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The stiff, evenly measured steps of the primly dressed attendant echoed hollow through the winding halls of the governor’s residence like one of those fancy metronomes. They had been underway for some time; turned about at least once, Catherine suspected, in what had to have been some round-about tactic of wearing them out before they even stood in the governor’s office. She was hindered further by the skirts that had been forced upon her by circumstance today. They were unwieldy. She had to forcibly keep her hands from fidgeting overmuch with the unfamiliar fabrics and her feet from tripping on the hem if the floor was not perfectly even.
She had no one to blame but herself, really.
A fortnight ago, Lily had suffered a terrible sneezing fit that made her body recoil altogether. In a blasted bout of bad luck, a strong gust had swept over the Allegiance at the same time, carrying fine drops of venom onto the sails laid out over the main deck for mending. They left the thick, folded over sail cloth looking like ribbed spiderwebs in places and one miserable sailor missing a finger. Tom had inspected the damage with a pinched brow, and retreated into his cabin without so much as a further word, his officers on his heels like pall bearers. At supper he had emerged again to announce they would have to put into the next port and replace the sail cloth.
Her fellow aviators had loudly protested at once: the Allegiance was still under sail; they could not afford the loss of a moment, not for their own sake and less for the sake of the sick dragons wasting away in their distantly chilly homeland; the naval officers could not possibly understand. But Laurence had given a resigned defence of the decision at once; the danger of disaster striking with more sail lost and being caught out in the open ocean was simply too great. One would not keep flying with a sprained wing if it might at all be avoided. He had been looking grim since the afternoon too, no doubt aware of the likely necessity.
The night before, Tom had announced over supper, “we will come into port halfway through the forenoon watch. Lord Purbeck will arrange to restock our provisions on the occasion,” he had glanced at his first Lieutenant, “and I will personally see to the matter of the sails.”
It was not that Catherine did not trust him with it. Even if this had not been so very important to all the British dragons, her Dearest’s continued wretchedness over being the cause of their delay would have been enough to demand her action.
“I will come with you,” she had declared and promptly got to watch Tom choke on the bite he had taken after his announcement. Laurence had made a wretched sound next to her, like a dying man.
Tom had dabbed at his face with his napkin in an attempt to stall for time, as well disguised as a Fleur-de-Nuit on a bright summer day.
“I thank you, Captain Harcourt. I should like to apply directly to governor Hathorne to speed along the process and lend weight to the matter. I am afraid that—your service is much appreciated, naturally, and there is the special dispensation—there is nothing indecent about it then, but…” There, he had trailed of somewhat helplessly, and thrown Laurence a beseeching look.
“I have brought a dress,” she had informed them primly, and with that the matter had been decided.
She had brought a dress: over five years old and crumpled up at the bottom of her trunk. St Germain had sagely advised her once that a set of skirts might always come in handy, and Catherine was more than a little glad for it now. The dress was coloured a dubious shade of pink, patterned with large flowers that she distantly remembered to have been more vibrant when she first stuffed it in the trunk after becoming captain. One of the floppy fabric flowers on the neckline had been hanging on by a thread; she had ripped it off quickly before showing the men.
Tom and Laurence had both looked a little pinched, when she presented the dress to them, somewhere between triumphant at having thought to bring it and pre-emptively uncomfortable with having to wear it. “Those are cabbage roses, I think” Tom had said, with a wondering tone, “they were all the rage at my sister’s wedding.”
“Well, the pattern is very traditional,” Laurence had tried with false bravado, but his left eye had twitched as he said it.
That morning, putting on the dress had turned out to be more frustrating than expected. It was more contrary than a heavyweight’s flight harness. In the end, Tom had tersely offered his assistance from the other side of her cabin door, where he and Laurence had been waiting. Laurence had declared just a notch too loud that he would go ahead to begin pleading their case to governor Hathorne.
Tom had managed to be impossibly more awkward about helping her into skirts then he was about taking off her breeches, something he had not yet managed to become accustomed to either.
She had almost landed face-first in the steps of the ship’s ladder on their way from her cabin to the main deck. Catherine had to pick up the hem of her skirts to climb the remaining steps with some embarrassment over the blunder after clambering about dragon-back in mid-air since she had been five years old. They had hurried after Laurence to the governor’s residence immediately.
Finally arrived at the governor’s office, the attendant opened the door for them; Tom went through first.
