“I first saw the lights of Paris a little before ten P.M., or five P.M. New York time, and a few minutes later I was circling the Eiffel Tower at an altitude of about four thousand feet. The lights of Le Bourget were plainly visible, but appeared to be very close to Paris. . . . Presently I could make out long lines of hangars, and roads appeared to be jammed with cars. I flew low over the field once, then circled around into the wind and landed. After the plane stopped rolling, I turned it around and started to taxi back to the lights. The entire field ahead, however, was covered with thousands of people all running towards my ship.”
—Charles Lindbergh, May 20, 1927
May 1927—Paris, France
“Do you think he’ll make it?” Georgina asked, pressed close to Nancy as they watched the velvety night sky for any sign of a plane.
Nancy couldn’t see anything glimmering in the Paris sky beyond the litter of stars. “I don’t know, but if he doesn’t, all this fuss will be for nothing.”
A man in a wool coat and hat jostled Nancy’s shoulder as he pushed through the crowd, trying to get a better view.
Charles Lindbergh should be appearing in the sky at any moment, flying the Spirit of St. Louis, that was, if all went well. A crash had not been reported yet. He was supposed to land at Le Bourget Field—right where Nancy stood with her cousin and aunt, plus one hundred thousand Parisians.
More people closed in around them. Nancy’s small pocket of breathing space was officially shut off now, replaced instead with cigarette smoke and cloying French perfume. Aunt Hannah stood like a fierce sentinel next to Nancy and Georgina, acting the proper protector with her fur stole and cloche hat.
“Stay together, girls,” Aunt Hannah ordered for the dozenth time, her voice pitched above the general French chatter.
Nancy and Georgina linked arms as the crowd went through another surge, and Nancy earned an elbow in the back, accompanied by a brusque, “Excuse-moi.” She didn’t even bother turning around because it was simply the nature of the crowd.
Georgina pointed and giggled at a rather amorous couple locked in an embrace a few feet from them. Nancy wanted to laugh, too, but she didn’t want to draw attention from Georgina’s mother, Hannah, again. Nancy felt fortunate to have been invited along to Paris. Georgina had just turned seventeen, four years older than Nancy, and as the youngest of seven children in her family, Georgina had been allowed to invite Nancy.
Conversation rose and fell around them as flashlights strobed through the crowd—many of them pointed their lights to the sky so Charles Lindbergh could see the otherwise pitch-dark runway. There had already been plenty of false sightings. Children cheering, women swooning, excited viewers uncorking champagne bottles, men lighting cigars . . . only to be another false alarm.
“Can you stand the suspense?” Georgina asked in breathless excitement. “The entire world will remember May 21, 1927. And just think, we’re witnessing this history.”
“History that could end badly,” Nancy said dryly, remembering the multiple other failed transatlantic flight attempts all trying for the Orteig Prize of $25,000. In 1919, Raymond Orteig had promised the prize money to the first aviator of any country who crossed the Atlantic in one flight between Paris and New York, either direction. So far, all crossings had tragically failed. “Either Charles Lindbergh will be the first man to fly solo across the Atlantic, or everyone will be mourning another needless loss.”
Georgina nudged her with a huff. “Spoilsport. Mr. Lindbergh was spotted flying over England, so he’s made it this far.”
Flying seemed a bit foolish in Nancy’s mind, even though her brother had taken some flying lessons. Plenty of pilots tried stunts that never ended well. She didn’t understand the drive to put one’s life in danger, although she was interested in the statistics she’d heard on the radio earlier that day.
Lindbergh had left Roosevelt Field out of New York at 7:51 a.m. He carried 450 gallons of gasoline, making the single-engine plane weigh about 2,750 pounds. He had packed only five sandwiches and brought no coffee. Since he was flying solo, he would have to stay awake for the entire trip. Thirty-two hours and counting . . .
How would it feel to stay awake that long? And how cold had it become thousands of feet above the earth, as the newspapers had reported? Had Lindbergh eaten all of his sandwiches yet? And where—
Someone in the crowd yelled, and an absolute hush dropped like a heavy paint canvas over the people who stood crushed together. The faint drone of an engine filled the air, its rumbling growing louder and closer. Suddenly, people were moving, and not in any particular direction, as they strained to catch sight of the approaching plane.
