Authors: Nina Coombs Pykare
He laid her carefully back, then adjusted the covers around her neck. She felt the merest touch of his fingers beneath her chin. Then, smiling, he reached up to push back a damp curl on her forehead.
“You must listen to me. You are in for a nice rest whether you wish it or not.” He straightened and eyed her with mock severity. “Females have no call to be wafted about in balloons, you know. Dangerous business that. If I were your uncle, I should forbid it absolutely.”
“My uncle ...” But she was too tired to go into all that. “Air flight is perfectly safe. And if males can do it, why not females’?”
“Why not indeed?” he agreed, his eyebrow rising. She suspected his agreement was meant to be ironic, but her eyelids were so heavy. A sweet lethargy was creeping over her, and, finally, she let the soft darkness carry her away.
Chapter Four
Aurelia slept soundly for some twelve hours. When she woke, the throbbing in her head was gone. That, at least, was a blessing. A dull ache in the vicinity of her ankle informed her that the injury there had been more severe.
Still, the morning sun coming through the window-panes played in golden rays on the silken coverlet, and outside the sparrows chirped happily. It looked like a beautiful spring day.
She was leaning slightly to one side, in an effort to see more of the room than was clearly visible through the blue brocade curtains of the bed, when the door opened.
“Good morning,” said the pleasant round-faced woman whose spectacles looked in danger of sliding off the tip of her almost nonexistent nose. “I’m Mrs. Esterhill—Cousin Prudence. And I’ve brought you some food.”
Aurelia pushed herself to an upright position. “Thank you. A roll and some chocolate would be most welcome.”
Mrs. Esterhill snorted, a delicate sound yet plainly expressing her opinion of such foolishness. “You’ll not be having such a mishmash as that. Not in any household I have the running of. I’ve brought you a decent meal. Eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, rolls, marmalade. And a good pot of hot tea.”
“Oh, how lovely!”
Mrs. Esterhill beamed. “You’re a nice child, you are. Proper brought up. Now my Phoebe ...”
“Now, Mama,” said a young woman from the doorway.
Phoebe Esterhill was dark-eyed like her Mama. But there the resemblance ended. For where Mrs. Esterhill was round, Phoebe was slender. And the former’s hair, though dark as the daughter’s, was salted with gray.
Phoebe crossed the room. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said. “We don’t get many visitors.”
“And certain none falling from the skies!”
“Now, Mama.”
“Don’t you now Mama me,” said Cousin Prudence. “This young woman is fortunate to be alive. Up there in that Devil’s contrivance. It’s unnatural. That’s what it is.” She turned to Aurelia. “Whatever could your Papa be thinking of? Letting you go into such danger.”
“Now, Mama. Let the poor thing eat.”
Cousin Prudence made a face. “I’ll be back later,” she said, bustling out.
“You must forgive Mama.” Phoebe’s expression was earnest. “She means well. Go ahead, do eat.”
The food looked delicious. Aurelia set to with a will.
Phoebe kept silent till the last bite had disappeared. And then she said, “Oh, do tell me. What was it like? Up there in the heavens?”
Aurelia smiled. “No words can describe it My cousin Harold, he’s an aeronaut. He says he never feels so good as when he’s up there. Above everything,”
“Oh yes. It sounds simply marvelous. Ever since Cousin Ranfield mentioned it, I have wanted to go aloft.” She frowned. “But Mama won’t let me.”
Aurelia felt an instant kinship. “I know just what you mean. Uncle Arthur would not let me go up. Some people are quite silly about these things.”
Phoebe’s dark eyes grew wide. “Then how ...”
“It rather just happened.” Thinking back, she felt a distinct sense of embarrassment. “You see, Harold was supposed to go up. From Hyde Park. Uncle Arthur said I might watch.”
She found herself clutching Phoebe’s hand. “I wanted to go up. So much. I begged him to let me just stand in the gondola. I thought that would make me feel better.”
She swallowed. This was the hard part of the story. “While I was in there, Harold said everything was ready. But then Uncle Arthur called to him. And he went over to talk. And ... And I just cast off.”
Phoebe laughed and clapped her hands. “Oh, I quite understand. You could not pass up such a marvelous opportunity.”
