Deuce take it!”
A bit of raised stone caught the toe of his boot, and Arthur Trevelyan nearly fell headlong on the flagged path. Had it not been for quick reflexes, honed by the sound of propelled bullets whining past him on the Peninsula, he would have measured his length and picked up yet another bruise or scrape to add to his collection. But his crutches acted as they were meant to, giving him just enough time to get his bad leg under him and put his weight on the good one, long enough to stand upright.
If he ever recovered, he could become an acrobat and join a traveling troupe.
If he ever recovered.
But no, he must not think that way. He must look bravely into the future and see himself whole and useful once again, partnering ladies at balls instead of hiding in the card room with his leg up on a cushion, enduring the sympathetic glances of his peers.
He hated that even here in the garden, he was forced to take steps as careful as any he had ever taken in the fields of battle, and for a much less heroic purpose. Then again, here at Gwynn Place, at least he could move without attracting the attention of an armed behemoth.
Let it always be so. Let the monsters created by that devil Bonaparte never set foot on English soil.
The garden path decanted him onto the gently sloping lawn that stretched all the way to the cliffs, giving him the most beloved view in the world. Then again, he was hopelessly biased. On his left was the wide, silvery expanse of the Carrick Roads, the deep estuary where sailing ships found safe harbor and the town of St Vivyan on the other side did a roaring trade in china clay, tin, and smuggled brandy from France. In the distance before him lay the Channel, now obscured by the haze of a warm day cooling into late afternoon. The sun lay perhaps an hour above the horizon, giving him ample time for his daily peregrination to the cliff.
The surgeon said he must have exercise, so exercise he would have—even if the pain was sometimes more than he thought he could bear. At least out here, he could be alone and no one could hear if a curse or groan broke through his self-control.
His right leg had been broken in two places when a piece of shrapnel half the size of an ox had sideswiped him in the field. The fact that he himself had given the command to the cannoneers in his unit to blow up the behemoth from which it came did not enrage him. No, it was the ridiculousness of the blasted thing exploding in such a disorganized way and taking its own back that made him furious even now, nearly six months after the fact. He ought to have foreseen the angle of the blast given the rise of the steam cannon’s barrel and the arc of the ball.
But in the heat of the attack, all he had seen was the behemoth bearing down on his company like an enraged rhinoceros, its armored sides protecting its iron wheels, steam rising from its twin stacks as it gained speed. Firing that steam cannon had been the only thing on his mind.
The mighty ball had stopped it. But at the cost of two good men and his own leg—the latter an insignificant price compared to the lives of the two cannoneers. The remaining two cannoneers had draped him over the still-hot barrel and retreated with him to the next line of defense, where the army surgeon had done his best to save the leg. He had been an excellent surgeon, which was why Arthur was able to swing himself along with the benefit of both feet.
He could have come back with none—or only one.
A man in his company had had a metal appendage affixed to the stump of his left thigh, and its interior gears whined as it assisted his stride. He joked that he was one-quarter automaton. Arthur’s injuries were not so severe; he had not had to be fitted for such a device, and on days like this he was almost sorry. The regimen the local surgeon had set for him demanded he make it to the cliff edge and back every day, rain or shine, no matter how much it hurt. The two bones, the surgeon assured him, had knit as well as could be expected. “The task now, Captain Trevelyan, is to convince the damaged muscles to once again take up their burden and bear your weight.”
Easier said than done. But he would do it. He must, if he was to end his medical leave, rejoin his company, and recover his self-respect.
His parents and his twin sisters Cecily and Jenifer, needless to say, did not know he planned to return to France. Had they suspected, he might likely have been dispatched to some remote castle in Wales, where a distant relative would be tasked with holding him in a tower with a lot of steep stairs until the war was over.
His father’s worst nightmare—losing his heir—had come true for the Penhales next door. Arthur knew it, and while he regarded his father with deep affection, he knew equally well that he had to go back. Had to keep fighting. For if good men did not stop Boney, England would wake one morning to find Fulton’s submarines surfacing in the estuary and troops disembarking to form up on the golden sands of the Looe.
He did not labor all the way down here merely to appreciate the view or to obey the surgeon. No, the puzzle of the sous-marins propelled him to the cliffs each day, as though by keeping watch he might have first warning of their approach.
Though what he could do except fling his crutches at them was a mystery.
But something was keeping them at bay… for now. And the smugglers who plied the Cornish and French coasts knew what it was. Somehow, some way, he was going to find it out.
Arthur shook his head, lowering himself to the flat rock that served his purpose. It was still warm from the sun, penetrating his breeches as pleasantly as the fire in the parlor might if he stood in front of it. The Channel was half a mile from here, at the mouth of the Roads. Had he been in charge of a French deployment to these shores, he would have marked this place as an excellent location for a landing. The estuary cut inland all the way to Truro. Why had those wretched sous-marins not gained access to the very heart of the country, still submerged in deep water? Granted, they were small. But they were perfect for spying if they were not busy disrupting the movement of shipping vessels. What prevented them from attempting the obvious military maneuver?