Nancy held on to Georgina with both hands, who held on to her mother. But Nancy’s feet were rooted to the rutted ground as the plane in the sky circled the landing field. Flashlights clicked on in earnest now, like a horde of fireflies suddenly come to life. People aimed their flashlights toward the sky, trying to cast their own personal spotlight of history in the making. But the plane didn’t descend toward the airfield; it continued to circle. What was the pilot doing? Why wasn’t he landing? Was it really Charles Lindbergh after all?
“Is it really that small of a plane?” Georgina asked, wonder in her voice.
“Regardez ça!” someone shouted. “Monsieur Lindbergh!”
Cheers went up as the plane circled yet again, and somewhere in the crowd, an energetic song began—the French national anthem.
Nancy kept her chin raised; her eyes focused on the circling aircraft. Her pulse jarred through her, mimicking the stuttering sound of the plane engine.
Once, twice, three times the plane circled, and then it dipped. Nose first, it descended, faster than Nancy thought it should. Wasn’t there some sort of brakes? People scattered, ran, shouted . . . and all Nancy could do was grip her cousin’s arm and stare as Charles Lindbergh’s plane touched the ground. Dust bloomed, filling the night air, and Nancy tasted grit in her mouth as the scent of engine oil seemed to seep around her. The plane bumped along for dozens of yards before coming to a final stop.
People behind, to the side, and in front of Nancy’s group shifted and pressed and moved—all trying to get closer. Policemen circled the stopped plane, linking their hands to create a human barrier as they shouted in limp French for people to stand back.
The crowds broke through anyway.
Aunt Hannah’s viselike grip clutched both Nancy’s and Georgina’s arms. “We need to get away from here,” she burst out. “Everyone is going crazy.”
But Nancy couldn’t tear her gaze from the aviator who climbed out of the plane and waved his flight helmet in the air. She was too far away to see his face, and besides, flashlights were bobbing around, making everything distorted. It was surreal to realize that this man had just accomplished what no other person had ever done before.
“Nancy, now,” Aunt Hannah demanded.
Reluctantly, Nancy turned from the man who’d made aviation history. Clutching Georgina’s arm, she followed Aunt Hannah back to the train station, pushing through the tide of people moving in the opposite direction. Once free of the nearly stampeding crowd, the smoky-oil air dissipated and clean air filled Nancy’s lungs.
They reached the station only to find the trains weren’t running, their odor of steam and coal cinders the only thing indicating trains had been present earlier. A lone man stood on the platform, hat in hand, a gold-chain pocket watch visible on his suit vest. When Aunt Hannah approached him and inquired what was going on in her mediocre French, he said that everyone was at the field, including the train conductors.
“Ah, we meet again, Signora Denton,” another male voice said in a thick accent. “I have a car that can take you to your accommodations.”
Nancy turned to see a man only slightly taller than her five feet six inches. The man looked familiar, yet how was that possible? He wore a gray herringbone suit and darker-gray hat. Nancy flinched as the memory returned. She realized that the man’s brown eyes were the same ones that belonged to the man who’d paid them so much attention during their time at the beach in the Riviera. Ordering them drinks, asking her aunt questions while his gaze was upon Nancy, inviting them to dinner—which they’d declined.
“No, I don’t think so,” Aunt Hannah cut in, her voice an octave higher than normal. “We have our own transportation, sir.”
Hannah grasped Nancy’s and Georgina’s arms and bustled them away from the train platform.
Nancy glanced back at the man, who stood next to a sleek, dark car, hat in hand, seeming a bit forlorn. He was handsome, with his straight nose and square jaw—for an older gentleman, probably around her father’s age.
“Don’t look back, Nancy,” Aunt Hannah snapped as their heeled boots clicked on the cobblestones.
Georgina giggled.
“It’s not funny,” Aunt Hannah added.
“It’s a little funny, Mother,” Georgina said. “Who would have thought Nancy’s Italian count followed us all the way here?”
“He’s not my count,” Nancy protested, although it was a bit odd to see the man again so suddenly. “And everyone in all of France seems to be here—so it’s a coincidence.”
