She was trapped in an invisible prison of kindness.
Loveday paused on the stairs with the breakfast tray for Celeste, feeling as though her heart would burst from her chest. She had just had a note from Emory that he was on his way to Portsmouth to tour one of the steam ships and obtain schematics of the boiler design in person. There was no time to wait for the Admiralty Office. Now that the Prince Regent had said he was definitely coming by midsummer, it was more urgent than ever that they redesign and complete the new boiler with a foolproof adaptation of a working design—and foolproof rivets. Loveday needed to return to the steam works—needed to join Thomas and Emory, for they would require every hand.
And what was she doing instead?
Taking coddled eggs and toast to an invalid.
With a mighty effort, she resisted the urge to fling the tray over the banister just for the satisfaction of hearing it crash in the flagged entry hall. But that would net her nothing but a mop and bucket and at least a year of recriminations from everyone in the household.
She drew a calming breath and proceeded up the stairs.
Celeste was sitting up when she knocked and came in, evincing enough interest in the tray that it appeared her appetite, at least, might be fully recovered, if nothing else.
“You are too kind,” the young woman said, taking the tray and picking up the spoon. “I hope I will not inconvenience you for long.”
“Doctor Pengarry will return in three days to pronounce sentence.”
The spoon froze halfway to her mouth. “Pardon?”
Loveday smiled. “Forgive me. My family does not appreciate my sense of humor, either. He will tell us then if you are able to leave the sickroom and perhaps take some exercise.”
“Ah.” The coddled eggs vanished and the toast, too. Loveday ought to have brought some strawberries and possibly a whole boiled codfish. “Was it your good mama who bathed me after I was rescued from the sea?”
“Yes, she and Morwen, the maid. Having sea-bathed myself, I know what happens to skin and hair when the salt is not cleaned out of it. Mama was glad to see that you sustained no external injuries. And from your appetite, I hazard a guess there might not have been internal ones.”
“I do not feel injured. Only very, very tired. Every muscle aches.”
“I expect it does, if you had to somehow stay afloat.” She poured a cup of chocolate for each of them.
“Thank you. Chocolat. It is my favorite.”
“Can you swim?”
Celeste nodded. “Can you? You must, if you sea-bathe.”
“Enough to swim out to the rocks and back, and only at low tide, when we may touch the bottom. I can’t imagine how terrible it must have been to be swept overboard. To not know whether you were going to live or die.”
“It was indeed.” She sipped at her chocolate. “I cannot bear to speak of it.”
Loveday could not blame her. “Did you like living in Portugal?”
“It was… hot. But my family had no other choice. My parents had been disgraced in the Emperor’s eyes, and once that happens…” She gave a very Gallic shrug.
Loveday did not know what the consequences of disgrace would be, but Boney had such an evil reputation—had been the cause of so many deaths—that she could imagine a family’s choosing exile rather than waiting to be sentenced at the Emperor’s pleasure.
“Let us talk of other things,” she suggested, taking the empty tray and putting it on the chest at the end of the bed. “If you will tell me what you like to read, I will see if our small library has anything that will interest you.”
Celeste laughed. “I doubt it will contain what interests me.”
“We have a few things from the circulating library, too,” Loveday said, wondering what she could mean. Surely she did not mean to offend. “Camille has just come, and something called Emma, by the author of Pride and Prejudice. Mama disapproves of the author, because she thinks she is a bad influence on my sister Gwen, but I quite like her.”
“Then by all means, we must have this Emma,” Celeste said with a smile. “Do you not find that a bad influence is, at least, an interesting one?”
Loveday was too honest to offer a proper young lady’s argument. It was difficult to argue when part of you agreed. Mama certainly thought Loveday a bad influence on her sisters, when she meant no harm at all.
It took them two days to read aloud the first volume of Emma, chapter by chapter. Two days for Loveday to speculate with increasing anxiety about Emory’s journey to Portsmouth and how soon he might return. Two days for both of them to become so fidgety and restless—despite their both being excessively entertained by Emma—that Celeste could no longer stay in bed. They read the final pages of the volume while strolling the upstairs hall from one end to the other.
