10

HOPE

APRIL 9, 1912

DOVER, ENGLAND

It was four o'clock in the morning when I rose from my bed at the Lord Warden Hotel and went to the window to check the weather. Fog blanketed the streets, causing my heart to fall. We had waited for a week before I could test the Blériot in Hardelot, and then another week for the aeroplane to be shipped to Dover. For the past two days, a dense fog had sat thick over the Channel. But today was the last possible day I could make the flight if we wanted to arrive in Cherbourg in time to board the Titanic.

The hotel room was dark and silent as I began to pace. Last night, Luc and Grace had taken a ferry to Calais in case the weather improved and I could make the flight. Grace wanted to be on the field with a camera to photograph my arrival, and Luc wanted to be there to manage the press. Before he left, he had said to be ready for his phone call at four to let me know if the flight would happen this morning.

I glanced at the clock. It was now five minutes past four, and the phone was still silent.

As I paced and waited, anxious thoughts shifted between the flight and my life in Salem.

It had been over two weeks since we learned the truth about our mother in 1692. We had tried asking Leah what she heard or understood, but she said nothing. If Father knew Ann Pudeator had visited and told us the truth, there was no telling what might happen to her. I prayed that Leah's mutism would continue—at least in this regard.

Since it would be impossible to get away from the ordinary—and Father—long enough to travel to Sandwich, we had to wait for Isaac to go on our behalf. It wasn't like him to subvert our father's authority and look for answers that Uriah Eaton wanted to hide. It gave me a newfound respect for Isaac. I had always thought he was a rule-follower, but perhaps he bent the rules when the rules were unjust.

As for Rebecca Nurse and Dorothy Good, both had been questioned and held in the Salem gaol for further trial. Rebecca claimed innocence to witchcraft. Little Dorothy Good was another story. She confessed that her mother, Sarah Good, was, in fact, a witch. And when Susannah found a small red spot on Dorothy's hand, no bigger than a flea bite, Dorothy claimed her mother's familiar, a little yellow bird, suckled there. The magistrates were elated to have the confession and physical evidence.

I was angry. Who would take the word of a scared and suggestable four-year-old? Thinking about it made my blood boil, and I began to pace with new energy.

The phone rang, and I raced across the room to answer it. With a pounding heart, I said, "Luc? Is it time?"

"Oui."

That one word, once so foreign and strange, filled me with inexplicable feelings.

"A driver will arrive in twenty minutes to take you to the aerodrome," he continued. "The mechanics are on their way there now. It is still foggy over the Channel, but if you stick true to the compass, you will have no trouble finding Calais."

"What if I don't?" I asked, the first hint of trepidation filling my heart.

Just yesterday, Luc had shown me how to use a compass when it became clear we were running out of time. On a clear day, I should be able to see the French coastline from Dover. But with the fog, I would be flying blind. If we wanted to get to the Titanic in Cherbourg by tomorrow evening, a nine-hour train ride from Calais, then this was the only way.

"You have no choice," Luc said, his voice grave. "Even if you get just a few miles off course, you could be lost in the North Sea. That is not an option."

I swallowed my nerves. There was no time to be afraid. Fear clouded the mind and created trouble where there was no trouble. I was capable of this flight, and I needed to keep believing it to be true.

"Hope?"

"Yes?"

"Je prierai pour toi."

"What does that mean?"

"I'll be praying for you."

He hung up, and I took a deep breath.

Everything hinged on the next few hours. My parents' orphanage, Grace's work as a journalist, Luc's faith in me—and my life in 1912.

I quickly dressed, putting on my brown flying suit with two pairs of long underwear underneath. I also wore a long wool coat, a sealskin stole, and two pairs of long gloves. Luc had warned me that it would be frigid over the water, so I was taking extra precautions.

A maid brought hot tea up to my room, as Grace had requested for me last evening before she and Luc left for Calais. I forced myself to drink it, even though it was scalding as it ran down my throat.

I hated being alone—especially now, as so many thoughts raced through my mind—but I hoped Grace and Luc had used the time on the ferry and at the hotel in Calais to get to know each other better. They had not become friends over the past two weeks, since Luc spent most of his time away from the hotel and Grace spent most of her time writing, but they had a newfound respect for each other. If that was all I could get from them, it would have to be enough.

Thirty minutes later, I arrived at the aerodrome and was surprised to find a whole crowd of people waiting for me. The Daily Mirror had sent representatives and movie cameras to record my historic takeoff after Luc phoned to tell them today was the day.

