There is some light in this darkness.

George, a friend of ours who serves as a foreman at the Navy Yard, has been particularly solicitous of our Dottie these past few months. At first, his company was a comfort to her after the loss of John, and when she told him about the baby—though he had certainly guessed since explanations of overeating in light of grief are fruitless given how terribly thin we all are from the rationing—he began to dote on her so that she wanted for nothing. Bringing books and treats that she would like. Winter flowers. And taking her for drives into the countryside for fresh air. He even insists on driving her to the Navy Yard—whether their shift is the same or not—so that she doesn’t have to take the bus and “breathe in all that exhaust.”

On days where our hours are the same, Gladys and I are the grateful co-recipients of his generosity.

It’s never been a secret to Gladys and myself that he is in love with her, though I don’t think Dottie has yet clued up on it. But George’s attentions—which come with no strings and are offered merely out of the goodness of his dear heart—have been a boon.

He has assisted in our subterfuge in the engraving department, which entails an almost comical choreography of walking next to her, giving her light bags to carry to conceal her shape, and dark corners in which to work, all for the purpose of hiding her predicament for as long as possible. When it’s discovered that she “has a bun in the oven” (really, that’s no better than “in the family way”) she will be summarily fired. And we all know that she’s going to need every penny she earns once this baby is born.

In other news, Oliver still comes around calling for Gladys. He has joined her in rallies for the rights of women, protests for the poor, and campaigns for all her causes. I can’t figure out if his heart is as activistic as her own or if he’s just covering stories for his newspaper back in England, but I’m guessing that the Brits have far less interest in the living conditions of children in the Bowery when there is a war in their own backyard. So I suspect it’s infatuation. Or deference. Whomever deigns to capture the heart of my beloved Hurricane Gladys will have to possess a touch of both.

*  *  *

William handed Margaret’s latest letter to Tom as soon as he’d read it, as was their habit.