Gordon Sinclair’s wife nodded automatically.
There was another knock on the door, and Emilie smiled falsely as she got up to answer it. Standing there was Elsie Mackay’s chauffeur, in full uniform, with Ray’s suitcase in his hand.
* * *
Elsie Mackay was not at Seamore Place. She was not at Sophie Ries’ apartment. She was not at Tony Joynson-Wreford’s estate. She had not booked passage on any ship that week, only the following. She was not at Glenapp; the Daily Express had sent a reporter from Glasgow to check. She was not with her sisters or her brother; they were looking for her, too. All relatives denied that they knew where she was. They had more questions than the reporters did.
In Egypt, sitting in a deep wicker chair in the thickest darkness of the quietest night, Lord Inchcape was still, not moving, not seeing, and barely blinking. He knew exactly where his daughter was. He had experienced this feeling once before when he tried to get her back so fiercely. If he had really known her, he would have understood that wasn’t the way to keep her with them. She had lied to him to be true to herself. He had lost her for so long, only to get her back and lose her again now, where he couldn’t reach her and couldn’t help her and couldn’t save her. He knew where Elsie was. She was nowhere that he could find her.
She was up there.
* * *
The next day, the Daily Express didn’t hesitate. They eagerly printed the photo of Elsie and Hinchliffe on the front page, five columns across. “INCHCAPE’S DAUGHTER FLIES ATLANTIC WITH HINCHLIFFE,” the headline screamed, bold and black and true.
* * *
The Endeavour was flying an average of eighty-five miles per hour, and although Hinchliffe had hoped for a faster pace, he was pleased. They were more than halfway across the Atlantic and had met west winds greater than he had expected, so to hang on to that steady speed was more than he could ask for. The weather, while not calm, had not been terrible as they flew through several rainstorms and an electric storm that presented a daring show of light, and that, though frightening, left them both awestruck. This proved to be a pattern: for several hours they would fly through sleet and wind, have a couple of hours of quiet flying, and then hit another storm. Taking turns at the controls, whoever flew through the storms would break during the quiet, either resting or taking a one-hour nap if possible.
But now the flying was even and good. Hinchliffe turned the controls over to Elsie and refueled the petrol tank. Unlike the American Girl, these cans were not jettisoned out the window when emptied. Remarkably light, if the plane went down, the cans became buoyant to help keep the plane afloat for a short period of time.
When he returned to his seat, a three-hour block was up, and he checked the equipment for drift. So far, they were on schedule and on course.
“So, Captain Hinchliffe,” Elsie started, “what are your plans once we land in the United States? You won’t go back to flying, will you?”
“Not after the health regulations are passed, no, I can’t,” he replied. “I’ve been thinking seriously about starting a commercial airline which will eventually branch out into transatlantic crossings. Of course, I can’t be a pilot, but I know enough of them, and Emilie can certainly help me run the business part of things.”
Elsie nodded. “How long after you met did you marry?” she asked.
Hinchliffe laughed. “Not very long,” he said. “But I knew right away when I met her that she was unlike anyone I’d ever known. She wasn’t frivolous; she was sensible, smart, and very kind. I could imagine my entire life with her at once. She’s genuine; there is nothing false or phony about her. I respected that about her immediately.”
“Yes, I could see that about her,” Elsie agreed.
“Before I was shot down, I had plenty of girlfriends who were funny, young, pretty,” he added. “The life of a fighter pilot. I was a young man and I did what young fellows did, getting in a little trouble with the MPs.”
“You?” Elsie laughed. “You’re so respectable. I can barely imagine that. What could you have possible done?”
“I stole a motorcycle and sidecar from the base,” he laughed. “Foolish, but I was young and had been drinking, and I was with some friends. It seemed harmless at the time, just a good prank, but it was almost enough to get me discharged. Dishonorably.”
“Oh.” Elsie grinned. “Please go on.”
