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Captain DeWitt raised a brow. “What sort of women are you?”

“Smith women,” said Emmie firmly. When that didn’t seem to make the desired impression, she translated for him, “We’re rather like Oxford women, I suppose, only without the accents.”

“Oxford has women’s colleges, yes,” Captain DeWitt said slowly. “My sister is in her final year at Somerville. But the university doesn’t award degrees to them.”

Emmie was horrified. “That’s barbaric! It’s positively medieval!”

That surprised Captain DeWitt into a laugh, a rich chuckle that cleared the shadows from his eyes and made him look years younger. “Says the colonial.”

“We haven’t thrown tea in the harbor for ages—but I have my degree and I have the right to vote. In New York, at least,” Emmie amended.

“That’s all very well,” said Captain DeWitt, laugh lines fanning out around his eyes as he looked down at her. “But not precisely applicable here. You can’t vote away an invading German army.”

Emmie perked up, struck by the idea. “Wouldn’t it be nice if one could? If we could just vote them away? If all the women of the world could vote, we’d have far fewer wars.”

“I’m not sure Madame Defarge would agree with that,” said Captain DeWitt drily. “Or Milady de Winter. I can’t tell you anything about what will happen here when the shift occurs—mostly because I don’t know.”

She noticed that he said when, not if. “Do you think we’ll be allowed to stay?”

“You know I can’t comment on that.”

Emmie looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. “That won’t stop me asking.”

“Do you mean to wear me down?” he asked, and somehow, he was holding both her hands in his.

“Could I?” asked Emmie, with great interest.

“Yes,” he said, and Emmie noticed that his eyes had little golden flecks in them, and that the braid on his uniform was scratchy beneath her palms. “I rather think you could.”

Chapter Nineteen

We’re a depleted unit—the doctor and three of our number have left, and the replacements are in Paris, waiting for passes. With the change of regime, no one knows how long that might take. Last week, the French moved out and the English moved in. It was rather like a parade, great guns being tugged along, cavalry on horseback, camion after camion. One day, a Scotch regiment came through with their bright plaid skirts, and all the children ran out to hear the bagpipers play.

Our agriculturalist has us bending all our efforts to the spring planting, which means less time for the children. I am particularly disappointed not to have a house to devote to the children’s work, as we’d originally planned. Our classes are held either in the cold of the Orangerie, in between our machines, or at the feet of the cook, who has things to say about our being underfoot. But we’ve been promised faithfully that there will be improvements as soon as the planting is done—if we’re allowed to stay, that is.

—Miss Anne Dawlish, ’07, to fellow Sloyd teacher Miss Ruth Minster

January 1918

Grécourt, France

“How many plows do you need?” asked Kate, scribbling busily in her notebook.

“Ten,” said Florence firmly. “And a man to help and at least one caravan. Has there been any word on the seeds?”

“The Paris Committee says they’re getting together the seeds we’ve asked for.” Ever since they’d finished their grueling rounds of Christmas parties, they’d been setting their minds to the spring planting, busily canvassing all the villagers as to exactly what sort of crops they’d had before the war; what they needed for their kitchen gardens; and exactly what they meant when they said “chicorée,” which apparently had multiple varietals about which their villagers felt very strongly, some lobbying for frisée, and some for non-frisée. “They’re to be sent down with Mrs. Barrett.”

“We can’t start too soon,” said Florence. “The sooner we plant, the more chance we have of growing enough to sustain these poor souls through next winter.”

Would they still be there next winter? Their six-month contracts were up; some, like Dr. Stringfellow, had left. Others, like Florence, had signed back on for another six months. Inch by inch, Kate reminded herself. Everything had to be undertaken in the expectation they would be there to finish it, but with the assumption that everything could change in a moment.

Especially if the Brits had their way.

“I’ll contact Monsieur le Commandant Monin,” said Kate, making another note to herself. “I’m sure he’ll be able to scrounge some plows for us.”

“Whole ones,” Florence reminded her. The Germans had made a good job of smashing whatever had been here before. The plows they’d been offered for sale thus far had all been incomplete in some way or another, the sellers the picture of innocence when it was pointed out to them that the plow couldn’t exactly plow. “Oh, and we need more chickens. Buff Orpingtons, by choice.”

Contact Mr. Orpington re chickens, Kate wrote on her list. “Where can I find Mr. Orpington?”