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“Those weren’t donations,” Julia said, as though speaking to a toddler, all short words and simple sentence construction. “Those were our supplies, bought and paid for.”
“Well, yes, but . . .”
“It’s not her fault,” said Kate, stepping in on Alice’s behalf. Even if Alice was possibly plotting against her. “It wasn’t her mistake.”
Julia’s blue eyes were practically black. “No, it was ours for not collecting them at the first opportunity. Instead of collecting trucks, we ought to have made sure of our medical supplies.”
“Without the trucks, we wouldn’t be here,” pointed out Kate.
Julia looked at Kate, her lips a thin line. “We’ll have to go to Amiens and beg. There’s only so much we can do with bicarbonate of soda and prayer.”
“I’m surprised you don’t just go light a candle,” said Maud, who had never forgiven Julia for making her participate in a Catholic mass.
“Yes, to the patron saint of small annoyances.” Julia turned to Kate. “When can we go to Amiens? Or does our essence allowance not stretch to medical necessities?”
“I’ll drive you to Amiens tomorrow.” Never mind that she would rather do anything but. Kate raised her voice, trying to pretend that she was in control, that she wasn’t failing miserably in her role as assistant director. “Shall we go in to dinner? We would have brought out the fatted calf for you, Alice, but Emmie refused to let us slaughter any of her cows.”
“Some idiot’s blocking our drive,” said Julia.
The rain was sluicing down by ten the next morning, when Julia finished her morning shift in the dispensary and appeared beside the White truck—as though Kate were her chauffeur.
Which she was, Kate reminded herself.
“Is it Dave, the Red Cross driver?” Dave frequently landed in the ditch beside the gates. It happened with such regularity that they’d begun to suspect intent rather than incompetence.
“No. Some buffoon in a bow tie.”
“Halloo? Anybody home?” The buffoon in a bow tie was slipping and sliding his way along the path around the château—or what had once been a path before it turned into a mud slick. “Is this the Château de Robecourt?”
“No. It’s the Palace of Versailles,” snapped Julia. “Your truck is blocking our gates.”
The man’s smile wobbled slightly. “Lowell Markham of the Boston Commercial Advertiser. I’m meant to be finding the Smith Social Service Unit?”
He sounded as though he rather hoped he’d landed in the wrong place. Gritting her teeth, Kate hopped off the running board and walked forward with hand extended. “Welcome. I’m Miss Moran, assistant director of the Smith College Relief Unit, and this is Dr. Pruyn, of our medical department.”
“Doctor?” Mr. Lowell Markham regarded Julia with frank interest, examining her as though she were a zebra caught sunning itself in Central Park. “I didn’t know you had lady doctors.”
Kate cut in before Julia could say anything rude. “Dr. Pruyn is one of two doctors attached to the Unit, both graduates of Smith College. We were just leaving on urgent medical business. . . .”
The reporter’s eyes lit up. He was going to ask to come with them, Kate could tell. They all did. He was the fourth reporter they’d had that month. It was all part of Mrs. Rutherford’s plan to outwit the committee, to make the Unit such a media sensation that no one would think of disbanding it—which was all very well for Mrs. Rutherford in exile in Paris, but an absolute nuisance in Grécourt. They didn’t have time to coddle self-important journalists who saw them as amusing curiosities. And they certainly didn’t want to drag one to Amiens to watch them beg for supplies.
Kate spotted Emmie heading toward the basse-cour, head lowered against the rain, a roll of chicken wire clamped under her arm. “Do come meet the head of our social service department, Miss Emmaline Van Alden.”
“Of the New York Van Aldens,” said Julia, straight-faced. Kate frowned at her, knowing how much Emmie hated to be seen as an extension of her mother. But the reporter had already taken the bait.
“Any relation of Mrs. Livingston Van Alden?”
“Her daughter.” It was for the Unit, Kate reminded herself. Emmie would understand that. “Emmie! Come meet Mr. Lowell Markham. . . .”
The last thing Kate heard as they made their escape was Emmie saying, “Do you know anything about chicken coops, Mr. Markham?”
As they pulled away in the White, she could see the bemused reporter tangled in chicken wire as Emmie explained something, her hands moving vigorously in illustration. Members of the basse-cour had come out to inspect and comment and three of the chickens appeared to have escaped and were pecking at Mr. Lowell Markham’s good Boston shoes.
“That should hold him for a bit,” said Kate neutrally.
“It had better,” said Julia, inspecting the contents of her medical bag. “If he interrupts Dr. Stringfellow’s surgery, she’ll go after him with her scalpel. Of course, they’ll never find the body in this mud.”
Kate looked sharply at Julia, but Julia’s face, as always, betrayed nothing. It was a perfect blank, as serene as a statue of Diana getting ready to skewer some upstart huntsman. Just as she’d skewered Kate all those years ago.
