“He’s a jolly fellow.”
An unpleasant noise rumbled deep in William’s throat. He swooped down and plucked an unopened poppy, twirling the stem between his fingers. “Is that what you look for in a fellow, I mean besides the elbow grease? Jolliness?”
“Pleasantness and laughter are important to any relationship.”
“And a sense of adventure?”
The teasing note in his voice plucked a quiver along her heartstrings. “Doesn’t hurt.”
“Anything else?”
Her palms grew slick despite the intermittent shade of towering oaks lining their dirt path. Why had she agreed to this snug bolero Cecelia had insisted on? Pulling the pin from her straw hat, she snatched it off her head and let it trail at her side by the pale green ribbons. A sweet breeze bursting with the scent of grass and cool earth ruffled through her hair, freeing the heat trapped beneath the twisted waves. But the breeze did little to lift the heat of William’s gaze.
She flapped her hat over her cheeks. “Golly molly, you’re inquisitive today.”
It was his turn to remove his hat and run a hand through his hair. Stippled sunlight danced in its shades of wheat and gold. “Sorry. Army life has left me with little tact.”
Seeing the pink bloom across his face, Gwyn’s confidence sprang. “In that case, what are you looking for?”
“Someone to polish my boots and feed my horse carrots. All with a smile, of course.”
“And what woman wouldn’t smile over such a prospect?”
He leaned down close, his warm breath tickling the sensitive skin behind her ear. “And, on special occasions, I’ll let her muck out the stalls.”
Gwyn clasped her hands to her chest. “Oh, rapture.”
“Swooning yet?”
“Like a gothic romance novel.”
Their laughter pealed through the air, rustling the leaves overhead as squirrels darted down the branches. William grinned broadly, flashing white teeth and the smallest of dimples in his tanned cheek. The careworn lines etched around his eyes lifted, leaving only the clear deep blue reflection. For a moment, brief as it was, he shrugged off the cares of a war and gave her a glimpse of the real man beneath the soldier. It was better than opening a Christmas gift and twice as beautiful.
A flock of brown and white birds soared over the field, dipping down and arcing through the sky as one. Gwyn shielded her eyes against the sun as they fluttered high over the trees and dropped down onto the top branches. It was difficult to imagine battles raged not far away with such joyful chirping and tweeting in front of them.
“Most think those things are true about me.”
Gwyn swung her hat by the ribbons in agitated circles. “People have a way of being wrong about others. Especially when they’re supposed to fit a certain mold.”
“Especially when they didn’t choose that mold.” He sighed and tucked his hands behind his back, the flower clutched tight. “My uniform is shiny and demands perfection, but my tastes run much simpler than that.”
“You don’t want shiny?” His arm brushed hers. Zinging currents rushed through her body, summoning every sensation of awareness to the spot he’d touched. Ahead, Cecelia’s polite laughter tinkled in the air like a crystal bell.
His walk slowed to a stop. Head down, he examined the dirt-covered toes of his boots. Finally, his eyes tilted up. “No. I don’t.” Cradling the closed bud in his palm, he offered it to her.
She took it and ran her finger down a cracking seam. “A shame it hasn’t blossomed yet.”
“It will. When its time has come.”
The air stopped in Gwyn’s lungs, building pressure until it was ready to burst free from all sides. “When might that be?”
“I’m not certain, but I gladly look forward to it.”
“Look forward to what, Will?” Cecelia’s strained voice burst the aching pressure. Cool air soared down Gwyn’s throat and into her lungs, banking the warmth that had settled there.
“A cold cup of water after this walk.” William straightened. Gone was the man. The soldier had returned. “I can’t remember the last time I had something more than tepid wetness from a canteen.”
“We have more than enough cups full of fresh well water back at Jardins if you’re spared the rest of the day from returning to duties.” Though her smile was carefully placed, Gwyn saw Cecelia’s fingers curl white over her purse strings. “I’d love to have your opinion on the rehabilitation room we’ve established in the east wing.”
