If I Fall (47 page)

Dear Reader—

Research is part of the lifeblood of an author. It takes us directly into the world we hope to inhabit; it inspires us with ideas for plot and character, even though sometimes we have to fictionalize things. Just a bit.

The first Anglo-Burmese War was officially declared in March of 1824, but action began in the fall of 1823 when Burma took the island of Shapuree and attacked British soldiers stationed there. The war between British India and Burma lasted until 1826 and deeply weakened Burma (after two more wars, Burma was eventually taken into the British Empire in 1885). Obviously, the characters of Georgina Thompson and the Comte de Le Bon never (to my knowledge) existed, nor did their actions in any way facilitate anti-Burmese sentiment in Great Britain. But tension between British India (and, therefore, the British Empire) and Burma did exist, due to Burma’s extreme expansionist philosophies, and, therefore, in my fiction, Georgina Thompson is tasked with helping the inevitable along.

It may seem odd to say that there were not enough commissions in the Royal Navy to satisfy the number of officers it had. After all, after 1815, a great era of Pax Britannica was ushered in, where Britain, due to its maritime might, was able to peacefully hold and control trade routes and greatly expand its empire. Indeed, Britain had a larger fleet than any two other nations combined. But it was still far fewer ships than they had previously. According to Dean King, author of
A Sea of Words: A Lexicon and Companion to the Complete Seafaring Tales of Patrick O’Brie
n, “In the years that followed [the wars], Britain dramatically reduced her naval forces in a long period of peace but still remained unchallenged as the possessor of the most powerful navy in the world.”

Since Britain didn’t need all of its ships, it didn’t need all of its officers. Thus, Lieutenant Jack Fletcher is rightly very worried about the future of his naval career when his ship is brought limping into the London docks.

Hans Holbein the Younger (1497–1543) was a German Renaissance Era artist known for his portraiture, and upon his
travels to England, he became a favorite of the Tudor Court, painting many of the court’s most illustrious figures, including Sir Thomas More, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and King Henry VIII himself.

In
If I Fall,
my heroes are able to tell that the Holbein on the wall of the Duke of Parford’s library is a reproduction because “it’s still a bit wet—[they could] practically smell the linseed oil.” Oil paintings vary in drying times, depending on how thinned the paint was by additives such as linseed oil, but even then, oil paintings are often not dry to the touch until weeks after completion. (Sometimes, a painting is not considered completely, thoroughly dry until several years have passed!) Hence, they would be able to tell by touch if the work was recently done. (Full disclosure: Holbein’s chosen paints for his portraits were oil and tempera. Tempera, being made from eggs, is incredibly quick-drying. But it was used as an under layer and would have had no effect on the drying time of the thicker oil top layers.)

The Horse Guards in Whitehall was home to the offices of the general staff of the British army, and still houses some minor army commands to this day. In my fictional world, it is also home to the War Department, and the secretive Security Section thereof. The interior geography of the building, with its attic rooms, is entirely of my own invention. (Although there is a ceremonial archway, which Jack erringly rides through, as only the monarch is meant to pass through it.)

There are a great many other aspects of the story that benefited from research (the naval offices are located in Somerset House, officers without a commission must sign an affidavit, allowing them meager half pay in exchange for not taking up other work, etc.), but in the end, it is just that—a story. And hopefully one you have enjoyed reading as much as I did writing.

Many thanks,

Kate Noble

Keep reading for a preview of
the next historical romance by Kate Noble

Coming soon from Berkley Sensations!

February 1824

A
T
last
, Bridget thought, her body vibrating with excitement,
Italy
.

But not just Italy.
Venice
.

Although, she thought, wrinkling her nose in the salt air as they sailed into the port of this miraculous city, Venice was not necessarily Italian at all.

While on board the
Tromba
, the Italian-owned merchant vessel which the Forrester ladies had boarded in Portsmouth nearly a month ago, Bridget had been without what usually took up most of her time—a pianoforte on board an ocean-going vessel was pure folly. Or so she was told.

Thus, she and Amanda had taken to wandering around ship, pestering the
Tromba
’s (which meant ‘trumpet’ in Italian, which Bridget took as a good sign) captain. Well, Amanda was pestering. Bridget could not pester, as she couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

“But it says in my guidebook”—when they had decided upon this trip, Amanda immediately devoured every travelogue of Italy she could find in their family library, not to mention
in London’s bookshops—“that Venice is not
really
Italian!”

Captain Petrelli, a kind man, scoffed at the notion. “Venice, not Italian! That is like saying Rome is not Catholic!” Then, humoring their lack of knowledge about the world stage, he took out his maps.

It seemed the wars at the beginning of the century had turned what had been a conglomeration of kingdoms that most Englishmen thought of as “Italy” into a bit of a redistricted mess, and Venice, at the very northern edge of the Adriatic sea, was no longer Italian at all, but part of the Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia.

