The Bluebells of 1918 Ch. 01

I study her features. "I know what you mean."

***

Emeline and I sit in my room by the window drinking tea. The light in the afternoon is muted and the water on the lake dark. On the far end I notice a stone bridge with several arches.

"The only way to the chateau," Emeline says. "It is a quiet life out here."

"That sounds nice."

"Sometimes it is too quiet. So quiet it is loud. That is some paradox, no?"

"You know, your English is superb."

"I lived in London for ten years."

"Working as a nurse?"

"Not exactly."

A woman of mystery. Okay. "But you live here now."

"For the time being."

"All by yourself?"

"Oui."

"No husband?"

She sips her tea. "You are full of questions."

"You've no idea how many."

"Very well. Ask me whatever you wish. But for every question you ask, I ask you one and you must answer."

"Deal."

"You go first," she says.

I study her. "How old are you?"

Her eyes flash. "You did not just ask me that!"

I laugh. "Sorry. I like to joke."

"You confuse pretending to be rude with wit. Ask me a real question."

"Okay. What were you doing in London?"

"I was working."

"But not as a nurse?" I say.

She shakes her head. "That is a second question."

"A follow-up," I protest.

"Which is still a question, so I get to ask you one."

I smile. "Fine."

"What is your full name? All I know is you are Lieutenant McQuay."

"My friends call me Shorty."

"Another attempt at humor considering your height? But that is not what I asked."

"Patrick Miller McQuay. Men call me Shorty, but women call me Patrick."

"Patrice. A good name."

"Emeline's not so bad, either. So, what were you doing in London?"

She shrugs. "I was on the stage."

"The stage? Acting?"

She sips tea. "Oh, acting. Singing."

Holy shit. It all falls into place.

Acting. Singing. Her dazzling beauty. Her first name! How could I be so blind?

"You're Emeline Delacroix!"

She gives me a you-caught-me smirk. "Oui."

"You're world famous!"

She nods. "Oui."

"What is Emeline Delacroix doing hiding American war prisoners behind enemy lines in Belgium?"

"I am the last person the Boche believe would be part of this. Also, they have forbidden me from leaving Belgium."

"Why?"

"Imagine it, the world famous Emeline Delacroix touring the world speaking of German atrocities in Belgium."

"I see your point."

How is this real? One day I'm fleeing the Germans, now I'm sitting across from Emeline Delacroix.

"My turn again," she says. "How did you get captured?"

"My plane was shot down."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "You are a pilot!"

"I am."

"How did you get shot down?"

"That's another question."

"A follow up."

"I'll let it slide. I was on a reconnaissance mission and I got hit by anti-aircraft fire. My turn. No husband?"

She gives me a playful look. "I have had two, but I have zero at present. Does this scandalize you?"

"Not so much."

"Good. Now it is my turn. Where in America are you from?"

"Philadelphia."

She smiles. "I have played there."

"I remember. The papers said you were the most beautiful woman in the world. I wanted to go see you but I was only thirteen."

"That was ten years ago, no? Making you twenty-three."

"That's right."

"Younger than me by a few years."

"I suppose."

She casts me a don't-you-dare glance. "Never mind precisely how many."

***

Doctor Quénu examines my bandages. "You are healing well, monsieur. You will not need the sling soon."

"When will I be ready to make a run for the border?"

He shakes his head. "It is not a matter of your health. The Germans believe you are nearby and have tripled the guards at the wire."

"Why?"

"Drops of blood in the forest and large boot prints in the mud. They scoured the woods and fields all around. If you are not dead, they reason..."

"Then I couldn't have gotten far and must be hiding."

"Not hiding. Hidden."

Emeline sees him out. Her hair is up, drawing my eye to the curve of her neck.

How nice would it come up behind and kiss that neck? Yeah, and to squeeze her bountiful tits as she pushes her plump bottom against my crotch. Alas.

I pick up the book on the table. I noticed it in her study. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

On page one is a handwritten inscription. "Dear Emeline. You eclipse and predominate the whole of your sex. A. Conan Doyle."

I laugh. Eclipse and predominate the whole of your sex. That's her.

I read for nearly an hour before Emeline returns.

"Why not come downstairs so we can eat dinner together?" she asks.

How can I say no to that? "That sounds great."

Emeline has set the table in the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine.

"I prefer eating in here to the dining room," she says. "Pour yourself some wine. It will do you good."

I fill both glasses.

"It has been a long time since I had someone to talk to at dinner," she says. "You will forgive me if I speak too much."

