Among the Poppies

by J'nell Ciesielski

  A finger gently wiped away the tear. Suddenly, there were too many to control. She fell into William’s arms and let the dam break free. His arms wrapped around her, stroking her back and hair.

  “It’s over.” He pressed kisses to her forehead. “It’s all over.”

  “It’s not all over.” She sobbed. “We’re stuck here in the middle of nowhere. Probably forever.”

  She felt his mouth tilt into a smile. “Probably not that long.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I have the German’s map that tells me salvation is not far from here.” He rubbed a finger under her chin, trying to nudge it up.

  She wiggled her head away. The rough material of his jacket scratched against her cheek. “I don’t want you to look at me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want you to see me like this. Ugly and puffy-eyed.” A hiccup wriggled its way up her throat. “You’ll hold it against me later.”

  “How could I hold the impossible against you? Never use that word ugly again.” Cupping a hand under her chin, he forced her to look up. “I see nothing but beauty and strength.”

  It was too much. The wave of golden hair blown across his forehead, the crystal blue eyes, the soft lines around his generous mouth, the heat pulsing from his skin to her fingertips. She pressed her lips to his, only meant as a light brush, but the touch ignited a desperation she could no longer ignore. Raking her fingers through his hair, she pulled him close, melting her mouth to his. He moaned and wrapped his arms around her, caressing the curves of her neck and waist. Ecstasy shimmered down her spine. How did this man make her feel so alive in a way that no speeding motor ever had?

  “Will, we need to—oh, for crying out loud!”

  Gwyn fell back at Roland’s exclamation. Fire burned across her face.

  “Honestly, you two need to put bells around your necks so I know where you are at all times,” Roland said.

  William shot to his feet and glared at his friend. “You’re the one who needs a bell. Hiding in the bushes all the time.”

  “If you look closely, you’ll see that I’m still standing in the open, while you are the one ensconced.” He peered around William’s shoulder and winked slyly at Gwyn. “And what a lovely entrapment.”

  “Is there a reason you’re here?”

  Roland tapped a finger to his lips in mock thought. “Hmm, I forget. Though I’m sure it has something to do with cracking on.” Laughing, he strolled back to where MacDonald pilfered through empty boxes and tins in the German wagon.

  “I’m sorry about him.” William turned back to her. “The sun’s addled his thick head more than usual.”

  “No, he’s right. This is hardly the place or time. You should know I’m not in the habit of throwing myself at unsuspecting men.”

  “Do you usually give warning?”

  “No. Oh, golly molly. I mean, I don’t know what I mean.” She buried her face in her hands and prayed for the earth to open and swallow her whole. “This has been a very long day.”

  Gently, he uncovered her face and squatted in front of her. The brilliance of a star dazzled in his smile. “You should get in the habit. But not with any old bloke. One in particular, and he promises not to mind. Suspecting or not.”

  Gwyn tingled as he tucked a loose hair behind her ear, allowing his fingers to linger on the sensitive skin just behind the curve. Gazing into his eager face, she shooed her hesitation away. William felt so right, so comfortable, how could he possibly carry those invisible shackles she’d run from her entire life? His kisses, his touch was not of a man wishing to crush her.

  “Do we have an agreement?”

  “Is this some sort of contract, Captain Crawford?”

  “Yes, and here’s how to seal the deal.” He kissed her, full and possessive on the lips, and tweaked her on the chin. “Let’s go before Roland comes back with MacDonald in tow.”

  Gwyn took his hand, lacing her fingers between his. Why ever had she held back from him for so long?

  CHAPTER 19

  Bloated carcasses lined the roads. Black craters gaped like wide, toothless mouths in the surrounding fields. Explosions had destroyed the gentle countryside, turning it into a pit of decay.

  Gwyn pressed a hand over her nose to block the stench. It would take an entire tub of turpentine to rid her nostrils of the burn.

  “Poor blighters.” MacDonald lifted his hairy leg to step over a foot. “They deserve better than to rot away like this on foreign soil.”

  “There aren’t enough hands to collect them all.” William frowned as he stopped at a crossroad’s sign. “That’s their target.”

