Among the Poppies Read online

  “I don’t think about it. My mother likes to remind me that it is my father’s job to think for me, and someday it will be my husband’s.” Cecelia’s pert nose scrunched up. “Which reminds me, I’m late for the party.”

  “Another benefit?”

  “The Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Infantry needs more fundraising, and my mother is precisely the hostess to pull money from the purse strings of all her rich friends.” Cecelia tugged her beaded jacket closer as wild leaves tumbled their way. “But it’s also an opportunity for her to play matchmaker for me with one of the local officers. My question is, if he’s such a catch, why haven’t I seen or heard of him before?”

  “Maybe he’s not so much a catch, but more of a last-minute contingency.”

  “I bet he’s bald.”

  “Or too fat to sit on a horse.” Gwyn giggled as Cecelia’s face sagged further. “And talks with his mouth full.”

  Cecelia groaned. “Of course none of that matters as long as he’s rich and well connected, or so I’ve been taught. You are so lucky your father doesn’t use you as a trading card.”

  Not knowing what to say, Gwyn merely nodded. Dear Papa. The kindest and most understanding man she had ever known. Though he never silenced her dreams, he did struggle to keep her feet on the ground from time to time. “He would love to see me settled and cared for. I know he worries about me being alone.”

  They stopped at the turnoff to Clarendon Downs, the ancestral seat of the barons of Somerset. Straight ahead, down the poplar-lined drive, stood Cecelia’s massive sandstone house, shining like a jewel in its velvety green surroundings. To the left, a long, winding dirt-packed alley led to the servants’ entrance and garages. Gwyn’s way home.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Cecelia called as she started down her sun-dappled lane, “if the Mr. Officer I’m scheduled to meet tonight doesn’t work out, I’ll send him your way.”

  “Thanks ever so much.”

  “And remind your father to bring the extra straps for the trunks. I told the orphanage I was bringing two, but I found more shoes in the bottom of my wardrobe last night.”

  Gwyn raced down the pebble-strewn path that dipped behind the great house, calling hello to the kitchen maid as Gwyn ran straight into the garage. Musty oil, metal tools, and worn leather permeated the air. She scanned the area until she spotted her father’s feet sticking out from underneath Lord Somerset’s Renault.

  “Hello, Papa.”

  “I thought that was you stampeding in.” A greasy finger pointed from behind the wheel well. “Hand me that wrench there.”

  Plucking the tool from its wooden toolbox, Gwyn squatted and placed it in his waiting hand. “What are you working on?”

  “One of the lug nuts shook loose. Too many potholes from last week’s rain.”

  Gwyn eyed the toolbox. Her fingers itched for a solid task after the bow-tying lesson. Removing her hat, she tossed it on the workbench. “Can I help?”

  “Almost … done … there. That should do it.” Wiggling free from underneath the car, he leaned on one elbow and pulled a stained rag from his pocket to wipe his hands. Bright green eyes, the same as hers, shone out from the grease smudged across his face. “How was your class today?”

  “Enlightening.” Grabbing the wrench, she wiped the head with a cloth and placed it back in the toolbox. “I learned how to tie bows.”

  “Bows?” Papa sat up. “That Shearing woman still taking things into her own hands?”

  Gwyn rearranged the tools by size, avoiding her father’s eyes.

  “Why don’t you change groups and stop wasting your time with women who think war is a garden party?”

  “Miss Cecelia won’t allow it. She can’t mix with the other groups, as they’re full of shopkeepers’ wives and schoolgirls, but she refuses to be alone with the old dragons. That’s what she calls them.” Gwyn looked up from the tools. “Besides, those ladies have a lot to learn, and maybe I’m the one to help them.”

  “That’s my girl.” He grinned and smoothed down the lock of hair winging over his ears. Nearing fifty, he was still handsome with the gray streaks through his brown hair lending an air of wisdom. He stood, grabbing his knee as his face contorted.

  Gwyn caught his elbow. “Are you all right, Papa?”

  He straightened, favoring his right knee. “Fine, fine. Old wound flaring again. Must be rain coming.”

