Baroness

by Susan May Warren

  “It’s Tuesday. I thought you liked cherry on Tuesdays,” said Harvey, sweating in a white shirt, dark bands about his upper arms as he mixed her drink.

  “I’m full of surprises,” she said.

  He handed it to her, and she nodded to Curtiss before taking her drink to an alcove by the door.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Garrett’s boardinghouse hosted a fine collection of Zane Grey. It was the only thing that kept grief from swallowing her whole.

  Sometimes, the brutality of her rash actions could curl her into a ball in her single bed, make her shove her sheets into her mouth to stave off her sobs.

  Was this how her mother felt when she left New York City so many years ago, believing the man she loved dead?

  Don’t forget the blessings God has bestowed upon you.

  What blessings?

  Lilly read page twenty-four three times before she turned it, and right there at the beginning of chapter six, she heard it—a low, choppy buzz.

  Almost like—

  “There’s an airplane driving down Main Street!” Curtiss jumped up from his stool.

  Lilly put her book facedown. Sure enough, a fine-looking biplane with red wings and a sleek white body made a low pass along Main Street. And in the front seat, a woman sat, waving.

  Lilly got up and pushed past Curtiss onto the boardwalk as a car sped down the street bellowing out, “The Flying Stars Air Show! Only one dollar per car to watch! Tonight at the fairgrounds!”

  The plane made another pass, this time waggling its wings, and just for a moment, she was airborne with Rennie over the brilliant skies of Paris, touching the heavens.

  “A buck a car.” Curtiss shucked off his hat, shook his head. “Too rich for my blood.”

  “You got a car, Curtiss?” she asked.

  “I got my boss’s truck,” he said.

  “That’ll do,” she said. “But you have to take a bath.”

  Two hours later, with the sun still high, the evening cooling after a thorough baking, Lilly sat on the back of Curtiss’s pickup on a blanket. She cupped her hand over her eyes, watching with a crowd of Sunday-bestdressed ranchers as the Flying Stars air show flyers lined up their biplanes.

  An announcer introduced himself from a makeshift podium as Marvel James and welcomed the crowd. A fleet of planes took off behind him, sweeping into the air. The sound of it rumbled through Lilly’s bones, the dust from their wheels exploding in a fog that rolled into the crowd like a stampede.

  Airborne, they became magnificent red and white birds, with a constellation of the Flying Stars etched on their tails. She counted a total of four, all winging through the sky with dips and turns and rolls, eliciting the awe of the audience before landing back on the ground and bouncing over the untended field like chickens.

  Only then did she realize she’d been holding her breath.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen…” Marvel had the voice of a ballyhoo and wielded it well as he spun the dangers of the next act. “Truman Hawk, the Baron of the Air, famed World War I pilot, will perform his death-defying engine stall, operating a dead stick—”

  “What’s that?” Curtiss said.

  “I think he turns the plane off while flying….”

  “Jeepers, that don’t sound like he’s got a full basket.”

  She agreed as they watched the pilot climb then cut the engine and fall to the earth. The crowd began to scream long before he neared the ground. As Lilly closed one eye, he touched the plane down in a graceful landing.

  Her hand was sweating as she let go of the blanket.

  A mechanic popped the prop, then Truman Hawk, the showman, buzzed the crowd, waving.

  Three more planes took off, waging a mock World War I battle in the sky. Then, two parachutists jumped from the front wings, falling like rocks and pulling their chutes nearly too late in a breathtaking display of idiocy. A trail of white followed them like smoke.

  As they floated down, Lilly could nearly feel the wind in her teeth, tangling her hair, the delicious sense of letting go, of flying.

  They dropped a pair of guinea hens and let the children chase them across the field, then staged a motorcycle show—jumping it through a circle of fire.

  “And for our final act, the Flying Angel will perform a death-defying wing walk!”

  “You mean some dame is actually going to get out on that wing and walk around?” Curtiss said, his voice close to Lilly’s ear.

