The Revenant (16 page)

I thought of Eli’s arms around me, his lips on mine. “Oh God,” I cried, the bile rising in my throat. “How could he do it, Olivia? How could he … 
hurt
them … and act so innocent?”

“I’m as shocked as you.”

“How could he lie to everyone? To
me
?”

“Willie?” She leaned in and took my hand.

The sobs racked my body so violently I could barely breathe. I tried to compose myself, but when I lifted my face to Olivia, I saw her eyes widen and it choked me once again.

“Were you …?” Her brow furrowed. “Did you … have
feelings
for him?”

I stared back at her without speaking.

Her brow furrowed. “Oh, Willie.”

Unable to face her dismay, I pulled the covers over my head.

The chair creaked as Olivia stood. I knew she had no choice but to go straight to Crenshaw, for I’d just confessed the unspeakable. Soon I would be riding the coach back to the train station. I’d been a fool to think a few stolen moments meant Eli Sevenstar cared for me—and was worth caring
for
.

I waited for the door to shut behind her but instead felt the mattress sag as Olivia sat on the edge of the bed. Her hand went to my face, pulling the coverlet aside. Gentle fingers pushed the tear-soaked hair from my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Willie,” she murmured. “I didn’t know for certain. I’m so very sorry.”

Chapter 19

M
ISS
C
RENSHAW SUSPENDED UPPER-SCHOOL CLASSES
during the week following the discovery of Cale’s body, announcing to a chapel full of pale and weepy girls that preparations for the play must move into full swing. Inwardly, I blessed her for providing this distraction, for I could not imagine holding class after such a shock. In any case, there was much to do before the big event. Drama and music rehearsals filled each day, along with scenery and costume adjustments. Soon the girls would crowd into the kitchen to prepare treats and plan every last detail for the reception to be held on the capitol building lawn after the play.

With so much to do, there was little time for any of us to contemplate the horror of Cale’s death or Eli’s betrayal.

After all my undignified sobbing in the infirmary, I turned numb. During the day I kept busy with the students, running lines and blocking scenes again and again. The repetition was soothing. I knew the girls were being pushed to the breaking point, but I didn’t care. For the first time, I was an efficient teacher—ruthless, even. The power I wielded over my students distracted me from truths I couldn’t face.

At night I listened for the tapping sound, but it never came. Strangely enough, I missed the steady noise that had been my companion during long nights of agonizing over Eli. If Ella had been trying to contact me, why was she silent now? Because Cale’s body had finally been found? I thought back to the night of the storm, cringing at the memory of shattering glass, and wondered who had stood below my window. A man? Or a phantom?

No funeral was held for Cale. According to Olivia, his parents drove up in their wagon and took the body away. He would be buried on their own land. A few words of commemoration were spoken at the following Sunday’s seminary chapel service, but only a fraction of the girls were in attendance. Perhaps the churches in town took more time to remember him. For so long he’d been the wild boy who left town when Ella died—a boy many had thought responsible for her death. I hoped someone took the time to eulogize him properly. But were there enough words to wipe the dark smear from his memory?

I knew the students whispered of Eli Sevenstar, but I didn’t listen for the details. Just hearing his name was like a knife in my heart. Olivia shared the tidbits of information she came across, conveying the specifics in a detached manner so as not to upset me. From her I learned that the sheriff and his men had searched the town and surrounding countryside but could find no trace of Eli. As far as they could determine, he’d packed a small bag and left the same day Cale’s body was discovered. He’d not taken the stage to Gibson Station, nor had he boarded the train. His parents claimed not to have seen him, and Larkin Bell knew nothing.

Eli had simply vanished.

If I’d had my way, I would have operated in my unfeeling manner until the end of term—pushing the girls through the spring play and then pushing them through final examinations. That way I’d be too busy to think overmuch … or feel. But Olivia wouldn’t allow it. True to form, she had to
talk
about everything, and I could no longer rely on Crenshaw to forestall our late-night visits.

“You still haven’t told me exactly what happened that night of the storm,” Olivia said one evening, after inviting herself to my room. “You were screaming in terror. Was it just the window shattering? Or was it more?”

I moaned pitifully.

“Willie?”

“The tapping came again that night. I hadn’t heard it for a while.”

“Ella’s tapping.” She glanced at the window, her expression thoughtful. “Are you certain it wasn’t just the storm?”

