Must the Maiden Die (4 page)

She broke off, because all at once she knew.
It must have shown on her face, because Cullen nodded, saying,
"Yes, it's a balloon."

"A gas balloon!" she said, abruptly
recalling articles she'd seen in library copies of
Harper's
Weekly.
And now it did seem obvious. A pale, shimmering balloon
floating on the air like an immense, gone-to-seed dandelion. With
her references now in mind, Glynis knew it must be made of India
silk contained within a net of thin, knotted silk twine.

"It's a lot bigger than the ones I've read
about," Cullen said. "Must be fifty feet high, and I'll bet it
weighs a ton or more. Wonder where it's going to land."

"Surely it won't land here," Glynis said,
shading her eyes against the canal's reflected light. "How can it?
We don't have coal gas yet, so it couldn't be reinflated to take
off again."

This seemed reasonable to her, yet Cullen
just shook his head, and now there could be little doubt that the
balloon, available coal gas or not, was descending. As it came
closer, Glynis could pick out, suspended from ropes that hung below
the balloon, a large, rattan or wicker basket. Painted on the
balloon itself, like a ship of the sky, was the name
Enterprise.

After Cullen's announcement the crowd had
quieted, all eyes straining upward, until a voice shouted, "Look!
There's somebody in that basket!"

Glynis felt a twinge of foreboding, then
pushed it aside as being too outlandish to consider. She remained
uneasy, however, and by the time the deflating balloon had neared
the far reach of the canal, she began to think her fear might have
been justified.

She then heard Cullen's quick intake of
breath, followed by, "Glynis, it looks as if there are two people
in the basket. You don't think one of them could—" He broke off,
shaking his head again, but at the same time smiling. A minute
later he was laughing. "It's her, all right! I'd know that red hair
anywhere."

"No, it can't be!" But even as Glynis denied
it, she spotted, above the rim of the basket, a red-gold blur.

Just as the now wrinkling balloon seemed to
tower above them, the crowd gasped with one voice. The rattan
basket had begun to brush the first branches of several lofty elms,
swinging erratically with a sickening, bobbing succession of jerks.
Then, with a series of sharp, crunching noises, it struck the
tree's lower limbs. A piercing cry—and if Bronwen's, it would be
anger rather than terror—reached those standing below, and over the
side of the basket appeared strands of long red hair whipping like
ropes.

Glynis was barely aware of Cullen's hands
gripping her shoulders. With her own hands clenched to her mouth,
she watched the balloon swing slowly to one side like a ship
listing in high seas, while the wildly lurching basket was dragged
through a tangle of lashing branches. Its occupants, if the forked
limbs did not impale them first, would surely be thrown out. But no
one dropping from that height could possibly survive.

At an altitude of a mile and a fifth I shot out of
the lower westerly current, and entered the great easterly river
of the sky.

—Thaddeus Lowe, 1861

The rattan basket pitched and bucked,
jerking from side to side through the branches and stripping off
tender new leaves that rained down like confetti. Its occupants
must have been thrown to the basket floor, because all Glynis could
see of them were two pairs of hands clamped over the rim. As she
craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Bronwen, she vowed
that if her niece somehow survived this disaster, she would never
be forgiven for taking part in it. The next moment Glynis vowed
never again to scold Bronwen, not even for reckless behavior. But
what, if not reckless behavior, was this? How could Bronwen have
allowed herself to be put in such peril?

On and on, for what seemed an eternity, the
leaves and branches tossed and churned, nearly obscuring a view of
the basket. Glynis was certain that at any moment its passengers
would plunge to earth, but could not take her eyes from what she
could not bear to see.

All at once she realized that something was
striking her face. It was as if she were being pummeled by tiny,
stinging drops of hard rain, and everyone around her seemed to be
rubbing their eyes.

"It's sand," Cullen told her, "used as
ballast. They're throwing it over the side to gain some
altitude."

And ever so slowly the balloon began to
swing upward. The flurry of leaves diminished as the basket
appeared to be righting itself, and with one last breathtaking
jerk, it broke free of the branches. Then the rapidly deflating
balloon, and the basket with ropes now dangling from it, continued
the descent, and Glynis felt the grip of Cullen's hands on her
shoulders loosen.

