by Sally Orr
Boyce wondered why females had such an uncommon affinity with drama. Last week, one young miss had sought his opinion upon a new puce ribbon trimming her best bonnet. Now any gentleman alive would naturally condemn a puce ribbon, but seconds after his judgment escaped, the young lady indulged in a fit of hand waving, palpitations, and some disorder involving the nerves. He quickly admitted he must have been mistaken—the light insufficient—and the drama ended. In the future, he vowed to be more circumspect on the subject of ribbons.
Now he watched the pretty female standing before him warning of the dangers ahead, but her emphatic life-or-death concerns sounded like another example of drama. So far, their balloon adventure had provided the most exciting moments of his life, the trip easier than planned. Nothing about the balloon seemed amiss. The glorious sky remained mostly cloudless, and the wind continued to propel them in the right direction. He harbored not the slightest apprehension of their fate. They would likely reach France in a few hours, perhaps just after the sun set.
Still, this female was vastly different from the usual young miss of his acquaintance. So were her warnings wise words or another example of feminine drama? But then how many females of his acquaintance used words like estimate and calculations? Come to think of it, he was not sure he had ever used them. “Eh, why do we need ballast? I thought releasing sand made you go up.”
She turned to face him, the alluring apple–pout hanging on her lips. “When the air cools after sunset, the gas compresses, and we lose lift. So imagine you are in a rapid descent. Below is the ocean…” She crossed both arms. “No, for our piece of mind, let’s say a village next to a lake. The basket lands safe enough on a street, but since the balloon is not yet fully deflated, the wind catches it and propels it forward. Now with the speed of a team of four at full gallop, you are being dragged toward the lake, beaten and bruised along the way. Don’t you think it would be quite nice to drop some ballast and gain altitude to make it over the water, then travel whatever distance is necessary to find an open field to safely land?”
“Now that you mention it, I would indeed prefer avoiding that fate. This is a fine coat, and I’d hate to see it ruined.”
She kneeled to take readings from her instruments.
Boyce noticed her frown, take measurements, frown, glance at him, and frown again. To deserve so many frowns, you would think he had kicked a doe-eyed puppy. He leaned over to watch the sand dribble out of the cut ballast sack.
“Oh, look,” she shouted. “Parhelia. Wonderful!”
He straightened to face the brilliant sunlight from just above the horizon. Before him three suns beamed in radiant splendor. One big sun and two smaller suns, but the two side suns shone like suns, nevertheless. The two little ones had luminous arcs of light beaming from the top and bottom. “I’ve never seen these other suns before. Yes, yes, how wonderful. Is this some sun secret people of science know all about, but have not informed the public? I’ll wager it is. Imagine the romance of three sunsets. I must come up with a song to celebrate three suns. Let me think…”
Miss Mountfloy looked up at the extraordinary sight before them. Grabbing the sextant, she held it up to her eye before starting to scribble in the Results book. Then more instruments were pointed at the suns and mumbled over. “Three degrees…twenty-two degrees, I thought so.”
“I wonder if a fellow can get three shadows from three suns?” It seemed an exciting idea, so he spun around to examine the side of the basket. A hint of his shadow appeared upon the rough wicker, but he could not determine if they were three separate shadows. “My soul is warmed by the glorious sun, sun, sun—”
“Enough. Do you always sing with the least provocation?”
“I’m sorry, but this is big, happy provocation, if you ask me. Have you ever seen this before? Isn’t this a beautiful sight?”
She wagged a finger. “Each sun on the side is officially called a parhelion. Two are usually seen and the plural term is parhelia. Most people call them a mock sun or sun dog. They are rare and believed to be caused by the sunlight refracted by ice crystals in the atmosphere. The crystal shape—”
“Wait! That Shakespeare fellow saw multiple suns. In one of those Henry plays—there really are too many Henry plays, don’t you think?—Shakespeare said, ‘Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?’ Maybe I got that wrong? Even so, I bet this is an important discovery.”
