A School for Unusual Girls (33 page)

“Yes.” Miss Stranje rubbed her arm, her brow furrowed. “Things have gone from bad to worse.”

She frowned at me. Not with her normal
all-seeing
hawk eyes, no, with the eyes of a
shred-you-to-pieces
eagle. “I warned you to proceed cautiously, to think things through. This is what comes of acting in haste.”

I cringed. Miss Stranje had no need for a rack. Her words tortured me more than enough.

Seeing my distress, she clamped her jaw shut for a moment. Except she wasn't done with me yet. She gave it one more turn of the crank. “I told you—nay, I pleaded with you, not to engage his affections. This is what comes of it. He ran to your aid without thinking. You made him vulnerable.” She fired this accusation straight at me. In front of everyone.

I wanted to crawl under the floorboards, but all I could do was back farther away.

“Em,” Captain Grey said under his breath. “He acted of his own accord.”

“I suppose.” She took a cooling breath and waved away my sins. “Whatever the case, what's done is done. Lord Wyatt must be extracted at all costs. How long has Lady Daneska had him?”

Captain Grey had no need to consult his watch. “Seven hours.” He walked to the window, his shoulders drooping. “They've doubled their guard and posted men across the street watching the gate.”

She nodded and bowed her head in thought for a moment. “There is still hope.” She rose and rested her hand on his shoulder and murmured, “He's strong, Ethan. Well-trained. It will be days before he breaks. We will find a way to get him out.”

Days before he breaks
. What must he be going through? My stomach lurched. It felt as if we were back on the ship and it had just dropped over the crest of a wave. I had to sit in the nearest chair or fall down. Captain Grey said nothing.

Miss Stranje paced back to the table and drew her finger along the path from the royal docks to the Iron Cross stronghold. “You do realize Louis the Eighteenth will be here tomorrow to reclaim his throne?”

“Tomorrow!” Captain Grey spun around and stiffened, wary and suddenly very alert. “So soon.”

She tapped her finger over the docks. “Not for him. It's been twenty-three years since the Bourbons fled France in fear of their lives.”

“I know what you're thinking.” Captain Grey paced. “There were threats against the Vienna Congress because they recognized his right, but we've heard nothing about a plot directly against him.”

“Still.” She pressed down the edges of the map, straightening the wrinkles, smoothing the corners. “I cannot think it is a coincidence.”

Digby rubbed the stubble on his chin. “She has a point, sir. The Iron Crown must be chafing to see anyone but Napoleon on the throne. Not only that, Louis placated the army by agreeing to a constitutional monarchy, but ask any Frenchman on the street. Most believe the charter is worthless, that the king will go back on his word.”

“Jeopardy from both quarters.” Miss Stranje met the captain's worried gaze. “If Louis the Eighteenth takes his rightful place on the throne, Napoleon will have little hope of ever returning. You know what that means.”

“He doesn't have any hope now! He can't.” Jane marched to the map and plunked her hands atop it, as if she could find an answer in the lines and shading. “He's in exile. Banished. He lost. It's over.”

“Jane,” Miss Stranje said with a soft scold. “The man crowned himself Emperor. I'm afraid his lust for power is boundless, as is that of the Iron Crown.”

“God help us. You're right.” Captain Grey paled and turned to Digby. “How many men do we have left here in Calais?”

“Precious few, sir. Most are in Vienna. Or watching the ports in London.”

“You have us.” Miss Stranje stood her tallest and regarded both men evenly despite the alarm troubling their faces.

“But you … and they…” Digby stammered. “They're just girls.”

“Untested.” Captain Grey drew in a sharp breath. “Surely, you wouldn't—”

“Nonsense! These particular girls have been tested their entire lives.”

We looked at one another, we five. We outcasts. We oddities, who had not exchanged our true selves for a humdrum life in an English sitting room. A fierce current rushed between us, a commonality tying us together with a knot stronger than blood. She was right. We
had
all been tested. Over and over.

I swallowed hard. In my case, I had failed those tests. Repeatedly.

Miss Stranje yanked our attention back to her. “First things first. Lady Jane, dear, hand Tess and Georgiana the parcels we brought for them. Blood on one's gown is intolerable no matter the circumstances.” She rubbed the tips of her gloves together noting the grease from the table.

