Her Hesitant Heart

chapter Eight



When Maeve woke up an hour later, Susanna made her comfortable, with no embarrassment. When she finished, Susanna sat beside her and took her hands.

“Johnny helps me, but it pains him,” Maeve said simply. “Major Randolph, too, I think.”

Susanna nodded. She opened the book to “My Watch,” and continued reading through the afternoon. Maeve dozed, then woke for the story, which was starting to make her smile, then dozed again. She laughed out loud with “… I brained him on the spot, and had him buried at my own expense,” and gave a satisfied sigh when Susanna closed the book.

“I can leave it here so you can finish it on your own,” she said, looking at the clock.

There was no overlooking the color that bloomed suddenly in Maeve’s pale cheeks. “I can’t read,” she said softly.

I think I have my work cut out for me at Fort Laramie, Susanna thought, gratified. “Would you like to learn?”

“Aye,” came Maeve’s equally quiet reply. “Will you have time?”

“I can teach you at night.” And keep myself out of Emmy’s unwelcome parlor, she added to herself. “Private Benedict told me about night classes for the enlisted men.”

“Johnny doesn’t want me there.”

Susanna sat back, her finger still in the book. “Might there be other ladies who would like to learn in a separate class?”

“There might be.” Maeve turned her head toward the door, her face alert. “Here comes my Johnny.”

Susanna didn’t hear anything, but she wasn’t married to Johnny Rattigan, and from the soft look on Maeve’s face, in love with him. “I should leave,” she said.

“Not yet, please. Meet him.”

The door opened to reveal a handsome man with worry on his face. His eyes brightened to see Maeve, but the worry was still there. Major Randolph was right behind him. The two tall men seemed to fill the sitting room, the modest allotment of a sergeant in the U.S. Army. They brought with them a rush of cold air, and the winter Susanna had forgotten about for a few hours with Maeve Rattigan, struggling with sorrow, and Mark Twain, who had made them both laugh.

The sergeant knelt by his wife’s chair. Susanna felt the tears start in her eyes when Maeve pulled him tenderly toward her and kissed his head. Susanna glanced at the major, who was looking at her. She had already decided the post surgeon wasn’t a man well versed in hiding his emotions. He seemed to be telling her, Look, some marriages are lovely.

Major Randolph introduced her to the sergeant, who was feeling the warming pad behind his wife’s back now. He took out the pad and went to the kitchen. He had obviously done this small thing for his wife many times, which made Susanna swallow and wonder why she had ever thought for the smallest moment that hers were the worst troubles in the universe.

At his wife’s whispered words, the sergeant put the newly warmed pad on her abdomen this time. Susanna knew he must be a man used to command, but his voice was calm and quiet. “I greatly appreciate your kindness,” he told her, his accent as charming as Maeve’s.

“Glad to help,” she said. Were all sergeants so handsome? “If you’re busy tomorrow, I will happily return.” She touched Maeve’s blanketed foot with her hand. “We have more stories to read.”

“I am busy tomorrow,” he said. “The army doesn’t stop for family difficulties.”

“Then are we agreed?” Susanna asked. She looked at the sergeant, feeling decisive for the first time in months. “What time do you have breakfast here?”

“Around six, I suppose, eh, Maeve?”

“If the post surgeon can locate us some eggs, I’ll make an omelet. I know he has cheese and it’s not very good, but …”

“That’s army issue,” the major interrupted. “Likely found in the dark corner of a warehouse sometime after Appomattox, reboxed and christened Aged Cheddar. I have eggs.”

“Major, they’re so dear,” Maeve said in protest.

“Not as dear as you, Mrs. Rattigan,” he told her cheerfully. “Come, Mrs. Hopkins. I want you to meet some of your Monday-morning pupils. Good day to you both.” The post surgeon put the back of his hand against Maeve’s cheek. “If you feel so much as a twinge, send the sergeant on the double. He knows where I live.”

The Rattigans looked at each other and smiled, but only an idiot could not have seen the sorrow, too. They knew only too well where Major Randolph lived.

Outside, Susanna took a welcome lungful of winter, then shivered against the January cold. She stopped in surprise on the Rattigans’ postage-stamp porch when the post surgeon pulled her muffler tighter around her neck.