  “You should rest.” She tried to lead him to the stool, but he pulled away.

  “No time.” He waved her off. “Cars will be coming soon for the party.”

  “Ruthers? Ruthers, are you in here?” Neville, the first footman, popped his head around the corner. “Ah, there you are. Hello, Gwyn. It seems the florist has forgotten the centerpiece for the grand hall. There’s no time to unload his lorry and rush back to retrieve it. Mr. Whiteson has asked that you pick it up.”

  Papa hesitated. “Of course.”

  “Very good. I shall tell Mr. Whiteson not to worry about it. And to stop berating the florist, who brought enough flowers to fill the king’s garden. Oh! I nearly forgot. This came in the post for you, Gwyn.” Reaching into his breast pocket, Neville extracted a cream envelope and handed it to her before leaving.

  Gwyn glimpsed at the neatly printed address from San Antonio, Texas, and tore open the paper. With heart pounding, she scanned the contents. Her heart sank. Waitlisted. “Stinson has had a record amount of applications for this year. My name has been added to a list, and, should an opening arise, I’ll be informed directly.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Papa asked. “You haven’t been turned down.”

  She’d waited so long. Disappointment sank in her stomach like a thick batch of motor oil. “I suppose.”

  “Chin up, girl. It’s not a refusal, and it means I’ll get to keep you here with me a while longer.”

  Gwyn tucked the letter back inside the envelope. Disheartening as it was, she did her best to shake off the frustration. “You’re right. A minor setback, but nothing I can’t wait for. Besides, I couldn’t soar around over there happy as a lark knowing all the bad things happening in my own country.”

  “That’s my girl. Now, this flower pickle. What bad timing.” Papa sighed and jammed his grease rag into his back pocket. “I was hoping to fix that sticking gearshift before I drive His Lordship to the train station tomorrow.”

  “I’ll go,” Gwyn said, eager to take her mind off the letter. “I’ll get the flowers and be back in no time.”

  He eyed her with suspicion. “Sure this isn’t an excuse to take a drive on a lovely autumn day?”

  “Oh, Papa.” She rested her hands on his thick shoulders. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Because you’re every bit your mum, God rest her. Any reason to dash about and you’ll take it.” He grinned and pinched her chin. “Take Lizzie and hurry on.”

  Gwyn turned to the rust bucket that was Lizzie. A second-hand donation from the Earl of Cranstem, Lord Somerset hoped her father could return the Model-T back to her former glory. Gwyn doubted even her talented father’s hands could complete such a feat. “If I’m not back before nightfall, assume she’s driven me into a ditch and send out a search party.” Not bothering to reclaim her hat, Gwyn climbed behind the wheel.

  Papa turned the crank until the engine sputtered to life. Grabbing the hand brake, Gwyn eased her foot onto the clutch. Lizzie coughed. And died.

  “One more time.” He spun the crank again. This time Lizzie roared. “She should be good now. I’ve been tampering with the accelerator. Perfect time to see how far she’ll push.”

  “She’ll fly, I know she will.” Gwyn saluted before easing onto the clutch again. Lizzie lurched forward and chugged down the gravel drive.

  Passing the entrance to Clarendon, Gwyn pulled on the throttle. Her leg cramped from pressing on the clutch, but just a few more yards and she’d be free from suspicious eyes and tattletales on the house grounds.

  At the end of Clarendon Downs, open
road rose before Gwyn. She let the clutch out and pushed down on the throttle. Lizzie jerked and rushed, finding freedom beneath her tires. Gwyn’s eyes watered from the stinging wind as they flew down the road. Hairpins dislodged with each bump, freeing dark curls to whip in front of her face. She pushed them back with a laugh, the headache from the day slipping away with each mile.

  “That-a-girl.” She patted the wooden steering wheel. “Let’s see what you can really do.”

  Pulling the lever forward, she carefully released the left peddle and the speed gauge inched its way closer to thirty miles per hour. Practically flying! The wind whipped around her face and coaxed out a grin of pure contentment.

