Chapter 1: In Which Elizabeth Bisland Is Called Into Her Editor’s Office And Surprised
Thursday, November 14, 1889
THE MORNING LIGHT glows around the edges of the curtains when the maid enters and tiptoes across the bedroom toward the window. I’ve hardly slept a wink, and it doesn’t seem right she’s about to wake me up. Odd that she sneaks in so quietly. Being fond of sleep, I’ve never witnessed this ritual before.
She throws open the curtains with a surprising flourish and follows with a quick “Good morning, miss.” She curtsies to the lump that is me on the bed, and stands patiently waiting with the breakfast tray. “Eight o’clock,” she adds by way of a hint.
Despite already being fully awake, I make a show of groaning as I push myself up against the bed frame. After tucking the quilt tight up against my chest, I accept the silver tray loaded with a covered plate, a small glass of orange juice, a dainty cup of tea, and a pile of correspondence.
I scoop up the letters stacked atop the morning newspaper – replies for the five o’clock tea we are hosting tomorrow.
“Will that be all, Miss Bisland?”
“Yes, thank you.” I pat the newspaper expectantly with my fingertips.
After the maid leaves, I make short work of breakfast while sorting the mail. I set aside an invitation to dinner and make a separate stack of bills. All that remains are my tea and the paper. Newspapers are a wonderful resource, despite being filled with trite, sensational writing.
I skip over Nellie Bly’s latest stunt and move on to the society pages. A gentle tapping sounds at my bedroom door. Would that girl round up some gumption and knock like she means it?
“Come in.”
The maid holds out a thick, cream colored envelope. “This just came, miss. I am to tell you it is urgent.”
“Urgent?” I tip my eyebrow as I take the note and reach for my letter opener. “It’s my editor at The Cosmopolitan. He needs me to come in as soon as possible.”
My sister Molly pushes through the doorway, nudging our timid maid aside. She is already dressed in her tan wool challis. Her brown hair is swept up in a French twist, leaving her curly bangs falling over a forehead creased with concern.
“Your editor?” she asks. “But we have fittings today.”
My stomach churns as I think about what the note might mean, but I turn my mouth into a smile for Molly’s benefit. “I’m sure it won’t take long.”
I get out of bed and begin my toilet with washing my face, while Molly chooses a warm woolen dress for me. Mr. Walker has never called me in like this before. My newspaper editors did all the time, which is why I prefer working for the magazine. Of course, when I have to, I will race all over the city to write freelance features for the newspapers. My gaze lands on the stack of bills, and Molly notices.
She comes over and kisses my cheek. “Surely, as ‘the most beautiful woman in Metropolitan journalism,’ you are not afraid of your editor.”
“Afraid? Don’t be silly.” Wary. “And it’s only the writer at The Journalist who says that.”
“They all say it,” she retorts. “And you know what Mother says: Elizabeth needs to slow down so a man has a chance to get a decent look at her, or she’ll never marry.”
“I work with men all the time. American men aren’t interested in what a woman has to say. They just want something pretty to dote over. As if I am a fancy lamp.” I secure my hair with three pins.
This comment makes Molly laugh.
“Besides,” I continue, “you’re one to talk. You’re older than I. Why aren’t you getting married?”
Molly frowns at the reminder of her age but refuses to take the bait. “You wouldn’t marry an editor, would you? He’d constantly be correcting you.”
When I don’t answer, she teases me more.
“Mr. Charles Wetmore, esquire, wouldn’t approve of your marrying an editor. We’ve all noticed how he’s set his cap for you.”
I still don’t answer, letting the heat rising up my face speak for me. The handsome Mr. Wetmore had increased his attentions toward me lately. His was one of the replies in the mail this morning: I look forward to spending the evening together. He had addressed the reply directly to me, not to both Molly and me as the other replies had been.
“It won’t take long. I’ll be back in plenty of time for our fitting.” I kiss Molly on the cheek and rush off.
The offices of The Cosmopolitan magazine are but a few minutes walk. As soon as I step into the noisy room, every reporter stops working and watches me make my way to Mr. Walker’s office. It creates an unnerving silence.
What have I done? My last article about tenement building improvements went through without comment, and the next article isn’t due for another week. Yet, the secretary studies me with a bemused expression. And the men elbow each other like school children pointing out the new student.