“Even so, there’s over 100,000 people gathered here. The radio said so. And your count comes out of nowhere.” Aunt Hannah snapped her gloved fingers. “Just like that. I don’t like it, Nancy.”
Nancy’s neckline itched, and she repeated, “He’s not my count.” But her lips twitched as she glanced at the smiling Georgina.
Aunt Hannah led them down another street lined with shops and cafés long since closed, although the aroma of baked delicacies and creamy chocolate lingered—both tempting and tormenting.
“Now, see here.” Aunt Hannah stopped just outside the halo of a streetlight. She faced them both, her arms folded. The streetlight beyond made her face an ethereal glow, but her eyes flashed as she narrowed them at Nancy. “The Italian count is no laughing matter. If he had pressed his case, I would have called over a policeman.”
“He was only trying to help, Mother,” Georgina countered. “You don’t need to be so ultra.”
Even Nancy knew not to argue with Aunt Hannah when she wore her stern expression.
“Nancy is thirteen years old, and that man is old enough to be her father.” Aunt Hannah set her hands on her hips. “I saw the way he watched her on the French Riviera. Everyone saw. It was quite inappropriate and mortifying. Nancy might appear older because of her . . . shapeliness, but that is no excuse for his behavior. Do you really want your cousin to be ogled by an older man who thinks he can have whatever, or whomever, he wants?”
Georgina turned somber. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
No one was laughing now. Even at the Riviera, Aunt Hannah had treated the attention as some great joke. But now, the edge to her voice held true worry.
“And you, Hannah Lincoln Harkness,” Aunt Hannah said, shifting her attention to Nancy. She meant business now—calling Nancy by her full name. Father hadn’t liked Mother’s family’s tradition of naming first daughters Hannah Lincoln, so he’d called her Nancy. And it had stuck. Mostly.
“Your mother allowed you to come on our European trip in order to broaden your education,” Aunt Hannah said. “She didn’t intend that education to be one of worldly men.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What do you think your parents would do in this situation?”
Nancy drew in a breath. “Father would punch the count’s nose, and Mother would keep me in a locked room for the next week.” It might be an exaggeration, but she knew her parents wouldn’t be pleased, and now she could see that weight of responsibility upon her aunt.
“You did the right thing,” Nancy continued her apology. “Thank you for bringing me and protecting me.”
Aunt Hannah gave a firm nod. “Now, be prepared to walk, girls. We have a ways to go. We’ll not be accepting any rides from strangers.”
They set off again, and Georgina edged close to Nancy as Aunt Hannah strode ahead, seeming to keep an eagle eye out for dark, lurking forms. “Just think, if he’s wealthy, you’d be set for life.”
“Oh, I thought of that already,” Nancy said with a quiet laugh. “But I don’t really want my children to speak Italian. Maybe if he were French . . .”
Georgina giggled. Ahead of them now, Aunt Hannah checked behind her, brows pulled together.
The girls fell silent. The only sounds in the Paris streets that echoed between them were their heeled boots and rustling skirts.
It felt as though hours had passed before they arrived at their hotel, but in reality, it had probably been only a single hour. The hotel lobby was ablaze with light and abuzz with people gathered to discuss Monsieur Lindbergh’s landing. No one would be sleeping tonight.
Charles Lindbergh had flown for thirty-three hours, thirty minutes, and thirty seconds. How would it be, Nancy wondered, to be the most-talked-about aviator in the world? And all that prize money was now his. Had the danger and uncertainty been worth it?
Other numbers swirled inside her head. One newspaper article she’d read the day before had reported that the single-engine plane had cost $10,580 to build, and it was powered by a Wright Whirlwind J-5 engine. Modifications had been made to the plane—ones that had proven successful, it seemed.
Lindbergh had forgone a copilot or a navigator to keep the plane lighter. He’d even left behind a parachute and radio. None of these details should be clouding Nancy’s thoughts and keeping her awake long after Georgina’s breathing had evened one twin bed over, but Nancy found herself curious all the same. Perhaps it was because Charles Lindbergh’s flight had been successful and not a disaster. Regardless, it was a far more interesting subject to think about than an old count who kept popping up wherever she was.