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.”
Chapter Nine
It was good advice, and she took it.
The week began well. When she opened the door that Monday morning, the room was already warm, coals glowing in the fireplace. She laughed to see on her desk bedraggled weeds crammed in a brown medicine bottle. There was a note, in a doctor’s dubious handwriting: “No roses in January. Rabbit brush will have to do. Good luck!” It was signed, “Major Joe Randolph, M.D., U.S.A., and other letters of the alphabet.”
When her pupils came into the classroom, Susanna wasted not a minute organizing them, although it came with an army surprise. Mystified, she watched them align themselves at desks in a way she had not considered. Three of the larger children sat in front, with some smaller ones behind, where they had to crane their necks to see her. Some boys and girls sat together, which also surprised her, remembering classrooms where boys and girls gravitated to opposite sides.
Susanna watched them until it dawned on her. They have sat themselves in order of their fathers’ ranks, she thought, amazed. Time to end that.
She stood up in front of her desk, smiling inside to see Nick Martin slip in and seat himself at the rear of the room. Some of the boys turned to look at him uneasily.
“Welcome to your classroom,” she began. “I want all young children in the front row.”
No one moved.
“I want you to move now,” Susanna said, putting some force behind her words, but not raising her voice. “Your fathers’ ranks do not matter here.”
Some students exchanged startled glances, but she had no doubt they would move. She looked every student in the eye until they did.
With help from the older boys, she arranged the younger children’s desks to one side of the room and gave them the alphabet to copy. She sat among the older children, listening to them read. By the time the bugler blew mess call, the older students had their afternoon compositions assigned, and the young children were ready for her attention.
When the room emptied out quickly for dinner at home, Nick Martin looked at her with something resembling admiration.
“What is it, Nick?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Hopkins, except maybe you don’t really need me, do you?”
She regarded him, sitting there so stolid, but his eyes alert. Susanna handed him the extra slate that she knew he had been eyeing while the little ones were writing on theirs. She pointed to the blackboard, where she had printed the alphabet. “Copy these.”
“I’m not too old?”
“No one is too old, Nick.” She smiled. “Or is it Saint Paul?”