Baroness (24 page)

Truman stood up next to her. “Air races, daredevil stunts, parachute drops, mock battles, and…an aviation ball?”

“The Eau Claire city leaders are partnering with us on this event. They already have our bulletin, and their Lions Club is selling advance tickets. We'll have a sell-out crowd.”

“I guess that means steak and flowers for you, darlin',” Truman said as he handed the flyer back to Marvel.

“Just teach me to fly.”

He regarded her for a moment.

“You promised, Truman.”

He made a face, but she saw acquiescence in it. “I guess you're ready. Get your gear.”

She nearly sprinted to the pile where they'd stashed their gear while dismantling the tent. Grabbing her helmet and goggles, she stowed her bag into the cockpit then reached for her canvas jacket. Despite the early August heat, a cool wind shifted through the trees. And in the sky, the wind could be brutal, even if it was warm on the ground.

Truman came up behind her, his jacket open, his gloves tucked in his belt. He tugged on his helmet.

“Here's how flying works. As the air flows over the top of the wing, the wind separates. Top layer has to travel faster, creating lower pressure above the wing. Planes are literally sucked into the sky by the low pressure created by the vacuum of air as it travels over the wing. The pressure causes the lift and pulls the plane up. Your job is to maintain enough airspeed to keep low pressure above the plane. Get in.”

She climbed into her cockpit while he boosted himself onto the wing, pointing out the controls inside. “This is your stick, but it only controls your flaps. It noses the plane up and down. You steer with the pedals at your feet. Give it a try.”

She moved the stick back and forth then tried the pedals.

“This is a tail dragger, so as you go down the runway and pick up speed, the tail comes off the ground. That's when you pull the stick back and it'll take you up. The key is to go full throttle on takeoff.”

He reached in and flicked up the magneto switch. “We have contact. I'll prop it. Remember, stick goes forward to nose down, back to ascend. To slow down, you pull back, to speed up, nose down.”

“I'm flying
now
?”

“Why not?” He pulled down his goggles. “Just don't take off without me.”

He snapped the propeller and the spark caught, jerked the engine to life. The plane began to bump across the ground with the power of the prop. Truman jumped inside, leaning over to talk in her ear.

“The crosswind could shimmy the plane, or even cause you to ground loop. As you're taking off, steer into the wind!”

“I'm taking off?”

“Let's go, New York!”

Wait a doggone minute— “I can't—”

“Yes you can! You were born to fly. Take us into the air. I'm right behind you.”

She stared at the controls—the throttle, the stick, the pedals…not sure where to—

“Push the throttle forward, get us to the landing strip!”

She pushed the throttle away from her and steered with her feet toward the landing strip. “Now, center it up and push the throttle forward again, all the way. Remember not to pull back on the stick until the tail is up.”

“How—?” She held her breath and eased the throttle forward. The plane began to shimmy and pick up speed. She held onto the throttle and the stick as it thundered down the runway.

And then she felt it, the tail rising in the back, and realized that yes, she recognized the feeling. Had experienced exactly this rhythm every time Truman took off. She eased back on the stick and…

They began to rise.

“Steer into the wind!”

The plane began to drift to the right so she veered it left with the pedals as she continued to work the stick. They rose above the strip, clearing the outbuildings, then the trees. Higher, until the runway turned to a ribbon below them.

“Now, head south!”

South? Which way was south? But flying with Truman had also taught her navigation—enough to know where the sun was, and how to point the plane in the right direction. She felt him take control of the stick as they banked south. She leveled it off.

And just like that, she was flying. The stick rumbled in her hands, her feet shimmering on the pedals. But she had control of this plane and…

She did belong in the heavens.

She breathed in the power of it, that ethereal sense of freedom. Above, the sky had turned such a rich blue she could drink it in, and the sun on her face nourished her.

She'd worry about landing later.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another red and white plane, T
HE
F
LYING
S
TARS
painted on the tail. Beck waved to her.

She lifted her hand to wave back. One-handed flying. Next she'd be doing loops.

