Sycamore Hill (12 page)

Entering the open doorway, I went to the desk to ask where I might
find Marba Lane. The short, balding man with wire-rimmed spectacles looked at
me curiously, then pointed a finger toward swinging doors that hid the crowd in
the bar.

“In there, ma’am,” he said, pushing his glasses up while he looked
at me oddly. “Why don’t you sit down over there.” He indicated a chair shadowed
behind a large potted plant. “Miss Lane will be finished in a few minutes. I’ll
go and tell the boss you’re waiting for her.”

The clerk reappeared a moment later, casting me a cursory glance.
He did not say anything, but I assumed he had notified Marba Lane’s employer
that I had arrived. A moment later the swinging doors opened, and the man I had
seen accompanying Marba Lane on the first day of school came through. He
spotted me in the corner and walked toward me, a charming smile curving his
sensuous mouth.

“Miss McFarland,” he greeted in a deep, husky voice, and I stood.
“Marba is going to be detained a little longer than usual, I’m afraid. We were
late getting her show started this evening. The crowd is bigger than usual,” he
explained. I felt a curious glance sent in my direction by the desk clerk. Then
he focused his interest on the register.

“Why don’t you sit down? Can I get you something to drink?” the proprietor
asked, and I was flattered by his solicitude.

“No, thank you.” I shook my head, feeling rather overwhelmed by
the man’s good looks and charm. The brown eyes were warm and moved over my face
quickly, lingering just a second longer on my mouth.

“I should introduce myself,” he laughed apologetically and
extended his hand. “I’m Ross Persall. I own this place.” He held my hand firmly
and just a little longer than necessary.

I muttered some amenity. A woman started to sing in the barroom
behind the swinging doors. The voice was pleasant and strong, though lacking in
formal training. But it was the lyrics that brought a flush of red up under my
skin. Ross Persall was watching me closely, and his mouth tilted up at the
corner. The song continued, and raucous laughter blended with the singing and
ruthlessly pounded piano. I touched my cheek with my fingertips and wondered if
I should leave and come back later.

“Not exactly what you would hear in Boston, is it?” Ross Persall
commented not unkindly. I could see no hint of ridicule for my embarrassment in
the warm brown eyes, and I smiled.

“This isn’t exactly Boston, is it?” I gave a faint laugh. “And
quite frankly, I prefer Sycamore Hill.”

“I’m glad to hear it. That means you’ll be staying on.”

“Well, I hope so,” I demurred, sitting down again. I glimpsed
James Olmstead as he passed the swinging door. He was laughing with all the
rest of the men in the bar.

“How are things going at the schoolhouse?” Persall asked me. He
put his foot up on a bench and leaned his arms across his raised knee. He
seemed in no hurry to get back about his own business.

“I think they are going very well,” I said without fake modesty.
“The children are eager to learn. That, of course, makes things easier.”

“Katrina likes you,” Persall informed me.

“That’s nice to know.” I smiled.

“I can understand why,” he said, grinning. “You’re not only smart,
you’re nice to look at.” I blushed profusely and wished that Ross Persall would
keep his compliments to himself.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he apologized. “I take it you’re
not used to being told how pretty you are?”

I did not think of myself as pretty at all, and I looked up at him
with a dubious stare. “I don’t want to keep you from your work, Mr. Persall,” I
said formally, hoping he would take the less-than-subtle hint.

“It can wait.” He smiled, understanding me very well. “Besides, I
don’t think I should leave you on your own out here in the hotel lobby. I saw
you noticing James a minute ago. If he finds you out here, you’re liable to get
into trouble. This isn’t exactly Sunday School, you know.”

“I’ll get into more trouble if he finds you standing over me, Mr.
Persall,” I told him frankly. He shrugged, unimpressed.

“All he needs is a word in his ear, and he’ll leave well enough
alone,” he said, showing a hint of indifference at what anyone thought. “And
call me Ross. Everyone else in town does. Even our good reverend...” he said in
a lower voice as he winked at me.

