Angelique, too, seemed uncomfortable, although the maid did curtsy as required by someone in her position. Well, Angelique had very decided opinions on proper attire. She probably did not approve of a woman dressing as a man.
Madame Lefoux gave Angelique a long and hard look, almost predatory. Lady Maccon assumed it had something to do with both of them being French, and her suspicions were confirmed when Madame Lefoux hissed something at Angelique in a rapid-fire undertone in her native tongue, too fast for Alexia to follow.
Angelique did not respond, turning her lovely little nose up slightly and pretending to be busy fluffing the ruffles on Lady Maccon’s dress.
Madame Lefoux bade them all farewell.
“Angelique,” Lady Maccon addressed her servant thoughtfully, “what was that?”
“It waz nothing of import, my lady.”
Lady Maccon decided the matter might wait for a later time and followed the steward into her cabin.
She did not remain inside for long, as she wished to explore the ship and be on deck to witness float-off. She had waited years to float the skies, having followed the development of airship technology detailed in the Royal Society papers from a very young age. To be on board a dirigible at last was a joy not to be dampened by French mannerisms.
Once the last of the passengers had boarded and been shown to their respective cabins, the crew cast off the rope tethers, and the great balloon hoisted them slowly into the sky.
Lady Maccon gasped to see the world retreating below them, people disappearing into the landscape, landscape disappearing into a patchwork quilt, and final, irrevocable proof that the world was, indeed, round.
Once they floated through normal air and were high up into the aether, a young man, dangerously perched at the very back of the engines, spun up the propeller, and, with steam emitting in great puffs of white out the back and sides of the tank, the dirigible floated forward in a northerly direction. There came a slight jolt as it caught the aetheromagnetic current and picked up speed, going faster than it looked like it ought to be able to go, with its portly boatlike passenger decks dangling below the massive almond-shaped canvas balloon.
Miss Hisselpenny, who had joined Lady Maccon on deck, recovered from her own awe and began singing. Ivy had a good little voice, untrained but sweet. “Ye’ll take the high road,” she sang, “and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye.”
Lady Maccon grinned at her friend but did not join her. She knew the song. Who didn’t? It had been a forerunner in Giffard’s dirigible travel marketing campaign. But Alexia’s was a voice meant for commanding battles, not singing, as anyone who ever heard her sing took great pains to remind her.
Lady Maccon found the whole experience invigorating. The air up high was colder and somehow fresher than that of London or the countryside. She felt strangely comforted by it, as though this were her element. It must be the aether, she supposed, replete with its gaseous mix of aetheromagnetic particles.
However, she liked it far less the next morning when she awoke with a queasy stomach and a feeling of floating inside as well as out.
“Air travel takes some over like that, my lady,” said the steward, adding by way of explanation, “derangement of the digestive components.” He sent round one of the ship’s hostesses with a tincture of mint and ginger. Very little put Alexia off her food, and with the help of the tincture, she recovered a measure of her appetite by midday. Part of the queasiness, she supposed, was the fact that she was readjusting her routine to that of daylight folk, after spending months conducting her business mainly at night.
Felicity only noticed that Alexia was getting new color in her cheeks.
“Of course, not just anyone looks good in a sun hat. But I do believe, Alexia, that you ought to make that sacrifice. If you are wise, you will take my advice in this matter. I know sun hats are not often worn these days, but I think someone of your unfortunate propensities might be excused the old-fashioned nature of the accessory. And why do you go gadding about with that parasol at all times of day and yet never use it?”
“You are sounding more and more like our mama,” replied Lady Maccon.
Ivy, who was flitting from one railing to the other, cooing over the view, gasped at the cutting nature of such a statement.
Felicity was about to respond in kind when Tunstell appeared, entirely distracting her. She’d deduced Ivy and Tunstell’s regard for one another and thus was now committed to securing Tunstell’s affection for herself, for no other reason than to show Ivy that she could.
“Oh, Mr. Tunstell, how lovely of you to join us.” Felicity batted her eyelashes.
Tunstell reddened slightly and bobbed his head at the ladies. “Miss Loontwill. Lady Maccon.” A pause. “And how do you feel today, Lady Maccon?”
“The airsickness fades by luncheon.”
“How terribly convenient of it,” remarked Felicity. “You might hope it would hold on a trifle longer given your inclination toward robustness and obvious affection for food.”
Lady Maccon did not rise to the bait. “It would be better if the luncheons were not so consistently subpar.” All food on board the dirigible appeared to favor the bland and steamed approach. Even the much-lauded high tea had been disappointing.
Felicity carefully knocked her gloves off the little table next to the deck chair in which she lounged.
“Oh, how careless of me. Mr. Tunstell, would you mind?”
The claviger stepped forward and bent to retrieve them for her.
Felicity shifted quickly and angled herself in such a way that Tunstell was now bending over her legs, practically facedown in the skirts of her green dress. It was a rather intimate arrangement, and, of course, Ivy came bouncing around the corner of the deck right at that very moment.
“Oh!” said Ivy, somewhat deflated in her bounciness.
