A Flying Affair (5 page)

Mittie's parents were too bushed to attend services in their village church on Sunday, so after checking on the horses and consulting with Ogilvie, Mittie changed and drove the three miles to Rigby.

She sat down next to Grandmother and inhaled the aroma of the newly waxed wooden pews, the scent of time and a warm embrace. Even after the exhausting wedding day, her grandmother looked fresh as she wrapped her gloved hand in Mittie's. While they sang the first hymn, sharing a songbook, Mittie smiled. Grandmother would've liked Ames. She was sorry her grandmother had begged off from the dancing and had Moses drive her home early.

When the service was over, Mittie declined her grandmother's invitation to lunch and said she'd see her at dinner that evening—the dinner to which her dad had invited a stranger that was to be Mittie's ticket to adventure. More like a consolation prize for not being the one who got married. She hoped it wasn't some balding, paunchy guy with wads of money. She shivered. Her mother might attempt such a coup, but not her dad.

Mittie retrieved two baskets from her car that held arrangements she'd rescued from the reception tables, compact clusters of roses in gold urns. The summer sun warmed her as she pushed open the iron gate to the churchyard and went first to her grand­father Elias Humphreys' grave and placed an urn. Behind his simple stone rested a trio of graves marked by flat stones and inscriptions with the birth and death of Mittie's three brothers. All were stillborns who'd come in the early years of her parents' marriage, before the miracle arrival of Iris and Mittie. A gift, Grandmother often said—a baby girl for each of their parents. What she didn't say was that neither was a son who would carry the Humphreys' name.

Mittie carried the unspoken mantle, though—a lifetime of trying to prove to her daddy that she could do anything a boy could. And then some. She'd shadowed his every move. Said clever things. Learned how to spit and climb fences. And ride like the wind. Still, the part of her that was her mother—yes, she'd come to grips with the truth of that—itched for something more. Not the capers her mother was fond of bringing up, but to follow a calling and throw her whole self into it. Her mother had fled her dismal life in Yorkshire and the house of her drunkard father to marry a man from Kentucky. That Elias Humphreys had turned out to be such a fine man was no doubt a stroke of fortune, but it had taken courage, a stubbornness that Mittie knew she, too, possessed. It would be irreverent to disregard her heritage, the life of privilege it had given her, and the last thing she wanted was to disappoint her parents. Or burden them. She couldn't be dependent on them forever, especially now that her daddy was itching to get back to running the farm. Would her penchant for aviation disappoint them or be something that would make them proud?

The memory of dancing with Ames and flying with him flitted in and out of her thoughts. Maybe Ames showing up when he did
was
providential as she'd told Iris.

Mittie placed an urn of roses on each tiny grave and then strode briskly back to her roadster. A new determination coursed through her.

She spent the afternoon in the arena, working with three client horses and discussing them with Toby. A chalkboard in the training barn listed the horses, their primary trainer, the events they would qualify for, and the dates of the shows.

“It looks like we're on target for the show in West Virginia,” Mittie said. It was too far for her dad to travel in his condition, but clients liked their trainers to be there. “I'm thinking about attending this one myself. I'll check with Mr. Ogilvie to see if he has the transport arrangements made.”

Toby nodded. “Ogilvie's taking a half day off. Said he had a personal matter to attend to.”

“He didn't mention it this morning, and I'm certain that was his truck by the bunkhouse.”

“Some fella picked him up.”

“All right, then. I'll talk to him tomorrow. And thanks for doing a good job, Toby.”

Mittie's folks and her grandmother were already chatting with the surprise guest when Mittie breezed into the formal parlor, hoping she could get through dinner and remain aloof without being rude. Her sleeveless crepe dress with simple beading was one of her favorites—not stuffy, and it swung easily when she walked. She abandoned summer gloves and wore a dinner ring with an oversized topaz and a matching necklace that stopped just short of the cleavage of her V-necked dress.

“Ah, here she is now.” Her daddy spoke and lifted a glass—sherry, most likely, since he didn't like to have anything stronger in the house in case a revenuer stopped by. With Prohibition still the stickiest topic in political circles, one could never be too careful. And sherry could always be passed off as a kitchen ingredient.

