Ruth Elder and George Haldeman in the survival suits they designed.
Ruth Elder and George Haldeman in the survival suits they designed.
Ruth and George landed at Roosevelt Field unannounced. No one was waiting for them, which was exactly how they wanted it. They hadn’t even bothered to rent a hangar in advance, having planned on finding quarters for the American Girl after they’d arrived in New York.
Much to their surprise, it looked like parking the plane at the field was going to be a bit of a problem; J. J. Lanning, the owner of Roosevelt Field, had instituted a set of restrictions after the Old Glory and Sir John Carling disasters, even though the Sir John Carling had taken off from Ontario and the Old Glory had chosen Old Orchard in Maine to depart from. If there was a tragedy from his field, the publicity would be a nightmare. He was still riding high with the Lindbergh glory, and he didn’t want to tarnish that image by letting some unprepared pilot with an inadequate plane roll down his runway toward a predictable death.
He demanded that anyone attempting an Atlantic crossing from Roosevelt have a multi-engine plane that was able to land on sea and land; it must carry a navigator and a radio, and pass a government inspection. Curiously, Ruth realized, the Dawn, Frances Grayson’s plane, which was already parked in a hangar at Roosevelt, met all of those qualifications. The American Girl didn’t. The Spirit of St. Louis and the Miss Columbia wouldn’t have, either.
While George shook his head in disbelief, Ruth simply went into action.
“Don’t worry, George,” she said with a grin. “This is where I come in.”
Ruth sauntered up the stairs to Lanning’s office, and within an hour, she was back.
“He said he’d have to think about it and give us an answer tomorrow, and in the meantime, we can park the plane here,” she said with a victorious smile. “I don’t think it will be a problem. He was a very understanding man.”
George burst out into unbridled laughter. Oh, the persuasion and power of a pretty girl with a Southern accent, he thought. Even if she is wearing a tie and knickers.
“I requested a specific hangar, if it’s all the same to you,” she added, with a wink. “I want the one next to Frances Grayson.”
The next day, Lanning dropped his requirements and the American Girl rolled into her hangar next to the Dawn.
“Elsie,” Lord Inchcape called as he heard his daughter’s heels click against the marble floors after the front door closed. “Would you come to my study for a moment?”
“Certainly, Father,” she called, her voice echoing off the two-story-tall entryway, laying her bag on the side table and quickly going through the correspondence and mail that had been placed on the salver. She was expecting a small parcel any day now, but it had not arrived yet.
She’d had a difficult day at P&O; she was currently working on five ships. Elsie was swamped with last-minute details and lists of things that hadn’t been completed yet. In the middle of the mayhem, the new commander of one of the ships, Captain Bartlett, had just come from a tour of the ship and was infuriated, calling it “nothing short of a ladies’ parlor at sea.” A true salty dog with a backbone etched with conventionalism, he burst into Elsie’s office unannounced and began his temper tantrum.
“I have been forty-three years at sea,” he declared, “and in my early days we were thankful for a biscuit and pea soup, and ate off our sea chests.”
Elsie looked down and laughed. “Well, Captain Bartlett,” she said, looking up at him, “if you really believe in the good old days, you should give up your cabin and your bath and go back to your biscuit served on a camp stool. I’m not changing a thing, except perhaps to re-cover everything in your room in purple silk. And not dupioni, but charmeuse.”
She was annoyed when he finally left, but proud of herself for standing her ground. After all the work she had put into that ship, there was no way she was going to let anyone reprimand her for it. It was a comfortable, beautiful ship, and she wished that Captain Bartlett would find a more suitable thing on which to sail, like a trawler.
As she crossed the threshold to Father’s study, she sincerely hoped that he didn’t want to talk to her about Captain Bartlett. She was just too tired.
“If this is about the ship, can we possibly talk about it tomorrow?” she asked, sitting in one of the leather chairs opposite her father. “That captain is a brute, and just the mere thought of it exhausts me.”
