Courting Miss Amsel (2 page)

He held the tip of his tongue between his teeth and carefully penned a reply.
Miss Amsel, you can visit us any school day after seven o’clock.
Compared to her neat penmanship, his lines of print looked like a squirrel had dunked its tail in the ink bottle and then flopped it around on the page. But there was nothing he could do about that – he had a hand for coaxing corn from the soil, not putting pretty words on paper.

After dipping the pen again, he continued:
Let Johnny and Robert know which night.
He nibbled the end of the pen, thinking. If he got some forewarning, he’d have time to ask Mrs. Jeffers in town to bake a cake or pie. Then at least he’d have something to serve when the teacher visited. Maybe Mrs. Jeffers would even lend him some nice dishes if he promised to be extra careful with them. He started to sign his name, but the note looked too short. Like it was missing something. Tapping his chin with his knuckles, he sought an appropriate way to end it.

At the dish basin, Johnny teasingly splashed Robert, and both boys giggled. Joel smiled, remembering their exuberance when they’d returned from school that afternoon. He set the pen nib on the paper and scrawled,
Thank you for giving the boys a good first day back to school. We look forward to hosting you.
He blew on the ink until it looked dull instead of shiny, then started to refold the note.

But he paused, taking in her neatly scripted lines and pompous wording. His gaze drifted across his closing sentence. Nervousness churned his belly.
Sure hope the good Lord’ll forgive me for writin’ down a little white lie.

Chapter
TWO

Edythe dabbed two dots of paste on the underside of a paper tent, then pressed it to the desktop next to the inkwell. She held it for a few seconds, allowing the paste to take hold. Hands on her hips, she smiled at the rows of desks. Each top sported two crisp white tents with a student’s name penned in black ink on both the front and back. One side faced the student, the other side the teacher, giving her an opportunity to learn the pupils’ names.

She fingered the crisply folded top edge of the tent bearing the name William Sholes. According to her records, William was thirteen and entering his seventh year of school. A child of William’s age and experience didn’t need the handmade sign to learn to spell his name, but the younger ones would associate the written word with the person in the desk. Her gaze shifted to the signs she had hung all around the classroom, identifying the clock, the blackboard, the windows, the flag . . . Miss Amsel’s students would learn to read. They would learn to read
well
.

She returned to the teaching platform and sank into her chair. Resting her arms on the time-worn desktop, she admired all she’d accomplished in the four hours since the students left for home. Apparently Mr. Shanks had been derelict in his cleaning duties. She’d discovered dust in every corner and lurking beneath the desks. A well-applied straw broom chased most of the dust out the door, but she intended to bring a mop and bucket to school over the weekend and give the floor a more thorough cleaning. Never let it be said Miss Amsel’s classroom lacked in cleanliness.

Rearranging the desks to her liking had taxed her physical abilities – my, but the scrolled iron legs were heavy! – but she was pleased with the final layout. Eighteen students, ages five to fourteen, comprised her class list, and two students could sit at each desk, so she’d formed the desks into three rows of three desks each. Two of the attached benches on the front of the first row of desks would serve as recitation benches while the third was reserved for her youngest student, little pigtailed Jenny Scheebeck. Remembering the diminutive child’s copious weeping earlier that day, Edythe hoped Jenny would find no reason to cry in school tomorrow.

A gust of wind whisked through the open back door, ruffling the sign with
window
printed on it. Edythe scurried to close the door. Then she removed the little hammer from her desk drawer and tapped the tacks that held the sign to the windowsill. She looked around to make sure no other sign had been loosened in the unexpectedly strong blast of evening air.

Assured all of the identifying signs were secure on the knotty pine walls, she examined the blue-flowered paper she’d pasted to a section of the west wall to serve as a backdrop for hanging student writings and projects. She ran her fingers over the heavily blossomed paper, imagining how the expanse of morning glories would look dotted with essays, pages of arithmetic problems, and childish drawings.
A garden of projects to show how the children are blooming,
she thought with a smile. She could hardly wait to hang the first assignments.

She gave a little gasp. In the midst of all of her cleaning and organizing, she’d neglected to complete lesson plans for the next day. Lifting her skirts, she bustled to her desk. With student textbooks spread across the desk and her reading glasses perched on her nose, she opened her planning journal and set to work. The pendulum on the clock
tick-ticked
in perfect rhythm. A breeze whispered through the open windows. Pages snapped beneath the impatient flick of her finger. Edythe found herself humming as she worked, the wordless melody combining with the room’s unique sounds to create a pleasant symphony.

As she recorded her plan to introduce longitude and latitude to the fourth- and fifth-grade students, the squeak of wagon wheels and the clop of horses’ hooves shattered her focus. Edythe pulled her glasses free as heavy boots clumped against the cloakroom floor. She started to rise, alarmed, but then she sank back down in relief when she spotted her landlady, Mrs. Kinsley, charging up the aisle.

