Monsieur le Commandant had slipped them seven hundred francs for bêtises, as he called it. Get yourself some scented soap, he’d said, some fresh hair ribbons. So Emmie and Nell had gone to Amiens and indulged in an orgy of shopping: picture books for the lending library, whatever chocolates could be had, dolls and tops and hobby horses.
“This one is for you.” Emmie dug in her haversack and produced a doll, a real doll with a porcelain head, for Blondine. “Mind you don’t let your little brother get at it.”
It was such joy to make her rounds and see everyone—well, not well settled, but better settled. There was canvas stretched over gaps in the masonry; new mattresses donated by the Red Cross and distributed by the Unit; little potbellied stoves replacing open fires. It was cold, bitter cold, but the children all had warm coats and mittens and mufflers, admittedly a somewhat motley collection, knitted by eager if not always expert alumnae, but warm, all warm.
The milk had been delivered, Emmie was assured. The new storekeeper—she liked her history, eh? They’d made up stories for her and sent her away satisfied.
What made up? contested Blondine’s grandmother from her habitual mattress. It was all true.
Pauline, whose baby still hadn’t come, rolled her eyes at Emmie.
Emmie promised Pauline she’d see the doctors visited within the week, not that there should be any trouble, this was Pauline’s sixth, but all the same.
Family by family, Emmie made her rounds, checking off names, taking notes, making lists of items still needed.
She saved Mme Lepinasse for the very last. Although the older woman was a gregarious soul, she lived away from the rest, up the hill in the ruins of the castle. She’d started as scullery maid and risen to cook in the castle; she’d lived there most of her life and she’d not be leaving it now, she’d told Emmie, when Emmie had urged her to move down to the valley, to live with her cousins in the village. She had her cat for company and her memories, and that was enough.
It was starting to snow as Emmie trekked up the steep path to the castle, thick, beautiful flakes like something out of a Hans Christian Andersen story.
Her haversack was lighter now, most of her gifts distributed, save for a packet of tea and some precious DeWitt’s biscuits for Mme Lepinasse, who did so love to put the kettle on and have a good gossip, telling stories of the glory days of the castle, of Count Sigismund, who sounded like a lovable old autocrat, and his daughter, Aurélie, filching food from the German invaders to feed the village, like a French Robin Hood.
Mme Lepinasse never spoke of the deformed fingers of her left hand, broken, one by one, when the Germans had questioned her about the whereabouts of Aurélie de Courcelles, who had escaped during the great fire that consumed the castle. Or of the husband who had been shot by the Germans in retaliation. It was only the happy stories she told.
“Madame?” Emmie was out of breath by the time she reached the summit. This was why no one from the village ever visited. The hill was steep, the path treacherous, the road that had led from village to castle purposefully destroyed by the Germans.
The castle was beautiful from below, less so at close range. Even two years on, one could smell the soot from the fire that had consumed a thousand years of history in one go. Mme Lepinasse lived in what had once been a guard room, a stone box with narrow windows, which had the benefit of retaining most of its roof, a luxury most of the houses in the village didn’t boast.
Madame’s cat met Emmie at the canvas flap that served as a door, bumping the backs of her legs to push her inside. The stove was cold; the room was freezing. Usually, the stove would be crackling, a rushlight lit, Mme Lepinasse sitting in her chair sewing. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Emmie finally spotted her on her mattress in the corner of the room, huddled under a blanket.
“Mme Lepinasse!” Emmie rushed to her side, grasping her cold hand.
Mme Lepinasse tried to sit up, which was a mistake. She fell back against the pillows, coughing and coughing, a cough that shook her whole frame.
“Hush, hush, don’t trouble yourself, here, let me get you some water. I’ll make you a cup of tea, you’ll feel better after a cup of tea. . . .” Emmie tried to pretend she hadn’t heard the dreadful rattle in Mme Lepinasse’s throat, the rattle that meant pneumonia.
How long had she been sick, how long had she been here like this? A day? A week? Had Ethel even known to come up this way? Probably not. It was Emmie’s own fault. She ought to have told her. She ought to have been here herself.