Among the Poppies Read online

  They jumped at the sound of her voice, their faces burning bright red.

  “Not today we don’t.” One of the drivers turned back to the open door.

  “It’s not every day we have an able-bodied one come in.” One of the nurses, with spectacles perched on the edge of her nose, sighed. “I almost forgot what they look like walking around.”

  Eugenie wrinkled her nose. “I like mine a little more solid built and low to the ground. Like a dock worker used to hard labor.”

  The nurse stared at her as if she’d sprouted a third head. “He stands before us, and all you can think about is some stevedore from Liverpool?”

  “All I’m saying is I like my man on the square side. If he were tall like that one in there, I’d be sick worried because he makes the perfect target.” Eugenie’s eyes slid to Gwyn. “G is tall, so I’m sure she don’t mind the height much.”

  A pulse sprinted in Gwyn’s neck. She prayed it wouldn’t rush the blood to her face. “You bunch are about as sly as a sprung engine in May. Captain Crawford is here on official business. Nothing more.”

  “Then why’s he been asking for you since he got here?”

  As if on cue, William’s voice drifted out the door. Deep and calm, and rich as dark panels of wood. She raked a hand through her hair. “Possibly because I drove several of his men here.”

  Cocky grins and wiggling eyebrows angled her way. They wouldn’t stop until they had a few answers. Gwyn sighed. “His father is a friend of Lord Somerset. That’s all.”

  “I’m sure it’s not all, but we’ll wait to prick you another time. You best get in there.” Eugenie jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Your competition is thick as flies on a banger covered in gravy.”

  “There is no competition.” Why did she feel so adamant in announcing that? And why did it contradict the excitement of seeing him? No sense in giving into that now. She couldn’t afford distractions, even if they came in the guise of a handsome face with startling blue eyes.

  Taking a deep breath, Gwyn marched into the ward and down the center aisle between rows of metal-frame beds. A sumptuous room, blue watered silk curtains covered the windows, and a massive marble fireplace filled the center wall, now flanked by glass cabinets lined with a variety of medical supplies. Once filled with the heady scent of ladies’ perfume and champagne, the smells of fresh linens and tincture of iodine now swirled about the grand room.

  William leaned over a man’s bed, brow furrowed. Lady Dowling stood on one side of him while Cecelia stood on the other, but her eyes didn’t stay on the patient.

  “How often are the compresses applied?” he asked.

  “Every four hours or as needed,” Lady Dowling said. “These patients will be due for another round in two more hours.”

  “And each nurse is trained in the application?”

  “Every nurse is trained in all procedures, from cleaning bedpans to attending the doctor in surgery.” The old woman’s chest puffed out as she narrowed an eye at him. “Each nurse is assigned a position but is required to know the position above and below hers as well.”

  “Very efficient.”

  “We could show your generals a thing or two,” Gwyn added. “The trenches wouldn’t know what hit them.”

  He looked up, one corner of his mouth lifting. “I believe they wouldn’t.”

  Butterflies swarmed her stomach as she met his gaze.

  “Ah, Gwyn there you are.” Lady Dowling’s mouth puckered as her gaze swept a full examination over Gwyn. “I’m sorry to call you in right after your shift, but Captain Crawford has been quite insistent on seeing the garages with no other guide than you.”

  “You make me sound quite demanding, Lady Dowling,” William said.

  “Nonsense. You don’t fluff words, and I appreciate that. This is war. Where but in war can you find an all-female staff?” Lady Dowling smugly smiled. “And I happen to have the best, despite what the Duchess of Westminster thinks. Formal dressing to welcome the wounded. Have you ever heard of such bad time management?”

  “I should think it would lift the men’s spirits after being surrounded by mud and other dirty men.” Cecelia wrinkled her nose, then fluttered her lashes to William. Her slender white hand reached to touch the pink ribbon trim of her blouse. “A beautiful dress can do wonders, can it not, Captain?”

  “Indeed it can, Miss Hale.” A shorter man who looked too young to wear an officer’s rank piped up. With dimples curling into his soft cheeks and large brown eyes, he could pose for a cherub. “What heart would not beat faster at such a pretty sight?”