“I think that tomorrow, we might anticipate the doctor’s orders just a trifle by allowing the two of you out on the terrace,” Mama said, upon discovering them. “I am pleased to see that Gwen’s yellow batiste fits you well enough, Celeste.”
“I am grateful to her.” Celeste swished the skirts. “Someday I hope to repay you for your care of me.”
Personally, Loveday thought the yellow that looked so wonderful on Gwen rather unflattering on poor Celeste—with her dark hair and eyes it made her look sallow—but Rosalind’s frocks would be too long, and her own too badly treated to offer to a guest without insult. Why, this one had a grease spot near the hem that not even Morwen’s skilled ministrations could lift. It had become a house dress, or at most a walking dress, never to be seen in company.
She had made the mistake of wearing it into her workshop last evening after Celeste was asleep and stained it again in the same place. But the remaining sections of the articulated sideboard now operated properly, and she had actually got it to walk across her workshop and down the steps into the yard. And she hadn’t even told it to—simply set it in motion and watched to see how far it would go. That was worth the sacrifice of a bit of sprigged muslin from two springs ago.
On the third day, out on the terrace, Celeste was content to converse rather than to read. Loveday could have insisted that Rosalind or Gwen sit with their patient, but the truth was that she and Captain Trevelyan had saved the girl’s life. Did that not make her at least partly responsible for her welfare? Besides, every now and again, little things that Celeste said made her curious. “The wind speed is dropping,” she’d said just now, when anyone else might have said, “Not so strong a breeze today.”
So instead of volume two of Emma, Loveday fetched one of her own prizes from the circulating library. An illustrated treatise on the steam-powered wagons proposed by Mr Robert Stephenson for the mining industry. She began to read with a lively interest—an interest so consuming that she reached the second section before she raised her fascinated gaze to her guest.
Who was sound asleep on the chaise longue.
Rosalind bumped open the French door to the terrace with one hip and brought the tea tray out. “The doctor is come. Put that treatise away—Mama will be out to fetch Celeste directly.”
Celeste woke with a gasp at the sound of her name, but before Ros had even set down the tray on the low table, Celeste had recovered from whatever had ailed her. “I do apologize, Loveday,” she said. “I seem to have fallen asleep.”
“I’m sure it was what you needed,” she said mildly. And Stephenson was exactly what I needed.
Mama came out and ushered Celeste into the parlor for her conference with Doctor Pengarry. But in less than ten minutes, all three had returned, Celeste wreathed in smiles. “She has a clean bill of health,” Mama said as she seated herself to pour the doctor’s tea. “I am so glad.”
“And no restrictions?” Loveday asked. “You are free to go about as you please?”
“Within reason, for a stranger to our shores,” Doctor Pengarry said. “But yes. I believe that Miss Aventure may share in any activity you young ladies enjoy, from reading to dancing.”
“What good news!” Mama said. “Now we have nothing to wait for but the Prince Regent’s visit and the Midsummer Ball.”
At last! The past three days had been torture worse than what was rumored to happen in the Emperor’s dungeons. Every moment Celeste had feared they suspected, they knew. She wasn’t sure what she’d said, what she’d done, to give away the game, but their behavior now was highly suspicious.
First, they’d brought out a chaise longue for her should she desire to rest on the lawns overlooking the sea, as if taunting her. So close to freedom, yet no way to escape, especially with Loveday hovering over her like the mother hens Celeste could see through the open gate in the wall to the orchard.
Then Loveday spent even more time reading to her from engineering papers. Celeste had absorbed every word of Stephenson while pretending to be asleep. What fashionable young lady in England read engineering papers? Few young ladies in France read them. She, Amélie, and Josie had lamented the fact often enough.
“Ah, here’s one from Lady Worthington,” Loveday had said only this afternoon as she’d turned the page on Philosophical Transactions. “Of course her husband gets the authorial credit, but I recognize her theory on propulsion. The Royal Society of Engineers still refuses to publish papers by women. Philistines.”
Celeste willed herself not to react, even though every fiber of her being longed to learn what the famed lady aeronaut had written. She covered her hand with her mouth and pretended to yawn.
“Have you no copies of La Belle Assemblée?” she asked. “We have heard that is your ladies’ magazine. It would be amusing to see what passes for fashion in your little country.”