The aerodrome, which was simply a flying field, sat on the White Cliffs of Dover with a straight, clear shot of the Channel and Calais. There was a sense of urgency since rain was forecasted to start later that morning. The mechanics quickly wheeled the Blériot out of the hangar. It was such a frail contraption of wood, fabric, and wires.

Again, apprehension and fear wrapped around my heart, and I had to take several deep breaths to calm myself.

Dense fog covered the water. There was no wind, which would make flying easier, but it wouldn't help remove the low-lying clouds.

"Are you ready, Miss Cooper?" one of the mechanics asked as I stared at Dover Castle. Luc had told me that I needed to fix my eyes on the castle, fly over it, and head straight on to Calais.

"Yes." I nodded. "Let's go."

The mechanic knelt beside the aeroplane and allowed me to use his thigh as a step to climb onboard. It was harder to maneuver in so many layers, but I was able to make my way to the metal chair in the cockpit. The instruments and layout were a little different than I was used to, but I had familiarized myself with them and was confident in my abilities.

But what if my abilities weren't enough? I wished Grace and Luc were with me on this side of the flight. What if I didn't make it across?

I shook the thought from my head. It wasn't an option.

As I started the motor, six mechanics held the fifty-horsepower engine at bay. I wished I'd had more time to test-fly it before attempting to go over the water, but it didn't matter anymore.

The mechanics let go and dove out of the way.

I was off.

Within seconds, I was fifteen hundred feet in the air, but Dover Castle was banked in fog and hard to see from this height. I had promised the Daily Mirror representatives and movie men that I would fly straight over the castle, so I set my sights on it and did as promised.

Before I knew it, I was out over the water.

The wind rushed past me, giving me chills—but I smiled. Nothing made me feel more alive than flying. Behind me, the imposing White Cliffs of Dover disappeared into the fog, and I was all alone with nothing but thick, white clouds and the sound of the aeroplane for companions.

It was an eerie feeling. I was moving, but nothing around me changed. The only thing that marked my progress was the pocket watch I pulled out from time to time.

The engine sputtered castor oil and sprayed me in the face, covering my goggles. The fog was full of misting rain, adding to the trouble. I ripped off the goggles, keeping my eye on the compass, adjusting the aeroplane to stay on course. I was going sixty miles an hour, which meant I should land in Calais in twenty minutes.

Twenty short minutes felt like a lifetime.

I didn't give myself the opportunity to think about the fact that I was flying over the tempestuous English Channel or that the North Sea was just a few miles away. At this point, it was all instinct and routine. I couldn't see the water below me because of the dense fog, so I climbed to three thousand feet, hoping to get above the misting clouds. But the air was so cold up there, and the fog was still dense. After a few minutes, I decided to go lower to see if I could break through the fog closer to the water.

The visibility was better the lower I went—but a sudden jolt of turbulence rattled the aeroplane, and its tail snapped up at a steep angle. I grabbed the edges of the cockpit to keep myself from being thrown out of the aeroplane, and a rush of adrenaline coursed through me. It was like a large, invisible hand had reached out and flicked the aeroplane's tail.

I barely had time to react before the plane had righted itself again—but in that brief moment, my engine had filled with gasoline and started to sputter.

If the fuel didn't burn off the engine in time, I would go down.

Panic seized me as I tried to keep control of the aeroplane.

My mind raced with possibilities as the engine continued to sputter and the plane lost altitude. What would I do if I hit the water? The waves were treacherous. Would anyone find me before I succumbed to drowning or hypothermia?

It all happened in seconds, but it felt like an eternity as I said a prayer under my breath, trying to remain calm. My only hope was to try to land on the water and use my aeroplane as a buoy until I could be rescued.

As I watched the oncoming water and my engine continued to sputter, disappointment gripped me like a vice, sucking the air from my lungs. All I could think about was the money and time we had wasted. How would I tell Mama and Daddy that we couldn't save their orphanage? How would I pay back Luc? Or Mr. Blériot?

With no choice left, I looked over the edge of the plane, trying to find a smooth patch of water.

Seconds before my wheels touched the first wave, the gasoline burned off the engine, it stopped sputtering, and my plane started to rise again. I was so close to the waves that a spray of water hit my face, but relief overwhelmed me as I threw my head back and yelled with excitement.

Perhaps I wouldn't fail, after all.

I climbed the Blériot higher. I was so close to reaching my goal, I could feel the anticipation growing.

The aeroplane was now at about two thousand feet, and the clouds finally parted, allowing me to see the white, sandy shores of France.

