Donovan's Daughter (The Californians, Book 4) (3 page)

Ten minutes later Mr. Flynn put Marcail's bag in his
buggy and drove Marcail to her house. As they appeared
to be headed out of town, he explained that the builder
of the schoolhouse and teacher's home, some 30 years
before, had not liked how noisy children could be. It had
been his opinion that the school should be located on the
outskirts of town. Since he had supplied most of the
funds, the town had acquiesced.

Willits was larger now, and the last houses on that end
of town were within sight of the school. Still, a small
group of trees on the town's side of the school gave it a
very distinct feeling of isolation. Marcail spotted one
small farmhouse in the distance, but she asked no questions concerning the owner. She was much too captivated with her first glance at the small house into which
Mr. Flynn was now leading her.

Mr. Flynn did not tarry. Only five minutes passed
before Marcail saw him to the front door, waved to him
after he was back in his buggy, and shut the door. She
turned back to the room, her hands going to her mouth,
her eyes sparkling with pleasure. This was her house,
her own little home! And some 50 feet away was the
schoolhouse where she would start work on Monday.

Marcail's gaze roamed the room with pleasure. It
couldn't have been more perfect if she'd designed it
herself. The main room of the house was spacious, with a kitchen in one corner. The one doorway led to a small
bedroom. It was a house intended for one person, holding only two kitchen chairs at the table and a rocking
chair near the stove.

Marcail moved into the bedroom. The bed she found
was very small, but then so was she, making her feel that
everything was all the more perfect. The curtains on the
window and the quilt on the bed were both a soft, skyblue plaid.

After throwing the curtains back to let in the sunlight,
she went to work unpacking her single bag. She hung
her other two dresses and put her undergarments in the
drawers of the small dressing table. Her entire outer
wardrobe consisted of three dresses-one brown, one
dark blue, and the black one she was wearing.

She set a few of her personal books on the nightstand,
and put the others on the bed to be taken to the school. A
picture of her mother as a young girl went on the dressing table, as did a picture of herself and her siblings
taken in Santa Rosa. Marcail smiled at the homey touches.

She stopped before the mirror that hung opposite the
bed to check her hair. She was not accustomed to wearing it up because of its length and thickness, but her hairstyle and the dark-colored clothing were all a part of the
stipulations set down in her contract.

The last item Marcail removed from her bag was her
Bible. She sat on the bed and held it in her arms, and then
prayed aloud in the stillness of her home.

"Thank You, Father, for bringing me to this place. It's
more wonderful than I could have dreamed." Marcail
didn't speak again, but sat quietly and dwelt on verses
from Psalm 46: "Be still, and know that I am God. I will
be exalted among the heathen; I will be exalted in the
earth. The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our
refuge."

Marcail spent the next hour inspecting every inch of
the schoolhouse. It was spotless and well equipped. She
had brought along a few of her books and stood for a long
time just looking at the way they sat on her desk. The
platform in front of the blackboard, on which her desk
sat, was raised about eight inches from the rest of the
schoolroom floor. Marcail, whose height and frame were
so diminutive, was very pleased.

After she finished at the schoolhouse, she went home
to make out a complete list of all the supplies she thought
she might need. She was eager to take a walk into town.
The schoolhouse and her home sat on the west edge of the
community. A quick scan out the schoolhouse window
had earlier confirmed that the only visible structures
beyond were the small house and barn that she had
spotted on her arrival.

It didn't take long for Marcail to reach the houses of
town, but the shops were a bit further. She was flushed
from the weight of her dress, as well as the warmth of the
day, by the time she reached a storefront that said Vesperman's General Store above the entrance. The building
appeared to be half the size of Riggs' Mercantile in Santa
Rosa, but once inside there did not seem to be any lack.

Marcail's eyes took in pins and measuring cups, fly
traps and thread, composition books and soap flakes,
eggbeaters and blotters, cookie cutters and bibs, fabric
and shoes, checkerboards and muffin tins. She chose a
basket near the door and began to shop. Not until she
was near the candy counter did Marcail meet the proprietor. He was a smiling man with a sandy mustache, who
introduced himself as Randy Vesperman.

Marcail liked him instantly. He answered all of her
questions and informed her that his children, Erin and
Patrick, would be in her classroom Monday morning.
The friendly sparkle in his eyes confirmed that she had
made her first friend. He encouraged her to take the
basket in order to carry her purchases home.