“Yes. And up I went.”
“Oh, how romantic. It’s like something from Lady Incognita.”
Aurelia stared. “Lady Incognita? You read Lady Incognita?”
“Read?” Phoebe declared. “I positively pore over her. I have every book she’s ever written. Two or three copies of some.”
Aurelia smiled. “I think she’s quite the best of writers.”
Phoebe reached oat to touch her arm. “Oh, I am so glad you’re here. Not glad you’ve fallen, of course. But glad that if you must fall ... Oh, you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do. And I feel the same. How rare to have found a friend that enjoys reading romances. Uncle Arthur and Harold have no use for anything but balloon flight.” Aurelia took a sip of tea. “I think of it, too, of course. But not all the time.”
“So you went up,” Phoebe said, obviously eager to bear more of the adventure. “Then what happened?”
“At first it was delightful. I could see so far. I quite lost myself in contemplating it. So much so that for some time I didn’t realize that the air current was taking me away from Hyde Park. Finally, I dropped down to find one that would take me back. But I simply could not.”
Phoebe shivered. “And then you were swept into the thunderstorm. Oh, how deliciously frightening.”
Aurelia considered this. “Well, I did feel some fear. But it wasn’t particularly delicious. Most of the time I was too busy to be afraid. However, I did everything I should have.” She sighed. “Uncle Arthur will not believe that. He will call it female unintelligence.”
In the doorway Ranfield cleared his throat. The two of them, sitting so close, looked like little girls getting ready to do mischief.
“Perhaps your uncle would be right,” he said as they looked up.
Miss Amesley shook her head. “No, he would not. I am well versed in ballooning techniques. I know exactly what to do to go
where I wish.”
With some difficulty he kept himself from chuckling. What a plucky little thing she was. “Then am I to infer that you wished to go crashing into my stable?”
“Of course not. That was the result of the storm.”
She and Phoebe exchanged looks. They were bosom bows already, it seemed.
He shook his head. “A woman, aloft in a balloon. And alone. What was your uncle thinking of?”
“Oh,” Phoebe blurted out, “her uncle didn’t know.”
From the look of dismay on her face, this was not a piece of intelligence Miss Amesley wished him to have.
Still, he could not resist pursuing the question. And soon Phoebe, who had never been able to withstand his look of command, had divulged the whole story.
“So you stole your uncle’s balloon.”
Miss Amesley bristled like a hedgehog and sent him a fulminating look. “Indeed, I did not. That balloon is as much mine as it is his.”
He felt a pang of remorse. What was he doing, baiting this innocent just because he liked to see her reactions? That was hardly a gentlemanly thing to do.
“I see. Well, enough about air flight for now.” He turned to Phoebe. “Please call a maid. And, if you will, get Miss Amesley one of your gowns. I want to show her around.”
“But my ankle ...”
He smiled. “I have the perfect means to convey you.”
“But ...”
“I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“She’ll be ready,” Phoebe said.
* * * *
And ready she was. In a gown of pale lavender, with a high neck edged in lace, a smocked bodice, and long sleeves trimmed with brown velvet ribbon, she lay on the chaise, feeling quite the lady.
And he was on time. “So, all ready.”
“Yes, but ...”
“No buts. I’m taking you out to the garden for a breath of fresh air.” He bent to her. “Now, it would be most helpful if you’d put your arms around my neck.”
“My arms?” He couldn’t mean ...
“I mean put your arms around my neck.”
She did so with some misgiving. His arms were very strong. She felt completely safe there. That is, she amended, she felt he would not drop her.
But these other feelings were hard to analyze— excitement and breathlessness. And a weakness that, had she been otherwise capable of standing, would still have left her clinging to him for support.
He carried her easily down the great stairs and out the front door. “This is my park,” he said. “All laid out with due respect to Nature, by the late Capability Brown.”
Raising her head, she saw a vast rolling expanse of land, dotted with clumps of scattered trees. “How lovely,” she murmured.
“Over there,” he continued, “are my stables. Rather nice ones, if I may say so.” He grinned. “At least before they were assaulted by your balloon.”
Aurelia looked up into the dark face so close to her own. He was certainly the handsomest man. “I’m truly sorry about that. Uncle Arthur will make reparations.”
