Damselfly

This is set in almost-but-not-quite Europe, in a timeline almost-but-not-quite ours.

You'll find many of the locations on a map, maybe you'll enjoy that as much as I did.

═🟀═

I pulled the mixture selector to cut-off and waited. The slow, lumpy idle of the Stokes V12 grew rougher, more asthmatic, and finally died away. The gleaming disc of the propeller resolved into its two polished spruce limbs, and silence fell over Winchester Aeroport for a moment or two.

I stretched my neck and removed my cap and goggles. Flying was relaxing, but taxiing three-hundred-odd horsepower of skittish steel, duralumin and doped fabric over the aeroport's rough, pitted Portland cement took it out of me every time I landed here.

I yawned, stretched again, and levered myself up onto the padded leather headrest of my cockpit. I listened to the distant sound of petroleum vehicles on the Great Western highway, and watched two birds gaming on the dying thermals of evening. The sun would soon set; and soon enough thereafter the dew would start to fall.

I flung a leg over the side of Damselfly's aft cockpit, felt for the spring-loaded catch, and eased my foot into the recess. I crabbed forward from foothold to foothold, stepped down onto the biplane's swept lower wing, careful to stick to the abrasive-lined walk strip, and removed the small tar-sealed metal box from beneath the retaining net that covered the forward cockpit seat. I tucked the parcel under an arm and dropped the two feet to the concrete of the apron.

The depot lights were still on, which meant that Nathaniel would be working. Good. I'd be glad to hand the consignment over so that its safety was no longer my responsibility. I had no idea what the box contained, nor did I wish to. All I cared about was the thousand Crowns that it was about to earn me for a lengthy but uneventful multi-leg flight across Italy, France, the Normandy channel and the Duchy of Wessex from my starting point just west of the Mediterranean port of Genoa.

I was very good at my job, and I was picky over the jobs I chose, and I was never, ever late. These three facts meant that for the large number of wealthy people who had items they wanted moved, for a consideration, from A to B without having to interact with the despised C of Customs... well, I was a very useful person to know.

And my reputation and usefulness meant that I could usually name my price.

A thousand Crowns... the client's broker hadn't even blinked. A hundred years ago, it would have been a Lord's ransom. Even in these diminished days it would still keep me in fuel and food for nearly nine months, provided nothing went seriously wrong with my baby's heart. Luckily, spares were still plentiful - the Edmont P22 had been a widely-built aircraft during the final years of the Great War and there were still many of Damselfly's sisters and cousins out there, both those that still soared and those sad others that were quietly rotting away...

Dusk descended. Distant thunderheads flashed, but I judged them to be safely downwind of Winchester and reckoned they would not be a threat tonight unless the wind shifted wildly away from the prevailing south-south-west.

So on I walked to the depot door, where I turned the rusted handle. The sheet-metal amplified the awful complaints of the ancient hinges as I forced it open.

I unclenched my jaw; mechanical sympathy was practically my religion.

"Seriously, Mr Butler, can't you find two minutes to grease this door?" I roared.

Booming laughter echoed from Big Mike the engineer, and a high-pitched "Juliette!" followed a squeal from Maggie, the field's histrionic and extremely affectionate Controller.

"It gives me warning that you're coming," retorted thin, wiry Nathaniel Butler from his workbench. "Miss French, welcome. I thought I heard Damselfly in the circuit. You weren't due until tomorrow."

"I was bored," I answered. "There's only so much of Southern Europe that I can take in one helping."

He laughed, then his eyes dropped to the box I clutched. He sobered immediately.

"The Marshall consignment, Miss French?" he said, quietly.

"Yes."

"Damn and blast. The town vault will be closed for the evening. Were you followed?"

"Not that I saw," I said, lowering my own voice. "I backtracked several times and extended upwind to Warminster. It's almost eerie out there - no aircraft to be seen other than postal freight and just a single passenger ferry. And no suspicious automobiles anywhere that I noticed on approach here. But then, I don't think anybody would stake out an aerodrome without knowing when a shipment was going to arrive - it's far too obvious, not to mention expensive."

"Here's hoping you're right, Miss French. In any case, I'll stick it somewhere safe for the night. You'll need a freight receipt, of course?"

