Lady Flyer, page 2
Georgina nudged her with a huff. “Spoilsport. Mr. Lindbergh was spotted flying over England, so he’s made it this far.”
Flying seemed a bit foolish in Nancy’s mind, even though her brother had taken some flying lessons. Plenty of pilots tried stunts that never ended well. She didn’t understand the drive to put one’s life in danger, although she was interested in the statistics she’d heard on the radio earlier that day.
Lindbergh had left Roosevelt Field out of New York at 7:51 a.m. He carried 450 gallons of gasoline, making the single-engine plane weigh about 2,750 pounds. He had packed only five sandwiches and brought no coffee. Since he was flying solo, he would have to stay awake for the entire trip. Thirty-two hours and counting . . .
How would it feel to stay awake that long? And how cold had it become thousands of feet above the earth, as the newspapers had reported? Had Lindbergh eaten all of his sandwiches yet? And where—
Someone in the crowd yelled, and an absolute hush dropped like a heavy paint canvas over the people who stood crushed together. The faint drone of an engine filled the air, its rumbling growing louder and closer. Suddenly, people were moving, and not in any particular direction, as they strained to catch sight of the approaching plane.
Nancy held on to Georgina with both hands, who held on to her mother. But Nancy’s feet were rooted to the rutted ground as the plane in the sky circled the landing field. Flashlights clicked on in earnest now, like a horde of fireflies suddenly come to life. People aimed their flashlights toward the sky, trying to cast their own personal spotlight of history in the making. But the plane didn’t descend toward the airfield; it continued to circle. What was the pilot doing? Why wasn’t he landing? Was it really Charles Lindbergh after all?
“Is it really that small of a plane?” Georgina asked, wonder in her voice.
“Regardez ça!” someone shouted. “Monsieur Lindbergh!”
Cheers went up as the plane circled yet again, and somewhere in the crowd, an energetic song began—the French national anthem.
Nancy kept her chin raised; her eyes focused on the circling aircraft. Her pulse jarred through her, mimicking the stuttering sound of the plane engine.
Once, twice, three times the plane circled, and then it dipped. Nose first, it descended, faster than Nancy thought it should. Wasn’t there some sort of brakes? People scattered, ran, shouted . . . and all Nancy could do was grip her cousin’s arm and stare as Charles Lindbergh’s plane touched the ground. Dust bloomed, filling the night air, and Nancy tasted grit in her mouth as the scent of engine oil seemed to seep around her. The plane bumped along for dozens of yards before coming to a final stop.
People behind, to the side, and in front of Nancy’s group shifted and pressed and moved—all trying to get closer. Policemen circled the stopped plane, linking their hands to create a human barrier as they shouted in limp French for people to stand back.
The crowds broke through anyway.
Aunt Hannah’s viselike grip clutched both Nancy’s and Georgina’s arms. “We need to get away from here,” she burst out. “Everyone is going crazy.”
But Nancy couldn’t tear her gaze from the aviator who climbed out of the plane and waved his flight helmet in the air. She was too far away to see his face, and besides, flashlights were bobbing around, making everything distorted. It was surreal to realize that this man had just accomplished what no other person had ever done before.
“Nancy, now,” Aunt Hannah demanded.
Reluctantly, Nancy turned from the man who’d made aviation history. Clutching Georgina’s arm, she followed Aunt Hannah back to the train station, pushing through the tide of people moving in the opposite direction. Once free of the nearly stampeding crowd, the smoky-oil air dissipated and clean air filled Nancy’s lungs.
They reached the station only to find the trains weren’t running, their odor of steam and coal cinders the only thing indicating trains had been present earlier. A lone man stood on the platform, hat in hand, a gold-chain pocket watch visible on his suit vest. When Aunt Hannah approached him and inquired what was going on in her mediocre French, he said that everyone was at the field, including the train conductors.