“Nonsense. I was bamming you. The horses were not hurt. Nor the stables. So all is well.”
Moving off toward the rear of the great rambling house, he came to a bench set under a flowering tree. There he gently deposited her.
To avoid the riot of thoughts caused by his nearness, she concentrated on the house—a great boxlike shape of red brick, now mellowed to a soft dull pink.
He settled himself beside her. “The center of the house was built by the first Earl in the seventeenth century. Fifty years later the third Earl added the wing to your right, now housing the kitchens. And forty years after that, the fourth built the wing to your left.” He smiled at her. “He was quite a sociable sort. Things were lively then.”
His voice hardened. “My own father had no time for such pursuits. He cared only to acquire, not to enjoy, his possessions.”
Aurelia indicated the flourishing flowers. “And all this?”
A smile of tenderness lit his face. “This was my mother’s doing. Mother was a proponent of her own school of gardening. She thought Brown, or Repton, or even la Notre, too rigid for her taste. She simply did as she pleased. Since she did not enjoy city life, in her later years she lived at Ranfield winter and summer. These gardens were her particular delight.”
His eyes clouded. “I remember her sitting on this very bench, feeding the tame squirrels.”
He smiled. “It was rather hard work for a young lad with his first gun not to be tempted by such largess. But I took care to do my shooting far from Mother’s beloved garden.”
He sighed. “I’m afraid my neighbors must think me odd. I never join the hunt now. Haven’t the heart for it since she died.”
He started, as though realizing the unusual nature of his revelations. “You must excuse me. I don’t know what possessed me to rattle on like that. I don’t usually bore my guests with such tales.”
She did not know how to respond. Certainly it was not boredom she was feeling. But it would not be proper to tell him that. Instead, she took a deep breath. “Are we close to the sea?”
“Why do you ask?”
She managed a small smile. “I think perhaps I can smell it.”
“It’s quite possible that you can. When the wind is right, the breeze can be salty. After your ankle’s better, we’ll go exploring. There are some interesting caves among the cliffs.”
“That sounds very enjoyable.”
Ranfield discovered an intriguing dimple on her chin. He liked the way she was smiling at him, too. What was there about her smile that made his heart a little lighter, the world a little brighter?
“But,” she continued. “Uncle Arthur will be coming. And Harold. We shall be returning to London.”
The thought was not a happy one. He pushed it aside. “You cannot leave till you are fully recovered. That will take some time.”
“The other day,” she went on, without any of those distracting looks and fluttering eyelashes affected by
tonnish
ladies, “I neglected to ask if you have been up in a balloon.”
“Once,” he said. “In Paris.”
“Paris!”
“Yes. I was there for a while after the campaign in Spain. And I saw some military balloons. Observation ones.”
Her eyes lit up as another woman’s might at the mention of diamonds. “Were they
montgolfières
or
charlières?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Were they propelled by hot air or hydrogen gas?”
For a moment, engrossed by her fresh beauty, he forgot to answer.
“Milord?” she persisted. “Hot air or gas?”
He sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know.” The chit was making him feel decidedly ignorant.
“Was there a brazier suspended beneath the balloon?”
He tried to remember. If she wanted to talk about balloons, he would do his best to please her. “There may have been. I can not recollect.”
She frowned, her forehead wrinkling in concentration. He wanted to reach out, to smooth the lines away. To touch her soft cheek ...
“It’s probable they were
montgolfières.
Hot airs are cheaper to maintain.”
Her voice was soft, too, delightfully soft. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“You see ...” And off she went into a disquisition on the relative merits of hydrogen gas and hot air,
charlières
versus
montgolfières.
He heard very little of it, actually, because her sparkling eyes, her animated face, and that kissable pink mouth kept driving his thoughts in quite another direction.
Finally, she drew to a close. “So you see, though hydrogen is costlier, it is probably safer.”
“Yes, I see.”
She lapsed into silence then, gazing over the blossoming flowers. She was like a flower herself—a tender new bud just beginning to open.
But men common sense reared its head—and insisted that there was too much coincidence here. Could they— she and Harold—have contrived this so-called accident? Could this simply be the case of another young woman looking to catch a rich husband?