When a Rake Falls (5 page)

She paused and decided she needed more current data to evaluate the dangers of attempting to reach the shores of France. She then took measurements and discovered that they were over the plains of Kent and would be reaching the coast soon. The sun hung low in the sky, and the light wind would probably propel them to France before darkness fell. Since the temperature was tolerable at their current elevation, if she gained altitude, they would reach France sooner. Except higher elevations meant colder temperatures, so she calculated the possible temperatures at various elevations using one degree per four thousand feet—not exact calculations, but adequate to make a decision. She then chose the highest elevation that matched an acceptable temperature. Aeronauts routinely huddled to retain warmth, and she wondered if Parker could efficiently huddle. Huddle with a Tulip…

Stop. Do not attempt dangerous calculations.

She made sure she did not glance his way, so her decision did not suffer bias by his warmhearted personality or his attractive person. She then asked herself for an honest evaluation of their chances of success. Unfortunately, she had enough experience to easily answer her own question. History proved anything could happen. In the worst case, the wind could die or change directions, the balloon could rent, and the weather, which had been exceptional up to this point, might change into a violent storm.

Upon further evaluation of the serious dangers ahead, if the wind died during the night, they might never reach the shores of France alive. The gas would condense in the cold night air, causing the balloon to lose altitude and crash into the ocean. Once they were in cold water, their survival would be measured in minutes, unless they could be rescued by a boat. What were the chances of a boat about at night, much less witnessing their crash in the dark?

However, on the bright side, after Major Money's rescue in 1785, cutters that normally rescued mariners now followed balloons out to sea. The major's balloon lost its lift, and he spent hours in the North Sea. A cutter that headed in the direction of his flight, followed him, and saved his life. She glanced up. Her balloon still had plenty of lift, the light wind remained steady, and the day continued to be an unusually warm one. Considering all of these facts, she gained the conviction they would eventually succeed and reach France.

Parker, her all-too-handsome passenger, stood in front of the pigeon and cooed softly.

She chuckled to herself.
A
coo
really
is
a
lovely
sound
. If he could speak duck, maybe he could speak pigeon as well. The thought of disappointing him now seemed unbearable. Besides, there was every indication his resolve to reach France had remained steadfast, so he'd probably tie
her
up if she tried to descend. Nevertheless, she explained the hazards of their current situation. “Knowing we may perish in the cold ocean, do you still want to continue?”

After an examination of the heavens and the balloon, he hesitated, a soft empathy filling his emerald eyes. “Yes, I acknowledge your concerns and the dangers ahead. I take full responsibility for our journey, but I just have this feeling that we will reach the shores of France safely.”

The pigeon took two hops down into its old cage.

“Ha,” he said, closing the cage door. “You were right, my smart miss. I have every confidence your abilities will guarantee our success. So what do we do now?”

Eve stared at the golden tips on the gray clouds ahead. “Pray the wind holds.”

Boyce moved the pigeon to the end of the balloon's basket and stacked several boxes in front of the bird's cage. This would provide a shield from the cold wind after they gained altitude. He wondered how much higher she intended to go. “What elevation are you aiming for?”

She cut a bag of sand and straightened to face him. “I estimate six thousand feet. That elevation should be high enough to clear the Channel at our current trajectory. Unfortunately, the wind might alter direction or fall off completely. Even with blue skies, a troublesome storm can brew within an hour. Success will also depend upon where we cross. A crossing further north is considerably wider and will take longer than if we cross near Dover. Still, my calculations indicate we have plenty of ballast for our descent, unless the conditions become steadily worse.”

Boyce wondered why females had such an uncommon affinity with drama. Last week, one young miss had sought his opinion upon a new puce ribbon trimming her best bonnet. Now any gentleman alive would naturally condemn a puce ribbon, but seconds after his judgment escaped, the young lady indulged in a fit of hand waving, palpitations, and some disorder involving the nerves. He quickly admitted he must have been mistaken—the light insufficient—and the drama ended. In the future, he vowed to be more circumspect on the subject of ribbons.

Now he watched the pretty female standing before him warning of the dangers ahead, but her emphatic life-or-death concerns sounded like another example of drama. So far, their balloon adventure had provided the most exciting moments of his life, the trip easier than planned. Nothing about the balloon seemed amiss. The glorious sky remained mostly cloudless, and the wind continued to propel them in the right direction. He harbored not the slightest apprehension of their fate. They would likely reach France in a few hours, perhaps just after the sun set.

Still, this female was vastly different from the usual young miss of his acquaintance. So were her warnings wise words or another example of feminine drama? But then how many females of his acquaintance used words like
estimate
and
calculations
? Come to think of it, he was not sure
he
had ever used them. “Eh, why do we need ballast? I thought releasing sand made you go up.”

