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  PRAISE FOR THE AVIATRIX, BY VIOLET MARSH

  “The 1920s’ atmosphere and defiant characters are sure to please, particularly the scenes in which the ladies of the circus sneak out to speakeasies. Readers looking for chaste historical romance outside of Regency England will delight in Marsh’s fresh, fun premise.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Rich historical detail, endearing characters, and a tender romance bring the Roaring Twenties and the dawn of aviation to life in The Aviatrix—a fantastic page-turner!”

  —Mary Ellen Taylor, Amazon Charts bestselling author

  “I love Mattie—not even the sky is the limit for this heroine, and I’m here for it! Smart women, a brilliantly captured slice of the Roaring Twenties, and a swoony hero made The Aviatrix a superenjoyable page-turner.”

  —Evie Dunmore, USA Today bestselling author

  “A love letter to the bravery and fighting spirit of the daredevil fly girls of the Roaring Twenties, The Aviatrix is a vibrant, feminist, and heartwarming romance with a playful, rebellious spirit and a sharp eye for historical detail. I adored it from start to finish!”

  —Scarlett Peckham, USA Today bestselling author

  OTHER TITLES BY VIOLET MARSH

  The Aviatrix

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2022 by Erin Laurel O’Brien

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542027632

  ISBN-10: 1542027632

  Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

  To my sister, Deeann Polakovsky, PA-C, who worked as an EMT during her college years; to all those who have served their communities as EMTs and paramedics; and to all the military medics, stretcher-bearers, ambulance drivers, and similar volunteers who have provided aid in times of conflict

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  GLOSSARY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Prologue

  Western Front, France

  1918

  The pinkish glow of dawn brought danger, not hope.

  American Rose Van Etten wasn’t following protocol as she and her converted Model T hurtled through the salmon and golden hues. Dawn meant the return of enemy aircraft and a renewed intensity of shelling. Yesterday’s casualties had been high—horribly high even for this terrible war. Rose still had patients—or blessés, as her French military superiors called them—at the poste de secours. Not only had the small field dressing station been overwhelmed, but it was equipped to handle only bandaging and the crudest, most rudimentary forms of triage. Severely wounded French infantrymen, or poilus, needed to be moved to a hospital, and she was their only means of transport.

  Rose heard the angry roar of the airplane first. Energy slammed into her exhausted body—the only emotion that seemed to break through her husk of numbness. Leaning over the steering wheel, she glanced upward into the brilliantly colored sky. In the swirl of gilded coral, she spied a flash of true red: the nose of a Fokker flown by a pilot in the elite and deadly Jagdgeschwader I—the Flying Circus.

  The scout was out hunting, and she was the prey.

  Rose didn’t have time to allow dread to freeze her like a cottontail. Instead, her muscles tensed like a jackrabbit’s, and she prepared for the mad dash to the relative safety of the poste de secours.

  The first bullets hit the ground to the left of Rose’s Ford. Dirt struck her shoulder and rained against her tilted metal helmet. She swung to the right, thankful she was driving the nimble Tin Lizzie rather than the bulkier GMCs, Rovers, or Rolls-Royces. Her heart pumping like an overworked piston, Rose darted back to the left, knowing the airman would expect her to continue right.

  She refused to contemplate her demise—or perhaps she’d just stopped considering it after being steeped in death for years. Rose didn’t think about living either—at least not really. All that was inside her was the bare instinct for survival, a need that even years of war couldn’t quash.

  Her pursuer strafed the ground to Rose’s right. Loud metallic pops slammed against her eardrums as bullets shredded the passenger side. Fortunately, none appeared to strike the engine, and the trusty Ford kept on roaring.

  Rose could see the entrance to the underground poste de secours now, but so could the German scout. He knew where she planned on heading . . . or he thought he did.

  Rose yanked the wheel, bringing the vehicle around in a tight turn. Her right tires lifted and then landed with a thud she felt in her chest. She yanked down the throttle, jammed the T into high gear, and shot forward like a seemingly scared, confused bunny. If the pilot had recognized her as female, all the better for her ploy.

  She kept in a straight line, providing a tempting target in the desolate landscape marked only by burnt tree stumps and cratered ground. As soon as the Fokker banked and swooped in her direction, she yanked the hand brake, bringing the car to a skidding stop. A moment later, she jammed her foot on the Tin Lizzie’s reverse pedal and shot backward. Rose hit a few shell-blasted divots, but she made fast progress.

  By the time the scout realized what she’d done, Rose had already made it into the protected area where they kept the vehicles. Slumping back against her seat, she allowed one shaky intake of air. Just one. It wouldn’t do to acknowledge what had just happened.

  If Rose did, she might crumble and never collect the pieces—a sad Humpty-Dumpty brought down not by a fall but by endless tiny fractures.