Lord Inchcape snickered. “Oh, he’s a crusty one, that man. I can only imagine what flavorful words he had for you,” he said. “But no, this came in the post today for you.”
He handed over the little parcel. “It’s from the American embassy,” he said, folding his hands together. “Are you planning a trip, old girl?”
Elsie laughed, the parcel in her lap. “Oh, who knows? I might want to sail across to New York again. My passport had expired, and I wanted to keep it updated in case something thrilling came along.”
“ ‘Thrilling’?” her father said as he raised one eyebrow. “What kind of ‘thrilling’ do you mean?”
Elsie sighed. “I don’t know—a shopping spree, see the sights, just get out of London for a change.”
She was suspicious of his questioning, and suddenly had visions of her and Captain Hinchliffe running from runway to runway as the police tried to arrest them.
“There’s always Glenapp,” he said cautiously, as if the excitement of rolling green valleys, grey skies, and the tiny village below it could challenge New York for thrilling. But then it came to her in a moment, just like that.
“You’re right,” she said. “You’re absolutely right. In fact, once I finish all my loose ends on the ship at the end of the week, I might just take the weekend out at the castle. Would you mind?”
“Of course not, but I certainly can’t go,” he replied. “Mother is still a little too weak to travel.”
Elsie paused, putting the next step in order.
“Would you mind if I brought some friends?” she asked. “Sophie hasn’t been out in a while, and I have met the most delightful couple that I think would be good company.”
“Of course, dear, the whole estate is yours,” he agreed. “I do believe I will take Mother to Egypt as soon as possible, of course, once she is up for travel. It’s getting a little dreary in London.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” she confirmed. “How long do you think you’ll stay?”
“An extended period, I suppose,” he said, sitting back in his tall, tufted leather chair. “Late spring, most likely. And of course you’ll come out for a month or so.”
“Father, you’ve got my schedule booked so full with the new ships, I only hope I can get away,” she laughed.
“We’ll arrange it,” he said confidently. “You have that new passport, after all.”
Elsie laughed and stood up. “Thank you for keeping this for me,” she said, waving the parcel in her hand. “I’m glad it’s finally come.”
She started to walk out of the room when her father called out, “Oh, Elsie? Who is this charming couple you wish to take with you?”
“Oh,” she said, turning back. “Captain Hinchliffe and his wife, Emilie. Delightful people. Friends of Tony Joynson-Wreford.”
“So . . . a pilot?” her father asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” she said with a smile. “We have a lot in common.”
Then she turned and left the room, and began ascending the grand staircase to the third floor.
Mabel knocked on the door on the forty-sixth floor of the Woolworth Building several times before turning the knob to go in. How long was she supposed to stand in the hallway rap-tapping like an idiot before someone answered it?
The reception area was still as a morgue. After calling out several times and getting absolutely no response, she let herself into the hallway. Office after office she walked past was empty. From the end of the hall, she finally deciphered a sound of life: someone clearing his throat. Mabel walked toward it, to the very last door in the hallway, and peeked in.
There was Charles Levine, sitting in his grand chair, looking out the window. Like every other office in the place, there was nothing on his desk—nothing that he was clearly working on, anyway. She stood in the doorway for about a minute, waiting for him to notice her. But he didn’t. He just sat staring out at New York before him, barely even blinking.
“Hello, Charlie,” she braved, hoping that her smile would melt the layers of frost that had built up between them.
He turned, and when he realized it was Mabel, a spark lit up his eyes. He smiled back, and stood up.
Mabel took that as a sign to take several steps before his smile was sucked back in and he said suddenly, “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Mabel stopped where she was, opened the clasp of her tiny steel-beaded purse, and with two white-gloved fingers, pulled out a square.
“Well,” she said, cautiously, still with her diamond smile etched on her face, “I got your letter. It was awfully impersonal, Charlie! It was quite different than the notes you sent me before.”
