Escapade
By Susan Carroll
Copyright 2012 Susan Carroll
Smashwords Edition
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CHAPTER ONE
It was a splendid day for a wedding—splendid, that is, if one took no heed of the dark clouds gathering on the horizon and the ominous rumble of thunder sounding low in the gentle rise of green hills forming the Hudson River Valley. But for most, the warning was lost in other noises emanating from Westvale's fairgrounds—the shrill clamor of the calliope, the circus barker's cries, the laughter and squeals of children, the strange hiss of the hot air balloon being filled with gas.
For hours the yards of silk fabric had lain spread out on the grass. Earlier, it had been a pool of blue, but now the silk billowed, taking on shape, a giant monolith straining against the ropes holding it earthbound. The crowd, which had gathered before noon, eager for the spectacle, could now identify the form of the painting on the balloon's gores. It was a demure young woman holding the flags of both the United States and Ireland in her outstretched hands.
The crowd's excitement mounted and the people pressed closer. Several daring boys ran forward to touch the wicker basket being attached to the netting of ropes that surrounded the hissing monster. Mr. Dutton, the circus owner, grabbed up a bullhorn to warn the people to keep back.
"La-a-adies and gentlemen, your patience please! Very soon you will be witnessing the romantic event of the decade, the airborne wedding of Miss Glory Fatima, our equestrienne star, to the Fantastic Erno, the world's greatest lion tamer."
Mr. Dutton's voice boomed out over the fairgrounds, reaching the distant canvas of a small tent where Aurora Kavanaugh was changing her clothes. Rory’s silvery-blue eyes gleamed with amusement at the circus man's exaggerated patter. She discarded her white shirtwaist, the last of her sensible garb, and folded it neatly beside a straight navy skirt and jacket.
Standing only in her drawers and camisole, she stared at the frothy confection of peach silk she was about to don. Rory's amusement faded. Her features were delicate for such a determined young woman; only the firm line of her chin revealed her strength. The pert tilt of her nose and a dusting of freckles gave a pixieish appearance to a face that had no art of concealment. At the moment disgust could have been read plainly as Rory snatched up the silk gown.
Although she grimaced, she eased the folds over her head, careful not to disturb her coiffure. It had taken too much time and too many curses to arrange her thick chestnut hair in the elegant pompadour to have it all come tumbling down now. Enveloped in a cloud of silk, Rory once more caught Dutton's blaring voice.
"Soon, very soon, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Fatima and the Fantastic Erno will exchange their vows suspended one mile above your heads."
"Five hundred feet," Rory muttered, struggling into the gown's sleeves. "I said I wasn't taking them up any higher than five hundred feet."
"All under the auspices of that daring young lady, Miss Aurora Rose Cavenish."
"Kavanaugh," Rory corrected through clenched teeth as she fought with the flounce and nearly lost.
" . . . the daughter of the late, great balloonist, Mr. Seamus Cavenish."
"Aeronaut," Rory said. "My father was an aeronaut." Although she spoke only to the small mirror on the dressing table, her voice was filled with a quiet pride and the familiar ache of loss.
It had been over a year since her father's death, but her grief still struck her at odd moments. To avoid the sting of tears, Rory concentrated on her loathing for the gown instead.
She couldn't imagine what had induced her to rig herself out in such a damn fool fashion. She rarely agreed with Dutton's idiot notions.
"Please, Miss Aurora," the circus owner had pleaded, "I know you are only going up to operate the balloon, but it would add so much more to the spirit of the thing if you were attired like a bridesmaid."
Rory would have told him to go to the deuce, but her friend Gia had stopped her. Gia had been entranced with the idea of making Rory a new gown. Rory had no delusions about her friend's motives. What Gia, with her own happy marriage and two toddling babies, really desired was to outfit Rory with a wedding gown. But since there was no prospect of that, Gia had settled for second best: the bridesmaid costume. Using her considerable needlework talent, Gia had copied this- this thing from a fashion plate in Harper's Bazaar.
