Among the Poppies

by J'nell Ciesielski

  Gwyn kicked a pebble, sending it flying into a puddle on the footpath. “You may have discovered a new interrogation tactic. Lull one’s enemies in with promises of warm tea and sweets. They’ll fall unguarded into your hands.”

  He grimaced. “My time in the trenches with foul men has robbed me of simple manners, particularly with the ladies. I can be rather boorish.”

  “Not boorish. Straightforward. An admirable trait.”

  “It didn’t seem so admirable back there. I was ready to dig a foxhole for incoming fire.”

  “We’re on the same side, Captain. We just have different ways of approaching it. You rely on caution while I throw it to the wind.”

  They stopped in front of a window display. A poster with a little girl standing outside of a demolished building read MEN OF BRITAIN! WILL YOU STAND FOR THIS? Tears filled the girl’s eyes as she clung to her burned doll.

  Without asking, William tucked Gwyn’s hand into the crook of his arm. His warm fingers closed over her hand, brushing the underside of her wrist. Her pulse skipped, and she turned to him.

  “I would do you a disservice if I did not bring to your attention all the dangers before you fall head first into them.” Worry feathered the lines around his mouth. “It’s a fate I wish to spare you from, even if you hate me for saying it.”

  The tightness that had built in her chest eased. “I truly appreciate that, Captain, though I know you’re not entirely keen on the idea.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Perhaps not, but a pretty face on the battlefield will be a welcomed change. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. Her list of long-awaited adventures practically burned a hole in the pocket where she’d tucked it safely away. It was like taking a piece of Mum with her wherever she went. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to live beyond the confines of England, even if it means going to war.”

  Smiling, he squeezed her fingers and started down the footpath again. “Then God help the Jerries because they don’t stand a chance against Lady Dowling’s brigade.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “But where will you get the autos?” Papa shut the valve on his oil can and spun around with eyebrows drawn. “Even as a duchess, the purchase price of five would set her back years in debt. Not batty, is she?”

  “No.” Gwyn screwed the new headlight into place and arched her aching back. After her week-long training camp at Lady Dowling’s sprawling country estate, the jolts of potholes and hairpin turns still rattled in the memory of her bones. “You know how rich people are with their money. They don’t have to worry about stashing it under the mattress for a rainy day like we do.”

  Papa shook a wrench at her. “I won’t have my daughter scampering off with a woman who can’t manage her own money, duchess or not. Wars aren’t fought with money. If she thinks she can just throw a fistful in the Kaiser’s face and all will be well, then she better think again.”

  “She’s a marchioness.” Gwyn snatched the wrench from him before it went flying then tapped the headlight wires into place. “She owns two of the autos, the other three are donated from her friends. She’s turned them all into first-class ambulances.” She stepped back and admired her work. “You’d be proud to sit behind any one of those wheels.”

  He harrumphed. “Not me sitting there, it’s you. In France. During battle. And no daughter of mine will trust her life to some rust bucket that shimmies apart under the first pothole.”

  “Lady Dowling’s chauffeur took me on a private tour of each auto. We checked them from fender to exhaust whistle, and each one received the Ruthers’ stamp of approval.”

  “I wasn’t there to give it.” Papa mumbled, turning back to his oil can.

  Gwyn slipped her hand over his shoulder and squeezed. “But you taught me everything you know.”

  “Aye, I know it.”

  “Everything will be all right. I promise.”

  He wrinkled his reddening nose to the side and sniffed. Hunching his shoulders, he poured fresh oil into his can. “What about these other drivers? Qualified, or rich girls who think because they’ve ridden in the back of a Rolls Royce, they can drive one?”

  Gwyn pulled out a low stool and eased onto it. “Every girl there knew her radiator hose from her gasket. Of course, most of them only knew one or two models, the ones they drove at home, so I had to explain the differences and locations of things in the models they hadn’t seen. They’re a bright group, though, eager to learn and quick to not repeat mistakes.”

  “And you’d take charge?”

