A wave of regret washed over her. She hadn’t exactly told him what she was doing. He’d only forbid it. But still, it was wrong.
Forgive me,
she prayed.
The end of the field loomed closer and closer. She gripped the edge of the cockpit. If they didn’t get in the air soon, they’d clip the trees. She could end up like so many aviators: dead or severely injured.
“Watch out,” she yelled, though there was no way Jack could have heard her. She wished they could stop now, wished she’d gotten her father’s approval, but it was too late. Soon she’d be smashed to bits.
They hurtled toward the trees. Then, when it seemed certain they’d crash, the bumping stopped and the plane rose.
Darcy screamed. The icy air blasted her face and made her
shiver, but as soon as she looked below, she forgot how cold she was. Trees and houses shrank below her until they looked like toys.
Jack banked to the right, toward town. Pearlman looked so small, so insignificant from above. There stood her house, the kitchen window lit. Maybe her parents would hear the noise and look out, never suspecting their daughter was flying overhead.
She was flying! In the air, above the earth, like the eagle. God had not created her to fly, but she’d done it. She had done it on her own—well, with the help of Jack Hunter—and it was every bit as wonderful as she’d imagined.
From this height she could see how rivers and roads and railways connected the scattered houses one to the other in a great web.
This was how God had made the world. How He watched over it.
She leaned back, letting the air flow past her face, and gazed straight into the heavens.
This was where she belonged. In the sky. Here, above the busy-ness of the world, she would make her place, and it would truly matter. She’d show the world that women deserved to be treated equally. Same wages, same voting privileges, equal stakes in marriage. She would change the world.
Then the engine coughed. It almost died before racing madly. The plane accelerated.
Darcy looked back.
Jack was frantically working on something in the cockpit. He wasn’t watching where they were going. He wasn’t even steering.
She grabbed the wheel and tried to hold it in place.
Then the engine died.
It grew deathly quiet, with only the whistle of wind rushing past.
The wheel yanked in her hands. She held on tighter.
“Let go,” Jack yelled.
She released it like a hot stove iron. The village, once so far away, was coming nearer and nearer in great swooping circles. They’d stalled and gone into a spin. Spins were fatal.
“Do something!” she yelled.
“I am.”
But the buildings and trees kept coming closer. They were going to crash.
“Brace yourself,” he yelled.
She bent low. An exposed head could be snapped off if the plane tumbled end to end.
In the eerie silence she heard Jack moving around behind her. Why wasn’t he bracing himself for impact?
Then, as she offered a fervent prayer for undeserved forgiveness, the engine sprang to life. The plane shot upward, leaving her stomach on the ground.
Her scream trailed across the dark-edged sky. Were they really going to live? She looked back. Jack stared at the controls. She checked below. Yes, the ground was where it belonged. She gulped in the sweet air, but she couldn’t stop shaking.
Jack circled, lined up the field and brought the plane down. It bumped and hopped over the uneven earth, bouncing her brain against her skull. But after the plane came to a halt and the propeller turned slower and slower until it stopped, a fierce ache took hold.
She’d flown, had faced the worst that could be endured and had lived.
She swallowed as Jack tapped her on the shoulder.
“Sorry about that. Little problem with the engine. You all right?” He’d already taken off his helmet and goggles, and his sandy hair gleamed gold in the rising sun.
She nodded and pulled off her goggles and hood. The flight might be over, but her dream was not. It had only begun. This experience only confirmed that God had destined her to fly.
She climbed out the far side of the cockpit and pulled down her skirt. By the time she rounded the plane, half the town was streaming toward them.
“Thank you.” She threw her arms around Jack. “It was wonderful.”
“Stop that.” He extricated himself. “Remember, you never got into the plane. You had nothing to do with that flight.”
“I know, I know.” She shoved the motor hood into her pocket, but she couldn’t so easily wash away her disappointment. “I was just congratulating you on an excellent flight.”
Jack glanced from Burrows, who was climbing down from the wing, to the gathering crowd, clearly worried.
“Just a kink in the fuel line,” said Burrows. “I’ll check it over, fill her with gasoline and oil, and we can be on our way.”
“I’ll get the oil.” Jack sprinted to the barn.
Leaving? Right now? How could he fly off, after what had just happened? Jack Hunter held the key to her dream. He could teach her to fly. He couldn’t leave. She started after him.
“Miss Shea?” The wiry mechanic caught her arm. “A word of warning. Jack Hunter is not the marrying type.”
She pulled away. “Who said anything about marriage?”
“I just thought…” he let his voice trail off as Jack reappeared with an oilcan.
Burrows was wrong. Despite Jack’s admittedly attractive qualities, she had no intention of marrying. She had to fly first. Her interest in Jack Hunter was strictly professional.
She caught Jack’s arm. The leather was cold and dead, but the man beneath it was not. “Take me with you.”