“You destroyed my Rolls-Royce,” he said defensively. “They had to scrap it! Did ya think I was gonna send you roses?”
“Charlie, you’re funny,” she giggled. “Always a card, always knew how to make me laugh. I forgive you, you know, for that terrible letter with all of that crazy talk written on it. I barely got through the first page. But I hope this”—she pulled the square out of her purse, opened it to a rectangle, and handed it to him from across the desk—“will let us be friends again.”
Levine looked at the check and then at Mabel. “This is for thirty thousand dollars.” He smirked, as if she were up to something. “I’m only suing you for twenty-five.”
“I know, I know,” Mabel said, wiggling her gloved fingers. “I threw the extra five in to say I’m sorry. That’s all. I’m sorry. I just wanted a real good-bye, you know. Hearing that you left made me terribly sad.”
“Is that what you do when you’re sad, Mabel?” he asked. “You crash expensive cars into boulders?”
“Charlie,” Mabel said, taking several steps forward, “didn’t I deserve a good-bye? Didn’t I deserve one last kiss? How was I supposed to know that when Hinchliffe threw me off the plane I’d never see you again?”
“Ach!” Levine said. “That was a crazy day, Mabel. I didn’t know what was goin’ on. Before I knew it, you had taken off in my car and it was time to leave. What was I supposed to do, stop everything and run after you? With all those people watching?”
Levine lowered and shook his tiny bald head and shoved his hands in his pockets. “What was I supposed to do?” he mumbled.
Mabel took the last final steps to reach his desk. She extended her arm, her white-cotton-covered index finger delicately lifting Levine’s bulbous chin so that she could look at him.
“But are you sorry, Charlie? Are you sorry?” she said lightly as he looked her in the eyes and she batted her lashes. “Because I’m sorry. So, so, so sorry.”
He took a moment before he answered, like a child who had been scolded. “Yeah, you know I’m sorry,” he finally said.
“Good!” Mabel said, removing her finger and plunking herself down in a chair. “We are friends again! How glorious!”
“You know the Miss Columbia is wrecked,” he said, shaking his head. “I had to ship her back here in pieces. It will be months, even a year, before she can fly again. I’ve missed my chance. Again.”
“Charlie, don’t be silly!” Mabel chimed. “Nothing is ever over for Charles Levine! Who are you to give up like that? The Miss Columbia was a great plane, but there are other ones out there in the world, you know. There’s nothing stopping you from buying a new one.”
“Oh, Mabel, it just don’t work that way,” he said scornfully. “Business is not too good. Since Bellanca left, I got nothing really but this office. So I come and sit all day. I look out this here window all day. You know, Lloyd Bertaud was killed.”
“I know.” Mabel nodded. “I heard that.”
“He was a great navigator.” Levine nodded as well. “Bad businessman and a hothead, but a good navigator.”
“You gotta get back up, Charlie,” Mabel urged. “This isn’t like you, to wait around while other people fulfill your dreams, make your history. Come back to Europe with me. Get a new plane, get Hinchliffe back, and you can be the first man to make both crossings!”
“Hinchliffe, nah,” he said, sitting down. “I heard he’s on board with another financier. A lady, I hear.”
“What?” Mabel cried, the color of her face suddenly matching the color of her bleached hair. “A woman? Who? Who is it, Charlie? You have to tell me. You must.”
“I don’t know, Mabel, some aristocrat. With loads of money,” he said, seemingly irritated. “I don’t know who, I really don’t. That’s all I got.”
“And they’re making the east–west crossing?” she asked.
“I guess so,” he replied, shrugging. “Like I said, that’s all I know.”
“We can’t let them beat us, Charlie,” Mabel said, shaking her head. “We can’t let that happen. Let’s get our team up and rolling again. We don’t need Hinchliffe. There are plenty of American pilots who are dying to cross.”
