“Maybe some of the teachers came here after the war, to continue taking care of the children?” suggested Rosalyn.
“That would make sense. Hey, look at this.” Blondine opened a silk pouch that contained several long knitting needles. “Do you suppose needlework was part of the curriculum back then?”
Rosalyn had learned the wordtricoter, French for “to knit,” while reading Émile’s references to Lucie’s mother knitting socks and sweaters.
“Maybe so, especially if you consider they were still training girls to fold linen napkins according to the occasion.”
“Aha!” said Blondine, suddenly straightening, holding a framed certificate in one hand.
The fancy scrollwork made it hard to read, but they could make out the roster of the orphanage’s board of directors. The first name listed wasDoris Dickinson Whittaker, veuve.
“So Emma was right. Her aunt was involved with the orphanage,” said Blondine. “I thought she was making it up.”
“Why would she do that?”
Blondine shrugged. “I never know with Emma. But then, we don’t see that many Australians around here, so I suppose it makes sense.”
Satisfied that there were no letters from Doris in the trunk, Rosalyn and Blondine gathered the most interesting items—the ledger, the certificate with Doris’s name on it, the silk pouch of needles, and the photographs of cave life—and carried them downstairs, carefully picking their way along the crowded stairs, stepping around the piles of books and magazines.
“I can’t believe how well you navigate in those heels,” Rosalyn said.
“How do you mean?” asked Blondine.
“I’m a klutz in heels,” said Rosalyn, realizing she had learned this word—empotée—from Emma. If she were to stay another few months in France, she might actually begin speaking the language with confidence.
“Did you lock the door?” asked Madame Bolze as Blondine and Rosalyn entered the sunny living room.
“Oui, madame, bien sûr,”said Blondine, placing on the table what they had found and handing Madame Bolze her keys. “Thank you for letting us go up there. Look at what we found! There were no letters from your aunt Emma, but we did find her name on a certificate listing her as one of the directors of the orphanage. Truthfully, though, there’s lots more stuff up there, so one never knows.”
Madame Bolze wrinkled her nose. “They smell funny.”
“Just the smell of old papers,” said Emma, picking up the certificate. “This is amazing. I knew she loved France, but I didn’t know about all this.”
“It makes sense that she would want to help after the war,” said Rosalyn. “She understood better than most how the region had suffered. According to Émile’s side of the correspondence, at least, they seemed close.”
“We also found these photos,” said Blondine as she spread the photographs out on the table. There were several portraits of women with names on the back.
Emma held one up. “Look! On the back it reads:‘Lucie Maréchal, dans les crayères du Pommery, Dec. 1916. Assistante.’”
“Lucie?”Hungrily, Rosalyn studied the image of the dark-haired, pale young woman she had read so much about. Lucie Maréchal wore a black high-necked dress and stood with a young girl at her side; they were both unsmiling and almost seemed to be glaring at the camera. The expression on Lucie’s young face was resolute, unyielding.
“Not what I expected,” said Emma, voicing Rosalyn’s thoughts. “Émile describes her as soft and young, with the sweetest face.”
“She had been through a lot by then,” said Blondine, taking the photo from her and gazing at it. “War isn’t kind to people. Deprivation, responsibility, the weight of grief...”
Rosalyn nodded; she barely recognized herself in the mirror anymore. Her face was that of a stricken stranger, her eyes—the feature Dash swore had been the first thing he’d noticed about her—were open wounds. She shrank from having her picture taken nowadays.
Madame Bolze picked up the silk pouch and unfurled it atop the table. She ran gaunt, blue-veined hands over the selection of tools.
“Nowthese, I remember. Bone needles.”
“Boneneedles?” Blondine asked.
“They were made of bone back when I was a child. Cow bone, I think. These were for knitting, and these were for crocheting—see the hook? And these”—she held up the smallest-gauge needles—“were for tatting. Not many people know how to do that anymore. But these were precious instruments, and not just for making decorations like lace. Being able to make or repair sweaters or garments was sometimes the difference between life and death back when I was a child. Every girl was expected to know her needlework.”
“Madame Bolze, did you ever hear about the schools in the caves beneath the Pommery champagne house during World War One?” Rosalyn asked.
She nodded her gray head. “A lot of people moved into the caves for safety, to escape the bombs. It must have been dreadful down there; I don’t even like spending much time in my own cellar. I have a few friends from school whose parents lived under Reims as children; I remember them sharing stories about it in class.”
