the one my uncle tried to sell him back in 1797.”

Miss Stranje groaned.

“Not to worry, miss. Bonaparte should've paid Uncle Robert to build it for him back when he had a chance, because you can bet your best bonnet, Robbie won't do it now. The French went ahead and tried to copy his design. They built something, all right, but apparently it's dead in the water. A great hulking tub and no way to propel her. Seems all those French engineers can't figure out how to get the moving parts moving any faster than one of those fancy snails they like to eat so much.” His eyes danced with mischief.

“I take it you do know how.”

“Aye, miss, that I do.” He smiled crookedly and blushed slightly as if bragging made him uncomfortable.

Miss Stranje glanced down at the note in her hands and back up at our American guest. “You must be perfectly candid with me, Alexander. No one knows better than I how brutal members of the Iron Crown can be. I must ask you again, when they questioned you, were they able to
make
you tell them anything that would help with this warship of theirs?”

His mouth quirked up and dimples formed in his cheeks. “I'm an affable fellow, miss. I told them a great many things. None of which will do them any good.”

Jane studied his dimples with considerable consternation.

“Excellent.” Miss Stranje's posture relaxed just a trifle. “I should like to discuss this in more depth later, Mr. Sinclair. I have the distinct impression you are holding back a few things that may be important. But for now, I beg you will excuse me. I must send this message off as soon as possible.”

She glanced over her shoulder at me and then knowingly at Lord Ravencross. “I can manage the pigeons without your help, Tess. You may stay here, if you like.”

Instantly, Georgie's interest shifted from tightening bolts to Miss Stranje. “You're going to send the message to Captain Grey?” She set down a ratchet and stood up, clasping the pocket watch that hung around her neck, Lord Wyatt's pocket watch. She had an unconscious habit of closing her hand around it whenever she thought of him.

“Yes.” Our headmistress backed away. “But I can attend to it alone. You may go back to your work.”

Georgie couldn't help herself. She trailed after Miss Stranje and so did I. Not that there was any need. It certainly wouldn't take three of us to send a pigeon. I knew why Georgie followed our headmistress, because a note to Captain Grey was a note to Lord Wyatt, and anything that had to do with him drew her like a lodestone.

I, on the other hand, came along to avoid Lord Ravencross's unsettling gaze. Even when he wasn't looking at me I could feel his thoughts curling around me. Good heavens, the man might as well stand up and wrap his arm around my shoulder. It was outrageous how, without a word or even a touch, he had a way of making me feel like an overwarm caramel, all weak, and gooey, and melted inside.

In that respect Gabriel reminded me once again of my wolf-dogs, the way they could communicate without so much as a yip between them. But Phobos and Tromos were mates. Lord Ravencross and I were definitely not mates, nor would we ever be. We were barely friends.

Miss Stranje does not keep the pigeons in a real dovecote, not like the stone turret cotes at many manors. Ours is a small, simple coop that stands across from the henhouse. Miss Stranje shooed the chickens out. The clucky hens were always invading pigeon territory. It seemed as if they liked showing off to the caged pigeons, boasting that they were allowed to roam free. Had I known how to communicate with those blustery hens, I might've pointed out that our pigeons had the glorious task of flying clear across the channel and that not a one of them would ever end up stuffed and roasted for dinner. But chickens are a thimble-headed lot.

Miss Stranje pointed to an occupied cage. “That one.”

I unlatched it and lifted out a large male pigeon, stroking his purple and blue-gray plumage.

“We've only three carriers left.” She sounded worried. “Two after today.”

Ten pigeon coops lined the wall. On the top row, two coops were occupied by birds pecking loudly at their wooden cages. They tapped so insistently, I could almost hear them demanding to be let out so they could fly home. Each empty cage represented a message sent. On the row below, three nests held cooing pairs. Their mates had come home, carrying with them a message for us. Next to them on that same row, two lone birds sat in nests quietly awaiting their mates' return.

I felt sorry for them and opened the grain bin, tossing an extra portion of seed into their dishes. I held out my palm to allow the bird on my arm to peck up a few grains.

Georgie viewed this tableau with barely contained anxiety. “What did you tell the captain?”

Miss Stranje answered patiently, “I explained the situation, of course. Although I was mindful not to say too much lest our pigeon goes astray and lands in the wrong hands.”

“Did you tell Captain Grey we suspect an invasion?”

“I'm sure he is already aware of that possibility.”

“Of course.” But that didn't stop Georgie from ticking off a list of things she thought ought to be included in the note. “… and you told them that Lady Daneska and Ghost are probably here in England. They may even be in Sussex.” She stopped talking, and her eyes widened. “You don't think Daneska might be staying with her aunt, do you?”

“Absolutely not.” Miss Stranje took the pigeon from me. “Daneska wouldn't be that foolish. Not after Calais. She knows we could have her arrested and that Lady Pinswary's servants can't be relied upon not to gossip.”

Georgie was momentarily appeased. “Did you send my regards to Lord Wyatt? It also might be good to mention that Mr. Sinclair is respectful and that there is no danger there.”

Miss Stranje looked askance at her prize student. “It is a very small piece of paper, Georgiana. There is very little room on a pigeon's leg to write long narratives about kidnappings and Mr. Sinclair's behavior in the workroom, but yes, I did my best.”

“I see.” Georgie looked crestfallen. “Did you at least assure them that I am all right? And that I suffered no harm in the attempted kidnapping? I wouldn't want Lord Wyatt to worry.”

Miss Stranje sighed loudly. “Oh, very well.” She thrust the pigeon back into my hands. “Hold him.”

She opened a small inkwell kept on the shelf beside the grain bin and dipped her quill. She studiously scratched a few more words along the very edge of the narrow strip of vellum.