  Lilly had no words as she watched a woman in a white jumpsuit climb into the front cockpit. She shut her ears against Rennie’s voice. I’ll show you where you belong.

  Still, she easily imagined herself in that seat, goggles over her eyes, anticipation like a live coal in her belly.

  The plane took off, did a loop and a roll, then leveled as the Flying Angel climbed out onto the lower wing, a white speck against the blades.

  “That’s gotta be the stupidest thing I ever seen a woman do,” Curtiss said, but he didn’t take his eyes from the spectacle.

  The woman walked out on the wing and waved to the crowd, then crossed to the other wing. Then, as the flyer circled back around, she climbed to the upper wing and sat down.

  Lilly nearly wept with horror when the plane dove and the woman raised her hands over her head, as if to plunge face-first into the earth. The pilot pulled up then did a barrel roll, with the woman’s hands still over her head. Lilly pressed her hand to her stomach.

  Then, he turned upward, into an inside loop, and Lilly finally had to look away.

  “She’s a real tart, that one, to put up with his shenanigans,” Curtiss said, enough awe in his voice for her to know that he would be lining up after the show to catch an up-close glimpse of the Flying Angel.

  The woman finally climbed back to the cockpit, and the pilot brought the plane to a bumpy, grandiose landing, motoring it around to face the audience. The Flying Angel jumped out, ran around to face the audience, and as the prop fizzled out, bowed in a flourish.

  The audience erupted, honking, cheering, until finally the pilot joined her. Truman Hawk took her hand as they bowed together then joined the rest of the troupe to wave.

  “Well, ain’t that the darndest thing? I never seen an aeroplane, let alone the tricks it can do.” Curtiss climbed off the back of the truck, held out his hand. “Now how ’bout I show you some of my tricks.” He winked at her.

  She gave him her best society smile. “Oh, Curtiss. I believe our time together is over. I will walk back to town.”

  “It’s nearly a half mile. And you got them fancy white shoes on.”

  She folded up his blanket, handed it back to him. “See you at Langs?”

  He managed something of an acquiescing smile, and she didn’t look back as she headed toward the airfield.

  Twilight skimmed the shiny wings and their sleek red bodies as she finally broke free of the departing spectators and lost herself among the airplanes, parked in a neat row before a long white tent. Inside the tent, lamplight flickered, voices of the pilots tumbling out onto the grassy field. Parked alongside was the red roadster she’d seen barrel through town, and a truck with The Flying Stars painted on the side, a trailer attached to the back. A man in a gray jumpsuit stained with grease sat on the running board smoking a cigarette, the ash a red eye in the encroaching darkness. A mongrel with a mangled ear lay at his feet.

  She wandered between two planes, feathering her hand over the painted canvas of the wing. Bracing herself on a wheel strut, she pulled herself up to look into the cockpit.

  “Please! Let’s go around again!”

  She heard her voice, high and bright, laughing into the wind.

  Perhaps she did belong in the heavens—

  “Moseby, listen to me. It’s not any more dangerous than an inside loop—”

  “Except it’s my head you’ll decapitate.”

  Lilly slunk down behind the plane, her heart in her throat.

  “Bertie Jones did it just a week ago, in Kearney!”

 
; She could see them now, charging across the field toward the planes, the woman in the jumpsuit and a man in a leather flight jacket, his dark hair tangled from the wind. Tall and lean, he had wide shoulders and reminded her of someone, although she couldn’t place who.

  The woman rounded on him, stabbing him hard with her finger. “Then get Bertie to do it. Or…pay me more.”

  “You’re already getting ten dollars a show—”

  “And every week you come up with another cockamamie trick that’s liable to get me killed.” She leaned close to him, and Lilly held her breath to hear. “Maybe I will go fly with Eddie. At least he’s nice enough to take me out for dinner once in a while.”

  “Is that what you want—a steak dinner? Flowers? For the love of Pete, Mose, it’s not like you have to actually fly the plane. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep the plane level with you climbing all over the wings? All you have to do is hang on—how much talent does that take?”