"It's heading for the park!" he shouted to
her over the noise of the crowd. Seizing her waist, he lifted her
onto the Morgan, swinging up behind her to urge the horse forward.
Dazed townsfolk parted before them like a sluggish sea, and then
surged after them as the Morgan left Fall Street for a side road
and cantered toward the park.

Glynis, seated sideways and none too firmly
on the horse, clutched the black mane and anchored herself against
Cullen. She could feel him shaking, and did not need to see his
face to know he was laughing, undoubtedly thinking the town hadn't
seen this much excitement since the last fire. She couldn't help
but wonder again why Bronwen continued to exercise such reckless
disregard for her own well-being. Unless, of course, the balloon
was her notion of a theatrical arrival. The ultimate
deus ex
machina.

Cullen's laughter was all very well, but
Glynis didn't know yet whether to laugh or to cry, not until she
saw Bronwen in one piece. And if she was whole, Glynis reminded
herself, she would never be forgiven.

Just ahead of them lay the open park and,
waving above it, a crinkled billow of pale silk.

"Please catch the ropes," came a booming
voice from the sky. "Hold the ropes, if you please!" It took Glynis
a second to realize that the voice was not supernatural in origin,
but must be coming through a megaphone.

When they reached the park's grassy verge,
Cullen reined in the Morgan, and Glynis could see his deputies Zeph
Waters and Liam Cleary running from the opposite direction. They
abruptly stopped short, freezing in place as they watched the
balloon basket nearing the ground. At Cullen's yell of "Grab the
ropes!" the young men again sprang to life and raced across the
grass.

To Glynis's surprised relief, the basket did
not crash on landing but bumped gently only a few times before
coming to rest. Some yards beyond, the once huge balloon, now
crumpling and wavering like a drunken ghost, began to collapse with
a curious slithering sound.

She slid from the Morgan's back as Cullen
dismounted and tossed her the reins. Immediately he loped toward
the balloon, at the same time shouting to the deputies, "Anchor the
ropes to the hitching posts, then hold back the crowd! And don't
let pipes or cigarettes anywhere near it!"

Glynis threw the reins over a hitching post,
and whirled round in time to see her niece being hoisted to the
waist-high rim of the basket by a tall, dark-haired man. Bronwen
shook her head while saying something to this man, then swung
herself over the rim to stand, rather unsteadily, on the grass.

Her long coat hung in rumpled folds, her red
hair looked as snarled and tangled as the balloon netting, and her
face was sunburned, but otherwise she appeared none the worse for
her time in the sky. Twigs and leaves flew from her coat as with
long strides, her balance clearly restored, she walked briskly
toward her aunt. When she neared, Glynis saw the green eyes under
the tumbled hair holding their familiar, expectant glitter, as if
Bronwen were a magician who had just performed an impossible escape
and now awaited applause.

Glynis, with supreme effort, somehow managed
to say only, "You have arrived, I see."

"It was beyond words, Aunt Glyn! Utterly
glorious— well, except for the last part. As Professor Lowe says,
it's like riding a great river in the sky."

"Indeed."

"You can't imagine what it's like up there."
Bronwen's arms stretched skyward. "Everything down here on the
ground looks so small... so.... Are you upset?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"You're upset! I was afraid you might be."
Bronwen sobered and lowered her head in what was evidently
supposed to be contrition. The attempt was unsuccessful, because
the sobriety quickly dissolved in a grin. And although Glynis
struggled against it, she, too, had to smile.

"Aunt Glynis, you must meet Professor
Lowe."

Glynis looked past Bronwen to see both her
aerial comrade and Cullen securing the balloon. And for the second
time that day, she could scarcely believe her eyes. The dark-haired
man beside Cullen wore an elegant, satin-lapeled Prince Albert
coat, and had just donned a tall silk hat.

"Does ballooning require formal dress?" she
asked, before recalling that Bronwen frequently took such comments
literally.

"The professor was at a banquet when word came that
the high wind had died. He didn't have time to change, and I
couldn't even wire you, we had to take off so quickly!"

"Take off from where?"

