Page 101
They were, as Kate and the others had, volunteering with various charities while waiting for their passes to come through, making prosthetics and special shoes, both awed and alarmed by the proximity of Grécourt to the war zone, full of questions about what had been done and what they were meant to do.
“Is it true that you walked through a blizzard carrying four gallons of wine?” asked Miss Williams.
“It wasn’t wine,” said Kate wearily. “It was milk. Milk from our cows. Milk needs to be delivered, even in the snow.”
“Thank goodness it’s spring now,” said Miss White, huddling into the shawl she had wrapped around her uniform jacket. “I can’t bear the cold.”
“The weather has been much better.” No need to tell them it was like Greenland at night, even in springtime. “And we’ve got plenty of blankets.”
“Were we ever that frivolous?” she asked Julia. They were sharing a room, a proper room. The dormitory, where Kate had stayed that first month, was being used for storage, bristling with things the various local Smith clubs had sent to the Unit, waiting to be sorted.
“They’ll learn,” said Julia, and put her pillow over her head to discourage further communication.
It felt odd to be sleeping in a proper bed, rather than a cot made of springs and sharp edges. Kate missed the slump and creak of it. She woke half a dozen times in the night at familiar but forgotten noises, the thrum of traffic, the sound of male voices. It was even worse leaving the hotel to run her errands. There were just so many people. The air felt different, warmer, stuffier, sootier. It felt wrong to be walking on pavement again instead of slogging through mud. The soot-stained buildings pressed too close around her; the air stank of assembled humanity instead of cows.
Kate had never thought she would miss the cows.
“Kate!” A large woman in a brown suit flung herself at Kate, nearly knocking her down.
“Liza!” Kate couldn’t believe how glad she was to see the other women, even though it was odd to see her with her hair washed and done up properly, in a suit that was very much the wrong color for her complexion. “I hardly recognized you in civvies!”
Liza plucked at her suit. “I hardly recognize me,” she admitted. “I never thought I’d miss the old uniform—but it does feel odd being out of it.”
“What are you doing in town?” Maud joined them, dressed to the nines in the best the Paris shops could offer, looking Kate up and down in a way that Kate remembered well, as though she were sniffing out potential weaknesses.
“Reports and errands.” Kate couldn’t bring herself to say that Mrs. Barrett had mandated that she take a rest. “I’ve promised fruit trees and chickens for Florence and I want to see what I can do about getting Dr. Clare’s pass expedited.”
“Well, do try to enjoy yourself while you’re here,” said Maud patronizingly. “Before you have to go back to the wilds.”
“I do miss the cream from our cows,” said Liza wistfully. “In Paris, you can only get milk with a doctor’s prescription. I’ve had to take my coffee black.”
“Yes, but you can get tickets to the opera,” said Maud. She eyed Kate’s headgear. “And hats that haven’t been gnawed by a goat.”
Kate grinned. “Minerva sends you her love too.”
“Her love? She owes me a lace collar and two hats,” said Maud indignantly.
“Bill it to the Unit.” Kate couldn’t resist adding, “You’d never know the place now. We’re drowning in luxuries. Mrs. Barrett even found us a piano.”
They parted with insincere expressions of goodwill, but Kate found the meeting acted on her like a tonic. No matter how annoying Maud might be, she was somehow Kate’s now, like a horrible cousin one couldn’t disown. She didn’t miss her precisely, but she was strangely glad to see her. And be annoyed by her again.
Liza paused halfway down the block, said something to Maud, and came hurrying back. “I just wanted to say . . . if you need me, I can come back, you know. I had to get my pass renewed that time—remember how they had the wrong name for me? So I did it when I was here getting my collarbone fixed and the new one is good until April.”
“Are you sure?” asked Kate, touched despite herself. “You were so looking forward to canteen work.”
Liza looked back over her shoulder at Maud, dropping her voice so she wouldn’t be heard. “I miss Grécourt. I even miss the mud. It’s dreadful being cooped up in a canteen instead of out there, getting about.”
“What about our boys?” Kate asked. They’d heard a lot about Our Boys before Liza and Maud had left.
“We’re doing our best for them, but they don’t seem to want awfully to be saved from temptation.” Liza sounded genuinely bewildered. “Oh dear—that’s Maud calling. Give my love to the girls! And the goats.”
Kate watched Liza run off after Maud, thinking what a thoroughly decent person Liza was. If she’d been a little more patient, managed everything a little better, would Maud and Liza have stayed? It was only now that they’d gone that it was clear just how much they’d done for the Unit, and Kate felt guilty for mocking them for decorating their barrack. She’d misjudged them, horribly.
She’d misjudged a lot of people. But mostly Emmie. If Emmie left the Unit—she wasn’t sure she could forgive herself for it.
Julia had tried to tell her, but Kate had ignored her, because Julia was Julia, and because, from the day they’d started Smith, she’d had an idea of what Emmie was, and she’d stuck to it, an idea compounded entirely of her own insecurities. She’d just assumed, she’d always assumed, that Emmie’s name and position shielded her from everything, that being a Van Alden made her impervious, dancing obliviously through life, showering charity on lesser mortals. She’d wanted, if she were being honest with herself, to bring Emmie down a notch, to make her feel what it was to be small. Because Emmie’s father belonged to private clubs and Kate’s had driven a wagon full of beer.
But Kate’s father had loved her. Her stepfather loved her. Even her ridiculous brothers loved her, when they weren’t busy tormenting the life out of her. Her mother, who didn’t approve of what she was doing, had come to see her off and sent her boots.