“You have a rehabilitation center? Precisely what I’ve been telling Red Cross for months, that hospitals need places where the men can strengthen their muscles after surgery.”
“I remember you commenting just that to Lady Dowling. She took it to heart, and now I hear the Duchess of Westminster is thinking of installing one.” Cecelia swept her arm to the left fork in the road. The way back to Jardins.
“As much as I’d like to see it, we need to head back for rifle drill. Another time.” William tipped his hat and turned to Gwyn with a bow. “Miss Ruthers.”
“Godspeed, Captain.” Disappointment flared. How long would it be before she saw him again? Days like today were rarer than gold filigree steering wheels, and seeing him on the battlefield … she never wanted to see him there.
“By the way, Will. You never answered the question.” Roland examined his nails, picking something from the corner of his thumb. The corners of his mouth quirked with mischief. “Horseflesh or engines?”
“I’ve always preferred horses,” William said. “Graceful, impressive, and favorable, because I’ve been with them my whole life. When people see me, they expect to see a horse.” He paused and slid his gaze to Gwyn. The air stopped in her lungs once more. “But there’s something to be said of these new motored contraptions. Exhilarating and like nothing I’ve experienced before. I’d say they’re getting into my blood.”
Roland frowned. “Well, that doesn’t really answer my question.”
William grabbed Roland’s arm and hauled him to the right turn in the road. “It does for now. Ladies.”
Back straight and shoulders firm, his long legs ate up the ground as Roland scrambled to keep up, his rapid-fire questions muffled by the distance.
Cecelia crossed her arms and tapped her purse against her side. “What do you think he meant by that?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.” Gwyn turned down their path, her feet light as air as she pressed the delicate blossom-in-waiting to her cheek. “But it sounds like he’s ready to go for a ride.”
CHAPTER 10
“You cannot wear those.”
Gwyn twirled in front of the mirror, blocking the reflection of Cecelia’s scowling face from the doorway. “And just why not?”
“Only those radicals marching in front of Parliament and riding bicycles wear them.” Cecelia huffed and plopped on the bed. “And with all the men around here. What are they to think of you?”
“That I’m practical.” Gwyn propped one leg out, admiring the fit and comfort of her new jodhpurs. They were once part of Lord Dowling’s riding attire, but a few quick stitches with a needle, and they worked for a woman.
“Indecent is what you are. Do you know how much ungainly attention you’ll attract strutting around in those … those … things?”
“Will it matter when I can move wounded in and out of the ambulances without tripping over cumbersome skirts? Not to mention how much easier they allow me to get under the cars for repairs. Men wear them for a reason.”
“You’re not a man.”
“I’m doing a man’s job.”
“After this war, the men will want their jobs back, and there will be no need or want for your pant-clad legs among them.”
Gwyn turned away from the mirror, all excitement for her new trousers doused. “You are truly mean sometimes.”
Cecelia dropped her head and fingered the flowers on the quilt at the end of her bed. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. I just don’t want
you to be a scandal. Others don’t know you the way I do, and they might think you’re not a lady.”
“People are trite and should learn to keep their tongues from wagging about things they don’t understand.”
“Perhaps, but it is how the world spins. Men have their place, and we ours. War won’t change that.”
An ache welled inside Gwyn’s chest as she turned back to the mirror. For all her privileges and standings in the world, Cecelia couldn’t see the whirl of changes right before her eyes. The war was creating a new world full of new people and ideas. Only time would tell who was strong enough to stand after it was over.
Cecelia picked at a loose thread along the quilt’s border, tugging it until the edge slowly separated into two pieces. She twirled the free string around her finger.
“What’s truly bothering you, CeCe?” Gwyn sat on the bed beside her friend, tucking her peeling leather boots out of sight. “It’s not just the trousers and my scandalous legs.”
“It’s nothing. I’m just tired and irritable after last night’s shift. This summer heat makes everyone cranky.”