He stared, a mixture of shock and wariness that sent her spirits tumbling.
“I’ll earn my way,” she said, words spinning out faster and
faster. “I’ll work. I won’t be a financial burden. I have to fly. I will do anything to fly. Anything. Please?”
Jack looked disgusted, and for a second she saw herself through his eyes—a pathetic, pleading woman so consumed with her dream that she’d throw away propriety.
“Darcy?” Papa’s gruff voice shivered down her spine. He’d heard. He’d heard everything. She looked for Jack, but he was climbing into the cockpit. Burrows pulled the propeller.
No!
The cry wailed deep inside, but she dared not let it out, not when she stood face-to-face with judgment.
Excuse after excuse whirled through her mind in time with the propeller’s revolutions. The din spared her from answering her father immediately, but once the plane sped down the field and arced into the air, sun glinting gold off its wings, the reprieve ended.
“What was that about?” he asked.
She fought the horrible deflation. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” She swallowed, but the pain would not diminish. “It’s over. All over.”
The aeroplane grew smaller and smaller until it vanished.
A
ll Darcy’s efforts had come to naught. Jack flew away, and she returned to dull, normal life. Papa must have sensed her despair, because he didn’t lecture. He waited until she spilled the whole story. When the tears subsided, he accepted her apology and requested she devote her free time to worthy causes like the Ladies’ Aid Society and the war effort. No social functions except Beattie’s picnic. Even that came to a dismal end, when pouring rain sent everyone scurrying.
The tedium turned days to weeks. Summer slid into autumn. Though her dream felt as dead as the maple leaves tumbling to the ground, Darcy caught herself looking for Jack around every corner. She gazed for hours into the empty sky. She devoured the newspaper, hoping for word of him. She checked the post every day. Nothing.
Occasionally she’d catch a whiff of a saddle or harness and snap around, looking for the familiar leather jacket. At night she prayed for his return and gazed at the million stars, wondering if he saw the same ones she did.
“I’m so tired of this town,” she complained to Beatrice as they painted signs for the November election. “I need to do something. I need to go somewhere.”
The grange hall bustled with activity, from women
preparing voter lists to men setting up tables. Damp wool coats and hats steamed above the clanking radiator. The leaky roof dripped steadily into the tin bucket at the end of their table. The room smelled old and musty and worn.
“You just have the blues,” said Beattie, swathed in an old shirtwaist and apron. “A little sunshine will set you right again.”
“It’ll take more than sunshine.” Darcy dipped a brush in blue paint and laid a wavy streak on the V of the VOTE HERE sign.
“You’ll think of something. You always do.”
Darcy wasn’t so sure. In the past, she would have thrown all her energy into the election. Since this one would give women the state vote, she should be excited, but the old spark had died.
“Maybe I’ll run away,” she mused.
“Stop being a goof. You can’t run away. You have responsibilities. Think of your parents. And Amelia’s expecting.”
Though deep down Darcy knew Beattie was right, she still wished she could recapture the thrill of flying.
“Besides, where would you go?” said Beattie, carefully keeping her paint within the penciled lines.
To Jack’s airfield, of course, but she didn’t want to make it public knowledge yet. Mum stood across the room, talking to Prudy. No one else was near. She could risk telling Beattie. “New York. Long Island to be exact.”
Beatrice’s eyes widened. “Where Jack lives?”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with Jack Hunter. I need to learn to fly, and New York is the only place I can do so while the war’s still on. Besides, that’s where Harriet Quimby learned. New York.” She savored each syllable.
“New York?” Felicity Kensington flounced near, her brunette hair adorned with diamond-studded combs. “I’m going
there next week. If there’s anything I can get for the wedding, Beatrice, do let me know.”
“There’s nothing, thank you.” Beattie concentrated on the sign.
“Your dress is finished already? Usually Benton’s takes forever.”
Poor Beattie’s cheeks flamed. The Foxes could never afford a New York dressmaker, least of all Benton’s. Mrs. Fox, a skilled seamstress, was making the dress herself.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Felicity,” Darcy said. “If Beattie needs anything from New York, I’ll fetch it.”
Felicity’s lips pursed into a frown. “I was just trying to help.”
“Thank you.” Beattie smiled at her future sister-in-law, which was more than Darcy would do.
“Shouldn’t you be helping with the voter lists?” Darcy suggested.
Felicity sniffed. “My work is done.”
“Then you can help us paint.” Darcy stuck the wet paintbrush inches from Felicity’s serge suit.
Felicity jumped back. “Be careful. Do you know how much this suit cost? My mother would be furious if I showed up at the Ladies’ Aid Society meeting with my dress ruined.”
Darcy was tempted to flick paint at her.
Felicity looked down her nose. “You are attending, aren’t you? Mother said it’s mandatory.”