Now that she had the gown on, Rory could see that Gia had wrought a miracle. It was too bad it would be wasted upon her. She didn't have the curves or the graceful carriage to do justice to such a dress.
The puffed sleeves were going to be a great nuisance, Rory thought. She felt as if she were wearing a pair of miniature balloons, one rising off each shoulder, and no matter how hard she struggled, she would never be able to fasten the dress hooks herself. The waist was narrow even for her boyishly slim figure. She should be wearing a corset, but Rory drew the line at lacing herself into one of those female torture devices.
While she pondered what to do about the hooks, the tent flap was edged aside. A tall young man dressed in blue denim stood silhouetted in the opening. Rory whipped around, flustered, until she saw that it was only Anthony Bertelli. Since her father's death, Tony had become the foreman of the Transcontinental Balloon Company. Her company now.
"Rory?" Tony called uncertainly.
"It's all right. I'm decent," she said.
Tony ducked through the opening, the tent flap brushing the top of his tightly-curling jet black hair. His handsome features were clouded with a worried frown.
"Rory, the wind's getting pretty stiff. I don't think you're going to be able to go through with this thing."
Tony always thought the wind was too stiff. If he had his way, the balloon would only go up in conditions of dead calm. Accustomed to his gloomy cautions, Rory ignored the warning.
"Come on over here." She beckoned to him with a jerk of her head. "I need your help. I can't get this damn thing fastened."
As Tony started forward, she turned her back to him. She sensed him pause within a few inches of her and wondered why he hesitated.
"Come on. Hurry up," she said impatiently.
After another long moment, she felt him fumble with the fastenings at her waist. Rory sucked in her breath. She did not feel in the least self-conscious making such a request of Tony. She had known him from the cradle. He was Gia's big brother, and as such, Rory had adopted him as her own.
Tony secured the gown's waistline. Rory didn't notice anything was wrong until his hands moved farther up her back. By the time he reached the fastenings at her neckline, she could hear his breath quicken.
Rory stiffened. As soon as he was done, she stepped quickly away from him. When she turned back to face him, he had that funny look in his eyes again, that look that she had surprised there too often of late, the look that Rory wanted to pretend didn't exist.
Suddenly Rory felt awkward. "I must look a regular mark," she said, trying to cover her embarrassment.
"No," Tony croaked, "You look swell. A real daisy."
Rory picked up a pair of gloves and pretended to examine them for loose threads, anything to avoid Tony's eyes. She didn't want to look like a real daisy, at least not to her childhood friend.
"You're pretty enough to be the bride yourself." Tony's voice took on a teasing note. "Maybe you should make
it a double wedding."
"Go on!" Rory gave a toss of her head. "Where would I find the groom?"
"I might do it. Your ma would have approved of me—a good Catholic boy."
"But my father wouldn't have. You're not even one quarter Irish."
Beneath all the joking, Rory detected a vein of seriousness in Tony that made her uncomfortable. Tugging on the gloves, she assumed a brisk manner.
"Is the balloon ready?" she asked.
"Almost." Thankfully Tony took the hint and dropped the subject of weddings. He didn't say any of those words Rory feared he would insist on saying, words that would ruin their easy camaraderie forever.
Tony returned to the original source of his grievance. "It's a shame your dress is going to be wasted, Rory, but I really think you're going to have to scrub this one. There's a storm coming."
Rory peeked out the tent flap to see for herself. The sky was looking a little overcast and there was rain in the air. She could smell it. The flags adorning the other circus tents snapped in the breeze. Over the heads of the distant crowd, Rory could see the Katie Moira tugging at her moorings. No matter how many times Rory had seen one of the great balloons readied to take flight, it always moved her. She felt almost dizzy with excitement, the longing to soar free.
Rory stepped back from the flap. "The storm will hold off," she said. "I'll be back safe before you know I'm gone."
