8

HOPE

MARCH 23, 1912

HARDELOT, FRANCE

The tramcar was crowded with families heading to the beach for Easter vacation. My ears rang with the shrieks of excited children, reprimands of overwhelmed parents, and grumblings of crabby grandparents. There were so many of us packed into the tramcar, Luc, Grace, and I could not find a place to sit. We had been standing for over an hour and a half, since leaving Boulogne, changing cars once to reach the famous resort town of Hardelot.

In moments like this, when I could not talk about my upcoming flight with Luc, my mind traveled back to Salem. I still couldn't believe what Ann Pudeator had told us. Our mother hadn't died in childbirth. But how had she died? When had she died? Was she hanged as a witch as Susannah had claimed? Grace and I didn't even know who to ask, and once Father and Susannah returned to Salem, we didn't have the ability to travel to Ann again. Even if we did, I doubted she'd tell us more. I tried to put it out of my mind as much as possible—though Grace wouldn't let it go so easily.

"You've been to Hardelot before?" I asked Luc, who stood sandwiched between two rambunctious little girls playing peekaboo around him. He was smiling at their antics, allowing them to continue, even after an hour and a half of weary traveling. He joined in from time to time, moving to one side or the other, surprising the little girls and making them giggle.

It was a side of Luc I'd never seen before. He was playful, even in a crowd of people—though they didn't know his identity. What would happen if I told everyone he was the famous aviator Lucas Voland? He was an international hero—but here in his home country, he was a legend.

Grace stood behind Luc, watching the little girls. Since the morning of Father's wedding, neither of us had brought up Luc's name in 1692 again. But to Grace's credit, she did appear to be more friendly with him. She was polite—almost too polite—and tried to engage him in conversations, when necessary. But she still regarded him with caution, which was painfully obvious to me—and probably obvious to Luc, as well. He treated her with the same politeness, answering her questions, though he only spoke to her when required.

When we arrived in London, Luc had traveled ahead to Paris with no time to lose. While he met with Louis Blériot to arrange the use of an aeroplane, Grace and I had met with the editor of the London Daily Mirror. After telling him who we were and why we had come to Europe, he had agreed to hire Grace as the Mirror's representative for my flight.

It was her first international job.

After we joined Luc in Paris, he had told us that Louis Blériot's monoplane—the one I would use—was in Blériot's hangar in Hardelot where he summered. Luc recommended I test-fly the aeroplane before we had it shipped to Dover, England, for the flight.

So nine days after arriving in Europe, we found ourselves on a packed tramcar to Hardelot, watching Luc entertain children. I was anxious to test-fly the Blériot. We only had eighteen days before the Titanic would depart, and I didn't want to miss our opportunity.

"Luc?" I asked, trying to gain his attention.

"Oui?"

"You've been to Hardelot?" I asked him again.

He finally looked away from the little girls. "No."

I frowned. Hardelot was a popular seaside resort town a hundred and sixty miles north of Paris. "You didn't come as a child with your family?"

"No," he said again but did not expound. Instead, he returned his attention to the children.

My frown deepened. I had assumed he was from a wealthy family because he spoke flawless English and was a pilot. Flying was an expensive endeavor. Perhaps I had been wrong. But every time I asked him about his past, he brushed aside my questions, just like now. Why didn't he want to speak about it? What was he hiding?

One of the little girls tried to move around Luc, but he blocked her, making her laugh. She fell backward into Grace, who caught her and smiled down at the child.

"Merci," the little girl said with more giggles.

Grace glanced up and caught Luc's eye. He smiled at her, and she returned the smile.

My heart soared at that small gesture. It was a start.

Children weren't drawn to me like they were to Grace, and I tried not to feel jealous as the girls included her in their game. It wasn't that I didn't like children—they were fine. Some of them were even cute. I had thought about having my own children, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to pass on my time-crossing gift. Not all children born from time-crossers carried the mark, though. Mama had a brother and sister in her 1941 path who weren't marked. But I didn't know if I was willing to take the risk. Maybe if I had only been given one path, the idea of having children wouldn't feel so daunting.

Darkness had fallen on Hardelot by the time we pulled into the station. Grace and I had left our steamer trunks in Paris and only brought essentials in the bags we now carried.

We were the only passengers who got off in Hardelot—which surprised me.

"The resort should be to the west," Luc said as the tramcar pulled away, the little girls waving at Luc and Grace through the back window.

We all turned west, expecting to see the lights from the resort in the distance.

All we saw was darkness.

The entire town felt deserted.

"I thought this was a popular seaside resort town," I said to Luc.

"It is." He frowned and nodded to a little café across the street. "Let's see why it's so quiet."

Grace and I followed him across the empty street. It was cold and windy with thick, heavy clouds overhead. There wasn't a star in sight, and the moon was nowhere to be seen.

