Crossing the Horizon Page 3

  He looked at her briefly and calmly removed her clenched hands, then shook his head. He looked weary.

  “I’m sorry, Elsie, I am. It’s impossible. I could never be happy with you,” he said quietly. “There are things you will never understand.”

  Then he opened the door and simply left.

  Elsie did not know if he ever returned. She packed a few things, called a car, and sought refuge with Sophie, who offered her a home for as long as she needed it.

  Then she sat down and wrote a long, honest letter to her father.

  * * *

  After Lord Inchcape read the letter that was delivered to Seamore Place, he called for his driver and was at Sophie Ries’ apartment that afternoon. Elsie hadn’t seen her father in almost four years. He hadn’t aged as much as he had shifted, seeming a little smaller and slightly lower, shrunken. While never a tall man, his overwhelming presence and the force that he carried with him had always been apparent. Some of that was now gone.

  She knew she had done that.

  But as her father entered Sophie’s drawing room, slightly smaller than he had been, he approached his favorite daughter without hesitation and embraced her gently.

  “My darling girl,” he said lightly, then released her to look at how much his daughter had transformed. “Oh, my dear girl.”

  * * *

  Elsie and her father returned to Glenapp Castle, where, along with her sisters, brother, and mother, a wiggling little present was waiting for her, too. It was a lanky, doe-eyed tan and white Borzoi puppy named Chim by his laughing, delighted mistress.

  Lord and Lady Inchcape and their prodigal daughter set sail for New York on the maiden voyage of the White Star Line’s Majestic, the largest vessel in the world. With a scrupulous eye, Elsie examined the ship and suggested improvements to their stateroom. It gave Inchcape a marvelous idea: bring Elsie into his cruise ship company. When he presented this idea to his daughter, she smiled and immediately began taking notes.

  It was on the return trip that an electric blonde with milk-colored skin plopped down next to Elsie one night during dinner at the captain’s table.

  “The Honourable Elsie Mackay, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Mabel Boll from New York,” the captain said before taking his seat at the dining table.

  “Pleasant to meet you,” Elsie said, nodding, noticing at once the amount of jewelry that had landed all over Mabel’s body in the appropriate places.

  Mabel, whose wide blue eyes sparkled almost as much as her diamonds, lit a cigarette, ignoring the men at the table who feebly offered matches. Her champagne blond hair was perfectly waved, sculptured. She was generous with her makeup, the bloodred color of her lips accentuating the poutiness that they possessed naturally. She was striking more than she was beautiful, and seemed more interesting than alluring.

  “This was my first trip to New York,” Elsie offered, in an attempt to start a conversation. “It was so much more vibrant than I ever imagined. London almost seems a bit sleepy by comparison, doesn’t it?”

  “Wouldn’t know,” Mabel replied, her words clipped as she leaned over on the folded arms she had rested on the table, the glowing tip of her cigarette coming entirely too close to Elsie’s silk sleeve. “Never been there. But I’m not staying in London; I’m going to Paris. New York’s nothing compared to Paris!”

  “So you’ve been to Paris?” Elsie inquired, hoping to find some common ground.

  “No, but I’ve heard about it,” Mabel replied without a beat. “Just got married, and I’m gonna buy a villa there. My husband is back in South America. He’s the coffee king of Colombia. Señor Hernando Rocha. You heard of him?”

  Elsie barely shook her head, still stinging from the word “married.”

  “Well,” Mabel said with a sigh, “he’s got his ranch, so I got this.”

  The blonde wiggled a finger on her left hand that bore an immense diamond on it, nearly the size of an eyeball.

  “Forty-six carats,” she said simply, and shrugged. “Makes complaining worthless, don’t it? Say, don’t I know you?”

  Elsie smiled politely, and nodded once. “Well . . .” she replied. “I did do a bit of acting a while ago, but I think I might try my hand at something else soon.”

  Mabel leaned in and furrowed her eyebrows.

  “And just what might that something be?”

  Startled slightly by Mabel’s sudden proximity, Elsie sat up straight and moved slightly farther back in her chair.

