“About that . . .” Emmie traced circles in the dirt on the floor of the Orangerie with the toe of her boot. “I’ve been thinking and thinking and thinking about it, and I’m not sure I should.”
“Should what?” Kate was mentally shuffling schedules, only half listening.
“Renew my contract.” As Kate stared at her, Emmie said diffidently, “I’ve been thinking—maybe I should join the others in Paris. Maybe I would be more use doing canteen work.”
“But you would hate canteen work.” Kate couldn’t get her head around the idea of Emmie not renewing, couldn’t think why Emmie was even talking about it. “You’ve always said that wasn’t the point of the Unit.”
“It’s not the point of the Unit”—Emmie was twisting and twisting her hands—“but there’s nothing that says I need to stay with the Unit. The Unit can go on being the Unit, and I can go . . . serve soup.”
“But why on earth— This isn’t anything to do with Captain DeWitt, is it?”
Kate had seen them coming into the Orangerie together at the Christmas party, Emmie all pink-cheeked. Emmie had entirely refused to be drawn on the topic, not even when letters started arriving from Captain DeWitt on a practically daily basis.
“Why would he have anything to do with it?” asked Emmie, genuinely confused.
Kate wasn’t entirely sure herself, other than that it was something Emmie had been keeping to herself, and it was killing Kate that Emmie wasn’t talking about it. After all, who knew what Captain DeWitt’s intentions were? And Emmie could be so credulous. “All those letters he’s been sending you—he didn’t say anything about our position here, or the war . . . ?”
“You know all the letters are censored. So no one can say anything, really.”
“He sends awfully thick letters for someone who can’t say anything.” Kate wished she hadn’t said that; she’d meant to pretend she hadn’t noticed. But she couldn’t help seeing how thick they were, those missives.
Emmie didn’t seem to notice her blunder. “We write about books. And poetry. Just not Shakespeare. We haven’t descended to Shakespeare.” Emmie shook her head, as if trying to clear it. “It’s nothing to do with any of this.”
“Then why? I don’t understand.” The idea of Emmie’s leaving the Unit was unthinkable. Emmie had been there from the beginning; she was the Unit.
“Do you remember Dr. Stringfellow’s Santa notes?” When Kate looked at her blankly, Emmie went on determinedly, “Everyone else had something good that they did—Nell had her books and Anne had her carpentry and Maud had the store, and, oh, you know. But the only things there were to say about me were the things I got wrong—picking the wrong chickens and getting lost in the snow. . . .”
“But those were meant to be a joke.” Kate could barely remember now what had been said; it was all a blur of laughter and good fellowship. She did remember Nell making fun after. . . . “Didn’t she call you the angel of the barrack?”
“She had to say something—and that was only because you’ve all decided I’m the one who can get around Marie.” Emmie was, Kate realized, on the verge of tears. “And you only say that because you need to give me something. I’m not, really. I’m not an asset at anything.”
“Emmie.” Kate turned, Dr. Clare’s trunk creaking ominously. She’d never imagined that Emmie felt this way; she always seemed so happily impervious, as if mishaps just slid off her. But here she was, her face splotchy, talking about being useless. “You planned ten Christmas parties for over two thousand people. You made sure two thousand children and adults had gifts. And yes, you may have bought roosters instead of chickens, but how were you to know? You’d never seen a French chicken before.”
“Yes, but you’d never seen a White truck before and you managed! You didn’t break it on the first go.”
“You didn’t break anything. . . .”
“I nearly broke the Unit—you said so.”
Kate felt sick. “Do you mean that night in the snow? But that was over a month ago! And, Emmie, I scarcely knew what I was saying. I was so cold and scared—you can’t have thought—”
“But you were right,” Emmie said doggedly. “You were right about all of it. What good do I do, really? I may not want to do canteen work, but at least I can’t hurt anyone there.”