6 June, late afternoon marching

Marie-Eve bounced baby Rémy-Jean on her knee, or rather, controlled his bouncing as the cart jostled over the much churned and rutted road. She stared at the sky, squinting and thinking. Finally she spoke. "What we need is a traveling stove, one that cooks in a wagon."

Margot chuckled. "We'd make a killing." The cart hit an especially jarring rut and she cursed softly. "But can you imagine cooking in the back of this blasted thing? You can barely stand when it's moving, and the stove? Aiee, we'd be burned alive."

Marie-Eve thought a moment longer. "What if the stove was hanging from some sort of sling?"

Margot considered this. "Aye, might work. But that's still hot coals and fire swingin' 'round my wagon and my little 'uns. "

Marie-Eve clucked her tongue. "But with all the money we'd make, we could buy another pair of wagons."

"They manage it on ships somehow, don't they?"

"Exactly," Marie-Eve agreed. Then she thought a moment more. "How do they do it on ships?"

"And how would I know that?" Margot demanded cheerfully. "They didn't want us women anywhere near their ship, let alone their precious kitchen or galley or whatever it is they call it. Daft things. Oh, the looks we got when that storm blew up last fall, d'you remember? It's a wonder my milk didn't curdle." She sighed, "I was with Philippe then, luckily enough. Georges is lovely, bless him, but there was none like Philippe to make a man think twice before tryin' somethin'."

Marie-Eve stared at her. "What are you talking about?"

"Those great, awful ships they loaded us onto, of course. Last fall, after Vimeiro. You can't have forgotten?"

"No," she answered. She had been pregnant and seasick the entire time. How could she forget? "I was still just thinking of stoves. What about those field forges?"

"But they ain't workin' on the move, are they?" She shrugged. "Can't hurt to ask 'em. But I ain't cartin' live fire around in my wagon. Not with my little ones back there."

"Mathilde could look after it!" Marie-Eve laughed. But of course it wasn't feasible. Their cooking pots would tip and spill within minutes of the cart beginning to move. And speaking of which... "Do you have enough pots to handle all that meat?" Her own pots and pans and equipment had been redistributed or looted or lost during her week with the British.

Margot grinned, "I may have to commandeer a few, but we'll manage. But that reminds me, I think I may have a few things back there that belong to you."

Marie-Eve managed to smile and frown at the same time, a mixture of skepticism and delight. "And you're only telling me now? What've you got?"

Margot just laughed. "Let's see now, some pots for cookin', some o' the things you was keepin' for the lads, oh... what else? Go on and take a look in the back if you like. Mathilde can probably show you. I can't keep track these days. Never get old, dear."

Marie-Eve gave her a gentle slap on the arm. "You had my things all this time! Well, damn you and bless you, you old witch." Her mind raced happily through her prior inventory. Maybe that clock and that fancy cup... "Have you got that ugly old cap I knitted for Rémy?"

A small, thin face peered timidly out from under the curtain behind them. "It's a little damp," Mathilde said apologetically, holding out the rumpled hat, "Philippe sort of took a shine to it."

Marie-Eve smiled as she accepted the knitted wad. "Thank you. I see what you mean! Well, it will dry soon enough. Rémy-Jean will probably do the same to it." She looked wistful then, fingering the edges. "I wish Rémy had it with him. It's colder in England."

"Not so cold as all that," Margot said softly, giving the younger woman's arm a swift squeeze.

"But they say that sometimes they don't get any coats or blankets, and hardly any food either. I wish I could've gone with him."

"You could say the same of our lads right here, at times. But he's a clever lad, your Rémy, and in good company. And well away from this damned war. He'll be just fine."

She smiled a little. That was true. Though at least the lads here had the opportunity to find their own clothes and food, one way or another. For instance, by shooting cavalry horses on the sly. "Wish I could send him some of our soup. It's going to be incredible."

"Aye. It's a pity there wasn't time to do it properly. Drainin' the carcass and all, I mean. Still, fresh meat is fresh meat, and I've heard rumors that you, m'dear, could make shoe leather taste fit for an officers' mess."

Marie-Eve grinned. "I practically have done, several times. I have my ways. But it's a shame we couldn't take all of it. Even the bones would have been good, so good!" Her stomach rumbled. "It's not fair. This little one eats more'n me."