  “Flying,” Elsie said. “During the war, I was stationed at a Royal Flying Corps base. I’ve never experienced anything that exciting since; even acting was rather dull compared to it. I’m thinking about taking some lessons, learning to fly myself.”

  “You don’t saaaay,” the newly married, heavy-fingered bride said, stretching out the vowel for emphasis. She then reached for the cocktail, tipped it, and swallowed it in two dainty gulps.

  “Thank heavens for international waters,” she said with a laugh, and then got up, her empty glass in hand. “Prohibition is criminal.”

  Mabel Boll never returned to the dinner table that night, and Elsie didn’t see her again for the duration of the trip, although rumors swirled about her on a daily basis. That she danced all night in one of the ship’s clubs; that she had her own stash of liquor in her cabin; that after flirting unabashedly with the marvelously rich Marshall Field III, she caused quite a row between him and his wife, Evelyn; that she emerged from a stateroom not assigned to her early in the morning and scrambled down the hall. Elsie paid no attention to the swirling clouds of gossip about Mabel Boll. She was busy thinking about something else. The moment she got back to London, she tracked down Anthony Joynson-Wreford and asked him for a recommendation for the best flight instructor in England.

  “That’s an easy favor, Else,” he said over the phone. “Captain Herne: he’s the most experienced man in the business. He’s right outside of London. I’ll ring him up.”

  * * *

  It was the knock on the door that woke Elsie, who struggled slightly to emerge from a deep, laudanum-aided dream of her past. Her hand throbbed considerably less.

  Sophie peeked her head through the barely open door.

  “Are you awake?” she whispered. Elsie nodded and waved her close friend in.

  “Oh, Elsie Mackay, you have gone and done it now,” she said, sitting on the bed and grazing Elsie’s palms with her forefinger. She winced. “That looks truly awful. Are you going to tell me what really happened? It’s not a motor burn, unless you were daft enough to slam both your hands on the engine. Don’t forget, I was a nurse, you know.”

  Elsie sighed. “Swearing you to utter secrecy,” she said, looking at Sophie sternly. “Tried my hand as an air acrobat, but didn’t like it. I’d rather just fly the bloody plane.”

  Sophie raised her eyebrows in disgust. “Truth, please,” she asked.

  Elsie nodded. “But you won’t believe it,” she said. “Hernie and I were doing an outer-loop trick and it was the most shocking, marvelous thing. You can’t imagine it, Sophie; the wind is whipping so quickly, and your body is reeling with this force and—”

  “What happened to your hands?” Sophie interrupted.

  “The safety belt ripped and I flew out of the cockpit,” Elsie admitted. “I grabbed the bracing wires until Hernie landed, and, well, now I’m afraid I’m grounded for a while.”

  “That’s ridiculous and I wish you’d tell me what honestly happened,” Sophie said sternly. “Have it your way, Elsie; I’m just glad that you’ve been cured of this flying nonsense no matter what absurd injury you’ve inflicted on yourself. Stay on the ground with us.”

  Elsie laughed. “Well, it’s true, I won’t be flying any time soon,” she confessed. “But I haven’t been cured of anything. Now that I have some spare time, I’ve decided I’m going to get my pilot’s license and buy a plane of my own.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  SUMMER 1927

  Mabel Boll, a new bri
de.

  A long, thin shadow was slung across the garden wall, moving purposefully, invisible to the guards and the dogs.

  After several minutes, the skulking figure turned sharply into the courtyard at the front of the Villa de Florentino in Chantilly, France. The night was clear and crisp; a slight breeze blew in and rustled the vines of honeysuckle and jasmine, which were on the verge of bloom. The sky was a navy blue, lighter toward the horizon as the sun was setting later and the days stretching longer. In minutes the whole sky would sink into darkness except for the bold glow of the moon, which he hoped wouldn’t expose him.

  From a crouching position, he scurried toward the doors through the blossoming courtyard, fragrances blowing from every direction. He loved the smell of flowers, especially at nighttime, and especially on her. As he reached the entrance, he eagerly twisted one of the handles on the arching, towering doors and pushed. It was locked.

  It was never locked.