"Speak all night if you like."

Emeline places a pair of steaming-hot dishes in front of us. "You are too sweet. I hope you like rabbit."

Never tried it. "Of course."

She sits and sips her wine. "The neighbor down the road shot it. I cooked it the way my grand-mère taught me. Baked in a pot with onions, potatoes, and a bottle of beer."

I sample some. It's not great.

Emeline stares at me, waiting for my reaction.

"I love it," I say.

Emeline forks a piece of her own. "I was worried I had forgotten how to prepare a lapin. It has been a while. I had a cook before the war. A butler, too. A maid and a gardener. Now I only have Madame Laurent to help me."

"It's cooked perfectly." I wash some down with wine. It improves the gamey flavor.

"How are you enjoying the book?" Emeline asks.

"I really like the inscription."

She brushes aside a stray lock of hair. "I'd nearly forgotten. Arthur said I reminded him of a character in one of the stories."

"I can guess which one."

"Oh?"

"She's an actress."

Emeline nods. "That makes sense."

"An actress blackmailing a king."

"I've known a few kings but I haven't blackmailed any. God knows I could."

"Really?"

She sips her wine, a playful glint in her eyes

The window is open, a cool breeze wafting in. I should take her in my arms and kiss her. Make love to her on her own kitchen table.

"Enough about me," she says. "Tell me about being a pilot. How many Germans have you shot down?"

It's best to be honest. "None."

"None? How many missions have you flown?"

I groan. "One."

Her expression shifts from confusion to sympathy. "One flight and you were shot down?

Such luck."

"I'm renowned for bad luck which later winds up as good."

She leans forward, about to speak. A distant sound of engines intervene. We look towards the window. Headlights cross the bridge along the lake.

Emeline stands. "The Boche!"

I jump out of my seat, then stop and stare at the table. "My place setting."

Emeline picks up my plate, utensils, and glass and tosses them out the window into the bushes.

"Go!" she says.

I dash upstairs and down the hall. I pause by the entrance to the false door, ears straining. The engines grow louder until they are in front of the house.

Doors slam shut. Words shouted in German,

I slip inside the hideaway, shutting and locking it. I'm encased in darkness. There are matches on the table and I manage to strike one and light the oil lamp.

I sit on the bed and wait. The book is with me but I'm in no mood to read.

Time passes. Ten minutes, an hour. Who can say? Sounds reach me. Muffled voices, heavy footsteps climbing towards my attic.

I don't move. I don't dare even breathe.

Male voices right outside, harsh tones. Footsteps again, fading away.

I wait. There's nothing else to do.

At last the sound of engines starting. Have they left? Is it safe?

More long minutes pass. Too many. I'm worried.

A gentle wrapping sound at the door. "Patrice?"

I unlock it. Emeline is there, her eyes moist. She hugs me. I wrap my good arm around her and hold her tight. Neither of us speaks.

Emeline withdraws. "They said Doctor Quénu was seen returning from here."

"What did you say?"

"That I have been having lady issues which he is treating me for."

"What if they check back with him?"

"It is the excuse we invented beforehand. He sent medicine from the apothecary. I poured some out, so it appears I've been taking it."

"You people have thought of everything," I say.

"It is well we did, because they demanded proof. 'Where is this medicine?' they yelled. What if I didn't have any, or if it was unopened?"

She looks up at me, holding back sobs. "It was terrible. They searched everywhere. They were in here. Standing right where you are now."

Emeline's voice cracks and she buries her face in my shoulder, crying. I hold her close to me.

"I waited, after they'd gone," she says. "I walked around the house to be certain they weren't spying on me in the woods."

"Good thinking."

"I was so scared I wanted to cry. I wish I were braver."

I wipe away one of her tears. "But you are brave."

"Do you think so?"

"I do. Your courage, it's remarkable."

We stare at each other. Her lip trembles. I take a deep breath, building up my courage to kiss her. I sense it's what she wants. Here we go.

I'm too slow. Emeline breaks off the embrace. She kisses my cheek and turns away. "Good night, Patrice."

Good night, Emeline.

***

It's dark outside and raining hard. I've always enjoyed the sound of rain.

My sling is gone, Doctor Quénu said this afternoon I've no need of it.

"You have made a remarkable recovery. Which is good, for I cannot be seen here again. Not after your visitors last night. Stay safe, monsieur."

It feels good to be rid of it. I lift my wine glass to my lips with one hand and hold the Sherlock Holmes book in the other.

