As morning dawned, I stood at the window to watch the sunrise over beautiful Italy. Golden rays illuminated the newly green pastures and rolling hills and the tender vines that would soon be bursting with grapes. Cypress trees dotted the landscape in shoots of dark green that reached for the sky. There was still so much excitement ahead, so much to learn and see and do. And, in truth, I also had a more serious intention while I was here. I wanted to study Mussolini’s fascist regime up close, to take stock of how he molded and shaped the Italian people, and to see if there was any real connection to what I’d read about the Nazi Party.
With only a few hours left aboard the Orient Express, I dressed quickly. Clara set out to finish her sketch of Eliza Wainwright, while I headed to the dining car to meet Mr. Wainwright for breakfast. We’d come to something of an understanding since our first meeting, and I enjoyed talking with him. I’d learned he was a retired English professor, and that he’d dabbled in a little writing himself. He’d asked if he might see some of my writing, and promised to share his thoughts with me. His wife, Mary, had thanked me for taking him off her hands for a while, and for keeping him entertained.
I took a seat at a table beside the window and ordered a café au lait and a chocolate croissant.
“No elephants today, miss?” the waiter asked. He’d come to know me, and my sense of humor.
I smiled. “A lady never eats elephant for breakfast!”
My stomach jittered with nerves as I waited for Mr. Wainwright to arrive. I was anxious to hear what he thought of the article I’d shared with him. For all intents and purposes, he was something of an expert after years of teaching literature and composition classes, and I couldn’t imagine what he would think of my lean style of writing, which, I liked to think, echoed Hemingway’s—or Nellie’s—but with its own flair. Besides, I hadn’t shared my work with anyone other than Violet since Billy had proved himself to be such a lout. I hoped Mr. Wainwright would let me down gently. Better that than be falsely supportive.
When the coffee arrived, I stirred sugar into the strong brew, and placed Violet’s notebook on the table. I reread some of my favorite clippings of Nellie’s articles, noting the voice and tone of each, and studying the headlines.
Nellie Bly Describes War Horrors
Nellie Bly Finds a Home and Father for Little Waif
Nellie Bly: Inside the Madhouse
The range of her journalism was far more impressive than most people realized. I continued to be amazed by her, even after all these years.
A long shadow fell across my page, and I looked up, startled back to the present.
“What’s that you’re reading?” Mr. Wainwright said as he pulled out a chair and sat down. “It looks interesting.”
“Good morning, sir.” I smiled, noticing his blue eyes were filled with good humor. “I was just looking through my grandmother’s old notebook. She was a great admirer of Nellie Bly.”
“Ah, yes. Miss Bly was quite the journalist,” he said, waving the waiter over and ordering his breakfast and an espresso. “I imagine she is something of a heroine of yours.”
“She’s the reason I’m a writer,” I replied. “She was a family friend. In fact, Clara and I called her Auntie Nellie.”
“Is that so? Well, she was clever, if a little too outspoken at times, at least for some.”
I laughed. “She was certainly outspoken, but what good journalist isn’t? She encouraged me to write, much to my father’s frustration,” I continued. “He didn’t agree with his young daughter exploring such manly pursuits.”
The waiter returned and set a plate of cured hams and cheeses in front of Mr. Wainwright. “It’s a difficult thing to be the father of girls,” he continued between bites. “We men are stuffy awkward beings and don’t always understand the fairer sex. But our intentions are only to do the best we can for our daughters. I expect your father only wanted the same.”
While I wasn’t entirely sure about that, I decided to take Mr. Wainwright’s words in the spirit in which they were intended.
“Nellie told me to always write from the heart and with conviction. ‘Don’t let others dissuade you, Madeleine,’ she would say. ‘Trust your gut.’”
“Sound advice, I’d say.” He sliced another bite of ham and seemed intent on finishing his meal without further conversation.
I longed to ask him about my article, but for once, found my forward nature failed me and my courage fled. As he ate, I sipped my coffee and thought about the varied nature of Nellie’s stories. She’d reported from the Front during the Great War, worked as a foreign correspondent in Mexico for six months, exposed the state of orphanages and found homes for orphans. She’d even posed as a madwoman for ten days in a New York City asylum to challenge a system that punished women, simply because society didn’t understand them. She’d braved so much, just for the story. But that was it—it was never just a story. She covered issues and events that defined people’s lives. She brought injustices to light. She was exactly the type of journalist I longed to be.
