The Reckoning by Len Levinson

Lieutenant Clayton Dawes, U.S. Fourth Cavalry.
    â€œCome in, sir,” Mrs. Gibson said, with something that appeared a bow.
    The West Point officer entered the parlor, and his eyes immediately were drawn to the schoolmarm. “Good evening, Miss Fontaine. So good to see you again.”
    Vanessa was amused, because they were behaving as if they were at a grand dinner in Washington, instead of a clapboard shack alongside Comanche territory. But the graduate of Miss Dalton's School had been trained to guard against unwarranted displays of ostentatious manners. Instead, she smiled and said, “How kind of you to take time from your schedule to be with us.”
    Fading rays of sun glinted on his gold shoulder boards as he stood before her. Mrs. Gibson took the officer's hand. “This way, sir.”
    She led him to the dining room, and told him where to sit, which happened to be the spot directly opposite Vanessa. The plates were already set, and covered with folded white napkins. We're putting onthe dog tonight, Vanessa thought, as she took her seat.
    Mrs. Gibson carried in a silver tureen of soup, and placed it on the table. She proceeded to ladle out chicken and vegetables, as Mr. Gibson turned toward the lieutenant. “How much longer do you think your detachment will be in town?”
    â€œDepends on Colonel Mackenzie. Could be permanent.”
    They slurped soup, and Vanessa glanced at him out the corner of her eye. He was much taller than Duane, with thicker arms. She wanted to say something scintillating, but nothing came to mind.
    He turned toward her abruptly. “Understand you've just arrived in town, Miss Fontaine.”
    â€œOnly a few days before you.”
    â€œWhere from?”
    â€œTitusville.”
    â€œWere you the schoolmarm there?”
    â€œJust passing through.”
    Lieutenant Dawes had been on the frontier long enough to know the unwritten code: Don't ask too many questions. Close up, in the light of lamps, she appeared almost queenly, with her conservative clothing and erect carriage. She'd shine like a jewel on any army post, and make a great general's wife, he thought. “I hope you won't think me rude, Miss Fontaine, but if I'd had a schoolmarm like you, I might've been a better student.”
    â€œI understand that you're a West Pointer,” she replied. “What was your favorite nonmilitary subject?”
    â€œHistory. How about you?”

    â€œI enjoyed reading novels.”
    â€œWho's your favorite author?”
    â€œDickens, of course. Do you have a favorite author?”
    â€œGiovanni Battista Vico. He was an Italian, and said that only philosophers can understand history.”
    Mr. Gibson decided that it was time to become part of the conversation, although he hadn't the slightest idea of what was being discussed. “History repeats itself,” he said. “Rome fell, and so will America one day—mark my words.”
    â€œIs the soup all right?” asked Mrs. Gibson, adding her own dissonant note to the conversation.
    Lieutenant Dawes wished that he could be alone with Vanessa Fontaine, because he felt that they could have an intelligent conversation. But unfortunately Mr. Gibson wanted to discuss the need for permanent protection against the Indians, and Mrs. Gibson continued to ask about the acceptability of her cuisine.
    The next course was roast beef with potatoes and carrots. The harmless but mindless conversation touched a variety of pointless subjects such as the weather, as Lieutenant Dawes waited patiently for a lull. Then he turned toward Vanessa, and said, “I hope you were far away from the fighting during the recent war, Miss Vanessa.”
    â€œUnfortunately,” she replied, “my home was in the direct path of General Sherman's march to the sea.”
    â€œModern warfare can be very harsh on civilian populations, which is regrettable. But I was a schoolboy in Washington, D.C., in those days.