by Brown, T. J.
At least she wouldn’t have to worry about running into Jonathon there. She’d learned from Cristobel on their ride that he was in Larkhill with the Third Squadron, RFC. She tried not to think about the rumors that the Second and Third Squadrons were primarily photographic squadrons, going deep into enemy territory to take pictures.
She’d been out riding with Cristobel twice since she had met her at the barn. Rowena didn’t know if she was meeting her because she missed Cristobel’s dizzy, heedless outlook on life or if she was waiting for the few tidbits about Jon the girl occasionally let slip. Rowena felt just enough guilt about that to be overly kind to the girl, even offering to send the Summerset farrier out when they discovered Grenadine had a loose shoe.
On the telephone she had casually asked Mr. Dirkes about Jonathon’s assignments, but he had denied having any knowledge of what the aircraft squadrons were doing. She wondered how dangerous it might be.
Beneath her, seagulls cavorted and she was reminded how near the coast she was. She had never flown over the water, but knew it was trickier with odd air currents and confusing cloud formations. She had always wanted to try it, but her instructor at the Brooklands Aero Club had warned her against it. But then, he wasn’t too thrilled about taking on a female student. Only the amount of money her uncle had offered had persuaded him.
As always when Rowena was in the air, the time passed swiftly, and her coordinates told her she was close to Kent. She rolled up her flight log and stuck it next to her before descending to get a closer look below her. Spotting the airfield almost immediately, she flew toward it. She glanced at the gold wrist-watch her aunt had bought her for her birthday. Right on time. Mr. Dirkes would be expecting her.
Takeoff and landing were the most dangerous stages of a flight, and Rowena’s concentration sharpened. All her senses increased during these times, and she felt vibrantly alive. A northern wind had sprung up, and she fought to keep her aeroplane on the right trajectory. She was relieved when her wheels hit the ground with a teeth-rattling jolt. Turning the nose of her aeroplane toward the enormous metal hangar, she spotted Mr. Dirkes’s large form hurrying toward her before the aeroplane even stopped.
She handed down her bag and then climbed out of the cockpit. He tossed the bag to a worker who had come with him and then reached up to help her down.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, lass.” He squeezed her breathless before placing her carefully on her feet. His eyes widened with astonishment. “Look at you! I could barely tell you from a pilot!”
“I am a pilot,” she said tartly before taking her bag.
“I meant no offense, my dear. Your clothing makes sense. Just took me aback.”
She took off her goggles and helmet. She had tied her hair back and tucked it down the back of her jacket. But it had come loose and now flew about in the same wind she had fought on her landing.
The workers took the plane off for inspection while Mr. Dirkes led her toward the hangar. He towered over her and looked deceptively clumsy, but she knew from experience how quick and nimble he actually was.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said with the accent that belied his Scottish heritage. “Thanks for bringing the aeroplane. I didn’t know how I was going to get it here, and we need all the birds we can get right now. I am at full production but I can still only put out so many per month. The lads are crashing them as quickly as I can make them.”
They walked into the cavernous space and he showed her the water closet where she could freshen up.
She ignored the dirt on the floor and the black grease on the porcelain sink and changed into the dark wool walking skirt she had brought for the occasion. Taking combs out of her pocket, she twisted her hair up into a knot. Though she was protected here by Mr. Dirkes’s presence, she knew that her trousers would just make the factory workers uneasy.
Mr. Dirkes smiled when she exited the WC. “That was a quick change. You don’t even look like the same girl. Come along and I will give you a quick tour of the factory before we go for tea.”
The hangar held rows of aeroplanes in varying degrees of completion, and Rowena was shocked to see several women working alongside the men.
Mr. Dirkes noticed her curiosity and gave her a smile. “Adapt or die, young Rowena. We need as many men as we can get on the front and more to ferry aeroplanes to our bases around Britain. We’ve already lost so many men, I feel as if it is my patriotic duty to hire war widows whenever I can.”
She smiled up at him. “You’re a good man, Douglas Dirkes.”
