“Or Cecil,” said Kate, steering carefully around a very large pothole. “Either that or he’s wanted by the police of multiple nations for crimes unspeakable.”
“Don’t say that in front of Maud,” said Emmie, only half joking. “She thinks there are spies beneath every pillow.”
“Not our pillows. They’re far too thin,” retorted Kate. After a moment she added, “We’ll see if our cows make it all the way back to Grécourt or if your mystery man has a taste for roast beef. He might be making himself a feast in the forest.”
“I don’t think there’s terribly much beef left on them to roast.” It was such a relief to have Kate sounding like herself again, but Emmie knew she couldn’t just leave it at that. “Kate. I really am sorry about what happened at dinner tonight. I never thought about your being Catholic—not as something that, well—when you think about it, absolutely everyone was before Henry the Eighth! Catholic, I mean. And he’s not really a very good representation for the Reformation, is he?” She was aware she wasn’t making much sense, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Of course, if I’d been alive then, I would have been Catholic too. In the time of Henry, I mean. Because everyone was. So it wasn’t anything unusual at all.”
“In the time of Henry.”
Emmie nodded enthusiastically. “Can’t you just picture Maud in a wimple?”
Kate choked on a laugh. “Strangely enough, yes. Probably as an abbess of a particularly exclusive convent. The sort of convent that wouldn’t admit me.”
“If Maud were abbess, I don’t think she’d admit anyone,” said Emmie. “I never meant to make you feel awkward. I just—I just thought you might help. Because it was something you might know something about.”
“I know.” The jitney bumped along the road, broken tree stumps crouched on either side like the darker sort of fairy-tale creature. Emmie thought Kate meant to leave it at that, but after a very long while, she said, “It’s . . . disquieting to have people look at you differently. You can be just like everyone else—and then, just like that, you’re not. You’re an imposter. An interloper.”
“I don’t think anyone thinks you’re an interloper.” Even as Emmie said it, she remembered the way they had all stared. “You’re as much a Smith girl as any of the rest of us.”
“Only until they learn that my father drove a delivery wagon,” Kate said drily.
“My great-great-great-grandfather dealt in beaver pelts,” offered Emmie. “That’s how the family fortune began. They call him an entrepreneur, but that’s just a fancy name for a man who skinned small animals for a living. He must have smelled dreadful.”
“A few centuries take the pong off the pelt.” The jitney bumped to a stop by the side of the road. “Would you mind taking a look at that signpost? I want to make sure I’m not driving us straight into the German lines.”
“It’s the sign for Grécourt,” Emmie said. They’d passed it at least three times that day. “Didn’t you recognize it?”
“Sorry,” said Kate briskly. “I must be more tired than I thought. Now how do we explain to the others that we let a fictional character wander off with our cows?”
Chapter Eleven
You’ll never believe what I’ve been doing! Dr. Pruyn, who was raised partly in a convent, had the idea that the peasants would like a mass, so Mrs. R （who I hope will not be long with us—but more on that later） dug up a soldier priest working with the Red Cross nearby. Our people here—the ones who live in our stables—swept the church and trimmed it with flowers, and I must say, it did look pretty and not at all gaudy. The Unit stood in the back and sang four French songs which Dr. Pruyn taught us, some of which were really quite patriotic and charming, although there was far too much about the nom du Sacré-Coeur for my liking. But the effect was very good and all the peasants seemed to enjoy it. They kept thanking us again and again until it was really quite embarrassing.
Afterward, we had 123 children here to play games on the lawn. I’d thought it would be the most frightful din, but they just trooped in and stood there, not making a mess or a noise—really quite good little creatures and so happy for anything. Their mothers said they hadn’t played for three years, so they’d forgotten how. I’m not sure we ought to teach them again—they’re so well behaved this way—but the others insist it’s not the least bit normal and they ought to be taught to run around and scream.