  She nodded, digging out a dried sliver of grease from under a nail. “Only because I have the most experience. I may have to give them a rundown on more in-depth repairs once we get there.” Her hand stilled as a terrifying thought popped into her mind. “I wonder if Lady Dowling has spare parts at the ready.”

  “Make sure you get them.” Papa topped off his can and slid it back into its place on the shelf. “War-blown roads are bound to cause bent axles, slipping clutches, and worn bearings. It could take weeks or months to get them shipped across the Channel.”

  “I’ll send her a note first thing in the morning.”

  Gwyn sighed and leaned her head against the wall, inhaling the pungency of oil and rubber. Lady Dowling’s home smelled of fresh lavender and beeswax, beautiful scents to awaken to, but—in the darkness of her private bedroom—Gwyn had longed for the familiar scents of grease and metal.

  “Still think she’s too mad to take a bunch of naïve girls over there.” Papa slapped a glob of wax onto the Renault’s fender and worked it into dull circles.

  “Is that your only concern? You think Lady Dowling belongs in an asylum?”

  “Wouldn’t be a proper father if that was my only objection. There’s a little thing called a war exploding across the Channel.”

  “Papa, we’ve gone over and over that.”

  “Only because I don’t think it’s sunk into your thick skull yet.”

  A smirk pulled at her lips. “Hmm, wonder where I got that from?”

  “And then there’re the men.”

  Her smirk disappeared. “They need help. There are too many of them for us to take care of here. Imagine how bad it is over there.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.” He paused mid-stroke to fix her with a stare. “I’m talking about the lonely ones, the ones with wandering hands, the ones who haven’t seen a respectable girl in months.”

  Heat flamed up her cheeks. “I know how to handle those. The Red Cross Sisters taught us how before we started at hospital.”

  “Darling girl of mine, this is war. In a foreign country. Lonely men can be desperate.”

  “Then they can keep their desperation, and I’ll keep a crank under my seat.”

  “Unless it’s that captain coming to call. And don’t act like I don’t know about him.”

  Her hand curled around her wrist as if the touch of William’s fingers still lingered there. “He did not follow me to London. I told you.”

  Her father’s stare drilled her to the bone. “I know you’re occupied with things other than men, but someday that will change. You can’t run on this wild streak forever, and I won’t leave you alone.”

  Gwyn rolled her eyes. “Oh, Papa.”

  “Yes, Papa. And as your papa, it is my duty to see you taken care of after I’m gone.”

  “You shouldn’t worry so much. Maybe after the war, with my driving experience, they’ll hire me permanently for city transport with proper pay. I can drive one of those mass transit buses around Buckingham Palace and wave to the king as he stands on the front stoop with his morning paper. If I’m not racing through the skies doing barrel loops to my next port of call, that is.”

  “For now, you worry about potholes in France, and we’ll trust the rest to God.”

  Gwyn shot off her stool. “You’re really letting me go?”

  His strokes slowed over the bonnet, the cloth bunching b
etween his stained fingers. “You’ve inherited your mum’s spirit. We didn’t have the means to go far, but I couldn’t clip her wings any more than I can yours. They’ve always spread far beyond these old garage doors. This is your chance.”

  “So that’s it? Our little bird is flying the nest?” Cecelia stood in the doorway, fists on her hips and eyes narrowed. “You’ll just leave with some stuffy old dowager?”

  Lady Dowling was the last person Gwyn would consider stuffy, but there was little use to mincing words now. “This is my chance to finally go somewhere, at least until it’s safe to travel again after the war, and my father has agreed.”

  “Of course he agreed. He never tells you no.” Cecelia clamped a hand over her mouth and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ruthers. I overstepped my bounds.”

  Papa didn’t flinch. “Did you need something, Miss Cecelia?”

  “I need to go into town tomorrow, but …” Cecelia stared at

  Gwyn for a long moment, her thin blonde eyebrows drawing together. “But I believe my plans have changed.”

  Gwyn knew that tone. Nothing but hare-brained scheming ever came of it. “What do you mean, changed?”

