Light.
Sound.
Celeste strained to focus on something solid in the murk surrounding her. Everything felt stiff, weighted. Was that a voice? Yes, a woman, talking. She could not make out the words, as if they were in a foreign tongue.
“Amélie?”
The voice stopped. Why were her eyelids as heavy as the ballast bags?
Ballast bags.
The balloon.
The storm.
Celeste bolted upright, eyes flying open. She was lying in a bed in an airy room with light-colored walls. The delicate furnishings were lacquered in white with gilded edges, while paintings of the sea hung on the walls.
Beside the bed, a young woman with blond hair pulled back in a knot sat properly on a wooden chair and stared at her.
Celeste blinked.
“You’re awake.” The woman sounded excessively relieved, but that was… English?
Of course it was English. Did she think she’d gone down just short of her goal and somehow reappeared in Paris? Thank the good Lord her father has insisted she learn the language, if only to read the scientific treatises coming out of the country. England might be the enemy, but her scientists and engineers did have an occasional good idea.
“I believe I am awake,” Celeste said, voice coming out raspy. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“This is Hale House,” the young woman said, rising and setting aside the volume she’d been reading. “I am Miss Loveday Penhale, and I am under strictest orders to bring my mother to you the moment you wake. If you’ll bear with me.” She hurried from the room.
Hale House. Celeste had never heard of it, but that meant nothing. What had meaning was that Miss Penhale’s family home had a name. That spoke of position. And Miss Penhale had been dressed in white muslin, not as fussy as some of the latest fashions, and bearing a slight stain at the hem. On Amélie or Josephine, she would have known it to be grease. Surely not on the lovely Miss Penhale. Did that mean she had no servants to aid in cleaning and laundry?
Celeste peered over the edge of the bed. Aubusson carpet. No mistaking that weave. Everyone in France wanted the rugs that resembled those in the Emperor’s palace. No, Miss Penhale likely had plenty of servants and pretty dresses. Wherever Celeste had landed, it was into wealth. And in England, like France, wealth meant power.
She shivered. They could not be allowed to know all, or she’d end up in a prison, not this charming bedchamber.
So, how easy would it be to escape? Gingerly, she pulled back the thick covers. All her limbs appeared to be intact, for her toes wiggled nicely. She patted along the pretty pink flannel of the nightgown and felt no bulges of bandages or splints. What had they done with her clothing?
The door opened, and Miss Penhale returned with three other women, each showing a differing degree of calm and decorum. The oldest, and most serene, was clearly Maman. She bore a decided resemblance to Miss Penhale, as did the two younger women crowding behind her, the younger eager, the elder wary. All wore fashionable white muslin with delicate embroidery Josie would admire along the hem and modest necklines. They were followed by a stern-faced fellow in a country tweed coat and chamois trousers. Those narrowed eyes under his thatch of greying hair said he’d be the one to watch.
“How lovely to see you awake,” the mother said in perfectly polished tones as Celeste modestly pulled up the covers in the presence of a man. “Can you tell us your name, dear? We would like to notify your family that you are safe. They must be so worried.”
If she thought of her family—Marcel, Amélie, Josie, yes, even her mother—she would start to cry. How she had failed them! But she couldn’t reveal her heritage. Even here, the name of Blanchard might have meaning.
“Celeste Aventure,” she temporized, knowing Amélie and Josie would smile to hear her claim kinship. “But I fear you will not be able to contact my family. We were exiled from France to Portugal, and I ran away on a ship bound for England.”
“Ran away?” The lady exchanged glances with her husband before frowning at Celeste. “Why would you do something so disobedient?”
Disobedience was apparently a hanging offense in this family, for Miss Penhale winced and her sisters nudged each other as if anticipating a scene.
Celeste dropped her gaze. “It was not disobedience. My mother is being pressured to accept an offer for my hand from a man we cannot admire. He wanted only the considerable dowry I will bring to a marriage. It was her wish that I escape to the country that honors its ladies.”
