“Right before. And then when April Showers placed dead last in her class, Mr. Ford came charging over and accused me…us…of doing a poor job.”
Her mother said, “We believe Mr. Ford’s made a grave error and was intentionally led to believe our stable was inferior. We don’t know what all transpired, but it appears that Lamberson and Ogilvie have colluded to lure Mr. Ford away.”
Her dad nodded. “By rigging April Showers’ performance most likely.”
“Drugging?”
A big sigh from her daddy. “That would be my guess.”
“But Toby was with the horses all day, and I’m sure they couldn’t have convinced him to go along with their scheme.”
“Your daddy talked to Toby again. He said Ogilvie offered to spell him for a few minutes while he went for a hot dog. He said it was ten minutes at most.”
Mittie nodded. “Plenty of time to inject the horse or slip the horse a treat with something in it.”
“I’ve called the vet to review the report he gave us.”
“The vet that Ogilvie called.” Mittie’s appetite vanished, replaced by a sick feeling. “The question remains: Why?”
“The same reason Lamberson does everything. He won’t rest until he’s brought your father to his knees.”
“For which you have me to thank.”
Her daddy shook his head. “No, sugar. It was never your fault. Nor Dobbs’ really. He was a harebrained teenager who thought he was invincible. Like someone else I know.”
Mittie shrank from his gaze. Whether he placed the blame on her or not, Dobbs’ accident still weighed heavily on her.
But it didn’t alter the matter at hand. “As long as we let him badger us, he’ll just keep right on.”
“I know it’s not a popular concept, but I do believe that turning the other cheek is the right thing to do in this case.”
A knot twisted in Mittie’s gut. “For once, I disagree completely.”
“Which is your choice, sugar.”
Her mother patted her arm. “We didn’t want to tell you at all in your condition.”
“My condition is fine, Mother. Or at least it will be. I’m going to lie down for a while.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Your mother and I thought that we might go for a drive later. We’d like you to come if you’re feeling up to it.”
“I’ll see.”
A drive with her parents. On the day she was missing the Spirit of St. Louis and the chance to see Colonel Lindbergh in the flesh. If this was going to be the new norm for her, Mittie knew she would go mad. But staying in the house would be worse.
Two hours later, she’d borrowed one of her daddy’s shirts that was roomy enough to fit over her arm anchored to her chest and pulled on a skirt. A breeze came through the open windows of the Bentley, and as she gulped in buckets of the fresh air, her head cleared.
Instead of rumbling over the country roads, though, her daddy declared the highway would give a smoother ride. They went through Rigby, then turned west toward Louisville. Mittie rested her head against the back of the seat and when her daddy turned onto Taylorsville Road, she knew what the intrigue was. A wave of gratitude flooded her chest.
“Daddy, you sly fox,” she said as they took the turnoff to the airfield where Lindy was due within the hour.
A security officer stopped them, and when her daddy told them his name, the man directed them to park near the runway.
“How did you get such plum treatment?” Mittie asked.
Her mother turned and smiled. “Your daddy called Mr. Weaver. Seems he thinks you’re pretty special.”
“I don’t know how to thank you. Both of you.”
Her dad turned off the motor and said, “Thank your mother. It was all her idea.”
The crowd cheered when it was announced that Lucky Lindy was due in any minute. Mittie, pitifully unfashionable in her daddy’s shirt and a skirt that had seen better days, let her dad help her from the car.
When the Spirit of St. Louis was a mere speck, no larger than the bird that had upended Mittie from the Oriole’s wing, people went mad with shouts, their arms extended upward, pointing to the most famous man in the universe.
A cloud of dust roiled up as the wheels touched down, but the landing was as smooth as fresh cream. Mittie couldn’t take her eyes from the door where Lindbergh would emerge. A set of steps was rolled to the silver beauty of a plane, and almost at once, Lindy stepped out and waved to his eager admirers. At the foot of the steps, the welcoming committee greeted him. Victor Booth and his wife waited in the Silver Ghost at the end of the path that Lindbergh, bareheaded and taller than Mittie expected, now walked.