She smiled and almost reached the point of laughter. “Yes, you are right. Parhelia are a rare phenomenon. Moreover, I seem to remember there is some disagreement about the distance from the sun, the lengths of the arcs, and the exact colors observed. I can’t wait to present my observations in a letter to the Royal Society.”
“You present data to people—aloud?”
“No, not me.” She shrugged her shoulders. “My father and I will present our observations first in a letter to the Royal Society, or perhaps a journal like Newton’s Journal of Arts and Sciences. With any luck, our letter will be published. I cannot present my observations in person, because women rarely address scientific institutions.”
His heartbeat escalated. “Will they invite me to speak? My father will be impressed if I give a scientific speech before a learned institution.” He could even visualize himself standing on a dais, his audience hanging upon his every word, an unseen laurel crown held high above his head. “If I give the speech, you can tell me the important scientific bits, and I can give the speech for you. All with your approval, of course.”
“I don’t know what my father will say about that.”
“He must agree. I have seen the sun dogs in person, and he hasn’t.”
“Firsthand observation is an important point.”
“This calls for a celebration.” He took both of her hands and pulled her forward to dance a little jig.
She watched him perform a few steps, then she too joined in with a couple of hesitant steps.
The balloon swayed more dramatically than ever before, so they immediately stopped dancing. “We’ll dance a jig when we land,” he said. “Or maybe now, but not so vigorously?”
She grinned before returning to her instruments. “Please excuse me from further celebrations. I must immediately record the conditions when the suns were observed.” After she finished jotting down her notes in the Results book, she reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a few feathers. These were tossed into the air, then studied as they sailed up and over the edge of the balloon. The wind had dropped off, so she made a note. When finished, she moved to stand beside him.
His spirits became uncommonly light, and together they watched the two extra suns shrink and fade, their tails of light fading with the approach of sunset. The day’s end gave him a new sense of joyous calm. All was right with the world, and tomorrow could only be better. He slipped his arm around her shoulder and was mildly surprised when she did not pull away.
They stood and witnessed the sky change from blue, to orange, and finally to gray. They remained side by side until nightfall, when the stars began to reveal their presence.
He sighed. For one of the few times in his life, a song would only interrupt his feeling of calm bliss. “Have you ever seen anything so fine? The stars are like living sparks tossed upon an inky vault.”
Her nose gained a few wrinkles on the top. “Stars appear a bright white in rarefied air, and the atmosphere appears a darker black.”
“White, black? No, no, you’re wrong.” He swung his free arm in a wide arc. “Living sparks floating upward to heaven through the abyss of an inky vault.”
“I believe my statement contained factual information—white stars, black sky.”
He gave her a one-arm hug. “You need to learn how to sing.”
“I can sing, thank you.” Pulling free from his embrace, she rummaged in one of the wooden boxes, and lifted out a patent safety lamp and a thick oilcloth lined with wool. She to
ssed him the oilcloth, then lit the lamp.
“Really,” he said, “I am not cold. Well, I am cold, but dash it all, the blanket goes to the lady.”
She sat and the finger-pointing returned. “Listen. Our chances of survival improve if we keep warm. If your hands get cold, you will not be able to hold on to a rope thrown by your rescuers. And if your whole body gets too cold, you will expire.”
“Expire.” He exhaled. “Right, but I still refuse. The blanket goes to the lady first.”
This time she let out a loud and protracted sigh. “Do you know how to huddle?”
After their shared experience of that lovely sunset, he had become so fond of his plucky miss, he would enjoy the chance to embrace her in a huddle. “Yes, yes, I can huddle, snuggle, cuddle, and nuzzle. Indeed, I am particularly good at all of those.”
“I don’t need you to do all of those—especially nuzzle. Just a simple huddle will be satisfactory.” She sat on the floor of the basket and arranged the oilcloth around her shoulders.
He pulled a wool hunting cap from his sack, covered his head, and sat next to her. “What exactly is the nature of huddling? I mean scientific huddling, of course.”
She cleared her throat. “Sorry. Hoarse. It’s the altitude, you understand.”
