At the end of the gavotte, Shawn swirled her downward until her back arched and her hair touched the floor.

"I wish I had a picture of you dancing," Shawn said softly. "You’re as graceful and lithe as a wood nymph."

"Shawn, are you sure it isn’t more of the Irish blarney that has sneaked past that sweet-talking mouth again?"

He chuckled, sweeping her back onto the floor when the small orchestra struck up a fox-trot. His dress uniform was set off by immaculate white gloves and puttees. The glittering couples and the hundreds of tapers that lit the hall made her feel like a princess.

It wasn’t until the end of the evening that her guilt resurfaced. She should have gone to the dinner to hear Miss Paul’s plan for the amendment’s passage.

Shawn snapped his fingers before her eyes. "You’re far away."

"No, I’m here, Shawn." She mustered a smile, but even Shawn couldn’t restore her happy mood.

At eleven Shawn took her home in General Long’s auto, so that he could return by twelve-thirty to pick up the general.

When they turned down Cherry Alley and stopped before her house, she touched the door handle.

Reaching over, Shawn grasped her hand. "Sit here for a few minutes."

Glancing at his handsome, smiling face, so close to hers, she felt her heart hammer and her knees weaken. If he planned to kiss her she was more than willing.

Gently he bent his head and fulfilled her wish. Responding to his kiss, she felt as if she could melt in his arms.

"I love you, Laura," he whispered in her ear, his fingers entwined in her hair. "You’re my girl — no one else’s," he murmured in a low voice. Then he sat back, his blue eyes gazing into hers and repeated firmly, "No one else’s."

"Shawn," she said shakily, "I — I am your girl," but her tone couldn’t mask her uncertainty. Even as she said the words a stab of guilt went through her. What about Joe? she thought bleakly.

He faced the windshield, putting both hands on the steering wheel. "I doubt that!" His tone was harsh.

"Shawn," she said, placing her hand on his sleeve, "what’s wrong?" Her voice seemed to echo back at her in the roomy limousine.

He turned then and looked at her.

Did she see a flicker of pain in those darkened eyes? She smiled and restarted her question. "Is everything all right?"

"You’ve said you’re my girl, Laura." He cupped her face in his hands. "Now prove it."

Her pulse stopped, and in the stillness surely her heartbeat could be heard. "How can I prove it?" she asked huskily.

"I don’t want you to see anyone else — not even Joe Menotti." The name came out with bitterness.

"Joe’s my friend," she protested. "He lives above us. I can’t avoid seeing him."

"That’s not exactly what I mean. I don’t want you going on picnics alone with him along the Potomac."

Astonished, she said nothing.

Shawn went on, "I called the other day, and Sarah told me where you’d gone. I was crazy. I almost went after you to pull you away by your hair." He took a deep breath, faced her, and grinned. "But I knew you wouldn’t appreciate a caveman approach." He kissed her lightly on the nose. "Will you stop seeing Joe?"

"I’ll —I’ll think about it," she said, too stunned to say no. Why did Shawn always demand her wholehearted attention ? She was so torn. Was it only a few short months ago that her only yearning was for Joe to recognize that she was a young woman and to put his arms around her? Now, suddenly Shawn wanted her to see only him. Was she ready for that?

Chapter Twenty-one

Laura, taking a respite from weeding the garden, swung lazily to and fro in the hammock. As she glanced through the green leaves, the golden sun rays filtered across her face and on the green grass. She thought of the past few weeks and of how little she’d seen of Joe. They hadn’t gone out since their picnic, and not because of Shawn’s request, either, but because of her work and Joe’s studies. She had told Shawn that she didn’t intend to stop seeing Joe, for he was her friend, but in spite of herself there had been a pulling away. Shawn was keeping her busy, and if she had a suffragist meeting one night, then he would ask to see her the next.

These days, however, the news took precedence even over Shawn. She, along with everyone else, eagerly devoured the papers. The German offensive was coming up against strong resistance, and over one million American troops along the western front had given a renewed fighting spirit to the Allies. The news today had been encouraging. Last week, on a misty morning with over four hundred tanks, the British had surprised the Germans and pushed them back east of Amiens. The Germans' previous gains had placed them in a vulnerable position, for they no longer had the heavy fortifications of the von Hindenburg line to protect them. At Amiens the Allies had captured over thirty thousand prisoners and taken some five hundred guns. General Ludendorff had called this the "Black Day of the German army," but according to the Post, there was plenty of hard fighting left.

Despite the German offensive’s being broken, Laura was concerned about Michael. She worried constantly about his whereabouts. The casualty lists were mounting, as hundreds of names were printed daily. Surely the Mitchells wouldn’t lose two men in the war. Every day she watched for Clara, along with Sarah and Mom, and every day the postmistress shook her head. No letter from Michael. Clara knew what the black-edged flag in their window meant and knew the fear of adding a second one.

Leisurely Laura swung back and forth in the hammock, and her thoughts strayed to Opal Zacks and the talk they had had. Maybe she should think about becoming a lawyer, too. At least she needed an idea or two about her future. She was no longer a child, she thought with a sigh. In just a few months so many things had happened that made her grow up. The transformation of her body, two beaux awakening her love, becoming a suffragist, being jailed, helping train recruits at the motorcade, and Frank’s death. Yes, it was time she had some direction in her life. Miss Zacks had convinced her that more women needed to go into the professions, and although a lawyer could help, wouldn’t a compassionate teacher like Miss Emerson prove to be just as important?