A few dozen feet from the plane, Lindbergh stopped and bent his head toward Weaver, who was no doubt informing him of the day’s plan. Lindy nodded and stroked his chin with one hand. Then rather than continue on the expected path, he veered off and came straight toward Mittie, Weaver at his side. Her heart bounced from her chest to her throat, its beating that of horses’ hooves at full gallop.
Weaver spoke first. “Colonel Lindbergh, Mittie Humphreys, one of your greatest fans.”
Lindy offered his hand. “My pleasure. I’m told you had a small accident with an airplane.”
“Wing walking, actually. I apologize for my appearance; I didn’t think I would make it out today, but then my parents surprised me, and well, here we are.” What a babbling idiot.
“I’m glad you came out. Do you fly as well?”
“I’m a novice, but yes, I hope to be in the cockpit again soon. Thank you for making Louisville part of your tour and especially for greeting me.”
“My pleasure.” He nodded at Mittie’s parents and turned to go.
“Colonel Lindbergh, may I ask you a question?”
He swiveled back around and raised his eyebrows.
Mittie blurted out, “To what do you owe your success?”
“Dedication, of course, but more than that, being willing to take a risk. Without risking our very souls, we miss out on the greatest joys of life.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll remember that.”
“You might also consider changing from wing walking to parachuting. The landings are much softer.”
Mittie stood, feet planted to the ground, as he walked back to the laid-out path and stepped into Victor’s Silver Ghost. She watched him perch atop the back seat and wave to the crowd as the Rolls crawled past the onlookers. Then the man who risked everything by strapping himself into the seat of an airplane and flying the Atlantic disappeared over the horizon.
Chapter 12
Autumn 1927
The Kentucky State Fair featured six glorious days of variety shows with trick bears and jugglers, canning demonstrations, acres of quilts and garden produce, carnival rides, and the sweet smell of cotton candy that promised a taste of heaven at only a quarter a box. And it was home to the World’s Championship Horse Show, the premier American saddlebred event in the country.
Mittie stroked Gypsy’s neck, her coat groomed to perfection, her full mane and tail vibrant. “I’m counting on you, Gypsy. You’ve got it in you; I know you do. Today, you’ll strut like the beauty you are.” She didn’t want to let on how much a win today would mean, but she thought Gypsy could sense it. Toby, too. She’d been unable to sleep after their win in the three-year-old class the day before and unable to tear herself away from Gypsy today. But it all boiled down to the next hour. If Gypsy won—and there was a good chance of that since she’d done well in several local shows—the prize money would enable her to pay her daddy back for Dobbs’ latest operation and contribute to the family coffers.
Mittie had wrestled for a month with her embarrassment over the wing-walking accident and the straits it put her parents in. If anything good had come of it, it was that she had time to focus on what she really wanted. In her gut, she knew she couldn’t give up flying over one stupid incident any more than Gypsy could forget she was a saddlebred meant for the show ring. And C
olonel Lindbergh’s words were never more than a heartbeat away. Risk. She’d done that with wing walking, which ended poorly. And she’d come to the conclusion that risk was twofold: that of a fool and that which was calculated.
It was a blessing of sorts that Ogilvie had gone. It gave Mittie the chance to smooth things out with her dad by taking over the foreman office and the duties she could do with one arm. As she’d long suspected, Ogilvie had been a careless manager. In four weeks, she’d let two grooms go who were loafing and stirring up trouble in the barns, and she’d found discrepancies in the feed orders—money paid out without inventory to match. She and her dad surmised Ogilvie had pocketed more than his salary. The one thing she hadn’t been able to find out was how April Showers had been tampered with. The veterinary service stood by its claim, and since Ogilvie had engaged them, there was really nothing else to do outside of calling them liars. It niggled, but she was too busy to dwell on it.