“Something hit my window, Olivia. A pebble was thrown, and it cracked the glass.”

She blinked. “Who? Did you see someone?”

I thought back, trying to remember the sequence of events. “I stood by the window, waiting for the lightning so I could see. In the first flash, I saw nothing. Not a soul near the school. But in the next flash …” I trailed off, my pulse thumping at the memory.

“You saw someone.” Olivia leaned in, her eyes gleaming.

I shook my head, recoiling from the memory. “I hardly know how to put this, but it didn’t seem like a person. It was a shadow, shaped like a man, but somehow not
human.
” I met her gaze. “I know it makes no sense. I’ve told myself the rain was playing tricks with my vision. But, really, it had nothing to do with my eyes. Some deeper sense, something in my blood, told me it wasn’t a man that stood below my window. And you know what? I think Mae saw it too.”

“You don’t think it was Eli?”

“I can’t imagine why Eli would be standing underneath my window on the very night that Cale’s body washed up on the bank of the river.”

“Cale …,” Olivia murmured. Then she gasped, and my heart pounded to see the color drain from her cheeks.

“What about him?”

“It was
Cale
,” she said in a whisper.

I flinched. “Oh my God.”

“We’ve had it all wrong,” she said. “The tapping on the window—it has been Cale all along!”

I considered this. “But the accidents in the school—that
must
have been Ella, right? She was angry with Fannie and Lucy, so her spirit turned vengeful.”

Olivia raised an eyebrow. “Did it? I confess that notion always troubled me. You never knew Ella. She was so good-natured. Flighty, yes, and far too starry-eyed about romance—I think she drove the boys quite mad at times. But she was not one to hold grudges.”

“Dr. Stewart said something similar once,” I murmured. “But that still doesn’t explain the hauntings in the school.”

“Actually, it’s starting to make sense to me.” She took a breath. “I must calm down, so I can explain.” She lowered her voice, speaking slowly. “You’ve been plagued by that tapping noise on your window for so long—perhaps that’s what drove the students from the room in the first place. With so much spirit activity, one would think we could have contacted Ella in her own room. But we couldn’t, and it’s because the spirit has always been Cale, and he couldn’t actually be
in
a girl’s room at the seminary—”

“Wait,” I broke in. “Can’t a ghost go wherever it wishes?”

She frowned. “I can’t say for certain, but according to my grandmother, revenants return to familiar places, and they often follow the same paths—the same rules, even—that they followed when alive. Cale never would have been allowed upstairs at the seminary; therefore, he could only communicate from the outside. Didn’t you say that Ella often left the school at night? What if Cale came to her window and threw pebbles, much like what happened the night of the storm? That would explain the tapping, wouldn’t it?”

“And the encounters downstairs?”

Olivia held up her hand. “Let me think a minute.” She frowned in concentration. “If we catalog all the accidents, you’ll see they occurred in places where male students had free access—the lower landing of the staircase, the first-floor water closet, the chapel …”

“And the parlor,” I said, shivering at the memory of ghostly hands on my neck.

“It all makes sense. Except …” She paused, her frown deepening. “Why would Cale hurt Lucy? They grew up together—I think they may have been cousins.”

A shiver snaked down my spine. “I know why,” I murmured. “Lucy told him Ella was meeting another boy at the river, but by that point the dalliance had been going on for
months
. Cale was furious.”

Olivia nodded. “He felt betrayed. The three of them were very close.”

“Lucy feared he’d hurt her for keeping the secret.”

“And so he did, but not in the way she expected.”

I sat still, considering her theory. “All along, the ghost has been trying to tell us that
two
people died that night?”

“And Eli was responsible.”

I cringed.

She patted my hand. “Once Eli is found, the revenant will be at peace. And so will we.” She sighed. “We were close to the truth on the night of that first séance, you know. You must have suspected something when you found that note in your room,” she said. “I wish you’d said more, but I suppose you had to be circumspect, considering your own feelings for Eli.”

“At that time, I suffered from jealousy rather than suspicion.”

Olivia was quiet for a moment, her eyes thoughtful. “What happened the night of the graduation planning meeting? Why do you think Eli went outside?”

“He said it was because he couldn’t stand to hear Fannie talk anymore. He seemed angry that no one acknowledged the anniversary of Ella’s death.” I glanced at Olivia. “But maybe it was guilt that forced him from the room?”

