AMONG THE POPPIES BY J’NELL CIESIELSKI
Published by Smitten Historical Romance
an imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas
2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614
ISBN: 978-1-946016-48-5
Copyright © 2018 by J’nell Ciesielski
Cover design by Elaina Lee
Interior design by Karthick Srinivasan
Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: ShopLPC.com
For more information on this book and the author visit: http://www.jnellciesielski.com/
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.TM. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.TM.
Brought to you by the creative team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas: Eddie Jones, Shonda Savage, Karin Beery, Pegg Thomas, Brian Cross, Judah Raine, Jennifer Leo
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ciesielski, J’nell.
Among the Poppies / J’nell Ciesielski 1st ed.
Printed in the United States of America
PRAISE FOR AMONG THE POPPIES
Ciesielski’s debut pays tribute to those who gave their lives for their country, and those who stood with them, and highlights the ambulance corps drivers, a group that isn’t mentioned in many novels of this period. The reader is transported back in time and made to feel a part of this tale.
~Leslie L. McKee
RT Bookreviews Magazine
What a debut! J’nell Ciesielski ignites the pages with a captivating, out-of-the-box heroine and a kind-hearted, by-the-book hero in this World War I romance of changing times, shakable lives, and a steadfast God. With tedious detail and heart-wrenching descriptions, Ciesielski takes the reader on a journey through the hospitals, trenches, and frontlines of France, giving us not only a view from a solider but also the rare perspective of women who dared enter the devastating world of war. Friendships are challenged and formed, faith is tried and strengthened, hearts are broken and healed, and romance is found and forged through the fires of The War to End All Wars. This novel sweeps beyond the glitz and glamour of the Edwardian Age and draws a realistic tale of love, loss, war, and dreams. The heroine was delightful and the hero a fitting match. A beautiful story.
~ Pepper D Basham
author of the Penned in Time series and Just the Way You Are
World War I history comes to life in debut author Ciesielski’s Among the Poppies. With the talent and skill of experienced authors, Ciesieskli brings to the pages the challenges, fear, bravery, and heroism of those who fought in one of the world’s most troubling times. Humor, wit, history, and romance brim through a story that is enlivened with characters facing familial obligations, societal restrictions, and the chasing of dreams as their world falls apart in war-torn France. Among the Poppies is not only beautifully written but beautifully told by an author who clearly loves the time period and honors with her words those who fought for freedom.
~ Marisa Deshaies
Acquisitions Editor of Bling!
At Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas
Among the Poppies has all the ingredients for a great read. A feisty, strong heroine, a handsome soldier hero, riveting World War I history, and romance to melt your heart make this a story you don’t want to miss.
~ Ann H. Gabhart
Bestselling author of These Healing Hills
“From page one, the characters pull you in and keep you reading! J’nell Ciesielski pens her story with beauty and skill.”
~ Roseanna White
Bestselling author of the Ladies of the Manor
and Shadows Over England series
With Among the Poppies, Ciesielski exhibits her mastery of the historical genre. With whip-smart dialogue, a strong female message, fluid turns of phrase, and characters at once relatable and inimitable, this sweepingly romantic and impeccably researched novel is one of the finest examples of Great War fiction I have read in an age.
~ Rachel McMillan
Author of the Van Buren and DeLuca series
Introduce a dashing, heart-thrilling Captain to a chauffer’s daughter set on adventure and helping The Great War efforts and you have sparks! Add witty dialogue, swoon-worthy tension, heroic intentions, and then the vivid descriptions of turn of the century England and war torn France ... and you have J’nell Cielsielski’s well-crafted, enchanting, debut novel, Among the Poppies.
~Dawn Crandall
Author of the award-winning series, The Everstone Chronicles
For my dad, who taught me that stubbornness can be a good thing. I think you’d be proud.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Author Notes
Glossary
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my agent, Linda S. Glaz, for taking a chance on a girl who likes to wrap her romances with an adventurous bow.
My editors, Pegg Thomas for loving my story enough to want to share it with the world, and Karin Beery for shining it up like a diamond. Who knew The Lord of the Rings could bring out just the right amount of sparkle?
Kathy Rouser and Anne Evans for taking the precious time to hunt for missing plot points, overbearing secondary characters, and those pesky commas that I can’t seem to control. And to Kim, my magical unicorn of a muse, where would my stories be without you?
My mom for all those childhood trips to the library to feed my imagination, for giving me a love of historicals and always encouraging my writing even when I came home from school with a love story between a trash can and an apple core.