After they had toured the facilities he drove her to the Rusty Arms, a small inn on the outskirts of town, for tea. The dining room was small and shabby, but the scents coming from the kitchen made her mouth water.
“So have you heard from our boy yet?” The look he gave her was keen, and she suspected that he was aware of exactly what had happened between Jonathon and her. Not only did he and Jon work together, but Mr. Dirkes was an old friend of Jon’s mother.
She looked down at the stained white tablecloth. “No. We haven’t spoken in months.” She glanced up at him accusingly. “And you know it, too.”
He heaved a sigh and poured himself more tea from the cracked pot the waitress had set down in front of them. “I was hoping the lad had come to his senses. I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but I do know that when you find yourself in a pair as compatible as the two of you were, you don’t squander it.”
“Apparently you do. But that is all water under the bridge. You know very well I’m to be married to Lord Billingsly.”
“Yes, your uncle told me.”
“I don’t know how you and my uncle ended up being such good friends,” she said, deftly changing the subject.
Mr. Dirkes grinned. “He invested in my company. A smart man, despite his pomposity. He saw the writing on the wall.”
She arched her brows. “How is business going anyway? You said you can’t keep up with demand?”
Mr. Dirkes shook his head, suddenly serious. “Training pilots is taking up a huge number of planes. We lose too many planes and young men that way. The statistics are frightening. We’re making new scientific and mechanical inroads all the time, but it’s just taking too long, and changes in design are hard to implement, especially now that the need for aeroplanes is so high.”
“What statistics are you talking about?” she asked, genuinely fascinated.
“We simply do not have enough qualified pilots to train, ferry the aeroplanes to the various bases, and do reconnaissance. Too many of our pilots are undertrained, and they’re dead within weeks of signing on. And it’s not the enemy, but their lack of training that is doing it.”
Rowena’s chest hollowed at the harshness of his usually merry voice.
She remembered how many men she’d met while working to obtain her pilot’s license who shared her passion for flight. She wondered how many had already had their lives cut short before they really got a chance to explore the skies.
“What can be done?” she asked.
Mr. Dirkes sighed as the serving woman brought a plate of sandwiches. “Not a whole lot, I’m afraid. What they need to do is combine the RFC and the Royal Naval Air Service under one department, as there is too much confusion over who is supposed to be performing which missions. There’s simply too much overlap.”
“Don’t they have an established training manual that can be used by everyone?”
He shook his head, and she noted the newly hatched gray hairs threaded through his hair. “All of that takes time and a single-minded goal. We’re not there yet. Hell, some of the powers that be still aren’t convinced of the value of aeroplanes for use during wartime. Excuse my language, Miss Rowena. I forget I’m talking to a lady sometimes.”
She gave him a sad half smile. “Sometimes the situation warrants strong words, Mr. Dirkes.”
“That it most certainly does. And right now I’m frustrated that I can’t move the birds to where they’re
needed faster. You saw all those aeroplanes, right? I have several that need to be taken to Plymouth and two more to be taken to Hampshire, but the government has my pilots doing other things and they won’t be back for several weeks. In the meantime, I’m left with a logjam in production.”
She sat up, excitement kicking her pulse up a notch. “So let me do it. I can do it. You know I can.”
He shook his head. “That’s not the point. Of course you can do it. But should you? That’s a whole other ball of wax. Now eat your sammies, lass.”
He calmly took a bite of his cucumber sandwich while she fumed. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
He snorted. “I can give you several.” He ticked the reasons off with his fingers. “One, your uncle wouldn’t like it. Two, we’re in a war and it could be dangerous. Will be dangerous. Three, you would be ferrying the aeroplanes to naval and air bases where there are any number of army officers who would not appreciate a young woman flying their aeroplanes. Four, we would be dependent on these same officers to bring you back to Kent, and you would be left alone with them for hours. Un-chaperoned.”
“Are you saying that officers in the King’s army would not act like gentlemen?” she pushed.