“You see there is nothing to be done at all, Captain Laurence. I am afraid you will have to contend yourself with purchasing the sail like any other servant of His Majesty. If it is so damned urgent you may fly your beasts instead of taking the sail from the hard-working men of the Navy.” The governor was a young man, younger than she might have expected from someone in his office, but then she rarely met the local officials; a duty usually deferred to her first Lieutenant or another captain in her formation. “Captain Riley, I assume,” Hathorne’s tone was only marginally more polite, “I have already told your, ah— colleague, here that there is nothing to be done, unfortunately.”
“Sir,” Laurence began, his face set in a tense rigor. They had possibly arrived just in time to prevent him from some blind-flown, honour-bound action; Laurence’s fists were clenched by his side and his jaw held enough tension to crack a nut.
“Oh!” Hathorne interrupted Laurence, before he could bristle any further. “This must be the lovely Mrs. Riley, then,” he said as he came around his desk and lifted her hand in a theatrical gesture. He did not have the congeniality to make his performance anything but comedic, she thought, and very quickly pulled her hand out of his grasp.
“No, it is—” Catherine said decisively, habit well ingrained like a groove in the leather from a sharp bit of chain; she swallowed the Captain Harcourt that lay at the tip of her tongue, frantically searching for something to say.
“Laurence,” she said with some relief, nodding at her fellow aviator, who was looking at her with wide eyes over governor Hathorne’s shoulder, “I am with Laurence.”
“Mrs. Laurence then,” governor Hathorne said, his lips thin with displeasure.
Catherine opened her mouth to protest again, but she was not at all certain what a suitable explanation might have been for an unmarried woman to travel aboard a dragon transport. She looked to Laurence for assistance, he was bound to have a better idea of it, but Laurence only had a high a flush on his cheeks and was seemingly determined to be of no help at all.
Tom took a step forward next to her but said nothing more either.
“You must have had a most arduous journey, Mrs. Laurence,” Hathorne continued unencumbered into the painful silence, voice unkind with heavy implication, as he eyed Laurence. “I was unaware that aviators are in the habit of taking their wives with them. I heard only of the one ship; you are not on the dragon transport itself? How abominable: you must have been terribly frightened. I hope you will accept our hospitality to recover from the stresses of the travel and the unfortunate company.”
Behind him, Laurence had put a hand on the heel of his sword and was no doubt halfway to doing something immeasurably stupid; nevermind the effect the action would have on their commission—she would have to reprimand him later, as his superior officer, even just for the attempt. Even if she could very well sympathize and dearly wished for a cup of steaming coffee, better a whole pot, to throw in his face and damn the consequences.
Tom finally got his feet under himself again and tried to salvage their mission. “I believe Captain Laurence has explained our situation,” he began, “we have orders of the highest importance and must proceed without the loss of a moment. As an officer of the crown, I ask you in the name of the Admiralty that you—”
“Nothing I can do, I am afraid,” Hathorne waved Tom off. “Now, Mrs. Laurence, I am sure you do not mind the chance to be away from those bloodthirsty beasts, even just for an evening—I am holding a dinner party this evening and would be much obliged by your enchanting presence and lovely countenance. And your husband of course.”
Her smile felt like a toothy grimace, the sort of thing a dragon might be prone to, as she accepted with the faint hope of accomplishing more that evening or at least making another, more helpful connection.
“He has no right!” Laurence was outraged as they left governor Hathorne’s residence, “speaking of aviators that way. It is unseemly; the disrespect to the service alone—from someone who has bled no more for King and Country than on his mother’s pincushion! And to speak to you so when he thought you were married.”
“He was standing much too close to you,” Tom agreed mulishly. “It outraged all sense of decency.” Which was rather rich, Catherine thought, coming from the man she was conducting an extramarital affair with.
“Hathorne is more unpleasant than a Regal Copper’s gasses,” Catherine agreed and ignored Tom’s missing a step, “but you are an aviator now, Laurence; I saw very well, what you had planned, and you know very well that duelling is not done in the Aerial Corps.”
“He was well beyond what could be borne, even with a saint’s patience.” Laurence was determined to be thick-headed as a ship’s mast.
“Truly, you are forbidden? I ought to have demanded satisfaction, in your place then,” Tom said with open regret.
Catherine gave up and let them be; better to save her strength for the evening’s engagement. She would doubtlessly need it.
Laurence had picked up a turquoise silk shawl on their way back to the Allegiance—an unnecessary and costly expense, she had tried to convince him, but he was deaf to all protest—and spent the afternoon carefully ripping the seams of the silken cabbage roses on the neckline of her dress and removing them. When she expressed her doubts over the necessity, he informed her that they ought to make some effort for the dinner party.