  If only she could drive forever. If Lizzie could sprout wings, they could travel around the world in the extraordinary manner of Phileas Fogg, seeing new lands, meeting exotic natives, and defying the odds of a girl like Gwyn ever succeeding.

  The English countryside would have to suffice for now. At least until she could convince her father to let her join one of the voluntary groups going to France or Belgium, now that she wasn’t going to flight school.

  Turning down the wooded road leading to the village, a white puff of smoke erupted from under the hood. Groaning, Gwyn pressed the gear pedal into neutral, then eased off as she pulled the brake and steered into the grass. Lizzie came to a twitching halt.

  “Of all the times you choose to give out on me.” With an annoyed shake of her head, Gwyn climbed out and rolled the bonnet back to peer inside. “Pardon the intrusion, Lizzie. Let’s see what’s going on in here.” Shreds of fading light danced over the black and gray parts. “Please don’t be a blown gasket.”

  Lizzie coughed another white plume into Gwyn’s face. She fanned the choking steam away and groaned. Even better. The radiator.

  “Sorry, Mr. Whiteson.” She sighed, rolling her sleeves up. “Looks like her ladyship must hostess on without her floral arrangement.”

  Another party. Another daughter on parade. Slowing his horse under a canopy of oaks, William tugged at the top button on his dress uniform to ease the suffocating stiffness against his throat. He should be at the hospital visiting his wounded men and ascertaining who to send back to the Front. He found few things more heart-wrenching than telling a man on his hospital bed that his duty to king and country was not yet complete. As their commanding officer, William allowed no one else to shoulder the burden.

  Of course, that wasn’t the real reason he was called home on emergency leave. His father needed his help recruiting other young lads, and what better way than to use a uniform straight from the Front. Heaven knew the boys needed all the help they could get. And those Jerries needed a fresh taste of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire lads.

  Excitement trilled in William’s veins. New men could make up for the decimation at Festubert and bring back a little enthusiasm to the fight, until they became as disillusioned with the killing and filth as those who had come before. Even he had fallen prey to the despair. Someday, when this war-to-end-all-wars was finally over, and if he managed to survive, he could settle down to a life of peace and leisure.

  “Cheer up, Titan.” William patted the sleek black neck of his thoroughbred. “I know you’d rather be at the barracks, but I hear Lord Somerset has stables filled to the loft with hay and oats. Maybe even a pretty filly in the next stall. Just don’t let her turn your head right before battle. We have to keep our focus, old chap.”

  Rounding a bend in the road, he spotted an automobile parked in the grass. Its bonnet was rolled back, but there was no one in sight. Urging Titan into a trot, he came around the front of the auto and promptly yanked on the reins as his mouth slacked open. Sticking out from underneath the contraption were two of the longest and most shapely legs he’d ever seen, complete with bunched skirt, stockings, and silver buckle heeled shoes.

  “Oh, golly molly, Lizzie. You have such horrid timing.” A highly-irritated, muffled voice came from under the metal contraption. “You pick the one time I don’t have my toolbox to spring a leak.”

  William cleared his throat. “May I be of assistance?”

  The disembodied feet kicked at the dirt as the legs wiggled down to reveal a slender waist, arms, shoulders, and a dirt-smudged face with two wide green eyes.

  “Forgive me for startling you.” William dismounted as the girl jumped to her feet. Tall for a woman, she nearly met his eye line. “I thought you may have been in distress.”

  “Well, yes—I mean, my motorcar is.” The red splotches on her cheeks disappeared behind the dirt spots. Glancing down, she wiped her black hands against her skirt. “Radiator hose has a leak, and the clamp is loosening against the return line.”

  He had no clue what she was talking about, but he nodded anyway and focused on the one word he understood. “The clamp cannot be tightened again?”

  She shook her head, sending the lopsided knot of dark brown curls further to the side. “It’s too rusted, but even if it wasn’t, there’s still a hole to contend with.”

  “And you don’t have your toolbox.”

  “No, I … how did you know?”