The older woman halted in front of Edythe’s desk and set her face in a scowl fierce enough to curdle milk. “Land sakes, girl, you plan to spend the night here? I held supper long as I could, but finally had to eat. Stomach was complainin’.” Her disapproving gaze whisked across the tumble of books on Edythe’s desk, and she raised one eyebrow. “You readin’ all these at once?”

Edythe chuckled. “I must if I’m to meet each student at his or her grade level.” She scanned the room again, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Every grade from one to eight is represented by these names, and each child deserves the most I can offer. I don’t intend to leave any of them wanting.” How she anticipated watching her charges change and grow over the course of the year!

Mrs. Kinsley craned her neck, examining the classroom by inches. Then she shook her head, releasing a low whistle. “This place looks a heap different’n it did when old man Shanks was runnin’ things. He had it as cheerful as the inside of a pine buryin’ box. You got pretty paper on the wall, little words everywhere for the young’uns to read, desks all spit-shined . . .” She propped her bony elbow on a stack of books on the corner of the desk. “An’ I hear you done away with the teachin’ switch.”

Edythe’s jaw dropped. “You heard that already?”

Mrs. Kinsley laughed. “You come from a big city, Miss Amsel, where folks don’t much care what their neighbors are doin’. But here in the country there ain’t much excitement, so news spreads faster’n whitewash on a barn wall. You set the tongues a-waggin’ by breakin’ that stick an’ tossin’ it out the window.”

Edythe hadn’t realized what an impression she’d made on the children. She tipped forward eagerly. “So are folks pleased with the change?”

The woman rubbed her cheek, forcing the soft skin into furrows. “Don’t know so much pleased as perplexed. Wonderin’ how you’re gonna keep these young’uns in line without an occasional whack across the seat of the britches.” That single eyebrow rose again. “I’m wonderin’, too, to be honest. Never met a youngster yet that didn’t require the rod of correction from time to time.”

Edythe pinned her landlady with a steady look. “Rest assured, Mrs. Kinsley, it is possible to maintain discipline without the use of physical force. I’m a firm believer that when the threat of punishment is removed, children become free to explore and will learn more readily than children who expend their energy trying to evade the sting of a rod.”

Another laugh rumbled from the woman’s throat. “Girl, I’m a firm believer that when you give young’uns the freedom to explore, they get into things you’d rather they didn’t.”

Edythe scowled.

Mrs. Kinsley threw both hands in the air. “But you’re the schoolmarm, Miss Amsel, so if you want to corral these youngsters in some other way than what’s been done by every teacher who come before you, then you go right ahead.” She pointed one finger, her brows low. “But if after a time you change your mind, there’s some good-sized cottonwoods growin’ on my property. You’re welcome to take a sturdy twig for . . . er . . . classroom use.”

Edythe had made a promise to her students. She would honor it. “That will not be necessary.”

To Edythe’s chagrin, the woman laughed again. Mrs. Kinsley headed for the cloakroom, her arms swinging. “Get your things an’ come on out to the wagon. Too late for you to be sittin’ here all alone – folks won’t approve of their schoolmarm bein’ out after dark.” She charged out the door.

Edythe considered ignoring Mrs. Kinsley’s command. At twenty-eight years of age, she was hardly a child to be ordered about. Especially by her landlady. Hadn’t she disregarded her father’s order to remain in Omaha until her youngest sister left home? Only another four years, he had wheedled. Remembering his whining tone and manipulative words
– “How’ll poor little Missy survive without havin’ a woman to look after her?” –
Edythe shuddered. Pa didn’t really care about her or Missy; he wanted Edythe at home out of selfishness.
He
had depended on her, drowning her with his despondence and neediness.

Although she chafed at being ordered to the wagon, she understood Mrs. Kinsley meant to protect her reputation with the townspeople. So Edythe swallowed her protests, gathered her planning journal and needed textbooks, and joined Mrs. Kinsley on the buckboard’s high seat.

At Mrs. Kinsley’s tiny clapboard house, Edythe carried her books to her little room at the top of the narrow staircase that emptied into the kitchen. Then she washed her hands and sat at the kitchen table for her late supper. The pork chop and sliced potatoes had no doubt been quite tasty when fresh from the frying pan. Cold, however, the food was less than appealing. Congealed lard whitened the edges of the meat and turned the potatoes into a sodden glob. Edythe scraped the evidence of lard away as best she could with the edge of her knife and resolved to eat every bite of the chop and potatoes.

Mrs. Kinsley bustled around the kitchen, humming while Edythe ate. She reminded Edythe of an industrious hummingbird, buzzing from flower to flower – the woman never stilled. Edythe determined to be on time for supper from now on so she could enjoy a hot meal and have the landlady’s company while she ate. At home, there had always been several people seated around the table. While she had occasionally longed for solitude during the years she cared for her younger brothers and sisters, she now discovered sitting alone made for a dreary mealtime.