  A heart that’s shot through. Poor boy. He’d yet to realize he was out of his league. At least Cecelia was gentle, offering an accommodating smile as her disappointed gaze trailed to William.

  “I don’t know much about fancy dresses, but I would like to continue the tour,” William said. “If you don’t mind trudging back into the cold, I should very much like to see the garage, Miss Ruthers.”

  Gwyn’s toes grew warm under his smile. She stopped it cold before it reached her ankles. She had a pilot license to get, not a man. “I should be happy to escort you and your—” she squinted to see the other man’s rank— “em, other captain.”

  “Roland Morrison, at your service. Just not in the cold.” He puckered his lips. “This is the first time I’ve been warm in over five months. I’m not going back out there until absolutely necessary. Sorry, ma’am.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Gwyn said. “I’d want to stay next to the fire as long as possible in this cold. Perhaps you would enjoy seeing the kitchen prepare for the noon meal, if Lady Dowling agrees.”

  Morrison eagerly nodded as he inched closer to Cecelia. “Yes, of course. If Miss Hale will point me in the right direction.”

  “But I—” Cecelia’s eyes darted between the two men, oblivious to how one man stared at her like a starving man stared at a ham sandwich while the other busily counted gauze rolls on a nearby stand. Just when her composure looked ready to slip, breeding surged in. “I shall be delighted. If you’ll just follow me.”

  Gwyn offered her friend a small wave, but Cecelia’s eyes clouded with disappointment as she slipped from the ward with Captain Morrison tagging behind her. At least one of them would enjoy the trip.

  “Now, Gwyn. Be sure to keep him away from Gutless Gert.” Lady Dowling shoved Gwyn and William out the door. “I have enough fingerless patients to deal with without adding one unnecessarily to the lot. Be sure to come back to the kitchen for a bite to eat before you leave, Captain.”

  “Who is Gutless Gert, and why does she want my fingers?” William asked as they stopped at the back door.

  “She’s our jack.” Gwyn slipped on her fur coat. “To prop up the cars for maintenance. If you’re not paying attention, she’ll gladly take off an appendage.”

  Outside, snow fell in tiny puffs of lace that covered the barren ground and surrounding fields in a wintery blanket. Gwyn lifted her face to collect the swirling flakes on her lashes before they melted on her skin. “I’ve always loved the snow. It makes everything so beautiful.”

  “It also turns to slush.”

  Of course. He’d been buried in snow and mud for months, and she wanted to lie down and make snow angels. How stupid she was to make such a remark. “We can return to the house if you like. Find a hot cup of tea.”

  “Ah, tea.” A peaceful smile tilted his firm lips. “The drink of kings. A luxury these days when all we have is black coffee filtered with dirt, though my quartermaster did manage to smuggle in a bottle of brandy once. Had it confiscated two hours later when General Fowler made a surprise inspection.”

  “We often use brandy when the morphine runs out. Lady Dowling likes to add drops of champagne to make it fizz.”

  “I’m not a drinking man, but I know many who would start a war over such sacrilege.”

  “Tell them we have enough on our hands with the current one.”

  “I’ll do that, or maybe not. If
they get wind of spirits in the vicinity, they’ll beat down your door, wounded or not.”

  “I would rather have them all storm the castle able-bodied, and I’m sure most of the men here would as well.” Hopelessness flitted in her chest as it did every time she thought of those filling beds inside. She brushed it off and looked down the row of motorcars. The only life-saving mode she could provide. “Until that time, we shall keep our fleet ready for them.”

  William’s eyebrows lifted as he followed the sweep of her hand. “Impressive. Most units have only one ambulance assigned to them, if they’re lucky.”

  “They should enlist Lady Dowling. She’d give them an entire fleet of Stellas.” Gwyn patted the hood of the Sunbeam she stood next to.

  “Is Stella yours?”

  “Oh, no.” Gwyn’s chest filled with pride as she pointed to the car at the opposite end of the row. “I have Rosie, the most elegant—and dare I say—most fussy lady on the block.”