“I resigned from the army and, just in time, joined the Royal Naval Air Service at Cranwell,” he said. “Not many people knew how to fly then, and I had some experience from Brooklands. They took me without question. And because of my performance during the war, my previous record was wiped clean.”
“How much different is flying,” Elsie asked, “when someone else in the air is trying to kill you?”
Hinchliffe was quiet for a moment.
“Quite different,” he finally replied. “But not because of the terror. Because of the separation. Many times I wasn’t aware that I was flying a plane; it felt more like I was watching myself fly a plane. Like I had split away from a part of myself, and a much stronger part took over. Does that sound insane?”
“No, actually, not at all,” she replied. “I caught fire on a movie set once, and it was something like that. I don’t remember feeling it, but I remember seeing it. As if I wasn’t the one in flames but just a spectator. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, yes, precisely,” he agreed. “Were you badly hurt?”
Elsie shook her head. “Frightened, mostly,” she said, “Dennis—my husband then—pushed me and put out the flames. I had passed a candle and was wearing a voile gown. It was only a matter of seconds, but without him it would have been disastrous.”
“Yes,” Hinchliffe said. “Burns are unimaginable suffering.”
Several moments of silence passed between them.
“Captain Hinchliffe,” Elsie ventured, “when you woke up after the accident, after you were shot down, were you aware of what happened? I mean, did you know? Were you angry when you realized it?”
Hinchliffe nodded slowly. “I think I was,” he said. “I’ve never really thought about it before. I was thankful to be alive and that someone was brave enough to pull me out of that plane. I supposed I had to sacrifice something in exchange for being alive. Considering the injuries I had, it’s amazing that I didn’t lose more than my eye and part of my nose. But as it turns out now, that part of being alive will be gone, too. No longer being allowed to fly, that will be a different life for me. I can’t quite imagine that.”
Elsie nodded. She understood all too well.
“I’m so sorry, Captain Hinchliffe,” she said. “I wish things could be different. You are an exceptional pilot. No one can compare to you. Even Mabel Boll in a drunken stupor knows that.”
“Ah, the glorious Miss Boll,” Hinchliffe said, then laughed.
“She sent a letter to my father, you know,” she said. “Unfortunately, she didn’t know his name and she put mine on it. She must want to fly the Atlantic badly to claim that I ‘stole’ you and to try to tip off my father about our flight.”
“She is determined,” he replied. “Everything she touches turns black-and-blue.”
“Poor Mabel,” Elsie said. “I met her on her honeymoon. She was alone. But not for long.”
“And you, Miss Mackay,” Hinchliffe said. “What are your plans after we reach New York and you become the most famous woman in the world?”
“I will find a ship boarding for Egypt,” she said. “And I shall take it.”
“Really?” Hinchliffe asked, taken aback. “I did not expect that.”
“Oh, I was always planning to go,” Elsie said. “I just wanted to do this first. My father is not a bad man, Captain Hinchliffe. He is a wonderful man, a good man, and he cares very much about his family. He’s still in the habit of keeping us in the nest. My mother had a house party once at Glenapp and my father spent that day on his boat, fishing in the bay. She told him that whatever he caught, there would be room in
the larder. He had a good day—caught six hundred mackerel—but on his way home, he stopped by every house in the village and shared his catch. By the time he got to Glenapp, he had twelve left. Only a good man would have done that. You see, of course, if my father didn’t love me, he wouldn’t have tried to stop me.”
“But you are here?” Hinchliffe asked.
“I love my father and mother too much to resent them for something I needed to decide for myself,” she said simply. “When we land in New York, I shall telegram them first.”
“Will they be angry?” he asked.
“No,” she answered. “They will be furious. But they will know I am back with them for good.”
“And then after that?” Hinchliffe followed up.
“My little cousin Bluebell will finish up her schooling in the spring. I expect that I shall take her on a grand adventure over the summer,” she said. “Perhaps we will tour the world in the Endeavour. I would love to teach her to fly.”