  Gwyn looked where he pointed. A small village with brown rooftops nestled at the end of a long stretch of scorched wheat fields. “How do we know who’s taken it?”

  William examined the ground. “There aren’t eastern tracks leading in.”

  Gwyn looked at the boot prints, horse tracks, shredded bushes and weed stalks. “How can you tell in this mess?”

  “See these here.” He pointed at two long, wide lines. “They’re directed west, but stop and retreat. Nothing continues west. You might say they threw it in reverse.”

  She grinned at his attempt at motor vernacular. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re part Indian, trained by an Apache tracker. I once read they could stay on your trail until your horse eventually gave out.”

  “No, no Indian. Just trained. Though my father did give me a tactic book once, based on one of their leaders, Geronimo, and a cavalryman named Custer.”

  “Crazy Horse was with Custer.”

  “None of your barmy clusters holds a candle to a Scot in the dark,” MacDonald said, puffing his chest out. “Highland men are the best trackers, and everyone knows it. How else do you think we slipped past the lobsterbacks and smuggled Bonnie Prince Charlie right out from under their noses?”

  Roland snorted. “You lost that war, my friend, or were you too busy tracking to notice?”

  Doubt tickled Gwyn’s thoughts as she stared at the jumble of tracks around them. “Shouldn’t we make sure before waltzing in? What if the Germans did this and doubled back to throw us off?”

  “On the off chance four escaped prisoners would come behind them looking for clues? Do you know how difficult it would be to double back an entire battalion? MacDonald and I will scout ahead.” William’s brow slanted, daring her to protest. “Unless you don’t mind belly-crawling over that field to see for yourself.”

  Gwyn shuddered as she imagined crawling over scorched earth and creeping bugs. “I’ll wait here.”

  She and Roland passed the next hour playing a rudimentary game of noughts and crosses with rocks and acorns until William and MacDonald sauntered back, smiling and covered in dirt.

  “Not a Kraut to be found.” Sweat streaked down MacDonald’s grimy face. “Lots of rubble, but there’s life.”

  And where there was life, there was bound to be food. Gwyn’s stomach gurgled at the thought. Beef bully or liver stew sounded like a king’s feast after all these days of barely anything to stick to her ribs. And if they had fresh water for a sponge bath—oh, heaven!

  Eerie quietness cloaked the town like a shroud. Skeletons of shops stood stark and devoid of their innards. Homes ripped in two, with black burns smudging the once pearly rails and eaves. Brown rooftops sagged like droopy eyelids over unhinged front doors. Rocks, stone, timber, demolished furniture, and shell fragments lined the street creating a winding path between heaps of rubble.

  An old man with a broom paused while sweeping debris from his front walk. Stooped and white-haired, his gnarled fingers clutched the splintered handle for support. His front wall was missing, revealing a richly carved dining table with three chairs. The fourth rested in broken pieces under the man’s broom.

  Tears clogged Gwyn’s throat as she offered him a small wave. How could she complain about a bath when this poor man swept his belongings into a rubbish pile in front of hi
s destroyed home? Shaking, the man straightened his curved spine and doffed his hat to his heart. Gwyn’s lips lifted to a watery smile. The place was not completely destroyed.

  “Let’s try there.” William pointed to a tall stack of bricks high above the other buildings. A church bell hung dangerously from a split rope. “If there’s any kind of organization, it’ll come from the center of town.”

  As they approached the building, British and French soldiers lounged on the church steps, smoking. Swathed in bandages with makeshift crutches scattered at their feet, they stared blankly at the ground as they waited their turn for the roaming liquor flasks. Nurses dressed in dingy white aprons with scarlet crosses on the front weaved between them, checking a head wrap here and readjusting an arm sling there.

  Hot tears scorched the backs of Gwyn’s eyelids. They had made it. Perhaps God wasn’t too busy to look out for them after all.

  William squatted in front of a lieutenant with a stump leg. “What unit are you from, son?”

  “Manchester Regiment, sir. Apologies for not standing.” The lieutenant gestured to his missing leg. “Having a spot of trouble with that lately.”

  “No need to apologize for bravery.” William clapped him on the shoulder. “Are all of these men Manchester?”