Tom had been sullen since their return. He might as well have been sticking his lip out, while she was turned away, like a young boy jilted by his lover; too mature to let her see but evidently not enough to be reasonable about the frilly mess.
“I suppose we could just take the sail?” Maximus said thoughtfully, as Catherine came upon the deck in her newly remodelled dress.
“No, that would be stealing; it is like with the cows,” Laurence admonished immediately.
“But you said,” Temeraire was mulish, “that he ought to give it to us, and we have the orders of the Admiralty. Surely it is not stealing if it ought to be given to us anyway?”
“Governor Hathorne is an official in His Majesty’s government; it is not our place to question his decision,” Laurence explained to the dragons. “Captain Riley and I will write to the Admiralty, so they may judge his actions.”
“You look very fine Catherine,” her Dearest squinted down at her, “but were there not more decorations on it earlier?”
“Yes, Dearest,” Catherine explained, “Laurence thought it better to take them off.”
“But I liked the flowers,” Lily said, venom-filled horn spikes hanging precariously over Laurence‘s head, to look down on him critically, “even if they were not lilies.”
“It is very fine, the shawl was a wonderful purchase,” Temeraire said, with what he likely imagined to be a diplomatic air, as he carefully pulled Laurence out from under Lily’s head with a jealous claw. “It looks very much like your Chinese robes, Laurence, does it not? I suppose you might have skirts made, instead of robes, since you said there are no tailors in Britain that could make them. I think the colour would suit you very well.”
Laurence offered her his arm out of the hackney, drawn by two stocky ponies of some local breed. Catherine was obliged to whisper a quick apology when her fingers dug into the meat of his arm to balance the weight of the skirts without falling as she stepped down onto the street before the Hathorne’s mansion.
The first footman studied them with a dubious expression, when Laurence gave his name. Catherine could sympathize; she felt rather dubious herself. “His Excellency has already awaited you with pleasure,” the footman said finally, pointedly lacking any pleasure of his own.
The way to the salon was much quicker than the one to governor Hathorne’s office had been earlier today; then again, this morning she had hoped to get their business over with as swiftly as possible. Now, she would have much preferred wandering through empty corridors all night, rather than attending the doubtlessly horribly glib dinner party of an aristocratic dishrag.
As much as Catherine did not care for the skirts, and runs of fabric and the latest fashion, even she could not help noticing that the cut of her dress was different from the other ladies in the room. Little formal instruction was given to the women in the particular position of military service; she was well accustomed to learning through observation.
The colour of her dress alone stood out like an Honneur d’Or amidst a group of Pou de Ciel, her waistline sat lower, and although she could not tell how precisely, the gathering on her dress seemed to be done in a different style. She had to keep her hands from fidgeting with the fabrics again in nervous habit. It would have been pointless and only drawn attention to her ill-fitting in.
Laurence stood tall and proud by her side in his uniform. No need to waste a thought on the latest fashion when that would do perfectly; she envied him for it and could hardly wait or her own breeches and coat to leave the thoughts of petticoats, bodices, and dainty reticules for the society ladies to fawn over.
Catherine examined the crowd already in attendance, looking for anyone that might prove useful in their task. When she caught the eyes of governor Hathorne, she felt the sudden fierce urge to grab Laurence by the arm again and drag him behind one of the two decorative palms next to the salon’s entrance. She dreaded his approach, not like she might have dreaded the flames of a Flamme-de-Gloire in battle, but more akin to looking down and realizing one’s foot was already half sunk into a steaming pile of dragon shit.
She breathed a sigh of relief, when his trajectory was suddenly averted by two girls stepping into his path and pulling him into conversation; it did not stop him from throwing her a portent of a promising glance.
“Forgive my blunder,” a pleasantly deep woman’s voice interrupted them, “I believe we have not been introduced; I am Lady Eleanor Falkenham.” Her dark hair was artfully pinned up and streaked with white that gave her an air of aged sophistication, mirrored in the fine laugh lines at the corner of her mouth. Falkenham’s dress was cut from a silky fabric and draped artfully around her, light colour complimenting the glittering stones at her bust. She did not look an inch out of place.
“Captain William Laurence, Ma’am, at your service” there was an uncomfortable pause, “and this is my charming wife Catherine.” At the last moment, Catherine remembered to give a hasty small curtsey.