Darcy gritted her teeth. “If I’m done here.”
“Well, we shall somehow manage without you.” She flounced directly to Cora Williams, to whom she’d undoubtedly divulge Darcy’s itinerary.
“That ungrateful simp,” Darcy said.
“Now Darcy, don’t be unkind.”
“As if she wasn’t.”
“The Bible says we’re to turn the other cheek, remember?”
“I know, but some people make cheek-turning mighty difficult.”
Beatrice giggled, and Darcy was glad to hear her friend laugh. A wedding was supposed to be a joyful time, but lately Beattie had been terribly overwrought, and Darcy could guess the cause.
“So,” Beatrice said, a knowing look on her face. “You’re going to talk Jack Hunter into giving you lessons?”
Darcy completed the V with a quick swipe. “He’s an instructor, and I’m a pupil, nothing more.”
“Nothing more.” Beattie laughed. “Um-hm.”
“It’s true.” But her glowing cheeks betrayed her.
“I hope you succeed,” Beattie said more seriously. “Did your father give you the money?”
Darcy squirmed. “Not exactly, but I have an idea. I’ll talk Devlin into paying for the lessons in exchange for daily correspondence to the newspaper. That’s how Harriet Quimby paid for flight lessons.”
“Do you think he’ll do it?”
“It’s to his advantage, isn’t it? He’ll sell more papers.”
“Then why don’t you ask?” Beattie nodded toward the door where the newspaperman gathered his hat.
“Oh, uh,” Darcy stuttered. “Not here. Not now.” She hadn’t had time to think this plan through.
“Why not?”
“He looks busy.”
“Looks to me like he’s leaving. Hurry, and you can catch him.”
Though Darcy gave her friend a scathing look, Beattie was right. If she was going to learn to fly, she needed money. The only way to get money was to act. She scooted across the room, arriving just as Devlin grabbed the door handle.
“Mr. Devlin.” Darcy slipped between him and the door. “I wonder if I might have a minute of your time.”
“Not now, Shea. I’m on deadline.”
She pressed her weight against the door. “All I need is one minute.”
He glanced at his watch. “Sixty seconds.”
“I have a stupendous idea. Imagine this headline: ‘Local Woman Learns To Fly.’”
Devlin snorted. “No news there, Miss Shea, though I’ll consider an announcement in the ladies’ column when you pass your licensing exam.” He reached for the door.
“It’s not just about learning to fly,” she said, searching for something that would impress him. “I plan to go for a record.”
“Sure you do. Record for what? First woman over Baker’s barn?”
“First woman to cross the Atlantic,” she blurted out. Never mind she still needed to learn. Jack had mentioned something about a transatlantic attempt. She’d convince him to do it and take her along. “That’s where you come in. The
Prognosticator
can sponsor me.”
“Transatlantic?” Devlin nearly choked on his cigar. “You?”
“Yes me,” she said with growing confidence. Fulfilling a dream first required believing in it. “Of course, I need to take lessons.”
“Aha, we’re back to that. And I suppose you want me to pay for those lessons.”
“In exchange for stories. Every day.”
“No, Miss Shea.”
“The readers will love it, and when I make the transatlantic attempt, the
Prognosticator
will have an exclusive.”
“No, no, and no.” Devlin spat a flake of tobacco on the floor. “Your sixty seconds are up.”
“But I can do this. I can take lessons in New York—”
“No, Miss Shea. That’s my last word.” Devlin pulled the door open and left.
That man didn’t have an iota of common sense. No wonder the
Prognosticator
hadn’t increased its circulation in ten years. It takes risk to succeed.
“Darcy?” Mum walked up and gently touched her sleeve. “What did Mr. Devlin say to you? You seem upset.”
She shook her head though her heart was breaking. When would she ever see Jack again?
“I thought I heard you say something about New York,” Mum said.
Darcy steeled herself. “It was just talk.” Mum would never understand her need to fly. Long ago, when Darcy was young, Papa would have understood. He might even have encouraged her, but that all changed when she grew up.
Mum looked ready to burst. “I know how much you love to travel, dear. That’s why your father and I have been talking.” Her eyes shone.
“About New York?” Darcy hardly dared to believe.
“We think it might raise your spirits.” Mum brushed a lock of hair from Darcy’s forehead, as if she were still a little girl. “You do so love the museums and shows.”
“We’re going to New York City?” Hope rose from the damp ground of despair.
“New York City? Heavens no, we’re going to visit your aunt in Buffalo.”
Buffalo? Darcy’s spirits instantly deflated. She couldn’t learn to fly in Buffalo. Jack lived hundreds of miles away. Buffalo got her no closer to her dream. She might as well stay home.
“Now?” She struggled for an excuse. “But don’t you want to be here for Amelia?”
