Exile for Dreamers (33 page)

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That evening at dinner, Mr. Sinclair announced that his miniature warship was ready for a test voyage. “To see how the pontoons perform and if she's seaworthy.”

“Or if she sinks like a stone?” Jane asked innocently.

“She won't. But if she does, let's hope it's not too far from shore, for I'll need a crew aboard, to shovel coal and tend the furnace while I steer.” He looked directly at her.

“Me?” Jane's hand fluttered to her breast. “Shovel coal? I think not.”

“I'll do it. Glad to be aboard.” Lord Wyatt saluted as if Sinclair were the ship's captain, which I suppose he ought to be by rights.

“I'm coming, too.” Georgie grinned.

“I'm not so certain that's wise.” Lord Wyatt looked genuinely concerned. “I remember your last excursion in these waters. You absconded with our row boat and nearly drowned.”

That had been Georgie's first night at Stranje House. “I thought I needed to escape.” She cast an apologetic look at Miss Stranje.

“Yes, and not only did you wreck a perfectly good row boat but you nearly dashed yourself to pieces on the rocks.”

“Oh fiddle faddle. I shall buy you another boat some day.” She waved his protests away. “Anyway, Phobos and Tromos saved me and all that is behind us now. Tess has been showing me how to swim. Not that I'll need to, but I'm fully prepared if the need should arise. Although I'm certain it won't. I worked on those pontoons myself, and the mechanism that turns the paddle wheel is pure genius.”

I interrupted before she could wax poetic about flywheels and crankshafts. “You're not fully prepared. Showing you how to swim is a far cry from actually practicing in the water. There is a great deal of difference.”

“Perhaps, we might—” Sera tried to squeeze a word in, but her soft voice was easily overlooked.

Maya tinked her finger against her glass goblet ever so slightly, and for some reason the sound caught our attention. “I think Sera has an idea.”

Sera blushed when everyone hushed and turned to look at her. “I, uh, thought you might bring something aboard that floats, so that in case of an emergency, those who don't know how to swim might cling to in the water.” She swallowed, because we all continued to stare. “Just in case.”

“Excellent idea.” Miss Stranje raised her glass to Sera.

Georgie rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Something like a pig's bladder filled with air. Only that wouldn't be large enough to keep a whole person afloat. Perhaps several pigs' bladders, strung together—”

“Egad, Georgie. You're getting as bad as he is.” Lady Jane shot a scolding look at Mr. Sinclair. “You're making me quite nauseous with all this talk of entrails.”

Captain Grey cleared his throat. “I've heard stories of sailors surviving shipwrecks owing to a barrel that floated by. Any sort of buoyant wood ought to serve.”

“I believe I have some waterproof kegs in the cellar. Would that do?” Miss Stranje asked. “Cook will object, but I'm sure we can borrow two or three of her pickling barrels with the promise of returning them to her the next day or two.”

“First-rate plan. Pickling barrels with the air sealed inside will work splendidly. That's settled, then.” Mr. Sinclair rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Although they should be entirely unnecessary, as we won't be that far from shore in the first place.”

Jane carefully set her fork on her plate. “Well, I like the idea of a contingency plan, since I'll need to come along to navigate.”

Mr. Sinclair straightened and turned in surprise to Lady Jane. “You will? I had thought Captain Grey would most likely handle that task.”

“Oh. Well, naturally, I must defer to Captain Grey's expertise.” She sniffed. “But I did work rather hard on the building of this monstrosity. I should like to be aboard her maiden voyage in some capacity.”

“I see.” He laid two fingers over his lips, suppressing a grin. “What do you think, Captain? Might you require someone to assist you with the telescope?”

Captain Grey nodded gravely. “I believe there will be plenty of room for an assistant, Mr. Sinclair.”

“There you are, Lady Jane. You will be our chief telescope holder.” Mr. Sinclair pronounced this as if she'd just been given the post of the Queen's lady-in-waiting.

Jane cast her gaze to the ceiling. “I'm honored, to be sure.”

