Lady Dearing's Masquerade (33 page)

A nice, round-heeled widow, that was the thing. Perhaps he’d meet one soon.

But now he’d a job to do. He made the ladies a deep bow and moved on, listening to snatches of conversation until one made him prick up his ears.

“If it were that young Sadler, he’d go up, wind or no,” said one of a trio of young dandies sitting in an open coach near the edge of the enclosure.

“Maybe he’d try, but no one’s better than Mad Manning! He’ll do the trick.”

Gil strolled casually closer to the group.

The third dandy, in a green coat with extravagantly padded shoulders and half-strangled by his high cravat, rolled his eyes. “There will be a put-off! Just look at that wind. Snatched the hat right off my head! Don’t know why we bothered to come. No one in his right mind would fly on such a day.”

“But I just might,” said Gil.

“It’s sheer lunacy!” The green-coated gentleman laughed. “Even if you manage to set off, you’ll find yourself stuck in a tree or smeared all over the countryside!” He shuddered delicately.

“You are certain of that, I suppose?” Gil asked.

“I’d bet a hundred Yellow Boys on it!”

“Tilly, you’re an idiot! He’ll win, I tell you!” said the youngest.

The one called Tilly gave his friend a pained glance and introduced himself to Gil. “Augustus Tillingham. I am prepared to wager you a hundred guineas that you won’t complete this flight and walk away to tell the tale.”

When one lived hand to mouth, it was tempting to pluck the occasional pigeon. This was a fat one, too. If Gil wasn’t mistaken, Tillingham was the son of a marquess with an allowance to match. He paused deliberately, as if weighing his chances.

“He won’t take it, he ain’t got the bottom!” said the first fop.

“If your friend is so certain of winning, he should offer me odds,” said Gil.

“Five to one, then,” Tillingham offered boldly.

“You’re a cod’s head!” said his young friend.

The other shook his head. “You’re sending a man to his death.”

“I’ll take it,” said Gil, suppressing a grin.

He pulled his flight journal along with a pencil out of the pocket of his coat. Within minutes, he’d scrawled the terms of the bet onto a blank page, he and Tillingham had signed it and the friends witnessed the agreement. He whistled softly as he strode back to Alcyone, waving his hat to the crowd as he went. Now all he had to do was take off safely and make sure he
didn’t
get himself smeared across the countryside.

“What have you been doing?” Sancha demanded.

“Making our fortunes. Five hundred guineas to be precise, if I complete the flight in one piece.”

“A cool monkey!” breathed Lund. “Ye’re bloody brilliant, Captain!”

“
Estúpido
! You will get yourself killed and my dearest Roberto along with you! You are all idiots. But I do not wish you to die!” She stamped her foot.

A new gust blew up, causing Alcyone to tilt. Ladies shrieked and the crowd grew louder.

“I’m going up alone today,” Gil decided. “With less weight, she’ll rise quicker and I’ll have a better chance of getting off safely.”

“Damn it all, Captain, you promised me I’d go up!” Lund protested.

“Stop your poutin’, ye big baby!” said Birkin.

“Enough!” said Gil. “Remove all but one of the sandbags.”

Birkin frowned. He knew as well as Gil the risks of flying with too little ballast, especially on a day when the wind would make it difficult to control his landing. But he obediently removed sandbags while Gil eyed the remaining contents of the car. The barometer and compass would have to stay, but he took out the basket of food and drink Sancha had provided. The cork jacket he decided to keep; it was light and who knew whether the winds would take him out over open water. The grappling iron stayed too, fastened to its neatly coiled rope; he’d need it to anchor Alcyone on landing.

He turned to climb into the car, but Sancha held his arm. “
Capitan
, this is a very bad idea. I feel it, here!” She pressed one hand to her breast.

“Please, sir, I implore you, do not fly today!” said Reed frantically.

“Don’t fret,” said Gil, grinning. “God doesn’t want me and the devil will wait.”

He climbed into the car, held down by the keepers and his crew. “Let us wait until this gust passes.”

After a moment the wind died down. “Release the mooring ropes!” he shouted.