Tunstell straightened, handing Felicity her gloves. Felicity took them from him slowly, allowing her fingers to trail over his hand.
Ivy’s countenance looked remarkably similar to that of a bilious poodle.
Lady Maccon wondered that her sister had not gotten herself into trouble before now, with such behavior. When had Felicity turned into such a hardened little flirt?
Tunstell bowed to Ivy. “Miss Hisselpenny. How do you do?”
“Mr. Tunstell, please do not let my presence disturb you.”
Lady Maccon stood up, ostentatiously fixing the ear flaps of her flying hat. Really, it was too vexing: Felicity overly bold, Ivy engaged to another, and poor Tunstell stuck making puppy eyes at the both of them in his confusion.
Tunstell went to bow over Miss Hisselpenny’s hand. The dirigible encountered turbulence in the aether and lurched, causing Ivy and Tunstell to blunder into one another. Tunstell caught at her arm, helping her to stay upright while Ivy blushed like an overripe strawberry, her eyes downcast.
Alexia decided she needed a brisk walk on the forward deck.
Usually uninhabited, the forward deck was the windiest the dirigible had to offer. Both ladies and gentlemen tended to give it a miss, as it upset the hair something dreadful, but Alexia had no such qualms, even knowing she would earn a heavily accented chiding from Angelique upon her return. She turned the muffs down about her ears, donned her goggles, grabbed her parasol, and sallied forth.
The forward deck was, however, already occupied.
Madame Lefoux, dressed as impeccably and as inappropriately as always, stood next to that very same Angelique at the rails to one side, looking down over the patchwork of the British landscape spread below them like some sort of ill-designed and asymmetrical quilt. The two were whispering to each other heatedly.
Lady Maccon cursed the wind of air travel, for it carried their words away before reaching her, and she would have dearly loved to know what was being said. She thought of her dispatch case. Had Floote packed any listening mechanicals?
Deciding there was nothing else for it but a direct frontal attack, Alexia moved as quietly as possible across the deck, hoping to catch some part of the conversation before they noticed her presence. She was in luck.
“… assume proper responsibility,” Madame Lefoux was saying in French.
“Cannot happen, not yet.” Angelique moved closer to the other woman, placing small, pleading hands on the inventor’s arm. “Please do not ask it of me.”
“Better happen soon or I’ll tell. You know I will.” Madame Lefoux tossed her head, top hat tilting dangerously but staying in place, as it was tied on for travel. She shrugged off the blond woman’s grip.
“Soon, I promise.” Angelique pressed herself against the inventor’s side and nested her head on the other woman’s shoulder.
Again Madame Lefoux shrugged her off. “Games, Angelique. Games and fancying up a lady’s hair. That is all you have now, isn’t it?”
“It is better than selling hats.”
Madame Lefoux rounded on the maid at that, gripping the woman’s chin in her hand, one set of goggle-covered eyes meeting another. “Did she really kick you out?” Her tone was both vicious and disbelieving.
Lady Maccon was close enough by then to meet her maid’s big violet eyes behind the plain brass goggles when the girl looked away. Angelique started at the appearance of her mistress, and her eyes filled with tears. With a little sob, she cast herself at Lady Maccon so that Alexia had no choice but to catch her.
Alexia was disturbed. Even though she was French, Angelique was rarely given to displays of emotion. Angelique composed herself, hurriedly withdrew from her mistress’s arms, bobbed a curtsy, and rushed away.
Alexia had liked Madame Lefoux, but she could hardly condone her distressing the domestic staff. “The vampires rejected her, you know. It is a sensitive subject. She does not like to talk about the hive giving her up to me.”
“I wager she doesn’t.”
Lady Maccon bristled. “Any more than you would tell me the real reason you are on board this dirigible.” The Frenchwoman would have to learn: a pack protected its own. Alexia might only be pack by proxy, but Angelique was still in its service.
Green eyes met her brown ones for a long moment. Two sets of goggles were no impediment, but Lady Maccon could not interpret that expression. Then the inventor reached up and stroked the back of her hand down the side of Alexia’s face. Alexia wondered why the French were so much more physically affectionate than the English.
“Did you and my maid have some kind of association in the past, Madame Lefoux?” Alexia asked, not responding to the touch, although it made her face feel hot even in the cold aether wind.
The inventor dimpled. “We did once, but I assure you I am currently free of all such entanglements.” Was she being purposefully obtuse? She moved closer.
Alexia, always blunt, cocked her head to one side and asked, “Who are you working for, Madame Lefoux? The French government? The Templars?”
The inventor backed away slightly, strangely upset by the question. “You misconstrue my presence here, Lady Maccon. I assure you, I work only for myself.”
“I would not trust her if I were you, my lady,” said Angelique, fixing Alexia’s hair before supper that evening. The maid was ironing it straight with a specially provided steam iron, much to both their disgust. Straight and loose was Ivy’s idea. Miss Hisselpenny had insisted Alexia be the one to try the fancy iron invention out, because Alexia was married and could suffer the burden of risky hair.