Emeline enters. I haven't been able to take my eyes off her all day. Her gray sweater and dark blue dress show off her assets to perfection.

She bears a bowl of water and a leather satchel.

"What's this?" I ask.

"It is time you had a proper shave."

I rub my chin. "I suppose so. But I have the use of both arms again. I can shave myself."

"I insist."

"Have you also worked as a barber?"

Emeline wraps a towel over my shoulders. She pulls a chair close to me and sits. "How hard can it be?"

"I, um."

Emeline laughs. "I joke. Do not be scared. You are in good hands."

"I'm sure, but--"

She takes out a straight razor and a strip of leather. "My first husband loved when I shaved him. I grew good at it."

She sharpens the razor with the leather strip. "The blade must be as sharp as possible, so it meets no résistance. You trust me, no?"

I do. I really do. The most I can manage, though, is a feeble nod.

Emeline laughs. "The thing is, Thomas enjoyed it not because it made me--what is the word?--subservient to him. Quite the opposite. With this razor, it is I who wields the power."

"I see that."

"That is alright with you?"

She's teasing me. But she's not wrong. I'll be at her mercy. I'm surprised how much I'm okay with that. "It is."

"Very good."

She wets a cloth and dabs the lower half of my face. She slides her chair closer and we sit almost on top of each other. My heart pounds.

She smiles. "Ready?"

I nod.

She starts with my cheeks, lathering them up. "Soon we will uncover the real Patrice hiding behind this Viking beard."

She points my face up, applying more creme to my neck.

I fix my gaze upon her beautiful, full lips. I bet they're soft and moist. Responsive, too.

She starts with my left jawline, wielding the razor with studied care and rinsing it off in the water. Stroke after stroke. The blade is so honed I can't even feel it.

Her eyes focus on her task and she doesn't notice me studying her. Her high cheekbones. Her dark eyebrows. Her clear skin and the one freckle on her right cheek. Her face is as close to mine as can be without kissing.

"Don't move," she whispers. "Not a hair."

"I won't."

"I do not wish to cut you."

"I know."

She works her way down my jawline with utmost care. I'm in her capable hands, and that's fine.

She moves on to my chin, working with studied patience.

"Already so much better," she says.

She's so close. I could lean forward and kiss her lips. Why don't I? What holds me back?

She nods, satisfied with her work. She guides my face upwards and shaves my neck with long, slow strokes. One after the other, rinsing the razor in between.

She smiles. "Halfway done. Not so bad, no?"

"Not at all."

Emeline starts on my right cheek. "The true Patrice is emerging."

"Do you like what you see?"

"I do."

My upper lip is last. She takes her time, and I peer into her eyes. In this light, their violet tint is strong.

Their color reminds me of something I've seen recently. But what? I don't know.

I don't want this to ever end. I want to remain this close to her, at her mercy. Especially at her mercy.

She dries my face with a washcloth, studying me. "My goodness, how different you look. Such a baby face."

She strokes my cheek. Her fingers are soft.

Time stops. Our eyes meet again. Outside, a blast of wind hits the windows.

Emeline cradles my cheek. "You know, the road always floods when it rains this hard. There will be no unannounced visitors tonight."

"Good."

She lowers her hand, brushing my forearm, She pauses. Our eyes lock but we don't speak. The only sound is the rain lashing the windows.

Emeline takes my hands in hers and studies them. "I am glad you are with me. It is lonely here at night."

"I can imagine."

She lifts her head. "Sometimes it is more than I can stand. I am always alone."

I squeeze her hand. "You don't have to be."

We kiss. It's brief, too brief, barely a brushing of lips. She pulls back.

"I am sorry." She clutches my hands tighter.

"Don't be."

"But what must you think of me?"

"That you are a beautiful, brave woman. That you're amazing."

"You hardly know me."

"I've seen enough," I say. "All you do, despite the fear."

"I am sick of fear. I want to feel something else. I want to be reminded there is still love and joy after all which has happened. That the things which make life worth living still exist."

"They do."

Her eyebrows clench and her gaze focuses. "Then show me."

"How?"

"Make love to me, Patrice."

I can't breathe. I manage a nod.

Emeline smiles, looking into my eyes. "Exhale, Patrice. That's it. Are you good?"

"Good."

Her eyes lock onto mine. "You are nervous, no?"

"A little."

Emeline cradles the back of my neck. "We will start slow. Kiss me."

