“You’re the least invalid-ish person I know,” said Kate bracingly. To Emmie, she said, “We’re meant to be going to Courcelles. Remember?”
“I suppose we could go to Courcelles another day?” Emmie hated the idea of giving up Courcelles, but they couldn’t possibly leave Fran by herself, not after news like that.
“No,” said Fran quickly. “No, don’t put it off. The work is the important thing. I’ve held you up enough already—”
“I can go to Courcelles,” offered Margaret tentatively. “I was supposed to be driving Dr. Stringfellow, but she’s busy with Mrs. Rutherford.”
“That’s all right, then, isn’t it?” said Alice as it belatedly occurred to Emmie that if Margaret could go to Courcelles, she could equally well have stayed with Fran, and that both Emmie and Margaret would probably have preferred that.
But it was too late now. Kate was giving Fran a quick hard hug and telling her how much she’d be missed, and Margaret was buttoning up her uniform jacket and grabbing her hat, and Alice flitted off to the dispensary, and Emmie was left pressing coffee on Fran, who didn’t seem to want either coffee or sympathy, but only to be left alone.
Fran didn’t need Emmie’s help with packing. Alice’s belongings were scattered all over the room, a small mirror hanging crookedly over a makeshift dressing table, hats in a drift on the floor, a shawl trailing over the end of a cot, but Fran’s belongings were all neatly folded in her trunk in lieu of a wardrobe. It was the work of only a few moments to add her nightclothes and hairbrush.
“I’ll leave my blankets,” said Fran, looking around the room as though trying to memorize it. “I’m sure you can find a use for them.”
“Are you sure you won’t want them in Paris?” asked Emmie, and then realized how silly that sounded. “You’ll be going back to the Quai Voltaire until you sail? At least you’ll be able to get one of the rooms with a bed this time.”
“Yes,” said Fran bleakly. “Small blessings.”
Emmie tried to make it better by bustling around, plumping pillows and rustling blankets. “Would you like to lie down? Can I get you a cold compress?”
“I’ve been bereaved; I haven’t bumped my head. It’s all right, you don’t need to hold my hand. I have—I have some letters I should be writing.”
“Are you sure? I could—” The look on Fran’s face stopped her. It was a look of such uncomprehending misery that Emmie wanted to run to her and hug her, but that was clearly the last thing Fran wanted, so Emmie backed toward the door, saying, “I’ll just go help Maud and Liza with the boxes, shall I? I’ll be in the cellar if you need me. For anything. Anything at all.”
“Thank you,” said Fran distantly.
Through the bare windows, Emmie could see Fran sitting on her bed, not writing, not reading, not doing anything, just sitting. She looked the way Emmie’s schoolchildren did when they fell in the play yard, when they realized they’d been hurt but hadn’t quite started howling yet, that moment of stunned disbelief before the pain set in.
“Mademoiselle!” Emmie gave a guilty start as Marie bore down on her, launching into a detailed scold.
The other girls, they had been asking about their laundry. Did they not know that the laundry was available only on Sunday? Marie couldn’t be expected to do all things. And why hadn’t they finished the pot-au-feu she had made for them last night? Did they not appreciate her cooking? Did they know what it was to cook on a range beneath a canvas roof with such ingredients as she was given?
“I’m so sorry,” said Emmie, when she could get a word in edgewise. Marie had already threatened to quit twice in the ten days since they had arrived; the answer was usually to apologize and offer her more money, but Emmie was feeling too wretched to go through the regular routine. “Miss Englund—her mother just died. Everyone’s terribly upset.”
Marie was instantly in charge of the situation. A consommé, that was what was needed—she would wring the neck of a chicken at once.
“Oh, please don’t,” said Emmie, and immediately realized her mistake. “I’m sure it would be delicious, it’s just that we need the eggs for the children, if they ever do start laying eggs. I do hope they start laying eggs soon. But perhaps some coffee? You do make the best coffee.”
Maybe Fran might even want the coffee. Emmie wasn’t sure what else to do for her.