Her Hesitant Heart

chapter Twelve



It would have taken a much sterner teacher than Susanna Hopkins not to be charmed by Private Benedict’s students. She sat there too tired to move, and grateful for a warm place. By the time an hour had passed, she was involved. By the end of two hours, she had gathered the smaller pupils around her, ready to teach them.

She had no idea what Major Randolph had told him, but Private Benedict acted as though worn-out women came into his classroom every day. He handed her a McGuffey’s Reader, helped her to another seat farther away from the blackboard, where he was teaching multiplication tables, and channeled the little ones in her direction. She started to read to her students, transferred so seamlessly from him to her that she didn’t even realize it until she heard recall from fatigue.

She looked up then and smiled at Anthony Benedict, who was watching her with a smile of his own. After he dismissed the class, her pupils brought her their coats, mufflers and hats for help, as though she had been their teacher since the first day of the term. When they left, she sat there barely allowing herself to feel what she felt.

“What do you think, Mrs. Hopkins?” the private asked, sitting beside her.

“I can do this, if you’ll have me.”

The look he gave her didn’t need words—it was a combination of relief and agreement that she remembered from her early teaching days, when she had been the novice.

“I’ll expect you here every morning after guard mount,” he said. “I like to go Saturday mornings, too, and just read to them.”

She nodded, overwhelmed. Private Benedict got up to give her a cup of tea, and some bread and butter. She accepted them gratefully.

“Major Randolph arranged for my own stash of food, in case some of my pupils come here unfed,” he said, sitting down with a cup of coffee. “Maybe it’s for teachers, too, although I expect you to have breakfast every morning.”

It was gentle reproof from someone with little rank, much younger than she was, and no real teaching skills beyond willingness and interest, but she took it to heart, grateful for his kindness.

“I’ll bring my own lunch,” she said with playful dignity that made him laugh.

They were sitting there discussing lessons for tomorrow when Major Randolph made his way through the warehouse to them. Private Benedict watched him.

“I never met a better man,” he said, his voice low.

“I’m not sure I have, either,” she whispered back. “He wants me to succeed.”

“Then I expect you will.”

Susanna thought about Private Benedict’s comment as she put on her coat and bent her head a bit, even before the major held open the warehouse door for her. She knew the wind was coming.

Surprise. The afternoon was still for a change and there was something indefinable in the air. She glanced at her escort. “Dare I mention the word spring?”

“No. This is the January tease,” he said. “Seize the moment, I say, because that’s all it will be.” He extended his arm for her and she took it. “We’ve been invited to dinner at the Rattigans’. I don’t know what your plans are, but you’ve seen me at work in my kitchen, and I never turn down meals fixed elsewhere.”

“Wise of you,” she murmured. “Besides, I am not certain I can face my cousin yet. Maybe after dinner.”

“I’ll go with you. No sense in facing Emily alone.”

Susanna stopped, overwhelmed again at his kindness.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, all solicitation in a way that seemed both professional and friendly at the same time.

She shook her head, not even certain she could put into words the sheer pleasure of having someone who wasn’t bent on destruction take an interest in her. “It’s hard to explain,” she said, as they walked toward the footbridge spanning the Laramie.

“Try.”

She thought a moment as they strolled across the footbridge. “You’re not measuring me for a coffin.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” he replied promptly.

“Would Hippocrates revoke your oath?” she teased.

“Hippocrates has nothing to do with my regard for you,” he said suddenly, then looked at her as if he was as surprised as she was by what had come out of his mouth ….

We’re both too old to blush, Joe thought as Sergeant Rattigan showed them into his parlor and Susanna beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen, where Maeve was putting the final touches on dinner. Happy not to contemplate his impulsive comments of mere moments before, Joe sniffed the air appreciatively.

“Sergeant, I could live on this planet far beyond my alloted three score and ten, and my kitchen would never yield such fragrance,” he said.

“It might if you remarried, Major,” Rattigan said.

Joe had heard this from others, with such a statement usually followed by more embarrassment, and apology, as everyone tried to step carefully around his widower status. Not Sergeant Rattigan, drat the man, who regarded him calmly, puffing on his pipe with a thoughtful expression not owed entirely to the comfort of tobacco.

Rattigan’s expression changed from thoughtful to tender when they heard the women laughing. For a moment, Joe envied the sergeant his charming wife.

“There aren’t any spare Maeve Rattigans,” Joe said, which might have sounded like bald envy, except he knew Rattigan understood.

“True,” the sergeant said. “Mrs. Hopkins is equally charming. Don’t you agree?”

Joe Randolph could not deny he had been considering the matter, on some level or other. Trust a sergeant to slice through the Gordian knot of convention and platitude, laying the matter bare. That’s what sergeants did.

Joe was spared a reply by the timely arrival of Maeve herself, who set a concoction of government beef and other anonymous ingredients on the table in the front room. He took a deep breath, appreciative. Susanna carried in biscuits and that was dinner. Joe hoped there would be plum duff, that homely dessert of the military, and Maeve did not disappoint.