  He tried both to no avail, and then leaned his chiseled, exquisitely handsome face against the two-hundred-year-old solid mahogany doors in complete despair.

  “But I love you,” he whispered to absolutely no one.

  A moment passed.

  “But I love you,” he said louder, slicing the silence with his pitiful declaration.

  He took a step back and looked up to the window of her bedroom. It was dark. There was no movement.

  “But I love you!” he shouted this time, directly at the window in his brooding Latin accent. “I say I love you! You say you love me, too! Te amo! TE AMO!”

  And then he beat his chest once as if it were a physical exclamation point.

  As he hoped, a light flicked on in the bedroom window—a small light, then a brighter one. The curtains fluttered, briefly; in a wide sweep, they parted and she appeared in silhouette, lit from behind by the bedroom lamps.

  The double windows swung open in chorus, and there she stood, glorious, beautiful, a woman.

  She put her hands on her hips.

  “For crying out loud, Georges, are you off your nut?” Mabel Boll shouted down from her bedroom window. “Just how tight are you?”

  “Oh, May-belle, let me up! I have to see you! We talk, please!” Georges pleaded, his hands clasped together as he looked upward at his shining, glowing angel.

  “We already had this talk, Georges,” Mabel said, lighting a cigarette and inhaling aggressively. “I already told you, the bank’s closed. Now scram.”

  “But you are my love, you are my life,” Georges said, stepping toward the window. “I have nothing but you, want nothing but you!”

  Mabel rubbed her eyes and then put her elbows on the windowsill tiredly.

  “Go home, Georges,” she tried to say kindly, though she truly didn’t even come close. “I’m sure your mother is waiting for you.”

  “So you love tiny man more than me?” the young man below asked, taking another step toward the window.

  “I told you!” Mabel yelled back, and stomped her foot for emphasis and opened her arms wide. “He has a plane! A plane, Georges!”

  She shook her head at him, turned her back in frustration, then turned back toward him. “I told you he’s going to fly me across the ocean! Do you have a plane, Georges? No, no, you don’t. You don’t even have a car. You walked here, didn’t you?”

  “May-belle,” he said as he started to weep, “te amo. TE AMO!”

  Crying, Georges brought his hands to his face and took another step closer to the window, walking into the trellis that bore the jasmine and wrapping himself with the long, spiraling tentacles that had smelled so lovely just minutes before.

  “Arnaud!” Mabel bellowed to her butler. “Would you please help free Mr. Georges in the courtyard? He’s caught up in the vines again! And now he’s crying.”

  She took another drag of her cigarette and settled in to watch the show below as Georges thrashed and wailed simultaneously. Finally, Arnaud, an elderly and easily aggravated fellow, opened the front door and entered the courtyard. Georges, with one terrific rip, pulled the vines from his body and released himself from his foliage prison.

  He looked at Mabel furiously and stepped back so as to not be ensnared again.

  “Tell me you don’t love me,” he said, his arms raised, his face still cast in anger, his eyes imploring.

  Mabel exhaled. “I don’t love you, Georges,” she said simply. Then she shrugged.

  She was just as surprised as Arnaud was when from the back of his waistband Georges pulled out a revolver and waved it high above him.

  “You don’t love me?” he cried, but really no longer crying crying. “So see what happens when you don’t love me!”

  Mabel ducked behind the window and Arnaud dove behind a planter as the shot rang out, but it was a wasted effort. Its only purpose was for Mabel to watch her young gigolo push the muzzle of the revolver into his chest where he believed his heart to be and then pull the trigger. The force blew him backward into the vines, and immediately, Mabel heard him moan in what was going to be the last sound he made on earth as the smoke from the discharge dissipated and rose, swirling upward to meet the navy blue sky.

  Arnaud was the first on the scene, and it took Mabel a little longer to arrive by her former lover’s side as she tried on several pairs of slippers before settling on the right ones for a shooting and headed downstairs, fixing her hair while passing the mirror.

  Georges was breathing heavily when she reached his side, and she grasped his hand (and inadvertently several stands of jasmine), since she knew it would sound good in the retelling of this night in subsequent conversations.

