Page 11

Emmie wouldn’t miss the chaos of the family brownstone on Thirty-Fourth Street—well, not much. But she did miss her girls. Some of them came to her so young—so young and so thin! And it was such joy to feed them up and teach them their letters if they didn’t know them already and just give them a quiet, warm place where they could be. There weren’t many places where one could just be.

It was all very useful work, and Emmie knew—at least, she told herself—that it truly did make a difference to the recipients, but nothing to light up the world. Nothing to earn her mother’s respect.

But here, here finally, was her chance to do something heroic.

If only it didn’t all go wrong.

“It’s this ship,” Emmie said, desperately needing Kate to feel as she did, to believe as she did, because if Kate didn’t believe, how were they to succeed? It was Kate who had got her through Smith, had kept her from failing her examinations. “It’s the waiting that’s so hard, being here and not being able to do anything yet.”

“Yes, but what are we meant to do?” Kate asked practically. “Other than collect cows.”

Offer hope to the hopeless, Emmie wanted to say, but somehow the words rolled off better from Mrs. Rutherford’s tongue than hers.

“At least we have professional assurance that we’re not neurasthenics!” When Kate looked at her skeptically, she added, “I’m sure it will all make sense once we get there. Everything will be better once we get to Paris.”

Chapter Three

The Unit had an excellent time on the voyage. We had never all met until we embarked, but already we like and admire each other . . .

— Mrs. Ambrose Rutherford (née Betsy Hayes), ’96, Director, to the members of the committee

Dear Beth,

I’m writing this on the train, so if my handwriting isn’t up to form, you’ll know why! I keep turning to speak to you and then remembering you aren’t here after all, although I do understand why you couldn’t come, with things as they are at home. Your replacement is a girl named Catharine Morran (?), class of ’11. There are several other ’11 girls, and some ’09, and a great many older than that. They make me feel like an infant—although they’re all very nice. Well, most of them.

They played us off the ship with “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” which was very nice and very inspiring, but there’s been some mix-up with our trucks, which haven’t arrived yet or have arrived but aren’t being released, it’s not clear which, so now we’re all on the way to Paris to find out what we’re meant to do until we can get our trucks and get to where we’re going. Everyone we see seems to be in uniform or in mourning. I’ve seen more widows’ weeds in the past five hours than I have in all my life. Every woman we pass seems to be wearing black. As for the men—one of the girls said she feels strange having all her limbs, and that’s just what it is. Every man on the train seems to be on crutches or wrapped in bandages, and we aren’t even to Paris yet, much less the war zone.

I expect we’ll feel better once we get to the hotel and have a good night’s sleep. Can you believe? A Paris hotel! I feel better just writing it. A Paris hotel.

I wish you were here, Beth, I really do. It is so lonely without you. . . .

—Miss Margaret Cooper, ’14, to Miss Elizabeth Long, ’14

August 1917

Hotel Voltaire, Paris

“Non,” said Madame. “Twenty young girls? Mais c’est impossible! Je ne peux prendre tout le monde!”

“Fewer than that—and we’re not that young,” Kate countered.

She stood at the door of the hotel on the Quai Voltaire, the rest of the Unit behind her, rather the worse for wear after their long train ride from Bordeaux, disheveled and smoke-stained and weary. Their train hadn’t come in until twenty past eight; it was full dark already, the streets sparsely lit, curtains pulled tight over windows to blot any light from within.

Mrs. Rutherford and Miss Ledbetter had taken on the task of attempting to find a cab for their baggage from the few ancient vehicles that still plied their trade at the station. It was clear that it would be miracle enough to find a taxi to carry their bags, much less any of them. Sore and tired, the rest of the Unit had gathered up such bits of baggage as they could carry and staggered forward on foot, along the night-dark Seine to the little hotel on the Left Bank where they had been promised that rooms had been reserved for them.

“Nine! Nine only I was told!” Madame protested.

“What is it?” asked Emmie, coming up behind Kate.

“There’s no room at the inn—or, not enough room at the inn.” Kate’s throat was dry and scratchy after hours of coal smoke. Their landing—the playing of “The Stars and Stripes Forever” as they emerged from the boat; the excitement at being on dry land—all felt like years ago. “She says they can’t possibly take us all, she has only two girls to help and there aren’t enough rooms for all of us even if they had more people.”

“But, then what . . .” Emmie glanced over her shoulder. Miss Cooper looked asleep on her feet. Miss Patton had dropped her bag and was sitting on it.

Kate could feel her lips set. “She says we’ll have to find someplace else.”

“But—our rooms were meant to be reserved.” Emmie looked like a raccoon, her eyes ringed with purple. “Weren’t they? Although our tags say Rue Scribe. Maybe we were meant to go there instead?”

Yes, it would be horrible if someone were to deliver their bodies to the wrong hotel.