  Rose reached for the case where she kept her cigarettes, then flipped over the latch and cursed. She’d smoked her last ration during the endless night as she’d traveled back and forth on the road crammed with supply wagons, troops, and other ambulances. At a loss for what to do with her right hand, which normally held the roll of tobacco, she drummed her fingers against the steering wheel as she waited for the pilot to leave in search of more exciting targets.

  There was a chance she knew him—this unseen German bent on extinguishing her. She had hobnobbed with many of Europe’s elites before the war when she’d competed in motorcar races. Closed-circuit ones, road courses, hill climbs—she’d done them all. Perhaps she had even raced against the scout during the Herkomer Trials. Back then they would have been competitors but not enemies. They could very well have been comrades and shared a laugh. She might have even drunk a beer with him as she tried to stave off the hollowness inside her.

  But then the war had come—the purposeless, endless war, which she’d joined as a relief volunteer in a misguided attempt to find meaning in her own life. But there was no meaning here. Just death and destruction and unspeakable violence.

  Here Rose was—nearly dying to save men who might have already die
d from their wounds. No matter how many poilus she brought to hospitals or train stations or ports for further transport, there were still more wounded, broken souls waiting to be reshuffled among the wards of France and England.

  Attempting to shake off the dismal thoughts with a roll of her shoulders, Rose shifted her body and stepped from the Ford. The pilot was likely gone, and she could make it to the poste de secours.

  Alert for the sound of the airplane’s engine, she cautiously stuck her head outside the shelter. The sky had lightened even more, making a drive back to the hospital impossible until the evening. She could see the grayish-brown lumps of the enemy observation balloons lurking in the blue sky like ugly behemoths ready to bring the troubles of Job upon them. Everything, though, seemed relatively quiet, so she began her dash to the field station.

  The first shell hit when Rose was halfway to the poste de secours. The impact reverberated through her body, and she swore her ribs clattered together like Parcheesi dice. When the second shell sent dirt spraying all over her, a fierce need to survive surged forth, forcing her muscles into action. Holding on to her helmet, she pounded toward the safety of the underground field dressing station. Mud from yesterday’s rain splashed over her uniform, and her foot slipped. Just as she was about to topple over, the door in front of her flew open, and a soldier pulled her roughly inside.

  “There were to be no more ambulance runs until tonight,” the man scolded in French. “Are you mad, mademoiselle?”

  Before the war, Rose would have blithely said oui. She’d always pursued peril for the fun of it, and she’d loved every minute . . . until she hadn’t.

  “Je ne sais pas.” Rose shrugged as she told the man the truth. She really didn’t know anymore.

  The dressing station was small, but she managed to find an out-of-the-way corner near one of the unconscious blessés swathed in bandages. Slumping onto the floor, she glanced around the small space filled with the smell of unwashed bodies, infected wounds, and blood.

  “Why are any of us in this mess?” Rose muttered in English as she stared unseeingly before her.

  “American?” The shaky, hoarse word came from the man on the cot nearest to her. White strips of material covered nearly every inch of him, and Rose could see evidence of blood, both fresh and dried, that had seeped through the wrappings. She did not know which stunned her more: that the severely wounded man had managed to talk or that he spoke with an upper-class British accent.

  But those things did not matter, not when the man lay so close to death. Rose jumped to her feet, forgetting her own weariness.

  “Do you need anything?” she asked. “Should I get someone? A doctor? I’m just the ambulance driver.”

  “You could . . . get me . . . out of here . . .” The man visibly had trouble mustering enough strength and air to speak.

  “I can drive you to an evacuation hospital tonight,” Rose promised, “but I can’t in the daylight. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I . . . don’t . . . want . . . there. Take me to . . . German territory . . . beyond No Man’s Land.” The words fell jerkily from his parched lips.

  Only one of his eyes was visible, but it was bright blue, filled with pain yet lucid. It was obvious that the man knew Rose couldn’t take him where he wanted to go, but part of him meant the words all the same.

  “What’s over the line for you?” Rose asked as she reached for a sponge in a glass of water. Like she’d seen the nurses do a thousand times, she pressed it to his mouth. His tongue darted out as he sucked the moisture.

  He swallowed and then answered, “What you were . . . looking . . . for . . . just now.”

  He gave a ghost of a grin. Rose could not make out the Brit’s features, but she suspected he’d been a handsome man.

  “What I was looking for?” she asked, confused.

  “Purpose . . . a reason.”

  How had this man, so wrapped up in his own pain, noticed hers? It was as if he had reached inside her mind and neatly plucked out her thoughts. But then again, weren’t they all searching for some lasting good or even just a simple truth in all this devastation?

  “And what purpose is beyond No Man’s Land?”

  “Ah.” The man started to chuckle, but the sound ended in a groan and a wince. “I trusted . . . the . . . wrong person with . . . that knowledge . . . it’s what got . . . me . . . here.”

  “Oh,” Rose said, both intrigued and a bit disappointed that he hadn’t explained why he was here—a highborn British man in a French section of trenches.