  “No, sir. We’re a mangled lot from all over. French, Irish, Scots, even a South African bloke managed to crawl his way from Delville.” He took a long drag of his cigarette. “Died yesterday from infection.”

  “Where is headquarters?”

  “I’ve seen a few brass walking into that building over there. Should be headquarters if there’s one set up.” Gray smoke curled from his chapped lips. “Sorry I’m not much help, Captain, but this place has been pure confusion for the past three days.”

  “Is that when it was bombarded?”

  “That’s when it stopped. After four days of back and forth, we finally bruised those Jerries hard enough to send them scurrying away. Not long after, the sisters came rolling in, and here we are.”

  “Did they bring plenty of supplies, bandages, food?” Gwyn asked.

  The lieutenant’s eyebrows lifted as he looked her up and down. “Some, ma’am. And the locals have been helping to fill in where they can.”

  Gwyn started for the stairs, but William caught her elbow. Deep lines pulled his mouth down. “Where are you going?”

  “To scrounge around for something. We haven’t had proper food in weeks. It’s a miracle any of us are still standing.” She dropped her voice. “And Roland’s bandage needs to be changed. It’s been much too long, and he’s limping, though he tries to cover it.”

  His worried lines turned white. “If you’re not back in half an hour, I’m coming in to get you.”

  She patted his hand with a smile she hoped was encouraging despite her apprehension at what lay inside the church doors. “Fine, fine. Go find headquarters while I enlist Captain Morrison to help sniff around for a kitchen.”

  Gwyn pushed open the church doors. The stench of war hit her like a hammer. She resisted the urge to empty her stomach into the nearest corner.

  “Eh gads! That’s awful!” Roland’s nostrils flared as he waved a hand in front of his face. “Poor devils.”

  Gwyn gave him a quelling look. “Let’s just find the kitchen.”

  “You can still think of food?”

  “Would you prefer I leave you here and go in search of it myself?”

  “And leave you to boast of finding the last crumbs to be had? I think not.”

  Weaving through the rows of wounded, they ducked into a side hall and glanced around. Steaming heat poured from the right. At the far end of the hall, a large wooden door was propped open. The smell of broth and potatoes leaked out. Inside the room, a thick-shouldered woman with short black hair stood at a long workbench pouring hot tea into cups.

  Gwyn stepped behind her and cleared her throat. “Excuse me, ma’am. Could you tell us where we might find a few scraps to eat?”

  “Well, I ain’t no ma’am—holy smokestacks! Gwyn!” Eugenie’s haggard face lit up. Throwing her arms around Gwyn she thumped her on the back, crushing the air from Gwyn’s lungs. “We found Rosie, or what was left of her.” Eugenie picked up the teapot. “There was so much mess in those woods that no one could tell sideways from thataways. We thought the Germans got you for sure.”

  Sadness crushed Gwyn’s heart. Rosie, her pride and joy, her wheels of freedom, the survival of the wounded. Mangled and abandoned. Tonight the old girl deserved a proper toast.

  “Lady Dowling was furious.” Eugenie pulled more cups down from the shelf and filled them with the steaming brew. “When she heard they didn’t find you, she marched straight to General Haig and gave him two earfuls. She’s been snippier than a fish on a hook lately, but I think it’s just a show to cover what’s really wriggling in her gut. Of course, I’d be the same if I’d just lost my home.”

  Gwyn jerked out of her inward gloom. “Maison du Jardins? It’s gone?”

  “Germans leveled it about two weeks ago. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Oh, Eugenie. I’m so sorry. Was anyone hurt?”

  Eugenie shook her head. “We managed to get the men outside in time, but there’s nothing left.” She slapped a hand to her forehead. “Here I am jabbering on. You must want to see Hale.”

  Cecelia. Excitement zipped through Gwyn. “Is she all right? Where is she?”

  “Right as rain. Out back. Tent number seventeen.”

  “Did she just come off a late night shift? You must have a lot of help here to allow a rest from nurse rotation.”

  “Sure.” Eugenie’s face pinched as she turned back to her cups. “Just stay to the left, and you’ll see them behind the gardens.”