"Yes please," I said. I perched myself primly on a small area of clear worktop and waited as he dug out his receipt book. A few seconds of scrawling, the thump of the brass Controller's stamp... and I had the proof I needed for my escrow agent. I blew on the ink to dry it, then folded the receipt and tucked it into my blouse pocket.

"Where would you recommend I stay in town this week?" I said. "I was going to go to Solomon's - would that be wise?"

"Solomon's would be my recommendation as usual, Miss French. The Dandy down by the river is a bit rowdy at the moment but Mr Quoyle's new brother in law is a major in the Royal Artillery and his regiment has taken to using it as their watering hole. It will be noisy but safe enough - if you wanted to slum it for some reason. Desdemona's out in St Cross would be a bit too exciting for you, by my reckoning. Not that I think anything would happen, you understand; nobody wants the King's Constables in their business, after all. Not when things are so..."

"Dicey?" I suggested, smiling.

"Precisely," he agreed. "But better safe than..."

Thunder rumbled in the distance. He and I shared a glance.

"Speaking of better safe than sorry..." I began.

"We'll get your girl under a roof and make sure she's snug," he said. "When will you need her, Miss French?"

"I might take a day or two before heading back across the channel. Call it... early morning, two days time? I might make use of the time to look for another client..."

"Please speak to me before you make any other plans," he said quietly, with a cautious glance at Mike and Maggie, neither of whom appeared to be watching us. "I may have something that will need quiet and skilled moving - likely at short notice."

I paused, then shrugged. "Right, I will wait for you then. May I borrow your telephone, Nathaniel? I need to arrange transport."

"With pleasure. But first - shall we give Damselfly a once-over since we have her here and the time to tinker? Mike's a dab hand with the older Stokes engines, and I can swing a spanner with the best of them. It's been a while since I got to work on a beauty like her."

I pondered for a moment, then agreed. One could never do too much maintenance, and it would be nice to have the help.

"Just watch out," I warned him. "She's a touchy cow and she has a nasty habit of biting the hand that feeds her. And don't you dare strip any bolts or I promise you I will feed you to her feet-first."

He laughed.

I used his battered, wall-housed telephone to summon a private vehicle from a firm I trusted - a small, tightly-knit cooperative of discreet men from diverse backgrounds who'd found that driving a plush, powerful, leather-upholstered limousine from A to B had better retirement prospects than whatever shady business they'd been accustomed to before. I paid a small monthly retainer and tipped well; they drove me where I needed to go in Mercia, Wessex and surrounds. It worked well for all concerned.

I retrieved my small duffel bag from Damselfly's cargo compartment and paused, one hand resting on the polished metal of her cowl.

"Behave yourself," I told the old warhorse. I patted her gently. "See you soon," I added, so she'd not miss me too much.

A streamlined burgundy automobile wafted slowly up the access lane and made a wide circle by the depot. The driver's door opened and I recognised Mr Black - he and I had a very agreeable understanding: he didn't talk and I didn't talk right back at him.

I untied the orange and white scarf that had restrained my hair. I tucked it into a small silk bag,and climbed Damselfly's side so that I could drop the bag onto my seat for my next flight. I took one more look, and dropped back to the apron.

Then I nodded to my driver as he opened the rear door for me. I slipped into the plush sanctum within and sighed again.

"Solomon's, please, Mr Black," I said.

"Yes, Miss French."

And that was all I needed to say until I gave him a demure little "Thank you," to his almost-invisible smile as he delivered me to the hotel of Mr Solomon Day.

═🟀═

"Would you like another glass of the Chanterelle, Juliette?" asked Mr Day.

"No. Thank you. The chicken was excellent, as always. And much as I'd love another glass to round it off, I know I'll feel awful in the morning."

"Speaking of - will you be needing an automobile tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure as yet," I answered him. "I may indulge in a day off. Read a bit. Filch some desserts from your kitchen. The usual shenanigans."

Solomon grinned. "In that case, darling, there is a delightful new Boutique on the main strip, should your need to sow chaos extend beyond my modest hotel."

I laughed loudly.

"How long have you known me?" I demanded.

"Since you were three, love. You spilled strawberries and cream on my blazer. It was never the same again, alas."

"And in the intervening twenty one years have I ever once been caught dead in a Boutique?"

"I live in hope of better days, my dear," he said in his delightful, dry deadpan.

I grinned at him. "You old baggage," I added. "You know that's not who I am."