For even an aeronaut would not detect them from his balloon. With the danger increasing from the south, there was talk from Falmouth to Marazion that Lord St Aubyn planned to allow a detachment of aeronauts to be stationed on the Mount, their balloons making regular patrols along the coast. How this was to be accomplished, Arthur and the other gentlemen of the county were not certain. Balloons were unpredictable and fragile things, more suited to the silly, circuslike public spectacles enjoyed by the French than anything that could be useful in war. Why, not so long ago, Boney’s most famous aeronaut, Jean-Pierre Blanchard, had fallen out of his ridiculous contraption and plunged a thousand feet to the ground. And he an experienced pilot!
No, the Tinkering Prince and his crony St Aubyn were altogether in error with this aeronaut business. Real soldiers did not gad about the skies in brightly colored balloons. Wars were won on the ground, where a man knew what was what, not in the air where all you had to depend on was a few yards of silk that had better be applied to a fashionable woman’s wardrobe.
As though his own gloomy thoughts had conjured a woman out of the air, he glanced along the cliffs to the west and saw a slender feminine figure standing on Hale Head, looking, as he had been, out to sea.
Loveday Penhale. Arthur recognized the straightness of her back and the pointed angle of her elbow, bent to hold her bonnet in place. The wind had picked up as the day cooled, and ribbons and hat pins were inadequate to their task, by all indications. She wore a dark blue spencer over a white muslin dress that bellied out like a sail in the wind.
She often came to the cliffs, he had observed, and usually at this time of day. But either she did not see him, perched upon his rock, or she did not care to acknowledge him, broken and useless as he was. They had known one another all their lives, but for some reason they did not know each other in the way longstanding friends did. There had been no history of playing together on the grounds of their neighboring estates; indeed, he had gone away to school at eight and returned at one and twenty, then had convinced his father to purchase a commission for him. The truth was, his sisters knew the Penhale girls better than ever he did, or likely would.
From all accounts, Loveday was an odd duck. Assisting the great Richard Trevithick at fifteen years of age? It had to be a Banbury tale. For who could have done that and maintained a respectable position in society? Frankly, Arthur pitied the poor sod the Penhales convinced to marry their peculiar daughter. He would have his hands full.
And just because he had been thinking uncharitable thoughts, she turned and saw him. They were a quarter mile or more apart, so she could not so much as shout a greeting. But she lifted her free hand and waved.
Good heavens. What had he done to deserve her notice?
But almost of its own volition, the hand that was not holding his crutches rose into the air and waved back, swiftly controlled and restored to its proper place. Never mind. He was only being civil.
Unless she developed a penchant for nursing, the likelihood of their ever being in company together, to say nothing of—heaven forfend—furthering any acquaintance, was practically nil.
“I saw Captain Trevelyan from the Head just now,” Loveday announced to her sisters at dinner. She seated herself in her usual place at Mama’s right hand and regarded the grilled plaice with great interest. Her walks down to the Head to think always made her hungry.
“You were out on the Head?” Gwen regarded her with pity. “Never mind. I see that you were. Your hair looks like a haystack after a storm.”
“Does it?” Loveday touched her braided Psyche knot, which did not seem any more out of order than usual. She had remembered to wear a bonnet.
“Be kind, Gwen,” their mother said. “Loveday looks a little windblown, but it is of no consequence when we dine en famille. Did you note any improvement in Captain Trevelyan, dear?”
“He was sitting on a rock,” Loveday said, taking her plate from Papa and helping herself with some energy to the fresh vegetables. “However, I suppose we can infer improvement since he got himself down there under his own steam.”
“I wish you would not use slang,” Mama complained.
“I beg your pardon, Mama,” Loveday said meekly. She would have to watch the tendency to use the expressions Emory and Thomas did in the shop. Papa might wonder where she picked them up, and that would lead to his asking questions. “Anyway, he was merely watching the sea. Gazing at France, I suppose, as though it would send him back an undamaged leg.”
“He is a hero,” Rosalind informed her soberly, “and you are unkind to be making sport of him so.”
“I am not making sport!” Loveday protested. “But he must be improving. He makes his way to the cliffs every day, that’s all. As though he is expecting something.”
“Boney, I suspect,” their father grumbled around a succulent mouthful of plaice. “We need to see to this detachment of aeronauts at the Mount. Lord St Aubyn is no laggard. I do not understand the reason for the delay.”
“Perhaps there are not enough aeronauts,” Loveday suggested. “Perhaps someone ought to establish a school of flight in Cornwall, to train them. And invite women to try their hands at it as well.”
Their father’s eyes widened until Loveday could see the whites of them. “What?”
“Loveday would insist upon attending as a student.” Gwen rolled her eyes. “And there would go all our chances of making a suitable match.”
Elbowing her sister in the ribs, Rosalind said, “She is jesting, Papa. None of us have even seen an ascension. Why would Loveday have such an idea in her head?”