The moment Edythe put her fork on the empty plate, Mrs. Kinsley zipped over and snatched everything off the table. She marched to the waiting wash pan, flashing a smile over her shoulder. “Reckon you’re gonna want to finish up your lessons now. Glad I thought to put that old table an’ chair from the shed up in your room – it’ll come in right handy as a desk, don’t you think?”

When Edythe had examined her room upon arrival yesterday evening, she’d noted the table had a wobbly leg and the slatted chair’s seat was cracked. Even so, using them would be better than sitting on the edge of the bed and holding her books in her lap. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

Edythe started to rise, but a catch in her lower back slowed her movements. Her muscles were stiff. Perhaps she should have waited and asked for help in moving the heavy desks. Mr. Libolt, who had picked her up from the stage and delivered her to Mrs. Kinsley’s, had indicated the town council members were willing to assist her in whatever needed doing. But waiting for help meant a delay in making the schoolroom
hers
. She kneaded her back with her knuckles, trying to unkink the tight knots before climbing the stairs.

Mrs. Kinsley paused in clattering dishes in the pan and shot her a low-browed look. “You all right?”

“My back hurts.” Edythe chuckled ruefully. “I’ve always been a hard worker. I cared for my father’s house after my mother’s death, and it never seemed to bother my back.”

Mrs. Kinsley pulled a plate from the water and smacked it onto a tea towel stretched across the work counter. “It’s probably the sittin’. ’Specially if you ain’t used to it. My bones get right stove up if I sit for too long. That’s why I keep movin’.” As if to prove her words, she took up the washrag and attacked the skillet, her elbows high and her hips rotating with the energetic scrubbing.

Edythe swallowed a giggle. “Well, I suppose I – ” A knock at the front door cut off her words.

Mrs. Kinsley glanced at the little windup clock on the windowsill. “Who’d be callin’ at this hour of the night?” She stormed through the kitchen door, drying her hands on her apron as she went. Curious, Edythe peered around the white-painted door casing while Mrs. Kinsley swung the front door wide. A tall, blond-haired man with a narrow face stepped over the threshold. His gaze searched the room. Edythe instinctively ducked out of sight.

Mrs. Kinsley’s voice carried around the corner. “Terrill Sterbinz, don’tcha know it’s past eight?”

A drawling voice replied, but he spoke too softly for Edythe to make out his words. Mrs. Kinsley’s throaty chuckle rumbled in response. “That so? Well, reckon I’ll fetch her, then.” Footsteps approached, and Edythe withdrew farther as Mrs. Kinsley charged around the corner, a knowing grin on her face. “Out there is Terrill Sterbinz, one of our local bachelors.” She spoke in a gravelly whisper. “I’m guessin’ he wants to be the first to get a gander at the new single gal in town.”

“Sterbinz? Is he any relation to Martha?” The man’s yellow hair and narrow face reminded her of the quiet girl in her class, although Martha’s features were much softer. She was a pretty girl.

“Her brother.” Mrs. Kinsley leaned closer. “There’s six Sterbinz youngsters in all, with Terrill bein’ the oldest and Martha the tail end of the family. Good folks – hardworkin’.” Her expression turned wily. “A gal could do far worse than takin’ up with Terrill Sterbinz.”

Edythe’s face became a blazing inferno. “Mrs. Kinsley, I didn’t come to Walnut Hill to snag a husband. I came to teach.”

Mrs. Kinsley frowned. “So what do you want me to do with him?”

Edythe suspected if she answered the question honestly, she’d shock the older woman. “Please tell him I am unavailable at the moment, but if he wishes to discuss his sister’s progress, I will be happy to visit with him in the schoolhouse at the close of classes tomorrow.”

Mrs. Kinsley shook her head. “All right. I’ll do it.” She waggled a finger under Edythe’s nose. “But word o’ warning . . . we got at least six unmarried men near your age in this town. They’ll no doubt all want to make themselves known to you. They all start showin’ up at the schoolhouse, you might be settin’ yourself up for trouble. You won’t have no chaperone outside o’ the young’uns. Be better to talk with ’em here, where I can keep an eye on things.”

Edythe raised her chin. “I prefer to keep my contact with the men of this community on a professional level. Since the schoolhouse is where I work, any meetings will be conducted there.”

Mrs. Kinsley, muttering under her breath, headed for the parlor. Edythe clattered up the stairs, ignoring her aching back, and closed her bedroom door behind her. Leaning against the raised-panel door, she willed her heart to slow. If Mrs. Kinsley was correct about the single men in town seeking her out, she’d have a bigger problem than juggling eight different grades of learners. Somehow she must find a way to inform the townspeople, quite unequivocally, that Edythe Amsel was
not
interested in matrimony. Not now. Not
ever
.