“Mrs. Hopkins, if you won’t button that top button on your coat, you’ll have to do better with your muffler.”

She was silent as he arranged her muffler to suit himself, not fooled at all.

“How do they bear it?” she asked, when he offered his arm and she took it with no hesitation. The walk was icy.

“I don’t know. There aren’t two people in this whole garrison who love each other as much as Maeve and John Rattigan, and she cannot give him what they both want so much. When they make love, it only leads to sorrow. I’m sorry for my plain speaking.”

“It only leads to blood in a bucket. I can speak as plain as you,” she finished. “How tragic.” She stopped before the footbridge. Children returning from Private Benedict’s school were running across the icy planks. “Did you take me here today to remind me that it’s time I quit feeling sorry for myself?”

“No, but if that’s a byproduct …” He took her arm again when the children were across the bridge. “I took you because the last thing Maeve needed to see was another sergeant’s wife towing her own children over, to sit and commiserate, which I swear the Irish do better than anyone. You watch—she’ll be fine in a few days. But right now, a reminder of children isn’t good. What did you learn today?”

“That I like to prop my feet up on a warm pig, too, and maybe I could teach some ladies to read. Can you really find eggs?”

“Bam, can you change a subject,” he joked. “I have a small pig in the hospital which I will gladly loan you for cold nights, and yes, I have an egg source, officially listed in my supplies as medicinal. As for teaching ladies to read, bravo.”

He was quiet then as they strolled along. She could tell how tired he was. “When did you last sleep, Major?” she asked.

“Two days ago, I think.”

“I can meet my students tomorrow afternoon,” she offered.

“Tomorrow there will be some other crisis,” he told her, pointing to the adobe house on the end of Officers Row. “Let’s begin here.”

“There really isn’t any point in arguing with you, is there?”

“None whatever.”

It was dark by the time they finished the visits. It amused her to see eagerness on some faces and discontent on others, who probably saw her as a spoilsport ruining their idyllic existence.

“I would be upset if Mrs. Hopkins showed up, ready to confine me to a classroom, when there is a fort full of swearing men, tales of scalps being lifted, and the promise of riding with Papa on campaign,” she told him as they neared the last house.

“There will be Nick Martin in the back row with his gallows smile,” the major said. “A daunting prospect.” He stopped then. “Speaking of daunting prospects, here we are at Chez Dunklin. I saved the worst for last.”

Susanna felt her heart thump harder. “I hope Mrs. Dunklin takes no interest in Shippensburg gossip.”

“We’ll know soon.”

The Dunklin quarters were overheated like all the others, but with heavy, dark furniture. Obviously not for the Dunklins were packing crate settees, which Susanna found charming, or light folding chairs, easy to move to the next garrison. The Dunklins seemed to be doing their best to bring Pennsylvania to the West.

To her relief, Captain Dunklin dominated the conversation in his own parlor, as he had attempted in the ambulance from Cheyenne. He complained of headache, which Major Randolph assured him was the principal symptom of erobitis.

“It will run its course by tomorrow afternoon,” the post surgeon said with a straight face. “Here is your scholar. Bobby Dunklin, Mrs. Hopkins has so much to teach you.”

Bobby scowled. Susanna decided to seat Nick Martin directly behind him, starting Monday. She glanced at Mrs. Dunklin, aware that Bobby must have inherited his scowl from her. Goose bumps marched in ranks down Susanna’s back as she chattered to an unwilling Bobby about school. “I’d rather ride my horse,” he said.

“Just think, Bobby,” Susanna said “While you’re waiting for spring, you can learn a few things.”

She felt Mrs. Dunklin’s eyes boring into her back. Can we leave? she pleaded silently to the post surgeon, wishing Major Randolph was susceptible to thought waves.

As the post surgeon started eyeing the door himself, Mrs. Dunklin stood up suddenly. “We’re so pleased you are here to lead our children into knowledge,” the woman said, sounding every bit as pompous as her husband. Then she frowned. “It’s going to drive me distracted until I remember why your name sticks in my mind, Mrs. Hopkins. I’ll figure it out.”