  “You have a knack for procuring the fussy ones. I remember dear ol’ Lizzie far too well.”

  Gwyn guided him down the line. Their boots crunched in unison over the frozen earth. “I have a soft spot for things that don’t run like they’re supposed to.” Like me. “But, unlike Lizzie, Rosie isn’t covered in rust and has yet to choke on me.”

  Reaching the end, she patted Rosie’s bonnet and swept off the snowy blanket to reveal her deep green color. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she is, and a shade of green I’ve never seen before.” Gwyn looked down at Rosie’s bonnet and frowned. Rosie’s green was standard issue. She looked up and caught William watching her. He quickly looked away. “I’ve never understood why cars, or wagons, or anything is referred to as ‘she’.” He dusted snow off the front fender with sharp flicks of his hand.

  “Because they’re temperamental, and yet society cannot do without them.”

  His head rocked back with a laugh, a deep sound that softened among the falling snowflakes. “You are absolutely right. You tell me how disagreeable Rosie is, yet here I am dusting off her cold arms and head.”

  Gwyn leaned her forearms on the bonnet, her fur coat impenetrable to the cold metal. Flakes landed on his shoulders, glistening atop the buttons. A pistol at his side and soft golden hair cropped his under cap, he looked oddly out of place standing next to the Rolls Royce. “You don’t know anything about autos, do you?”

  His eyebrows shifted. “And what gave me away?”

  “I knew the minute you poked your head under Lizzie’s bonnet. At least then you didn’t call her fender an arm.”

  He grinned sheepishly, a slight dimple pulsing in his cheek. “You’ve called me out. I’m afraid I’m better with horses. I can recite a horse’s lineage from the greatest stud and dam lines, but I couldn’t tell you the difference between a spark plug and a radiator cap. All in what you’re accustomed to.”

  He with his high-born horses and she with her rusted-out parts. Two worlds forever pulling apart. If she kept her wits about her, she’d let them keep pulling until she no longer thought of him when the din of the day quieted down. But how could she keep her wits about her when he kept showing up?

  “Growing accustomed to one thing can leave you in a rut.” She pushed her pesky thoughts aside. “Why stay in a rut when new experiences await just around the bend?”

  “Like moving to a new country?”

  “Under ordinary circumstances, I would wholeheartedly agree, but this trip is nothing so carefree as packing one’s bags for a grand adventure. The challenges are never-ending.”

  “And you like them?”

  “I like putting my hands to useful tasks, no matter what others may say about it.” She edged her toe into the ground.

  “The explosions, the horror, the pain. It hasn’t frightened your resolve to stay?”

  She grinned. “Did you hope it would send us all scurrying back across the Channel to the safety of rolling bandages and darning socks from our front parlors?”

  “Yes.”

  Her smile dropped. “Still, after all this time, you don’t think we belong here.”

  “I prefer not to see you here, nor anyone for that matter.” He looked down, scraping a handful of snow together into a tiny pile on the bonnet. With one hand, he flattened it. “I’ve written too many letters to families who will never see their sons or husbands or fathers again. I could not imagine the sheer despair of writing one about a daughter.”

  Gwyn clamped her fingers together to keep her frustration down. “We’re not asking to stand next to you in the trenches, merely the opportunity to do our part when and where we can. And my part was no longer in England.”

  Shadows haunted his eyes like distant memories marching along a foggy pit. “Would you be happy there again?”

  “I should like to, though my feet are much too restless to gather dust for Blighty at the moment. Too many fascinating places in the world to see.”

  A tired smile flitted across his face. “I’ve never been afflicted with restless feet. They don’t mix well with a soldier’s life. Hurry up and wait, and all that rot.”

  “Yours will happily settle after the war.”

  “God willing. But not until the mission is done.”

  Gwyn suspected the man would hold his feet to the fire until they burned off if that’s what the mission called for. The thought of such dedication cinched her lungs. Did he not feel suffocated knowing his decisions were not his own but commanded from someone higher?

