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“It wasn’t quite so open-air and there were more languages. You’d never imagine it, but I’ve picked up a smattering of the oddest dialects—German and Hungarian and Czech. Not much, but a few words, enough to help set people at ease and try to understand.”

“You do a very good job understanding,” said Kate soberly. There she had been, teaching French in an airy, well-appointed room to coiffed and gowned young ladies and thinking herself ill-used. She’d thought herself so superior to Emmie, just because she had to pay her own rent.

She wasn’t fit for this. She hadn’t the least idea what to do. She barely knew how to drive.

Yes, and she hadn’t known how to construct a car either, and she’d done that. But that was different. That was mechanical. These were people, people who needed help and understanding, and Kate’s very being quailed at the concept.

“They were being kind to us,” said Emmie matter-of-factly. “It’s often like that at first. They doubt what you can really do, but they’re ready to give you a chance. We just need to prove to them we mean to stay. We need to find some way to bring everyone to us, to make them like us.”

“Everyone does like you,” said Kate ruefully. Emmie was inherently likable. Probably because she cared so much. It wasn’t that she wore her heart on her sleeve; she carried it like a banner, waving in the air ahead of her.

“Mmm,” said Emmie, ducking her head. “Oh dear, I’m losing my pins again. They’re probably scattered from Grécourt to Canizy.”

“Like bread crumbs, only less edible,” said Kate. “Oh, stop, let me do that.”

Emmie turned so Kate could repair her hair for her, as she had a thousand times before. “It will take us forever to get to know everyone at this rate. A whole day and we didn’t even make it through two villages!”

“But they all know about the crazy ladies with the trucks,” said Kate, jabbing in a pin hard enough that even Emmie would be hard-pressed to shed it.

“Yes, but is that how we want them to know us? I’d rather we be the crazy ladies with milk—or candy. We need to find a way to get everyone to us. . . .” Emmie turned, looking very un-Emmie-like with her hair neatly pinned away from her face. “We could hold a children’s party on the grounds of the château—that might do it.”

Kate thought of the old woman lying on a pallet in the mud; the Boche baby with its child mother. Of the baroness, living in comfort in Switzerland while her people huddled in the castle cellars. “I’m not sure a party is precisely what they need.”

“People do like parties,” said Emmie seriously. “Particularly when they haven’t had anything to celebrate for a good long while. It’s—it’s the same way Mrs. Rutherford wants us to sell to them rather than give to them. It will make them feel like people again.”

“It’s charity,” said Kate.

“Then we have to find a way to not make it feel like charity,” said Emmie firmly, and got back in the truck.

Chapter Ten

On the twelfth, we called all day and didn’t get home until past five. We were just sitting down to supper when a soldier rode up with a letter. It was from the commanding officer saying that six cows had arrived at the station at Nesle and must be removed immediately. After some confusion about where Nesle might be, two of our members set off with the soldier to secure our livestock while the rest of us practiced cantiques with the villagers in their stable for a religious celebration to be held here next week. With the arrival of the cows, the musical evening turned into a moonlit demonstration of best French milking techniques. Your Unit was enthusiastic. The cows were not—and I can’t say I blame them. We must have seemed staggeringly inept.

You can say one thing about life here: there’s no chance for ennui. It’s a constant barrage of one thing after another and I can’t think of anything I like better.

Do tell mother that Freddie and I are both well and hearty. She’s not to worry about us in the least. If she’s feeling fluttery, she should call Dr. Sands, although I am quite certain there’s nothing wrong with her that a brisk walk and a good dose of fresh air wouldn’t cure.

—Miss Frances Englund, ’09, to her aunt Miss Millicent Rattner

September 1917

Grécourt, France

It wasn’t Emmie who found a way to bring the villagers to them. It was Julia.

They were at dinner in their tiny dining room in the first barrack, crammed around a makeshift table, eating lukewarm vegetable soup that Marie had carried over in a battered tureen from her tarpaulin-covered house, everyone talking over each other about their day.

“I don’t see how we can do it all,” Margaret said, poking at her soup. She had been part of the group detailed to go to three of the nearer villages with Julia, serving double duty as driver and social worker. “There’s just so much. We didn’t get through even half of what we intended.”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” said Mrs. Rutherford serenely.

“Before Rome can be built, it needs to be washed,” said Dr. Stringfellow. “The levels of hygiene are appalling. We need well pumps and washtubs. By the dozen.”

“Also fine-toothed combs,” put in Emmie, trying not to scratch.

“Miss Randolph, will you add those to the list? Miss Randolph will be in charge of our store.”

Emmie couldn’t help but notice that Maud, beneath her aloof expression, seemed rather pleased with the appointment. “I’ll need to go to Paris,” Maud said importantly. “We can’t rely on anything arriving unless we fetch it ourselves.”