“Is it too much to hope that Captain Dunklin be transferred before Monday morning?” Susanna asked as they walked toward the Reeses’ quarters.

He said good-night on the porch. “If you’re serious about an omelet at the Rattigans’ tomorrow morning, I’ll stop by at five-thirty to escort you. With eggs, of course.”

She laughed softly. “Major, I never joke about omelets, or the weightier matters of our society. I’ll be ready.” She relished the sound of his own quiet laughter as he tipped his hat to her and continued on down the row.

Susanna was ready at five-thirty, waiting for the post surgeon’s knock on the door.

When it came, she opened the door to Nick Martin, who held out a note to her. “‘Nick’s your escort this morning,’” she read, after ushering him inside out of the snow. “‘I am doing my best to keep Lieutenant Bevins calm while his wife, a real trouper, labors on. Enjoy the eggs. Joe.’”

They crossed the parade ground quickly because the soldiers were assembling there, some of them still rubbing sleep from their eyes and yawning.

“What now?” she asked her escort.

“The corporal calls the roll, and then they go to breakfast,” Nick said. “There’s Sergeant Rattigan.”

She followed Nick’s pointing finger, the egg basket rocking on his arm, to see Maeve’s husband, standing ramrod-straight for his corporal to finish the roll. Too bad the army didn’t take into account that maybe Maeve needed Johnny more than some forty sleepy soldiers did.

Since Maeve’s husband was on the parade ground, Susanna hesitated before knocking on the Rattigans’ front door. It seemed a shame to make Maeve get up from her bed. She tapped lightly, and the sergeant’s wife opened the door.

She could tell Maeve was better. With a smile, the woman opened the door wider. Nick tried to hand the eggs over the threshold and back away, but Maeve stopped him.

“Nick, since the major is busy, who will eat his portion of the omelet?” she asked. “Omelets don’t keep well.”

Nick handed the egg basket to Maeve, but came no closer than the porch. “I can wait out here,” he mumbled.

“No, you won’t,” Maeve told him, her voice firm. Susanna decided she wasn’t a sergeant’s wife for nothing. “It’s too cold.” When he still didn’t budge, her eyes grew thoughtful. “Saint Paul, how will you even keep up your strength for another missionary journey, without an omelet?”

“I do believe you are right,” he replied, and came indoors.

By now, Maeve was leaning on the chair Susanna had left yesterday beside the armchair. Susanna took her arm. “Saint Paul, if you could bring that smaller chair into the kitchen, Maeve can sit down while I cook.”

He did as she said. “I will bring in wood.”

Maeve sat down thankfully. “I thought I could do this.”

“I can help,” Susanna said, taking off her overcoat and putting on the apron hanging on a nail by the dry sink. “Major Randolph is delivering …” She stopped, unwilling to remind Maeve Rattigan that other women had babies at Fort Laramie.

Maeve put her hand on Susanna’s arm. “Mrs. Hopkins, life doesn’t stop because of my misfortune,” she said quietly. “I know he’s delivering the Bevinses’ baby.”

“You’re right,” Susanna said, struck by her words. It was true that life hadn’t stopped for her, either. Maybe she could learn something, if she chose to.

“I doubt it’s any harder than your own situation, widowed at a young age.”

I don’t want to continue that lie, but what can I do? Susanna asked herself.

By the time the omelet was ready for the skillet, Nick had brought in more wood, and Sergeant Rattigan was stamping snow off his boots on the front porch. Susanna glanced at Maeve, charmed at her sudden animation. I want to love like that someday, she thought.

“Saint Paul, you’re mighty handy,” she said, as Nick put the wood by the stove.

The sergeant helped Maeve back to the big chair. He covered her with a blanket, kissed her forehead and then opened the oven door for another warm blanket.

“I’m staying here today, Sergeant,” Susanna said.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“I don’t mind at all,” she replied, turning the omelet carefully and holding her breath until it was cooking, whole, on its other side.

“Very well.” He put the warm blanket against Maeve’s back, then returned to the kitchen. The sergeant glanced toward the parlor. “Maeve tells me you are interested in teaching some of the wives to read.”

“I am.” Susanna gestured to Nick, standing in the corner, to hold out the platter. “I’ll see how that works in with my other duties, and then we’ll begin.”