  “I thought . . . fighting . . . was . . . for glory . . . but it’s for . . . them.”

  “Them?” Rose asked.

  “Those . . .” The man paused and then swallowed. “Those . . . we let . . . into our hearts.”

  “For lovers?”

  “Loved . . . ones,” he corrected.

  Loved ones. Two words, so simple yet so complicated. Who did Rose count as her loved ones? Who would she brave No Man’s Land for? And who would face it for her? Mother and Daddy would send someone to save her, but they wouldn’t set a foot in there themselves.

  “Time for me to check your bandages.” One of the weary volunteers broke into the conversation and fairly pushed Rose aside to reach the wounded man.

  Rose instantly moved back, not wishing to interfere with the duties of those staffing the poste de secours. By the time the member of the medical staff had finished assisting the British soldier, the man had fainted from either pain, exhaustion, or loss of blood. He did not awaken for the rest of the day, but as twilight deepened into darkness, Rose was informed that he would be one of the two patients whom she was to transport to the hospital on her first run.

  As a stretcher-bearer loaded the British man into the back of her ambulance, Rose leaned close to him. “I’ll get you to the surgeon, and he’ll see to it that you’re patched up. Then you can finish your mission, whatever it is.”

  The corners of the man’s mouth tried to lift into a smile, but he could not quite manage it. The day’s wait had cost him dearly, and they both knew it. It was likely he would not survive the ride.

  A leaden feeling bore down on Rose and seemed to push every fiber of her into the muck as she walked toward the driver’s door. Climbing inside, she thought of the man’s one blue eye—so intense with light, with energy, with determination.

  No, she would not allow this man’s purpose to die. Not on her watch.

  Chapter 1

  Daytona, Florida

  November 12, 1918 (one day after Armistice)

  “I never would have thought I’d find Aphrodite on a quiet balcony instead of in the center of the party—especially during her own shindig.”

  At the sound of her best friend’s voice, Rose didn’t turn her gaze from the darkening surf, but she did allow a wry, self-effacing smile to grace her lips. “I’ve always rather thought myself a female Dionysus. Toying with mortal love is dull. I’d much rather drink and be merry.”

  At least she used to.

  “Is that who you’re dressed as, then?” Myrtle assumed a position next to Rose on the balustrade and fingered the white gossamer sleeve of Rose’s costume.

  The light chiffon fabric floated about Rose’s body, so different from the stiff fabric of her khaki uniform. Except for the last few years, she’d lived most of her life in gowns like this—silky confections that fluttered luxuriously against her skin. But now they felt . . . wrong. Too loose. Too airy. And just not right.

  “Nike.” Rose answered her friend’s question about whom she was pretending to be for the fancy dress ball.

  “Ahh.” Myrtle dropped the fabric. “The goddess of victory. Fitting, considering we’re celebrating the German surrender.”

  “Yes, fitting,” Rose repeated rather hollowly as she rolled her unlit cigarette between her fingers. “Although technically it is just a cease-fire. Real peace has not been declared.”

  It was hard for Rose to believe that all the death, all the violence, a
ll the devastation, had ended, truly ended. She wondered if it ever would in her mind. She’d gone to the war searching for some type of meaning but had returned emptier than ever. What had she accomplished? What had any of them? Here she was, back where she’d started, at another glittery, gilded party. She’d thrown it herself in another vain and this time foolish attempt to fill her emptiness—as if a celebration of victory would make all the suffering mean something. Instead it just placed a magnifying glass on the futility of it all.

  Myrtle gave Rose’s shoulder a friendly nudge as they both leaned on the balustrade and watched the Atlantic Ocean crash against the broad white sands spread before them. “Imagine you being the one to argue semantics instead of me.”

  “They say war changes a person.” Rose lifted the Lucky Strike to her mouth and closed her lips around it. She wanted to light it, but her lungs wouldn’t take the smoke. She’d start hacking like a sick goose. Mustard gas and a bad bout of influenza tended to leave a woman like that.

  “It does,” Myrtle said quietly. “So it does.”

  Rose was glad that her old college chum didn’t pry for details. She was the only one of Rose’s acquaintances who didn’t. Tonight had made that especially apparent when every single one of her guests had stopped her and begged for stories about her time “Over There.”

  There was the ubiquitous “Was the shelling as dreadful as they say, darling?”

  Why, yes. Would you wish to know the details of exactly what it can do to a person’s body? Because I can tell you, Mrs. Smith. Is that what you wish to hear as you sip champagne in your flouncy Bo Peep costume and make eyes at the widower Mr. Jones? Should I tell you of the deaths I witnessed—the terrible sacrifices that allow us to continue in our own blithe folly?

  And then another favorite question, especially from those of the male sex: “Is it true that you were one of the few women who drove to the front line? It must have been absolutely ghastly for you. Why the Belgians and French would allow a gal that close to the fighting is beyond understanding. No Man’s Land is no place for the delicate sensibilities of women.”