  Oh, he deserved a slap, and Lilly braced herself for the sting of it in the air. But just a breath sucked in, something sharp and then—

  “You know what, Truman? If you think it’s so easy, why don’t you find someone else to walk across your precious Travel Air?”

  Footsteps crunched through the grass, and Lilly began to back away from the plane.

  “And who would I get to take your place?”

  “How about her?”

  Lilly froze, the voice too close to be ignored. She glanced over her shoulder.

  The Flying Angel had her hands on her hips, staring at her, a dangerous smirk on her face. In the dusky night, she looked even more ethereal, a lean, shapely body, dark hair curling out of her leather cap. “Yes, you. What are you doing here?”

  “I—I wanted to see the airplanes.” Oh, she sounded like a child.

  “Did you now?” This from the pilot, who came up behind Moseby the Flying Angel, and ran his hand along the tail of the airplane. She put his face with the name—Truman, the Baron of the Air. The showman. The daredevil. And he looked it, with that rakish, smug smile. “Ever been up in one of these?” He raised an eyebrow, almost like a dare.

  She’d had enough of arrogant flyboys. “Thanks, but I’m not getting tangled in your quarrel—”

  She turned, but Moseby’s voice reached her. “See, Truman. You scared her off. It shows you that you can’t get just anyone to wing walk. They have to have courage.”

  Lilly stopped, and for a second called herself a fool, but Moseby’s word itched her, and she rounded on her, her voice cool. “Yes, actually. I have been up in an airplane. Over Paris, in fact.” She stared hard at Moseby. “Certainly wing walking can’t be as difficult as riding a horse at full gallop, bareback. Like he said, all you have to do is hold on.”

  “You don’t look like a cowgirl.” Moseby walked up to her.

  “I grew up in Montana—”

  “With those shoes, you look like you grew up in Minneapolis,” Truman said. “Nice and proper.”

  She met his eyes. Grayish-blue, like the sky at storm, except they held a trace of humor, proof that he was laughing at her. A long curl of dark hair hung over his eyes, and for a moment she thanked her fancy-now-dust-slathered heeled suede shoes, because she might have otherwise been intimidated by his height. He had the raccoon eyes of a flyer, a dark shadow of whiskers upon his chin, and a husky smell of leather and sky that blew off him.

  Lilly folded her arms across her chest. “I grew up in Montana. And New York. And I could run a race across that wing.” The last part she said for Moseby because she reminded her of Presley, just a little. Then she smiled. “But, like I said, I’m not getting into your quarrel.”

  She turned and set out across the grass.

  “Wait—”

  This from Truman, and she didn’t slow as he jogged up behind her. He stepped in front of her and blocked her path.

  She nearly plowed into him. “What?”

  “You really think you can wing walk?”

  It was the way he said it, half challenge, half admiration, that nudged her. As if, in his eyes, she might not be a child, someone to care for, but…

  “I’d rather learn to fly.”

  He stared at her a long moment, one she felt to her bones, then suddenly he gave a laugh. “Fly. Really?”

  “Why not?”

  “Women can’t fly.”

  “I’d slap him for that,” Moseby said from behind her. “But it wouldn’t matter. He’s so arrogant he wouldn’t feel it.”

  She hadn’t released his gaze, however. “I could fly, if someone taught me.”

  “I could teach you to fly.” He breathed in, cut his voice low, and something about it sent a trickle of heat through her. “If you really wanted.” He raised an eyebrow, cocked his head. For a moment, his gaze roamed her face, settled on her mouth, then finally found her eyes again, a new spark in his.

  Her mouth dried.

  “Truman, leave her alone.” Moseby nudged up next to him. “Don’t mind him, he’s just trying to scare you.”

  Truman’s gaze broke away, and he glanced at Moseby. The grin he gave her looked distant, even angry. “She’s too young anyway. I have a feeling we’d have the law on us as soon as we left town.”

  “I’m nineteen.”

  “See, a child,” he said, his smile gone. “Go home. This adventure isn’t for you.”