Ames surprised her one weekend when he’d shown up in a secondhand runabout he bought with the proceeds from Nebraska. They’d taken a long drive across the river and eaten in a little café in Indiana where she’d told him about Lindbergh’s visit and her decision to give up wing walking.
“A little gun-shy, are you?”
She pointed to her still-immobile arm. “Skittish, but not about flying. If anything, I’m more determined than ever to pursue my pilot’s license and start entering some of the challenge races the newspapers report.”
He scratched his head. “The only problem I see is that you’re stuck running your daddy’s farm—”
“Temporary, my dear Watson. Daddy’s put ads in the journals and spread the word that we’re looking for an overseer. Hopefully by the time my collarbone is mended and I’m out of this straightjacket, we’ll have found one. How about you? Any more barnstorming shows lined up?”
“A couple. It’s not the same without you, though, doll.”
“It’s nice to know I’m missed.” She tucked her chin toward her shoulder and puckered her lips. She smacked the air and whispered, “And I’ve missed you terribly, too.”
Gypsy nickered, pulling Mittie out of her daydream about Ames. Mittie scratched under her chin and Gypsy responded by running her muzzle along Mittie’s cheek. When the announcement was made for the horses to take their places for the warm-up, Toby took the reins from Mittie and led Gypsy to the mounting area. Mittie’s palms sweated.
“Go get ’em, Toby!” No last-minute instructions or change of tactics. Gypsy knew what to do.
With a knot in her throat, Mittie went to the section her daddy had reserved for the family. They were all there—Grandmother, Aunt Evangeline with Granville and Caroline, Nell and Quentin, her parents.
“Everything all right with Gypsy?” her dad whispered when she slid into the seat next to him.
“She’s in fine spirits. Ready to go.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” His chin jutted up and he waved someone over. Bobby York. “I hope you don’t mind that I offered him our spare seat.”
“No, I’m glad you did.” She greeted him, and after a round of introductions, Bobby sat beside her mother. Behind him, Caroline chattered and leaned over to ask if he’d like some of her cotton candy. Mittie didn’t hear what he said as organ music ushered in the beginning of the show and the welcome by the announcer.
Mittie kept her eyes riveted on the first horse and its rider, a contender they’d seen at the Lexington show in the spring. Her daddy leaned over, elbow on knee with his hand cupping his chin, mentally calculating each point the judges would be looking at. Mittie relaxed into her seat. A beautiful stallion, but no match for Gypsy. The same for the next two entrants, but the fourth sent a chill down her spine. April Showers.
She nudged her dad. “Did you know about this?”
“Just found out when they posted the finalists. I didn’t want to upset you while you were with Gypsy.”
He was right—she would’ve had kittens if she’d known. The qualifying list wasn’t posted until scores of the morning and early afternoon classes were tallied. Mittie had known April Showers was showing, but since she’d not left Gypsy all day, she hadn’t heard the results. She wondered if Toby knew.
And April Showers was not performing like a horse who’d been dead last in West Virginia. Instead, the mare circled the arena in complete command. And the crowd loved her. Mittie’s stomach twisted, her limbs growing numb as she waited for Gypsy to enter. She locked her fingers together in her lap and sat up straighter, determined not to let the queasiness in her belly show.
“Gypsy. Morning Glory Farms.”
Toby sat tall and elegant astride Gypsy, the tails of his riding tuxedo resting on Gypsy’s point of hip as he rode on the walk around the rail. His long gloved fingers held the reins taut but relaxed enough to let Gypsy do the work.
When all the horses were in the ring, the judges put them through the three natural gaits as a group—walk, trot, canter. Mittie knew that any moment, the judges would call for the slow gait and rack—the trained gaits Gypsy had taken to like it was child’s play. When the time came, Gypsy’s muscles rippled, her head and tail erect, her heels lifting high. She made it seem effortless, the spirited nature she’d had from birth.
The horses were directed to change directions and repeat the gaits. Each time Gypsy passed a section, the crowd responded with enthusiasm. But clearly, April Showers was a favorite as well. The judges milled about the center of the ring, looking first at one entrant, then another and then called for the conformation check. Each rider removed the flat English saddle and held the reins while the judges ran their hands from the withers down the shoulders in front, moving along the sides and then to the back where the hindquarters were examined for form and proportion.