Gwyn braced her palms along the edge of the bed and bumped Cecelia’s shoulder. “That’s not all. Tell me, or I’ll slide down the banister while whistling Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.”
Cecelia pursed her lips. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Sucking in a deep breath, Gwyn puckered her mouth and blew. Cecelia’s hand clamped over Gwyn’s mouth before she could get a note out. “Don’t. I believe you.”
“What happened last night?”
Shrugging, Cecelia moved her finger along a faded green vine connecting two roses. She traced each of the petals before flattening her hand over them. “Another night to prove I don’t know what I’m doing here.” She looked up, unpolished longing twisting her face. “Sometimes I wish I had your assurance in the job at hand, without the trousers, of course.”
“I’ve known my niche for a long time. Living above a garage your entire life only makes you talented in a few things.”
“But you like motoring around and tinkering under bonnets.”
“Yes and no. I don’t care for smelling like oil all day, but the motors give me a chance at what I truly desire. Unrestrained freedom. What are you good at that you actually enjoy?”
“Fashionable dressing.” Cecelia snorted, fingering the pinstripe trim of her navy skirt. “They don’t need that particular skill here.”
“No, but you gave all your lovely new clothes to the women in town when they had only rags to keep them warm. They even had enough left over to make dresses for their little girls’ dolls.”
A delicate pink blossomed across Cecelia’s cheeks. “Every woman, no matter her age, deserves a new dress to feel pretty.”
Gwyn smiled. Despite her shortcomings, Cecelia would never stop trying to make the world a more lovely place. “What else?”
“Dancing. Another strike.”
“What about the music? You love the piano, and don’t tell me you don’t enjoy having all eyes on you when singing those beautiful arias.”
Cecelia’s winged eyebrow arched. “This isn’t the place for a nightly concert.”
“Why not? The men need healing, not only in body but in mind and spirit as well. How many times have you heard them cry for Elsie Janis to bring her tour this way?” Gwyn sprang off the bed, wobbling Cecelia as the mattress shifted. “Lady Dowling has a piano in the front parlor. You can play for the men each evening after dinner. Let’s go tell her.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Cecelia grabbed Gwyn’s arm before she made it to the door. “She has it pushed into a corner for a reason.”
“Only because no one has put it to use. You can put it to good use, for the men. Imagine how excited they’ll be to listen to something other than their vital stats.” Gwyn hooked her arm through Cecelia’s, guiding her through the door. “You could wear a few of those frilly outfits to top off the performance.”
Excitement lit Cecelia’s face like a rainbow. “I’ll even cut the fingertips off those hideous lace gloves for playing. Mother will be furious.”
“Then we won’t tell her.”
Laughing, they skipped down the stairs and outside to find Lady Dowling standing on the front steps.
“No, not there!” She cupped her hands around her mouth as two maids carried a wobbling table across the sprawling grass. “That’s where the sack race is run. Do you want to see my crystal punch bowl trampled to the ground?”
From the dark looks of the huffing maids hauling the massive wooden table to another spot on the lawn, they couldn’t care less about a punch bowl.
“Yes, right there. Careful now, and make sure the legs aren’t stuck in a hole.” Deep lines wrinkled Lady Dowling’s mouth as she turned to the new invaders on her porch perch. “You’re not here to tell me the ice cream has melted already, are you?”
“No, m’lady.”
“That’s one blessing.” Lady Dowling flapped a wrinkled hand in front of her face. “It’s only past seven, and today is already shaping up to pour on the heat.”
Gwyn swiped at the beads of perspiration gathering along the nape of her neck. “But what a lovely July day it will be for the first ever Dowling Day Celebration.”
“The cars are bannered and polished? Driver uniforms ironed and clean?”
“Yes, m’lady. Each girl is ready to show her stuff in the big race this afternoon. Eugenie and I smoothed over the holes in the drive yesterday, so there’s nothing to slow us down.”
“Good. I’ve heard the men already making bets on which motor will win. I don’t advocate betting, but they need a spot of entertainment to keep the morale up.”