My heart soared, and I briefly closed my eyes to offer a prayer of thanksgiving. I never felt closer to God than when I was in an aeroplane. Here, it didn't matter which religion was right or wrong—it was just me, God, and the sky. No one to answer to. Nothing to analyze or explain. Just a weightless peace and an assurance that I was doing what I was created to do.

And right now, I needed to find the field in Calais where Grace and Luc were waiting.

It didn't take long. There were hundreds of people waiting for my arrival. Photographers, movie cameras, reporters, and curious citizens. Louis Blériot had made the first successful flight across the English Channel just three years ago, and many other men had followed. I was the first woman to attempt the flight—and I had made it.

Joy filled my heart to bursting.

Thankfully, there was a clear path for me to land the plane. I did it with ease—almost second nature.

The first person I saw was Luc. He was grinning as he sprinted toward me. He had never looked more handsome or attractive. The sunshine made his eyes sparkle.

I removed my gloves and canvas jacket and started to climb out of the aeroplane, but Luc reached up and put his hands around my waist, lifting me out. When he set me on my feet, we were face to face.

He shook his head and continued to grin. "Félicitations, Hope. You will be the most famous woman in the world when news gets out about your amazing feat." He motioned to the surging crowd. "This is just the beginning."

I couldn't contain my excitement—so I threw my arms around Luc and kissed him.

When I pulled back, I hoped to see surprise or wonder on his face—but all I saw was his unadulterated excitement.

He hadn't realized my kiss was romantic.

I didn't have time to contemplate his reaction or dwell on my disappointment because I was swarmed by cheering Frenchmen who lifted me onto their shoulders, chanting, "Courageux! Courageux!" Laughing, I tried to keep my balance and look over the heads of the crowd to find Grace.

She was there in the distance, behind her camera. When she saw me looking at her, she lowered the camera and ran across the field, a brilliant smile on her face.

"Let me down," I said to the men holding me. "Please!"

The second my feet hit the grass, I started to run toward Grace. My heart was pounding, and I couldn't remember being this happy before. The force of our hug took my breath away, and I felt like we were one, sharing this moment.

"Hope!" Grace cried as she held me tight. "You made it! You're alive!"

I laughed as I squeezed her back.

I had made it—and this was just the beginning.

The second part of our plan would start when we boarded the Titanic.

APRIL 10, 1912

CALAIS, FRANCE

I was still grinning the next day when we woke up in our hotel room in Calais.

Grace was in the single bed next to me, sound asleep. After my accomplishment over the English Channel, it had been difficult to keep my excitement contained while we were in Salem the day before. Spring had begun to bloom, but darkness still hovered over the New England village like the dead of winter.

But I wouldn't let that dim my joy—not today. Not in France.

"Grace," I said as I reached across the small space and tapped her shoulder. "Wake up."

She moaned and turned to her other side. "Let me sleep."

We'd been awake until the wee hours of the morning. Hundreds of people had heard about my flight and had come to the hotel to celebrate as only the French could. There had been laughter, cheers, dancing, and champagne. Grace's physical body still needed to recover.

But I couldn't stay in bed another second.

I dressed as quickly as I could and slipped out of the room. The hotel lobby was quiet as I went to the front desk to look for today's newspaper—and there I saw it.

L'Aviatrix américaine est la première femme à survoler la Manche.

The article was in French, but I knew what it said. American aviatrix is the first woman to fly over the Channel. My name was below the headline with the picture Grace had taken.

"There you are," Grace said a moment later as she found me in the lobby, her eyes still sleepy. "I called to you as you were leaving the room, but you didn't hear me."

"Look," I said, showing her the newspaper. "Your picture."

She smiled. "I wired another article to the New York Globe last night, and I received messages from half a dozen newspapers across America wanting me to send them articles about the flight. They're all clamoring to know more. I'll be busy writing on the ship as you wine and dine with the wealthy passengers. I've heard the Astors will be on board. John Jacob Astor is the wealthiest man in the world, and his young wife, Madeleine, is fond of aviation."

I hugged Grace, happy that I didn't have to hide my excitement here.

We returned to our room and quickly packed our bags. The train would leave at eight for Paris, where we would retrieve our luggage and then board another train for Cherbourg. We would need to be there by six in the evening to purchase tickets for the Titanic, which departed at exactly eight o'clock.

Luc met us in the lobby with his bag twenty minutes later. He looked just as sleepy as Grace had.