“Did he act like a guilty man?”

I said nothing, my skin prickling at the memory of how boldly I’d kissed Eli, and how he’d pulled me to him.

“Willie, you’re blushing!”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I put my hands to my cheeks, willing the flesh to cool.

“Of course,” she said gently.

“I’m afraid Fannie suspects something … about my feelings for Eli.”

Olivia’s eyes widened. “Why?”

“She looks at me knowingly whenever his name is mentioned.”

“Surely it doesn’t matter now. You don’t think she’d go to Crenshaw now that we know”—she faltered for a moment—“now that Eli is gone?”

“Oh, I could imagine her giving Crenshaw quite an earful.” I looked at her. “Olivia, why haven’t
you
lectured me on impropriety? How can you be so accepting of my feelings for Eli Sevenstar?”

Her expression sobered. “I
don’t
accept them. I could never condone a teacher having romantic feelings for a student. But that doesn’t mean I’m not sympathetic. I’m not blind, Willie. Those boys aren’t much younger than us, after all.”

“That’s true.”

Eli was
older
than me, but I couldn’t tell her that.

Olivia breathed a dramatic sigh. “So many teachers are doomed to spinsterhood. I look at Miss Crenshaw and wonder if I’ll share her fate. She seems content, but sometimes she must despair at the loneliness of her life, don’t you think?” She looked down. “Part of me is envious that you had a taste of love, even if it didn’t end well.”

“Didn’t end well? It’s not as though he spurned me for another. He is a liar and a …” I couldn’t say the word.

“I know, I know. But secret romances are so … 
soul-stirring
, even when the hero turns out to be a villain.”

“I used to think so,” I said dully. “Now I am quite sick of secrets.”

Olivia merely nodded, smiling sadly.

How I wished I could unburden myself by telling her everything from the very beginning! But I couldn’t. Once I told her the entire truth, there’d be nothing left of the friend she knew, for that girl was a creature made up entirely of lies.

Chapter 20

T
HE DAYS LEADING UP TO
the performance dragged on, with most of us dreading the inevitable failure of a Shakespearean comedy during such dark times. Instead of improving with practice, the girls’ performances grew increasingly stilted. Entire pages of lines were skipped during rehearsal. Arguments broke out, and tears were shed. Panic gripped the girls by the throat, and I hardly knew how to encourage them. What promises could I make? My spirits were just as depressed as theirs, if not more.

When Miss Crenshaw announced a forthcoming visit from Dr. Stewart during morning Chapel, the sudden burst of lifted spirits was quite palpable throughout the school. Even I, accustomed to numb perseverance, felt a thrill of excitement. As soon as the girls heard the doctor would be conveying an invitation, they fell to primping and hair arranging. I spent a fair amount of time in front of the mirror myself.

As Miss Crenshaw settled the juniors and seniors in the study hall, I caught Olivia’s eye. When she joined me, I threaded my arm through hers so that we could find seats together. Dr. Stewart, smiling shyly, stood next to the principal as everyone took her place. Once all were silent, Miss Crenshaw nodded to him. He cleared his throat.

“Our community has suffered a blow lately. No doubt your spirits have plummeted, and I hope to do something about that. Over the Christmas holiday, I spoke with Miss McClure and Miss Lucy Sharp about the spring play.” At his words almost every head turned to stare at Lucy and me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lucy raise her chin a little higher as the doctor continued. “I learned you were attempting something new—a Shakespeare play that’s not been performed at the female seminary before. As a man who is fond of Shakespeare’s works, I commend you. And I wish to commemorate this new production, and provide a welcome distraction from recent events, by inviting all juniors, seniors, and teachers involved in the play to my home, on the Wednesday evening before the performance, for a celebratory supper.”

The girls clapped their hands, prompting a blush to spread over the doctor’s cheeks. I couldn’t help leaning forward in my seat to stare at him. He really was most handsome when smiling.

“But, Dr. Stewart,” Miss Crenshaw said, her expression apprehensive. I sensed the collective intake of breath from the girls. “A school night? I fear this may not be appropriate—”

“Not to worry, Miss Crenshaw,” the doctor interrupted with a smile. “I promise to have the young ladies back to the seminary in plenty of time for their evening rest.” He paused for her reply and nodded vigorously when she smiled in acquiescence.

The girls cheered.

