Sycamore Hill (8 page)

“I may be from ‘Boston proper,’ as you put it, Mr. Bennett,” I
said calmly, my smile now more a baring of teeth, “but in Boston we have some
semblance of manners. As to your ‘fair-maid’ label, it’s misplaced entirely.
And I don’t appreciate being made fun of.”

“I still maintain my first impression,” he commented blandly.

I felt momentarily bemused. Then I remembered. “Oh,” I sniffed,
“that I won’t last out the term, you mean. Well, I shall try not to let your
opinions prey too heavily on my mind.” I waved my hand in airy dismissal. “Will
you be returning for the children, or are they permitted to find their way home
without your escort?”

“They can make the ride by themselves,” he admitted, and I sighed
in obvious relief. “But I think I’ll come back for them anyway. I want to hear
all the gory details of your first day teaching,” he added. I did not even
attempt a smile that time. I turned around and started to march back toward the
schoolhouse.

“Oh, Miss McFarland,” Bennett called in overly polite tones. I
ignored him and kept walking.

“Miss McFarland,” he said, the politeness gone. I let out my
breath in irritation and turned around.

“What is it, Mr. Bennett?” I asked, barely managing to keep my
voice polite.

He grinned. “You be sure to have a very pleasant day.” He
succeeded in presenting a cultured Bostonian accent exaggerated just enough to
show his derision. I froze for a full second. Then I curtsied prettily.

“Why, how nice of you, Mr. Bennett. And I will do just that as
soon as you turn your old cow pony around and ride over yonder hill.” I managed
a fair attempt at a Western drawl.

He was laughing at me again, satisfied that he had aroused my
anger. “See you at three, Abby,” he said, further infuriating me by his casual
use of such a nickname. He rode off in the direction from which he had come. I
stood fuming.

By ten to nine, 61 children had arrived and were seated in the
schoolhouse. The din of noise almost deafened me as I sat at the front desk,
looking over my charges and silently gathering my courage. The only quiet
children were Linda Bennett and Diego Gutierrez, who had both chosen
back-corner seats together. Linda sat watching the ruckus with her hands folded
on her desk. Diego watched with wary interest.

Just ahead of them, separated by one desk, was pretty little
Margaret Hudson with her sandy-brown pigtails and laughing hazel eyes. She was
leaning across the aisle to talk to Patricia Studebaker. Her brother, Chester,
was deep in conversation with Toby Carmichael, a red-headed, freckled boy with
sad expressive eyes. On the other side of the room Matthew, Mark, Luke and John
Hayes, the reverend’s sons, chortled gleefully together and looked anything but
the angels Emily Olmstead said they were. Other children of outlying ranchers
and farmers chattered with friends they had not seen for some time.

Just as I was about to call the class to order, two older boys
made a noisy entrance. They laughed boisterously as they slouched down into two
front desks. I assumed these were the notorious Poole boys—Sherman and Grant.
Their reckless air of defiance and mischief set them apart from the other
children and raised my hackles.

“Silence, please!” I tried above the noise. But the children
continued to talk. A nervous tingle ran over my skin as the tension built. What
if they refused to listen at all? A vision of Jordan Bennett laughing flashed
in my mind and gave my voice the added strength it needed.

“Silence, please!” Here and there, children ceased their chatter
and looked at me. I waited, looking from one child to another, meeting their
silent challenges. All but the Poole boys gave in.

“Whenever you’re ready, gentlemen,” I said coolly, staring at each
boy in turn, anger overriding my nervousness. Something in my expression must
have reached them, for they flushed slightly and dropped into silence.

“Thank you,” I said quietly and then looked up as a sound at the
back of the room attracted my attention. Standing in the doorway was a little
girl of about eight. She was dressed in a white pinafore trimmed with pink
satin ribbons. On her small feet were high-buttoned white shoes that probably
cost as much as my doe-brown dress and jacket. Her dark hair was braided into
two long, shiny plaits with pink bows at each end. Her delicate hands were
folded in front of her. She looked as though she had come to a party. Her
pretty gray eyes looked directly at me, and a little smile flickered nervously
across her face.