Georgie tried to peer over our teacher's shoulder. “Are you calling Captain Grey home?”

At this, Miss Stranje left off writing and frowned at Georgie. “
Calling him home?
Why would you say such a thing, Georgiana? He's not mine to command.”

“But…” Stung by Miss Stranje's reprimand, Georgie lowered her eyes and kicked softly at the straw on the floor. “I thought—”

“You thought with your heart, not your head. Begging him to come home would be overstepping my bounds. I'm simply apprising him of our latest suspicions. I suggested he might be able to find proof on his side of the channel that Napoleon is building a fleet in preparation for an attack so that we could alert the admiralty. Although what Britain would do about it now challenges the imagination.”

She brusquely took the pigeon from me, tucked him into the crook of her arm, and wound a folded strip of vellum around his leg. “Here.” She handed me a silk thread. “Tie this on. Not too tight. That's it. Again, and now double the knot.”

The bird's trepidation was obvious as we secured the message around his leg. The moment we finished, however, I felt his flutter of eagerness. He knew that soon he would be winging once more across the wide sky, homing for his nest in France.

With one finger, Miss Stranje lifted Georgie's chin. “I used your ink, Georgiana, for the more sensitive bits. And I didn't mean to be harsh with you. I understand how hard this must be for you.” She sighed and glanced out the window. “I miss them, too.”

Georgie left off sulking and asked, “How long will it take for the message to reach them?”

“Pigeons fly surprisingly fast.” Miss Stranje gently smoothed her finger over our courier's breast feathers. “He could get there in a matter of only a few hours. Or it could take a full day. Maybe more. It depends upon the faithfulness of this little bird, how often he diverts from his path, and whether his sense of direction holds true. Then there is providence. He might meet with a storm and have to seek shelter. Or he could be shot down. Everyone is suspicious of a pigeon during war. And even if he makes it to his nest, there is the question of when, or even
if,
Captain Grey will be able to retrieve the message.”

Georgie wilted under the dismal odds of our message getting through.

Miss Stranje straightened her posture and took a deep breath. “But I see no alternative, do you? If we were to dispatch a messenger, by the time he sailed the channel, and snuck across enemy lines,
if
he was able to sneak across, and located Captain Grey to deliver our message, it could be several weeks.”

She held the bird tenderly for a moment longer, stroking its iridescent neck feathers. “It is all up to you, my little French friend. I envy you, in a few hours you will be home with your mate.” Miss Stranje never spoke of missing Captain Grey. But her wistful sigh said what she would not.

“Fly fast and true, little one.” She kissed the pigeon's head and sent him winging away.

I knew Georgie well enough to know that she watched all this and swallowed hard against the longing in her own heart. There was a catch in her voice when she said, “I'm certain when the captain learns of the danger we are in, he'll come home.” Although I rather thought she was thinking of Lord Wyatt, and imagining the two men rushing home together.

“You must not hang your hopes on it.” Miss Stranje gave Georgie's shoulder a sympathetic pat. “We may be best helped if they stay where they are and do the job they were assigned. They must do what is best for Britain, not what is best for those few of us at Stranje House.”

 

Seventeen

GUARDIANS

When we returned to the group, they were resting from their labors and discussing alternatives to Mr. Sinclair's torpedo design. Sera and Maya were especially animated. Sera was fairly bursting at the seams. “Maya's right about using a powerful crossbow and arrow. Harpoons go through the water. What if we used a harpoon with an explosive on it?”

Joining them, Georgie explained to him the mechanics of her grenade filled with Greek fire. Jane described the effects she'd witnessed in Calais, and they debated methods to house this volatile mixture and yet get it to explode on its target.

MacDougal arrived a few moments later with news that he had been successful in hiring not one but three sentinels to watch the house and sit guard over Lord Ravencross.

Gabriel met this news with surprise. “What did you do, offer them a king's ransom?”

“Nay. Told 'em yer life was in danger. Yer men were more'n willing to work for laborer's wages. Save farmer Jason's oldest boy, the lad wouldn't accept e'en a farthing for his trouble. Says he'd be pleased to come along an' watch over ye, on account of his family wishes to thank ye for the new thatch roof and milk cow ye gave 'em. More'n one man said as how neither of the other Lords o' Ravencross ever did half as much fer the tenants as do ye. They'd just as soon keep you on as lord.”

Gabriel's eyes widened as MacDougal continued to describe how willing his tenants were to come and stand guard over him. He sat down listening intently, as if the idea anyone should care about his welfare were a completely fascinating turn of events.

“Fact is, m'lord, a dozen men stepped forward at the pub. I picked these three because they were accounted best able to handle a firearm.”

“Remarkable.” Gabriel blinked at this revelation. “My father always described them as—” He stopped and rubbed absently at the stubble on his jaw. “But I suppose he would, wouldn't he?” he said under his breath.

“Well done, Mac.” Gabriel stood and, with his good arm, clapped his servant on the back. “Excellent news. Allow me to say my farewells and I'll accompany you back to the house.”

I should have been relieved at the news that Gabriel would be amply protected. Except it meant my services would not be needed. There would be no late-night rendezvous in his room. No watching him sleep. No gently smoothing back his dark curls. I sighed and tried to press a smile on my face.

He could've at least had the good grace to look a little bit disappointed. Instead he stood beside the garden chair, still looking a bit dazed. When he finally did turn to me, he didn't utter a long fond farewell. No. He bowed curtly and asked if he might call the next day.

Biting back my disappointment, I asked, “Whatever for?”

“To do whatever it is gentlemen do when they call upon young ladies.” He held his shoulder, and I guessed it must be aching like the very devil again.