It had never occurred to her that Emmie might have actually believed it. Or that Emmie might have thought she hadn’t written, after Smith, because she didn’t want to be bothered with her.
She should tell Emmie the truth, Kate knew. But the idea of turning herself inside out, laying all her insecurities bare . . . She just couldn’t.
She didn’t have time for this, thought Kate savagely. Mrs. Barrett was leaving and there were a million tasks to be accomplished and a German army massing somewhere just to the east.
“When are you seeing Mr. Hunt and Mr. Folks?” Kate asked, trying to keep herself brisk and businesslike.
“Wednesday morning.” Mrs. Barrett made a face. “The Red Cross might have picked a better time for a meeting. But at least it means I can work on our passes in person instead of wasting whole days writing letters which I am assured that no one ever bothers to open.”
“We’ll make sure to get the last of the harrowing done while you’re gone,” Kate said immediately. “And—”
“You don’t need to tell me. I know you will.”
Joseph, one of the soldiers loaned to them for heavy work, was waiting with a horse and cart to drive Mrs. Barrett to the train station. It might be only the eighteenth of March, but spring had come on with a vengeance. The ground was thick with early blooming anemones, and the air was fresh with the smell of plowed earth and growing things, which made most of them joyous and made Alice sneeze.
Mrs. Barrett paused for a moment, looking back at the park, dotted with anemones; the water tower, wrapped in red vines; the barracks, with their crooked signs reading “Seelye,” “Comstock,” and “Burton.” They had named their barracks after the past presidents of Smith College. “I do hate to go just now. Grécourt has never been so hard to leave as it has been this week.”
Don’t go, Kate wanted to say. Don’t leave me to do this on my own. Which was absurd. She’d never wanted Mrs. Barrett here in the first place. “You didn’t see the best of it, coming in winter.”
“No, but I saw the best of all of you,” said Mrs. Barrett, smiling at her with warm, tired brown eyes. “Goodness, I can’t think why I’m being such a watering pot. It’s only a week. I’ll be back with you all by Saturday.”
“Don’t stay away too long,” said Kate, only half joking. “You don’t want to miss the big drive.”
“If we had a penny for every time we were told it was to be the big drive, we could afford to feed and clothe every child in France.” Mrs. Barrett lifted her bag and started for the cart, keeping carefully to the duckwalk. She was wearing her Paris shoes, as if she were already gone, had already shaken off the mud of Grécourt. “I’ll be very put out with the kaiser if he tries to visit before I get back.”
“We’ll be sure to tell him that,” said Kate.
“Don’t laugh,” said Mrs. Barrett. “The force of the British Army is one thing; the fury of a Smith woman is quite another.”
She climbed into the cart and was gone.
Kate stood there for a moment, watching as the cart trundled over the moat and down the long alley that had once been lined by poplars. She didn’t delude herself that Mrs. Barrett had passed control of the Unit to her out of any confidence in her abilities; it was simply that she was assistant director and in the absence of the director, it was expected that the assistant would take charge.
It hurt her to admit it, but they’d all been happier since Mrs. Barrett had come. It wasn’t just the creature comforts, like the new house and the housekeeper and a somewhat better quality of war bread. It was, Kate realized, standing there in the morning chill, the combination of having an ultimate authority—someone who wasn’t one of them—and knowing that she trusted them to know what to do.
Mrs. Barrett had taken Julia’s and Kate’s word absolutely on sending Dr. Stapleton away. She hadn’t asked any questions. She hadn’t argued the point. She’d just done it, adding as her only provision that Julia not struggle in silence but tell her immediately if the work was too much.
The change in Julia had been wonderful. She’d set about ordering her medical department with ferocious satisfaction. Kate had never seen Julia this close to happy.
Kate stared at the sign next to the moat, the battered sign reading “Bonne à Boire.” It wasn’t “Bonne à Boire,” this. It was a bitter draft, realizing that maybe Emmie had been right, maybe there was something to be learned from Mrs. Barrett, that maybe leading wasn’t so much telling as trusting.