Page 1 of A Zephyr Rising
ChapterOne
August 1914
Somerset, England
The world had gone mad and Ginger Whitman couldn’t stomach it for one more second.
She stood from her seat in the stone gazebo where she’d been attempting to read the newspaper.The paper crinkled in her gloved hand as she started across the lawn toward her family’s home.One thing after another had distracted her: thoughts of guests arriving soon, the glare of the sun against the paper, the feeling of uselessness.The memory of the townspeople singing and chanting in the streets a few nights ago.
“It’s a long way to Tipperary…”
She shuddered thinking of those excited faces and toasts.Since then, that tune had been stuck in her head, teasing and haunting her.According to the papers, the celebration had even extended to Buckingham Palace, where King George and Queen Mary greeted the merry crowds.
So many people cheering for the promise of death and destruction.
She slowed and bent toward the grass, righting a fallen croquet hoop.The servants had already set up games for the afternoon.Her palm grazed a mallet as she passed it.
She felt immune to the general sentiment pervading her country, unable to comprehend how something she’d always thought of as being so ugly and fearsome aswarcould now be called “splendid.”She strolled under the shade of a tall elm and stopped, taking in her family’s stately house.Servants bustled, setting up the garden party under the towering shade of the graceful arched windows overlooking the west balcony.Just this morning, all but one footman had given notice, explaining their intention to enlist.They walked now with a spring to their step, whistling, proud to do their bit.
Even this party felt incongruous to her.Parties were for peaceful times, for quiet moments while gazing over grassy hills.As though nature wanted to offer its agreement, a warm breeze wrapped her in a gentle embrace, but left goose bumps on her skin.The chill of autumn already crept into the fingertips of the wind.
She frowned and deposited her newspaper on a bench under the tree.The scent of ink remained on her gloves as she started forward again.
Anxiety had been clawing at her gut since the news had broken four days earlier.Britain was at war with Germany.The actions of six conspirators in Sarajevo in June had sealed the fates of many.The thought of men dying in combat on the battlefield made her throat clench.Which families would this war touch?Her friends?Or maybe her own brother?
Her mouth went dry.
The inexplicable buzz of excitement bothered her the most.The young men her age who were eager to show their patriotism for king and country—none of them seemed to think beyond that.Even Henry seemed to share their lack of foresight.Her older brother had entered an impassioned discussion with a friend at dinner the previous night about volunteering before they were called up.
She didn’t want life to change.Uncertainty about the future made the merriment around her feel like ignorance and naïveté.The declarations about “routing the Huns” in a few short weeks sounded like nothing more than hubris and bravado.Like many men she knew, Henry had only experienced shooting in hunts.Hunts ending with lawn parties and tea and baths.Servants to tend to their horses.She couldn’t help but wonder if they would be so confident when another man was their target.
Worse still, she was completely powerless, silently screaming as she watched her life invaded by a force she had no ability to influence or help fight against.What if the war came to her doorstep?
The servants unfurled tablecloths, the white fabric catching like sails in the breeze, billowing and beautiful.Ginger steadied herself against the trunk of the tree, the fingertips of her gloves catching against the bark.
Weeks earlier, they’d been more concerned about the Americans winning the Henley Regatta.The familiar world of the London Season, with its late-night dinners, parades at Hyde Park, breathless balls, and thrilling cricket matches—it was slipping away.Eclipsed by something none of them quite understood.Only men like her father, who had served in the African war, carried on with gravitas.
For once in her life, her father’s opinion seemed to be aligned with hers.She wished she could talk to him about it all.But he had barely spoken to her the last week.He continued to be angry with her.
Her jaw set.She didn’t want to think about it.Or Stephen’s impending arrival.She wasn’t ready to face him yet.
The open-aired tents that had been erected for the party swayed in the morning breeze and Ginger gave up her spot as she saw her mother among the servants.Mama had transformed their own garden party into a fundraising event to support the war effort.
This was a way to be useful.For now.She slipped under the cover offered by the tent where her mother stood.Both she and the head housekeeper, Mrs.Williams, wore deep frowns as they spoke.
A few days earlier, Ginger would have dismissed their concerns as something trivial.Given the new circumstances, it seemed worth asking about.Ginger paused at her mother’s side.“What is it, Mama?Has something happened?”
Her mother’s green-eyed gaze turned toward her.“The butcher’s delivery never arrived from town this morning.And it’s getting quite late.The kitchen is in chaos because the cook had several cold meat items on the menu.”
Ginger imagined the scene.The party would start in five hours—‘chaos’ was likely too gentle a term.“Mr.Martin has always been punctual.What could have delayed him?”
Mrs.Williams cleared her throat, the soft lines by her eyes crinkling as her gaze swept over the tent.“That’s what Lady Braddock and I are worried about.Someone might have done something to his business because...”She trailed off.
She didn’t have to finish.Ginger understood the implication.Yesterday, the papers had carried tales of businesses being destroyed.While Ginger had dressed in the morning, her lady’s maid had told her that over-zealous “patriots” had smashed the windows to the local bookseller’s shop.
“You don’t think someone might have harmed him because he’s German?”Ginger straightened, alert with the horrifying thought.“But Mr.Martin is one of us—he’s been in town longer than I’ve been alive.And his wife and children...”
Her mother put a gentle hand on her bare wrist.“We’re sending Florence to go and check on the order.There isn’t need for alarm yet.”