Mr. Sinclair skimmed through the rest of his plan. “While we are out in the water, I would very much like to test Miss Barrington's ballista. I've just about got the cranks ready to be installed. Miss Fitzwilliam's modification to my torpedo has me frothing at the bit to see if it works. The resourcefulness all of you demonstrate still has me in awe. I would never have thought of using a grenade filled with Greek fire in combination with Congreve's compression switch.”

Georgie beamed with pride at his proclamation.

Mr. Sinclair rubbed his palms together excitedly. “So during the HMS
Mary Isabella
's maiden voyage I believe we are ready to make those test shots we discussed a few days ago, the ones involving fireworks and cake.” His eyebrows lifted, as if cake were the most exciting part.

Miss Stranje's shoulders drooped ever so slightly and she shared an apprehensive exchange with Captain Grey. “Yes, of course, the test shot.”

“
Mary Isabella
?” Jane sat up, her spine suddenly rigid, and she was so piqued she nearly came out of her chair altogether. “You named
our
boat after
your
sweetheart back in the Colonies?”

“Ship, Lady Jane. She's a ship, not a boat. I will admit she's small, and naught but a prototype to be sure. But she's a pint-sized warship sure as anything, and a fine one at that. As to the name, my lady…” He blushed and ran a finger around his collar. “Well, I would've named her after my Uncle Robert, but I didn't think it fitting, she isn't quite grand enough to carry his name. So I named her in honor of my mother, Mary, and my grandmother, Isabella. Two fine, strong women. Both of them small in stature, but feisty and with more endurance and fight in them than ten men.”

“Oh.” Jane sank back against her chair. “I see.” She remained fairly quiet throughout the rest of dinner.

There was a lengthy debate about whether it would be better to experiment with the explosives during the day or the night. Captain Grey pointed out that at night most of our neighbors would be fast asleep and far less alert to any noises or bombs bursting in the sky. Lord Wyatt and Mr. Sinclair insisted that it would be impossible to site their test targets properly in the dark. At length we decided to set lamps on floating wood, which would allow the more explosive portion of Mr. Sinclair's birthday celebration to take place in the early evening, before it became pitch-black. Afterward we would hold a late supper and feast upon the much anticipated cake. That way, the
fireworks
display would occur while most of the inhabitants of Fairstone Meade had settled inside for their evening meals.

Normally after dinner, Lady Jane would've taken herself off to the library to read until bedtime, or to work on the estate account books, or draw out her crop rotation plans. But tonight she traipsed after me to the ballroom and asked if I would help her practice actually throwing someone over her shoulder, rather than just bragging about it. Jane doesn't admit to anything so humbling as having bragged, nor does she ask for help very often, so I couldn't very well say no.

Madame Cho joined us on the mats, assisting Jane with the correct moves. After several tries, Jane managed to heave me over onto the mat, but then she immediately leaned over me to make certain I was all right.

“Jane,” I grumped at her, “you're supposed to lift your foot above my neck and prepare to stomp my throat if I move.”

She dropped to her knees on the mat beside me. “I'm not sure I could do that.”

“Then you'll be dead,” I said flatly. “And whoever you're trying to protect will be dead, too.”

Madame Cho thumped her bamboo staff on the floor and barked, “Again.”

After four more attempts, Jane's shoulders sagged and she plopped down in the center of the mat. “This is hopeless. Let's try something else.” She brightened. “We could work on my knife throwing.”

I exhaled loudly and sat beside her. “I watched two days ago, when nine times out of ten you missed the target altogether. That target is twice as broad as a man. If you can't even strike the straw, Jane, you won't be able to hit an attacker. Not without a great deal of practice.”

“What about swords?”

I almost laughed, it was hard not to, so I simply shook my head. She threw up her hands. “Then what am I to do?”

Madame Cho and I exchanged worried glances. I crossed my arms and stared at the wall of knives. “What about close combat with a dagger?”

Madame Cho nodded.

Excited that we might have found a protection that would work for her, I tried to explain the thinking behind it. “It's all about trickery. Like this…” Madam Cho and I demonstrated. “You must make your attacker think you plan to move in this direction, but at the last minute you spin to the side and thrust. Do you see? Surprise is our greatest defense.”

Lady Jane nodded eagerly. “Except that seems rather more like an offense than a defense.”