The park keepers let loose the ropes that tethered Alcyone to the ground. She shifted again with another gust but Lund, Birkin and Reed managed to hold onto the car.

Gil waited until she settled again, then looked around to make sure no one was entangled in the mooring ropes. “All ready?”

“Aye,” the men said as one.

And he gave the final command. “Let go!”

The men released the car. Alcyone sprang upwards for just a second before a fresh gust of wind sent her sideways, over the heads of the spectators. Horses shied. Ladies screamed. The crowd roared. But an instant later Gil was wafting upward again, spinning and rising at an oblique angle. The screams became cheers. He pulled off his hat and waved it at the crowd.

Now was the moment he loved: the upturned smiling faces, the cheering. It was magic and it never failed.

But he was rising very quickly. Too quickly, now that he was clear of the buildings. The gas inside Alcyone was expanding faster than it could escape through her neck; he had to release it before the pressure grew too great. He tugged on the valve-rope. Nothing happened. Frowning, he tugged again. This time it worked and the balloon dropped back toward the park.

He soared over the oblong reservoir at the north end, catching the fleeting reflection of Alcyone in the wind-ruffled water. She floated swiftly over Mayfair. London’s parks spread out beneath him—Green Park, St. James’s, Hyde Park—luxuriant green patches in the fabric of London. In the streets, carriages moved along like toys. The serpentine curves of the Thames sparkled in the sun.

Examining the barometer, he saw that the balloon had leveled off. He was floating along in a steady southwestern current at a little over a thousand feet. No need to go higher today and waste precious ballast. He hoped the valve would give him no more trouble.

Soon he passed over the fringes of town and into the countryside, dotted with villages. Below him lay England: green with spring, serene and fertile, undulating with gentle hills like a woman’s body. Alcyone’s small, dark shadow passed over it like a swift caress. Serenity enfolded him; he’d worry about the landing later.

* * *

Tom Hill was squirming in his seat again.

Emma Westfield left a knot of older students for the group of younger children whom she’d set to practicing their sums in their place near the window. She couldn’t blame them for fidgeting. It was a lovely day outside, bright and breezy. But surely they could get through a few more minutes.

“Tom, I see you have two more sums to complete,” she said.

His eyes remained glued to the window. “There’s something out there, Miss!”

“Two more sums and you will be free to go.”

“No, truly, Miss, there’s something there!”

The other children pricked up their ears. Emma went calmly to the window and peered out the dusty panes. There
was
something there. A dark speck in the distance, rather high for a bird and not moving like one either.

“Is it a balloon, Miss?” Tom asked, joining her by the window.

The other children gathered around as she stared out at the object. It seemed a trifle larger already, with rounded contours.

“I think you are right,” she said.

“May we go out and watch it?” Tom asked.

“Yes, may we? Please . . .” pleaded a chorus of high-pitched voices.

Memories surfaced of the first and only time she’d watched a balloon ascension. Papa had taken her to London when she was ten. How splendid it had been, but how long ago it seemed! Now twelve pairs of eyes begged her indulgence. How could she deny them this treat, these children of villagers and farm laborers who sometimes missed school because they were picking stones or scaring birds from the fields to earn a few pennies for their families?

“Of course we may go outside,” she said. “We can see the balloon better from the pasture.”

“Hurrah! We’re going to see the balloon!” Tom shouted, starting a rush to the doorway.

“In order, please, not like a herd of cows!”

They slowed just enough to get through the doorway without trampling one another, while Emma snatched her bonnet from its peg and hurried after them. For a moment the sunlight dazzled her. The wind tugged her bonnet from her hand. Quickly she tied it on and followed the swarm of children down the lane toward the sheep pasture beyond the schoolhouse, keeping her eye on the approaching balloon. As she passed the low, thatched cottage that had been her home for the past two years, she thought of her brother. How Kit would love to see the balloon!

As if on cue, Becky, her maid of all work, poked her head out of the front window, eyes bright with curiosity. “What is it, Miss?”

“There’s a balloon coming. Take Kit into the garden so he can see it. Quickly!”

Becky nodded, curls bobbing beneath her cap, and disappeared back inside the cottage.

