“Or pounded for three days straight by Marie?” added Alice, trying to get into the spirit of it.
“Thank you,” said Gwen seriously, upholding the honor of the Unit, which couldn’t be trusted to behave itself.
“About that Marie . . .” said Mrs. Barrett, settling herself comfortably back in her chair. “It’s absurd you’ve had to manage with just Marie for so long. I’ve engaged Madame Gouge as a cook and housekeeper for us and arranged for two of the local girls as bonnes. You’ll have better meals and cleaner clothes and won’t have to worry yourself about the housekeeping.”
“Ought we to be wasting the money on ourselves?” Kate asked, holding her new uniform. “We’ve been fine so far.”
“My dear, it’s not waste if it gives you the freedom to do the work you’re here to do. You’ll do more better housed and better fed, and our people will be grateful for it.”
“You’ll have to break it to Marie, Emmie,” said Nell.
“I’ll do my best,” said Emmie in a muted voice. “Although I’m not sure she’ll give up the laundry that easily.”
“I won’t know what it is to wear a garment that hasn’t been first battered and then frozen stiff,” said Nell cheerfully. “I may have to jump up and down on them myself just to make them feel right.”
Mrs. Barrett smiled indulgently at her. “You really have had a time of it, haven’t you? Trust me, I don’t intend to take away all your creature discomforts”—there was an obedient titter of laughter—“just ease the edges a bit. We’ll still be working just as hard, doing just as much, and getting our uniforms quite as muddy.”
It was very hard to imagine Mrs. Barrett getting muddy. But maybe Kate was being unfair. In fact, Kate was rather sure she was being unfair. Mrs. Barrett, class of ’02, had been a stalwart supporter of the Unit from the first, had tirelessly raised funds, coordinated with the American committees and the various Smith clubs, wrangled favors on their behalf via her husband’s position, and provided a standing invitation to dinner for any Smith Unit girls in Paris.
In short, she’d done everything she could to be helpful, and it wasn’t her fault at all that she was poised and polished and out of place.
“I have some very exciting news to share—the Red Cross has agreed to take us on! As of the end of February, once our affiliation with the AFFW runs out, we will be officially a unit of the American Red Cross.”
“Is that—is that really what’s best for the Unit?” asked Kate hesitantly, since no one else seemed to be saying anything. “We’ve prided ourselves on making our own way. What if the Red Cross decided to divert our funding or to break up the Unit entirely?”
“They have promised we’ll keep our name,” said Mrs. Barrett. “You know that Mrs. Rutherford originally sought affiliation with the Red Cross, and they sent her away. They wanted us to prove ourselves first. We’ve proven ourselves, girls, and in spades. Do you know what Mr. Folks of the Red Cross said to me when I spoke to him in Paris yesterday? He said that taking over the SCRU will be a boon to the Red Cross—because we get so much more publicity than they do.”
That was all very well, but not exactly an answer. “Can they offer us any assurances that we’ll be allowed to go on with our own work in our own way?”
“There are still details to be worked out, but there’s really no choice in the matter,” said Mrs. Barrett firmly. “The Red Cross is consolidating all the aid organizations. Either we affiliate with them, or we won’t be able to work here at all. And there are benefits to it! Mr. Jackson, the Red Cross delegate, has been very helpful. He’s told us once we’re officially under their umbrella, they’ll be able to provide all sorts of things. I’ve been going over the reports you submitted to Dr. Stringfellow, with your lists of requests—”
“Champagne with supper and paté for breakfast?” suggested Nell.
“I was thinking more of”—Mrs. Barrett consulted the list by her side—“a village pump, a chaudière, two horses and a plow, and beds for forty-seven children for Courcelles. Mr. Jackson says we can have the pump and the chaudière and roughly half that number of beds by the end of the week.”
“Really?” Emmie lit up like a Christmas tree. Kate didn’t see how Emmie could be thinking of leaving the Unit when anyone could tell how much she cared. “I can’t tell you what a difference that pump will make. . . .”