The whole meal was larded with the conversation of people who shared the same profession: the coming campaign, the latest gossip from Omaha Barracks, what late-winter oddities from the commissary department lurked for the unsuspecting. Joe had spent most shared meals in similar chat, but this was different. He glanced at Susanna Hopkins, who seemed to blossom before his eyes, because no one intimated anything concerning the last few horrendous days. He wondered how long it had been since she had enjoyed dinner and conversation.

He did want to turn the conversation her way. “Maeve, were you able to recruit any friends for a night school? Mrs. Hopkins gets bored easily if she’s not teaching someone something.”

Maybe he had blundered. After all, he hadn’t even asked Susanna if she was going to accept his offer to teach with Private Benedict. “At least, I believe she has her work cut out for her in the garrison school,” he added.

“I do,” Susanna said, to his relief. “I promised Private Benedict that I would arrive tomorrow with my own lunch in my own lard bucket. My evenings are quite free, Maeve. Find me ladies to teach.”

“I already have three. Is that enough?” Maeve asked.

“Even one is enough,” Susanna replied promptly. “Shall we begin tomorrow night? You name the time and place.”

Joe couldn’t help himself. Or maybe he didn’t try. Without a word, he leaned over and kissed Susanna’s cheek. “Bravo,” he said, then returned to the plum duff in front of him, as though he did that every evening.

Maeve started to giggle, then Susanna. The women were still chuckling when they gathered up the dishes and moved back to the kitchen, that female sanctuary. Sergeant Rattigan wisely turned his after-dinner conversation to the upcoming campaign. By the time Joe ushered Susanna back across the footbridge, all was calm.

“Lights out any minute,” he told her as they walked more and more slowly across the parade ground, Susanna unconsciously moving at a snail’s pace, the closer they came to Officers Row. “You have to be in a classroom in the morning, looking chipper. I’d be derelict indeed if I monopolized any more of your time tonight.”

She stopped. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart,” she whispered.

“Just doing my job, as head of this year’s administrative council,” he said. They stood in silence as the bugler played taps. As the last note still lingered, he started her in motion again. The wind was picking up and winter had returned. “I’ll stop at the O’Learys, and tell them that you’ll be happy to escort Rooney to the enlisted men’s school, if you’re game.”

“I am.”

They were on the porch now. “Do you want me to come in? I could explain …”

She put her hand on his arm. “Thank you, no. This is for me to do.” She looked at the front door, as though it were the gaping jaws of hell, and went inside.

Stay with me, he wanted to say, but did not. He had nothing to offer her on the spur of the moment that was acceptable in any society, especially one as censorious as this one.

He stood a moment on the porch, then segued a few steps to the O’Learys’ front door, where he stood a few minutes with James O’Leary. The captain assured him that Rooney would be ready for school in the morning.

Joe returned to his cold quarters. He lit a fire in the parlor’s potbellied stove, because he expected a visit from Sergeant Rattigan. A whispered comment as Maeve and Susanna were kitchen-bound, and a nod from the sergeant, had assured him of that.

It was going to be a touchy subject, but maybe he had science on his side. Heaven knows, nothing else had worked for Maeve Rattigan. He was seated at his desk in his home office, looking at the Journal for Homeopathy, when he heard Rattigan’s knock.

Sergeant Rattigan gave Joe all his attention as the post surgeon fired the only shot left in his puny medical arsenal, an 1854 article from an obscure British medical journal. Professors at the University of Maryland had scoffed, but Joe had never forgotten it.

“I’m going to intrude in a monumentally intimate way, Sergeant,” he said. “You can stop me at any time and there will be no hard feelings. I mean that.”

The sergeant nodded. He stared at his well-polished shoes. “Please don’t expect us to abstain, Major. I don’t think we could.”

Joe thought of his own wife. Neither could we, he remembered. Tread lightly on Sergeant Rattigan’s heart. Maeve’s, too. He sat back, then came around to the other side of his desk, to sit beside the sergeant. His professors in medical school had always encouraged distance between physician and patient, nonsense Joe had discarded right after the Battle of Bull Run.

“I won’t ask you to abstain. How could I? Here are the facts, Sergeant—every few months, your wife suffers a spontaneous abortion. Technically, it’s not a miscarriage, because she is not far enough along for that. It’s wearing her out, body and soul. If this continues, your darling Maeve will become a name on a gravestone that you have to leave behind when the regiment moves on.”

Sergeant Rattigan groaned out loud. The heartbroken sound shot a chill down Joe’s back, reminding him of other Irishmen keening after death of comrades in battle. The unearthly sound had haunted him many a night.

“I fear for her life. She is unquestionably anemic and this is taking a terrible toll,” Joe added for good measure.

Rattigan looked at him then, and Joe absorbed all the pain and worry into his own heart, because that was part of medicine.

“Sergeant, would you try something?” He opened up the journal, ragged from being hauled from post to post, along with his other medical books. “This treatise by George Drysdale was published in London in 1854. I came across it in medical school. No one took it seriously. I do.”