  A smug smile crossed Cecelia’s angelic face. “If you think you’re getting into the excitement all by yourself, then you better think again. You’re not the only one who gets what she wants.”

  Disbelief crashed over Gwyn like an avalanche. “Miss Cecelia, you don’t belong in France.”

  Cecelia batted an unconcerned hand in the air. “I know, I know. Dodge the shells, rescue the wounded. Do we not work side-by-side at hospital? Why should we not work together over there?”

  “Because you don’t have an interest in going over there.”

  “Well, I do now.”

  Gwyn hiked an eyebrow. “And what’s prompted this change?”

  “I told you. I won’t be left behind.”

  “That’s hardly the right reason to—”

  “I’ve decided. Now I need to make up my father’s mind, which shouldn’t be too difficult considering his nose is so far stuck behind a newspaper he doesn’t notice anything beyond the racing tickets.”

  “You’ll need Lady Dowling’s permission before you start anything.”

  “A quick note with a generous donation of tires and medical supplies should remedy that.” Cecelia looked straight past Gwyn. “And Ruthers, I do require the car tomorrow. I’ll need to find new outfits proper for the trenches. Ten o’clock, shall we say?”

  Gwyn’s mouth flopped open. “Cecelia!”

  Cecelia waved over her shoulder as she marched down the drive. “I’ll pick you up something too, G.”

  Cecelia Hale under shell-filled skies. The girl couldn’t go a day without a scented bath and three-course meal. What was to become of them?

  “She thinks this is some kind of garden party.” The worried pits around her father’s mouth deepened. “Talk her out of it. Baron’s daughter or not, I won’t have her endangering you.”

  “Have you ever tried talking her out of anything? It’s pointless. Threats and tears don’t work either.” Gwyn sighed, rubbing her fingers into her temples. At least she’d have a fine dress should the Jerries take them. “Papa, you might want to start praying a little sooner. The angels will have their workload in heaps.”

  CHAPTER 6

  England’s ragged gray coast melded into the choppy water, leaving nothing more than a line on the imagination. Nearly three months behind schedule due to training and supply gathering, it was a miracle the entire Channel wasn’t iced over. The daily passing of hospital ships and destroyers had helped keep the frozen chunks at bay.

  Seawater sprayed over the rail, dousing Gwyn with flecks of ice as she strained to see the last glimpses of home. When it disappeared, she stared ahead as the ship plowed forward to the unknown. Wind and water crashed against her ears, loud and terrible and thrilling. Somewhere through the mist, a new land awaited her. She pulled out Mum’s paper and read down the long list of neatly scripted places, the ink more brown than black in the twenty-five years since Mum had penned it. Gwyn lightly traced the third place listed. France. As soon as her foot struck ground, she’d cross it off. One down. Forty-nine to go.

  “Too late to turn back now, girlie.”

  A man with a bleached beard and a piece of wood rolling between his chapped lips watched her.

  “I have no intention of turning back,” she said, tucking away her list.

  He spat into the whirling gray below. “Ain’t you afraid? Men’s getting killed over there.”

  “I would be a fool not to be afraid, but I cannot do nothing.”

  “What do you think you and your frilly skirted friends are going to do? Bake them pies and knit socks?”

  Gwyn cocked an eyebrow, daring him. “Drive ambulances.”

  “Desperate, are they?” He cackled. “Ain’t got any gimp men left to take the task?”

  “They can’t handle a steering wheel the way we can.”

  He snorted, picking the slender wood around his teeth. “You’re addled if you’re thinking you can do this. You’ll prove nothing ’cept you should’ve kept your skirts in the kitchen. Bah.”

  He stomped off, muttering and shaking his head. Lecherous old sea codger. Gwyn took a deep breath, willing his words to roll off her back. He didn’t know anything about her—and certainly not about women—to think they all wanted a lifetime in the kitchen, baking and knitting.

  The ship surged over a white-foamed wave and plunged down nose first. Water tumbled over the deck, soaking her new leather shoes and emerald skirt.