"That's what you always say. That's exactly what your old man said when—" Tony broke off and flushed.
He didn't have to remind Rory what her father had said on that last morning. Every word of it was engraved on her heart forever.
"The eternal optimism of the Kavanaughs," Rory said with forced lightness, ignoring the lump that rose in her throat.
"Eternal foolhardiness."
"That too," Rory agreed with a smile. "But, if I don't go through with this, we break our contract with Mr. Dutton and we don't get paid."
"Yeah, well, there'll be other jobs, other ways to get money."
But his voice carried little conviction. He knew as well as she how badly the Transcontinental Balloon Company was running in the red. Whatever financial backers there had been had vanished after Seamus's death. Not even the most daring speculator was willing to risk capital on a company with a twenty-one-year-old girl at its head.
Rory still had some hope of a contract with the government. The U.S. Army was thinking of reviving its balloon corps. One of their agents was supposed to arrive in New York this week for a demonstration. But it would do little good if the agent arrived to find Rory's balloon company evicted from its warehouse due to nonpayment of the rent.
"Dutton's paying us too much money for this stunt for us to back down now," Rory said. "Besides, Tony, you surely don't want to disappoint a bride on her wedding day."
Before he could object, Rory seized Tony by the arm and steered him toward the tent opening.
"I still don't like it," he grumbled.
"What an old hen you can be sometimes, Anthony Bertelli. Will you quit your worrying? It's not even as though this is going to be a free flight, is it? The balloon's going to be attached to a winch the whole time, for pity's sake. You'll have complete control. If you think the weather's getting too bad, all you will have to do is order Pete and Angelo to wind in the rope and haul me back down."
"Haul you down before you are ready to come? I can imagine what you would have to say to me."
"So it will be the first time all these good folks ever heard a bridesmaid swear. Now be off with you and make sure that blasted Angelo doesn't pump in too much gas again."
The last time she'd gone up, Tony's enthusiastic younger brother had generated too much hydrogen, not allowing for the expansion of the air as the balloon rose. One of the seams had ripped open, making for a very short flight and, for Rory, almost a very short life.
The reminder sent Tony hastening back across the fairgrounds. As he went, Rory heard him mutter that he should wash his hands of all this craziness and go get a real job down at the docks like his mother wanted. Since it was a familiar strain with him, Rory paid no attention to it.
She retreated back into the tent long enough to put the finishing touches on her toilette. Only one last thing remained and that was to fasten the pocket watch to the belt of her gown. The gold watch had become her talisman. It had belonged to her father. Briefly she consulted the time. Quarter till four. She snapped the case closed and for a moment cradled the watch lovingly in her hand. Engraved on the cover was, appropriately enough, a hot air balloon in full flight.
Rory could not help remembering how her father had consigned the watch to her care that morning last June. She hadn't wanted him to take the balloon up, his proposed flight enough to daunt even her. But for too long had Seamus dreamed of sailing one of his balloons across the Atlantic, a feat that no aeronaut had ever accomplished. It little mattered to Seamus that all his predecessors had met death making the attempt.
Rory's fears for her father were only increased by the dream she'd had the night before. It wasn't the first time she had dreamed such a thing—the white faerie appearing from the mists over New York harbor, the dread specter the Irish called the banshee, the harbinger of death. Rory had had the same nightmare once when she was twelve years old. The next day her mother had succumbed to the effects of a prolonged bout with scarlet fever.
Now the dream had troubled her sleep again, and there was her father about to embark on the most dangerous risk an aeronaut could take. But Seamus Kavanaugh scoffed at all the old superstitions. Rory had known it would do little good telling him to abandon his flight because she had had a nightmare.
Instead she had remonstrated with him about the follies of a flight over the ocean until Da had become quite angry.
"Whist now! I'll not have me own daughter questioning me judgment. I've been flying balloons since before you were born."