“I never know what Loveday has in her head,” Papa said, returning to his dinner. “And for the most part, I do not wish to know.”
Loveday perked up. That was something. That was very good news indeed, in fact.
She refused to look directly at Mama, but Loveday could feel her glaring at her so pointedly that the left side of Loveday’s head would surely catch fire at any second.
“Returning to more interesting subjects,” Gwen said, “I wonder if Captain Trevelyan will be sufficiently recovered to attend the Midsummer Ball next month?”
“Unlikely,” Papa said.
“Oh, Papa,” Gwen said reproachfully. “You wound the hopes of every unattached female in the county.”
“Not a one of them good enough for that lad.”
“My dear Mr Penhale,” exclaimed their mother, “what better wife for him than one of our own daughters? We have known him all his life, and a better friend than Mrs Trevelyan I could never hope to meet. The two of us have long harbored a cherished desire, you know, to—”
Papa lifted both fork and knife to prevent another word. “I know what you have been plotting, you two estimable women. But a man of the captain’s caliber likes to choose his own wife, not have the job done for him by his mother. For all we know, he is corresponding with some likely young lady in London whom he met doing charitable work in the army hospitals.” He laid his utensils down with the sound of finality. “Is there any hope of strawberry cake for dessert?”
Both Gwen and Rosalind had been stricken silent with the horror of this imagined paragon in London, so when the strawberry cake was served in the drawing room, Loveday took the opportunity to change her dress and slip out to her workshop.
She sat upon a stool and regarded the boxes of the sideboard. “What am I to do with you?” she asked them. “Here I went out to Hale Head to give you all some thought, only to be interrupted by the sight of Captain Trevelyan. One cannot think when under surveillance by a soldier. At all events, let us begin and see how much progress we make.”
Tension was the guiding principle here. Tension had prevented the tiny pulleys and gears from completing their tasks, so this must be her starting point. Loveday assembled her tools and began with the bottom row of boxes, still smooth and silky to the touch despite their long journey to England and their subsequent neglect. Why, the gouge from an unfortunate slip of a tool was hardly visible—and anyway, it was in the rear.
She had adjusted the weight and tension in each end of three boxes when the door opened and Rosalind slipped in.
This was unusual, but no reason to stop one’s work.
“I thought I might find you out here.”
“As long as Papa or Gwen are not with you, you are most welcome.” Loveday began on the remaining sides.
“Gwen does not care to know what you are doing.” Rosalind leaned over to watch the proceedings. “Papa would care, however.”
“Do you plan to carry tales to him?”
“Certainly not. But you must not be hard on our sister. She cannot help her views.”
“Her views are those of our father, trimmed to fit.” Loveday adjusted a series of pulleys, little by little. “And while I love and respect Papa, I would feel easier if his views would expand to include mine.”
Rosalind stepped back to take a turn about the cramped space, lifting a tool here and a bit of wire there, moving the lamp to better illuminate Loveday’s work. “I do not have much hope of that. But I did want to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Do you not find it interesting that Captain Trevelyan is often on the cliffs when you walk down to the Head?”
Loveday lost her focus altogether at this non sequitur and stared at her sister. “Why should I consider such a thing? When the poor man takes his exercise is none of my business. He is a gentleman and quite free to do so without my leave.”
Her sister’s lips twitched. “I simply wondered if one of you had noticed the other’s habits, that is all.”
Loveday went back to work and did not dignify this with a reply. Honestly. One simply had enough to do during the day that the hour before dinner was convenient for a walk. That was all. She would have expected such a featherheaded connection to be made in Gwen’s brain, but not Rosalind’s. The latter, much to her relief, tended more to sense than nonsense.
“There,” she said, laying down the tiny turnscrew. “Let us see how we do.”
As before, she laid down a piece of canvas and positioned two of the boxes one on top of the other in the doorway, where the two flagged steps were shallow enough that no damage would result from a mishap.
“What are you expecting it to do?” Rosalind asked. “Why have you taken apart Mama’s sideboard, anyway? Does she know?”
With a fingertip, Loveday gave the top box a push.
A whir commenced from within, and the box tumbled off its perch. But this time, when it reached the next step, the lower box responded, pulled into motion by its companion and turned upon its head. Its matched latches clicked together effortlessly, with the result that now the lower rested upon the upper, two steps down.
Loveday clapped and bounced on the balls of her feet. “Oh, well done, sideboard!” she said to the two boxes, situated rather triumphantly upon the canvas. “Well done indeed.”
“Sister, dear, you are talking to the furniture,” Rosalind observed.
“So I am,” Loveday said, collecting the boxes and giving them an approving pat. “By midsummer, I will be able to move the sideboard anywhere in a room simply by using the power of its own motion.” A happy thought occurred to her. “Perhaps I will even accompany it on walks about the estate.”
“In that case, you must certainly demonstrate it to the Tinkering Prince when he comes,” Rosalind said in the pleasant tone one might use to placate a person in an asylum, and departed.