“You mean he comes in here?” I asked irrepressibly, and Ross
laughed.

“Not for every service. He says he comes to reform a few of my
best customers, but I think it’s curiosity. A pagan’s den, you might say.”

“I didn’t think I saw you in church.” I grinned.

“Could I hope you were looking for me?”

“Not especially,” I said truthfully, though I had been curious
about him since the first day of school.

“What possessed you to become a teacher?” he asked. “They’re
usually withered old maids like Miss Greer.” Before I had the opportunity to
protest his description of Ellen, Marba Lane came floating through the swinging
doors in a red dress with plunging bodice. White feathers drifted back from her
curling, elaborate hairdo. I stared as I saw the slit up the front of her
dress, which exposed long, shapely legs to mid-thigh. With determination I
veiled my look of shock and smiled at Marba Lane, who was looking at Ross
Persall.

“What little games are you playing now, Ross?” she demanded. “Why
didn’t you tell me Miss McFarland was here? You knew very well I was waiting
for her,” she accused.

“Cool down, Marba,” Ross said, straightening up. “You had a show
to put on, so I kept our little schoolteacher entertained for you.”

Marba seemed to dislike that answer even more than the fact that
Ross Persall had not told her of my arrival. Her eyes swung to me. I stood,
still smiling but feeling decidedly uncomfortable. I could feel the tension
emanating from the two people on either side of me, and I wished I understood
what was going on.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Marba said, jerking her head to indicate
the show in the barroom.

“Please don’t be,” I protested. “You have a very pleasant voice. I
enjoyed hearing you.” A look passed between Marba Lane and Ross Persall. Marba
relaxed slightly.

“I’d almost forgotten that you’re not a snob.” She smiled.

“Pardon me?” I mumbled.

“We can talk upstairs in my room.” And instead of explaining her
comment, Marba started up the steps. Ross Persall detained me with a gentle
touch on my arm.

“It’s been a pleasure, Miss McFarland,” he said in a low voice for
my ears only. “I hope I’ll have the opportunity to speak with you again.” Marba
had paused on the stairs and was looking down at us with a strange expression.

“I hope Katrina isn’t giving you any trouble,” Marba said as I
caught up with her. She opened her door. The room was lighted by a cut-glass
lamp set on a round mahogany table near a window overlooking Main Street. The
room was expensively furnished and showed a good decorative sense.

“Oh, no. By the way, where is Katrina?” I asked as I entered the
apartment behind Marba. I noticed the open door to the bedroom off to the
right. A large double bed with a rich green-satin spread, a polished-brass
headboard and a scattering of yellow and white pillows dominated the room. A
man’s jacket was tossed carelessly over the end of the bed, and I immediately
thought of Ross Persall. It was the same kind of dark coat he had worn the
first day I’d seen him.

“Asleep in the next room. She usually goes to bed about eight. I
don’t like her hearing the rabble downstairs,” Marba said, stepping behind a
screen in the corner to remove her costume. She reappeared a moment later
wrapped in a pink-satin robe with a sash tied tightly around her slim waist.
The robe fell slightly open at the top, showing off the cleavage of her ample breasts.

“It isn’t exactly a place to raise a kid,” she continued, sitting
down on a loveseat and putting her bare feet up. She indicated that I should
make myself comfortable in the chair opposite. “But I haven’t got much choice
in the matter. I make my living the best way I can,” she went on rather
defensively.

“You appear to be doing quite well,” I said, looking around the
room. “This is all very nice.”

Marba Lane was watching my face with an inscrutable expression.
Her eyes were hard and perspicacious. “Was that what you came to talk about,
Miss McFarland?” she asked in a cold voice. “About the way I make my living and
how I’m raising my kid?”

I looked at her with surprise. “Good heavens, no. That’s your
business,” I assured her quickly. “Oh, I hope that’s not the impression I gave
you from my note. Katrina is a very bright little girl and extremely
well-behaved. That’s not my reason for wanting to see you.”