“Mr. Walker, you wanted to see me?” I ask, settling into the chair near his desk. Mr. Walker is a handsome man, with trim black hair and matching handlebar mustache. He is also a forceful, ambitious man, intent on making a go of his newly acquired magazine. Ignoring my racing pulse, I keep my smile slight, as if I haven’t a care in the world.
“Yes, Miss Bisland. You’ve read the Jules Verne book, have you?” He hands me a new copy of Around the World in Eighty Days. “Phileas Fogg and all that?”
“Of course.” We had discussed the novel during one of my literary salon meetings when I lived in New Orleans.
He leans forward and stares eagerly at me. “How quick do you think a woman could go around the world?”
I examine the book cover as if it holds the answer. “I don’t know. Eighty days, I suppose.” I glance around. Everyone in the newsroom is watching our exchange.
“I believe you could do it in less than seventy-five.”
“Me? Circumnavigate the globe?” London. Italy. Singapore. Where else did that man go? I smile, playing along with his what-if scenario. “I believe I could too.”
He claps and grins, his handsome face drawing me into his excitement. “Then it’s settled. How long will it take you to get a bag ready?”
“Sir?”
“You leave today.”
The blood drains from my face. He is serious.
“Next spring or summer would provide better traveling conditions and give me plenty of time to map the route and make appropriate plans.”
Mr. Walker is already shaking his head. “No, no. That will never do. Nellie Bly from the New York World left for Europe less than two hours ago aboard the steamer Augusta Victoria.”
He tosses the offending newspaper onto the desk. On the front page is a picture of Nellie Bly wearing a long black and white checkered Ulster coat and holding a small gripsack.
“This is about Nellie Bly?” My throat goes dry. “I don’t wish to compete with a stunt reporter.”
I stand, preparing to leave. Nellie Bly has pulled some wild schemes since moving to New York – getting committed to a mad house for one, pretending to sell a baby another. All to uncover the ill-treated of the city and sell newspapers, but mostly to sell herself. Under heaven, I don’t want my name associated with hers.
Mr. Walker motions for me to sit back down. “We’ve done the calculations and think they have made a mistake. We can outdo them by going in the opposite direction, where the winds will be in your favor and you’ll miss the January snow in the Midwest. We’ll put you on the train to Chicago tonight.” He circles his finger like it is the one circumnavigating the world. “And we’ll have you back here the day before Bly, even though you will have left hours after her.”
“But I have fifty guests coming for tea tomorrow.”
“Cancel.”
“I don’t have any travel clothes made up.”
“Hire someone. A team!”
Silence settles as I think of my last – and most important – reason not to go. Unlike some women reporters, I am quite content writing my society articles. I relish the culture and refinement. If I do this, my name will forever be linked with that wild Bly woman – our names will be splashed across all the papers. My anonymity will be gone.
But then, consider a trip around the world! Once, when our family had money, such a trip would have been within my reach, but we lost so much during the civil war. Molly and I have talked about Europe, but with us barely making our way, we’ve never been serious. Could I do it? Really do it?
I curl my toes in my boots, thinking back to when I first arrived in New York and the managing editor of the Sun advised: “My dear little girl, pack your trunk and go back home. This is no place for you.”
Mr. Walker strokes his black mustache as he sizes me up. “You will be well compensated as a full-time employee.”
Full-time? A reliable income. Mr. Walker is dangling a carrot that is hard to resist.
He nods towards the cluster of men, still watching. “They say you can’t be packed inside of a month.”
I examine the smirking group. The newest writer, a self-satisfied swarthy fellow, grins and tips his chin at me.
“They do, do they?” I lift my own chin as I focus back on Mr. Walker. “Give me the afternoon.”
Mr. Walker breathes out a gust of air and leans back into his wooden desk chair. “Excellent.” He reaches out to receive an itinerary from Wilson, the magazine’s business manager. He studies it and frowns. “Best we can do. You are on the six o’clock train to Chicago.”
“Speaking of packing, how many bags may I bring?”
Mr. Walker snaps his chair back upright. “Bly has one small gripsack. See that you find something similar.”
I can’t help but lift my eyebrows. “Oh.”
There is no way I am going around the world with only one handbag, but I set my mind to pack light.
On the way home to tell my sister, I slip into the candy store below our apartment. Bad news first heard with a bag of pralines is better received than news without. Once in the apartment, the enormity of my assignment hits me, and I drop into the chair by the door.
“Liz! What is it?” Molly rushes to my side.
I hold out the candy. “I am going on a trip around the world. I leave tonight.”