“Highly irregular,” Digby mumbled, and shook his head. “No good can come of it.”

Miss Stranje ignored him. “You and Mr. Digby must see to protecting the king. That, of course, must take precedence. You have so little time. You will have your hands full trying to discover the vulnerable points and setting up proper protection. That means it falls to the girls and I to extricate Lord Wyatt. The information to which he is privy must not fall into the hands of the Iron Cross. The consequence…” She trailed off, pinching her lips together as she observed Captain Grey's distress.

He rubbed his temples and leaned over the table looking pained and weary. “I don't see how you can do it, Em. It's too dangerous. The house is impenetrable.”

“Nothing is impenetrable, Captain.” She said it kindly, but jutted up her chin. “It merely presents a greater challenge. We shall have a better idea of how to proceed after we have a closer look. If anything happens to Louis it will plunge us into another war. You know I am right.”

He stared sadly at her small hand resting on his arm. The ache in his expression made me look away in shared sadness. “I can't lose you, too.” He said it so softly that I hardly heard.

“He is not lost. You'll see.” She was firm in this, bristle-backed as a wild boar. “Trust us. We will present our plans to you this evening.” She turned to us, shooing at us if we were geese in the garden. “Tess, Georgiana, what are you waiting for? You cannot be seen on the street like that. Go to my rooms and change. Quickly. We've no time to waste.”

Captain Grey cleared his throat. “Miss Fitzwilliam has had an idea.”

I wheeled back to eavesdrop as Captain Grey explained about having a look from the lighthouse or the church tower.

“Or…” I interrupted, hoping they wouldn't be angry if I offered a suggestion. “What if one of us were to disguise ourselves as a servant—”

“Can't. She knows us,” Jane said. “And believe me, Daneska would notice.”

Sera piped up. “Except she doesn't know Maya. Maya came after.”

“True.” Miss Stranje tilted her head and studied Maya. “It just might work. Are you game?”

Maya's face lit up with pride. “I am.”

Miss Stranje fished a coin out of her reticle. “Quickly then, go and buy the scullery maid's clothing. Trade her yours, and give her this for her trouble.”

When we reassembled in the private dining room, the captain and Mr. Digby had left to gather their compatriots and set up reconnaissance and protection for the king of France. Maya had turned into a scullery maid. I was astonished at her transformation. The rags she wore even smelled of the kitchen. I thought her disguise was perfect.

However, Miss Stranje and the other girls did not.

They circled her making little adjustments here and there. I knew instantly they'd all played this game before.

Seraphina frowned “Her face is too clean.”

“Easily remedied.” Tess dragged a finger through the hearth and made strategic smears of soot to sully Maya's striking caramel complexion.

“Her shoes betray her.” Jane took them from our subject and scuffed them against the rough charred bricks of the fireplace.

“Hands,” ordered Miss Stranje. Maya thrust out her palms. “Your nails are flawless, Miss Barrington. I'm sorry for this, but a man's life hangs in the balance and perhaps yours as well. Tess, your knife, if you please.”

Tess unsheathed a dagger from her thigh and handed it over. Miss Stranje shaved the ends of Maya's nails making them jagged and uneven. Then she rubbed them through the grease on the table. “That should do the job. Not so filthy as to alarm a potential employer, but not clean enough to draw suspicion.”

“Hair,” Sera said with an apologetic sigh. “Far too shiny and clean.”

When Miss Strange stepped forward with the knife again, Jane lunged forward to stop her. “Wait. There's no need for that. We can muss it up. Use some ash to dull the shine, and add a few tangles. Let me try.” She dug a brush out of her reticule and went to work. “Like this. Then if we pull it back in a braid and cover her head, no one will know.”

“We don't want her to get caught,” Tess warned. “It must do uncovered as well.”

“Give me half a chance, will you.”

Jane fashioned, or rather unfashioned, Maya's dark hair and we assessed her handiwork. The cloth scarf and mussy ends straggling out around her dirtied cheeks added an unexpectedly authentic edge to her appearance. “Brilliant. She's a work of art.”

“Hmm. A few uneven ends might've been more convincing.” Miss Stranje handed the dagger back to Tess. “But it will do.”