We kiss. Her lips are everything I could hope for, soft and responsive.

"There," she says. "How's that? Less nervous now?"

"Yeah. Less nervous."

Again we kiss. Lips explore lips. My tongue pushes forward against her lips. They part, admitting me into her mouth.

Our tongues dance as I gather her close. She melts into me, her arms around my shoulders.

"Oh, Patrice," she murmurs.

I kiss her neck. It's soft and smooth.

She sighs, pulling me tighter. Our mouths reunite, tongues twirling. Her plentiful breasts mash against my chest.

Emeline takes me by the hand. She leads me downstairs. Outside, the rain picks up.

Her bedroom is dark except for a small lamp. It's enough to see by.

We kiss, as intense as before. Lips and tongues dueling, arms pulling each other close.

"Do not stop," she moans.

I kiss her neck. Once, twice, a dozen times. A whirlwind of kisses.

A frantic fumbling with buttons and zippers commences. Her sweater first, then her dress, My pants pushed down. My shirt slid off my shoulders.

Emeline stands before me in her undergarments.

"Do you like what you see?" she asks.

"I do."

"Have you ever seen a woman in her sous-vêtements?"

"Not one this beautiful."

She smiles. "You know what to tell a woman."

"I'm just telling the truth. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I'm sure you've heard that before."

"Now and then."

She strips off her petticoat and corset cover, flinging them aside. Her corset and hosiery remain, her breasts straining against the fabric. She pulls me towards her, kissing my mouth.

"Finish undressing me," she says. "Go on. Start with my hose."

She guides my hands and I unclip the hose on her left leg.

"Roll it off," she says.

I kneel, sliding it down her thigh and then her calf. I pull it over her foot and toss it aside, gazing at her bare leg. "You shave your legs."

"A habit from life on the stage," she says. "Do you like it?"

I run my hand up the outer edge of her thigh. It's smooth and soft. "Very much."

I move onto her other leg, unhooking the hose and rolling it down. Tossing it aside and feeling her silky skin.

"I like your hands on my legs," she says.

Me too. I run my fingertips lightly down her thigh.

She laughs. "That tickles. Naughty boy."

"Sorry."

"Now take off my corset. No, kiss me first."

I stand and we share a long, wet kiss.

She kisses my neck, waves of pleasure radiating outward. She nibbles my earlobe.

"Oh, fuck," I moan.

Emeline smiles. "Finish undressing me. Start with the bottom clasp, mon chéri."

I find the clasps and undo the bottom one. Hands trembling, I work my way up. Clasp after clasp. I arrive at the top fastener and unhook it.

The corset falls. Emeline is nude.

Good god. Such magnificence. Full breasts, curvy hips, every inch a delightful, mature plumpness.

She's no young girl, shy and unsure in her nudity. Instead, she meets my gaze with a proud smile.

She undoes her hair, as if to punctuate her pride. Raven-colored tresses cascade halfway down her back. I'm no longer gazing upon a woman so much as a goddess.

I take her back into my arms and kiss her. Her nudity presses against me.

"You need to catch up," Emeline says.

She slides my undershirt over my head and I'm down to my long johns. She pushes them down and we're both nude.

She smiles wickedly, studying my dick. She raises an eyebrow. "I see it is true what they say about tall men."

"And what's that?"

"I think you know. Come here."

We melt into one another, nude form holding nude form. Skin pressing into skin. No barriers.

We kiss with abandon. I run my hands down her back and squeeze her ass. She grabs my own ass and pulls me towards her. My erect cock rubs against her thick patch of pubic hair.

We're all over each other, a mad jumble of hands and mouths, as if trying to pull each other so close we merge.

Emeline pulls me into the bed with her. She's half my size but maneuvers me easily.

We lay on our sides and kiss. I cup her breast, appreciating its size.

"Oui," she moans.

She grabs my cock, stroking it nice and slow. Driving me mad. I'm as hard as I've ever been. I'll climax in a minute if things keep going this way.

Emeline senses my excitement and slows down. "No need to rush. We have all night."

She knows best. I don't want my cock squirting all over her belly leaving her frustrated. Some lover that'd make me.

"I want to please you," I say. "So bad."

"Then please me, mon Patrice."

"I'm not very experienced. What if I don't know how?"

She kisses me, warm and caring. "Then I will tell you what to do. You would like that, no?"

"I would."

"Let Emeline teach you."

"Please do."

Emeline smiles. "Good boy. If you want me in command, you must understand what that means. Do you?"