Nick may have objected to sitting at the table when Susanna asked, but Sergeant Rattigan was made of sterner stuff, apparently. One leveling glance and Nick sat down, hands folded in his lap like a well-behaved child.

Toast and tea completed the meal. Susanna ate as little as she could, hoping that would leave more for Maeve. She noticed Sergeant Rattigan was doing the same thing; they smiled at each other like conspirators as Maeve ate a large helping, then closed her eyes in satisfaction.

“’Tis rare to have an egg,” she said, her eyes still closed, but a smile on her face.

“The major gave us a dozen,” Susanna said, which made Maeve open her eyes in amazement. “I saved three. I intend to make a cake this morning.”

“Imagine that, Johnny,” Maeve said.

Susanna could barely suppress her delight at something so simple as a cake earning a response almost reverent. “If you have some dried apples, I can make an applesauce cake. Maybe you and Maeve could have a party tonight. You know, invite some friends over.”

“I believe we could,” the sergeant replied. “Would you be up to that, Maeve?”

“Aye, Johnny. I’d like a party.”

Maeve dozed then, her face calm, as Nick helped Susanna with the dishes. The sergeant sat by his wife, doing nothing more than watching her and touching her hand when she stirred. The cake was ready for the oven when he stood up quietly and came into the kitchen.

The sergeant nodded to Nick. “It’s time we left these ladies to their own devices,” he whispered. “There’s guard mount, and I imagine the hospital steward could use your help, uh …”

“Saint Paul,” Nick said with dignity.

“Saint Paul.” He put on his overcoat, kindly waiting for Nick to remember where he was and put on his own coat. “You’re doing a fine thing, Mrs. Hopkins,” the sergeant said. “I am in your debt.”

“No debt,” she said, shy again. “I’ll take good care of her.”

His eyes filled with sudden tears, but he made no comment as he released her hand and left with Saint Paul. Susanna sat a long moment in the kitchen, grateful for quiet as Maeve Rattigan healed, and she felt her own heart at peace.

There wasn’t anything more grand than a frugal sprinkle of sugar for the top of the loaf cake, but Maeve clapped her hands when Susanna set the cooling cake by the front room’s only window. It did look festive on the little table.

“I would serve it with tea,” Susanna told her. A quick look in Maeve Rattigan’s lean-to had revealed nothing grander. Army rations weren’t designed for even modest card parties.

“Tea it will be,” Maeve said. “Sit here now, if you please, Mrs. Hopkins. Could you read me another story?”

They resumed their association with Mark Twain and the “Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” this time, Maeve listening, then dozing, then listening again until the story was done. Sergeant Rattigan came by once before recall from fatigue, doing nothing more than looking at his sleeping wife, and nodding to Susanna, gratitude in his eyes.

After he left, Susanna put the cool blanket in the oven to warm until her uncomplaining patient woke. She heard a small knock and Major Randolph came inside. She put a finger to her lips, and he nodded.

He sat down beside Susanna, watching his sleeping patient as her husband had, his look both professional and fond. He got up quietly and tiptoed into the kitchen lean-to, gesturing for her to follow.

“All well here?”

Susanna nodded. “The omelet was wonderful and I saved enough eggs to make an applesauce cake. The Rattigans are going to have a card party tonight. I hope you approve of a party.”

“It’s an excellent idea,” he told her. “Maeve can preside from her armchair, and her friends will laugh and have a good time.”

Susanna couldn’t overlook the wistful note in his voice. “Maybe you should do that some night,” she suggested.

“I think I would, if I had a hostess as kind as Maeve,” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to …” She stopped, her face warm.

“Remind me?” He shook his head and took her arm. “Mrs. Hopkins, you’re eventually going to discover that life really does go on.” He shrugged.

“I’m not your good example, but the Rattigans are. A card party? I’ll wager that Maeve cheats.”

Susanna laughed out loud, then put her hand over her mouth. Her heart turned over when Major Randolph gently removed her hand from her face.

“That’s the most spontaneous laugh I’ve heard yet from you,” he said, his eyes merry. “Do it more often, Mrs. Hopkins. That’s my prescription for you.”