Evelyn Cox drove her carriage through Birmingham. Although motor cars were making their debut, her beautiful blue roan Noriker duo still enticed well-off individuals to go for an old time carriage ride. Moving to England from America after her family's dispersal left her with just enough money to rent a small cottage just outside of town, and a fortunate family connection in France meant a hefty deal on her lovely drafts. She saved up for the carriage after doing some side work with her horses, pulling things around town. This was much better - cleaner, safer, and in cleaner air.

The sun was just setting when she was waved to the side by a group of three gentlemen. Steering to them, she smiled. "Howdy, boys," she said in what they'd recognize as an American accent. "Need a ride?"

The three chuckled, the tallest tipping his hat. "That'd be alright," he mumbled. They all clambered into the carriage, the shortest lighting a cigarette. "Small Heath," the tallest barked.

"Aye," she said. Evelyn called out to her horses, "Walk on." The two began their plodding way to their location, a lovely clip-clopping on the cobblestone. In a few miles that would turn to a dim thumping on the dirt roads in the poorer areas.

"Where ye from?" the tallest asked. He had longer hair on top of his head, and a moustache. He seemed quite twitchy.

"America," Evelyn said. "Missouri."

"What brought you here?" the middle one asked. He had blue eyes, a clean face. Seemed to be looking around but not seeing anything there.

"Effects of the war," she tossed over her shoulder. "I was a nurse and deployed in France. My family didn't want me to join the Army," she began. "When I came back home, they'd gone. Economy didn't treat them well, so they left a note with the landlady. Said they wouldn't be back and I was on my own."

"So why here? And where'd you get the horses?" the shortest asked after a drag on his cigarette.

"Y'all are nosy here," Evelyn joked. "I returned to a village in France where I'd made some friends. My grandparents emigrated to America from that area as well. A family friend bred drafts and I got a deal on these two geldings, because they weren't big enough for tough work. They told me with the hardships in Europe following the war, I'd probably do best heading to England. I just ended up here by chance," she finished.

One of them spit out of the carriage. "Sounds like a typical immigrant story," the tallest one muttered. "The war was hell on everyone."

"Were you men in the service?" she inquired.

"Aye," the tallest said. "Myself and Tommy here. Not much more to say than that - we saw some of the worst of it."

She nodded. "I understand."

One of them scoffed. "Do you?" the middle one asked cooly.

She shrugged. "Probably. I was in France, treating battle wounds. Body parts to be amputated, infections to be treated, with survival being up to luck no matter what I did. I might not have been in the trenches, but I saw those who made it back, and even more that didn't," she finished tersely. Women's work in the war was often looked down upon, but nurses were thrown in with the men regularly due to short staffing. It was a position that resulted in exposure to the toughest parts of war.

The road had turned to packed dirt, and Evelyn saw the buildings marking the beginning of Small Heath. "Where at here?" she asked, changing the conversation.

"Know the Garrison, a pub?" the middle brother, presumably Tommy, asked.

"Yeah," she said. "I've been by there once or twice."

The shortest chuckled. "Doing what?"

She smirked, even though they couldn't see. "None of your business," she joked. She heard the beginnings of movement in the back and glanced to see them wearing unpleasant expressions. She sighed. "It's just a saying, it's not serious. I have a few clients who come down to this area for services," she concluded. Some men were so testy.

The movement from the back seat settled. The sound of someone else spitting, hopefully outside the carriage. "That's not uncommon here," Tommy said. "A lot of dangerous things here."

She nodded. "I don't come here often. I like to stay out of trouble," she threw back.

The shortest laughed. "Then you'd best get us to the Garrison as soon as you can. We're nothing but trouble."

Evelyn had dropped off the men at the pub and been on her way home. It was getting dark, and although she had her guns and a knife, she was honest - she tried to stay out of trouble. Especially if it was possible her horses could get harmed.

They paid her and tipped handsomely. The two older looking men - Tommy was one, and she heard someone mention the name Arthur - walked in immediately after paying. The younger of the three had climbed down but waited a few moments.

"I don't see many pretty drafts," he said, after he'd stamped out his cigarette.

Evelyn smiled. "Thank you. I'm quite proud of them," she said. "Absolutely bomb proof. They'd do anything I asked of them."

He nodded, placing a hand on one of the horses. The gentle giant glanced back at him as far as he could in his gear and gave a sigh. The man reached up to give the horse a scratch behind the ears, which was clearly appreciated.

Evelyn smiled again. "That's Spruce. He loves attention. But I think your brothers might be missing you," she said, trying to dismiss him.

The man nodded. "Yeah, I think you're right." He turned to look at her, hands in his pockets. "Thank you for a lovely ride. My name is Michael. If you ever need anything, stop by here and ask for me." He turned and walked away.

She was very perplexed. She had given a carriage ride, as was her job. What would warrant her being able to ask a favor? Although, she thought, he wasn't offering an exchange of favors. He's probably wanting me to owe him. She'd already been riding off towards her cottage. Probably boys being boys. Disgusting.

Getting home was always a relief for her. She began by parking the carriage near the lean-to and unhooking Spruce and his friend, Aspen. They were walked to their turn-out so she could finish removing their gear, give them a good brush, and let them out to pasture where their grass and troughs of food and water awaited. After she'd gotten done huffing and puffing as she hung everything up, she walked to her cozy home.

She removed her skirt to be in her blouse and trousers. Damn British society, she thought, I can't believe most women can't wear trousers without being looked down on. When she wasn't working she gladly walked in her pants, as that didn't affect her business. Most clients didn't recognize her without her ruffled skirt and hair done in a loose, feminine bun. Outside of her work she'd wear trousers and pull her hair back into a tidy high ponytail. Most dumb upperclassmen didn't pay enough attention to women to actually recognize their face.

She unstrapped the pistol from her left thigh and the knife from her right calf. She'd learned in America to always be armed, and that habit had helped her more than once in France and England. When she was working odd jobs around Small Heath and nearby areas, plenty of men gave her trouble. Luckily, so far, she had escaped situations unscathed.

Evelyn hung up her skirt and got the fire started. She stepped to her small kitchen and readied a kettle and some tea. Some things in Europe she quite liked - French wine and bread, British tea and sweets. Other things she kept quite American: she still drank coffee and strong spirits and had kept a confidence that she noticed wasn't commonly present among European women. It seemed America had been breeding up loud, stubborn people.

The sun had set and night had fallen. She drank her tea and had some toast for dinner. Looking out the window, she checked on her boys, and then readied herself for bed. Tomorrow would be another day full of the same thing she was always doing: sucking up to rich people.