Some of the tension went out of Marba, though her expression was
still wary.

“Actually, I wanted to talk about the way Katrina dresses for
school,” I said.

“The way she dresses?” Marba repeated. She pulled the ostrich
plumes out of her hair and tossed them heedlessly onto a table set with a
decanter and glasses. “What’s wrong with the way she dresses?”

“Nothing, except that she can’t really play in those pretty
frocks. They’re far too nice to get dirty, and so she sits over by the oak and
doesn’t join with the other children in their games.” I leaned forward, my
hands clasped. “Doesn’t she have something she could wear that she could feel
free to play in? Something she wouldn’t be afraid to get dirty?”

Marba did not answer for a moment. “And what makes you so sure the
other children would let her play with them, even if she did wear something she
could get dirty?” she asked almost belligerently. I knew exactly what she was
saying, and I hesitated before answering.

“I can’t, of course,” I admitted honestly. “But by dressing her
the way you do, you set her away from the other children. I think Katrina would
like to join in their play.”

“I don’t want my little girl getting hurt!” Marba said harshly.

“She’s already hurting, Miss Lane,” I said gently. The woman
flinched visibly.

“Listen, Miss McFarland,” she said sharply, sitting up and leaning
forward, her eyes penetrating. “I’ve been in a lot of towns. And this isn’t the
first school Kat has attended. Children can be cruel. They hear things from
their parents, and then they repeat them to Katrina. I don’t want that
happening again. Maybe it’s better if she does just sit under the oak by
herself.” Tears glistened in her eyes, and I felt a stab of pity. Reaching out,
I touched her hand.

“I can’t promise you the same thing won’t happen here. But I can
promise that I will do my best to see that it doesn’t.”

“I believe you would.” Marba smiled, and then shook her head
dishearteningly. “But you see, that’s just not enough.”

“You said a little while ago that you didn’t like Katrina growing
up in a hotel,” I opened a second try.

“There are worse places.”

“Of course. But if you don’t want Katrina spending her life here,
allow her the chance to adapt to other people. She’ll have to get along in the
world, Miss Lane. You can’t always keep her set apart, and the longer you do,
the harder it’s going to be on her. The more it’s going to hurt when she’s
faced with leaving you.”

“You don’t understand.” Marba Lane shook her head.

“Maybe not,” I relented and sighed. “But I know what it is to be
set apart from people. It’s lonely, dreadfully lonely.”

Marba blinked and considered me more closely. “At least you’re
accepted in society,” she said.

I smiled slightly. “Under very special conditions. We all have our
place. Some are more restricted than others. Katrina is bright, attractive and
young enough to adapt. Maybe she’ll enter social circles larger than the ones
you and I are forced to inhabit.” She considered in silence, still looking at
me thoughtfully. “It is worth a try, don’t you think?” I pressed my advantage.

Still not agreeing, Marba leaned forward and picked up the crystal
decanter. “Would you care for some apricot brandy, Miss McFarland?” she asked
with a sparkle of challenge in her eyes.

“I’ve always wanted to try it,” I admitted with a smile that
raised a surprise glance from my hostess. “But I’d better forgo the experience
this evening.”

“Why?” Marba asked, and I had the feeling she had taken my refusal
as an insult.

“Because I saw the chairman of the school board downstairs,” I
said in a whisper. “And if I mischanced to meet him with brandy on my breath, I
would surely be run out of town on a rail.”

Marba Lane laughed delightedly. “You know, Miss McFarland, I like
you. I like you very much. You’re a big improvement over that Prudence
What’s-her-name dame. I didn’t care one little bit when she....” She stopped in
mid-sentence and looked down at her glass.

“When she what?” I asked curiously, wondering why she had cut
herself off so abruptly and gone so pale.

“Oh, nothing. She just quit teaching rather suddenly, that’s all,”
she finished, dismissing the subject as she sipped her brandy. She had aroused
my curiosity.