I ignored her argument, not wishing to get pulled into a debate about definitions. “For instance, you could pretend to be helpless, and when the attacker gets close enough, you could pull a blade out of your pocket, like so.”

She clapped. “I like that idea. I could do that. Teach me more. Tomorrow I'll cut holes into the pockets of my day gowns, and I'll wear a knife strapped to my waist. I can reach in and
voilà
!” She aimed an invisible dagger at me.

I laughed. It was difficult to picture Lady Jane as dangerous; most of the time she reminded me of a prim and proper governess with a biting sense of humor. But I have to admit, she took to close combat like a baby duck to water. By the end of the night, she had successfully mastered three close combat moves.

She bent to catch her breath and I clapped her on the shoulder. “You're a natural.”

“Won't Mr. Sinclair be surprised.” She planted her hands on her hips and glistened with hard-earned pride.

“Poor fellow.” I rubbed my side where she'd jabbed me with a wooden knife. “You're not planning to use these moves on him, are you?”

“No, silly. When I save his life.”

 

Twenty-four

FAIRLY TRICKY

The next morning I ran in the early dawn. The horizon promised a clear day, but low-lying mists snaked across the grass and fields, and all the world was still iron gray. I wished it would hurry up and turn light, because I couldn't shake the dream I'd had that night.

No silver bowl or silks. No green water or golden bees. I dreamed of thrashing in the cold sea, struggling to keep from drowning. The water had been dark and gray like the charcoal sky was now, and I saw only split seconds of their faces, but Daneska was there, and Gabriel. Through the dark I'd seen his hair drenched in seawater and his mouth open, clamoring for air, as he came up from a wave.

I'd awakened thrashing in my tangled sheets. So I did what I always do. I got up and tried to outrun the terror.

The wolf-dogs didn't join me that morning. Sometimes they preferred to prowl the woods hunting. After that horrid dream I found the solitude oddly comforting. I wanted to run so hard I couldn't think of anyone or anything else.

Spent, after having raced across the field like the very devil chased me, I slowed when I neared the edge of the sheep paddock and came to a stop near a raspberry bush tucked in the hedgerow. In the dim light, I plucked one. But I knew, by the way it didn't let go of the stem, that it wasn't yet ripe. None of the berries were. As useless as my dreams, they held the promise of fruit, but in reality there was nothing to bite into except sour, inedible stones.

Maybe I did need Napoleon to interpret my dreams.

I shook the thought away. Napoleon's interest would not be in helping me. No, he would be concerned only about dreams that bespoke his future victories. I also knew that being locked in a room with a silver bowl would drive me to madness faster than living with these inscrutable nightmares.

And one more reason I couldn't go to France
 …

I would not want to be that far away from Gabriel. I looked across the paddock, and there, as if I'd conjured him, rode Ravencross. Zeus cantered with proud, high steps as if he carried a duke or the Prince. I watched him ride as unerringly as an arrow, straight toward my heart.

He rode up beside me and doffed an imaginary hat. Gabriel is not inclined to wearing hats, even though he ought to do so for propriety's sake, and to keep his head warm, and to cover all those lovely errant curls of his. But I said nothing. I had no right to scold. I seldom wear a bonnet, preferring not to have my vision restricted like a dray horse wearing blinders. Not only that, but I'm quite fond of the feel of the wind on my cheeks.

Zeus pranced prettily beside me as I walked down the pasture toward the house.

“I'm surprised to see you are riding, my lord. Are you sure that is a good idea? Your stitches cannot be healed.”

“It all comes down to a matter of choices, Miss Aubreyson.” He sounded so very formal. “Surely you have noticed the tents encamped on my lawn?”

I wasn't sure what one thing had to do with the other, but I played along. “I did. I presume some members of the militia have already arrived.”

“Yes. They began arriving yesterday carrying letters from the Lord Lieutenant saying that I was to give them succor and see to their training. There are men bivouacked inside the house as well. Mrs. Evans has been bounding about the halls like a great flapping goose, opening rooms and trying to prepare enough food. It would appear the manor is being turned into a makeshift fort. Hence, you can see the necessity of my riding out.”