Wooing the Schoolmarm

He opened his eyes and pictured the church full of people. Would Miss Wright be one of them? He frowned and stepped out from behind the pulpit. He was becoming too concerned with Miss Wright; it was time to get acquainted with the village.

He stretched out his arms and touched the end of each pew as he walked down the center aisle, then crossed the small vestibule and stepped out onto the wide stoop. Warmth from the October sun chased the chill of the closed building from him. Did someone come early on Sunday morning to open the doors and let in the warmth?

Across the street stood an impressive, three-story building with the name Sheffield House carved into a sign attached to the fascia board of the porch roof. Passengers were alighting from a long, roofed wagon at the edge of the road that bore the legend Totten’s Trolley.

He exchanged a friendly nod with the driver, then jogged diagonally across the street and trotted up three steps to a wide, wooden walkway that ran in front of a block of stores standing shoulder to shoulder, like an army at attention.

He doffed his hat to a woman coming out of a millinery store, skirted around two men debating the virtues of a pair of boots in a shoemaker’s window next to Barley’s Grocery and entered the Cargrave Mercantile.

Smells mingled on the air and tantalized his nose, leather, coffee and molasses prominent among them. He stepped out of the doorway and blinked his eyes to adjust to the dim indoors. The hum of conversation stopped, resumed in lower tones. He glanced left, skimmed his gaze over the long wood counter adorned with various wood and tin boxes, a coffee mill and at the far end a scale and cashbox.

He gave a polite nod in answer to the frankly curious gazes of the proprietor and the customers, then swept his gaze across the wood stove and the displays of tools along the back wall. On the right side of the store was the dry goods section and the object of his search. A glass-fronted nest of pigeonhole mailboxes constituted the post office. He stepped to the narrow, waist-high opening in the center of the boxes. A stout, gray-haired man, suspenders forming an X across the back of his white shirt, sat on a stool sorting through a pile of mail on a high table with a safe beneath it.

“Excuse me—”

The man turned, squinted at him through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, then slid off his stool and came to stand in front of the small shelf on the other side of the window. “What can I do for you, stranger?”

Matthew smiled. “I’ve come to introduce myself, and see about getting a mailbox. I’m Matthew Calvert, pastor of Pinewood Church.” The conversations in the store stopped. There was a soft rustling sound as people turned to look at him.

The postmaster nodded. “Heard you’d arrived. Figured you’d be along. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Pastor Calvert.”

“And I, yours, Mr… .”

“Hubble. Zarius Hubble.” The man stretched out his hand and tapped the glass of one of the small cubicles. “This is the church mailbox. Lest you have an objection, I’ll put your mail in here. Save you having to rent a box.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hubble. That will be fine.”

The postmaster nodded, then fixed a stern gaze on him. “I can’t do that for others with you who will be getting mail, mind you. Your missus or such will need their own box.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Matthew turned and almost collided with a small group of people standing behind him. The short, thin man closest to him held out his hand.

“I’m Allan Cargrave. I own this establishment, along with my brother Henry. You met him this morning. I’ve been looking forward to your coming, Pastor Calvert. We all have.”

Matthew took his hand in a firm clasp. “Then our goal has been the same, Mr. Cargrave. I’m pleased to meet you.” He smiled and turned to the others.

* * *

Willa glanced at her lunch basket, now half-full of hickory nuts, going out the door in Trudy Hoffman’s hand and smiled. The impromptu contest had proved successful in a way she had not expected. Trudy and Sally Calvert had both suggested Puffy as a name for the cat in the story and friendship had budded between the girls when the name was chosen as the favorite by the class. The friendship was firmed when Sally told Trudy she could have the basket as they shared the prize.

Her smile faded. She was quite certain there was something more than shyness bothering Sally. She’d seen tears glistening in the little girl’s eyes that afternoon. She walked to the door to watch Joshua and Sally cross the town park to the parsonage. Another smile formed. If the squirrels didn’t get them, the park would soon be boasting a trail of hickory nut trees started by Sally’s half of the prize falling from Joshua’s pockets.

She pulled the door closed and watched the children. Why weren’t they running and laughing on their way home? She studied their slow steps, the slump of their small shoulders. Something was amiss. They looked…sad. Perhaps they missed their friends in Albany. It was hard for children to leave a familiar home and move to a strange town where they knew no one. She would make certain the village children included Joshua and Sally in their games at the welcome dinner Sunday. And she would speak with Mrs. Calvert about the children. Perhaps there was something more she could do to help them adjust to their new life in Pinewood. Meanwhile, she had a new lunch basket to buy. She hurried down the stairs and headed for the mercantile.

* * *

Matthew blotted his notes, closed his Bible and pushed back from his desk. Moonlight drew a lacy shadow of the denuded branches of the maple in the side yard on the ground, silvered the fallen leaves beneath it. An owl hooted. His lips slanted into a grin. Miss Wright was correct. Pinewood was very different from Albany.

