“Oh, you know he’ll be thrilled to hear that you got away,” I say. “He’ll make you tell him every detail when he’s released. Which I hope will be soon. The war can’t go on much longer, can it?”
“It’s over for me,” Sam says, taking a deep breath. “Now I just have to find a job.”
Fluent in several languages, Sam had wanted to be a diplomat and work in politics before the war. Given the current regime, he wants no part of that now.
“Not to worry, my boy,” Madame LeVerrier says, pressing a cup of tea into Sam’s hands. “We’ll find some work for you here at the castle—we need scouts, teachers, drivers, valets . . .”
We can afford to hire because we’re suddenly in the black again, which is our second reason for celebration. From New York, Madame Beatrice sent money and supplies to us via an American ship that was allowed through the British blockade. It’s our first shipment in nearly a year. Milk, vitamins, children’s clothing, and medicine—all stamped with the Stars and Stripes. Despite the damp weather, it’s like a festival day at the castle. Everyone on staff makes a line to relay wooden crates, cardboard boxes, and metal tins from the back of the truck into our storerooms. The only one not on hand to celebrate is the baroness, who went to Marseilles to liaise with the Red Cross to make sure we got this shipment.
When the weather gets warmer, we take our classrooms out into nature.
Dr. Anglade says direct sunlight and fresh air are part of the cure here at the Lafayette Preventorium. There’s a scientific explanation having to do with vitamins and ultraviolet rays that I’ve never understood. But from what Henri told me, infections spread easier inside. The main idea is to get the kids outside as much as possible, even if it’s chilly. So I gather my students and take them for a lesson sitting at outdoor picnic tables.
Afterward, Faustine Xavier is supposed to take them to the kitchens, where the students of the household management class often make our Sunday luncheon, but the baroness cancels that plan, because we don’t have any food to spare if one of the girls gets inattentive and burns something. As a result, I’m enlisted to take a troop of girls and comb the woods for edible leaves, nettles, roots, and stems now that our long, hungry winter is over.
Faustine should really come with me, since it’s her class, but she begs off. “I fear I might be coming down with a little something,” she says, exaggerating a cough beneath her tight lace collar. “Besides, why not take the baron’s daughter? You two are virtually inseparable these days.”
It’s true, we are. But something about the way Faustine says it bothers me, and later, when I tell Anna—who tromps along in the forest with me, wearing her best red lipstick, a stylish swing coat, and impractical shoes—she only laughs. “I ran into her on the stairs coming out of your room one morning, and she gave me an evil eye like a filthy-minded biddy.”
Anna doesn’t seem worried; in fact, she laces her arm in mine and says, “I forgot you were a Girl Guide, Marthe!”
“I’ve got all the badges,” I boast. “Camping. Fishing. First aid. Foraging.”
I don’t tell her that when I was ten, Henri, Sam, and I learned the hard way that red-capped toadstools are poisonous unless parboiled—and the induced vomiting was only slightly less memorable than the hallucinations.
“Look for wild garlic for our soups.” I stoop to show the girls the broad-leafed plant and teach them to rub it for the telltale scent. “Look for rosemary and fennel. If you fill your baskets, I’ll show you how to make flower salads.”
Little girls love learning they can eat wild pansies, elderflower, borage, poppies, and violets, and I watch them fan out while I gather a bouquet for Anna, who crinkles her nose. “What’s this?”
“Lunch. Weren’t you listening?” When Anna sniffs at the bouquet, pensive, I worry I’ve done something wrong. “What’s the matter?”
She sighs. “The Marshal isn’t coming to visit the kids in the preventorium after all.”
She says this like it’s a tragedy, but I’m unexpectedly flooded with relief.
“He’s decided to visit a school in Le Puy instead,” she explains. “But you mustn’t think your work has been wasted. In fact, my father is likely to meet with the Marshal and explain our mission at the preventorium. Papa is even willing to take you—and some of your sketches.”
I’m careful not to seem ungrateful. “I don’t know . . .”