As much as the men groaned when she cajoled and persuaded them to help her get everything ready, she knew they were as excited as children about a birthday party. She’d put the J Club misadventures behind her; grudges caused wars whereas forgiveness stopped them and if she couldn’t practice a little of that herself, how could she expect nations to?

But then came the orders from HQ; Dan’s division would mobilize at dawn. So they moved Christmas forward by a few days, Jess promising Dan that she would go to Paris as soon as he left for the Ardennes so that somebody would be with Victorine. Then she commanded everyone to wash and meet her in the chateau’s scullery, which she’d set up as the change room. Once the men were suitably clean, she told them to don their outfits, while she decorously stepped out to allow them privacy—although as Sparrow called out, they might all prefer it if she watched. He said it without meanness though, the J Club antics having ended all such innuendo.

“But imagine what it would do to my eyes,” she said teasingly.

The hum from the ballroom-turned-mess, a large and magnificent columned space with soft gray walls lined with boiserie—onto which had been painted scenes depicting a child charmed by the magical and aberrant beech trees—suggested that quite a gathering of people were waiting. The mess tables had been dragged to the sides and were now adorned with soldiers flirting with WACs and with nurses who’d been allowed out of the hospital for a few hours. Many correspondents, never wanting to miss a party, had traveled across from Paris or the press camps and were draped over benches, drinks in hand, chatting.

Jess nodded to Private Ronnie Page, a new recruit, to whom she’d assigned gramophone duties, and as the music lifted through the room, she sent out her first model—Sparrow in a dress Jess had fashioned from a couple of threadbare American flags. He was greeted by laughter and a resounding cheer, which rose louder and longer as another private followed, dressed in one of the Edwardian ballgowns she’d found in trunks in the attic. He executed a perfect twirl at the end of the area of floor designated as the runway and Jess grinned, sure now that she’d been right. That everyone did need a night that veered close to the ridiculous, a night that was certain to make even the hardiest soldier discover he was still capable of smiling.

After that she sent out Jennings; he’d found an old suit in the attic and she’d helped him affix onto it the black-and-white United States Army-issue chocolate bar packets, which stated that he should be consumed slowly or dissolved as a beverage. Howls of laughter followed him around the ballroom. When he managed—of course he managed; it was Jennings, the man who injured himself just getting out of bed—to slip and land on his backside, the hoots escalated and Jennings joined in.