Note:The original anonymous request: I'd love to see Nellie Bly, ragtime, and/or Coney Island mentioned.
Check, check, check! Oh – and I hope you like Ruth Law, too.
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"I fly because I like to.
I like the feel of the air and I like to do things that other girls can't."
- Ruth Law
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"I am off for New York. Look out for me."
- Nellie Bly
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The wind gusts, and Alek makes an automatic grab for his hat. Deryn does not; her much-hated hat "mysteriously" blew away on the ferry, and is presumably now floating somewhere on the Hudson River.
"Imagine," she says, shivering and clutching his arm more tightly. "Her barking cockpit's exposed! She said she planned on wearing four flight suits."
The November wind cuts through his coat and the layers of wool beneath, making him wish for thicker gloves. A surreptitious glance at their fellow bystanders reveals that he's not the only one suffering in the cold.
"I'd prefer at least six," he says.
Deryn grins at him, wind whipping at her skirts and blowing strands of hair across her face. "Aye, you walker pilots are all such babies."
He smiles in return and gives serious consideration to smoothing some of that stray hair back into place – but such action would necessarily terminate in a kiss, and he's not quite daring enough to kiss her in front of the New York City press and all of the soldiers billeted on Governors Island.
Instead he checks his pocket watch. "She's overdue," he notes.
Deryn seems unconcerned. "She'll make it here just fine."
"Goodness, I hope so," a voice says behind them. "Though we'd sell more papers if she doesn't."
Alek half-turns to see a matronly woman with graying hair, a smart sense of fashion, a reporter's notebook in her hands, and a remarkable amount of moxie still sparkling in her eyes.
"Nellie!" Deryn exclaims, delighted, and lets go of Alek's arm to go embrace the journalist, who's more than old enough to be her mother – but who is, Alek knows from experience, much more fun than the actual Mrs. Sharp. "What're you doing here?"
Mrs. Elizabeth Cochrane Seaman, best known as the famous and infamous Nellie Bly, gestures at the scene with a smile. "Really! A woman setting a travel record – where else would I be? This will be a wonderful story for my readers. Especially with the two of you here!"
"You may, of course, choose to leave us out," Alek says, shaking hands. He shouldn't, but one doesn't choose how one greets Nellie Bly. One doesn't choose anything about Nellie Bly, including how she arrives in one's life.
To wit: eighteen months ago, she had shown up unannounced at the front gates of Konopischt and declared, Your lives are the story of the century, and I'm going to write it.
Alek had allowed this after realizing that Bly shared an appreciation for two of his favorite things: the Empire of Austria-Hungary, and feisty girls with a propensity towards mad adventures.
She also had said, I'll never work for those lying sneaks at The New York World again, which had pleased him to no end.
The series of articles (for the New York Evening Journal) that followed were breathless in their enthusiasm for himself and Deryn, which was very gratifying, of course – although he hardly expected anyone in America to care. But when they'd landed in New York City a few days ago, Alek had been amazed to discover that the pair of them were something like celebrities.
"Nonsense! You're my favorite subjects, and the Evening Journal will be pleased as punch to have us all in one place. But what are you doing here, Your Highness?" Bly asks shrewdly. "With your dear granduncle as sick as he is."
Alek's mouth twitches into a smile; Volger had made the same complaint. The emperor has been sick for a long while, but resolutely refuses to die. Alek dislikes playing the vulture. He finds the role almost as distasteful as his granduncle.
Luckily, just as Vienna was becoming intolerable, a letter had arrived from Miss Law, one of Deryn's many friends in the States (they seem to grow mad, modern women on trees here), inviting them to watch her set an aviation record. It was a perfect excuse to flee.
Alek says, "I have every confidence that His Majesty Franz Joseph will live well into the next century – if only to spite me."
Bly chuckles.
"Don't laugh," Deryn says, scowling. "He's just bastard enough to do it."