  She shrugged off the cinching bands. For one day they deserved a chance to think of the possibilities beyond the war. “Once the mission is over, where will you settle? A seaside resort? An Alpine lodge? A country farm, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.” William’s shoulders drew taut, his jaw a line of granite. “I came to see my men, Miss Ruthers. All of them. Would you take me to see the rest?”

  Sadness wrapped around Gwyn’s heart as she nodded. They trudged up the small hill behind the house, their footsteps crunching in the snow. A waist-high fence squared off the top of the hill. Small wooden crosses dotted the ground within.

  Silence enveloped them in its wintery cloak as they stood outside the gate. William’s lips moved as he read each marker. Gwyn didn’t need to. She knew them each by heart.

  “We held a small service and sang a hymn,” she said, tugging her coat closer against the wind. She was never sure how to approach people in their moment of mourning. All words seemed inadequate. “This will be a beautiful spot in the spring, with the poppies blooming all around.”

  “Thank you for burying them here,” he said quietly. “With so many wounded, it’s often difficult to transport all the soldiers home.”

  A freshly hewn cross stood dark brown among its faded comrades. It belonged to an eighteen-year-old Irish boy who had never spent one night away from his mother before enlisting. He never made it off the ambulance. “I’m sorry, Captain Crawford. Sorry we could not do more.”

  “There is only so much one can do. The rest is in God’s hands. Or so the thought helps me to sleep at night amongst the grenades exploding over my head.”

  “Sometimes I think God is much too mighty to involve Himself directly in our squabbles.”

  William pulled his eyes from the crosses to look down at her. “Then why do we pray for Him to guide our swords and smite our enemies?”

  Gwyn shrugged. “Because they’re doing the same thing. Should we not benefit from more fervent invoking of His name?”

  “Day after day, breath after breath, I hear men invoking the holy name to intervene, yet this war continues. Will it continue on? I assume so. Will we all survive it?” He took a deep breath, pushing out the brass buttons down his coat. The straight line of his shoulders sagged a tiny bit. “Many more crosses will dot the countryside before this atrocity is over.”

  Gwyn gripped the fence, smashing the snow to ice beneath her gloved palms. And how many crosses would be added because she did not drive fast enough, long enou
gh, or careful enough? How much more blood would she clean from the back of her ambulance before dropping onto her cot with her mud-caked boots still on? “I never realized how difficult it would truly be,” she whispered. “I wasn’t so naïve to not know what happens, but to see it … it turns the world into a very different place.”

  He reached out, fingering a loose lock of hair that had slipped out from under her wool cap. A soft tug tingled her scalp as he rolled the hair over his finger and tucked it gently behind her ear. “I’m sorry you had to see it this way.”

  At the simplest brush of his fingertips against the sensitive skin behind her ear, Gwyn was sure he heard her heart pound its way into her throat. “Captain Crawford—”

  “William.”

  “William.” His name rolled over her lips smoother than expected. “I’d like to—”

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing all the way out here?” Cecelia’s voice trilled over the rush of blood in Gwyn’s ears. “This hill is much too windy to stand on.”

  “I wanted to see my men.” William tucked his hands into his pockets.

  Shivering, Gwyn pulled her collar higher to warm the skin his hand had abandoned to the chill.

  Cecelia floated along the path wrapped securely in her white fur coat, her dainty heels perfect picks in the ice. “A lovely spot once the flowers are in bloom. I hope it brings the families some small amount of comfort.” Questions flooded her eyes as she glanced at Gwyn then back to William. “If you’re done with the motors, I can show you my plans for a vegetable garden come spring.”

  William shook his head. “Another time. We’ve stayed long past what we should unless Captain Morrison has deserted me, in which case I am the one who has overstayed his welcome.”

  “You could never overstay. The men are delighted to see you, and Captain Morrison is more than happy to stay in the kitchen next to the warm stove.”

  “You mean the warm food.”

  Cecelia laughed, lighter than the falling snowflakes. “Yes, that too, but I think he’s left enough. Gwyn, have you eaten since coming off shift? You should head back to the kitchen before your tummy rumbles away.”