***
Chapter 2: In Which Nellie Bly Is Called Into Her Editor’s Office And Gets What She Wants
Three Days Earlier: Monday, November 11, 1889
I HELD THE note in my hand as I sat down at the editor’s desk. He had never summoned me with a note before, and in the evening no less. What was I to be scolded for this time? I twirled my lucky gold ring around my right thumb as I stared at him making notes on a pad. Would Cockerill hurry up and get it over with? I had plans to take Mother to Hamlet at the Broadway Theatre tonight.
Finally, Cockerill finished writing and looked at me. "Mr. Pulitzer wants a big story. Can you start around the world day after tomorrow?"
My heart skipped a beat. “I can start this minute,” I said, jumping up and shedding all thoughts of Hamlet. Hadn’t I proposed this scheme a year ago? Took ‘em long enough to figure out it was a bang-up idea. I needed clothes, a new bag. . . and where had I filed that itinerary?
“We thought of starting you on the City of Paris tomorrow morning, so as to give you ample time to catch the mail train out of London. There is a chance the Augusta Victoria, which sails the morning afterwards, will run into rough weather, causing you to miss your connection with the mail train.”
“I will take my chances on the Augusta Victoria and save one extra day,” I said, deciding quickly. The Augusta Victoria had recently set a speed record crossing the Atlantic. If I were to beat Jules Verne’s eighty days, that would be the ship to do it on.
“Have you a passport?”
I bit my lip. “No. Will that be a problem?”
Cockerill waved in Mr. Van Zile, the one unlucky enough to be closest to the editor’s desk. “I need you to go to Washington immediately. Speak directly to the secretary of state, and get this girl a temporary passport.”
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, I went to get a dress made at the William Ghormley shop on Nineteenth Street, east of Fifth Avenue. It was a more exclusive studio than I would normally patronize, but these were extraordinary circumstances, and I had to be sure of the quality.
“Mr. Ghormley, I want a dress by this evening.” I spoke crisply and businesslike to the thin tailor, confident that such a task could be done.
“Very well.” Without a hint of hesitation, he led me over to a sampling of materials.
I smiled as I followed. My editors always took some working over and it was nice not to have to argue for a change.
“A dress that will stand constant wear for three months,” I said before he could pull out any fabrics, and to make sure he understood the quality of the work I expected despite the short notice. “I am going on a trip around the world.” My last words came out breathless. It was finally hitting me.
Mr. Ghormley chose several bolts of cloth and laid them out on a small table in front of a pier glass where the light was true. He draped the samples open and studied how they looked in the tall mirror between the windows.
“Around the world? And what are you trying to prove this time, Miss Bly? That the world is flat after all?”
“Ha! Not in the least, Mr. Ghormley. I’m going to beat Phileas Fogg’s record and do it in only seventy-five days.”
“Around the World in Eighty Days?” He looked up with a spark in his eye. “You think you can beat an imaginary man’s record?” He returned to the fabric. “I suppose if anyone could, it would be you.”
He pounded his hand on a plain blue broadcloth and a plaid camel's-hair. “What do you think of these? Strong. Durable. Fashionable. Should carry you around the world and back again.”
“Excellent.” I leaned on the table. “Aren’t you worried for me? A young woman traveling in parts unknown without a companion?”
The decision to go alone had been an easy one. A few years before, when I traveled to Mexico, my mother had gone with me. But she didn’t move fast enough for a race. I had to beat Phileas Fogg, or there wasn’t any point!
Mother had not been happy to hear the news. During the intermission of Hamlet, she reached for my hand. “Pink, dear,” she had said, invoking my childhood nickname, and reminding me how she used to dress me up in pink when all the other girls wore drab colors. It’s her fault I feel the need to stand out. “This is different from your other stunts. Halfway around the world, there will be no one to rescue you should you need help.”
“I am not worried, Mother. The world will meet me as I meet it.”
Mr. Ghormley chuckled. “I have read your articles. I am more worried for your fellow passengers.”
He put the rejected fabrics away and set about cutting out a traveling gown. Before I left Ghormley’s at one o’clock, I had had my first fitting and made plans to return at five o’clock for the second.
A few more stops, and I had ordered a thick overcoat called an Ulster to take me through the winter, a lighter dress from my regular dressmaker to wear in the parts of the world where it would be summer, and lastly, a new bag to pack everything into.
That night, after Mother had gone to bed, I settled back into a chair with a deeply satisfied grin on my face. This would be my most daring adventure yet. The whole world would hear of Nellie Bly.