“No more marriage?” he asked hesitantly.
Elsie shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I married the man I loved. No one else can be what he was.”
Hinchliffe nodded silently. He felt that way about his own wife.
“Looks like we’ve got rain ahead,” Hinchliffe said to his copilot. “Are you ready for some rough riding?”
“I am indeed,” she answered.
* * *
Seven thousand people had gathered at Mitchel Field, and the Endeavour was not expected for another half a day. Spotlights that shone for two miles in the air were brought in and set up in case the fog crept in, and the fiery red flares were once again lined up to indicate the runway. It was going to be a historic moment for everyone there, and they all wanted to see the heiress.
Across Long Island, across the island of Manhattan, in a town house on Park Avenue, Mabel Boll and Charles Levine sat in her drawing room with the wireless on. Both were drinking scotch.
Neither one said a word.
* * *
Four hundred miles from the coast of Newfoundland, the Atlantic was raging. Hinchliffe guessed that the headwinds were forty-five miles per hour, maybe more. The speed of the Endeavour dropped in half as they pushed against the storm, huge gales jostling the plane as Hinchliffe struggled to keep it steady.
He was trying to fly above the storm, but the wind, which was the strongest he had ever encountered, forced them down. He would climb a couple hundred feet, then another blast would arrive and slap them, and they would lose whatever altitude they’d attained. The clouds were thick, like looming towers of grey wool skeins, and the vision through the windshield was obscured by the blur of the constant battering of rain.
It was akin to flying blind. Hinchliffe referred to his instruments, fighting gravely to keep the plane up and level. The elements of the storm were playing them in tandem: when the wind eased, the downpour was startling; when that ceased, the wind whipped ferociously around the plane. There were times when he didn’t know if he was flying upside down or right side up, encased in a storm that was trying to crush them.
He knew that the American Girl had fought through terrible storms for prolonged periods of time, over and over again, but the plane came down because of an oil pressure leak, not because of sustained storm damage. He had installed those oil lines on the Endeavour himself, and what he couldn’t weld, he oversaw, checked, and rechecked. He knew those couldn’t be shaken loose. All the connections were tight.
It was a small area of comfort when there seemed to be no end to the pummeling. The jarring, shaking, and agitation had been going on for so long, it began to seem normal, and Hinchliffe continued to focus on his position and hold the Endeavour up. Elsie refilled the fuel tanks several times. Together they fought through the storm, saying almost nothing to each other except to relay readings and pressure. Their drift was still good: they had remained on their set course. The alternate courses he had made with the Air Ministry were almost worthless; he very well could divert from one storm to find something bigger and more powerful that was off the path. He decided to stay with his plan and fight what was ahead; it certainly couldn’t be any worse than what was behind them. These storms were sudden and full of energy; he couldn’t imagine being a ship on those seas.
While the wind calmed down and he picked up speed, the rain was unyielding, and somehow, without as much wind, the temperature was dropping. He pushed on, hurriedly trying to get out of the rain while the coldness crept in. Elsie turned the cabin heater up, and the golden glow from inside the cockpit gave it a false sense of warmth and comfort. Hinchliffe could see his breath and asked Elsie to hand him his gloves.
The rain increased, falling in torrents. Ice crystals that an hour ago had been small and delicate now formed an area two inches around the perimeter of the windshield. Elsie had noticed it, too. She reached for the cabin heater again.
Hinchliffe pushed the plane to its fullest, getting to seventy-five miles per hour, but he needed more. He wanted to be clear of the rain, now so cold that it was falling as sleet.
In fifteen more minutes, the ice border on the windshield expanded by half an inch; by the next hour, four inches of a crystal rim had formed. It was getting harder to keep the speed up, and they were dipping below a speed of seventy; it was impossible to get it much higher.