She turned to face him, the alluring apple–pout hanging on her lips. “When the air cools after sunset, the gas compresses, and we lose lift. So imagine you are in a rapid descent. Below is the ocean…” She crossed both arms. “No, for our piece of mind, let's say a village next to a lake. The basket lands safe enough on a street, but since the balloon is not yet fully deflated, the wind catches it and propels it forward. Now with the speed of a team of four at full gallop, you are being dragged toward the lake, beaten and bruised along the way. Don't you think it would be quite nice to drop some ballast and gain altitude to make it over the water, then travel whatever distance is necessary to find an open field to safely land?”

“Now that you mention it, I would indeed prefer avoiding that fate. This is a fine coat, and I'd hate to see it ruined.”

She kneeled to take readings from her instruments.

Boyce noticed her frown, take measurements, frown, glance at him, and frown again. To deserve so many frowns, you would think he had kicked a doe-eyed puppy. He leaned over to watch the sand dribble out of the cut ballast sack.

“Oh, look,” she shouted. “Parhelia. Wonderful!”

He straightened to face the brilliant sunlight from just above the horizon. Before him three suns beamed in radiant splendor. One big sun and two smaller suns, but the two side suns shone like suns, nevertheless. The two little ones had luminous arcs of light beaming from the top and bottom. “I've never seen these other suns before. Yes, yes, how wonderful. Is this some sun secret people of science know all about, but have not informed the public? I'll wager it is. Imagine the romance of three sunsets. I must come up with a song to celebrate three suns. Let me think…”

Miss Mountfloy looked up at the extraordinary sight before them. Grabbing the sextant, she held it up to her eye before starting to scribble in the
Results
book. Then more instruments were pointed at the suns and mumbled over. “Three degrees…twenty-two degrees, I thought so.”

“I wonder if a fellow can get three shadows from three suns?” It seemed an exciting idea, so he spun around to examine the side of the basket. A hint of his shadow appeared upon the rough wicker, but he could not determine if they were three separate shadows. “My soul is warmed by the glorious sun, sun, sun—”

“Enough. Do you always sing with the least provocation?”

“I'm sorry, but this is big, happy provocation, if you ask me. Have you ever seen this before? Isn't this a beautiful sight?”

She wagged a finger. “Each sun on the side is officially called a
parhelion
. Two are usually seen and the plural term is
parhelia
. Most people call them a mock sun or sun dog. They are rare and believed to be caused by the sunlight refracted by ice crystals in the atmosphere. The crystal shape—”

“Wait! That Shakespeare fellow saw multiple suns. In one of those Henry plays—there really are
too
many Henry plays, don't you think?—Shakespeare said, ‘Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?' Maybe I got that wrong? Even so, I bet this is an important discovery.”

She smiled and almost reached the point of laughter. “Yes, you are right. Parhelia are a rare phenomenon. Moreover, I seem to remember there is some disagreement about the distance from the sun, the lengths of the arcs, and the exact colors observed. I can't wait to present my observations in a letter to the Royal Society.”

“You present data to people—aloud?”

“No, not me.” She shrugged her shoulders. “My father and I will present our observations first in a letter to the Royal Society, or perhaps a journal like
Newton's Journal of Arts and Sciences
. With any luck, our letter will be published. I cannot present my observations in person, because women rarely address scientific institutions.”

His heartbeat escalated. “Will they invite me to speak? My father will be impressed if I give a scientific speech before a learned institution.” He could even visualize himself standing on a dais, his audience hanging upon his every word, an unseen laurel crown held high above his head. “If I give the speech, you can tell me the important scientific bits, and I can give the speech for you. All with your approval, of course.”

“I don't know what my father will say about that.”

“He must agree. I have seen the sun dogs in person, and he hasn't.”

“Firsthand observation is an important point.”

“This calls for a celebration.” He took both of her hands and pulled her forward to dance a little jig.

She watched him perform a few steps, then she too joined in with a couple of hesitant steps.

The balloon swayed more dramatically than ever before, so they immediately stopped dancing. “We'll dance a jig when we land,” he said. “Or maybe now, but not so vigorously?”

She grinned before returning to her instruments. “Please excuse me from further celebrations. I must immediately record the conditions when the suns were observed.” After she finished jotting down her notes in the
Results
book, she reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a few feathers. These were tossed into the air, then studied as they sailed up and over the edge of the balloon. The wind had dropped off, so she made a note. When finished, she moved to stand beside him.

His spirits became uncommonly light, and together they watched the two extra suns shrink and fade, their tails of light fading with the approach of sunset. The day's end gave him a new sense of joyous calm. All was right with the world, and tomorrow could only be better. He slipped his arm around her shoulder and was mildly surprised when she did not pull away.

They stood and witnessed the sky change from blue, to orange, and finally to gray. They remained side by side until nightfall, when the stars began to reveal their presence.

He sighed. For one of the few times in his life, a song would only interrupt his feeling of calm bliss. “Have you ever seen anything so fine? The stars are like living sparks tossed upon an inky vault.”

Her nose gained a few wrinkles on the top. “Stars appear a bright white in rarefied air, and the atmosphere appears a darker black.”

“White, black? No, no, you're wrong.” He swung his free arm in a wide arc. “Living sparks floating upward to heaven through the abyss of an inky vault.”