“Yes, my throat is dry too. Not to mention my nose. Funny thing noses. I know a song—”
“No songs, please. If we reach France safely, even I will sing with you.”
“We would make such a pretty duet—”
“This is important. To huddle effectively, people must maximize bodily contact and minimize the air spaces between them. Also, it is best if your limbs are brought in close to your chest or under you. In other words, sit in the smallest ball possible next to me, our shoulders touching.”
“But wouldn’t one big ball of us both be better?” Nothing would have made him happier now than holding her in a warm, friendly hug.
Her blue eyes resembled large, dark orbs. “Yes, but—”
“Come sit in front of me, and I’ll wrap my arms around you.” He’d hold her and have a chance to physically demonstrate his fondness and gratitude.
She gulped. “It would not be proper to—”
He whispered into her ear. “I can confirm, my pretty miss, that pigeons do not tittle-tattle and can keep secrets. Besides, unlike the language of duck, no human can speak pigeon. So it would be difficult for the pigeon to start a scandalous on dit.”
She bit her upper lip to stifle a laugh, but then she gave him a brilliant smile.
Her restrained gaiety filled his heart with affection. Her nose and ears were red, so she must have been very cold, but she had not complained. And now with her vibrant smile, he noticed a dimple for the first time. Nothing more alluring than dimples, even a cold one. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
She gasped. “I realize, under the circumstances, proper behavior is difficult, but let us try to observe the proprieties. Call me Miss Mountfloy, please. I’ll call you…Parker. Is that acceptable?”
“My friends call me…” He gulped. His friends called him “Whip.” An obscure joke made by schoolboys, but he did not want her lovely—now pale—lips to call him that nickname. He certainly was not going to tell her that London’s newspapers had once called him “Piglet Parker.”
Her head was cocked to the side, waiting for his answer.
“You are the captain, so you choose. Parker, Boyce, Madman—I will answer to them all.” He stood and looked down at her. “I must get the pigeon. He will want to huddle too.” He moved to the far side of the basket and reached for the pigeon’s cage. Then he noticed the butterfly. It was no longer resting on one of the boxes, but lay lifeless on the floor. Its pale yellow wings were folded on top of each another. Boyce carefully picked up the little creature. Now he felt very low. If he had not insisted upon this journey to France, this little fellow would be settling in for the night on top of some big, shiny, green leaf. He tapped a wing gently to see if it would move, but it remained still. He sighed and carried the butterfly to the edge of the basket. “Farewell.” The breeze caught the little creature and lifted it from his palm. The butterfly disappeared into the night.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
After grabbing the pigeon’s cage, he returned to her side. “The butterfly is dead.” He couldn’t help but wonder how their journey would end. His ambition had brought them up here, and there would be consequences to his decision. Hopefully, their future would be nothing like the butterfly’s. He sat next to her and patted the floor in front of him.
Following a second of hesitation, she moved to sit in the space between his legs and twisted to arrange the oilcloth around both shoulders. Then she settled back upon his chest. “Remind me to record the animal’s death tomorrow.”
He pulled the pigeon close. “My fault the butterfly died.” He draped a corner of the oilcloth over the pigeon’s cage and took a deep breath. “Miss Mountfloy, I owe you an apology. In my excitement to succeed, I clearly was not thinking properly. I should never have attempted this tomfool plan. Without a doubt, you were right. We should have landed after the experiments were finished.” He stared up at the dark shadow of the balloon overhead. “If your warnings come to pass and something happens, I will become a famous Lord Parker, but once again, for all of the wrong reasons. You have to believe me. I meant you no harm. Please forgive me.”
She twisted to face him. “After we lifted off the ground, I suppose neither one of us contemplated our actions very deeply. Or if we did, we were blinded by the allure of success. I agreed to the journey too, remember? I guess being the first female to cross the English Channel appealed to me. You know…bask in the fame. Perhaps that fame would earn us wealthy supporters to fund our research. All those ambitions seem silly now.” She bit her lower lip.
