Next to her, the bridge over the moat quivered on its supports as it always did when a car approached. And this was the very crème de la crème of cars, as long as a boat and as shiny as anything could be in the mud of the Somme.
Emmie wiped her hands hastily on her skirt before staggering to her feet, her thighs aching. She couldn’t possibly have been digging that long. The engineers weren’t meant to be there until one, and it couldn’t be much past eleven. Could it?
The big, black car rumbled to a stop, and the door opened, followed by a pair of long legs in tall black boots.
“It’s an odd season to be gardening,” said the British captain as the rest of him emerged from the car. “You’re not burying the body, are you?”
“I’m digging for dishes,” said Emmie brightly, and immediately wished she hadn’t.
“Digging for—” He peered narrowly at the patch of disturbed dirt and the small pile of plates next to it. “You do realize that transferware doesn’t grow underground like potatoes?”
“Don’t be silly. Everyone knows plates grow on trees.” He looked as though he couldn’t tell whether or not she was serious. Flushing, Emmie launched into an explanation. “These are Marie’s wedding dishes. Our housekeeper. She buried them to keep them from the Germans. We’ve twelve officers from the American engineers coming for luncheon today, you see.”
“And I’ve gate-crashed it? Don’t worry, I won’t impose on your hospitality. Thirteen’s an unlucky number.”
“Doesn’t that depend on who you ask? Besides, we’ll be twenty-five if you count the Unit. Twenty-six, with you. We do mean to wash the dishes first,” Emmie added hastily.
“I don’t know,” said the captain. “A meal of good, honest dirt makes a nice change from bully beef. I should imagine it would taste better too. But I didn’t come by to beg a meal. I found more of your property left lying about at the station, so I thought I’d bring it round.”
The passenger door edged open, and a rather squashed brown felt hat poked out the side. “Hullo? Is this the place?”
“Miss Lewes!” The Unit’s agriculturalist was still in civilian clothes, but Emmie recognized her from the luncheon, a comfortably rounded woman of less than medium height, who looked more like a children’s book illustration of Old Mother Hubbard than a woman who could hobble cows or whatever else it was that agriculturalists were meant to do. “We didn’t think we’d have you until next week!”
Ignoring the captain’s offered hand, Miss Lewes rolled out of the car. “Neither did I, but my pass came through—so here I am! I’m afraid I’ve a good deal of gear with me—everyone was pressing parcels on me for the Unit.”
“Oh goodness, what a time you must have had, getting this all down to us!” The back of the big car looked like a jumble sale, filled with crates and brown paper parcels, some rather the worse for wear. One of the cases appeared to be moving of its own accord.
“I can tell you, I wasn’t looking forward to trekking all the way here with my poor little bunnies.” Miss Lewes burrowed in among the parcels, lifting the burlap over a large cage. “They’ve been jostled enough, poor dears. But Captain DeWitt was kind enough to give me a lift from the station.”
“DeWitt?” Emmie looked over her at the captain. “So it’s not Blakeney, then.”
“No,” said Captain DeWitt shortly.
“DeWitt—like the biscuits?” The captain stood like patience on a monument, if patience had a thin mustache and a decidedly frozen expression. Emmie recognized that freeze. It was the same way she froze when anyone mentioned her mother. “Oh goodness, you are the biscuits, aren’t you?”
“That, I am afraid,” said Captain DeWitt politely, “would be anatomically impossible.”
“My father sent a box but we’ve run through them already. There’s fierce competition for them. They’re really quite our favorites.” Emmie was babbling, she knew, but she felt as if she had to make up for mentioning it, for making him feel awkward. “You’ve the endorsement of the Smith Unit, for what that’s worth.”
“Thank you. I’m sure they’ll put it on the advertisements going forward.” Captain DeWitt sounded very, very British.
“We won’t even charge you for the use of our photo.” Captain DeWitt was not amused. Emmie locked her hands together at her waist, saying more formally, “Thank you for bringing Miss Lewes to us. You can’t imagine the trouble I’ve been having with my chickens.”