“And since Lombardy-Venetia is ruled by Emperor Francis of Austria,” Amanda concluded, “one could argue that Venice is … Austrian!”

“But, do not worry,” Captain Petrelli had said, his eyes crinkling to superior Amanda and the blinking Bridget from behind his bushy beard. He must have been smiling in there, somewhere. “The city of Venice has survived the assault of Turks and pirates and raiders for a thousand years. One little Austrian government does little to change it.”

“I think what my sister means to ask is,” Bridget had said while Amanda sputtered in frustration, “who owns Venice?”

“The Venetians, my little
uccello canoro,”
he said and tweaked Bridget’s nose then, a gesture that in England would have earned him a strong reproof (not to mention the possibility of a duel for disgracing her so), but on board an Italian ship, the rules of Italy seemed to apply. And Italians
touched
. Even sheltered English ladies, who had their mother, three maids, and three footmen travelling with them for protection.

While Lord Forrester had plead business as his reason for not accompanying them (although Bridget quietly suspected his motives had more to do with his abhorrence of traveling farther than his library), he had refused to allow his girls to travel to Europe with anything less than a maid and personal bodyguard each.

Italians also apparently called people by pet names. It took one of Amanda’s Italian-to-English translation books for her to figure out that
uccello canoro
translated to “warbler,” or “songbird.” Apparently Bridget, without a pianoforte on board, had taken to expelling the melodies that crowded her
head by singing them under her breath. All the time, according to Amanda, who shared a stateroom with her, and had to beg her to stop humming as she fell asleep.

The pet names, Bridget could get used to. The constant touches were more disconcerting.

Really, between the little tweaks to the nose and the
uccello canoro
, Bridget could half believed that Captain Petrelli was in love with her. If he wasn’t old enough to be her grandfather, one who showed off the miniature of his wife of thirty years to anyone who showed the slightest interest, that is.

She was sorry to say goodbye to Captain Petrelli when they docked in Rome. Indeed she was sad to say good-bye to the entire crew. (Their mother was less sorrowful, as she spent the first week of the journey “getting her sea legs” and never fully adjusted to them, practically kissing the ground as they disembarked.) But she was far too excited for what was to come to mourn for long.

It was as if she, with each passing league away from London, felt herself shedding the old Bridget, as a bird molted feathers in the summer. The closer she got to the warmth of the Mediterranean, the further she was from the wretched, scowling thing she had become over the course of the past year, watching her sister Sarah’s success at the expense of having any herself. The Bridget whose fingers failed her when anyone other than her family watched her play.

It was a second chance. She could be new again.

And, she had thought determinedly, with the help of Signore Carpenini, she would become the player she was meant to be.

They had stayed in Rome for two days. Not long enough for their mother, who, after weeks at sea, was loathe to board a ship again, and not nearly long enough for Amanda.

“But the Pantheon!” Amanda had cried, flipping to the appropriate page in her guidebook. “The Colosseum!”

“We will get to them,” Bridget had tried to placate her sister. “After Venice.”

As they had planned their trip in those frantic days in London, Bridget had done her best to steer her family into the opinion that it was best to go to Venice first. “It will be much easier to start at the top and work our way down. That way, we
will have less to travel on the return trip,” she had said, as unaffected as she could manage.

This logic looked sound on paper, and therefore it was agreed upon at the time. But now, having already docked in Rome, less than two days travel by sea around the island of Sicily and up the Adriatic to her intended destination, Bridget could not let something as little as her mother’s weariness and her sister’s sightseeing enthusiasm stop them.

“But Venice will be crowded,” Amanda warned. “It says right here in my guidebook—” but Bridget cut her off with a wave of her hand.

“Yes, yes, the carnival. I don’t know why that worries you so, I think a carnival will be fun,” Bridget said smoothly. “And of course it will be crowded, Venice is supposed to be the most beautiful city there is, and the most pleasant in temperature.”

Amanda frowned a little and flipped pages, looking for any information that might relate to Venice’s weather.

“Well, hopefully it will be warmer than Rome,” Lady Forrester replied. “Their winters may be milder than England, but one could hardly call this gray atmosphere balmy or exotic.”

Bridget nodded and hoped that neither her sister nor her mother would realize that, being to the north, Venice’s weather was likely similar if not slightly cooler than Rome’s. And since the English winter had been the excuse given for their escape, Bridget’s fragile fiction could fall apart at the seams.

“Besides, we’ve already arranged for rooms in Venice, haven’t we Mother?” Bridget said finally.

Thankfully, this last bit of persuasion did the trick, as Lady Forrester sighed, and rang for the footmen to come and make sure their trunks were ready to be loaded onto the smaller ship that would take them to Venice in the morning.

Because it was in Venice that Signor Vincenzo Carpenini, master musician and composer, currently resided. And thus it was to Venice that Bridget would go.

“I told you we should have stayed in Rome.”