"Bonjour," he said, his languid voice stirring butterflies in my stomach. Ever since kissing him, I'd been a wreck around him—especially because he hadn't mentioned it once. How would I sit on a train for hours on end and not let him know how I felt?

We were soon at the station, and Luc paid for a private compartment.

"We don't need to travel first class," Grace said to him. "The parlor car will do fine."

"You need to write, no?" His blue-green eyes studied my sister's face.

"Yes—but I can write in the parlor car."

Luc shook his head as he accepted the tickets for our first-class compartment. "It will be quieter," he said as he motioned for us to follow him. "If anyone discovers who we are, they will not leave us alone."

The porter showed us to our compartment, with its plush, red velvet seats and generous windows to watch the passing countryside.

I took a seat next to the window, Grace sat beside me, and Luc sat across from us.

Nothing had seemed to change between them, and when I had asked if they'd had a chance to talk while in Calais, Grace had simply said no.

She quickly pulled out her travel desk and began to write as the train left the station. Luc settled back on his bench and crossed his arms, looking out the window, his thoughts far away. Soon he closed his eyes.

The only sound in our compartment was the grinding of the wheels against the rails beneath the train. So much had happened, but we'd already said a lot yesterday, so I lay my head against the window and fell into a light sleep.

When I opened my eyes again, the French countryside was passing by. Luc was awake, unguarded, sitting quietly—his gaze intent upon Grace.

I slowly sat up and looked at my sister. She was still writing diligently, lost in her work. Her brow was furrowed, tendrils of her blond hair were brushing her cheeks, and she had ink stains on her right hand. It took her a moment to notice that I had woken up, and when she did, she looked at me and smiled.

As I turned back to Luc, he was looking outside again, his emotions shuttered.

A while later, a porter knocked at the door and told us that we were approaching Paris. The train was running a little late as we pulled into Gare Saint-Lazare. We still had to return to the hotel where we'd stayed two weeks ago to retrieve our luggage, then get back to the station to board the next train at one o'clock. That left us only half an hour.

"We must rush," Luc said as he looked at the station clock. "We cannot miss the train."

Grace and I followed him through the busy station to the street outside, where he hailed a taxicab to take us to the hotel.

The Paris streets were crowded with pedestrians, omnibuses, automobiles, carriages, and wagons. It was cool and cloudy with a light drizzle as we passed the Square Louis XVI and then followed a road that bent one way and then the next past the Palais Garnier, where the Opéra national de Paris performed. Our hotel was close to the opera house, but the minutes were ticking by, and Luc was stiff beside me. He spoke in French to the driver, who seemed to be just as anxious as Luc.

We finally arrived, and Luc spoke to the driver, who nodded and waved him inside.

"He'll wait for us," Luc said, "but we must hurry."

We left the taxi and ran into the hotel lobby. The desk clerk was busy helping another customer. Luc tried to wait patiently, but he finally interrupted them.

"Pardon," he said and spoke in rapid French. The other customer didn't look pleased, but Luc seemed to communicate we were in a great hurry.

After an eternity, all the luggage was brought out to the taxi, and we were on our way back to the station. The traffic soon became so bad, we were at a standstill, and Luc was saying things under his breath in French.

I pulled out my pocket watch and my heart fell.

We only had five minutes left.

Grace glanced down at my watch, and her face revealed her disappointment.

"We won't make it," I said to Luc. "It's already too late."

"We have to try," he said. "Perhaps there is another train leaving for Cherbourg that can make it on time."

His optimism was inspiring, but it wasn't realistic.

The taxi driver helped with the luggage, but when we got to the ticket counter, the agent shook his head.

Luc's shoulders fell, and he let out a frustrated breath as he forcefully pushed away from the ticket counter. When he looked back at me, I could see his defeat. "I am sorry. We will have to find passage on another ship."

"It will be okay," I said, stepping close to him to put my hand on his arm. "I'm sorry we'll miss the Titanic, but it doesn't diminish my success. There will be other opportunities."

He nodded. "Oui. Of course. This is just a little setback. We won't let it stop us from our goal." He glanced at Grace and said, "I am sorry I could not make this happen."

She offered him a beautiful smile. It wasn't forced or feigned, and it communicated her respect for him. "You have done so much for us. You have nothing to be sorry about."

A weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, and he returned Grace's smile before he went back to the ticket counter to purchase our fare to Cherbourg for a later train.

I was relieved they had finally moved past their dislike of one another—yet something else pinched at my heart. Ever since I'd woken up on the train, I had observed something disquieting.

Luc looked at my sister much differently than he looked at me.