Curtsies & Conspiracies (Finishing School, #2)(61)
Henri Giffard pranced down the gangplank of his wondrous machine with all the fanfare of a circus ringmaster. He was dressed in a suit of cream check with a turquoise cravat and boasted a mustache the likes of which Sophronia had never seen before. Had he been awake, Professor Braithwope and his sad excuse for a lip curtain would have trembled in humiliation. Henri Giffard’s mustache curled up and out like a corkscrew, waxed to within an inch of its life. It was too theatrical. Sophronia instantly stopped looking at him and looked about the crowd. He must be intentionally drawing attention away from someone?
The gathering was what one might expect of a Hyde Park afternoon. There were toffs in fancy carriages and on horseback. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s young ladies of quality were companioned by a number of other students from surrounding schools, all allowed to walk out for the momentous occasion. There were groups of boffins from the Royal Society, distinguished by slightly rumpled attire and a predilection for spectacles and oddball gadgetry. There were riffraff as well: some chimney sweeps, the occasional shop girl, greasers, and other representatives of the rougher orders. Before she had met Soap, Sophronia would have glanced over them, but now she examined all with interest. Intelligencers could be anyone, after all.
She wasn’t certain exactly what she was looking for—something out of the ordinary, she supposed. She noted a group of extraordinarily well-turned-out dandies to one side. They were a bit out of place. It was early in the day for that sort to be awake, and they were not the kind of men to be interested in dirigibles. She stared at them for a long moment, but then Giffard hailed the young men with a whoop, and they whooped back. Chums from the gambling circuit? Giffard was rumored to be a bounder. Several of the academics looked like they might be too well dressed; perhaps they were in disguise? Then again, they could be French scholars, over to observe the landing.
The Puffy Nimbus was locked down. Giffard gave a speech in broken English and was welcomed with all due honors by the queen’s daylight representatives. That was when Sophronia spotted them.
Off to the far side lurking under a weeping willow were three men, all dressed to the height of fashion, carrying canes and wearing top hats. Around those hats were bands of green. Picklemen. They, like Sophronia, acted aloof from the excitement—watchers. As she looked at them, one spotted her. He tipped his hat with his cane. Sophronia twirled her parasol at him and then turned pointedly to take Felix’s arm, smiling up at the startled boy.
“Are you unwell, Ria, my dove?” Sophronia never took his arm.
Let them guess at our relationship, she thought. Let them wonder. Son of a Pickleman, is he? How much does he know?
Sophronia said sweetly, “A little overstimulated, Lord Mersey, that is all. It’s unseasonably warm, don’t you feel?”
Felix patted her hand on his arm in a condescending way. “Well, little one, you hold on there. I’ll ensure you get back to the ship safely.”
Sophronia couldn’t resist. “That’s my big strong man.”
Felix’s eyes flashed at her suspiciously.
Sophronia only continued to smile, using her lashes to good effect.
Felix couldn’t help but smile back. She was, after all, on his arm. Why question such a sought-after eventuality?
They returned to the school. Surprisingly, no one had tried to escape during the outing. The teachers were delighted with such unexpectedly good behavior. Accordingly, the girls were given the afternoon off to primp and prepare for London, whether or not they would get out into it for Monique’s ball.
The ship was abuzz with the excitement of those who were invited and the disappointed tears of those who were not. Sophronia and her friends pretended titillation. In Dimity’s case it was probably genuine. She fluttered about, suggesting a way Agatha might better do her hair (“Really, darling, it’s such a pretty red”), reprimanding Sidheag for the plainness of her gown (“Add a little lace, please?”), and insisting Sophronia wear more jewelry (“No, the obstructor does not count”).
“It doesn’t look at all like a bangle. Could we dress it up with jewels or something else sparkly?”
“Not without Vieve’s permission. It isn’t mine yet. Dimity, leave it alone! I’m far more concerned with being adequately kitted than fashionable.”
“Oh, Sophronia, don’t say such a horrible thing!” Dimity put her hand to her chest and gasped. One of Lady Linette’s techniques. “As if anything untoward would happen at Monique’s coming-out ball.” Her eyes sparkled at the temerity of her own statement.
Sophronia felt guilty. After all, Dimity and Pillover were headed into certain danger. “Very well, you can sparkle up the hurlie if you must. But not the obstructor.”
Dimity clapped her hands and dove for the device.
Over supper that evening, they were informed that night classes were canceled.
“We will all be leaving the school for several hours. I’m told the airship is required by the government for a very delicate test.” Mademoiselle Geraldine looked as if she had swallowed a slug. “It is too dangerous to risk young lives. All students are to pack their most precious items into one hatbox—one, mind you!—and assemble amidships. You are to remain near the Crystal Palace building site, where you will be permitted to observe the test. You will have a quarter of an hour after supper to pack and assemble for staircase deployment. There will be a counting.”