Page 8 of Air Affair

Turning to look him in the eye, Princess Belmont said, “Take me up? I want to feel the wind on my face.”

What?

“I don’t think your father would approve, Miss Belmont.”

“Papa!” she called out. He was still standing with Major Fleet beside the hangar.

“Yes, dear?”

“I’d like to go for a short flight. May I? This nice young man has offered to fly me.”

“I did not,” Hank whispered furiously at her.

“I’m afraid not, my dear. We must be going. Another time,” her father said.

Hank watched her jaw and fists clench, but she said nothing. “Another time,” she said as she stroked the fuselage one last time. Turning to him, she said, “Until next time, Hank,” and sauntered off.

As he watched their car drive off, he took a deep, shuddering breath. He could only pray there wouldn’t be a next time. The woman was a danger to his health. Thank heavens she was completely out of his reach.

3

On the ride back to the city, Papa ignored Rory as usual, making notes in his ever-present little black notebook. After all these years, it shouldn’t have needled her, but it did. His accounts had always taken precedence over her. But ever since her scandal, he seemed determined to pretend she was part of the scenery.

She stared out the window in stony silence, trying not to let the distance between them get under her skin. To distract herself, she let her mind wander to airplanes, the magic of flight, and…a certain pilot. She couldn’t shake the memory of his muscular arms surrounding her—that deep voice, that smoky scent, those penetrating eyes. What would it be like if she was someone else, someone who was free to see where their flirtatious encounter led?

Alas, she would never find out. Her fate was sealed. Her wedding had been announced, and her father had already signed the marriage contract on her behalf. From a legal standpoint, she as good as belonged to Edward already. Her gilded cage awaited. A bleak, loveless life stretched out before her, and she shivered despite the heat.

It was a relief to arrive home to find Aunt Alva waiting for her. If she couldn’t have love, at least she could find purpose.

Rory looked at her stout and imposing aunt decked out in blue serge despite the heat, her face as hard and determined as any army veteran. If Rory was something of a hoyden, Aunt Alva was Her Majesty Queen of Hoydendom. A notorious bluestocking from her early days, her aunt had been attending rallies, chaining herself to things, and getting arrested for several decades. Every time she saw Aunt Alva, she had to resist the ridiculous temptation to salute.

“Rory, my dear,” Aunt Alva said with the cadence of a general, “are you prepared for battle this afternoon? We march on city hall, August,” she said, turning to Rory’s father. “We’ll show that Mayor Hylan the power that women hold in this town. And then we’re headed down to Wall Street. Those stock-market hooligans are overdue for a lesson in women’s equality.”

“For the love of God, be careful, Alva. You know I don’t want Rory to end up in jail. It would reflect poorly on the senator,” her father said. “None of us want a scandal so close to the wedding.”

Aunt Alva waved her hand, brushing his concerns away. “He should consider it a privilege to be marrying a young lady so dedicated to the cause. But don’t you worry, August. You know I always look out for her.” Peering over his shoulder toward Rory, she called out, “Don’t forget water. We can’t have you passing out. And bring an apple too in case you’re hungry. And a handkerchief. And don’t forget a parasol—dual purpose. It protects you from the sun and you can whack people with it.”

Rory rushed around collecting supplies and provisions for the afternoon. In no time, she was packed and ready to go.

She waved goodbye to her father, who didn’t even look up, and headed out, taking a deep breath and grinning at the afternoon sun. “Thank heavens for you,” she said as she stepped into the back of her aunt’s chauffeured car. “Papa was such a trial this morning. I went all that way out to Belmont Park with him, and he wouldn’t let me fly.”

Aunt Alva tutted. “Your father is enlightened about many things, but he doesn’t believe women can face the same dangers as men. And your stepmother is no help. She wholeheartedly agrees. Someday I’ll succeed in convincing them both the only way to make you safe is to let you take risks and harden yourself through adversity.”

Rory yearned for the chance to do exactly that. Her life was altogether too coddled, and she longed to test herself against real and meaningful challenges.

“If only your mother had lived,” Aunt Alva continued, “she would have set him straight. She was a formidable woman, your mother. It’s a shame you never got to know her. I may have only married into the Belmont family, but I knew your mother for many years. She was always a fiercely loyal friend. When things fell apart with my swine of a first husband, she stood by me even as many of my other society friends suddenly stopped calling. Did you know she was my matron of honor when I married Oliver?”

Rory did know. She’d heard the story many times. Stories were all she had of her mother. Aunt Alva always made her sound so heroic…and so different in every way from Rory’s stepmother Eleanor.

“I wish I’d known her,” Rory said because she knew her aunt expected her to say something, though she never really knew what to say when Aunt Alva talked like this.

“She was so happy when I joined the family, and we got to be sisters. It broke my heart to lose her just two years later. I was almost as devastated as when my Oliver died. I cried for months! You become more like her with every passing day, did you know that?”

Rory swallowed hard, heat rising in her throat. What would it have been like to grow up with two loving parents instead of one who seemed to resent her very existence?

“She would have been so proud of you, my dear.”

Shifting in her seat, Rory looked out the window and clenched her fists, nails digging into the palms of her hands. It would have been so lovely to believe her aunt’s kind words, but she knew exactly where she stood with her only surviving parent. Would Mother have been any more understanding of my dramatic fall from grace had she lived?