My little girl who teaches me a lesson in forgiveness, unconditional love, and grace every
single day.
Bryan, my ever patient and understanding husband. You’ve put up with a lot over the years between trench outlines in the living room, impromptu hand-to-hand combat demonstrations, and the constant stack of warfare books for a little light reading at night. Not once have you batted an eyelid. You are the firm ground upon which I stand and stretch upward to grasp my dreams.
I can never fully express my full gratitude to the men and women who have gone before us in sacrifice for country, love, family, and freedom. To the men and women of today who stand on the front lines and the families they leave behind, you are the true heroes.
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CHAPTER 1
Great Malvern, England 1915
“No, no. Like this. You must tie it off with a bow.”
“Oh, yes. You are quite correct, Edith. The bow is indeed what this bandage needs.”
Gwynevere Ruthers crushed her fingers together in the folds of her navy wool skirt. If he’s bleeding to death, he’s not going to care about a stupid bow.
Like a flock of hens, the ladies of Great Malvern gathered around the bedside and clucked over their impractical handiwork.
“The Red Cross nurses are satisfied with merely a knot, but I think the bow gives it that extra finishing touch,” Mrs. Shearing said as she glided to the head of the bed. A cool smile of self-admiration tilted one side of her thin mouth.
Gwyn’s hand shot into the air.
Mrs. Shearing’s smile flattened. “Do you have a question, Gwyn?”
“Doesn’t a bow have a higher probability of snagging something and pulling free, as opposed to a knot?”
The hen pack’s eyebrows rose in surprise. As one, they turned to their leader with wide eyes.
“You may double knot it before the bow if you feel so inclined.” Mrs. Shearing sniffed. “The artistry of a bow is not to everyone’s taste.”
Gwyn bit her tongue. She hardly thought the soldier in the next bed would care much for artistry as he waited to be bandaged. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have Mrs. Edith Shearing, the prominent banker’s wife, in his ward.
Gwyn glanced around the hospital room at the other small groups of volunteers. Dressed in their sturdy clothes and white aprons, the women practiced head bandaging, stopping sucking chest wounds, and checking for broken bones. All while her group tied pretty bows. “I think we should try splinting again,” Gwyn blurted out.
Mrs. Shearing’s pale forehead creased like dried parchment. “We did that last week.”
“Yes, but we could try with other objects. Things we might find on a battlefield if supplies are limited, like branches, belts, odd bits of leather. I once read the American cowboys used dried animal hides to—”
“You are not wrapping me in a dead animal. I’d rather bleed to death.” Their ‘patient,’ Miss Cecelia Hale, sat up in bed, crossed her bandaged arms over her cream lace blouse, and scowled. “Besides, not one of us will be going anywhere near a battlefield.”
“Every week, new units of women are forming in war areas in Belgium, France, and Malta.” Excitement at the possibility bubbled inside of Gwyn. “After that second battle at Ypres, they need us more than ever.”
Cecelia rolled her eyes. “Oh, G. You read too many newspapers.”
“I just think it’s a good idea to be proactive and learn all we can while we still have time.”
“Are you afraid the war will end before you have the opportunity to patch up some Tommy?”
“I’ve read that the hospitals are filling faster than they can find places to keep the wounded. They’re shipping them further into the country, and Great Malvern could be next.”
Cecelia fluffed one of the cotton strip bows at her wrist. “It’s nothing more than news fodder and editors trying to sell more papers.”
“Miss Hale is right.” Mrs. Shearing sniffed through pinched nostrils. “It’s nothing to overly concern us. The war will be over by Christmas.”
Gwyn clamped her fingers together in frustration. “That’s what they said last year.”
Mottling red in the face, Mrs. Shearing’s mouth popped open, but Sister clapped her hands together. “Excellent work for the day, ladies,” she said. “Tomorrow, we will go over head traumas and instrument sterilization. Please clean your workstations and store all unused items back in the cabinet.”
“Get me untangled from this mess.” Cecelia held her bandaged arms out to Gwyn. “My fingers are going numb from all these bows.”
“One thing I can say for these decorative little additions is that they’re easier to undo than knots.” After extracting Cecelia from her bindings, Gwyn took a quick inventory of the scissors, linen strips, cotton swabs, water bottles, and iodine-soaked gauze littering the worktable and bed. “What a mess.”
“Those old peahens think they’re too good to clean up.” Cecelia huffed at the women’s retreating backs as they grabbed their fancy hats and hotfooted out the door. She fluffed her velvet ribbons back into order, after having been smashed down with bandages. “Just because they have one servant at home. One. As if that’s anything to brag about.”