He strode away from her, but he must have noticed the tears glinting in her eyes for he returned at once. He had a smile that would have charmed the little people into surrendering their gold, but he was not able to coax Rory out of her fears. He finally resorted to an old trick from her childhood.
As a little girl, Rory had often wept and begged to accompany her father on one of his trips. He had always soothed her by giving her the "important" task of keeping his watch safe. That last morning, it was as though he had forgotten she was a woman grown. He had cupped her hand about the watch, saying, "There now. Don't you be crying, Aurora Rose. You be looking after this for me and you know I'll be coming back. I always come back to retrieve me treasure."
He had pinched her chin and smiled into her eyes, and as ever Rory had known it wasn't the watch he was talking about. There was nothing she could do then but watch helplessly as he mounted into the balloon's gondola. The ropes were cast off and he drifted into the sky. Her last vision of her father was of him looking down, the wind whipping back his mane of gray hair as he merrily waved his cap.
"Miss Kavanaugh?" An acrobat lady in spangled tights peered into the tent, bringing an abrupt end to Rory's remembrances. She suddenly realized that the watch she held clutched in her palm had become blurred and out of focus.
Rory dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. "Yes?"
"Are you almost ready?" the woman asked. "Mr. Dutton is getting anxious."
"I'll be right there."
When the woman had gone, Rory tucked the watch away in her belt. It would never have pleased Seamus, this grieving of hers. He would have expected her to give him a fine wake, which she had done. Then he would have told her to get on with her life, with the pursuit of the dreams they had both shared.
"Which, please God, is exactly what I intend to do," Rory murmured.
Shoving the flap aside, she strode out of the tent. The wind threatened to wreak havoc with her hair, but Rory scooped up her skirts and moved determinedly forward.
The crowd had thickened to such a degree that Rory began to wonder how she
would get through. But with the aid of some burly circus roustabouts, a path was cleared for her.
As Rory emerged into the open area where the Katie Moira awaited her, she saw that the barrel-shaped hydrogen generator had already been disconnected. Pete and Thomas were loading it back onto the wagon. Tony was tying more bags of ballast to the side of the balloon's car as though he were determined one way or another to keep Rory earthbound.
Her entire crew was hard at work except for Tony's younger brother. A dark, curly-haired, more slender version of Tony, Angelo lounged near the balloon winch, his nose thrust deep into yesterday's edition of the New York World.
Rory stole up behind him. Crossing her arms, she cleared her throat with a loud "Harrumphl" Angelo slowly looked up from his newspaper, not in the least abashed to be caught loafing.
"Hey, Rory, look here," he said, extending the paper toward her. "John Ezekiel Morrison is giving a party today."
"Who the devil is John Ezekiel Morrison?"
"Only the most eligible bachelor in New York. I hear tell he's what the Bowery dance halls girls call a real `looker' and rich as Diamond Jim Brady. He lives in what is practically a damned castle. The paper calls him the Mysterious Millionaire of Fifth Avenue."
At first, Rory could make little sense of Angelo's excited chatter. Then she glanced at the paper and realized with some disgust that the youth had been reading the society columns again. It was both amusing and exasperating the way Angelo devoured any news about the lives of wealthy and famous people. When he wasn't collecting cigarette cards of Lillian Russell, he was driving everyone mad with accounts of where Mrs. Vanderbilt had dined last night or who J. P. Morgan had entertained at Delmonico's.
Angelo was completely oblivious to the balloon roaring above them. "It says here the Whitneys will be there and Mrs. Van Hallsburg. But it don't say nothing about the Vanderbilts." Angelo frowned. "Do you think Mrs. Vanderbilt knows something about Morrison that the rest don't?"
"I have no idea. The next time she invites me to tea, I'll ask her. And now, Angelo, if you don't mind—" She broke off the rebuke she was about to deliver, stiffening with annoyance as she stared upward at her balloon. Someone had woven garlands all over the ropes that connected the balloon to the basket.
Escapade (9781301744510) Page 1