“There is Bert Acosta,” Levine opined. “Before the transatlantic flight, he broke the endurance record with Chamberlin. Flew fifty-one hours straight. Won the Pulitzer Trophy Race, then crossed the Atlantic with Admiral Byrd after I did.”
“Oh, I remember that,” she said, nodding. Bert Acosta had no idea how close he had come to being Mabel’s target for conquest. She had chosen Levine instead. He was shorter and his pockets were deeper.
They both paused for a moment, and finally Levine waved his hands in the air. “This is all nonsense,” he declared. “It’s a stupid idea. Grace would never let me go.”
“Grace?” Mabel said, trying to stop herself from laughing. “What does she have to do with this? You never let Grace get in the way of anything. Not even me.”
“She controls the money now,” he admitted. “That accountant tells her every dime I spend.”
Now Mabel did laugh, and heartily.
“Oh, but, Charlie,” she replied, pointing to the desktop, “she certainly doesn’t know about this.”
And then they both moved their eyes to the rectangular peace offering, lying passively on Levine’s desk, that could easily finance a flight.
Ruth threw down the newspaper and looked around for something else to throw. Because she was in a public ladies’ room next to a lake near Roosevelt Field, her choices were limited to toilet paper and her shoes, neither of which seemed very anger worthy. Plus, she had just bought the shoes in New York at Bergdorf’s and she wasn’t about to risk so much as a scuff on them. She stuffed the Irish News into the wastebasket, as far, far, far down as it would go. Not that the Irish News was regular reading material for a majority of people, but still. It had insulted her by name, saying, “A woman has no business to attempt such a flight. It is perfectly ridiculous to read of Ruth Elder’s chatter, or her preparations for the event and to realize she was going to risk her life just to gratify her stupid vanity.”
Ruth couldn’t believe that anyone could be so mean and thoughtless. What was it to anyone what she was willing to die for: her honor, her country, or even her “stupid vanity”?
The Irish News was sitting at the base of the American Girl when Ruth arrived at the hangar that morning; one of the reporters handed it to her and she tucked it under her arm to read later. At that moment she had questions to answer, because since they had arrived at Roosevelt Field, so had the reporters—swarms of them—usually showing up every morning before Ruth even arrived from the Garden City Hotel on Long Island. They took turns going back and forth between the American Girl hangar and the Dawn hangar, certain that one of these women was going to be victorious and make history.
But neither one of them was going anywhere. The weather off New England had been full of storms every day, the wind unpredictable. They were grounded for the time being, but that meant that if Ruth couldn’t go anywhere, neither could Frances Grayson, whom Ruth highly suspected of getting the Irish News to write that piece. Rumor had it from several reporters that her nemesis spent most of her time prancing around the hangar, shouting orders, and if she wasn’t talking to reporters, she was reading stories by them. Ruth took a deep breath and looked in the bathroom mirror. Any minute now, Cornell, who had volunteered to handle publicity for Ruth and George, would be knocking on the door to tell her it was time.
Cornell organized a press conference at a lake close to Roosevelt Field so they could show off the rubber suits in action. She couldn’t wait for them to see what marvelous things they had invented. Earlier that day, she and George had tested them out and they worked perfectly.
When Cornell knocked, Ruth was ready, and wobbled out of the bathroom and down to the pool along with George. They approached the pool looking like two menacing sea monsters, their huge, egg-shaped helmets overwhelming their heads and faces. Ruth could barely see where she was going and was only guided by Cornell’s hand on her elbow.
Inside the suits, hearing was nearly impossible; they were encased in a sphere of thick rubber. But when Cornell unbuckled the helmets to expose both her and George, a round of raucous laughter erupted from the press corps. Their entire bodies were covered, down to their oven-mitt black hands and their puffy, billowing feet. Ruth sported a black turban that looked adorable on her and George had a dark wool cap on. They looked like twins from the terrible depths of the sea.