“Perhaps you’ll be another Nellie Bly one day,” Mr. Wainwright offered as he put down his knife and fork and patted his mouth with his napkin. “In fact, I’d say you’re well on your way, Miss Sommers.”
He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, carefully rolled so as not to crease it. My article. I’d given him my finished piece on Hancock Enterprises, exposing the truth about the tenement buildings and the displacement of hundreds of occupants.
“This is very good,” he said. “Very good, indeed. You write with conviction. Your arguments are well researched and maturely constructed, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
A lump rose in my throat. “Thank you, sir. I . . . thank you.” I couldn’t explain how much his compliments meant to me, coming from a gentleman who was clearly very well read, and not always easily persuaded by an argument.
“Do you have anyone you can send this to?” he asked. “It seems to me that people need to know what this Hancock fellow is up to.”
I thought about the encouraging note I’d received from the editor at the New York Herald Tribune.
“I do actually, yes. I know exactly who I’ll send it to.” I just needed to talk to Clara about the content of the article first.
“Good. And I wish you luck with it. You know,” he said, stroking his mustache, “if you’d ever like to share anything else, I’d be happy to take a look and offer suggestions. And perhaps I could share some chapters from my novel with you?”
Pride, excitement, and gratitude followed in rapid succession. “I’d like that very much!”
He gave me a business card. “I’d be delighted to hear from you.”
“Thank you, Walter. Sorry, Mr. Wainwright.”
He patted my hand. “Walter will do just fine. I consider you a friend now, and I can never be bothered with all those dreadful formalities.”
After another cup of coffee, we said our farewells, and I made my way back to our accommodation, still pondering his praise.
Wishing Clara a hasty good morning, I rushed to the desk, flipped open my notebook, and, heart racing, hand flying over the page, wrote down several new ideas.
Has gaining the right to vote truly changed women’s roles in society?
How much autonomy is too much for sisters, wives, or mothers?
Should a husband decide if his wife may join the workforce?
Will the number of women in the workplace eventually exceed those who are homemakers?
My hands shook with excitement as I jotted down additional thoughts beneath each idea.
“Did your muse find you today?” Clara remarked as she observed my flurry of activity.
I sat back in my chair. “Hmm?”
“Your muse? Has she appeared?”
“Yes! She has.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said with a smile. “But I think we’ve arrived.”
I threw the last of my things into my suitcase as the train pulled into the station with a final huff of steam and shuddered to a stop.
As we made our way through the ornate corridors for the last time, I envied those passengers, like the Wainwrights, who were continuing on to the exotic delights of Istanbul.
As we descended the steps to the station platform, Eliza and Juliette Wainwright raced over to us, giggling and flushed, clearly excited for the next stage of their journey.
“I hope you have a wonderful time in Istanbul,” Clara said, giving them each their miniature portraits. She smiled as they admired the finished items, comparing one with the other, and commenting on the remarkable likenesses.
I was proud of my sister for the work she’d done, and for accepting the payment she deserved for it, although she’d insisted it wasn’t necessary.
“You are a very talented pair,” Mr. Wainwright boomed as he approached me and Clara and shook our hands enthusiastically. “Enjoy your differences. Don’t always push against them.”
We looked at each other in a way that implied we would try.
I promised to write to him soon, and Clara quietly thanked him as he tipped his hat, bid us farewell, and went to gather up his flock of twittering young ladies who had rushed off to show their portraits to their mother.
As they left, I caught sight of Daniel, standing on the platform several paces away, his eyes searching the crowds of disembarking passengers. He was looking for us, no doubt. Though I was still furious about his shocking revelation, I was mostly disappointed he’d turned out to be like all the others, just as I’d started to believe he was different. The fact that I was still thinking about him and what he’d said—that he admired me and liked me, very much—irritated me more than anything.
“There he is.” I scowled.
“Who?” Clara stood at my elbow, following my gaze.
“Dastardly Daniel. Good riddance to him, I say.”
Yet when his gaze met mine, his expression softened to one of apology. I stared back at him defiantly. He shrugged and held up his hands in surrender.
I wanted to speak to him one last time, but refused to give him the satisfaction of apologizing again.
“Let’s go, Clara,” I said, looping my arm through hers. “Let’s see what Venice has in store for us.”