Amanda puffed out the words on a sigh, low enough so their mother wouldn’t hear her frustration. Although, their mother was already frustrated enough.

“What do you mean you have no rooms for us? We sent a messenger ahead to arrange for them!”

“Si, Signora, you did,” Signor Zinni, the proprietor of the Hotel Cortile, located right off the serpentine Grand Canal, stammered, wringing his hands. His English was very good, (and not surprisingly, his German), which was likely why the establishment was recommended to them as being very friendly to travelers of the Forrester’s station and nationality. “But you arrived too quickly to receive our reply. The hotel is booked months in advance for Carnevale!”

Carnevale—not a carnival, as Bridget had been quick to dismiss it—was the festival of indulgence that preceded Lent. And it was something that Venice, according to Amanda’s guidebook, was known for.

For the months of January and February, before Ash Wednesday descended and ushered in forty days of penance, Venetians took it upon themselves to make certain they had something to repent. Well, at least they
had
, before Napoleon and Austria took the stuffing out of the city. Now, the custom was limited only to those who had the funds and the time for it, i.e., the wealthy and the tourists. Which seemed to make up the entirety of the Hotel Cortile’s clientele.

White masks, faces blank and frozen, made to hide the sinners from the consequences of their sins, had stared back at them from other gondolas—some made out of plaster, some heavy ceramic, some embellished with paints and gold, some austere and staring. Yet all were strangely beautiful and grotesque. People danced in the streets and on the footbridges that arched over the narrower canals. And the music! There was music pouring out of every window, on every corner. No matter their exhaustion at travel, it made Bridget’s senses awake with wonder, her body vibrate with melody.

“Just wait until my husband’s friends at the Historical Society in London hear about this,” Lady Forrester was saying in grand, tragic tones. It had taken three ships and a gondola to get them to this hotel, and Bridget knew her mother was not about to set foot on another water-bound vessel without putting up a fight. “They are the ones who recommended your establishment, Mr. Zinni. And they travel. Quite often.”

Zinni blanched, as was appropriate. “Signora, Carnevale
will be over after this Tuesday,” he replied, thinking quickly. “Indeed, in three days’ time, you can have an entire floor of the hotel to yourselves.” Lady Forrester squinted, and then raised one imperious eyebrow at the little man. “At no additional cost, of course,” he murmured.

Their mother, who relished negotiating more than was seemly for a lady of quality, preened a bit at winning that battle. But then she steadied herself, and raised her eyebrow again at the hotelier. “That is all well and good, but what do we I and my poor daughters do in the meantime?”

“I … I know not, Signora.” Zinni shrugged. “Perhaps some of our gentlemen customers can be convinced to share a space for a time? But it would take some lira…”

While their mother metaphorically rolled up her sleeves, and set about haggling for a room like the very best fishwife, Bridget turned to Amanda, who was had wandered to a window, trying to stay out of the way of the numerous people passing through the hotel’s main entrance, as she flipped pages of her guidebook.

“How long do you think mother will haggle?” Amanda asked, her eyes never leaving the guidebook, except to occasionally peek out the window, as if confirming something she read.

“We have not yet reached ‘haggling.’ We are still at ‘intimidate.’” Bridget threw her eyes over to her sister. “What are you reading about now?”

“Where we are,” Amanda said. “Did you know that there are no carriages in Venice? No buggies? The narrowness of the streets and all the steps on the bridges don’t allow for it. If you rode a carriage, you’d never get anywhere.” She nodded to the window, which opened up on to a smaller canal. “Everything has to be transported via those little flat boats. That or walking.”

“Mother will be so pleased,” Bridget said under her breath, and Amanda giggled. “You have certainly done your research, haven’t you?”

But Amanda just shrugged in return. “I like to know things. You and mother and Sarah never tell me anything, so I have to figure it out on my own.”

Bridget blinked, surprised. Although, upon reflection, she
supposed it was true. Last season, Amanda was not yet out and therefore shielded from most of the dramatics, which drove Amanda crazy with curiosity. And when she had decided to convince her parents to take them to Italy, Bridget had simply told her sister to follow her lead, not giving her any more information than that. Surely, she deserved a little more consideration.

“So,” Bridget exhaled, seating herself next to Amanda. “Where are we? Precisely.”

Amanda flipped the pages in her guidebook, and found one with a detail map of the streets and canals of the main island of Venice. The Grand Canal bisected the picture, and Amanda pointed to a small canal just to the east of it. “Here. Rio di San Marina.”

Bridget dutifully looked to where Amanda’s finger pointed, but her eyes found themselves falling on another Rio, just a few canals away.

Rio di San Salvador
.

Her breath caught as little pinpricks of awareness spread across her scalp. In the letter they had received from Carpenini’s friend Mr. Merrick, regarding taking lessons with the Signor, he had given his direction as the Rio di San Salvador.

And Mr. Merrick would know where she could find Carpenini.

Bridget peered closer at the map, her nose coming close enough to touch the pages.