Authors: Nina Coombs Pykare
“Hmmm. In the water. Laughing.” Phoebe reached in the desk for pen and ink. “Would you say this helped The Plan?”
“I don’t know. He did rescue me. But I must have looked a fright. And he didn’t say—or do—anything.” There was that look she’d glimpsed in his eyes, that strange look she’d never seen before. But maybe she had imagined it. And, anyway, how could she be sure?
Phoebe waved the quill. “I’ll put a question mark then.” She consulted their list. “The next thing ...”
Aurelia sighed. “Phoebe, please. Not today. It’s a wonder the Earl was not all out of sorts. He ruined his clothes. And his boots. Oh, I hope he doesn’t catch a chill.”
“Of course he won’t. Ranfield’s constitution is par excellence.” She waved the quill again, and an anxious expression wrinkled her brow. “Aurelia, would you explain to me? About balloons and air currents and all that? Young Mr. Amesley was telling me about them this afternoon. But ...”
A blush suffused her cheeks. “But I was so conscious of the man himself that I could not follow what he was saying. Isn’t that unusual?”
Aurelia smiled. “I think not,” she said. “It sounds to me suspiciously like love.”
Chapter Eight
Wednesday afternoon found them all back at the shed hard at work on the balloon. Aurelia and Phoebe, seated in comfortable chairs, occupied themselves with stitching up the rents in the balloon, which billowed about them till they were almost lost from sight. Across the room the Earl and Harold worked with the wicker gondola.
Phoebe looked up from her stitching. “Tell me, Aurelia. When they put in the gas, why does it not escape through the holes our needles make?”
“That is a good question.” Aurelia looked around.
Phoebe’s eyes, too, turned to where the men, their shirt sleeves rolled up, were retouching the basket’s battered paint.
Phoebe looked back. “You tell me, please. I do so want to understand. For Mr. Amesley’s sake.”
Aurelia smiled. Last night she and Phoebe had talked for a long time about Harold. And this interest of hers in ballooning was a further sign ...
“After we finish our mending, the men will treat the balloon with something to make the silk impenetrable. Sometimes they use varnish. Sometimes something called
caoutchouc,
which the French prefer.”
Phoebe smiled. “I see. So then the gas or the hot air cannot escape. Except when you let it by pulling the valve rope.”
“Yes,” Aurelia replied. “That is it.”
Phoebe wiggled in her chair, and the great mass of silk made a sighing, almost human, sound. “I do hope I get to go up,” she said.
“But your mama ...”
“I will handle Mama,” Phoebe replied, her chin jutting. “It is Mr. Amesley I’m worried about.”
“Uncle Arthur?”
Phoebe giggled. “Of course not, you goose!” A sudden frown wrinkled her forehead. “Unless you think he would object to ...” She looked toward the men and colored.
“Oh, Phoebe, don’t worry. Uncle Arthur likes you.” Aurelia smiled. “Besides, he would not want to offend the Earl.” Her gaze went again to where Ranfield worked beside Harold. Even in shirt sleeves the Earl was a fine figure of a man.
He turned, almost as though he had felt her gaze, and flashed her a smile. Before she even thought about it, she was smiling in return.
She was about to suggest to Phoebe that they leave their sewing for a moment to stretch their limbs and perhaps admire the new painting on the gondola.
But before she could do so, the door burst open and Cousin Prudence bustled in. She was followed by half a dozen liveried footmen whose expressions of bored detachment couldn’t quite hide their curiosity.
“Put the table there,” she ordered, pointing to a place near Aurelia. “And the chairs around it.” And while the others watched in awe, Cousin Prudence set up for afternoon tea, complete with the silver service and Wedgwood china.
The Earl came forward, rolling down his shirt sleeves. “This was most kind of you. Cousin. But unnecessary. We could have returned to the house.”
“Could have, perhaps.” She eyed him sternly. “But wouldn’t have.” She marched over to Aurelia. “This young woman is still recovering from two life-threatening accidents.”
Aurelia felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Cousin Prudence was too much given to the dramatic.
But the round little woman didn’t even notice. She adjusted her cap and waved a pudgy hand. “The poor child has to have proper sustenance. And as for the rest of you—well, you might as well join her.”
Before the Earl could finish his thanks, she had bustled out again. “Come, Harold,” he said. “Let us join the ladies.”