A warm breeze drifted across her face, and the scent of the yellow roses was pleasant. She watched a pair of bluebirds flit from tree to tree. They were sure of their place in the world. Why couldn’t she be?

It was two weeks later when the whole world exploded for Laura. The suffragist arrests had started all over again — including Alice Paul’s. As Laura washed her hair she rubbed the soap into her scalp so hard that it tingled. When was the President going to do something for them? When was he going to see how many wrongs had been done against women? Her eyes burned, not from the soap, however, but when she thought of the forty-seven women who had been arrested. To think she had been out with Shawn. She hadn’t attended the rally and thus missed the fiery speeches at the foot of the Lafayette monument.

"Laura! Laura!" Sarah said excitedly, rushing into the bathroom. "I’ve put the teakettle on!"

Rinsing her hair, Laura almost banged her head against the faucet. "Sarah," she said, her voice sounding muffled as she bent over the sink, "does this mean there’s a letter from Michael?"

"Yes, it just arrived. Hurry. Mother’s cutting the cake."

"Pour the vinegar solution over my hair, please, Sarah?"

Carefully Sarah poured a stream of the solution over Laura’s rich hair, cutting the soap. The pungent, acrid odor hung in the air.

"I’ll be right there," Laura said, wrapping a towel turban-fashion around her head.

Coming into the kitchen, she squeezed her mother around the waist. "At last, eh, Mom?"

The letter was propped against her cup, ready to be read. Laura slit open the envelope, took out the contents, and began to read in a clear voice:

July 30, 1918 

Charlons-sur-Marne 

Dear Mom, Sarah, and Laura,

The Rainbow Division has left the British sector and joined the French army under General Gouraud. The German offensive we expected didn’t materialize, so the general ordered us to work on our main line of defense. It’s a good thing, because the Germans charged us the other day. You can’t believe how the Germans are still trying to cross the Marne and capture Paris. The prisoners we’ve taken are mainly either old men or fourteen-year-old kids. Today, though, Foch has ordered a massive counter-offensive and we move forward in three hours. There’s something in the air that spells victory for us! I can feel it! The Americans have given a good account of themselves at Cantigny, Belleau Wood, and Château-Thierry. Even our Chief of Staff, Douglas MacArthur, has won the Distinguished Service Medal. I predict he’s going to go far in the army! Today was a sad one; the poet of our division, Joyce Kilmer, was killed by a sniper’s bullet — you remember, he wrote "Trees." I’m sorry about Frank, Sarah. Those airmen put their lives on the line every time they take up their planes. You don’t know how much they’ve done, though, and how much the infantry depends upon them when we go into battle.

I have the photo of the three of you that Shawn snapped propped up on my knapsack. Every time I think this war will never end, I look at your smiling faces and know that nothing can keep me from coming home to you. When we go through a French town, we’re offered crusty bread, cheese, and wine. The villagers almost kiss the ground we march on. There hasn’t been time to really meet anyone, so I’m eager to get back to Washington — to see you, to sleep in a soft bed, and to eat a meal without the sound of exploding shells.

I enjoyed your letter, Laura. I see you’re going out with Shawn. He’s my good buddy, but in all honesty, he can be a heartbreaker, too. No, I don’t think you’re silly for being a suffragist. That takes a lot of grit, something you’ve always had!

Tell everyone hello. I won’t be able to write too often as new marching orders come almost every day.

With all my love,

Mike

P.S. Send me socks. Dry socks are as scarce as German beer. I’ll bet I could sell a pair for five dollars!

"Today’s August eighteenth," Laura mused. "I wonder how far they’ve gone and where they’re fighting since he wrote this."

Maude Mitchell looked up, eyes bright with tears. "He’ll be in the thick of it, that’s for certain. He’s like you, Laura — Michael never was one to hang back."

"He’s right about the pilots," Sarah interjected. "Bill Crowley wrote yesterday and said their planes fly low and go in ahead of the infantry. The American Expeditionary Force really depends on them."

Laura’s eyes grew round. "So Bill Crowley said the AEF really depends on the pilots, eh? How many letters have you received?"

Smiling, Sarah said, "Only two."

"And you didn’t say anything?" Laura said. "Sarah, you’re a sly dog. You are such a private person, isn’t she, Mom?"

"Yes, she is," Maude answered, raising her brows. "Did this Bill Crowley write anything about the war in his last letter?"

"Very little." Sarah threw out her hands and with an apologetic smile said, "He told me a little of his upbringing, that’s all. He’ll be discharged September first and will bring me Frank’s things soon after."

"September first," Laura said in a low voice. "That’s Joe’s induction day." She must stop by the Menottis' store and see them. It had been weeks, but she’d had other things on her mind, although that hardly excused her from spending a few minutes with old friends.

Laura’s mother pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. "It’s almost time to go to the Canteen Center, girls." She glanced at Laura with a worried frown. "You’re going with us, aren’t you, Laura?"

"Of course. I promised, didn’t I?" She flushed.

"Promises don’t mean much if Alice Paul beckons," her mother said dryly.

"Mother, you know the past two weeks have been turmoil at Headquarters."

"Oh, yes, who hasn’t heard of the arrests?" Maude drained her cup, remaining calm.