The café was a warm and welcome respite after the noise of the tramcar and the chilly outdoors. Soft candlelight filtered from the tables, and the smell of fresh baked bread and spices made my stomach rumble. There were about a dozen other people in the café, most of them unaware of our entrance.

Luc found us a table, and the waitress arrived to take our order. Their words flew back and forth so quickly, I couldn't look from one speaker to the next before the other was talking again. The French language was beautiful, though I only understood a handful of words.

I didn't know what was being said, but it was easy to discern something was wrong. It was written all over Luc's face, and the waitress kept shaking her head.

When she finally left the table, Luc sighed. "The resort does not open until May."

"Even with the Easter holiday approaching?" Grace asked.

Luc nodded. "There is one hotel open, but the waitress doesn't know if we will find a room there."

"What will we do if we can't find a room?" I asked, frowning.

"I don't know." Luc shrugged. "We will hope and pray for the best. The closest town is Calais, thirty-two miles north. I do not know if they will have a hotel available, and there are no tramcars running there tonight. Besides, the monoplane is here in Hardelot."

The waitress brought lobster bisque and crusty bread to the table. The soup was warm and creamy, and the inside of the bread melted in my mouth.

"Do you like oranges?" Luc asked as the waitress waited for our reply.

I grinned, and Grace chuckled beside me.

"They're my favorite," I said. They were almost impossible to come by in Salem. Though they were grown in Florida in 1692, there was no way to transport them efficiently to the northern colonies without great expense. The only time I could enjoy them was in 1912, which I did whenever possible.

Luc nodded at the waitress, who left the table and soon returned with large, juicy oranges for us to enjoy.

A girl, perhaps ten or eleven, bussed tables nearby and watched us with curiosity. Her interest was so obvious, I finally leaned over to Luc and said, "Who is that girl?"

He looked in the direction I pointed and shrugged. "I do not know."

The next time the waitress appeared, Luc spoke to her, and the woman turned to the girl.

"She is the owner's daughter," Luc said to me. Then he spoke in French to the waitress again, who motioned for the girl to join them.

The girl was pretty, with dark brown eyes and hair. Her gaze shifted between Grace and me. "S?urs jumelles?" she asked, her shy face tilted down as she looked at us.

"Oui." Luc smiled. "Twin sisters."

"Sont-ils Américains?" she asked.

"Oui. They are Americans."

"Doesn't she know who you are?" I asked Luc.

He shook his head. "I am not here as an aviator. I am here as your business manager. It does not matter who I am. This is all for you."

His words warmed me, and I wanted to repay his thoughtfulness.

"Do you know Lucas Voland?" I asked the girl.

The girl's eyes grew wide. "Monsieur Lucas Voland?" She prattled off a slew of French words I did not understand, though I did catch grand aviateur. Great aviator.

I nodded. Even if she couldn't understand my English, she knew Luc's name. I motioned toward him, appreciating his attempt at humility, though it wasn't necessary. He deserved all the applause and accolades he could get.

Luc shook his head, and his shoulders grew stiff. What little relaxation he was enjoying a minute ago vanished, and his face shuttered.

"Lucas Voland?" the girl cried out. She shouted something toward the rest of the café, and all the patrons turned their heads to see.

Soon everyone, even the cook, was at our table, showering Luc with French words I could not understand. Finally the owner of the café broke up the group, and they began to return to their chairs, their faces bright with excitement.

The only person who didn't look pleased was Luc.

By the time we arrived at the hotel, Luc had become cold and distant again. He answered my questions, but with one- or two-word responses. Grace had become quiet and withdrawn, as well—though whether she was upset at me or Luc, I couldn't tell.

I tried to shake off their moods. I had learned my lesson and wouldn't tell anyone who Luc was again. But as soon as we walked into the hotel, I knew someone had called ahead from the café and told them who we were.

"Monsieur Voland!" the proprietor said with a hearty voice. "Bienvenue. Je suis honoré."

Luc's cool voice was not as lyrical as he spoke to the proprietor in French. It was easy to tell there was a problem here, too, though the proprietor looked very unhappy and uncomfortable. Luc said no several times, and the proprietor seemed to be trying to convince him to do something he didn't want.

I hung back with Grace, trying to stay small and out of the way in the corner. Luc was probably very angry with me already. I didn't want to irritate him further.

"He asked you not to tell anyone who he was," Grace said under her breath. "It's clear he doesn't like the attention. Why did you do it?"

"I thought he was attempting to be humble. Why fly if you don't want attention?"

"Not everyone does it for the applause, Hope. I don't write for applause but to shed light on injustice. Perhaps Luc flies for reasons other than fame."

I turned to her, surprised. "Does this mean he might have a noble character, after all?"

