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She’d worn those new shoes, but she could feel them burning on her feet still. She would rather have gone bare.
It was odd to be on the other end of it. Playing Lady Bountiful, her mother called it. Good enough for some. “Won’t they mind that we’re selling below cost, then?”
Mrs. Rutherford smiled up at her. “No. They’ll just feel glad they got a bargain. It’s no shame to put one over on the Americans—they’ll think we don’t understand their money yet and enjoy shaking their heads over our naivete. Good night, Miss Moran.”
“Good night,” said Kate, and went slowly upstairs, feeling like Mrs. Rutherford’s plans might be somewhat less mad than she had previously supposed.
The rain continued to persecute them. Margaret was right; they did get better at changing punctures, although it didn’t get any more pleasant with practice. Whether it was the Germans or just French cart horses with loose shoes, the roads from Nantes to Paris appeared to be positively strewn with nails, all of which aimed straight at their tires. They ate their lunch as they went to save time, shoving down cheese and crackers and gulping coffee from a thermos, taking turns driving. Kate began to accept being wet through as an inevitable law of nature.
And then, just north of Chartres, the sun came out.
“What is that great yellow ball in the sky?” asked Fran.
“That’s the sun,” explained Liza helpfully.
Kate squinted up at the sky. “Unless we’re hallucinating and it’s just a mirage. It might be a mirage.”
Fran put her hand up, palm out. “My hand is dry. It’s real.”
It was amazing what a difference a bit of sunshine made. They didn’t even mind when they drove into Versailles, the home of kings, and promptly blew a tire right in front of the mayor’s house, which looked like a miniature palace itself, and very French.
This time, they collected a crowd of interested citizens, all wanting to know who these shabby American women were and what they were doing charging about on three trucks loaded with building materials and the remains of fifteen strings of onions, now rather soggy.
While a few helpful soldiers debated the best way to jack the Ford (which apparently involved getting a petit blanc from the nearest café and discussing the meaning of life), an elderly woman in deep mourning, holding a little girl by the hand, approached Kate, wanting to know who they were and what they were doing.
“We’re members of the Smith College Relief Unit—er, Collégiennes Américaines.” Kate’s brain felt addled by days of driving. “We’re here to offer aid to the former occupied zones near a town called Grécourt. Those are bits of houses we’re bringing to build—for a mairie and a schoolhouse and whatever else is needed.”
“Do you have relatives here?” the woman asked.
“None at all,” said Kate, feeling a little silly. “I’m not even French. My family is mostly Irish.”
No need to mention that her father was Bohemian. It was a little too close to German. To be Irish was bad enough, but at least not Boche.
To her surprise, the woman put a hand on her shoulder. “You are a good girl. One moment. Marie, wait with the lady.”
Kate and the little girl were left regarding each other. The girl couldn’t have been more than six, and Kate had no idea what to do with her.
“Do you live here?” asked Kate.
“Yes, now.” The girl took her thumb from her mouth. “I used to live somewhere else, but then I came on a train with Madame Lepensier. How far away is America? Did you come on a train?”
Mercifully, at that point the grandmother returned, her arms laden with packages. “For you,” she said, shoving half a chicken, a basket of peaches, and a whole cheese into Kate’s arms.
Kate, surprised, grappled with it to keep it all from falling. “But this is—there was no need—”
The old woman rescued a peach and pushed it firmly back into Kate’s hands. “My granddaughter—she was evacuated from the occupied zone last year, when the Germans let some go. If she had stayed . . .” She shrugged, a Gallic gesture indicative of all manner of ills. “She was one of the lucky ones. What you do—it is good. Que le Bon Dieu vous bénisse, maintenant et à l’avenir.”
“What did she say?” Liza, drawn by the lure of food, came up as the woman was departing, leaving Kate, dazed, cradling a roast chicken, probably the woman’s supper for the week.
“She said—” Kate’s voice felt husky. She cleared it and tried again. “She said, may the good Lord bless you, now and in the future.”
“That’s so kind of her! Oh, is that cheese?”
While the soldiers debated the best methods of tire maintenance, the girls fell on the food, plunking down on the steps of the mairie and tearing into the chicken and cheese.
“My mother would be appalled.” Alice Patton tried to wipe the chicken grease off her shirtfront. “She says a lady never eats in public.”
“I don’t care what anyone thinks as long as there’s more of this cheese in the world,” said Liza. “I’m surprised they’re being so nice to us. Maud says the French are pretty down on us for not coming in before and feeding the Germans through neutrals. You can see how it would make them bitter to see all these strong men in new uniforms coming in tooting around in big cars all the time. Dr. Foster, you know the Red Cross man, said there was a pretty serious mutiny in the French army this spring, and that all that kept them from throwing the towel in was our coming in, but that we probably left it too late.”