Gwyn placed the scissors and iodine bottle on a metal tray. “Not everyone is the daughter of a baron and blessed with seventy servants like you, CeCe.”
“All the more reason they should help with cleanup. If I can do it, so can they.” Cecelia snatched a discarded roll of gauze and attempted to roll it. Thirty seconds later, she threw it down. “Why do they make these so tricky?”
If they hadn’t been childhood friends, Gwyn would have had her fill of Cecelia, the daughter of the Baron of Somerset, long ago. But friends they were, or as friendly as a lord’s daughter and his chauffeur’s daughter could be past the age of braids and knee-high skirts.
Picking up the gauze, Gwyn rolled it with a few quick twists of the wrist and tucked it beside the rows of bandages on the tray. Throwing the spoiled materials into the rubbish bin, she put the tray in the storage cabinet and shut the door. “All done. Let’s get out of here.”
Only too happy to leave the overwhelming smell of bleach and carbolic lotion behind, Gwyn grabbed her hat and burst through the front doors, inhaling the spicy autumn air. Late afternoon sun filtered through the towering alder trees’ yellow, orange, and red leaves like light piercing stained glass. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and let the warmth bathe her face.
“That’s how you get freckles,” Cecelia said behind her.
Gwyn’s eyes popped open, a mischievous grin curling her mouth. She passed through the hospital’s wrought iron gate and turned down the lane leading home. “You mean, that’s how you get freckles.”
Cecelia made a face as she adjusted the brim of her velvet and ostrich feather hat over her milk-white skin. “If I had your lovely rich brown hair instead of this unfashionable strawberry blonde, then I could forget my cover as often as you do, but, alas, the Fates have shunned me from kindness.”
“You know better than anyone how fickle fashion is, so take heart that blonde will be all the rage in just a matter of time.”
“As it should. Though I shall never have your height.”
“Be grateful for never having to answer how the weather fairs from up here. Or have your ankles constantly flash because your hemlines are too short.”
“At least yours don’t drag behind you like some old stuffy Victorian dowager’s train from last century.” Cecelia tapped a gloved finger against the brim of Gwyn’s straw hat. “Speaking of fashion, you need to add a new ribbon to that. Pale pink and fraying ends won’t do. Not to mention it being three years behind fashion. Add it to the trunk of
dresses I’m donating to the orphanage. Maybe they can use it for a doll.”
Gwyn swooped down and plucked a bright red leaf from the ground. “Are they fraying? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Of course you haven’t. Your nose is stuck in a book half the time, and the other times it’s covered in axle grease. You need to pursue more ladylike habits if you want to snag a man.”
“Like running?” Gwyn wiggled her eyebrows.
“He can’t catch you if you’re running.”
“Who says I want to be caught?”
“If you don’t, you’ll spend your life living above your father’s garage. Or worse, as an old maid.”
“At least then I won’t have anything tying me down to hearth and boring routine. I could travel the world, see the things I’ve only read about, taste exotic foods.” Gwyn twirled the crisp leaf between her fingers, the color blurring faster and faster. “A life of adventure and freedom, just as the Stinson School of Flying promises.”
“I cannot believe you’ve applied to a flying school halfway around the world. Where is this place again?”
“A little town in Texas, America. San Antonio, I think. Doesn’t that sound exotic? The landscape is said to be ideal for flight, and it’s the only school in the world offering pilot licenses to women. Think of all the good things I could do with a pilot license for the war effort, like mail delivery or dropping off supplies to remote hospitals.” Dropping the leaf, Gwyn patted her pocket and her mother’s list protected within. Places Mum never got to visit, but Gwyn would soon. A pilot’s license would see to that.
“Is that what all that talk was about in there? Women going to the front lines just for a lark?” Cecelia shook her head. “You’ve always had an adventurous streak longer than the Thames, but facing down the guns of the Kaiser is something else entirely, G.”
“Helping our boys is hardly a lark.”
“But you can help them right here, or in London, where there’s running water and hot meals to come home to.”
“I’d endure a few cold baths and mushy porridge for a small taste of exploration.” A chilled breeze stirred along the dirt lane, ruffling Gwyn’s long skirt, the latest hand-me-down from Cecelia. “Can you imagine what it would be like to break past this island’s borders, sail over waters charted for thousands of years, and step foot on foreign soil while helping our fighting boys at the same time?”
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