Gwyn grinned. “Then why should the entertainment stop there? Let’s keep it rolling with a little singing.”
Lady Dowling raised a sparse eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you sang.”
“I don’t, but Cecelia does.” Gwyn nudged Cecelia forward. “Like a songbird.”
To Cecelia’scredit, she didn’t shrink backunder the marchioness’s hawk stare. “I’m no Emma Calvé, but I’m told I can hold a note with the piano. I noticed you have one in the front parlor.”
“It’s been gathering dust ever since my husband passed. He was the musician. It’s time we put that old thing to use again. You’ll play for afternoon tea, after the motor race.” Brushing past them, Lady Dowling marched across the lawn pointing and shouting new instructions about the chairs and tables.
Back inside, Cecelia clapped a hand to her cheek and shook her head. “I can’t believe she agreed.”
“Why wouldn’t she? That woman would bend over backward in her corset and pantaloons if it would help her boys.”
Cecelia giggled. “True, but I don’t think they’d appreciate the spectacle.”
“All the more reason for you to provide the entertainment.” Rummaging in a maid’s closet, Gwyn found an unused cloth to wipe off the top of the piano and its ivory keys. “I wish I knew how to play. There’s nothing lovelier than a piano.”
“It’s easy.” Rousing from her stupor, Cecelia found a stack of sheet music in a cabinet and rifled through the yellowing pages. “If you don’t mind the hours of practice with a griffin of a music teacher who works you until your fingers bleed.”
“If that’s the price, then I’m content to enjoy the performance from the audience.”
“I can play a few that the orphanage girls always enjoyed hearing.” Pages rustled back and forth through Cecelia’s fingers. “Hmm, I wonder which of these William would like.”
The cloth slipped from Gwyn’s hand. Grabbing it, she clutched it tight to distract the rush of excitement racing towards her heart. “Is Captain Crawford coming?”
“No, I only remember him remarking on a few songs during Mother’s charity benefit. Perhaps this one.” Cecelia spread the music on top of the piano and tapped a finger across the black dots and lines. “If only he would return my letters.”
“He’s busy fighting a war. I
doubt salutations are the first priority on his list.”
“That Captain Morrison has plenty of time to write.” She sighed noisily. “Almost twice a week.”
“Quite an admirer you have.”
“Not the one I want.”
A painful breath caught in Gwyn’s throat. Her mind zinged to the poppy petals pressed between the pages of her Bible. “Why do you have all your hopes pinned on William? Has he given you any indication to hope?”
“Not exactly.” A thin line puckered Cecelia’s fair brow. With a dainty shrug, the line smoothed. “Men don’t always know what’s best for them. It’s our duty to point them in the right direction.”
Gwyn rolled her eyes. “There are plenty of good men out there who don’t need their arm twisted by a would-be-bride.”
“Those good men are already taken or don’t qualify. William is available—outside of this war, that is—handsome, in good social standing to satisfy Mother and Father and is loyal to the bone. The perfect qualities for a husband.”
And almost the same for a dog. What about mutual affection? What about dreaming of the color of his eyes, or aching to hear him laugh? Or realizing you couldn’t breathe until he came into the room? Golly molly. Where was Gwyn’s head going? Those feelings were fine for fairytale damsels who happily traded their lives to ride off into the sunset with their princes. Stinson didn’t allow princes, and without a pilot license, she could never hope to cross off all those places on her mother’s dream list. A dream that had become Gwyn’s own.
Gwyn yanked the velvet cushion off the piano bench and smacked the dust off with her hand. Damsels indeed. The blue depths of William’s eyes over the rim of a teacup called back to her.
“Does he ever ask about me?”
Gwyn’s head snapped up. “Ask? Who?”
Cecelia rolled her eyes. “William, of course. Who else do you think I’ve been talking about this whole time?”
“When would he ask me?”
“When you go to pick up the wounded. Surely you see him.”
Among the Poppies Page 11
