you can.” Susanna increased the pressure of her hand on Joe’s arm. He even thought she leaned into his shoulder a little. “Joe, I did a wise thing this morning. I decided to forgive my cousin for being stupid.”
He couldn’t help a chuckle, even though what she said touched him. “You’re a lady of considerable forbearance! I’m not sure I could do that.”
“Then it’s a good thing the matter didn’t fall to you,” she said. “Seriously, I decided I could live with what happened. People like my former husband have a way of muddying their nests. I don’t know when, but eventually the whole matter will come out. I am a patient woman.”
He heard the hesitation in her voice, amazing himself how aware he was of every nuance from Susanna Hopkins, almost as if he studied her. The idea charmed him. “What more?” he asked, raising his voice a little because the wind was strong. Never mind; he knew Nick Martin would tell no tales.
“A few nights ago, I told the O’Learys everything and asked their forgiveness for the lie,” she said.
No need for her to know that Jim O’Leary had already told him, not when the subject was so frank and terrible. “I’m certain they assured you that you had nothing to ask forgiveness for.”
“They did. How kind they are,” Susanna told him, almost as if it still amazed her. “After the ladies left tonight, I … I told Maeve, too.” She sighed. “She just hugged me.”
“What else, Susanna?” he asked, some instinct telling him there was more.
“I decided there is only one thing I cannot live without, and see no solution at present.” She took a deep breath. “My son. He should be with me.”
Joe had nothing to say to that. They walked in silence to Emily Reese’s front door, where he said good-night.
He doubted she would say more, suspecting her thoughts were of Tommy Hopkins. She surprised him. He had released her arm, but she took his hand and looked him in the eye. He knew how much that cost her, since she was a reticent woman.
“Joe, I am glad you sent that letter to Monsieur Pasteur,” she said. “And I meant it about French. I brought my textbook with me, thinking perhaps there would be a pupil advanced enough to learn a little. Maybe it will be you?”
“Oui, madame,” he replied, and raised her mittened hand to his lips. The result was a laugh.
“We can learn more than that, monsieur,” she said. “Name a night and I will bring my textbook to the hospital.”
Joe was a long time getting to sleep that night.
Chapter Fourteen
Susanna fell into the rhythm of work, fitting her mind to the never-changing routine of an army garrison. The regularity of bugle calls and order was a balm to her soul. Now that she had made her personal peace with her cousin, she discovered how little it mattered to her what anyone else felt.
She called it victory the morning Elizabeth Burt brought her younger son to the garrison school. “You’d have my other two, as well, except they are back East with my sister for their education,” Mrs. Burt told her.
The woman also had the courage to apologize for signing that letter. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she said quietly. “Forgive me.” She opened her mouth, closed it, then spoke. “Major Randolph told us what had happened to you. I have passed on what he said to some others. What will be the result, I cannot say, but please believe me when I say Andy and I are sorry.”
No other families unbent enough to send their children to the warehouse, but Susanna was not one to search for grand success. Life had taught her how unlikely that was. Her heart warmed to know that Joe had her interests at heart.
The pattern of each day moved into the next with soothing regularity: breakfast with Emily in the kitchen; stopping to pick up Rooney O’Leary; a brisk walk across the lower parade ground with Nick Martin, her self-appointed guardian; the bliss of school; lunch and ideas with Anthony Benedict; a walk back to Emily’s or to Maeve Rattigan’s, depending on the day; night school with two Irishwomen, a German lady and one Polish woman, all eager to read; French lessons one evening a week with Major Joe Randolph. Once a week she wrote to her son, telling him about her pupils, and enclosing some of their drawings and small attempts at writing. Once a week