Curiously, his expression sobered. “I expect one thing in return,” he said in ominous tones. The girls quieted. “But it’s something I think will prove helpful to you. Miss McClure, I wish you to stage a few scenes after supper—as practice, you see, as well as entertainment for those who have worked behind the scenes and are not performing.” He gave a dramatic pause. “Well, what do you all say?”

At once the girls cried out their approval, clapping again and whispering among themselves. Olivia was grinning and I found myself clapping too, for finally, at long last, there was something to look forward to.

The doctor’s house was a tall structure with elegantly angled eaves and a snug little porch. Its wood siding gleamed with a fresh coat of white paint, as did the dainty fence that enclosed the property. Olivia told me the style was “Queen Anne,” which was considered very fashionable for Tahlequah. Inside the house we found upholstered furniture, floral wallpaper, and Oriental carpets on the gleaming oak floors. A butler and two maids, all solemn-faced negroes, were in attendance.

“Such a fine little home for a country doctor,” I murmured to Olivia as we looked about. “Like something out of a fairy tale. Are those permanent servants? I wouldn’t have thought his wages would allow for such a luxury.”

“Rumor has it that Mr. Bell paid for the servants when Sarah was alive and continues to do so now,” Olivia replied. “He built this house for his daughter, you see. Sarah was his favorite and always received the best of everything. I’m sure it pleased him to think of his grandchildren growing up here.”

“And now that will never happen.”

“It still might,” she said, nodding toward the doctor. He stood next to Fannie Bell, who held her chin high and stared down at those who walked past. I almost felt embarrassed for her, but also a little sickened by the thought of her snaring him. He was too good for her—a man dedicated to healing, not to lording his wealth and superior breeding over everyone else.

“Although,” Olivia continued, “I’ve heard whisperings that Miss Bell has caught the eye of a wealthy young lawyer in town—one with aspirations to a political career.”

“A white man?”

She tilted her head. “Mixed-blood, with progressive ideals.”

From what I could tell, “progressive” meant to think as a white person, so it was practically the same. I wondered which was more important to Fannie—blood or money?

The sound of laughter distracted me from such thoughts. It seemed every spare inch of the reception room was filled with swishing skirts and fluttering fans. Dr. Stewart took pains to greet each guest individually, and as he took my hand, he smiled so warmly that I blushed.

“Miss McClure, you look radiant this evening.”

He almost made me forget I was wearing Olivia’s dress again. “Thank you, Dr. Stewart. I think we all are improved by our surroundings tonight. Your home is very lovely.”

His mouth turned down slightly. “It is a testament to my late wife’s good taste. I fear I cannot take any of the credit.”

I could think of nothing appropriate to say, but my heart went out to him. I squeezed his hand and smiled. Immediately, his eyes brightened. As he moved on to greet the next cluster of admirers, I could still feel the warmth of his fingers on mine.

“He seems to feel very comfortable with you, Willie,” said Olivia, when we were alone again.

“He has an easy way with everyone, I’m sure,” I murmured, fanning my face.

As I watched him greet the students, it was hard to believe I’d once thought him thin and gray-faced. He seemed an entirely different person now—golden rather than pale, his hair curling softly about a face that didn’t seem quite so narrow as before. That deep burgundy waistcoat brought the warmth of color to his cheeks. And he was wonderfully tall, taller than Papa even, so that all the girls had to crane their necks to look up at him. It was difficult
not
to indulge in hero worship when looking up at his face, framed as it was by the nimbus of golden hair. It brought to mind a line from Shakespeare, though I could not remember the play.

A bright face that cast a thousand beams upon me, like the sun
.

Again I fanned my hot cheeks, embarrassed to be carried away by such romantic nonsense. But what danger was in it? He was a grown man, not a student. And I was a grown woman … for the most part. Looking at him made me feel like one. He may not have truly fancied me, but at least I didn’t have to feel guilty or improper about fancying
him
. I needed this distraction. In fact, I craved anything that helped banish Eli Sevenstar and his betrayals from my mind.

At supper I was seated next to the doctor as a guest of honor. Fannie, sitting at a separate table in the parlor with other students, frowned most unbecomingly.
Make up your mind
, I thought, and smiled back at her. Then I turned to the doctor, intent on playing the coquette and engaging him in flirtatious banter. Unfortunately, he was occupied with Miss Crenshaw, who was unusually animated that evening. Still, he did smile when he looked my way. A few times he spoke, usually to offer another piece of bread or something equally meaningless. I stammered in reply. I hoped Fannie wasn’t watching then, for undoubtedly I looked a fool.