His smile faded slightly.

"I know, Juliette," he answered. "But... an uncle can dream, can he not?"

I listened to the clock minting fresh new seconds and counted out five of them.

"Don't waste your dreams on me. Dream of something that might actually happen," I said, gently. "I am... content with my lot."

"You sound like your father when you say that," he said, after a long pause. "Content, but never happy."

A pang, then - we stared at one another, united by that loss.

Then I sighed.

"I suppose that's to be expected," I answered him. "I am his daughter in almost every way, after all."

"You're certainly as stubborn as him," he agreed. Then he smiled, sadly. "But you're a far better pilot and navigator than he was."

"How are the girls?" I asked, changing the subject to something less maudlin. Solomon's nieces idolized me, and I loved being idolized.

"Very well, my dear. They will be furious that they missed you."

"I'll be back soon enough, I think. I'll bring something nice from France for them. Perhaps they'll be here when I get back."

"I hope so," he answered, solemnly. "On that note; Marcia's prepared your room, we've got the water just the way you like it. Shall I send up some brandy?"

"No. Not tonight, thank you. I'm trying to cut down on my... indulgences."

"A wise decision," he said. "I'll clear up for you, darling. Go on, I'm sure you need the bath."

"Do I really smell that awful?" I teased him.

"Light oil and aviation fuel," he sighed. "A heady bouquet, were you but a mechanic."

I laughed and stood from table. I closed on him, hugged him hard, and kissed his cheek.

"I love you, uncle Sol."

"Be off with you, you wilful child," he said, pleased as always. "Sleep well. Breakfast at nine?"

"Yes please."

He smiled again, and I took my leave.

I climbed the wide, old, lacquer-sealed stairs and made for my usual room, an eastwards-facing princess suite that Solomon always tried to force on me for free and that I always insisted on paying double rates for. He was practically a blood relative (he'd served with my father and saved Papa's life numerous times in the Siam campaigns), he'd been uncle Solomon since I could talk, and he remained the only living person I'd ever openly confessed to about the... real me.

I also knew that there wasn't much call for princess suites in Winchester these days, but that he was too proud to admit that Solomon's Hotel was hanging on by a thread that would, sooner rather than later, snap. When it did, I meant to see that he landed on his feet, when his pride would no longer be an impediment to my plans to give him the quiet, warm and gentle retirement he deserved for all the times he'd been there for Papa and, afterwards, for me.

I closed my suite's door and inhaled.

Lavender and thyme, as always. A comforting scent etched onto my soul by my childhood summers in the north of France. The scent of Saint-Mihiel; the scent of the place I most considered home.

I hadn't bothered to change out of my flying clothes. If there'd been any other guests tonight I'd have received an avalanche of snooty looks and snide comments.

I didn't care, but I knew that Solomon did. I should do better by him, I thought.

I shed my waxed tweed aviator's jacket and massaged my aching shoulders.

I whimpered deep in my throat as I stretched the slouch out of my back. Papa would have died of horror at my posture, I thought. But, then, the cold waters of the northern sea had got to him first. Funny how things went.

I kicked off my boots and shed my blouse and my flight trousers. I balanced on one leg at a time while I pulled off my stockings and my plain but serviceable underclothes. I wriggled my toes in pleasure as circulation returned to my cramping little toe. And then I stepped, daintily, into my piping hot bath.

"Oh...

fuck

, yes," I sighed.

Some day, I thought, I'd invent an aircraft where my cockpit was a bathtub heated by outflow from the engine's cooling system. It would be perfect. Eternal hot water - almost heaven.

I closed my eyes and let myself relax.

I'd earned this break, this coming day of doing nothing. Normally I'd fret - the roof of Papa's Châteaux near Saint-Mihiel had begun to leak the prior winter. The chimneys needed pointing, the orchards needed tending, the ivy needed trimming away from the walls. Another year, staving off the slow decay of time. A saner woman would have abandoned the place, or have sold it to some new person who could love it as it deserved...

But it was Papa's house, and I would not part with the few little bits of him that I had left to me - not for all the diamonds in the Mughal's crown.

So - soon I'd need to work. A thousand crowns was a hefty purse, but it would flow away soon enough.

But for now - for these few, precious hours - I could just be.