“I believe my statement contained factual information—white stars, black sky.”

He gave her a one-arm hug. “You need to learn how to sing.”

“I can sing, thank you.” Pulling free from his embrace, she rummaged in one of the wooden boxes, and lifted out a patent safety lamp and a thick oilcloth lined with wool. She tossed him the oilcloth, then lit the lamp.

“Really,” he said, “I am not cold. Well, I am cold, but dash it all, the blanket goes to the lady.”

She sat and the finger-pointing returned. “Listen. Our chances of survival improve if we keep warm. If your hands get cold, you will not be able to hold on to a rope thrown by your rescuers. And if your whole body gets too cold, you will expire.”

“Expire.” He exhaled. “Right, but I still refuse. The blanket goes to the lady first.”

This time she let out a loud and protracted sigh. “Do you know how to huddle?”

After their shared experience of that lovely sunset, he had become so fond of his plucky miss, he would enjoy the chance to embrace her in a huddle. “Yes, yes, I can huddle, snuggle, cuddle, and nuzzle. Indeed, I am particularly good at all of those.”

“I don't need you to do all of those—especially nuzzle. Just a simple huddle will be satisfactory.” She sat on the floor of the basket and arranged the oilcloth around her shoulders.

He pulled a wool hunting cap from his sack, covered his head, and sat next to her. “What exactly is the nature of huddling? I mean scientific huddling, of course.”

She cleared her throat. “Sorry. Hoarse. It's the altitude, you understand.”

“Yes, my throat is dry too. Not to mention my nose. Funny thing noses. I know a song—”

“No songs, please. If we reach France safely, even I will sing with you.”

“We would make such a pretty duet—”

“This is important. To huddle effectively, people must maximize bodily contact and minimize the air spaces between them. Also, it is best if your limbs are brought in close to your chest or under you. In other words, sit in the smallest ball possible next to me, our shoulders touching.”

“But wouldn't one big ball of us both be better?” Nothing would have made him happier now than holding her in a warm, friendly hug.

Her blue eyes resembled large, dark orbs. “Yes, but—”

“Come sit in front of me, and I'll wrap my arms around you.” He'd hold her and have a chance to physically demonstrate his fondness and gratitude.

She gulped. “It would not be proper to—”

He whispered into her ear. “I can confirm, my pretty miss, that pigeons do not tittle-tattle and can keep secrets. Besides, unlike the language of duck, no human can speak pigeon. So it would be difficult for the pigeon to start a scandalous
on
dit
.”

She bit her upper lip to stifle a laugh, but then she gave him a brilliant smile.

Her restrained gaiety filled his heart with affection. Her nose and ears were red, so she must have been very cold, but she had not complained. And now with her vibrant smile, he noticed a dimple for the first time. Nothing more alluring than dimples, even a cold one. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

She gasped. “I realize, under the circumstances, proper behavior is difficult, but let us try to observe the proprieties. Call me Miss Mountfloy, please. I'll call you…Parker. Is that acceptable?”

“My friends call me…” He gulped. His friends called him “Whip.” An obscure joke made by schoolboys, but he did not want her lovely—now pale—lips to call him that nickname. He certainly was not going to tell her that London's newspapers had once called him “Piglet Parker.”

Her head was cocked to the side, waiting for his answer.

“You are the captain, so you choose. Parker, Boyce, Madman—I will answer to them all.” He stood and looked down at her. “I must get the pigeon. He will want to huddle too.” He moved to the far side of the basket and reached for the pigeon's cage. Then he noticed the butterfly. It was no longer resting on one of the boxes, but lay lifeless on the floor. Its pale yellow wings were folded on top of each another. Boyce carefully picked up the little creature. Now he felt very low. If he had not insisted upon this journey to France, this little fellow would be settling in for the night on top of some big, shiny, green leaf. He tapped a wing gently to see if it would move, but it remained still. He sighed and carried the butterfly to the edge of the basket. “Farewell.” The breeze caught the little creature and lifted it from his palm. The butterfly disappeared into the night.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

After grabbing the pigeon's cage, he returned to her side. “The butterfly is dead.” He couldn't help but wonder how their journey would end. His ambition had brought them up here, and there would be consequences to his decision. Hopefully, their future would be nothing like the butterfly's. He sat next to her and patted the floor in front of him.

Following a second of hesitation, she moved to sit in the space between his legs and twisted to arrange the oilcloth around both shoulders. Then she settled back upon his chest. “Remind me to record the animal's death tomorrow.”

He pulled the pigeon close. “My fault the butterfly died.” He draped a corner of the oilcloth over the pigeon's cage and took a deep breath. “Miss Mountfloy, I owe you an apology. In my excitement to succeed, I clearly was not thinking properly. I should never have attempted this tomfool plan. Without a doubt, you were right. We should have landed after the experiments were finished.” He stared up at the dark shadow of the balloon overhead. “If your warnings come to pass and something happens, I will become a famous Lord Parker, but once again, for all of the wrong reasons. You have to believe me. I meant you no harm. Please forgive me.”