She kept Beck on her right wing and followed him as they left Spooner and hopped from lake to lake on their map, south to Eau Claire.

Her hand grew numb with the buzzing of the stick, but as her confidence grew, she dove, then climbed, then dove. She tried to turn once, pushing the pedals, but the plane seemed to slip in the air, as if it might be on a skidded surface. Truman barreled over the back of her seat and grabbed the stick, moving it with the turn. They banked, and the force settled her back into her seat.

He patted her on the shoulder as he sat down, and she caught her heart before it slid out of her chest.

She practiced banking until she had that too, and finally the Eau Claire airport appeared below. The landing strip was a wide river, and Beck settled his boat easily upon the tarmac, pulling up beside the small wooden hangar.

She could hear her own breathing in her ears. Certainly Truman didn't expect—

She felt another tap then the controls leaped to life under her hands. She wanted to kiss him.

Or…something. The thought swept through her as she let go of the controls and Truman landed the plane. Kiss him. Or throw her arms around him, or…

No. She couldn't have feelings for Truman. She knew better than to fall for a flyboy. She'd heard the rumors—women called them sky gypsies because they stole hearts then flew away.

No, she wasn't giving away her heart to another pilot. After Rennie, she was smarter than that. They were too unpredictable, could too easily break her heart. Besides, Truman would always love flying more than he did any woman.

He taxied them over to the grass where Beck was already climbing out of his plane. Behind them, Marvel and Dan landed on the strip.

She climbed out before Truman could help her and stripped off her helmet.

He landed next to her on the grass. “You're a natural, New York. You belong up there. You're amazing—you can do anything you put your mind to. Wing walk, fly. What's next?” His grin was white against his tanned, handsome face.

She managed to smile back. “A suicide loop?”

“Forget it. But you did great on that coordinated turn. Just have to watch the bubble. Next time, maybe you'll land.”

Next time. She nodded, too aware of how the breeze brought his scent to her, too aware that yes, she wanted to throw her arms around him, to thank him for keeping his promise.

Too aware that she would have to work hard—very hard—not to fall in love with Truman Hawk.

They set up camp beside the hangar and waited for the truck to arrive. Sometimes, it took a day or two for Rango to find the right roads to their destination. But he pulled in shortly after twilight with their gear and supper.

“The town's already buzzing about the show,” Marvel said as he drove them in for dinner. A real dinner. And a real hotel. With a real bed. Pre-ticket purchases must have been lucrative. “They can't wait to see Lola, the Flying Angel.”

Lilly smiled, her gaze shifting to Truman. He wore that strange expression again, the one she longed to untangle.

They dined at the Chestnut Hill Supper Club on roast chicken and potatoes. Grand windows overlooked the Chippewa River, and a fire crackled in the magnificent river-stone hearth. For a moment, Lilly's life in New York returned to her in the white-gloved waiters, the gold chandeliers, the fancy flappers with their sequins and feathers striding in on the arms of dapper men in tuxedos. She saw herself in the dress Rosie had purchased in France, the one with the embroidered poppies, saw pin curls in her hair, perhaps captured by a feather headband.

From this vantage point, she could admit to liking the look.

She should write to Rosie. Tell her where she was, that she had learned to fly. But her cousin might betray her to Oliver, and the last thing she needed was Mr. Stewart showing up to drag her home like a child.

Only, she wasn't a child, not anymore. She sat at the table with her fellow performers, a part of the show. She'd helped pay for this meal, and not because of Oliver's help.

“A toast,” Marvel said, and picked up his glass. “To the Flying Stars and their newest angel.”

She picked up her glass, and Truman added, “To a safe show tomorrow.” He met her eyes, a shine in his.

Marvel had secured them all rooms at the Fairmont Hotel downtown, and he himself escorted Lilly to her room. “We're all retiring early, darlin',” he said as she made a face. “You can dance tomorrow night.” He winked, and she wasn't sure what to make of it.