  “It was on your list of complaints to Lizzie, who I surmise is this lovely tin box.”

  “Don’t call her that.” The girl scowled at the auto. “She’s been anything but lovely today.”

  “I can see that.” William laughed. The corners of the girl’s mouth twitched, drawing heat up his neck. He cleared his throat before it could reach his face. “Where is your driver, miss? Surely he did not leave you here to fend for yourself.”

  “I have no driver.”

  He reared back. “You drove this and now intend to fix it yourself?”

  A thin line puckered between her eyebrows. “Who else would fix it?”

  “Forgive me. I merely assumed …” She frowned. He squeezed his hands into fists and looked to the auto for a distraction. “Would you mind if I take a look?”

  The corners of her mouth eased, but the skeptical pucker on her brow remained. “Be my guest.”

  He peered into the cavity holding the engine, other various parts, and a web of tubes. All covered with grease and rust, and he without an inkling of what was what. Why did he never take the time to learn the basics about these new-fangled contraptions? His wandering eye latched onto a clamp. “Is this the one giving you problems?”

  She leaned in next to him, and he caught a whiff of oil, roses, and—tincture of iodine? An odd mixture for a lady, to be sure. Then again, this particular lady didn’t seem the kind to sit quaintly in a parlor all day.

  “Yes,” she said. “See how it’s warped back and flaking at the juncture?”

  William pinched the two ends between his fingers and squeezed. The clamp groaned but didn’t budge. He squeezed harder. Nothing. “I’m afraid too much more force, and it’ll break.” He dusted the rust bits from his hands. “What about the hose hole?”

  “It needs to be patched or replaced, neither of which I can do here.”

  “May I look?” Without waiting for a reply, he sat on the ground, but she quickly stepped between him and the car.

  “Please don’t.” She held out her dirty hands. “I won’t allow Lizzie to ruin your fine clothes, not like she has mine.” She glanced down at her stained skirt and frowned. “Not that I would call these fine.”

  “I would see it as a favor if my uniform developed a few undesirable spots on it. It would be unacceptable for presentation.” He dropped his voice. “Particularly for boring parties.”

  Her eyes widened. “The party! Oh, golly molly. I forgot all about those flowers.” Spinning around, she grabbed a jacket from the driver’s bench and shoved her arms into it. “I must go. Thank you for your assistance.”

  “I hardly think I assisted in—wait! Where are you going?”

  “To town.” She started walking down the road. “I need to retrieve an important flower basket and cannot return without every last stem.”

  “On foot? It’ll be too dark to see th
e road before you arrive, and much too dangerous for a lady alone.” He jogged ahead to close the distance between them. “Please allow me to escort you on my horse. It’ll be much faster.”

  She shook her head, sending an errant curl into her eyes. Her hand flew up to bat it away, leaving a grease streak across her cheek. “And impossible to carry a floral arrangement.”

  He glanced at Titan, then back to her. “Quite right. Then I’ll take you home where you can acquire a more suitable contraption to transport flowers, though I could never understand the need for centerpieces. They only block the way when you’re trying to converse with someone across the table.”

  “Unless it’s someone who likes to talk about the rate of grass growth, in which case the arrangement is quite effective.” She laughed, pulling a smile from him. He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had made him do that.

  He swept his hand towards Titan. “Shall we?”

  “You’re very kind to offer, but I hardly think it appropriate.”

  “I assure you, miss, that there is nothing inappropriate about escorting a stranded lady back home.” He didn’t bother mentioning the inappropriateness of finding said lady under the belly of a motorcar. Somehow such custom impropriety didn’t fit her.

  Staring at Titan’s saddle, she shifted from foot to foot. “Are you sure there’s enough room?”

  William swung onto the saddle and patted the space behind him. “Right back here. My sister used to ride with me like this.”

  She shook her head, not budging. “I haven’t had the best experiences with horses.”

  “And yet you’ll ride around in that?” He pointed at the auto.

  “They don’t bite and kick.”

  “I promise you will be completely safe. Titan is a perfect gentleman.”