“The American College Women,” translated Kate, without looking up from her bread. Kate was looking particularly white and pinched; Emmie wondered how long she had stayed out there on the balcony last night.
“A French title easily pronounced is absolutely necessary,” said Mrs. Rutherford. “When I gave the list of all our names to the police, I wrote that above it. So as not to have any confusion about who and what we are.”
“It sounds rather unpleasant, doesn’t it?” said Miss Patton nervously, fiddling with the edge of the lace jabot she had added to her uniform shirtwaist. “Being registered with the police. As though we were felons.”
“Or German spies,” put in Maud. “I hear they’re everywhere.”
This all seemed to be taking a rather dark tone, so Emmie decided it was time to intervene. “Would anyone else like some butter? I do think it’s wonderful that we still have butter.”
“Yes, just meatless Mondays and Tuesdays,” said Maud, “and no hot water except on Saturday or Sunday. Do you think that really is the rule, or is Madame just trying to scare us away so she can have her boxroom back?”
“Madame is delighted to have us,” said Mrs. Rutherford absently. “Do listen to this! Our agent has been busy on our behalf at Grécourt. La Baronne de Robecourt has agreed to let us stay in the château—such as it is. The army has inspected and cleaned the wells for us, and . . . the Ministry of the Interior has provided us with three barracks to house us!”
“Barracks? But . . . aren’t we staying at the château?” Miss Patton glanced to Maud for support. “I thought you’d said there was a château.”
“The château is not exactly habitable. Those days, I fear, are gone. But wait! There’s more. They’ve got plumbing for us! They’ve put in a small motor engine to pump water. It shows just how much they value our efforts. This region had the richest farmland in France—until the Germans came through. It is now in a state of almost total destruction. They are looking to us, ladies. To us.”
“Not to till the fields, surely,” said Maud darkly.
“It’s the wrong season for that,” said Mrs. Rutherford. “But we can provide the villagers with the proper seeds and the tools to do the tilling. We’re not there to do their work for them, but to enable them to do it again for themselves. Let’s see. . . . We’ll have free transportation for our supplies to the nearest railway line—good news indeed!—and the Ministry of the Interior has arranged to requisition petrol, sugar, and coal for our use. We have everything we need.”
“Except our trucks,” pointed out Kate.
“And our medical supplies,” put in Dr. Stringfellow. “We will need those, Betsy. All I have is what I carried with me in my bag.”
“And our cots,” added Miss Cooper timidly, stretching her aching shoulders.
“All in good time, ladies, all in good time.” Mrs. Rutherford folded the letter and inserted it back in its envelope. “I mean to go to the American Relief Clearing House and see what they can tell us about the whereabouts of our goods and chattels. Dr. Denison of Boston College believes he might have a way to expedite their arrival by having them taken to us by military train. War is a great game of waiting, ladies—but there are ways of bending events to one’s will. The people of Grécourt need us and we will not disappoint them.”
Maud’s ears perked up. “Well, if we’re simply waiting, I had some shopping—”
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Rutherford, willfully misunderstanding her. “There will be shopping in plenty! For all we’ve brought with us, there is more that is needed. Camp stoves and cots, rakes and plows . . . And the livestock, of course. I do hope you’re getting on with the chickens, Miss Van Alden.”
Emmie bit her lip. “I meant to read the manual on the train, but . . .”
But she had spent much of the time hearing all about Miss Patton’s younger sister’s wedding, with special attention to the bridesmaids’ dresses and the details of the floral arrangements.
Mercifully, Mrs. Rutherford cut Emmie off before she could be forced to admit her continued ignorance regarding poultry. “Tomorrow, we will go see about securing our papers—there is a carnet rouge that is required for entry into the war zone, and, of course, the chauffeurs will need to acquire their permits. We are nothing without our chauffeurs.”
“If we actually knew how to drive what we’re supposed to drive,” muttered Kate.
Emmie tried to make a joke of it. “I’ll take the White truck if you’ll take the chickens, Kate.”
Kate grinned reluctantly. “At least the truck won’t cluck.”
“Dr. Pruyn and I will be touring the American Ambulance Hospital at Neuilly today,” said Dr. Stringfellow, spreading butter sparingly on her war bread. She regarded it dubiously, shrugged, and then took a bite.
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Rutherford, looking up from her correspondence, “the whole Unit ought to go. I shall be busy making arrangements—but you might lead the group, Ava.”
“It won’t be pretty.” Dr. Stringfellow frowned at her. “The discussion may become . . . technical.”
“And what of it?” said Mrs. Rutherford. “It will be instructive.”
Dr. Stringfellow looked hard at her old roommate. “It is not for the faint of heart.”
Mrs. Rutherford gave her back stare for stare. “Neither is our work.”
“Are you sure that will be wise, Betsy?”
“When did any venture ever succeed by being wise?”
Dr. Stringfellow raised her eyes to the heavens. “It’s never any good to argue with you.”
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Rutherford, with a twinkle in her eyes. “You never win.”
“Only because you refuse to admit defeat,” said Dr. Stringfellow resignedly, and Emmie could imagine them in their room at Smith, in the pompadours and puffed sleeves of two decades ago, having the exact same argument. There was something terribly comforting about it, about the sameness of it. She and Kate used to bicker like that, years ago—back before they went their separate ways, with only the odd letter to mark the passage of the years. “On your head be it. We’ll see what the hospital thinks when we show up with the whole lot of us rather than two.”
“They will be charmed,” said Mrs. Rutherford, and that was the end of that.
“What do you think she’s up to that she doesn’t want us around?” whispered Maud as they took the tram to Neuilly. She was wearing a crimson hat with her uniform, a determinedly Parisian hat, which Emmie found rather funny as all the Parisians they saw were wearing black. “Mrs. Rutherford, I mean. Did you hear all that at breakfast?”
“I think she wants us busy and occupied,” said Emmie, thinking about it. The Paris through which they were passing was a very different Paris from the one she had visited with her mother a mere five years before. This was a black-and-khaki Paris, populated by soldiers and widows. The busy traffic she remembered was gone, replaced by military vehicles and the odd taxi, too old and ancient to be of use in the war effort.
This wasn’t a Paris for casual visitors; this was a Paris for those who had come to work. If one had to think about it too much, it would be, thought Emmie, terribly depressing. It made her fingers itch to be working at something, sewing a seam or knitting a fringe or writing a letter. Something. Anything.