Airborne - The Hanover Restoration Read Online Free Page B

ascended. I glanced at Mrs. Biddle, who seemed disappointed that I wasn’t crying, screaming, or demanding to be let out.
    “Quite wonderful,” I announced coolly. “Is Lord Rochefort responsible for all these remarkable machines?”
    “He is a great man.” The temperature in our enclosed space dropped a few more degrees.
    A faint light broke through the witch’s animosity. Evidently, her devotion to my guardian went beyond the expected loyalty of a housekeeper. But how could that account for her disliking me on sight?
    The lift machine ground to a halt, shimmied, and settled into place. Mrs. Biddle slid back the gate. Once again, I trailed her down a long corridor, but what a difference! We were now in a light, airy world I recognized. To my left, the corridor was walled with evenly spaced windows set deep into the sandstone, revealing a courtyard below, with a fountain in the center and leading to it, symmetrical pathways criss-crossing well-tended flower beds. A lovely sheltered place that won my heart on sight. Our “garden” in London was scarcely the size of the stone-paved circle around the fountain below .
    The Abbey’s interior walls were of painted plaster, eggshell with a trim of leaf green. A fine dis play of family portraits and occasional landscapes marked the spaces between the bedchamber doors. I wanted to take a closer look, but Mrs. Biddle moved ahead of me like Elbert with a good head of steam. At the far end of the corridor she paused at last, swinging open a door before standing aside to let me enter first.
    I stepped over the threshold and came to an abrupt halt, eyes wide, lips firmed to keep them from betraying my astonishment. It was a corner room, more than twice the size of my bedchamber in London. The bed covering, draperies, and upholstery glowed in the waning afternoon sun, displaying my favorite shades of blue and green. The summer bedhangings were pale blue gauze, embroidered in white. A French rococo dressing table, a marquetry writing desk, a chaise longue, two comfortably upholstered chairs, a tallboy with ceramic basin and pitcher (and undoubtedly a chamber pot hidden in the cupboard below) completed the furnishings. Except for the rug. I gazed down at a blue and white Oriental carpet, so finely woven my boots did not sink into its depths.
    My eyes misted. From Mrs. Biddle’s attitude, I’d expected a room in the attic with the maids. I drew myself up to my full five feet two inches. “This will do nicely,” I said.
    “Tillie!” Mrs. Biddle called. A maid popped through a side door I had not noticed.
    “Tillie will do for you while you are here,” the housekeeper said, as if I were a guest for nothing more than a week’s visit in the country. “At the moment she is unpacking your trunk. I believe you will find her satisfactory.” Tillie, a girl of not more than seventeen, bobbed a curtsey.
    We had lived simply in London, my needs not demanding enough to warrant a full-time maid. One of the housemaids fitted my corset each morning, helped me off with it at night, trundled my clothes to and from the laundry, and assisted when I had to dress for a party. Otherwise, I did for myself. What on earth would I find for Tillie to do?
    But I smiled and welcomed her. At least the girl presented a friendly face.
    With a curtsey that might have lowered her head a half-inch, Evangeline Biddle departed, leaving me with my new maid. “Would you like to see, Miss?” she said, glancing behind her. “Make sure I’m doing it right?” Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I dragged my weary feet to the room next door.
    Merciful heavens , I had a dressing room! Tillie moved past my gaping trunk and the row of dresses she had already hung in the wardrobe along the wall, continuing through yet another door. I followed . . .and didn’t bother to hide my gasp of surprise. I was in a bathing chamber. I’d never actually seen one, but I knew they existed. Papa had always talked about constructing