“I love the colour of your shawl, dear, it compliments your hair very nicely,” Lady Falkenham said with a genuine smile.
“Oh no, I— that is: I thank you.” The compliment had taken her by surprise, but Falkenham was not finished.
“You make a fetching sight together,” she tipped her head towards Laurence, “and you must give me the direction of your tailor, he has done excellent work in the shoulders. All that clambering about dragon back must be good for a man’s constitution.” Falkenham winked at her.
“I have no cause for complaint, Ma’am.” The tips of Laurence’s ears were aflush with embarrassment; his tone suffered with it too. “You both must be thirsty, I will find you ladies something to drink,” he said and fled hastily, like Napoleon himself was on his heels. Catherine had to bite her lip to keep from smiling at his reserved disposition.
“But tell me, dear,” Falkenham leaned in immediately when he was gone, tone conspirational, “does he ever take you up?”
Denial was Catherine’s first thought, but Falkenham had the same excited glint about her as a new runner before their first flight and after a brief look about if anyone might be listening, she nodded and smiled back broadly. “I have been on dragon-back, more than once even.”
“How wonderful, it must be terribly exciting,” Falkenham said wistfully, “you are truly blessed with your husband.”
If only she had known. “Laurence is the most proper man I could ask for.”
“I know not everyone would see it so, but you must not let them get to you, dear,” Falkenham patted Catherine’s arm. “How else could us women ever have such an experience. To fly! Tell me, what does it feel like?”
“It is simply wonderful, the best feeling in the world.” Pride swelled her chest. “Like being on a sailing ship. When the sky is clear you glide through the air faster than anything and the wind ruffles your hair every which way and you think, this is what birds must feel like, free and not a worry. But when it is overcast and the wind changes suddenly and you are altogether ripped in another direction; it is like a missed step on the stairs: your stomach swoops and when you know everything will be alright, that is when you feel most alive. And Lily, my Dearest,” she said with too much enthusiasm and caught herself just in time, “that is: my dearest husband’s dragon, she is a sweetheart. I trust her fully, she is a most able flier.”
“Lily!” Falkenham grinned joyfully, “what a sweet name for such a fearsome creature. Do you think it might be arranged that I should meet the dear?”
Falkenham had asked with such hope and sincerity that Catherine felt heartbroken to refuse. The sick dragons would have been unconcealable.
“Forgive me,” Falkenham said, “it was too much to ask.”
Catherine swallowed down her protest that she would very much have liked to introduce her to the dragons, and Lily in particular. Her Dearest was always so gentle with the new runners, she would have preened under Falkenham’s casual enthusiasm.
“But what brings you into this port?” Falkenham asked, “they do not usually have dragon transports here, I think. The servants are wild with excitement.”
Catherine explained the ill-luck that had befallen them. “Governor Hathorne could not assist us,” she lowered her voice a little, “he does not think much of the Aerial Corps; he has said that much. You would not happen to know where we might procure more sail? It is rather urgent, I fear.”
“Oh,” Falkenham said resolutely, “we will see about that, my dear.” Catherine was grabbed by the arm without ceremony and very politely dragged—an experience not unknown to dragon captains, although rarely so tactful—towards were Hathorne was standing.
“Governor Hathorne,” Falkenham began,
The governor’s face fell at once. “Duchess, it gladdens me to see that you are enjoying yourself,” he said, a little feebly. Catherine had to bite her cheek so she would not grin with vicious satisfaction at his suddenly mousey attitude.
“The lovely lady Catherine tells me that there are officers of His Majesty’s Aerial Corps that need our assistance. No more than a little sail. I am sure it can be arranged in a trice,” Falkenham said, compunctiously enough that the governor might have gotten frostbite from her mien.
“I must thank you again,” Catherine told Falkenham later, after a final story about Lily, carefully reworked to be about her husband’s dragon. They were standing on one of the balconies overlooking the harbour, the silhouette of the Allegiance hulking among the smaller ships against the setting sun, “you have done me a greater favour than you know.”
“It was nothing at all, dear,” Falkenham smiled, “I am only sorry for the offence that was given you. Write to me sometimes of your adventures, will you? I am so terribly envious.“
“I will,” Catherine promised, “but you must write to me as well.” Falkenham had shared several stories of her own; she had quick-witted way about the sort of society dramatics Catherine would have thought as interesting as squared formation flying.
“Do not forget to give Lily my best wishes. And your husband.” Falkenham shook her head. “Those shoulders,” she sighed with the coquettish appreciation of a much younger girl.