The fastest children had already reached the stile that led over the stone wall into the sheep pasture and were swarming over it like so many ants. Emma lifted her skirts and broke into a run to catch up with them. The older children were already over; she gave a hand to some of the smaller ones, smiling at their eagerness to see the balloon. Of course, at two and twenty she was too old to be excited about such things.

She hoped the children would not be disappointed. Balloons were subject to the vagaries of the wind. Wayward creations, not to be relied upon.

They stopped again at the high end of the long sloping pasture, which afforded the best view. Below them, at the other end, grazed a herd of sheep. As they watched, the balloon came closer, looking like a huge upended pear on the opposite side of the village. Emma cast about in her mind to recall everything she’d ever read on the subject. Papa had been a naturalist, but their library had included a variety of books on subjects of scientific interest.

“Do any of you know what makes a balloon ascend?” she asked the children.

A boy raised his hand.

“Bill?”

“Hot air, like what lifts ashes from a fire?”

“Well done! Some balloons are raised by heated air. However, they cannot carry fuel for a long flight, so now most balloons use a gas derived from a mixture of . . . vitriolic acid and iron,” she concluded, pleased she’d remembered. “It is called inflammable air.”

“What’s in-in-inflammable?” asked one of the girls.

“It means it can catch fire.”

“Will the balloon catch fire?” Tom asked, eyes wide.

“No, of course not.”

“It’s coming down!” Bill shouted.

“No, it’s not!”

“Yes, it is!”

“It’s going to land
here
!”

“Hurrah!”

A gust tugged at Emma’s bonnet again, almost lifting it from her head. She shivered. The hapless aeronauts would have their hands full trying to land on such a day. Unlike the children, who did not know the risks, she was not so sure she wished to see it.

* * *

“What in hell . . .” Gil frowned up at Alcyone. Aiming for the meadow he saw beyond the village below him, he’d given the valve rope the slightest of tugs. But the valve had reacted sluggishly, releasing too much of the buoyant gas before it closed again. What was the matter with it?

He was plunging down toward thick woods this side of the village.

Quickly, he tossed his lone sandbag overboard. Alcyone slowed her descent, and not a moment too soon, passing about ten feet over the woods and then over a lane leading into the village. But he was still descending, heading over cottages toward an enormous horse-chestnut tree in the middle of the green, just before a stone church whose spire dominated the scene.

He cast the cork jacket over, then the barometer and his compass, not without a pang, for they’d be expensive to replace. He’d lightened the load and felt the change in the balloon. She was no longer dropping so fast. But he needed her to rise. Quickly.

Villagers were staring and shouting up at him, but he ignored them. Hastily he shrugged off his coat and flung it out along with his gloves and hat. Then he dropped to the floor of the car to pull off his shoes. He’d no sooner tossed them than he passed over the horse-chestnut. Its top branches crackled against the wooden bottom of Alcyone’s car. Below him was the churchyard; the spire was still some fifty feet away. He’d no time to guess whether he’d clear it. He’d only seconds to rip off his waistcoat, shirt and cravat like an impatient lover and send them fluttering down into the churchyard to land on the gravestones. A laugh rose in his throat. Pray it wasn’t an omen!

He held his breath as Alcyone approached the spire, then missed it by inches. He exhaled as she rose still higher and, like the daughter of the wind-god she was named for, soared lightly over the church.

She passed over a small wooded area before leveling out high over the meadow. A small flock of sheep, new lambs among them, scattered as he came close. He heard children shouting. Looking down, he saw a group of them, jumping up and down around the taller figure of a woman. He waved.

A new air current was drawing him onward; he’d have to look for another landing spot. He gazed out over the landscape and decided to make for a level field about a half mile away. He gave a cautious tug to the valve rope. But instead of a short whoosh of the gas, Alcyone began to emit a steady whistling sound. He gave the rope a few quick jerks, but still the valve failed to close.

“Hell and damnation,” he muttered.

He was out of ballast and Alcyone was plunging earthward. He started to unfasten the grappling iron, hoping to throw it overboard, but he was running out of time.

Perhaps the devil had decided to claim him, after all.

Also by Elena Greene