The woman behind the little girl was dressed in even more finery.
She wore a forest-green dress trimmed in brown, much like the one I had seen in
the milliner’s window on my way up the main street. On her head was a flashy
hat with dyed-green and brown feathers. The gray eyes were worldly and cool as
they appraised me from head to foot. Then she smiled, a tight, defensive smile,
before, she moved forward with her daughter in tow.

“My name is Marba Lane, Miss McFarland.”

The Poole boys twittered, and I gave them a silencing look. Emily
Olmstead had mentioned Marba Lane, but she had not explained her disapproval of
the woman. I looked at the woman standing before me, taking in the beauty of
her finely boned face. Her makeup was almost theatrical, but done with an expert
hand.

“This is my daughter, Katrina.”

“We’re pleased to have you, Katrina.” I smiled at the little girl.
“There’s a seat over there.” I indicated the one in front of Linda Bennett.
Katrina looked up at her mother, and the woman nodded. The little girl crossed
the room, very aware of the children watching her. I smiled at Marba Lane, and
the woman smiled back, all her previous aloofness dissolving from her hard
eyes.

“Thank you, Miss McFarland,” she whispered, and I stared with
surprise at the woman’s expression. She turned and walked back up the aisle. A
man dressed in an expensive dark suit and white shirt was leaning against the doorjamb,
his arms crossed, waiting for her. He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen.
Dark-brown hair fell forward on his tanned brow and grew in neatly trimmed
thickness over an aristocratic head. He had warm brown eyes that seemed to
laugh at the world rather than at me, like Jordan Bennett had a habit of doing.

The man was assessing me. Rather than feeling angry at his perusal,
I felt flattered. There was an air of sexual vitality about him that stopped
just short of blatancy. His smile was full of charm and a silent compliment.

Marba Lane looped her arm through the man’s, and he escorted her
out. I noted that he moved with a grace that did nothing to insult his
masculinity and only seemed to further emphasize the controlled power of his
well-toned body.

I wondered briefly who the man was and then returned my attention
to the growing chatter in the room. Once I had regained the children’s
attention, I wrote several assignments on the blackboard.

As the children worked, I studied them. I noted how they held
their pencils, how they concentrated, if they were restless or bored, and I
made voluminous notes. As their papers began coming in, I quickly looked them
over to form some idea of how much each child knew. Then I began grouping the
children by their abilities.

By noon most of the children were well-started in their
assignments. I rang the bell and dismissed them for lunch recess and outdoor
play. I observed them in their play, noticing which children grouped together
and which were excluded. Katrina Lane remained by herself beneath one of the
oak trees. Her solemn little face was inscrutable as she watched the other
children playing. Linda Bennett and Diego Gutierrez stayed together, talking in
whispers and darting glances at the other children.

The Poole boys and the four Hayes boys started up a rowdy game of
tag. Their laughter and antics were balm to my tense nerves. When they found a
ball under the front steps, they started a keep-away game. When the ball
accidentally came flying in my direction, I surprised myself by catching it
with ease. My toss back was accurate, and they encouraged me to join in the
game. Laughing, I agreed and encouraged more children to join with me.

At 2:30 I had the children clear their desks and pass all
materials forward for storing away by Sherman, Luke and Margaret. Then I sat on
the front edge of my desk.

“I am very pleased with the way things have gone today for all of
us,” I began, smiling as I looked from face to face. “From the work you’ve done
today, I will get some idea of where you are and what you need work on.”

I paused, folding my hands. “Now, for your homework
assignments....” Loud groans issued from the class. I gave a faint, amused
smile and imitated their groans with one of my own.