  Moseby looped her arm through Truman’s. Smiled at her. “But if you change your mind, we’re headed west in the morning.” She winked then drew Truman away.

  “What did you say that for?” Truman said into the night.

  “Because you’re a fool,” Moseby replied.

  They headed back toward the tent while Lilly stood there and felt his words.

  Go home.

  Her feet screamed in agony by the time she managed her way back to Mrs. Garrett’s boardinghouse. She removed her shoes at the bottom of the stairs then sighed relief.

  “There’s a plate with roasted chicken and cabbage for you in the oven,” the woman said as Lilly climbed to her room.

  “Thanks,” she called over her shoulder, but she just wanted to put a pillow over her head, bury herself in it.

  Flicking on the bedside lamp, she walked over to the bureau, pulled out the top drawer, found the velvet box.

  She hadn’t tried them on since that day, when she turned eighteen. Now she took out the pearls, looped them around her neck, then again, and finally a third time, pulling them tight like a choker, letting the rest dangle.

  Stared at herself in the mirror. Don’t forget your name and where you belong.

  She sat on the bed, taking off the pearls, letting the strand run through her fingers. Mother, I miss you. Tucking the pearls under her pillow, she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, wishing away the burn.

  Maybe she should return to New York City. Perhaps she could hitch a ride with the next supply train that came in, apologize to Oliver…

  Then what? Become a reporter, a newspaper baroness like her mother hoped? Or, more likely, Oliver would arrange for her to marry a banker, and she’d be trapped in a life she loathed.

  The door creaked open.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Garrett, but I’m not hungry.”

  “That’s no problem, you can eat on the train.”

  Her eyes opened, and she sat up. “Mr. Stewart, what are you doing here?”

  Oliver’s father bore his same dark looks, although her mother’s former butler wore his hair close cropped, an almost regal bearing to him. “My son sent me to find you. I’m sorry it took me so long.” His eyes betrayed a benevolence that made her want to trust him. “Oliver is very worried.”

  She stood up. “He needn’t be—I’m fine.”

  “I see that.” He came in and closed the door. “But I suspect you are running low on your allowance and, according to the railroad, there will be no train for two more weeks.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “And then what, miss? A trip to Montana, i
f you make it, to run a ranch you haven’t seen in years? A ranch that doesn’t belong to you?”

  “It should belong to me—Oliver stole it from me.”

  Mr. Stewart gave no sign of flinching. “You may want to hear his side of the—”

  “No. He stole the ranch, just like he stole Rennie from my life. I have no intention of going home with you, and you can tell him—”

  “Miss Lillian, I will not tell him anything. You will return home. You are out of money, and your father will not give you one more penny if you should continue this behavior.”

  “I don’t want his money and he’s not my father.”

  “Very well then.” Mr. Stewart moved over to where she’d stashed her valise and picked it up. He opened her wardrobe.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking what belongs to Oliver.” He pulled her skirt off a hanger, shoved it unceremoniously into the satchel. Then he reached for her only other shirtwaist.

  “Those don’t belong to him….”

  The butler turned to her. “Indeed, they do. He’s given you everything you have. And unless you intend to travel to Montana in just your skin, you may want to rethink your position.”

  “Oliver would be furious if he knew how you were treating me.”

  Mr. Stewart raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be free to tell him in a few days.”

  “Get out!”

  “I’ll be back in the morning to help you finish packing.” Then he tucked the valise under his arm and stood at the door. “I’ll keep this with me in case you contemplate sneaking out into the night.” He stood at the door, then, and sighed. “It’s time to stop running and come home where you belong, miss.”

  She put her hand on the first thing she could find—the Bible Mrs. Garrett had set beside her bed—and flung it with everything she had at the door. It hit the frame and fell with a thud, the binding cracking.

  Mr. Stewart shook his head and shut the door.

  She sat there, listening to his steps in the hallway, her heart thudding.

  “I’m not going!” she yelled at the closed door. Oh, how she hated Oliver. His belief that he belonged in her life, that she couldn’t live without him. When would he understand? He wasn’t her father.