Soon the two of them were comfortably seated. Aurelia and Phoebe pushed the rustling silk aside and drew up their chairs.
“Miss Amesley,” said the Earl. “Would you be so kind as to pour?”
“Of course, milord.” Slowly and steadily she filled the delicate Wedgwood cups. Phoebe passed the plate of macaroons, and shortly they were all sipping and chattering as comfortably as in any drawing room.
“Perhaps my groom will return with the brazier today,” the Earl remarked.
Aurelia shook her head. “I don’t understand why you still favor hot air as a propellant.
Montgolfieres
are so old-fashioned.”
Ranfield smiled and sipped his tea. He did not particularly favor hot air. But he had no intention of giving Miss Amesley that particular information. He loved to hear her discourse on the advantages of hydrogen gas over hot air. Or, more to the point, he liked to watch her face as she waxed eloquent about some technical matter of aeronautics. And, if that matter were one she had covered before, so much the better. He could devote less time to listening and more time to looking.
He spared a glance to see how Harold was doing. Miss Amesley’s cousin was gazing at Phoebe with calf’s eyes. And Phoebe was returning the favor. Those two were obviously enamored of each other. So be it. His cousin could do far worse than Harold, who, though no aristocrat, was a gentleman in the truest sense.
He smiled to himself. Perhaps being around Phoebe would put Aurelia in a romantic mood. He had decided to call her Aurelia to himself. Though of course he could not address her that way. Yet.
He liked the way her name rolled on his tongue. He liked the way she looked, dark eyes sparkling, dainty hands waving. He liked everything about her.
Well, not everything, he amended hastily. She was by far the worst horsewoman be had ever encountered. And she had a rather disconcerting disposition toward life-endangering accidents. He hadn’t needed to have Cousin Prudence point that out.
True, Miss Amesley’s accidents had resulted in only minor injuries. But any fool could tell that a crashing balloon might well be fatal. And, as for falls from horseback, more than one Englishman had gone to meet his Maker after just such an event.
Two such incidents within a single week could give a man pause. Even if that man were taken with great dark eyes and a rosebud mouth. Of course, she was not actually a peabrain. For example, she knew much more about aeronautics than he did. And she had retained much other education. After all, hadn’t she remembered Dr. Johnson’s words about the novel?
“Hey, Ranny?”
“Yes, Harold.”
“Leave off woolgathering and tell us about the balloon you’ve ordered.”
“Yes. Well, I told them to rush. I want to go up this summer. Let’s see. It’s 30 feet in diameter.”
He glanced at Aurelia. Her face was wreathed in a smile. Would he ever mean as much to her as air flight did? He pushed the thought aside and turned back to her cousin. “Perhaps when your balloon is repaired, you’ll give me some lessons in flying.”
“Be glad to,” said Harold. But his glance at Phoebe told plainly whom he preferred as companion. He ran a hand through his hair. “Say, Reely can do it. She can take you up and show you the works.”
“But Uncle Arthur won’t let me go up. You know that, Harold,”
Harold grinned. “For once you’re wrong. Papa told me just today—before he left for the supplies. He’s not going to stand in your way. He’s going to teach you all he knows.”
Watching her, Ranfield saw her face register shock. And elation. “But his promise ...”
Harold shrugged. “It’s broken already. Besides, he says he never felt right about it. Says it ain’t fair to bring up a child in the way you want it to go and then say it can’t. Says he’d never have promised if your papa hadn’t caught him by surprise, and him dying like that.”
Ranfield frowned. He wasn’t sure he liked this change of sentiment. It was one thing to listen to her talk. Quite another to have her sailing off.
And in a flimsy wicker basket. He cast a glance at the gondola, which seemed to have grown decidedly smaller and more fragile. He could summon many arguments against females in air flight.
But one look at her face told him that all his words would be useless. Worse than useless, actually, for they would turn her against him—and without at all changing her mind about flight.
He swallowed his words of caution and extended a hand. “Congratulations, Miss Amesley. I know this means a great deal to you.”
Still stunned by the enormity of Harold’s news, Aurelia automatically put out her hand. The Earl’s fingers were warm; the grip, firm and strong.
How kind of him to congratulate her—and to understand. Most men would have been quite adamant against female aeronauts.