Maya exhaled with relief.

The rest of us donned deep-brimmed bonnets and dull gray and brown cloaks. Nothing to draw attention. “When do I get a dagger to wear under my skirt?” I asked.

They all stopped dressing for a moment, but Tess was the first to answer. “Not until you learn how to throw one and land it directly in a man's heart without cutting yourself up in the—”

“Not yet.” Miss Stranje cut short the discussion.

They hid my red hair by stuffing it under a hideous mobcap and securing that under an enormous coal scuttle–shaped bonnet. She instructed us not to walk together. Maya was to walk alone the moment we left the inn. The rest of us were to remain in clumps of two or three.

Belowstairs, from the Blue Lion kitchen, Miss Stranje purchased a shallow basket of shabby vegetables intended for the refuse pile. She equipped Maya with the basket and sent her on her way with orders to peddle the pathetic wares along the street south of the stronghold.

Maya was one of the most gracious and naturally elegant human beings I'd ever encounter. I marveled at her ability to change into a believable penniless orphan selling limp leeks and moldy onions. And, although no one bought any of her wilted vegetables, one kind gentleman dropped a ha'penny onto her tray.

We watched from various positions. Tess and I stood nearby pretending to listening to a pamphleteer on the corner. There was a large crowd listening to him extol the evils of allowing a Bourbon back on the throne. Although he was pontificating in French, it was not hard to grasp his complaints. We stood at the back edge of the crowd, near Maya, feigning interest in his rant against the excesses of the royal family, pretending to read his pamphlet, and being extremely cautious not to draw attention.

Jane gave the signal. A woman had emerged from the gate of the Iron Cross stronghold. One glimpse at the woman and we knew immediately she must be the cook. A headscarf tied securely under her double chin, her cloak was frumpy but high-quality wool, and she carried an empty basket headed for market. It made perfect sense. Having finished up the breakfast service she would be off to buy for the next few meals.

Maya ran up to her, “
Madame! Oignons? Poireaux
?”

The woman shook her head.

Maya held up a pathetic-looking leek and switched to Spanish. “
Las cebollas. Los puerros
?”

“
Non
. No! Go away.” She waved a beefy arm shooing Maya away. Her speech had fallen into English tinged with what sounded like a Flemish or Dutch accent. I couldn't tell.

“Please, madame.” Maya followed her and begged, “Four leeks and this fine turnip for one sous? A farthing?
Un centime
?” They neared us. The mellow warming quality of Maya's voice flowed even to where we stood. “Please. You are kind. I can see that.”

The woman stopped, hands on hips and inspected Maya's paltry offering. “Child, dat turnip is …
uitdrogen
.” She dropped it back on the tray. “Dried up. And what do I want with more onions? Every orphan in de city is selling dem. I've enough leeks to feed ze army. What I need is a good side of mutton.”

She turned to go, but Maya gently touched her arm. “Please, madame. My mother was a camp follower, a cook. She died, and now I must sell leeks or…” Maya glanced down in embarrassment and shook her head mournfully.

“I see.” The woman nodded, knowing what an orphan girl's alternative would be.

Maya, having caught the woman's full attention, sprang into our plan. “Perhaps you need help in the kitchen? I could wash pots, chop vegetables, clean foul, stir soup stock. I did all these things and much more for my mama. I would do this for you in exchange for food to eat and a place to sleep near the hearth.”

“Well…” The woman rubbed her chin. “With all za extras in the house to feed, I could do with some help.”

“A pallet by the fire. That is all I ask. I will work hard, and you will never hear a word from me.”

“Ach, dat is something. I don't like ze chatterboxes. Well, den, you come wit me.” She grabbed Maya's tray, set it against the wall, and thrust her large basket into Maya's hands. “I can use ze help carrying things back from market.” They walked off together.

One of us was in.

 

Twenty-two

BEST LAID SCHEMES OF M
I
CE AND MEN

As prearranged, once Maya had succeeded in gaining employment at the house, we headed toward the lighthouse. The watchtower wasn't directly on the water's edge. In fact, the beacon sat well back from the actual port, on slightly higher ground than the surrounding flat terrain. The ideal position to withstand torrential waves and guide incoming ships.