She sighed. "I don't know why he doesn't like the attention—perhaps he's a notorious criminal and doesn't want his past to come to light." A small smile tilted her lips at the absurdity, but then she became serious again. "Instead of assuming you know what's best for people, try to listen to them. Try to honor their wishes. He's not happy with you right now."

"This coming from the woman who has assumed the worst in him since you met."

She shook her head and looked down at the bag in her hand. "I admit I have not given him the benefit of the doubt, but he's so hard to get to know. All I can base my assumptions on are his behaviors, and he's often indifferent and withdrawn—if he's not being arrogant and aloof."

Finally, Luc turned, frustration in his hooded eyes. He crossed the lobby to join us. "There is only one room available. Monsieur LeBlanc is trying to give us his family's apartment, but I cannot put his children or his wife out of their home. So I have agreed that we will take the single room. I hope that is satisfactory."

"Yes." I nodded quickly, not wanting to make more trouble for him.

Luc was guarded as he spoke to Grace. "Will that be acceptable?"

She nodded. "Of course."

He turned back to the proprietor, and after several more minutes of debate, Mr. LeBlanc finally gave Luc a key and pointed toward the stairs.

Grace and I followed Luc up a narrow staircase and down a hallway to a door at the end. He unlocked the door to reveal a small, cold room with a single bed, a washstand on an old dresser, and a straight-backed chair in the corner. There were no rugs on the wood floor, only one small pillow on the bed, and a narrow window near the corner of the room.

When Luc turned on the lamp, it did nothing to improve the quality of the room. If anything, it looked more threadbare and uncomfortable.

Luc looked at Grace as if expecting her to complain.

Instead, my sister smiled and said, "At least we have a room and can be out of the night air. I'm thankful for that."

For the first time since the café, Luc smiled—and the tension I'd been feeling in my chest eased.

"Monsieur LeBlanc said he will have his son bring up extra blankets and pillows," Luc said. "I will sleep on the floor."

"You can't sleep on the floor," I told him.

"Of course I can. I grew up in much worse conditions."

It was another reference to his childhood. Did I take advantage of his comment and ask him to tell me about his past? Would he want to talk about it?

I opened my mouth to ask, but someone cleared their throat behind us, and I turned to find a teenage boy holding a stack of blankets and pillows. He stared at Luc as if seeing Zeus on Mount Olympus.

"Merci," Grace said as she took the items and then stepped between the boy and Luc. She gently closed the door, making the room feel much smaller.

"Hope and I will share the bed, and Luc can sleep on the floor," Grace said, her efficient, no-nonsense voice filling the room. "We will ask the proprietor to tell us as soon as another room opens."

She set the blankets and pillows on the bed and placed her bag next to them. After taking off her hat and gloves, she surveyed the room.

Luc and I watched her. She was taking charge, as she often did, and it was hard not to turn to her.

"There isn't a lot of space," she said with a nod, "but there's enough for a pallet here in the corner near the window." She picked up the blankets and walked over to where Luc was standing. He moved aside, and she began to layer the blankets on the floor.

"I believe one or two of those are for you and Hope," he said, his voice quiet. "The one on the bed is threadbare."

"We'll have each other to keep warm," she insisted without looking at him. "We're used to sharing a bed."

He took one of the blankets off the floor and handed it to her. "I insist."

She paused as their gazes met. Finally, she took the blanket and nodded, then went back to our bed to spread it out.

At least they were talking to each other. Kind of.

All I wanted was to go to sleep. Tomorrow I would test-fly the Blériot aeroplane, and then we could ship it to Dover, where I would make my flight. The sooner it was done, the better.

The only trouble was that I would have to endure an entire day in Salem before I would be back in Hardelot to fly. A difficult day of hard work, Susannah's constant whining, and the growing tension with the witch-hunt.

A knock at the door startled me.

Grace motioned for me to stay where I was and opened the door. It was Mr. LeBlanc.

"Pardon," he said in a thick French accent. "I have news about the weather."

Luc stepped forward and spoke in his native language. When the conversation ended, he turned to me with frustration and defeat on his face. "I asked Mr. LeBlanc to get the weather forecast—and it is not good. A storm is moving in, and they expect several days of wind and rain."

"What does that mean?" Grace asked.

"It means we will be here for a long time before Hope can test-fly the Blériot aeroplane. A week, perhaps, but it must be done. She cannot fly over the Channel without being familiar with the aeroplane."

"If it takes a week, then it takes a week," Grace said. "We will still have plenty of time to get to the Titanic."

Luc let out a sigh. "The other bad news is that the hotel is full until after Easter. There will not be another room available unless someone leaves early."

"It will be cozy," Grace conceded as she tried to assure him. "But we can make do."

Despite her optimism, my disappointment mounted.

I had to get over the Channel as soon as possible. The future of Mama and Daddy's orphanage depended upon it—and J. B. Thurston could not win.