Marcail's next stop was the bank. The tutoring she had
done in Visalia for the two children who, for different
reasons, were unable to attend the schoolhouse, allowed
her to come to Willits with something of a financial
cushion. She spent a fair amount in gaining supplies for
the next month, but with the exception of a few coins to
get her by, she deposited the rest into a savings account.

It soon became obvious that the townspeople knew
who she was. Several people approached her in the
bank. One couple, the Whites, introduced themselves
and their children, allowing Willits' new schoolmarm to
meet two of her students.

Marcail was moving toward the door when it opened
and a woman of immense proportions, both in height
and width, swept in. She was dressed in black crepe, and
Marcail felt instant sympathy for her mourning. It took
her a moment to realize that the woman was not going to
let her pass, causing her to finally look up into her
eyes.

"You must be Miss Donovan." The voice was cold.

"Yes, ma'am," Marcail replied and swallowed hard.
The woman had the hardest eyes she had ever encountered.

"I am Cordelia Duckworth," the woman said, as if this
explained everything. "I trust that Mr. Flynn made you
aware that I'm expecting you for lunch tomorrow?"

"Yes, Mrs. Duckworth. I was planning on it."

"Well, see that you are. I'll finish your interview then."

Mrs. Duckworth moved toward the teller without giving Marcail a chance to reply. Marcail left feeling a bit
dazed. Interview. The woman had said interview. Marcail wondered suddenly if the teaching position was
really hers.

The basket was now starting to weigh on her arm.
Turning toward home, she intended to reread every bit
of correspondence she had received from the Willits
school board.

Dr. Alexander Montgomery closed and locked his
office door before heading toward Rodd's livery. Rodd
always kept his horse, Kelsey, in exchange for free medical services. But considering that Rodd's wife had had
four babies in the last four years, Alex sometimes wondered who had gotten the better end of the deal.

Kelsey, a rather high-spirited bay gelding, was more
than ready to escape the confines of his stall. Alex could
tell that he was ready for a run, but was careful to keep
the animal on a tight rein until they were past the houses
in town. Ready to heel his mount into a gallop, Alex
spotted a lone, darkly garbed figure walking ahead of
him on the road.

She moved to the far edge of the road when she heard
the horse approach, but Alex had the impression that she would not have even looked at him if he hadn't stopped
beside her. It took him an instant, even after she stopped,
to figure out who she was and where she was headed.

"Hello," Alex called cheerfully. "You must be Miss-"

"Donovan." Marcail supplied the name and tried to
see the man addressing her. The lowering sun was directly in her eyes, and even squinting didn't give her a
clear view of the rider. Having switched arms so many
times while carrying the basket that she now held in
both hands, she was afraid to lift her hand to shield her
eyes for fear of dropping her load.

"I can't really offer to give you a ride, but why don't I
drop that basket on your doorstep?"

"Oh, that's all right. I'm almost-" Marcail stopped
midsentence because he was already bending low from
the saddle and taking the thick handle from her grasp.

"I'll just take this ahead for you. It was nice meeting
you, Miss Donovan. By the way, I'm Dr. Montgomery."

Marcail did little more than raise her hand in a gesture
of thanks before the rider was once again on his way. She
continued her walk, knowing that if she passed that man
on the sidewalk and he didn't speak, she would have no
idea who he was. Well, no matter really. He was a doctor,
and Marcail knew she would have to be dying and then
some before she'd have anything to do with him.

By the time Marcail climbed into bed that night she
was very tired, but not discouraged. She had searched
through her documents, and beyond her being listed as
one of the school board members Marcail could not find
any mention of a Cordelia Duckworth. There was nothing to indicate that she would be interviewed once she
arrived. As much as Marcail wanted to stay in Willits,
she trusted that if the door closed in this small town she
was already coming to love, God had another teaching
position for her elsewhere.

Marcail was able to blow out her lantern with a peaceful heart. Having eaten only a light supper, she fell
asleep dreaming about the bread she planned on baking
the next morning.

At 11:30 Saturday morning, having finished her baking
earlier, Marcail started out for her luncheon appointment. Feeling as though Mr. Vesperman would welcome
her inquiry, she stopped and asked for directions to Mrs.
Duckworth's home. He was more than happy to oblige,
but Marcail caught what she thought might be pity in his eyes. She prayed that her imagination was working overtime.