“Yes, homework,” I repeated and silently laughed at their
woebegone looks. ‘Tonight I want each one of you to go home and think about
what you particularly want to learn here at school. Not just reading, writing
and arithmetic, but anything else that is of special interest to you.” James
Olmstead would have a stroke! “Write it on a slip of paper and drop it in this
little box tomorrow morning. You may leave your name off if you wish,” I added.
Faces were beginning to brighten again. “Also I would like you to write down
things you think we should do to the schoolhouse.” A chuckle escaped Sherman
Poole, and I looked down at him with a wry smile.

“Short of burning it down, of course, Sherman.” The children
laughed. I waved my hand indicating the drab surroundings. “I’m sure you agree
it needs improvement. And if you can forage paint, material scraps, plants,
anything you think we could use, we might just be able to make this pathetic
old building into a pleasant place to behold.”

“What color paint, Miss McFarland?” Andrew Olmstead piped up.

“Anything you can scrounge and that your parents are willing to
give,” I answered. “We’ll leave the outside of the building as it is, but we’ll
decorate the inside any way you want... within reason.” I smiled at Sherman’s
devilish look. “As for the play yard, we’ll clean that up little by little and
set up a baseball diamond.” There were cheers at that announcement. I grinned.
“And for those little darlings who get into trouble with the teacher...” I eyed
Sherman and Grant pointedly, “they can help dig a new latrine for that
disgusting outhouse of ours.” The children roared with laughter, and Sherman
and Grant sank down into their seats with mock fright.

“Well, do you think you have enough to keep you busy and out of
mischief tonight?” I asked with a laugh. There was a loud joyous affirmative.

“Then there’s just one more thing. From now on, wear clothes you
won’t mind getting dirty. We’re going to try to make school fun as well as
instructive.” I raised my brows questioningly as I glanced over the children.
“Agreed?”

“Agreed!” they cried.

I smiled. “Class dismissed. I’ll see you all tomorrow morning at
nine sharp.”

There was a mass scrambling for the door and rollicking laughter
as the children surged out of the building and ran off in all directions for
home. Chores awaited them before they could begin their foraging for the
schoolhouse.

Katrina Lane walked out of the schoolroom with the same air of
fragile dignity with which she had entered. I watched her with a slight frown.
No little girl should be so solemn and withdrawn. She should laugh and enjoy
life. I decided to try to make that happen somehow.

Linda Bennett and Diego Gutierrez remained sitting in the back of
the classroom. Both looked relieved that school was over. Linda was tracing
carved initials on the desk top with her finger while Diego watched me.

“Diego,” I said, meeting the boy’s intent scrutiny, “your printing
is excellent. I’d like you to help John Hayes and Toby Carmichael improve
theirs.”

The boy’s expression closed over. His mouth became tighter. “They
won’t let me,” he told me flatly.

“Why do you think that?” I asked.

“They won’t,” he repeated harshly, not elaborating. “Just take my
word for it.”

“Can we try anyway?”

He did not answer, but I could see that he was thinking about it.
The idea did not seem to please him. “How about if I just put you in a group
with those two boys? Then they can learn from you without having their noses
pushed into it,” I suggested, feeling that there must be some animosity between
the boys. They had not played together in the schoolyard, but then Diego had
not once attempted to join in the group games.

“Maybe,” he relented only slightly, but did not seem any the more
eager. Linda looked up, those marvelous violet eyes clear for a moment of their
shyness.

“The other boys won’t play with Diego because he’s Mexican,"
she explained candidly. For a moment I did not know what to say, and I knew my
face showed my startled state.

“How can you be sure that the other boys feel that way?” I
directed my question to Diego. “You didn’t try to join in with them in any of
their activities. Have you tried before?”

“He came to school two years ago,” Linda started to say, but Diego
gave her a quelling glance, and she stopped, her finger beginning its tracing
again.

“And?” I looked at Diego. He averted his gaze and stared toward
the blackboard. There was no defiance in his attitude. Linda looked at him.