He nodded, unable to say anything more. Regrets tasted like a sour lozenge that refused to dissolve. He should have been wiser and never have attempted this havey-cavey scheme in the first place. “Can we let out the gas and still land on solid ground?”
She pulled the oilcloth tighter around them. “I don’t think so. Not on English soil anyway. We are too high. If we descend immediately, by the time enough gas escapes to land, we will be over the Channel. That is if the valve works and is not frozen shut. Our chances of survival are better if we keep our altitude as long as possible—at least until we are well over France. Right now our biggest threat is from the cold and the rarefied air. Aeronauts can lose consciousness in thin air. This has never happened to me, but we will be at a high altitude for a long time. My advice is to do your best not to fall asleep and huddle to conserve heat. We should keep up the conversation, as well, to keep each other awake.”
“How about a hymn for the butterfly?”
“Let’s try and be positive, start with normal conversation first. Later we will reevaluate our circumstances. Of course, if it gets too cold, we’ll dance our jig.”
After the butterfly’s death, he had felt like a rudderless ship, but her calm, optimistic words banished his doldrums. He squeezed her affectionately. “Thank you. I promise to stay awake. In order to do so, tell me about yourself, your father, your friends”—he hugged her again—“any suitors vying to claim your pretty hand?”
He expected her to blush, but her features remained ghostly white. She was probably too cold to blush.
“No, my responsibilities are to my father and our research, so I am not seeking suitors. Mostly, except for ascension days, I live a quiet life, reading scientific journals, a cat upon my lap.”
“Tell me about your father. How did he become an aeronaut?”
She looked up at the swaying, dark balloon. “He wasn’t, not at first, but after my brother died…” She placed her head on his shoulder. “Warmer just here.” She swallowed audibly. “His name was Thomas, like our father. When Tom died, my moth
er fell into a decline. Normal low spirits from her grief, we thought, but she faded a little every day. Six months after Tom’s death, she died.”
He tightened his arms around her.
“My father studied aerostation then. He once worked for Parliament and had previous dealings with the Royal Society, so he knew everyone there. After training with other aeronauts, he started his own research. Now he rarely mentions either my mother or brother. Sometimes though, I see him examining my face. I’ve been told I resemble my mother, so perhaps he is remembering her. I’d like to think so.”
“I’m the very likeness of my mother too. Whenever I meet one of her old acquaintances, their first words are about her. I think we are lucky in that regard.”
A minute or two passed in silence.
“Funny thing, ballooning,” he said. “Up here in this glorious firmament, I feel happy. For the first time I can remember, there is no one to please. My journey is in the hands of God, and even I cannot influence that.”
She nodded under his chin. “Up here I’m happy too. I work with the hope that women can be more than…more than our established roles in society—more than a daughter, governess, or our husband’s housekeeper—and that we too can contribute new knowledge to the world. I always lose that optimism once on the ground. Then my duties as a daughter return.” She became silent.
Her head rested heavily upon his chest, so he figured she was probably asleep, poor lamb. A quick glance revealed her eyes were open. He kissed the top of her head and expected her to pull away, but she remained. Now guilt and self-recrimination overwhelmed him. If she were to die by his actions, what would he say to her father? From this moment on, his goal must change. As a gentleman, he had to right the situation he had created. He needed to do everything within his power to restore her to her father. This objective became his first priority.
After all, he had a whole month to reach Paris, so he could easily see to her welfare first, then return to the race. Looking at wisps of her hair dancing in the slight breeze, he remembered her warning about losing consciousness. Her eyes were now shut, but her breaths continued to be strong. He just could not bring himself to shake her awake—too uncaring and violent—so he first tried to waken her by murmuring, “If you asked me before now, I’d say nighttime in a balloon would be quiet as a cathedral, but it’s not. The soft whistle of the air, the basket creaking as it sways, and the sounds traveling up from below…that racket I did not expect. Cowbells, dogs barking, the entire countryside is alive every minute, and all that noise travels to heaven. And look at that heaven. I never thought anything could be as remarkable as the sunset today, but this inky vault overwhelms me. Heaven is magnificent.”