Ruth waved to the press and modeled the suit front and back, putting her creaturish hands on her hips and striking poses. They will stop laughing in a minute, she told herself.
Cornell led her down the steps of the dock to the lakefront, and she gingerly stepped into the water, followed by George. When they were submerged up to their waists, Ruth pulled the string to inflate the suit, and soon she became an inch shy of enormous. The reporters roared with laughter as the two pilots, now massive balls of rubber, floated around in a murky lake.
“Oh, what the hell. We look ridiculous.” She laughed as she and George bobbed around several yards from shore like a dog’s ball that hadn’t been chased after. “How funny is this?” she called out to the reporters and photographers taking pictures of the ridiculous display. “These silly old things may end up saving our lives!”
“And you created them, Ruth?” a reporter called out.
“Both George and I did! But we didn’t account for the smell from the rubber, now, did we, George?” she replied, to which he shook his head and plugged his nose.
“When are you going to take off, Ruth?” another reporter called.
“As soon as we have good weather, toots!” She laughed.
“Ruth, are you worried about your rival, Frances Wilson Grayson?” an unseen voice queried.
“Not at all,” she said with her flashiest Ruth Elder smile as she bobbed in the water, trying to keep her makeup dry. “She has every right that I do to be up in that sky. I wish her the best of luck!”
“Did you pick Paris to land, Ruth, as an homage to Mr. Lindbergh?” another voice yelled.
“Well, he certainly is a real hero to all of us, isn’t he?” she replied. “And besides, I want a real fancy gown from Paris, so I decided I should just fly there and buy myself one!”
Another voice, loud and deep from the back, suddenly shouted, “Ruth, are you married?”
Ruth laughed loud as she continued to splash around. “Why, ya got something in mind?”
“There are reports from Florida that you are married, Ruth,” the same voice insisted. “Is it true?”
Ruth smiled again, this time not as brightly, and said, “Hey, why don’t you ask George if he’s married? He’s got a good answer!”
“I certainly am, and to a wonderful woman!” he gleefully said.
“How does she feel about you making this trip?” the same reporter asked.
“Oh, she’s sure fine with it. She says she’s tired of doing my laundry, anyway,” George replied, and a round of laughter rose up among the male reporters.
By this time Ruth reached the shore and water was rushing off the suit in torrents.
“What is it, Ruth?” the fellow with the deep voice asked again. “Are you married or not? What are you trying to hide?”
“I’m not on the market, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ruth coyly replied. “I have bigger things to think about, like getting my plane across an ocean.”
And with that, Cornell swept in and led her away, followed by George, who was creating small lakes with every step he took.
From the backseat of the Rolls, Elsie heard Emilie Hinchliffe gasp, her three-year-old daughter, Joan, sitting on her lap.
“How many rooms in the castle?” Emilie asked.
“Hmmm, I’m not sure exactly,” Elsie replied, thinking, pulling into the circular drive around the fountain. “Not very many for a castle. Maybe sixty or seventy?”
Luckily, the weather had still held for fall, and the autumn colors were vibrant and blazing in every direction.
“That’s the Ailsa Craig; my father loves it,” Elsie said as she saw the Hinchliffes had noticed the island of blue hone granite formed from the volcanic plug of an extinct volcano that appeared to be emerging out of the sea like a massive horn.
Hinch smiled tightly, stepped out of the car, and then turned to help his wife and daughter from the confines of a four-hour trip. Joan was anxious to get out and run, although she had been an ideal child and had slept almost all of the way. Emilie stood in the drive looking up at the house, at all its countless windows and details, its spires and terraces.
Hinchliffe went toward the trunk that was secured to the back of the car with leather straps, and when Elsie turned and noticed him, she called out, “Captain Hinchliffe, wait! I’ll call a footman.”
“Has the castle been in your family for ages?” Emilie asked, still trying to take it all in.