“Ah, we meet again, Signora Denton,” another male voice said in a thick accent. “I have a car that can take you to your accommodations.”
Nancy turned to see a man only slightly taller than her five feet six inches. The man looked familiar, yet how was that possible? He wore a gray herringbone suit and darker-gray hat. Nancy flinched as the memory returned. She realized that the man’s brown eyes were the same ones that belonged to the man who’d paid them so much attention during their time at the beach in the Riviera. Ordering them drinks, asking her aunt questions while his gaze was upon Nancy, inviting them to dinner—which they’d declined.
“No, I don’t think so,” Aunt Hannah cut in, her voice an octave higher than normal. “We have our own transportation, sir.”
Hannah grasped Nancy’s and Georgina’s arms and bustled them away from the train platform.
Nancy glanced back at the man, who stood next to a sleek, dark car, hat in hand, seeming a bit forlorn. He was handsome, with his straight nose and square jaw—for an older gentleman, probably around her father’s age.
“Don’t look back, Nancy,” Aunt Hannah snapped as their heeled boots clicked on the cobblestones.
Georgina giggled.
“It’s not funny,” Aunt Hannah added.
“It’s a little funny, Mother,” Georgina said. “Who would have thought Nancy’s Italian count followed us all the way here?”
“He’s not my count,” Nancy protested, although it was a bit odd to see the man again so suddenly. “And everyone in all of France seems to be here—so it’s a coincidence.”
“Even so, there’s over 100,000 people gathered here. The radio said so. And your count comes out of nowhere.” Aunt Hannah snapped her gloved fingers. “Just like that. I don’t like it, Nancy.”
Nancy’s neckline itched, and she repeated, “He’s not my count.” But her lips twitched as she glanced at the smiling Georgina.
Aunt Hannah led them down another street lined with shops and cafés long since closed, although the aroma of baked delicacies and creamy chocolate lingered—both tempting and tormenting.
“Now, see here.” Aunt Hannah stopped just outside the halo of a streetlight. She faced them both, her arms folded. The streetlight beyond made her face an ethereal glow, but her eyes flashed as she narrowed them at Nancy. “The Italian count is no laughing matter. If he had pressed his case, I would have called over a policeman.”
“He was only trying to help, Mother,” Georgina countered. “You don’t need to be so ultra.”
Even Nancy knew not to argue with Aunt Hannah when she wore her stern expression.
“Nancy is thirteen years old, and that man is old enough to be her father.” Aunt Hannah set her hands on her hips. “I saw the way he watched her on the French Riviera. Everyone saw. It was quite inappropriate and mortifying. Nancy might appear older because of her . . . shapeliness, but that is no excuse for his behavior. Do you really want your cousin to be ogled by an older man who thinks he can have whatever, or whomever, he wants?”
Georgina turned somber. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
No one was laughing now. Even at the Riviera, Aunt Hannah had treated the attention as some great joke. But now, the edge to her voice held true worry.
“And you, Hannah Lincoln Harkness,” Aunt Hannah said, shifting her attention to Nancy. She meant business now—calling Nancy by her full name. Father hadn’t liked Mother’s family’s tradition of naming first daughters Hannah Lincoln, so he’d called her Nancy. And it had stuck. Mostly.
“Your mother allowed you to come on our European trip in order to broaden your education,” Aunt Hannah said. “She didn’t intend that education to be one of worldly men.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What do you think your parents would do in this situation?”
Nancy drew in a breath. “Father would punch the count’s nose, and Mother would keep me in a locked room for the next week.” It might be an exaggeration, but she knew her parents wouldn’t be pleased, and now she could see that weight of responsibility upon her aunt.
“You did the right thing,” Nancy continued her apology. “Thank you for bringing me and protecting me.”
Aunt Hannah gave a firm nod. “Now, be prepared to walk, girls. We have a ways to go. We’ll not be accepting any rides from strangers.”