Mum patted her hand. “Bless you for thinking of your
sister, but Charles’s sister can help, should anything arise, which is unlikely. She is only four months along. Now is the perfect time.”
Darcy knew better than to argue. It was settled. They would go to Buffalo, and Darcy’s plans had to be postponed again.
Buffalo in November chilled to the bone. The wind blew constantly off Lake Erie, rattling the bare elm branches. The constant drizzle threatened to turn to snow.
The war’s end raised Darcy’s spirits briefly. With no army pilots to train, Jack might return home. She checked the street in front of Aunt Perpetua’s overstuffed Victorian twenty times a day. Though the odds were slim he’d walk that neighborhood, it was possible. Darcy dwelt in the faintly possible. She volunteered to go to the market. She rode the streetcar, she walked downtown—all in the hope she’d see Jack—but when the days turned to a week, hope dwindled.
One afternoon, she looked out the parlor window while Mum and Aunt Perpetua took tea. The streets were lifeless. Barely one motorcar had passed in the last half hour.
“A dinner party would be just the thing,” Aunt Perpetua unexpectedly said, the enormous feather on her scarlet turban bobbing up and down. “I realize this is more to Amelia’s tastes, but a grand party, with all the finery, might cheer even Darcy.”
“I don’t need cheering.” Darcy ran a hand across the steamed pane to clear her view.
“We could invite a young man,” Perpetua suggested.
Darcy instantly thought of Jack, but Mum had other ideas.
“I understand George Carrman is finishing his studies right here in Buffalo. Eugenia Kensington gave me his address.” Darcy inwardly groaned.
Not George Carrman again.
“I’m not interested in a dinner party.”
“Then what would suit you, dear?” Mum asked.
To go to Long Island. To see Jack Hunter.
But Darcy couldn’t say that.
“Going out to retrieve the newspaper,” Papa called from the other room. The front door opened, sending a rush of chilly air through the parlor.
Darcy shivered as she watched her father, bundled in wool coat, bowler and scarf, trudge to the gate where the newsboy had left the daily paper.
“I gather you don’t care for Mr. Carrman,” Perpetua said.
“He’s pleasant enough,” Darcy conceded for her mother’s sake, “but I’ve already told him I’m not interested in a serious relationship.”
“Darcy,” Mum exclaimed. “You don’t say such things to a man you just met.”
“Would you rather I gave him false hope?”
“Of course not, dear, but you didn’t give him a chance.”
Mum was right. She hadn’t given George a chance, but how could she when there was Jack? No other man had ever sent her emotions whirling so.
“It’s not him,” Darcy conceded. “George Carrman is a nice enough sort of man, but the fact is, I don’t care to marry at all.”
Mum choked on her biscuit.
“Extraordinary.” Perpetua set her cup on its saucer. “What would you do instead?”
Darcy hesitated. Papa had made it very clear that respectable young ladies did not fly aeroplanes. They married. But Darcy couldn’t marry without love. That left just one option. She needed a career. “I’ve written articles for the local newspaper.”
“Journalism is a worthy pursuit.” Perpetua’s dark eyes glit
tered. “I would like to see more fire though. A true calling demands passion.”
The mere mention of passion sent heat to Darcy’s cheeks. Jack. His touch. Those cornflower-blue eyes. “Ah, you
are
passionate about something. Or is it
someone?
”
Darcy turned back to the window, but Perpetua was not going to let this go. “A young man?”
“I have my dreams,” Darcy said quietly.
Perpetua placed her cup on the end table. “You are a young woman of talent. Set your goal and do it.”
Why not? The simple words, so obvious and clear, turned her jumbled thoughts into a clear path. That path didn’t include George Carrman, or even Jack Hunter. She wanted to fly. Jack Hunter wasn’t the only flight instructor in this country. Now that the war was over, there’d be hundreds of aviators willing to teach her.
“I would like to—” Darcy began, but was interrupted by cold air whooshing through the room when Papa opened the front door.
Mum called out, “Close the door, Dermott. You’re letting the chill in.”
Darcy heard the click of the front door followed by her father’s fumbling at the coatrack.
“Continue,” urged Perpetua. “You were saying?”
Papa entered with the newspaper and sat down. Darcy couldn’t say she wanted to fly in front of him.
She shook her head. “I forgot.”
Perpetua frowned as Papa unfolded the paper. The large headline made Darcy gasp.
CURTISS AEROPLANE PLANT TO CLOSE
Curtiss Aeroplane. Jack’s company. He said the main plant was in Buffalo. He worked out of Long Island, but if the main plant closed, surely the subsidiary would, too. Jack would lose
his job.
Then
where would he go? She scoured her memory for some clue. All he’d mentioned was being born in Buffalo, but a pilot wouldn’t come here in winter. He would go south or west, so far away that she’d never find him.