Loveday’s jaw hardened as she glued her eyes to the page. “I’ll have to ask my sisters. They are devotees. I believe they plan to ask you for permission to sketch your clothing so they can request copies from our modiste.”
That could lead to trouble. The Penhales might not recognize the design for what it was, but any former military man might have seen its like on a French aeronaut.
Right before a bomb dropped nearby.
“Oh, my modiste would not allow it,” Celeste said airily. “She is very protective of her designs.” Inspiration struck. “But if you gave me pen and paper, I could write to her for permission—that is, if you know a way to send a letter to France.”
Loveday met her gaze, head cocked so that the breeze tugged a strand of uncurled hair out of her knot. “But I thought you had been living in Portugal.”
Celeste’s gut twisted. Why was she such a terrible liar? She’d learned to spin a spiderweb out of silk to protect herself should she fall from the sky. She ought to be able to spin a tale to satisfy Loveday.
“Yes, that is where I was living with my family,” she assured her. “But the outfit was made before we left Paris. That is where I must write to my modiste.”
“Ah.” She straightened. “Well, there may be an opportunity. I understand we have smugglers in the area. They might be able to take it, assuming we can find a way to make their acquaintance.”
Oh, but she would find a way! She allowed some of her delight to leak through. “Smugglers! How intriguing. But I would not want you to jeopardize your reputation by approaching them. Perhaps if you tell me their direction, I could request the favor myself.”
Loveday regarded her a moment, and Celeste feared she’d gone too far. But the Englishwoman shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know their direction. I may, however, know someone who does. Captain Trevelyan, the one who first sighted you on the beach.”
“A sea captain?” Celeste asked on a sudden spurt of hope.
“No, a former officer for England and the oldest son of our neighbor. He watches the sea often enough. He may have noticed a smuggler’s craft.”
Her tone had cooled, her face tightened.
“You do not like him,” Celeste surmised.
Loveday started, then shook her head. “You’re very observant. It isn’t that I dislike him, precisely. I’ve been all but ordered to marry him. Unlike you, I have no fortune to rely on without marrying. And no other source of income should my father pass. My only brother was killed in the war.”
Guilt poked at her. Silly. She hadn’t shot the fellow. “I am sorry for your loss,” she murmured.
She nodded. “We all are. Jory would have been the one to inherit. My sisters and I cannot. Suffice it to say, unless I marry—and Arthur is my parents’ choice—my father’s estate will go to a stranger.”
She sounded so sad. Celeste felt for her. “And he is fat and ugly, this Arthur?”
Her brows shot up. “No, not at all. He was accorded quite the Corinthian before he was injured in the war.”
“Ah, then he is of low character—consorting with smugglers, gamblers.”
That made her laugh. “Arthur Trevelyan, a gambler? I assure you, he is the least likely sort to take chances. He is entirely a traditionalist, like many in the neighborhood.”
Her tone had darkened again. Celeste thought she understood at last. Her hands pressed down on the soft cambric of the gown they had given her to wear.
“After the French Revolution, my maman told me, many women rose to new heights—officers in the Army and Aeronautical Corps, physicians, advisors to the Emperor. Some men feel this was a mistake, that liberty and equality are only for those of the fraternity. Is the latter the same here?”
She sighed. “All too often.”
The injustice of it stiffened her spine. Celeste waved a hand. “Fah on them! We will prove our worth.”
Loveday smiled. “Indeed we will. Some already have, I hear. Didn’t your Emperor make a woman the head of his aeronauts? Madame Blanchard?”
Why would she bring that up? Celeste could not have blundered so badly. Keeping her smile in place made her mouth ache. “Why, yes. And she is a fire-breathing dragon. My mother insists that I emulate her, but me? I prefer fashion to flying. Now, let us talk of more pleasant matters. Have you good society here in Cornwall, soirees, balls? I understand you English love to dance.”
“It is a healthful exercise,” Loveday said primly, pulling Philosophical Transactions closer once more. “Sir Anthony and Lady Boscawen host the Midsummer Ball every year. My sisters will be making their bows, so you and I will be expected to attend.”
Unless she found a way to escape before then.
