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“Oh goodness, what a time you must have had, getting this all down to us!” The back of the big car looked like a jumble sale, filled with crates and brown paper parcels, some rather the worse for wear. One of the cases appeared to be moving of its own accord.

“I can tell you, I wasn’t looking forward to trekking all the way here with my poor little bunnies.” Miss Lewes burrowed in among the parcels, lifting the burlap over a large cage. “They’ve been jostled enough, poor dears. But Captain DeWitt was kind enough to give me a lift from the station.”

“DeWitt?” Emmie looked over her at the captain. “So it’s not Blakeney, then.”

“No,” said Captain DeWitt shortly.

“DeWitt—like the biscuits?” The captain stood like patience on a monument, if patience had a thin mustache and a decidedly frozen expression. Emmie recognized that freeze. It was the same way she froze when anyone mentioned her mother. “Oh goodness, you are the biscuits, aren’t you?”

“That, I am afraid,” said Captain DeWitt politely, “would be anatomically impossible.”

“My father sent a box but we’ve run through them already. There’s fierce competition for them. They’re really quite our favorites.” Emmie was babbling, she knew, but she felt as if she had to make up for mentioning it, for making him feel awkward. “You’ve the endorsement of the Smith Unit, for what that’s worth.”

“Thank you. I’m sure they’ll put it on the advertisements going forward.” Captain DeWitt sounded very, very British.

“We won’t even charge you for the use of our photo.” Captain DeWitt was not amused. Emmie locked her hands together at her waist, saying more formally, “Thank you for bringing Miss Lewes to us. You can’t imagine the trouble I’ve been having with my chickens.”

“Can’t I?” Captain DeWitt relaxed into a smile. It worked wonders for his thin face. “You do have the most curious notions of agriculture. Digging for dishes and all that.”

“Now you’re making fun,” said Emmie with relief. “I’ll have you know that our crop of porcelain is second to none. We’re thinking of going into business.”

“Crop?” Miss Lewes emerged, rear end first, pulling her case of rabbits along with her. “I hadn’t thought you’d begun—”

“Oh no,” said Emmie hastily. “It was just a joke. I’ll show you to your room, shall I? And by your room, I mean our room, Kate’s and mine—Kate Moran, that is. You wouldn’t have met her at the luncheon. She’s our assistant director since Mrs. Rutherford left.”

“I’ll help with the bags,” said the captain, once Emmie had run out of breath.

“There’s no need, really. We’re used to hauling things. We’re all terribly muscular, apparently. At least, according to the Boston papers.” Why, oh why, had she felt the need to tell him that? Emmie took refuge in peering into the back of the car. “What is all this, Miss Lewes?”

Miss Lewes began hauling bags from the back of the car. “The carpetbags, the rabbits, and the seeds are mine—the rest are all bundles from the Paris Committee. They’ve sent Christmas stockings and presents for the children—there’s even some chocolate.”

“How thoughtful of them.” It couldn’t possibly be that close to Christmas already, could it? Emmie couldn’t decide whether they’d been at Grécourt for a week or a year; time blurred here. It had begun raining again, the steady drip they’d all come to dread. “Don’t tell the others about the chocolate or it might not last until tomorrow, much less Christmas.”

“Would you like the British Army to guard it for you?” offered Captain DeWitt.

“If by guard, you mean eat, then no,” said Emmie, softening the words with a smile. “It’s for the children, you see.”

Ignoring her instructions, he efficiently stowed a parcel under each arm and a bag in each hand. “How many do you have in your care?”

Since it didn’t seem worth arguing with him, Emmie started walking, leading the way down the path that branched out to the right from the moat, past Marie’s house and the old stables. “Altogether, counting all of our villages? Roughly two thousand. Here at Grécourt we have twenty-seven, but there are always more coming in from the nearer villages. We have the children in for games and sewing and carpentry classes here in the Orangerie on Thursdays. Oh, do let me help you with that, Miss Lewes.”

“What about the animal population?” asked Miss Lewes as they rounded the side of the old château.

“We’ve eight cows now. Our people in the basse-cour—that’s the cellars of the old stables—take care of them for us and do the milking.”

“Have they recovered from their ordeal in the boxcar?” inquired Captain DeWitt.

“The more apt question is, have we! Captain DeWitt helped us get the cows home,” Emmie explained to Miss Lewes. “We did appreciate your assistance, you know. They might still be there at the train station at Nesle but for you.”

“They’d have been steaks long since,” said Captain DeWitt cynically.

“Oh, don’t say that! They’re now quite wonderful milkers—we’ve so much milk that we’ve not only enough for our children but to spare. It’s a wonderful feeling being able to give a child a pail of milk and not have to ration it! Especially when they haven’t had any for so long. . . .”

“I can imagine it must be,” said Captain DeWitt quietly, looking at her with a strange expression on his face.

She was going on again, wasn’t she? Boring on, Auntie May would say.

Emmie determinedly turned her attention back to their agriculturalist. “But you wanted to know about the animals, Miss Lewes. We’re waiting for a delivery of pigs and also some goats, which we mean to sell on to the countryfolk. We also keep hens, although our hens have been rather a worry, since they’re not great layers. . . . Well, to be honest, they haven’t laid anything so far. We can’t think why. And here we are! Watch your step. It can be a bit tricky over here.”