She nibbled on a macaroon and watched Phoebe turn to Harold. “Have there been many female aeronauts?” Phoebe asked.
Harold’s freckles stood out on his fair skin. His smile threatened to split his face. “A few, Miss Esterhill. The first in England was a Mrs. Sage. She went up ...” He looked to Aurelia.
“In June of ’85.”
“That’s right.” Harold grinned. “My head’s full of air currents and such. No room in there for dates. You tell it, Reely.”
“There’s not much to tell. She went up at St. George’s Field, the amusement garden at Newington Butts. And she came down safely.”
“And of course there is Madame Blanchard,” Harold continued. “She has been going aloft for many, many years. And quite safely.”
“Nevertheless,” remarked the Earl, “there have been accidents. The
charlières
can explode. Hydrogen gas is quite flammable.”
Aurelia felt a pang of fear. He could not mean to forbid her air flight.
“Montgolfières
can also catch fire,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “But not if precautions are taken.”
“Precautions,” the Earl repeated.
“Yes, aeronauts are trained to be careful.”
“But even care may not prevent all mischances.”
She could think of no more to say. Why must he have such an incisive mind, cutting right to the quick of things?
The four of them lapsed into silence, sipping their tea.
Aurelia had just returned her cup to her saucer when the door opened again. “Miserable female,” Uncle Arthur was murmuring. “Oh woman, thy tongue is venom.”
Harold got to his feet.
“
Papa
,
what is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s that woman.” Uncle Arthur ran a hand across his bald pate. “Begging your pardon, milord, seeing as she’s your relative and all. But she’s monstrous persistent. Wears a man down with her Scriptures.” He grinned ruefully. “Seems like she’s always got one at hand. Or two or three.”
The Earl stood up. “Well,” he said, clapping Uncle Arthur on the back. “It looks like you’ll have to take up Scripture reading yourself.”
Uncle Arthur’s face was a study in perplexity. “I, your lordship?”
“Of course. So you can find material to refute her.”
Her uncle considered this, then shook his head. “That woman can’t be refuted. That woman is ... is granite.”
The Earl laughed. “But the Scriptures can move her. If you find the right passage.” He raised an eyebrow. “To the best of my knowledge she hasn’t yet found any that expressly forbid air flight. So perhaps you can find one that seems to praise it.”
Uncle Arthur shook his head again. “I shall certainly try. But come, let’s get to work on those lashings.”
The men moved off, and Phoebe and Aurelia returned to their stitching. But Phoebe looked worried. “Is it really so dangerous?” she asked, finally.
Aurelia considered this. “It’s as Harold said. People die in many fashions. But we are careful, and so it is not that dangerous.”
She smiled. “Do not frown so. It will wrinkle your fair skin.”
Phoebe grimaced. “Please, do not mention wrinkles to Mama. She will be after me with her foul-smelling lotions. And some Scriptures, too.”
Aurelia laughed. “Then you must smile.”
Phoebe complied. “Very well, I shall try.But listen, should you not be working on The Plan?”
Aurelia nodded. “I am. But Phoebe, it is not easy to fall into a man’s arms when he is already carrying you about.”
Chapter Nine
The next afternoon the Earl loaded them all into a phaeton and drove them to the meadow. Aurelia, watching him from her place beside Uncle Arthur, wondered again how any man could look so elegantly turned out. There was never a wrinkle in the Earl’s coat of blue superfine. His inexpressibles were always spotless. And his boots looked like dust would never dare to deface them.
“Is this not an ideal spot for ascensions?” he asked from the driver’s seat as he stopped the horses.
“Yes,” said all the Amesleys together, looking out across the meadow. “Ideal.”
“Ideal,” echoed Phoebe, her eyes on Harold.
“Perhaps you’d care to walk about,” the Earl suggested. “Examine the terrain.”
Harold hurried to help Phoebe out. “Capital idea,” he declared.
“Yes,” Uncle Arthur agreed. “I’ll just take a stroll. Get the feel of the place.”
As the others meandered off, Aurelia regarded the meadow. Her ankle was much better. She was able to move about the house without help, only favoring it a little, and being careful because the slippers borrowed from Phoebe were a trifle loose on her. But this turf looked very uneven. If she turned her ankle again! Momentarily she lost herself in visions of being carried about in the Earl’s arms once more. But the vision was only momentary.