“I’m saying that seeing you fly a plane like a man, dressed in trousers and leather like a man, might lead them to behave in ways that are not gentlemanly.”
She ground her teeth, thinking of how the two men at the barn had treated her just that morning. But there had to be a way around it. She didn’t answer, but ate in silence for several minutes, thinking hard. She noted that he watched her closely, knowing she would refute his words. Why could young men go off to war and make a real difference and the only avenues open to her were nursing or volunteering to write letters or read to wounded soldiers? She knew that if the war went on for too long, women would be participating more from sheer necessity, but it hardly seemed fair that Victoria could be helping the war effort because she had a knack and a heart for nursing, while women like Rowena were overlooked and underutilized.
Finally, she pushed away her food and put both hands on the table. “Why couldn’t I be a support volunteer for the RFC? If I wore some sort of uniform, that would lessen the confusion.”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure if you could. I’ve never heard of a woman in the RFC, and I’m fairly sure it’s never been done.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “But the uniform is a good idea. Or at least an outfit that wouldn’t garner as much attention as trousers.”
“We could arrange for me to arrive in the evenings when there are fewer officers about.”
“But then you would have to either stay the night or drive home with a young man in the dark, which neither your uncle nor I would approve of.”
She felt a spurt of anger. “Why do you keep bringing up my uncle? I am twenty-three years old, for heaven’s sake.”
Mr. Dirkes shook his head. “Things haven’t changed that much, Miss Rowena, and you know it. Don’t be naïve.”
“I’m not being naïve. You have always said adapt or die, and quite frankly, this is the time to adapt. We’re at war and people are dying. To make our troops wait for the training aeroplanes they need because you don’t want a fully qualified woman to pilot them is not just silly, it’s criminal!”
He paused, then slowly nodded. “Well put, my dear.” He sipped his tea thoughtfully. “And it looks like that is exactly what I will tell the squadron commanders when I inform them that you are to bring their aeroplanes.”
Triumph shot through her and she tried to keep the elation off her face.
“But know that I’ll threaten them with death if you are in any way, shape, or form molested or mistreated while in their care. I do have one condition, though.”
“What’s that?”
“You have to be the one to tell your uncle.”
Relief colored her laughter. “Done and done. And you will not regret this, Mr. Dirkes.”
She extended her hand and he looked at it for a moment before raising an eyebrow.
“Come on,” she urged. “Aren’t you going to shake the hand of the first woman pilot you have in your employ?”
“My employ?” He sounded amused.
She grinned at him from over her teacup. “Of course. You have just given me my very first paying job.”
He laughed. “I think I’ve been royally had.”
“Yes, Mr. Dirkes,” she told him gleefully, “you have.”
chapter
eight
Victoria hurried to the makeshift hospital, dressed in her Volunteer Aid Detachment uniform. Susie had care-fully ironed her blue chambray dress and bleached the starched apron until it was stiff and sparkling white. The headdress, equally starched and bleached, scratched her forehead, but it also set her apart, and the soldiers, taking air in the garden through which she hurried, gave her appreciative nods.
Victoria beamed back at them, not noticing the missing limbs or the bandages. These men were the lucky ones, and many worked hard to be allowed out in the garden on such a fine late-October day. Others, too many others, would not be so lucky.
That was the most difficult part of her new job: holding the hands of those who were never going to go home or see their loved ones. Thankfully, in this home, a fine mansion just off Berkeley, most of the soldiers came to convalesce and few actually passed away here. Only those who contracted some sort of infection. Too many had had their surgeries performed hurriedly in the field hospitals or dressing stations close to the front and arrived fighting off the complications due to such impromptu work. But in spite of the sadness, she loved her work. The soldiers were appreciative of her efforts, and the doctors occasionally consulted with her for her knowledge of herbs and tinctures. A few even credited her with their relatively low infection rate.
Some of the nurses, jealous of the attention she received from both the doctors and the patients as much as for her herbal knowledge, were less thrilled, but Victoria didn’t care. For the first time in a long time, she was useful and satisfied. Her work was important.
Her father would be proud.