“I hope I haven't kept you waiting.” She kept her gaze intentionally away from the gentleman between her parents and helped herself to a lemonade from the beverage tray before joining them. She raised the frosty glass and smiled. “Daddy said we'd have a guest. Let me introduce myself. Mittie Humphreys.” She extended her free hand.

“Bobby York.” His voice was deeper than she expected with his slim build, but as their hands clasped and their eyes met, she was pleased to see that he was also taller than she first thought. And not gray or balding or paunchy. Rather, he looked to be in his midtwenties, and his ice blue eyes had a touch of merriment. “Lovely to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise.”
Was that a trace of a British accent?

Her mother said, “Bobby is here from England, and it was a stroke of good luck that we found out he was in the States, wasn't it, dear?”

Mittie's dad nodded. “Bobby's dad, Robert Sr., sent me a wire that got misplaced in the wedding correspondence. Luckily your mother ran across it last week, and I was able to track him down.”

“Then that is truly fortunate for us.” Mittie kept her voice light. It was too soon to tell what her dad was up to, but Bobby York had an interesting look about him. Reserved. Polite. Refined, if the dashing suit and silk tie were any indication.

Her mother said, “We've just been telling Bobby about the wedding, that he would've enjoyed the dancing and meeting some of the members of the Saddlebred Association.”

“Oh, so your family has saddlebreds as well.”

“No, we've stayed with Thoroughbreds. Flat races and a few jumpers.”

Her dad explained. “Bobby's dad is an old friend with a stable in Newmarket. We met the first time I went to London. I've been trying for years to get the old rascal to consider putting his money in saddlebreds. Maybe I'll be able to convince his son instead.”

Ah, the
adventure
mystery was beginning to clear.
Robert York?
Mittie tried to place the name, trying to recall if she'd met him when her family had gone to England, but nothing came to mind. Perhaps her daddy wanted to send her to England on his behalf and thought that by teasing her with an eligible suitor, her interest would be piqued. She saw no harm in playing along.

“And what brings you to Kentucky? Horses, I presume. Are you shopping?” One dazzling smile wouldn't hurt, but before he could answer, Ruby, their cook and the wife of Moses, announced that dinner was ready.

Heaping platters of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and baby collards were already on the table, but Ruby had retreated to the kitchen. She made it plain that she cooked and washed up, but she didn't serve.

As the food went around and the first bites were taken, Bobby said he didn't believe he'd ever had fried chicken.

Mittie's mother, in one of her fawning moods, said, “Oh Bobby, I'd never had it before I married Eli, either. And greens? Puh-leese.” She took a sip of water. “Like a true Southerner, though, I've come to adore both the chicken and the collards.”

“Yes, ma'am, these are quite tasty.” He lifted a forkful of greens. “The flavor puts me in mind of our cabbage.”

“Now that you mention it, you're right—we Brits did grow up with our bubble and squeak.” She waved her fork. “It takes me back to supper tables I'd just as soon forget.” Her voice faltered as it often did when she remembered her childhood, but she recovered in a flash. “Enough about food. I'm curious about you. Eli says you've brought some horses over.”

“A pair of mares for a buyer in Elizabethtown.”

Mittie's dad said, “Breeding stock?”

A nod from Bobby. “Nice on the track. Both had jolly good runs in the Falmouth and Guineas Stakes. Champions four generations back.”

“Introducing new blood into a lineup is always good, something Mittie and I discuss on a regular basis. She outsmarts me every time we get in a verbal debate on pedigrees.”

“You've no one to blame but yourself, Daddy. From the time I could crawl into your lap, you read bloodstock catalogs to me instead of Mother Goose.” She knew about crossbreeding, inbreeding, and linebreeding, and the benefits and dangers with all of them.

Mittie's grandmother arched an eyebrow at Bobby. “Even though our saddlebreds spring from the Narragansett Pacer, the English Thoroughbreds have been bred into virtually all lines, so I suppose it's possible some of your family's horses could be kissing cousins to the ones here at Morning Glory Farms.”