I lay in the water until my skin resembled a prune. I soaped myself thoroughly to remove all remaining traces of oil or grease from my body. I washed and rinsed and rinsed my hair again and then mournfully evacuated the bath as it cooled too much to be any further sanctuary for me.

A saffron flannel dressing gown had been laid out for me, as had some grey woollen socks and lilac carpet slippers. The fire was set but not lit; I left it alone as the smell of woodsmoke always gave me disturbed dreams. I towelled my hair as dry as I could, and wrapped a fresh towel around my head like some Persian Sultan's turban. I browsed the tiny bookshelf and found myself a dog-eared memoir of some dimly-remembered adventurer who'd explored Columbia in a prior century.

I liberated the comforter from the enormous bed, and enthroned myself in the battered but comfortable armchair near the electric lamp.

But the words eluded me as they often did when I was tired. So I closed the book, and drew my legs up where I was enthroned, and slept.

═🟀═

I crouched beneath Damselfly's radiator and stared up into the engine bay.

"And?" I asked.

"She's old but she's golden," said Mike. "Nothing to worry about that I can see, Miss French. How many hours are there on that generator since it was last stripped down?"

"Three hundred and seventy-two," I answered. I noted the glance that Mike and Nathaniel Butler shared.

"Yes," Nathaniel said to some unspoken question. "Yes, she has the entire maintenance schedule in her head. And the electrical schematics. And the tolerances of all the fasteners, and the tension for the braces. She knows everything about this plane, Mike - and yes, it's all correct. We could build another plane from crated and unlabelled parts based only on the knowledge that Miss French carries around inside her head."

Big Mike whistled softly. "Well, in that case, miss, I'd say that in another three hundred hours or so you'd want it serviced. But it's fine for now, just a bit corroded here on the top. I'll slap some treatment and paint on it to keep it from getting any worse."

"Thanks. Any other problems you think I should keep in mind?"

"None, miss. She's old but mechanically it's like she just came off the line. She's got years left in her still. And she's a real beauty - I always did love blue and silver together like you've got her painted."

"Yes," I said, with pride. "I look after her; she means a lot to me."

Mike grinned and turned back to work. I watched him for a moment; I'd always liked his unflappable confidence and his simple love of aeroplanes.

"Miss French?" said Nathaniel. "There is a matter I'd like to discuss with you if you don't mind? Would you walk with me?"

"To where?"

"The office."

I glanced up at him. Nathaniel Butler almost never went to the office; he hated the stench of administration and far preferred to spend his time in the depot amongst the tools and grime.

"Please," he said, and even offered his hand to help me stand.

I frowned but followed him; he said nothing as he led me across the weathered asphalt to the old, brick building that served as a terminal. He opened a door, turned to face me as if he finally wanted break the silence, and then sighed. He stepped aside and gestured.

"Please," he repeated, softly.

I stepped past him and into the warm, dim interior of the office's prior-century charm. It had always seemed more like some college Library than a place of business. I admired the wooden panels, the green-glass lamps, the gleaming brass...

And the tall, well-dressed woman who turned abruptly from the window to face me.

Her jet-black hair was immaculately coiffed and caught up under a flattering lace-garlanded hat. Her dress was a rich midnight-blue, over which she wore something that approximated a gentleman's blazer - if you ignored the pinstripes and the elegant, tapered cut. Her brown eyes were haughty, her cheeks pale, her entire demeanour combative...

She was easily the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.

I came to an abrupt stop, gawped for a moment, then gave Nathaniel a pointed glare.

"What's this, Mr Butler?" I demanded.

"Is...

this

... her?" said the woman.

"Yes, Lady Evelyn," he said.

I paused, turned back to the interloper, and gave her a longer, cooler second evaluation.

Lady

Evelyn, was it?

She raised her chin.

"She's quite rude, staring like that," she observed. "And dirty," she added, wrinkling her nose.

"

Oh, I am incredibly rude,

" I retorted in awful, rurally-accented French, "

but not nearly as rude as a supplicant who insults the bishop before his altar.

"

Nathaniel grinned uneasily, but her reaction was much more telling - her eyes flickered; her cheeks paled and then pinked with a touch of suppressed fury.

I was glad to see I'd guessed right; she was educated enough to understand me and the insult I'd given her. Satisfied, I chalked one up for myself - it was always good to be on the front-foot with difficult clients.