“You can’t forbid it, Mama,” Lenore replied in what she hoped was a serene voice. “I’ve already posted my acceptance and received both my travel instructions and ticket. I leave for Maldon Tuesday next.”
Jane’s nostrils flared, her outrage palpable. “I am your mother,” she bit out. “I demand your respect.”
Lenore’s patience began to fray. “You have it, but this isn’t about respect. This is about survival. We must retrench.” The second wave of creditors had already cleaned out Arthur’s workshop down to the last gear and pencil.
“I’m well aware of our circumstances, Lenore. However, that doesn’t mean you abandon all propriety and expectations of your class to go sailing off with some ragged lot of Shoreditch outcasts.” Jane rose from her chair to pace before the parlor window. Her skirts swept the floors in an agitated swish. “There are many positions available for an unmarried woman of your station.”
“And they pay one-third or less the rate of an airship crewman.” Lenore had made some effort in seeking out other employment possibilities. Even were she not so eager to avoid the slow, stifling death as a paid companion or harried governess, the pay of an airship crewman offered its own attraction.
Jane retrieved her fan from one of the side tables, its many ribs snapping each time she opened and closed it. “It’s vulgar to speak of money.”
Lenore clenched her teeth and prayed for patience. “It’s even more vulgar to starve.”
“A crewman’s pay is greater because the danger is significantly greater. As a governess, the most you might suffer is a recalcitrant child or his demanding mother. I doubt either of them will shoot at you, blow you up or try and devour you.”
Lenore couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her lips. “Have you seen some of those children? Don’t be so sure.”
Jane bent a hard glare on her. “Lenore,” she warned.
Lenore exhaled a frustrated breath. “Mama, I love you with all my heart, but I am twenty-seven years old and capable of making independent decisions. We may argue this to death, but I’m not changing my mind. Let me help you.”
The two women clashed in a silent battle of wills, before Jane turned her back and found refuge on the nearby settee. She stared out the window onto the front garden washed in fragile morning light. “Were you married, we wouldn’t have this discussion.” Her voice had lost none of its edge, but Lenore sensed she’d given ground.
She sat, facing Jane. “As I recall, you were at first against me marrying Nathaniel Gordon.”
Jane’s frosty gaze didn’t thaw. “Foolish boy tossing away his birthright as if it were scrap. I wish you had never met him.”
Lenore refused to apologize. “I’m so very glad I did,” she said softly. She rose and smoothed her skirts.
Her mother’s eyebrows rose, and she frowned. “Where are you going?”
“To visit Papa.”
“That’s the second time this week.”
And if Lenore had anything to say about it, it wouldn’t be the last. “I go for us both. You’re welcome to join me.” She knew Jane’s answer before she made the offer.
The older woman stiffened and turned away, her voice a little more hollow this time. “Not yet,” she said. “Not yet.”
Lenore clasped her shoulder briefly before rising to leave. “I will return by tea.”
“Take Constance with you,” Jane called just as Lenore curled her hand around the door knob.
Lenore raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Mama, Constance is taking deliveries today and waiting for the washer woman. She’s far too busy to play nursemaid to me. I promised her I’d stop by the markets and pick up supplies for her as well.”
A muttered “Stubborn girl” followed her into the hallway, and Lenore closed the door behind her with a relieved “whew.”
Despite the hints of sunlight breaking through the clouds, the day was brutally cold, the only blessing the lack of a wind to cut through clothing. Lenore wrapped warmly in layers of wool coat, mittens and scarves. She’d rolled on her thickest stockings and donned her heaviest petticoats in a futile bid to stay warm. Only the crowded omnibus that transported her and others from Camberwell, across London Bridge to Camden and Swain’s Lane offered some relief and a little warmth. She pitied those who rode on the open upper deck.
Most would think her mad if she admitted to the nervous anticipation that sent her stomach in a tumble once she stood outside of Highgate’s grand entrance. A visit to a cemetery usually elicited tears or in many instances, much appreciated moments of peace and reflection on a Sunday afternoon. Lenore had not lied when she told Jane she planned to visit Arthur. She simply didn’t mention the hope she dare not acknowledge out loud that she might see and speak with the Guardian.
She passed the Lebanon Circle vaults, following a narrow path to where Arthur’s grave lay undisturbed. No longer a target for body snatchers, his remains rested beneath bricks turning green with lichen. Sometime between now and her last visit, someone had placed a bench close enough to the grave so she might sit and chat with her father’s spirit in comfort. The butterflies swirled in her belly. Had the Guardian been responsible for the thoughtful gesture? Those otherworldly eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts, but he had always been courteous to her, and kind.
Lenore set the basket she carried on the bench alongside her ever-present umbrella. Constance had slid it onto her arm before she left. “A bit of lunch for you should you have need of it.” Lenore would also use the basket to bring home those items the grocer didn’t deliver to the house.
Sunlight filtered through the bare trees and thick ivy, golden and alluring with its false promise of warmth. The flowers she laid on the grave three days earlier were already a black slimy mess. She retrieved a new bouquet from the basket, scraped the dead one aside with her shoe and placed the fresh flowers in its place. Like her, they shivered in the cold.
Lenore returned to the bench and perched on the edge. Huddled deep in her coat, she listened for the footfalls of any nearby visitors. Only the silence answered. Her breath clouded before her when she spoke.
“Good morning, Papa. I have news. Nettie has not yet agreed to me joining her crew permanently, but she has allowed me to join them on a test flight. Not the Pollux mind, but a new one—the Terebellum. Do you remember her? A cargo lifter. We saw her plans four years ago. The Vickers Armament modified Sir Smithson’s design so the engines will generate more horsepower with the possibility of speed at 61 knots. They’ve installed them on the Terebellum. Nettie has been offered the chance to test-fly her before she’s formally assigned captain and crew. A short run to Gibraltar and back. No more than a week out. I’m to play cabin boy.”