“Quite right,” the father said.
Celeste dared a glance up and saw a smile hovering on the lady’s face as well.
“And how did you come to wash up on our beach?” the father asked.
She heard no censure, only curiosity. Had they found the balloon? Her journal?
“Was no one and nothing else found with me?” she asked. It wasn’t hard to sound plaintive.
“No,” Miss Penhale volunteered. “You were all we found. We feared there had been a wreck. Were others washed overboard in that storm, too?”
Relief was quickly followed by despair. Then she really was lost here.
They were all watching her, waiting for her to tell them her sorry tale. Celeste took a deep breath and set out to weave one as colorful as the carpet on the floor.
“I was strolling on the deck, enjoying some fresh air, when the storm, as you say, blew in. It came so quickly, I could not reach the stairs before I was washed overboard. I do not know what became of the ship.”
“Such storms have taken many a ship along this coast,” the father lamented.
They all looked sorrowful for the other souls that must have gone down to the depths. She was simply thankful they did not ask her the name of the ship. Did they name sailing vessels after people in Portugal? Places? What if she accidentally used the name of a real ship, with a real captain who could confirm no Celeste Aventure, heiress or otherwise, had sailed with him, much less been washed overboard? Oh, but this lying was difficult!
“Well, you are safe now,” the lady said, reaching out to tuck the covers closer. “The doctor says you should recover fully in a few days.”
Mrs Penhale seemed so kind. Tears gathered anew. Was it possible that she had washed up on the beach of one of the few helpful English families? The Paris papers were always describing the treachery, the cruelty of the English. Did she dare to take them at their word and trust them?
“Where had you been heading, dear?” her hostess asked as she stepped back.
Might as well stick as close to her plans as she dared. “I had hoped to make my home among the émigré community in Kent, though we know no one there. Are they nearby?”
Once again, the parents exchanged glances. The younger two daughters shook their heads as if she ought to have known better. Miss Penhale looked contrite.
“I’m afraid Kent is quite far,” their father explained. “Days away. You had the good fortune to wash up in Cornwall.”
Cornwall!
She nearly yelped the word aloud. How had she veered so far off course? She must consider her last readings, see if the family knew anything about the course and ferocity of the storm. Then she could—
Her journal noting her last readings likely lay at the bottom of the Channel.
This time, she let the tears fall.
“There, now, you’ve upset her,” the mother admonished. “You have no need for concern, Mademoiselle Aventure. You are welcome to stay with us as long as you like. My daughter Loveday will have the care of you.” Her look to her oldest daughter warned her not to disagree.
“Happy to be of assistance,” she said, pasting a smile on her face.
“Rosalind and Gwendolyn will be busy with other activities,” her mother clarified. “But I’m sure they’ll look in on you as well, and you may ask them for anything you need.”
The simpering smiles belied her statement, and she felt some sympathy for Miss Penhale.
“Now,” her mother said, stepping back. “We must let you rest.”
“But Mama,” one of the younger sisters objected, “you said we might ask her about her clothing.”
“It was rather daring,” the other agreed with a look toward the wardrobe on the far wall.
At least now she knew where to find her things. “My mother insists I wear the latest fashion from Paris,” Celeste explained. “Empress Maria has several outfits like that. You would look well in the silk trousers, I think.”
One of the younger sisters preened, while the other gaped. She thought Loveday hid a smile.
“We can discuss that later,” her mother said in a tone that told her daughters they certainly would not. “Sleep well, Mademoiselle Aventure. When Loveday is not available, you need only ring the bell on the bedside table, and a maid will see to your needs. Come, girls.” She sailed from the room, and the others followed. Only Loveday looked back, a puzzled frown on her face.
She could be no more puzzled than Celeste. How could she send word to Marcel and the others that she was safe? How could she return home?
And how could she trust that the members of this English family were as pleasant as they seemed? Was this kindness, this charity all a ruse to force her to spill her secrets? Surely they were hiding something.
But what?