They set off again, and Georgina edged close to Nancy as Aunt Hannah strode ahead, seeming to keep an eagle eye out for dark, lurking forms. “Just think, if he’s wealthy, you’d be set for life.”
“Oh, I thought of that already,” Nancy said with a quiet laugh. “But I don’t really want my children to speak Italian. Maybe if he were French . . .”
Georgina giggled. Ahead of them now, Aunt Hannah checked behind her, brows pulled together.
The girls fell silent. The only sounds in the Paris streets that echoed between them were their heeled boots and rustling skirts.
It felt as though hours had passed before they arrived at their hotel, but in reality, it had probably been only a single hour. The hotel lobby was ablaze with light and abuzz with people gathered to discuss Monsieur Lindbergh’s landing. No one would be sleeping tonight.
Charles Lindbergh had flown for thirty-three hours, thirty minutes, and thirty seconds. How would it be, Nancy wondered, to be the most-talked-about aviator in the world? And all that prize money was now his. Had the danger and uncertainty been worth it?
Other numbers swirled inside her head. One newspaper article she’d read the day before had reported that the single-engine plane had cost $10,580 to build, and it was powered by a Wright Whirlwind J-5 engine. Modifications had been made to the plane—ones that had proven successful, it seemed.
Lindbergh had forgone a copilot or a navigator to keep the plane lighter. He’d even left behind a parachute and radio. None of these details should be clouding Nancy’s thoughts and keeping her awake long after Georgina’s breathing had evened one twin bed over, but Nancy found herself curious all the same. Perhaps it was because Charles Lindbergh’s flight had been successful and not a disaster. Regardless, it was a far more interesting subject to think about than an old count who kept popping up wherever she was.
Chapter Two
“We didn’t fly planes in those days, we rode them. We were supposed to get the feeling of the plane through the seat of our pants.”
—William H. Tunner, Over the Hump
3 years later
August 1930—Houghton, Michigan
“There’s a good girl.” Nancy soothed her horse, Daisy, by stroking her sleek, soft neck. Daisy nickered a soft grunt. She’d been skittish since the biplane in the adjacent field had started offering stunt rides for those who’d pay the five dollars.
Nancy watched the buzzing aircraft for a few more minutes, reluctant to return home to her chores. The silver wings caught the brightness of the afternoon sun and reflected gold and silver as the sun played peek-a-boo in the drifting white clouds.
Townsfolk from her hometown of Houghton, Michigan, had formed a line to take their turn in the sky. Barnstormer pilots showed up from time to time, performing stunts for crowds willing to pay. But this barnstormer was offering rides to people.
Nancy didn’t have five dollars at the ready, not since her family was being careful with finances. The stock market had crashed the year before, and many people were struggling financially, but she didn’t begrudge those who were paying the steep price for a biplane ride.
Nancy nudged Daisy closer, but the horse nickered her displeasure as her shoulder muscles bunched.
“Fine, I’ll check it out myself.” Nancy dismounted and tied Daisy to a nearby tree. She trekked across the field of grass and yellow-gold wildflowers. The people in line glanced over at her, then returned to their gawking as the biplane headed for another takeoff, leaving a smoke trail in its wake.
“How was it?” Nancy asked a woman who’d been the most recent passenger. Over the past three years, Nancy had followed Charles Lindbergh in the news, her curiosity about flying growing.
“Stomach-curling,” the woman pronounced, holding on to her gaudy lavender hat in the light breeze.
“You didn’t even do the stunt route,” a man said.
“I can’t afford more than a penny a pound,” the woman answered with a laugh. “Besides, I wanted to keep my lunch, and circling the field is fine with me.”
“Wait, you can circle the field for a penny a pound?” Nancy asked. She could afford that, and then maybe she could, once and for all, satisfy her curiosity. At the very least, it would be something to tell her brother about.
The woman’s cool gray eyes landed on Nancy again. “That’s right, dear.”
“Where does the line end?”