  Gwyn turned to leave and noticed Roland still standing in the doorway, his eyes fixated on a basket of sliced bread. She’d completely forgotten her reason for coming in in the first place. “Captain Morrison, I’m terribly sorry for abandoning you.”

  His eyes didn’t leave the basket. “Not to worry. I can handle myself. Go find Miss Hale. I’d rather she not see me in this state anyways.”

  “Yes, but your leg.” Growling stomach or not, she couldn’t leave that festering bandage on his leg. “Eugenie, where can I find supplies for a leg wound?”

  “You just leave him to me.” Eugenie grinned and fluffed her cropped hair. “I always liked assisting a good-looking officer in need.”

  “Don’t worry,” Gwyn whispered, squeezing his arm. “You’re in good hands.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about.” Roland dragged wary eyes from the bread to Eugenie. “With a busted leg, I can’t outrun those ‘good hands.’”

  Feeling lighter than she had in weeks, Gwyn skipped down the back steps and beelined for the cluster of tents tucked behind a shriveled garden. At number seventeen, she paused and patted her hair. It felt sticky and stringy, just like the rest of her.

  “Cecelia?” No answer. “Cecelia, are you there?” Peeling back the flap, Gwyn ducked and stepped into the tent. Soft light trickled in through the vent at the top, highlighting a tiny desk and stool, a chamber pot, and two rickety cots with a body covering one of them.

  “Cecelia?” The body rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep. Gwyn gently shook her shoulder. “Cecelia, wake up.”

  Cecelia leaped off the bed, eyes wide with alarm. “I’m sorry I’m late! I just laid down for a minute—who are you? What are you doing in here?” Jumping away, she banged into the desk. She grabbed a brush and brandished it like a sword.

  Gwyn held her hands out. “Calm down! It’s me.”

  The brush went slack in Cecelia’s fingers. “Gwyn?”

  “Yes, who else would I be?”

  “From the looks of you … some kind of deranged animal.” She dropped the brush and threw her arms around Gwyn’s neck. “I thought you were dead. They told me they couldn’t find you. And Rosie, I’m so sorry about her. Eugenie has taken to fixing her every chance s
he gets.”

  Her friend’s hot tears streamed down Gwyn’s neck, soaking her shirt and back. Gwyn held Cecelia tight as her own lungs constricted with joy.

  “Come, come, and sit down.” Cecelia swiped the tears from her cheeks and pushed Gwyn onto the cot. “Tell me everything.”

  Gwyn started slowly, the tension building until the entire story poured forth like a raging river. Exhaustion claimed her by the end, and she fell back against the lumpy pillow, her eyelids heavy.

  “My, my, my.” Cecelia shook her head as she sagged on the edge of the opposite cot. “A prisoner, wandering in the woods, a knife at your throat. I think I would have slunked under a rock and cried.”

  Gwyn ran a hand over the scratchy blanket bunched next to her, tracing each curve like the ripples in sand. Nearly threadbare with pilled knots dotting the length of it, she imagined a lamb’s ear never felt softer. “You wouldn’t have, not with the Germans breathing down your neck. Survival is a strange beast.”

  Restless at the memories of what she’d done, what she’d had to do to outrun that beast, Gwyn stood and crossed to the desk. Somehow, it hadn’t devoured her. Sitting in that filthy basement, she had prayed for deliverance, and it came from the sky as if the Almighty Himself had thrown the shells. And then racing across that field. Not one of those wild bullets had hit her. Shielded again. Could it be so simple? To call on the holy name, and He was there?

  She fingered a stack of stationary emblazoned with the Somerset crest, a silver filigree pen, and matching tortoiseshell brush, comb, and hand mirror set. The perfect accessories for a lady’s desk. In a war zone. Only CeCe—or more accurately, her mother. No war would stop Lady Somerset’s spending. Gwyn smiled to herself, picking up the mirror.

  Cecelia’s hand flew out, horror sparking across her face. “Oh, G. You may not want to do that.”

  Too late. The reflection blinked in unison, bursting the hope that the nightmare staring back at Gwyn was a horrible trick of her sleep-deprived mind. Dull hair hung around her face and shoulders in dirty clumps. Her skin was mottled red with freckles across her nose. She blinked again, not wanting to see the purple bags under listless eyes.