His pulse sped at the memory of her walking toward them, neat and trim in her dark red gown with a soft smile warming her lovely face. She had, again, stolen his breath when their gazes met. And the way she had solved Sally’s rebellion against going to school today…

A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. She had made up that business about a cat with no name and the contest with a prize right there on the spot.

It was obvious Miss Wright loved children. How did she feel about God?

He clenched his hands and set his jaw, shaken by a sudden awareness of the expectation in his heart of seeing her sitting in the congregation Sunday morning.

Chapter Three

“How could you be so wrong about those children? They are his wards.”

Willa placed her platter of meat tarts on the plank table and looked up at Ellen. “Pastor Calvert brought them to school, they look like him and their last name is the same. I assumed he was their father, not their uncle. It was an understandable mistake.” Tears stung her eyes. Those poor children. To lose both their mother and father at such a young age. No wonder they looked sad.

“Perhaps, but— Oh, look at this old gown.” Ellen batted at the ruffles on her bodice. “If I had known Pastor Calvert was a bachelor I would have had Mother hem my new gown. She says the color makes my eyes look larger and bluer.”

Willa squared her shoulders and gave Ellen a look permitted by their years of friendship. Her friend hadn’t given a thought to the children—other than to be thankful the pastor was not their father. “You look beautiful in that gown, and you know it, Ellen. Now stop pouting. It’s wasted on me. I’ve watched you looking in the mirror to practice protruding your lower lip, remember?”

The offending lip was pulled back into its normal position. “Very well. I suppose I understand your error. And I forgive you. But all the same, I am distressed. Had I known the truth of Matthew Calvert’s marital state, I could have thought of a plan to catch his attention. Look!”

The hissed words tickled her ear. She glanced in the direction Ellen indicated. Matthew Calvert was coming across the church grounds toward the tables, his progress hindered by every young, unmarried lady in his congregation and their mothers. “So that’s where all the women are. I wondered. Usually they are hovering over the food to— Billy Karcher, you put down those cookies! They’re for after the meal.”

The eight-year-old looked up from beneath the dark locks dangling on his forehead and gave her a gap-tooth grin. “I’m only makin’ thure I get thome.”

Willa fought back a smile at his lost-tooth lisp and gave him her teacher look. “Those cookies are to share. You put that handful back and I promise to save two of them for you.”

The boy heaved a sigh, dropped the cookies back onto the plate and ran off to join the children playing tag in the park. She searched the group. Where were Joshua and Sally?

“Selfish little beast.”

Willa jerked her gaze back to Ellen. “Billy is a child, not a beast.”

“They seem one and the same to me.” Ellen glanced toward the church and sucked in a breath. “Pastor Calvert is coming this way. And he seems quite purposeful in his destination. I guess I caught his attention when Father introduced us after all.” A smug smile curved Ellen’s lovely, rosy lips. She turned her back, raised her hands and pinched her cheeks. “Are my curls in place, Willa?”

She looked at the cluster of blond curls peeking from beneath the back of Ellen’s flower-bedecked hat and fought down a sudden, strong urge to yank one of them. “They’re fine.” She turned away from her friend’s smug smile. Ellen’s conceit had alienated most of their old friends, and it was putting a strain on their friendship. She sighed and moved the cookie plate to the back side of the table out of the reach of small, grasping hands. Ellen had been different before Callie Conner’s family had moved away. Their raven-haired friend’s astonishing beauty had kept Ellen’s vanity subdued. And Callie’s sweet nature—

“May I interrupt your work a moment, ladies?”

Matthew Calvert’s deep voice, as warm and smooth as the maple syrup the villagers made every spring, caused a shiver to run up her spine. She frowned, snatched the stem of a bright red leaf that had fallen on a bowl of boiled potatoes and tossed it to the ground. With a voice like that, it was no wonder the man was a preacher of some renown.

Good manners dictated that she turn and smile—indignation rooted her in place. Joshua and Sally were nowhere in sight, yet Matthew Calvert had come seeking out Ellen to satisfy his own…aims. Well, she wanted nothing to do with a man who neglected the care of his young wards to satisfy his own selfishness. She looked at the people spreading blankets on the ground in preparation for their picnic meal and silently urged them to hurry. Beside her, Ellen made a slow turn, smiled and looked up through her long lashes. Another ploy perfected before the mirror. One that made men stammer and stutter.

“May I help you, Reverend Calvert?”

Willa scowled at her friend’s dulcet tone and moved a small crock of pickles closer to the potatoes, focused her attention on the green vine pattern circling the rim of the large bowl. She had no desire to hear the pastor’s flirtatious response to Ellen’s coyness. She wanted to go home—away from them both.

“Thank you, Miss Hall, you’re most kind. But it’s Miss Wright I seek.”

Shock zinged all the way to her toes. What could Matthew Calvert possibly want with her? Ellen evidently thought the same if the hastily erased look of surprise on her friend’s face was any indication. She turned. “You wished to speak with me?”

Something flashed in the pastor’s eyes. Surprise? Puzzlement? Shock at her coolness? No doubt the handsome Matthew Calvert was unaccustomed to such treatment from women.