“There’s no line, missy,” an older man with a large midsection and red suspenders to hold it all together answered. “We’re watching the fool’s attempts. You can be next if you’ve got the money.”
She had some money. Digging into the pockets of her tea-length pleated skirt, she rounded up enough change to equal her weight. At least she thought so. “I’ll go next,” she announced.
One of the men laughed, but Nancy didn’t care. The biplane was landing again, and she stared at the rotating silver propeller and wings that gleamed bright. The pilot stopped several dozen feet from the onlookers, and a teen passenger not much older than Nancy climbed out. His freckled skin was as pale as milk.
“Who’s next?” the pilot called out.
Nancy guessed that he was in his midtwenties. She stepped forward, jingling the change in her hand. “I have a dollar.”
He looked her up and down, probably trying to estimate if she was telling the truth about her weight. At sixteen, Nancy had the shape of a full-grown woman. When the pilot met her steady gaze, his mouth quirked up. “Come aboard, miss.”
So, Nancy did. She tugged on the extra pair of goggles and helmet, ignoring the smell of leather and perspiration. With the pilot’s steadying hand to grasp, she climbed into the front seat.
“Put your toes on the brake pads on top of the rudder pedals—right there,” the pilot said, pointing. “I’m going to swing the propeller.”
Once the prop was rotating, the pilot hurried back and jumped into his seat, firing up the engine.
“Ready?” he asked over the grease-smelling rumble.
Nancy clipped into the shoulder harness and lap belt, pulling it tight. “Ready!” Heart thrumming in tandem with the engine, she looked over the side of the biplane as it taxied along the bumpy field, then increased speed. The brisk wind tugged at her clothing, and then her stomach dropped like a lead fishing lure as the aircraft lifted from the ground.
When her heart began to beat again, laughter bubbled through her.
“Are you all right?” the pilot called over the whistling of the wind.
“Yes,” Nancy said, but the word was torn away by the wind. “Yes, I’m all right.” She spoke louder this time.
The biplane circled the field, and from this height, everyone appeared so small on the ground. Like the dolls in her childhood dollhouse. But these dolls were moving and waving up at her.
Nancy grinned at the weightlessness of her body, at how her stomach felt tight like a new shoe, and at how exhilaration surged through her, making every limb tingle.
She realized the biplane was descending.
“Let’s go around again,” Nancy called out, hoping it wasn’t too late to redirect course.
“It will cost more, and other people are waiting,” the pilot called back.
He seemed to be more of a salesman than a pilot.
They dropped lower and lower. The landing wheels hit the soft dirt with a gentle jolt.
“Landed like a seagull skimming the ocean,” the pilot said.
Nancy’s head still hummed, and her body felt like it was floating above the ground. “How long will you be taking people up?” she asked, breathless, even though she’d been sitting.
“Until the sun sets,” the pilot said, a smile in his voice. “Come up with five dollars, and I’ll take you on a real flight.”
“I will,” Nancy said, taking off the goggles and turning to look at him. “Don’t quit the day until I get back.”
Once out of the biplane, she ran to her horse and made Daisy gallop all the way home, then tore through the rooms of her house. “Mother! Are you home? I need to borrow money.”
She skidded to a stop in her bedroom and dug out the money from her jewelry box, where she kept her earnings.
“Nance? What in the world are you hollering about?”
She turned to see her brother, Robert, his lanky form of six feet seven leaning against her doorway.
That was right—he was home for the weekend. At twenty-one years old, he was a Harvard graduate and was doing postgraduate work at Massachusetts Institution of Technology.
“There’s a barnstormer giving stunt rides,” she said. “Costs five dollars.”
Robert’s brows pinched. “Swell. I want to go too.”
Nancy straightened and rested her hands on her hips. “Then get the money.” She held up two dollars. “I need three more.”
Robert grinned and disappeared into the hallway. “Meet me at the front door, bossy,” he called back.