  “So much for arriving in style,” she muttered, lifting her foot from the frothing bubbles. Not that it mattered how she looked, but Cecelia had insisted on making a fine first impression for their boys. Poor CeCe. She hadn’t anticipated seasickness ten minutes out of port.

  Gwyn needed to check on her cabin mate. But first, a quick glimpse in storage to ensure the autos remained lashed properly. The dock workers had no clue what they were doing, much less what knots to use to keep the autos locked down.

  Twenty minutes and several rope burns later, Gwyn pushed into her tiny cabin. At first, she thought it ridiculous to worry about accommodations when France was less than twenty-five miles away, but the captain had explained that it could be hours or days before they arrived depending on their turn to dock. Red Cross ships got first priority.

  “Cecelia?”

  A long moan crept from the corner bunk. “Shut the door. Too much light.”

  Gwyn shut the door and wobbled across the cabin, pressing her hands to the wall as the ship rolled beneath her feet. “How are you feeling?”

  Curled into a ball, Cecelia threw an arm over her face. “How does it look like I feel?”

  From the gray light streaming in the porthole, Gwyn noted the perspiration dotting Cecelia’s ashy-tinged forehead. “I went to the galley to find you some ginger snaps or lemon drops, but the cook’s only store is for lard and dried biscuits.”

  “What about the provisions Lady Dowling’s cook has? We’ve brought enough food and medicine to last the next ten years.”

  “Emergencies only, I’m afraid.”

  Cecelia peeked out from under her arm. “Aren’t I an emergency?”

  “I believe she means the troops.”

  “How am I supposed to help them if I’m left in this condition?”

  Gwyn rolled her eyes. “I’ve never heard of anyone dying from seasickness.”

  “Maybe I’ll be the first.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t have eaten that entire box of chocolates before we left.”

  Cecelia bolted upright, bopping her head against the top bunk. “Forgive me if I don’t have an iron constitution like you. You’re probably flitting aboveboard while imagining your ten fathoms adventure under the water, or whatever nonsense it is that you stuffed into your trunk. As if a person needs two trunks full of books.”

  “It’s called Twenty Thousand Leagues Un
der the Sea, and I enjoy my books. Perhaps they’ll come of use to the men while they recover.” Gwyn balled her hands on her hips. “Much more so than those new hats and gloves you brought.”

  “We are staying with a marchioness. One must be prepared.” Cecelia rubbed her head with one palm, dislodging a perfectly pinned blonde curl. Her gaze drifted down Gwyn’s dress, her eyes widening the further down they went. “What happened to your new shoes? Water stains will never come out of that ribbon.”

  Gwyn stared at her ruined attire. She should have taken better care of them, even if she didn’t think them necessary. “I was standing near the rail. I’m sorry. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

  Waving a disinterested hand, Cecelia flopped back down on the stiff mattress. “What does it matter now? I was silly to think new trimmed frocks served a purpose where we’re going.”

  “It was a nice idea,” Gwyn said, hoping to ease the tension. “And they truly are lovely.”

  “But they don’t belong, just like you think I don’t.” She cracked open an eye and smiled. “Admit it.”

  Gwyn pulled up a chair and balanced herself on its warped seat. She tucked her ruined shoes under her skirt. “I do wonder about your eagerness to join when you’ve never mentioned it before. You seemed quite happy to work in Malvern’s hospital until the end.”

  Cecelia’s eyes glimmered in her pale face. “I need a new pool to select a man from. The one at home went stale a long time ago.”

  “If not for that impish look, I might think you’re serious. You aren’t, are you?”

  “I doubt this is the appropriate place to find a husband, or at least that’s what Mother told me before we left. One could easily lie about their breeding over here.” She fluffed the lace on her cuff and hummed an off-beat tune. “Besides, I’ve already found the perfect catch, and he just so happens to be here. How convenient to have his regiment so very near Lady Dowling’s estate.”

  Gwyn’s stomach quivered. “Anyone I know?”