Rattigan’s expression had changed from devastated to interested.

“I have no idea why Maeve suffers so. I doubt I will ever know, but try this. Confine your marital congress to directly after her monthly flow. Say, up to ten days after the cessation of menses, no more. Don’t resume again until after her next monthly.”

“What will that prove?” the sergeant asked.

“I think she will not get pregnant. Maybe others scoff, but as Maeve’s surgeon, I am desperate to help her. By God, I will grasp at any straw!”

He hadn’t meant to sound so adamant, but there it was, the practice of last-ditch medicine, the kind of medicine he seemed to practice all too often. He was almost afraid to look at the sergeant, but he did, and saw shock, followed by interest.

“It’s like this, Sergeant—the longer her body can rest and heal, the better Maeve’s overall health.” Joe held up his hands to stop the question he knew was coming from an Irishman. “I understand the tenets of your faith, but how could this possibly affect them? I am suggesting nothing artificial. Besides, after years of this wretched pattern afflicting the dearest person in your life, how could God be upset with you?”

Tears started in the sergeant’s eyes. He bowed his head and cried. Joe hesitated not a moment before putting his arm around the big man and holding him close. “Just try it, John,” he urged, disregarding rank. “Please. I don’t know what else to do.”

They sat together until the sergeant dried his eyes and blew his nose on the handkerchief Joe handed him. He held out the journal, too. “Read the article. Some of it you probably won’t understand—I barely do. Talk to Maeve. I believe Drysdale’s science is sound.”

“We’re never going to have children, are we?”

The words were wrenched from the sergeant like an inflamed molar. Probably he had never voiced that dread before.

Joe shook his head. “No, you’re not,” he said softly, “but it doesn’t follow that you have to be miserable. Try it, just try it.”

Sergeant Rattigan stood up. He managed a faint smile, and then he saluted. “You’ll know we’re successful if there aren’t any more late-night notes tacked to your message board. I promise we’ll try it.”

Joe let out an enormous sigh when the door closed quietly behind the sergeant. He just sat there, then nodded to his bust of Hippocrates, scarred and banged around from travel between garrisons. “Well, Hip, there you are. What am I going to do about Susanna Hopkins? Any ideas? I think I love her.”

I have to live here until I earn enough money to move on, Susanna thought as she stepped into the Reeses’ entry hall. She wished she had agreed to Major Randolph’s willingness to stand by her, but this was for her to do. She took a deep breath and walked into the parlor, where Emily sat frozen in place, dreading whatever Susanna was going to say or do. With a shock, Susanna recognized that look. It was the same look she used to direct toward Frederick Hopkins when he frightened her. She resolved that no matter how badly her cousin had used her, she would do nothing more to cause fright.

“Emily, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she said immediately. “I’m sorry for what I did.” Her glance took in Dan Reese, sitting almost as still as his wife. “I was just so discouraged that I thought I wanted to die. I won’t do that again.”

Susanna sat down beside her cousin. “I am going to be teaching in the school for enlisted men’s children. I will also be teaching reading and writing several nights a week to some of the enlisted men’s wives.” She waved off the comment she knew was coming. “It doesn’t matter that your friends talk and think me past redemption. I promise that when I have earned enough money to leave this place, I will.”

Cautiously, Emily nodded.

“In no time at all, you’ll forget I was ever here!” she said, unable to resist a little smile, because she knew it was true. “Do this for me, cousin, even if you have to pretend. Just … just entertain the notion that maybe I am not entirely at fault, and maybe you haven’t heard the whole story. Just do that, dearest, and we will manage. Can you?”

Emily nodded again, though not willingly. Susanna rose.

“That’s all I ask. If you have a spare lard can, I’d like to use that for my lunch bucket.”

“Could you find something more dignified?”

Susanna sighed inwardly—Emily and her appearances. “I have nothing,” she said with all the dignity she could muster. She nodded to them both and went to the stairs.

Someone had reattached the blanket that Major Randolph had ripped down that morning. It seemed so long ago now. Susanna stepped behind it and closed her eyes, tired and still weak. She prepared for bed, grateful the upstairs was warm. On impulse, she looked out the little window over the porch and saw Sergeant Rattigan walking back across the parade ground. He must have come from Major Randolph’s quarters, and she hoped Maeve hadn’t taken a sudden turn. No, he would be hurrying, and Major Randolph would be with him. It was more the stroll of a man with something on his mind.

For the first time in well over a year, she knelt beside her cot and prayed, first for Tommy, and then for the Rattigans and the O’Learys (she could hear an infant’s wail through the wall, and it warmed her). It was easy to pray for Private Benedict and his school that was hers, too, but less easy to pray for Major Randolph, who sometimes looked as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. She told herself it was foolish to be shy about prayer, since her words were probably going nowhere, and she was whispering into her pillow. “I pray not to be a nuisance to him,” she concluded. “That’s enough to ask.”