With a slight break in the action, Mittie chanced a look at her dad. His expression remained calm, stoic. Poker-faced. She wished she could hide her emotions as well. He looked at her momentarily and winked, then turned his eyes back to the ring. Her mother’s hand rested on his leg, her fingers gripping his trousers. Mittie ached from the bones out, wishing she could jump from her seat and pace the aisles. But composure was expected.
She crossed her legs at the knee, then uncrossed them when her mother shot a frown her way. The wait was excruciating as minutes dragged like hours until at last the judges came together in a huddle. Decision time. Excitement vibrated like current down a wire. One by one the horses who weren’t in the top three were pulled to the center of the ring until at last only Gypsy, April Showers, and a bay gelding remained.
Great silver bowls rested on the table in the center of the ring. When the judges went to collect them, the audience knew a winner had been chosen.
“First place and the 1927 Five-Gait World’s Championship prize goes to April Showers of Lamberson Stables.” Mittie didn’t hear the rest. The smell of sawdust and horse sweat and defeat swirled in her head. And the next thing she knew, her daddy had his hand on her elbow, guiding her to the award box to receive the trophy for second place. She lifted her chin, a smile fixed to her face as she and her dad received the bowl together and thanked the judges. A stone smile graced her mother’s lips as well. As Mittie waved to the spectators, a smirking figure in the front row locked eyes with her. Buck Lamberson. And beside him was Ogilvie with the sneer on his lips she knew too well. Her smile never wavered.
“More punch?” Bobby held up his empty glass. Bless him, he’d joined them for the reception that followed the show. She hadn’t wanted to go and almost stayed at her Aunt Evangeline’s house where they’d changed into evening wear. But her mother’s insistence that she had been raised better than that won out.
She’d put on the flirty red dress meant for Lindbergh’s dinner and the rhinestone headpiece that rested on her forehead. For all the rotten luck the dress had brought, she had half a mind to burn it. Thank goodness she had Bobby to keep her company for the dreadful evening.
“No more punch for me, thanks
. I need to find Mr. Ford and offer my congratulations on April Showers’ win.”
“Bugger of a deal, but I know it’s expected. Off you go, then, and I’d be honored if you’d spare me a dance before the night is over.”
“I will. No, wait—I adore the song the band’s playing now. I accept your offer.” She was grateful for the excuse from having to face Mr. Ford.
He offered his arm and led her to the dance floor.
A few spins and Mittie lifted her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had such smooth rhythm.”
“Comes from all those boarding school dances at Harrow when we had to button up and put on bow ties for the girls’ school soirees.”
“Don’t you miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“England? Your life back there?”
“Now and again I’d like to pop in the pub and have a pint, but…” He hesitated like there was more he wanted to say, but the music ended and he thanked her for the dance. “I believe there was someone you needed to find.” He smiled and drifted toward the circle where her dad stood talking with his colleagues. Rehashing the evening, no doubt. Mr. Ford wasn’t among them.
She was sorry she hadn’t been asked for another dance. She felt as rudderless as Bobby seemed at times. He was always obliging and proper, but other than talking about flying, they couldn’t hit quite the right chord to get a conversation off the ground. Mittie ran her tongue across her bottom lip and with leaden feet went to find Mr. Ford.
She found her grandmother instead sitting at a table with a man with wavy silver hair and strong hands clasped before him. He had an oddly familiar look—a new distraction for her grandmother? Honestly, she was getting as bad as her mother, but there was no doubt: her grandmother was a handsome woman with a youthful sparkle about her.
“Mittie, you know Rex Kline, I believe.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met, although you look familiar.”
He rose and pulled out the chair next to her grandmother for her. “Someone pointed you out at the show in West Virginia. I’ve been friends with your father and Cordelia for some time.”
A Flying Affair Page 11