Alek touches her arm; she glances at him, and her expression softens… very slightly.
"Well, he bloody is," she mutters to no one.
In the background, the military band finishes warming up and launches into a jaunty bit of ragtime music. They sound quite good, Alek thinks. Another one of the great surprises of America: he actually enjoys ragtime.
Nellie Bly gives both of them a fond, calculating look, then says, "Not a bad turnout for such a miserable day. I remember my homecoming in '90 – it's lovely to be cheered at, don't you think?"
"Indeed," Alek agrees. It's much better than being shot at, for example.
"Mr. Pulitzer sent a train all the way to California to get me here in time," Bly says.
Alek's heart sinks; that dreamy-eyed expression of reminiscing is all too familiar. He sees it regularly on Deryn's face, usually followed by monstrously exaggerated versions of true events. He glances at Deryn now. She's squinting up at the sky, looking for her friend's plane.
Bly continues, "That was when I was working for The World, you remember. Around the world in seventy-two days – a record at the time. Oh, it was exciting! If I was twenty years younger, I'd be up there today with Miss Law."
The wind gusts; Alek and Bly grab for their respective hats. One of the reporters isn't fast enough, and he goes chasing after it as it tumbles and rolls across the wide swath of dirt and dead grass. The scene make an amusing counterpoint to the cheery music.
"Aye, I wouldn't mind being up there myself," Deryn says, grinning at Bly.
The alarming thing is that this is completely true.
"Why aren't you, my dear?" Bly asks her. "I have it on good authority that you and Miss Law are particular friends."
Deryn wrinkles her nose. "His Highness 'won't allow it'."
Bly raises an eyebrow.
Alek says, in a perfectly neutral monotone, "It is in the best interests of the Empire that Miss Sharp remain safely on the ground."
The other eyebrow goes up. Bly glances at Deryn, then back at Alek.
"That's a load of yackum, and he barking knows it," Deryn says, taking his arm again, "but we only argue about it in private."
Alek covers her hand with his and squeezes. Gently. He can feel the outline of the ring, hidden beneath her glove, and wonders how his granduncle's health is at this moment.
In some respects he is dreading the day that Franz Joseph dies. In certain other respects, however… he can't wait.
"I see," Bly says, tone wry. She probably does. She pulls out a pen from her coat, opens her notebook, and gracefully changes the subject. "Tell me, Your Highness, Miss Sharp – do you think Miss Law's record will stand?"
Deryn shrugs. "It's a miracle she set a record at all in that old crate and in this weather. Someone with a faster aircraft could beat her, easy."
"Someone with a faster Austrian aircraft, perhaps?" Bly asks, pen poised.
Deryn flashes a wolfish grin; Alek succumbs to the inevitable. "Not until next spring, at the earliest," he says.
Bly scribbles a few pleased notes. "Don't forget to invite me! I could get another book's worth out of that."
"Oh, aye. I'll even take you up," Deryn promises.
"Marvelous! I'll wear my most dashing scarf and goggles," the journalist says, scribbling more. "Which reminds me, my dear - your dress is very smart, but you really ought to have a hat. Now, what are your plans for the rest of your visit here?"
"We shall be leaving this evening," Alek says, "if not this afternoon."
"So soon!"
"Yes, unfortunately." Alek is unwilling to discuss the finer points of the furious wireless messages he's had from Volger. Miss Law was supposed to arrive yesterday, but a late start and the lack of lights on her aircraft meant she had to put down at sunset, in a little town called Binghamton. Now Alek and Deryn are late themselves – something which is not sitting well with his old fencing tutor.
Alek adds, "My granduncle is, after all, unwell."
"And a sodding bastard," Deryn says, apparently in case anyone has forgot.
Bly chuckles and says, "I hope you've at least had time to visit Coney Island," but whatever else she means to tell them is lost in the general hurrah of excitement as Miss Law's plane is spotted. The military band stops playing popular music and prepares for a fanfare.