“Oh, my goodness, no! My grandfather was a mariner but died when my father was a child,” Elsie explained. “Father was a shipping clerk when he began his path at P&O, and acquired the castle about ten years ago. No, it’s not inherited.”
“But the title of Inchcape,” Emilie said. “I thought it was old . . .”
“No,” Elsie laughed. “When my father was raised to the peerage as Baron Inchcape, he chose the title to commemorate the Inchcape Rock, off the coast of Abroath where he and my mother played as children. It’s very sweet, isn’t it?”
Emilie smiled and nodded.
Elsie ushered them up to the entrance, an arched alcove with double glass doors. Elsie tried the knocker, then stood back and smiled at the Hinchliffes as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to be knocking at your own front door.
In a moment the door opened and a man stepped aside with a bow of his head to Elsie. In a black brass-buttoned jacket with tails, a bow tie, and a horizontally striped waistcoat, he took Elsie’s keys, and when Joan stared at him too long, he winked.
For a hulking example of a castle, the entranceway was a bit diminutive. The exterior of the castle seemed to promise that once visitors passed through the double-arched glass doors, a marble-laid entry as big as a ballroom would greet them with a grandiose stone staircase with knights’ armor lining the walls. Instead, the entry was a rather small chamber paneled in oak with a small staircase, also in oak and covered with a red runner that took four steps to a landing and then broke away on either side. There was not even a hint of an echo.
Hinch couldn’t help but be a little disappointed.
“Miss, your trip went well?” the butler asked Elsie.
“Very, it was a delightful drive, Duncan, thank you for asking,” she replied.
Every time Elsie stepped through the heavy doorway of Glenapp, she was instantly thrown back to a moment of sadness. She had just been a girl when her father exiled her to the castle, determined to keep her away from an uncertain destiny that he wasn’t eager to predict. To Elsie, the house still smelled of her despair: not only of her lonely days waiting for Dennis, but the hollow ones she spent there trying to recover from the distress of her failed marriage. She had lived a quiet life since then, a careful, uneventful life. She had planned it that way, never wanting to feel the distress again when wonderful things turned horrible.
Still, she loved Glenapp and the happy times her family had there, and should have drowned out any sorrow that remained. Elsie smiled and continued up the stairs, the Hinchliffes following her. At the landing, Elsie made a left, and in a moment all four of them were in a drawing room that was as big as the Hinchliffes’ house in Purley.
After tea, Ray took Joan outside to walk down to the lake, and Emilie and Elsie stayed behind to enjoy the fire. Despite the magnificent weather on their drive, a fog was coming in and it had turned chilly. Emilie, seven months pregnant, didn’t look like she was up for a trudge of a quarter mile, and opted to simply stay put and rest.
“I’m afraid the motor trip must have worn you out,” Elsie said sympathetically. “Sometimes I forget how long it takes to get here.”
“No, no,” Emilie laughed as she gently shook her head. “It was like this when I was pregnant with Joan. My ankles are swollen and it’s hard to get comfortable.”
“Oooh!” Elsie exclaimed. “Comfort is my game, Mrs. Hinchliffe. Please allow me to fetch you a silk footstool. I was nearly tarred and feathered this week because of my ‘preposterous use’ of them.”
“Oh, thank you,” Emilie said as Elsie brought over a large footstool from the other side of the drawing room and tucked it under Emilie’s feet. She began to unbuckle the left shoe and then the right. After the shoes were off, Elsie did indeed see the indentions the shoes had made on her guest’s swollen feet.
“I can rub them for you, perhaps take some of the discomfort away,” Elsie offered.
Emilie looked horrified. “Oh, no. I’m perfectly fine.”
“It’s quite all right,” Elsie assured her. “I was a nurse in the war. I did this sort of thing all the time. Your stockings are in much better condition than soldiers’ feet! I may be a bit rusty at it, but give me a moment.”
Elsie tried to remember the correct placement of her thumb, but after a few seconds she was at it like an old hand.
