“I put in my request.” But Julia’s hands didn’t seem entirely steady as she turned the page of The Lancet.
Kate stared down at Julia, thinking of that giant duffel bag. “You don’t mean to go back, do you?”
“I can’t if I don’t have a pass, can I?”
Kate was shaking; her whole body felt like she had a fever, like Thanksgiving, when she’d been so sick. But this wasn’t a fever; it was rage and fear. Fear that everything was falling apart, that she’d ruined everything. She couldn’t even keep the medical department running, much less anything else.
“You’re going to abandon us. You’re going to let that cretin drive you away.” Julia wouldn’t look at her. Kate’s chest felt tight. “I’m right, aren’t I? That’s why you don’t want to come back.”
Deliberately, Julia closed her journal and stood, taking full advantage of every extra inch between them to look down at Kate.
“What does it matter? The Brits are going to kick us out anyway. We’re done, Kate. Admit it. There’s no point in dragging it out.”
Tossing her journal on the table, Julia stalked out, never once looking back.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The British question is what absorbs all our minds these days. With the exception of three American women in the Philadelphia Unit and three in the Red Cross hospital at Nesle, we know of no other British or American women in the part of the war zone controlled by the British—they’re really quite strict on the topic.
You ought to see the British officers marching by with their troops. It’s quite remarkable. Long, clean-cut, absolutely trim in appearance, well-tailored, they stalk along at the head of their companies through miles of mud in the most casual way as though they were out on a Sunday-afternoon walk; it would never seem to occur to you that they had any idea of fighting. I believe they are said to go to battle in the same casual way.
There are several “affairs” in the Unit at present, but it’s an awful place to have an affair with so little privacy and such an audience. （Don’t ask how I know!） There’s a British officer who has been making eyes at Emmie Van Alden and for the sake of delicacy we all have to pretend we know nothing about it—while all secretly hoping it might weigh the scales in our favor. Not that one is supposed to admit such things, but . . . all’s fair in l’amour et la guerre?
—Miss Eleanor （“Nell”） Baldwin, ’14, to her family
February 1918
Grécourt, France
“Colonel—Mrs. Barrett—”
Emmie glanced at Captain DeWitt and found it wasn’t quite in her power to form his name. Her lips just didn’t seem to want to move in that direction.
Emmie began backing toward the door. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize we had visitors.”
“Very welcome visitors,” said Mrs. Barrett meaningfully. She looked at the colonel, who nodded. “Colonel Hayes has just been telling us that we’re to be allowed to stay.”
Emmie clasped her hands together, which at least gave her something to do with them. Otherwise, she suddenly seemed to have more arms than an octopus, and at least half a dozen legs. “Oh, that’s marvelous! Thank you!”
She was trying very hard not to look at Captain DeWitt, which meant, of course, that she was alarmingly aware of his every infinitesimal movement. What did one say to someone who had kissed you two months ago—well, it was a war, these things did happen—and then sent long, thoughtful letters entirely failing to mention said kiss or said war? Emmie wasn’t sure what the protocol was for that. Neither the more traditional governesses approved by her father nor the relentlessly progressive ones chosen by her mother had covered those niceties in their tutelage. She could greet ambassadors in three languages but she couldn’t meet Captain DeWitt’s eyes.
“I don’t know if you should be thanking me or cursing me,” said Colonel Hayes briefly. “I ought to have you out—but the French won’t have it. I’ve been bombarded with visits from every petty official from here to Paris insisting that you be allowed to stay.”
“Monsieur le Commandant Monin brought a book of newspaper clippings,” said Captain DeWitt, straight-faced, but Emmie could tell he was amused all the same. “He said if we evicted you, we would be worse than the Hun.”
“Typical Frenchman,” muttered Colonel Hayes.
“He’s been lovely,” said Emmie with feeling, possibly a little too much feeling. “Everyone’s been lovely. We’re so very grateful.”