Alek checks his pocket watch. Half past nine in the morning, November 20, 1916.
"Give me those," Deryn barks to one of the soldiers; skirts or not, the tone of command is unmistakable. The hapless young man quickly puts a pair of field glasses into her hands, and she lifts her gaze skyward. "Aye, there she is! Blisters, that's a terrible plane she's flying. What was she thinking?"
"I'm more concerned about the wind," Alek says, squinting until Deryn passes him the field glasses. And indeed, the tiny yellow aircraft is being buffeted about in the sky. The pilot seems to be struggling with the antiquated controls, and the faint noise of the engine is reaching them in stutters.
"Do you think she'll crash?" Bly asks, sounding genuinely worried. She flips to a fresh page in her notebook.
"No," Deryn says as Alek gives her the binoculars again. "Leastways, she won't if her engine doesn't cut out."
"Could that happen?"
"She pushed the engine very hard yesterday, covering that distance," Alek says. "I'm not familiar with Curtiss engines, but I know –"
"Barking spiders!" Deryn exclaims. "There it goes – aye, now she's in trouble!"
There is nothing that anyone on the ground can do except stand where they are and watch, uselessly, as Miss Law attempts to land her aircraft without the benefit of an engine.
Alek knows that Miss Law is a superb pilot, well-used to death-defying stunts. She was the first woman to perform a loop-de-loop, one of the first to try night flying, and can skim expertly only a few meters above the ground, racing cars and fabricated beasts alike. If there's anyone who can land a plane on a small island, in the middle of a large bay, under strong winds, and without an engine, it's going to be her.
But she flew so far yesterday – and all of the newspapers said that she had been exhausted…
Deryn has a white-knuckled grip on his arm. "Come on, Ruth!" she says softly, face and voice tight with worry. He hopes she's not about to watch her friend crash and, God forbid, die. He'll never forgive himself for agreeing to this trip if that happens.
The plane glides lower. The wings rock.
Bly is scribbling madly in her notebook, hardly looking at the page or her pen, all of her attention fixed on the small plane as it drops below the level of the rooftops on Governors Island.
Alek finds himself holding his breath.
The wheels touch down on the parade ground grass. Bounce. Touch again. The wings tip sideways -
- and then Miss Law corrects and taxis the plane to a smoothly controlled stop. Her grin is clearly visible beneath her leather flying helmet and goggles. She lifts a hand from the controls and waves.
Everyone cheers; hats are thrown. The band plays a triumphant fanfare as the soldiers and reporters rush forward to greet America's newest heroine.
Deryn would ordinarily be the first one to the plane, but instead she lets out a whoop, plucks Alek's hat from his head, and kisses him soundly.
It's a thrill, as always, despite the fact that they've been kissing for nearly two years. Her lips are cold, but the contact warms him to his core. Despite his misgivings, he finds himself pleased to continue.
A flash. Alek breaks the kiss, startled. Bly, looking like a cat that's caught a particularly fine canary, is standing beside a photographer who's just lowering his camera.
Blast.
Deryn swears under her breath.
"So much for discretion," Alek says drily. He doubts that even the great and daring Nellie Bly can persuade a newspaper to run that sort of photo – but he's not going to put it past her.
"Aye, well, I couldn't resist," Deryn says, grinning.
"So I see," he says, and she laughs, and he kisses her again, feeling embarrassed and happy all at once.
The photographer takes another picture, Deryn shouts playful accusations at Nellie Bly, who returns them with zest, Alek collects his hat, and then they all go to give Ruth Law their congratulations on her brilliant, record-setting flight.
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Note: Ruth Law's record of 590 miles nonstop (Chicago to Hornell, NY, more specifically) was broken in 1917… by another woman. EPIC WINS ALL AROUND.
See my LJ for more on Ruth Law and Nellie Bly, if'n you're interested. :)
