“We’ve scarcely got the resources for the villages we already have,” objected Kate, filled with a deep foreboding. “We’re practically out of medicine—we’re going to have to go get some from the hospital in Amiens. And wouldn’t we have to clear it with the French authorities?”
“It was the French authorities who brought it up to me,” said Emmie, looking around the table for support. “Well—that nurse who was there with the priest. She said there’s far too much for them to do. They would be delighted for us to take it on.”
“I’m sure they would,” said Fran drily.
Mrs. Rutherford tapped a finger thoughtfully against the side of her coffee cup. Kate was still having a hard time getting used to the cups; they were whimsical things, shaped like bowls with little wings to either side rather than a proper handle. “It’s a sign of how word of our work is spreading. Monsieur le Commandant suggested we also add Bacquencourt and Eppeville.”
“We can hardly take care of all of France!” Maud protested.
“No, but we can manage this bit of it,” said Mrs. Rutherford, calmly applying jam to her bread. “In the little over a week that we’ve been here, Miss Van Alden alone has already made fifty-one calls on forty-two families.”
Emmie blushed, looking modestly down.
Kate resisted the urge to point out that she had been there too.
“Multiply that number by the rest of the members of our social work department. We’ve distributed milk, bread, honey, and baby clothing in eleven villages. Miss Dawlish is organizing a weekly children’s meeting. The medical department has seen—how many patients?”
“Nearly three hundred,” said Dr. Stringfellow. “It would be more if the truck would stop breaking down.”
Mrs. Rutherford made a note on her ever-present notepad. “Perhaps if we exchanged the tires on the White for hard rims . . . If we can do this much in ten days, how much can we accomplish in ten weeks? Or ten months? I believe we can fit an extra village into our schedule. You can go this morning after breakfast, survey the village, see if we might do something useful there.”
Emmie glowed like a saint in a medieval painting.
Kate was feeling somewhat less sanguine. They already had more than two thousand souls in their care, a large number of them children. As Dr. Stringfellow kept reminding them, they were nearly out of medicine. They didn’t have enough lumber to build houses, even if they had people who knew how to build them, which they didn’t. Most of their villages lacked pumps for the wells; the Germans had broken them. Not to mention needing to dig new wells to replace the old ones, which had been poisoned. “And what if we decide it’s too much for us? Won’t we have raised expectations we can’t meet?”
“Even if you only go today, that’s something too. Bring what you can, do what you can; you’ll still leave them better off than they were.”
“Any little bit is better than nothing?” Kate couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice. “We’re only seventeen women—I know, we’ll be eighteen once Miss Lewes finally gets here, but that’s hardly any difference at all.”
“Our strength is as the strength of ten,” murmured Mrs. Rutherford.
Kate decided not to get into a debate about pure hearts. Hers certainly wasn’t. “We can count angels on the heads of pins all we like—or Smith girls on the backs of trucks—but we have all of three motors, three teachers, and two doctors. How can we sustain services for that many people in that many villages?”
“We don’t,” Mrs. Rutherford said, and smiled at her. “That’s the whole point of it. They have their own teachers. Not as many as before . . . but some. Once we build their schoolhouses back up, once we give them the books they need, we’ll leave them to it. Bit by bit, they’ll need us less and less. We provide the foundation, and they’ll do the rest.”
“That’s a lot of foundation,” said Kate. An airplane droned overhead, a reminder that their time here might be limited.
Mrs. Rutherford patted her hand. “Day by day, Miss Moran. Day by day. Ah, there’s the post.” Through the window, they could see a man cycling along one of the few surviving paths. “Shall we go meet him?”
There was a mad rush for the door of the barrack.
Kate held back, trailing along at the end of the group. There wouldn’t, she knew, be anything for her. She’d written her mother with their forwarding address, but . . . But. Her mother was busy, she knew. Busy with the boys, busy with the house, busy with the large circle of family and friends she had acquired through her second marriage.