“Thank you,” Emilie said again, blushing with a slight amount of embarrassment. “You are so kind. And please call me Emilie.”
“Then please call me Elsie,” she said, smiling and tilting her head as she applied a small bit of pressure to Emilie Hinchliffe’s tiny right foot.
“So you were . . . a nurse?” she asked Elsie.
“I was,” she confirmed. “In the VAD. I was trained in France and was then transferred to Northolt, where I became a driver for the officers.”
“Northolt?” Emilie asked. “The Royal Flying Corps aerodrome?”
“That’s the one,” Elsie laughed. “I was bitten there, so to speak.”
“Ahhhhh,” Emilie laughed. “You know, Ray started hanging around an aerodrome as a boy and then took flying lessons as a teenager. Then he wanted to be an artist, and I thought he was quite talented, but here he is again with his first love, flying. Funny how it doesn’t let go, isn’t it?”
“Hooked teeth, I think.” Elsie smiled.
Another few seconds passed in silence.
“May I ask,” Emilie began cautiously, “why you never married?”
Elsie threw her head back and laughed.
“Oh, but I was,” she confessed.
Emilie immediately drew her hand to her mouth and a worried expression fell on her face.
“I’m so sorry,” she said from behind her fingertips. “Ray never said you were a widow.”
Elsie smiled with her lips tightly pushed together.
“No, no,” she said. “I can’t let you think that. I’m a scandalous divorcée. I was married to a fellow named Dennis Wyndham. One of my patients. A blighty one.”
“Dennis Wyndham, the actor? The stage actor?” Emilie asked.
“I’m surprised you know him,” Elsie said.
“I love the theater and film,” Emilie revealed. “I don’t get to go much now, but before Joan was born, I went frequently to matinees and such, especially when Ray was flying a lot for Imperial.”
She stopped for a moment and studied Elsie’s face.
“You’re Poppy Wyndham,” she said without any expression at all. “I loved A Dead Certainty. I saw it twice.”
“That was a lifetime ago,” Elsie said a little softly. “Movies! Can you think of anything sillier? I believe my father bought this castle to banish me to it and keep me from marrying Dennis.”
“That’s terrible,” Emilie said.
“No, not really,” Elsie replied. “I wouldn’t have believed it at the time, but he was probably right. I lived out here alone for months with the staff, and I decorated most of the first floor to keep myself occupied before I was permitted to return to London.”
“Thus the footstools,” Emilie said. “But you married him anyway.”
“Eloped,” Elsie said carelessly. “And I broke my father’s heart, although when I left my husband, he forgave me quite easily. Without so much as one harsh word, as a matter of fact. The footstools come in quite handy, don’t they?”
“And Dennis . . .” Emilie started. “Where is he now?”
Elsie sighed. “I believe he’s headed for Broadway in some production or other,” she said. “I haven’t talked to him since the annulment. I saw a picture of him in the newspaper at his farewell party. He was draped all over Cecil Beaton.”
“Oh,” she said, nodding once. “They must be good friends.”
“I believe they are.” Elsie smirked.
Elsie heard loud boots in the hall, and suddenly there was Sophie, attired in all of Elsie’s best riding clothes. Severely handsome, she was worthy of a John Singer Sargent painting in her breeches.
“Ahhh, there you are,” Elsie said. “Sophie, please meet Mrs. Emilie Hinchliffe. Emilie, this is Miss Sophie Ries.”
Emilie leaned a little forward, as much as she could, and extended her hand as Sophie came around the sofa and extended hers.
“A pleasure,” Sophie said, giving Emilie one firm but simple shake.
“Indeed,” Emilie replied. “You’re the one who pays my husband!”
“I am, I am,” Sophie admitted, laughing and spreading her arms open before collapsing on the sofa next to Emilie and yanking off one tall black boot after the other.
“Don’t let those hands cramp up, Else,” she cackled. “Because I’m next.”