against Emmie’s cheeks after weeks of rain. The ruined houses and barbed wire had become just part of the landscape now; she was used to them. Army camions rumbled past them on the road, taking a convoy of French soldiers to the front. They waved their caps at her and Emmie waved back.
“Mademoiselle Aimée! Mademoiselle Aimée!” The children had come running out before the truck even stopped in Courcelles, in what had once been the village square before the Germans had got to it. Little hands waved up at her, grabbing at her hands, her skirt. Emmie sank down into the fray, delighted.
Miss Ledbetter, much more efficient than Emmie, had made it to Courcelles once a week with the store, but when asked if Pauline had had her baby yet or if little Leon’s cough was better, Miss Ledbetter waxed poetic about the Merovingians and went off on tangents about the Crusades.
But here she was herself, with Leon’s mittened hand—she’d brought the mittens last month, donated by members of the Chicago Smith Club—in hers, tugging her to see the new school building, which now had benches and five books, five whole books, and wouldn’t she like to see them?
Why, yes. Yes, she would. And she needed to see Blondine’s missing tooth, proudly displayed with a hideous pulling back of gums, and the new mattresses that had been delivered by the Red Cross man, the one who didn’t speak any French.
“Wait, wait,” said Emmie, laughing, as her arm was half tugged off in one direction by a six-year-old, her skirt pulled by a toddler. “I’ve treats for you all. Let me just get to my haversack.”
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,