"West of here," Bronwen said, with a vague
wave of her hand. Glynis began to ask the specific location of this
launch, but Bronwen interrupted with, "I'll tell you about it
later. Now come and meet him."

Professor Lowe stood a shade taller than
Cullen's six feet, and even had he not been in evening clothes
would have cut a dashing figure, Glynis thought as she and Bronwen
approached him. His sturdy frame surprised her; she would have
guessed, after reading the
Harper's
articles, that an
aeronaut needed to be slighter, and to weigh considerably less than
this man must. A trim mustache was as thick and black as his hair,
the dark blue eyes deeply set under heavy brows. When introduced,
Thaddeus Lowe raised his hat and bent slightly over her extended
hand. "I hope we didn't worry you too greatly, Miss Tryon. Trees
can be troublesome, I grant you, but the balloon is really quite
safe."

Glynis might have argued the point. He had
not been riveted to the ground, watching in abject terror, but she
refrained, mostly because a quick grin from Cullen told her that
she would be wasting her breath.

"My niece tells me you came from west of
here," she said instead to Lowe. "I remember reading that you
believe the upper wind currents all flow from west to east, no
matter what the weather conditions on the ground. Is that
correct?"

"Absolutely." He seemed delighted that she
knew something about this, and in his enthusiasm he fairly glowed.
"That's been my hypothesis, and now I feel confident that it's
more than just conjecture. It's a fact! I've made enough of these
flights to satisfy myself, and to prove it to those in science who
have scoffed. That's not to say, however, that a balloon is not
influenced by ground winds—" he smiled at Bronwen "—as your niece
can tell you."

Bronwen shot him a peculiar look, Glynis
noticed, very much as if she were warning the man of something.
Then, possibly aware of her aunt's scrutiny, Bronwen laughed and
said, "We were nearly blown off course."

Lowe nodded. "The lower winds from Lake Erie
pushed us to the southeast."

"People would like a closer look," said
Cullen, who had been watching an excited crowd that by now must be
made up of half the town, and that his deputies were holding back
only by determined effort.

"They can't do the balloon much harm," Lowe
told him. "Not if they can be kept from walking on it."

Bronwen turned to scan the crowd, then said
to Professor Lowe, "My cousin is over there and I'd like to see
her. Then we'll find you a place to stay." She turned and walked
toward Emma, whom Glynis had just spotted at the far edge of the
crush of townspeople.

At a gesture from Cullen, his deputies came
forward with the crowd close on their heels. The men positioned
themselves to protect the silk fabric, while the increasingly loud
babble of voices drove Glynis to follow Bronwen across the
grass.

Emma stood there as if she had just stepped
from a page of
Godey's Lady's Book,
in a flounced,
hoop-skirted dress of rose-colored cambric. Her long, dark brown
hair was caught back with pink grosgrain ribbon, and the white
velvet parasol she held dripped silken fringe. She accepted her
cousin's quick embrace with a faint smile.

"I'm glad you're here safely, Bronwen, and
thank you for coming. That was a most dramatic entrance."

Glynis smiled, recognizing that Emma, too,
had picked up the theatrical element of her cousin's descent into
Seneca Falls. But Bronwen threw Glynis a quick glance before she
said, "Emma, are you all right?"

Emma's dark brows raised slightly. "Yes, I'm
all right. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I thought you might be annoyed that I was
late getting here."

Emma shook her head, but didn't answer and
seemed preoccupied. Had seemed so, in fact, for several days, and
Glynis wondered if it was wedding preparations alone that
disturbed her. Or if the recent disagreement with her fiancé,
attorney Adam MacAlistair, had escalated rather than been
resolved.

"The party tonight will be at Emma's shop,"
Glynis told Bronwen, mostly to divert her from questioning her
cousin further.

Emma appeared to pull herself back into the
present with some difficulty. "Yes, we've been moving things around
all day to accommodate a harp"—Emma gave Glynis an amused
look—"under the baton of Vanessa Usher."

Glynis pressed her lips together to keep
from smiling when Bronwen groaned. "I thought Aunt Glyn wrote me,"
she said to her cousin, "that The Lady Vanessa was hosting your
wedding. Or is she, as usual, running the entire show?"