So she went to work every morning and stayed long into the night, far after she should have gone home. She ignored the swelling of her feet, the ache of her legs, and the asthma attacks that occurred with increasing frequency now that she was back in London.
Eleanor had been fussing at her for weeks, but she ignored her, too. She had a few days off starting tomorrow. Nanny Iris was visiting from Summerset and, Victoria knew, would be bringing more herbs and planned on teaching her more about poultices. Victoria would have plenty of time to rest during her friend’s visit.
Victoria entered through the servants’ door and nodded at the cook. The casualties had overrun London hospitals after mere weeks of war, and it was becoming quite the thing for rich families to donate their mansions to the cause while they lived in their country homes. Victoria worked in such a converted mansion. Even though the family had moved to their country house after offering their home, much of the kitchen staff had been retained. Only now, instead of cooking fancy food for parties of two hundred, they cooked plain fare for an endless stream of soldiers.
She went into the study, which had been transformed into a makeshift office for the doctors and nurses. Nurse Baxter sat at one of the desks writing in her log and took several minutes to acknowledge Victoria’s presence, even though she had to know Victoria was there.
“Good morning, Miss Buxton. I hope you are feeling better this morning.”
Victoria kept her nebulizer in the nurses’ office and had needed to use it before heading home the previous night. Apparently, word had gotten to the head day-shift nurse. “Good morning, Nurse Baxter. I’m perfectly well physically, though my spirit is a bit disheveled.”
The older woman looked up sharply. “And why would that be, Miss Buxton?”
“I have several days off and shall miss the boys when I am gone.”
Nurse Baxter’s featu
res were angular and pointed, but not unkind. Eleanor had taken classes from her when studying nursing and adored her, though Victoria couldn’t figure out why.
“You must occasionally take time off to avoid becoming overtired, Miss Buxton. While I have no doubt the army appreciates your dedication, it will do no one any good for you to become ill.”
The older woman’s firm rebuke stung, and Victoria lowered her eyes. “Yes, Nurse Baxter. I understand.”
“Excellent.” She handed Victoria an assignment sheet and a list of names. “These men will be under your care today.”
Victoria scanned the sheet for the name of the nurse in charge. Like the soldiers, she had nurses she liked better than others. “Who am I to be working under?” she asked, not seeing anyone.
“You will be in charge of the library yourself, though Nurse Farner will be checking in on you frequently.” Nurse Baxter bent her head to her work again as if she hadn’t uttered anything out of the ordinary.
“By myself?” Victoria squeaked out. Volunteer aides were never left in charge of wards by themselves. Granted, the library only held twenty men who were in good health compared to many others, but still, she’d never been in charge on her own before.
“Yes, of course. We’re shorthanded and Dr. Blake and I decided you were fully capable of caring for them on your own. Most of the men there are close to being discharged. Unless, of course, you don’t think you can handle it?” Nurse Baxter looked over her wire-rimmed glasses at Victoria.
“No, I am sure I can do it.”
“Good. Don’t disappoint us, Miss Buxton.”
“No, ma’am.”
Victoria forced herself to walk sedately out of the room and down the hall, though she couldn’t help but bound up the stairs two at a time, which turned out to be a mistake as she had to cling to the banister at the top to catch her breath.
Her hard work and dedication hadn’t gone unnoticed; they trusted her enough to leave her on her own. Victoria could hardly believe it. She waited until her breathing stabilized, then went to the cupboard where the clean towels and linens were kept. Four men were bathed a day, allowing for everyone to have a bath once a week, except for those who had sponge baths. While the nurses gave sponge baths and had seen all sorts of “immodest things,” hospital policy was for men who were able to help those who needed more assistance. Victoria found the policy not only ridiculous, but dangerous. When she’d expressed her opinion during a meeting, the shocked hospital staff had struck down her idea that a nurse or VAD be present at all times. Slipping while getting in and out of the tub was common, but Victoria figured they would wait until someone was seriously injured before changing the rule, as seemed to be the way things worked here.