“Not sure about kissing cousins, but both breeds are highly developed, just different.”

“Variety is the spice of life.” Her grandmother gave him a teasing look. “I've met your dad, and your mother, too. Lovely people. Your father has other endeavors as well, if I remember correctly.”

Bobby shrugged. “A few. The horses are his recreational outlet.”

Mittie was starting to feel sorry for Bobby. It was like a grand inquisition. What do you do? Who are your people? And branded in the back of her mind was her mother's mantra:
Pedigree. Pedigree. Pedigree.
She would bet her best pair of riding boots that Bobby was from some titled family with an estate in the country and a town house in London and a few other important connections thrown in, and that her family was trying to pawn her off on someone of British nobility since their efforts had fallen short with eligible American suitors.

Time to get the poor fella off the hook. “So, Bobby, how long are you in the States?”

“A few months, give or take.”

“Traveling, then? Visiting some of the American racecourses?”

“Not precisely. While I fancy a good race and a place at the rail, I'm not the horse expert. My father is. What I'm most interested in is aviation.”

Mittie's mother choked on a drink of water.

“You okay, Mother?”

“I'm fine, dear.” She smiled at Bobby. “I don't believe your parents ever mentioned that.”

“Not likely. They would have preferred I go into finance or shipping or one of my father's other specialties.”

Mittie's dad raised an eyebrow. “Small world. Mittie's a budding aviatrix herself.”

Her mother scowled, and Mittie detected a motion akin to a kick in the shins to her daddy under the table. “I'd hardly call her an aviatrix. A rather uppity word in my opinion for such a dangerous sport. Mittie dabbles, that's all—just a passing fancy until she settles into a more conventional lifestyle.”

“Mother means like marriage. Like my sister, Iris. And I do understand; I truly do. She's just never had the thrill of seeing the world from the air.”

“So you fancy aviation yourself?”

“I can tell you that Lindbergh first flew in a Lincoln Standard ‘Tourabout,' that a mere five years later, on May twentieth of this year, he took off from a muddy runway in New York in the
Spirit of St. Louis
with four hundred and fifty gallons of fuel, and that thirty-three point five hours later he landed in Paris, France. And that someday, I'd like to be a qualified competitor.”

“You're smitten, I'd say.”

“In the worst way you can imagine. As a matter of fact, I'm attending my first barnstorming event in Indiana next weekend with a pilot friend of mine.” When Bobby raised his eyebrows in question, she explained what Ames had told her.

“Ah, an air display. Clever name you Americans have for it.”

Mittie was treading treacherous waters, inviting the rebuke of her mother and possibly her dad, by mentioning the show Ames had invited her to, but they were the ones who asked Bobby York to dinner. Why not be truthful? If Bobby was meant to be a setup from her well-meaning parents, he deserved to know what he was getting.

Mittie leaned into Bobby and bumped shoulders with him. “Maybe I could take you out and show you the horses and you could tell me about your flying experience.”

“That sounds lovely.”

Her parents exchanged a look, but her daddy's was one of amusement. Her mother's, not so much. Clearly she didn't know that Bobby, the pedigreed boy from her homeland, harbored an interest in flying. He intrigued Mittie more than she would dare admit, but Mittie also had a feeling her dad knew more about Bobby than he'd let on.

Her dad smiled. “Bobby, this dinner may have been providential. Mittie's acquainted with the manager at Bowman Field. Perhaps she can give you an introduction so you can see what they have to offer.”

Bobby nodded. “I actually have an appointment with him tomorrow in response to an advert in last week's paper.”

Mittie's mouth dropped open. “What advert?”

“They need someone to give flying lessons, so I thought I'd see if I fit their criteria.”

Mittie's grandmother nodded. “A sharp young man like yourself should have no trouble. And if you need a reference, I'd be happy to offer one.”

“That would be most kind.”

A wooden smile graced Mittie's mother's lips. This was obviously not the direction she intended for the conversation to go, but she gathered her wits and asked if anyone cared for strawberry shortcake.