A leisurely period followed supper, while the servants cleared the tables out of the parlor and placed chairs in two rows in the dining room. Miss Crenshaw encouraged the girls to stretch their legs or practice lines before the performance, but most of them clustered in groups for conversation, content to stay near the doctor. Olivia made eyes at me from across the room, beckoning me to her, but I wanted to walk about the house and learn more of the doctor from his surroundings. I returned to the reception room and glanced up the staircase, admiring the polished oak banisters. Two junior girls were walking down the stairs, and they smiled to see me.

“You simply must see Mrs. Stewart’s sewing room, Miss McClure. She had a most impressive Singer sewing machine. It’s the cleverest thing you could imagine,” said one of the girls. She frowned. “Too bad there’s no one to use it now.”

I made polite murmurings of excitement as I took the stairs, but in truth I cared little about sewing machines.
I’m more curious to see the private areas of the house
. My cheeks burned at such a thought. Did I hope to gain insights into the doctor’s character by gazing at the counterpane upon his bed?

To my relief, the upstairs rooms were unoccupied. The sewing room and guest bedchamber, though pretty enough, held little interest for me. The doctor’s bedchamber, however, required a pause for admiring the bed frame and furnishings, all made of intricately carved wood, as well as the brick fireplace topped with a gleaming oak mantel.

But it was the adjoining room that made me gasp in delight.

It was a study much like Papa’s, with shelves lining the walls and a great leather chair sitting in the corner. At one end was a wide desk, very tidy except for a stack of anatomy books. At the other was a window looking out over the back garden. Such a window would provide a lovely prospect in the daytime.

I walked about the room, lightly stroking the spines of books, straightening the inkpot and blotter, and breathing in the scents of wood polish and leather. The only odors missing were those of spirits and pipe, but I did not mind their absence. Unlike my papa, Dr. Stewart would not cough so terribly from the smoke, nor would he lapse into childlike incoherence after taking too much liquor.

The books near the desk were all to do with the doctor’s work—heavy medical tomes that did not interest me. But to the left of the window I found familiar titles. There was a handsome three-volume set of Shakespeare, much more costly and in better condition than my own. I gently pulled the collection of comedies from the shelf, paging through to revisit old friends. The engravings were charming. I was tempted to sit in the chair and lose myself in my favorite stories, but the performance was to begin soon. So after breathing in its leathery scent one last time, I placed the volume back on the shelf.

The shelves held many other classics of English and American literature, as well as works in French. I could not make out the titles of the latter, for we never could afford the additional tuition for French courses, but they were lovely little books nonetheless. As I moved on to the translations of great works in Latin and Greek, one in particular caught my attention. It was positioned quite near the leather chair, and thus I could imagine the doctor reaching for it often. Plutarch’s
Lives
.

I looked behind me to make sure I was still alone, then slipped the book off the shelf. I flipped to the table of contents and found the chapters on Antony and Brutus. Perhaps it would prove entertaining to compare them to Shakespeare’s
Julius Caesar
, as the doctor had once suggested. I scanned the pages of dense print. It soon became clear that Plutarch would strain my powers of concentration to the very limit, so I closed the book and lifted it back to the shelf.

That was when I saw it—an elegant little volume perched face out behind the larger books. The cover design of wilted flowers caught my eye first, but when I saw the title, my heart leapt in my chest.

POEMS

Emily Dickinson

I reached into the bookcase to work the smaller book out from behind the others. I set it on top of Plutarch, intending to study its table of contents. Instead, it fell open about a third of the way through, where a folded piece of paper had been placed between the pages. I gasped to see the poem marked by the paper. The title—“The Outlet”—was unfamiliar. The text, however, brought a familiar flash of heat to my cheeks.

My river runs to thee:

Blue sea, wilt welcome me?

Feeling light-headed, I turned back to the inside cover page and saw the name scribbled there:
Charles Stewart
. Only the
C
had a distinctive loop at the top that made it resemble a lowercase
e
.

The folded paper, a creamy linen of good quality, looked to be a letter. My fingers itched to unfold it. I glanced behind me one more time and then carefully spread the letter open with my right hand.