“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?”
“Mr.—” Florence’s craggy face broke into a broad smile. “Kate. They’re a kind of chicken.”
“And this is why we have you—yes, Alice?”
Alice had stuck her head through the door. She looked dreadful, her eyes pink and her chignon lopsided. She hadn’t even bothered to put on her lace jabot, and her uniform looked strangely incomplete without it. “There’s a camion stuck in the mud by the gates. Would you come see to it?”
“I’ll be right there.” But Alice was already gone. She’d been like this for days now. Kate wondered if it was something at home—they’d had mail last week, and Alice had been like a week of wet Sundays ever since. Even their new aviator friends flying by to do stunts and drop them messages attached to long ribbon streamers hadn’t cheered her up.
Emmie would know; Emmie usually did. Kate made a note to ask her.
Reassuring Florence that the planting would start—soon!—Kate made her way down to the gate, her feet warm and dry in her Christmas boots. The ground made a happy squelching sound around her toes. Marie had sworn the weather they were having was only a false spring and there would be more snow to come, but it was heaven to be able to walk about without being muffled from head to toe. The sky had gone from the flat silver of impending snow to actual blue, with fluffy little clouds in it. The snow had melted, leaving behind the smell of good, damp earth, and birds chirped on the bare branches of the trees.