“Magnifique,” she’d said, leaning back on the chaise. “For now, I tire. Please feel free to read to me what this Lady Worthington has to say.”
Thank le bon Dieu the doctor had said Celeste could rise, walk about the house and gardens, resume her life.
As if he had any idea of the life she’d led.
Neither did Mrs Penhale, of course. She was pleased to pour tea that afternoon in the withdrawing room off the entry hall, with her daughters and Celeste. It was a pleasant enough room with a cozy fire, but she felt as if the paneled walls were closing in.
“I’m delighted you could join us at last, Mademoiselle Aventure,” her hostess said, handing Celeste a fine bone china cup with a pattern of roses along the silver-edged rim. “We must make you known to our friends and acquaintances in the neighborhood.”
For a moment, she wondered about the smugglers, but Mrs Penhale would surely not know how to reach them. Only this captain, it seemed, could point out their direction.
“That would be delightful,” she assured the lady, balancing the cup neatly over the white lawn gown. She suspected this one had been Loveday’s, as it smelled faintly of lubricating oil. She still wasn’t sure how the Englishwoman came into contact with such things. Perhaps it had something to do with Arthur Trevelyan.
“I understand your neighbors are quite interesting,” she ventured. “The Trevelyans, I believe?”
Gwendolyn and Rosalind shared a giggle. A look from Loveday silenced them.
“They are good neighbors,” Mrs Penhale agreed. “In fact, we have been invited to dine with them this very evening. Do you think you would feel well enough to join us? I’m sure Mrs Trevelyan won’t mind another at table.”
Loveday glanced at her imploringly, as if willing her to agree. So tempting. Yet, if the family were all out, would this not be her opportunity to escape? She could find the smugglers, or, failing that, at least locate a bolt hole along the shore where she could keep watch for the movements of their vessels.
She allowed her hand to tremble just the slightest. “Alas, I do not believe I have recovered enough for such an occasion. Merci all the same.”
Loveday looked even more disappointed than her mother.
Celeste was careful to stay in her room until she heard the carriage leave and the maid had carried off her dinner tray. Then she slipped out of the nightgown and into her flight suit. At least her corset fastened in the front. The maid had goggled at its brass fittings when she’d helped Celeste into the day dresses the daughters had loaned her. She slipped her fingers into the inside pocket of the redingote and sighed in relief at the feel of the smooth brass compass. No one had laundered the garment, and, since the wool had been milled, it had not shrunk after its time in the sea.
Now, to see if she could locate these smugglers herself.
She cracked open the door of her room and glanced up and down the carpeted corridor. From her movements indoors and out, she knew the basic plan of the house and the number of the Penhale servants. This floor held mostly bedchambers. No, no one moved, not even Morwen, the maid. No voices murmured in the distance. Hugging the wall, she crept to the stairway and started down, listening for any presence. Something thumped, as though dropped from a height. She froze.
Silence.
Perhaps a servant preparing the dining room for breakfast. All she had to do was move swiftly, quietly. Drawing a breath, she managed to reach the entry hall. A few more steps, and she’d be out the door and headed toward freedom and home.
Clump, clump, clump.
She whirled, expecting to see a dozen servants marching toward her. Instead, an ungainly piece of furniture that seemed to be made up of boxes stood in the corridor behind her.
Celeste leaned to one side to catch sight of the servant who must have set it there. The corridor was empty. Nothing moved.
She turned back toward the door. Took one step.
Clump.
She whirled. The piece of furniture now blocked the doorway to the corridor itself.
Celeste wondered for a moment if she was dreaming. She gave her head a shake. A servant had to be cleaning the piece, kneeling behind it, out of her sight. She must go before she was seen.
Another step, and with a racket of clanks and clumps, the boxes tumbled past her. She leaped out of the way, dodging for the door, and it contorted to stack itself against the panel, blocking her escape. As she backed away, a box tumbled off the top, setting the whole thing in motion again. It clipped the tall Chinese vase by the stairs, which teetered and crashed on the flagstones with a high-pitched tinkle of breaking porcelain.
Celeste turned and pelted up the stairs. Darting into her room, she slammed the door and pressed her back against it, heart pounding.
Was she dreaming?
Was she mad?
What was going on?