Kate felt very cold all of a sudden. She’d been so wrapped up in her own misery, she’d forgotten about that day in Amiens, Dr. Stapleton and “Auld Lang Syne.”
“Not all of them are Dr. Stapleton,” said Kate quietly. “There are some decent men out there.”
Her stepfather, for one. He’d tried so hard with her. It wasn’t his fault that she’d never forgiven him for not being her father. It must, she realized, have been as hard for him as for her, having a sullen eight-year-old on his hands. But he’d tried. And he’d never called her anything but daughter.
“I’ll believe it when—how does the line go? When they make men of some other matter than earth.” In the voice of one determined to be fair, Julia added, “Nick was a good one, as they went. He was sweet on you, you know.”
Kate’s eyes were burning. Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “He was?”
“I don’t know if he’d have had the guts to do anything about it—his mother slept with the Social Register under her pillow. But he was sweet on you.” Julia gazed into the unlit fireplace, her voice sounding very far away. “He died, you know. About a month ago. He was shot down.”
“No, I didn’t know.” Kate was shivering. She couldn’t seem to stop shivering. The chills racked her body. “Sometimes, I’d look into the sky and wonder . . .”
“Kate?” Julia swung her feet to the ground, her voice changing. She sounded, suddenly, remarkably sober. Kate felt the back of Julia’s hand against her forehead. “You’re burning up.”
“I thought—” Kate’s teeth were chattering and her head felt like there was a vise around it. “I thought it was just hot in here.”
“Idiot,” said Julia. “Come on. I’m looking at that hand whether you like it or not.”
Chapter Sixteen
The history of Courcelles is one well known within the annals of chivalry. Across these fields the Merovingian kings fought their battles. From this castle did the Lord of Courcelles sally forth on Crusade with his retinue of knights. And it was here, as legend has it, that the Demoiselle of Courcelles, the first of that name, Lady Melisande, brought the blessed Dame of Orleans, none other than Jeanne d’Arc, and besought her lord to follow the saint into battle for the glory of France.
Today, the proud banner of Courcelles no longer flies from that storied castle. It is well known that in these recent hostilities, the present holder of that title, unwilling to bow to the yoke of the German invader, consigned himself and his castle to the flames, bringing to their deaths a number of German officers, in the finest tradition of his house. . . . The German repercussions were swift and sure. Nothing now remains of the noble chateau or its accompanying village but the saddest of ruins. . . .
—From A Chateau in Picardy: Sketches of France at War, by Miss Ethel Ledbetter
December 1917
Grécourt, France
Mme Lepinasse’s hand was limp and cold in Emmie’s.
“Madame? Mme Lepinasse?” Emmie tried to rise up on her knees, to look at the woman’s face, but she had been kneeling by the cot for so long that she couldn’t feel her feet anymore. Dusk had fallen, leaving the sad room in shadows. “Madame?”
No answer.
Outside, through the great hole in the wall left by German explosives, indifferent snowflakes drifted by against a charcoal sky. The little fire, no use against the bitter winter cold, cracked and spluttered.
“Madame, wake up, it’s me, la dame Américaine.”
The cat crouching on top of the potbellied stove gave an unearthly yowl and jumped down to stalk over to her mistress, butting her head against her mistress’s limp hand.
Mon seul souvenir, Mme Lepinasse had called that cat. The one thing left to her after the Germans had departed.
Emmie felt the tears start to her eyes and blinked hard.
It was important to stay strong, they had all agreed. It was important that the villagers see them competent and cheerful. But Emmie couldn’t help it. There was no one here but the cat, just the cat, and the shadows of all the people who weren’t anymore, dim daguerreotypes of a husband shot by the Boches, children gone away no one knew where, all gone gone gone, and Mme Lepinasse—always so full of life, full of stories told in so thick a Picard dialect that sometimes Emmie could hardly understand her—gone too.
Emmie lowered her face to the older woman’s cold hand, pressing it to her forehead in apology and shame. She hadn’t even known Mme Lepinasse was ill. It had been nearly a month since Emmie had made her appointed rounds in Courcelles.