Elsie checked the readings again: they were one hundred miles away from turning south. Over most of the Atlantic, with only a short way left to push through, Hinchliffe had no idea what the coast held—if there was more rain, snow, or freezing temperatures.
Slowly, slowly, the sleet began to ease, falling back into rain, and then, gently, stopping altogether. Elsie breathed a sigh of relief, but Hinchliffe knew better. They were now flying at sixty miles per hour and they were losing altitude.
If he could just make it for two hours at this speed, they would reach the coast; if he could just keep the plane level, he could do it. But as the temperature continued to drop, he was losing altitude—slightly, but he was losing it.
“We’ve got ice,” he told Elsie, and she nodded.
“I know,” she said. “I can see it on the wings.”
“Our drift?” he asked.
“The same,” she said, reading the compass. “We’re good.”
Then the rain began to fall again, fog surrounded them like a blanket, and the viewing portion of the windshield became even smaller in a short amount of time.
Elsie watched the altitude fall with the temperature. The wing was completely sheathed in ice, thick, impenetrable. It was so thick, you could skate on it. And it was heavy.
She watched through the next hour as they dropped hundreds of feet, each foot forcing them closer to the water. There were times when Lindbergh flew twenty feet above the waves, she remembered reading in the papers, just to keep himself awake. Flying that low was fine, and they weren’t even close to twenty feet yet.
With each amount they lost, Hinchliffe never stirred, never winced. He stared emphatically ahead of him, watching the ice accumulate, reading his instruments, feeling them drop lower and lower. They were falling more quickly now, closer to the moving blackness of the waves.
“What can we throw over?” Elsie asked, wanting to lighten the weight, but already knowing the answer.
They, Elsie and Hinchliffe, were the only things of substantial weight on the Endeavour. There wasn’t that much fuel left, and what was there they would need to keep flying to the coast if they managed to keep the plane in the air.
The Endeavour was slipping rapidly, and Hinchliffe was struggling. It showed on his face as the muscles became tense and he fought to keep it up, almost as if he could do it by sheer strength of will.
“What can I do?” Elsie cried. “Please tell me.”
But Hinchliffe just shook his head out of hopelessness.
“I can’t keep it out of the water,” he said through the strain. “I can’t keep it out of the water.”
Elsie looked belo
w and saw how quickly they were plummeting. Hinchliffe still kept the plane level; it was clear to Elsie that he planned to land on, not crash into, the water below. He was pulling his speed back considerably.
“Captain Hinchliffe—” Elsie started, but then realized she had nothing to say.
“Brace!” Hinchliffe demanded, but she didn’t know where to put her hands. She grabbed the wheel just because it was in front of her.
In a matter of moments, the Endeavour hit the water, skipped up, then slammed back down again with a force that was blunt and brutal and emitted a terrible roar. The wheel carriage was ripped off the underside of the plane and shot downward into the sea, not slowing the impact at all. The fuselage was still cutting through the water, the nose sending two angular waves back over them. Elsie was pressed against the steering column; her head smacked against the rim of the wheel as the plane kept moving, becoming slower and slower until it was finally just rocked by the waves coming forward to hit it.
Quiet. That was all she heard: nothing but quiet. Not the whir of the engine, not the wind, just silence.
“Captain Hinchliffe,” Elsie muttered as she looked over and saw that he, too, was resting against the steering column, his face turned away from her.
“Captain Hinchliffe!” she cried louder as she pulled herself up. Her goggles, smashed and fractured, tumbled off of her face and hung around her neck.
She reached for Hinchliffe and shook his shoulder and called him again. She could not see if he was conscious. Badly shaken, she unbuckled her safety belt and leaned over to him, grabbing both shoulders.
“Captain Hinchliffe!” she yelled as she shook him.
He lifted up his head slightly, and she pulled him back from the steering column. There was a cut above his right eye, and a small trickle of blood smudged his forehead.
His eyelids fluttered, and he suddenly took a deep, reflexive breath.