The dance. She sank down on the edge of the eyelet coverlet of the bed and stared in the mirror. She looked scraggly, thanks to her helmet, and had raccoon eyes—pockets of white around them, the rest of her face a dark tan. She'd lost weight, it seemed, but in her trousers she couldn't tell. Her nails were dirty, grease dug into the pores of her hands.

She looked like a man.

Marvel answered on the second knock. He was already in his T-shirt. “I told you, we're staying in.”

“I need my pay. At least for the last few weeks. I know you have it, Marvel, and I need it.”

He pulled up his suspenders, leaned on the door. Once upon a time, he'd been a daredevil flyer like Truman, but promoting the show had added a paunch to his gut, a sag in his face. “Why?”

“I don't have to tell you why. It's my money.”

“Sure it is, doll, but we need enough for gas and these fancy digs—”

“These fancy digs are your choice, not mine. But if you must know, I need a dress.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You don't want Lola the Flying Angel to show up in a flour sack tomorrow night, do you?”

He disappeared into his room while she waited at the door. He returned with a handful of dollars. “That's last week's take. I'm going to have to owe you the rest.”

“Yes,” she said. “You will.”

She took a bath and scrubbed everything, picking the oil out of her fingernails.

What she needed was a hairdresser. Or Rosie. She knew how to make perfect pin curls. Sneaking out of her room right after breakfast the next morning, she left a note for Marvel, telling him she'd meet him at the field. The hotel clerk helped her place the call, allowing her access to the back office. She gave the number to the operator and heard it ringing on the other side of the country.

Amelia, her aunt's housekeeper, answered. “Worth residence.”

“Amelia? It's—it's Lilly.”

She heard an intake of breath. “Miss Lillian. We've all been so worried, your stepfather is here—”

“I'm calling to talk to Rosie. Is she in?”

Silence, then Amelia said, “Perhaps it is best if you discuss this with your aunt Jinx.”

His tone tightened her chest. “Why? What's happened to Rosie?”

“Nothing, ma'am. She's well. Only…Miss Worth is currently unavailable, but I expect her back within the hour. Perhaps I could get a number?”

“Amelia, where is Rosie?”

Silence.

“I'll hang up and never call again.”

“She's no longer in touch with us. I believe she's a showgirl in the city somewhere.”

A showgirl?

“Thank you, Amelia.”

“Where can we reach you, ma'am, if I may ask.”

“Tell Aunt Jinx I'm well.” She hung up before the desire to pour out her adventures to someone—even Amelia—might prove too tempting.

The barbershop had a line of men but posted a sign: H
AIR
B
OBBING
,
OUR
S
PECIALTY
.

She waited, poring through a magazine, then pointed to the picture on the front cover when they called her name.

Fischer's dress shop had a number of styles, nothing Rosie might fawn over, but Lilly found something she could wear—a black dress with silver beading along the bodice and a drop waist, with a skirt made of long ribbons of flowing fabric.

If only she still had her pearls. Instead, she purchased a long silver scarf.

And gloves. Her mother had taught her that much.

Her fancy New York shoes would have to do. She had already scrubbed them in the sink, turning them a silvery gray.

She hid the trousseau in her hotel room, tucked her new hairdo into her helmet, and danced on the wings of Truman's airplane to thunderous applause.

She didn't remove her helmet all afternoon.

She couldn't bear to ride in Marvel's truck to the dance, so she hired a cab with the last of her allowance. The stars overhead glittered like diamonds cast before her, and the classical music of an orchestra drifted out onto the lawn as she exited the cab.

She'd forgotten the allure of looking like a woman, of wearing silk stockings, even if she had rolled them down below her knee, and smelling of a freshly picked bouquet. She would have to start demanding better digs, perhaps her own tent.

Although she could admit to loving the romance of sleeping under the wing of her airplane, counting the shooting stars.

A gloved footman opened the door for her. Inside the dining hall where she'd eaten last night, women and men dressed in their Sunday best danced, others sat at tables, hopefully discussing the day's show. She spotted Marvel seated with two men, probably the local Lions Club members.