  “Oh, darling,” she said as she wiped his brow with her other hand. “I’m so sorry we quarreled. Do you forgive me? Can you forgive me? Georges? Georges? Good night, my Spanish prince. Good night, my darling! Are you still with me?”

  “He’ll be with you for a good, long while,” Arnaud informed her as he held out his hand. “I found the bullet rolling around inside his shirt. It must have bounced off his lower rib. Couldn’t have killed a bird with that shot.”

  Mabel looked down and saw a wound closer to his gut than to his heart.

  “Te amo,” Georges whispered as he looked up to her, his eyes wide and true.

  Mabel sighed, shook her head, and dropped Georges’ hand to the ground.

  “You know,” she said as her eyes met his, “that’s all very nice, Georges, but you’re barely even bleeding.”

  * * *

  Two weeks earlier, a shrill voice had screamed from outside the courtyard wall. “Marcelle! Hurry up! And bring the blue suitcase! I don’t want to be here when the bandits arrive!”

  Almost immediately, a young girl in her early twenties quickly walked out of the front double doors, head down in shame, to the cherry red Duesenberg waiting outside the courtyard walls in the driveway of Mabel Boll’s country estate. In her hand was the blue suitcase in question, its contents the reason Mabel was eager to go on the lam.

  “You got everything?” she shouted at Marcelle. “The rings?”

  “Oui, Madame,” the plain-looking girl, very pale in complexion and with her mousy brown hair pulled back tightly in a bun, replied quickly.

  “My sixty-two-carat diamond that was in the ancient crown of Poland?” Mabel asked again.

  “Oui, Madame,” Marcelle confirmed again, standing by the side of the car, still looking at the ground, her light-blue maid’s uniform starched and stiff, the frilly white headpiece pinned savagely to her head.

  “And my bracelets?” Mabel dug again, her eyes piercing the side of the girl’s head.

  “Oui, Madame, I have brought one hundred of them,” the maid declared.

  “Good.” Mabel nodded, her blond curls peeking out and glistening in the sun from under her cloche. “I need to have all my jewelry with me not only for the bandits but for Charles Levine. I missed him and I don’t care if we have to check every hotel in Paris: I am going to find him if it kills us both!”

&n
bsp; “Oui, Madame,” Marcelle agreed. “The tiny man?”

  “Well, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but he’s not a midget!” Mabel scolded. “He’s just not all that big. What he is lacking in his inseam, he makes up for in guts. The man has guts, Marcelle. And we missed him in Monte Carlo by minutes!”

  In Monte Carlo several days before, Mabel Boll had been ready to pounce on one Mr. Charles Levine, the first transatlantic airplane passenger, who had landed in Germany several weeks before in a plane flown by Clarence Duncan Chamberlin to much fanfare. Instead, Mabel—“Mibs,” to her close friends—not only missed Levine but was informed that a rumor was circling about Mabel’s arrival. A ruthless band of thieves, it was said, had heard that Mibs, “the Queen of Diamonds,” as she was known in the society columns, had left her trove of millions and millions in jewelry basically unguarded and there for the lifting.

  “My sixty-two-carat?” Mabel exclaimed upon learning the dreadful, horrible, vicious news, nearly collapsing on the roulette table. “That was in the ancient crown of Poland!”

  If she were honest, Mabel would have admitted quite a while ago that the ancient Polish diamond was so heavy that it was akin to having a full milk bottle strapped to her hand. It caused her so much fatigue while drinking that it became difficult to enjoy a good, stiff cocktail and made her whole arm go to sleep.

  “The thieves may be on the way to your villa right now,” Jenny Dolly, one of the sexually tantalizing but remarkably talentless identical twin dancing sisters of Broadway fame, informed Mibs in a deep whisper as she placed a huge bet consisting of her paramour Harry Selfridge’s money at the roulette table. Within several years, the gambling debts incurred by Jenny and her duplicate, Rose, would bankrupt the man who established one of London’s leading department stores. They would not mind.

  “But I’m a vulnerable widow!” Mabel exclaimed. “Why me? Why choose me? A woman who is completely alone in this world! Haven’t I been victim enough?”