Wooing the Schoolmarm

Willa wrapped her bread and butter with a napkin, placed the bundle in the small wicker basket, added an apple and slammed the lid closed. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about yesterday? About the way her heart had sped at Matthew Calvert’s nearness when he removed her cloak? About that carriage ride, and the way her breath had caught when he took her hand in his? Those things were mere courtesies. Yet here she was mooning about them. It was disgusting. Why wasn’t she thinking about the way he had again manipulated her into offering to help with the children to free his time? Where was her self-control?

She dropped the dirty knife in the dishpan, swirled her cloak about her shoulders, grabbed her lunch basket and strode to the kitchen doorway. “I’m ready to go, Mama.”

Her mother nodded, poured the iron kettle of steaming water she held into the washtub, then turned and stepped to the pump to refill it. “I figured you’d be going early to stoke up the stove. It turned right cold last night.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. She hated the tiredness that lived in her mother’s voice. Hated that her mother worked from dawn to dusk every day but Sunday to keep the small cabin they called home. Most of all she hated her father for walking away and leaving her mother to find a way for them to survive without him.

She lifted the hem of her long skirt and stepped down into the lean-to wash shed.

Her mother raised her head and gave her a wry smile. “One thing about scrubbing clothes for a living—you’re never cold.” Her green eyes narrowed, peered at her. “What are you riled about?”

“Nothing. Except that you work too hard. Let me get that!” Willa plopped her basket on the corner of the wash bench and grabbed hold of the kettle handle. “You need to eat, Mama. I made a piece of bread and honey for you. It’s on the kitchen table.”

Her mother straightened and brushed a lock of curly hair off her sweat-beaded forehead. “Don’t you know it’s the mother who’s supposed to take care of the child, Willa?” There was sorrow and regret in the soft words.

“You’ve been doing that all my life, Mama.” She grabbed a towel and pulled the iron crane toward her, lifted the newly filled kettle onto a hook beside the one already heating and slowly pushed the crane back. The flames devouring the chunks of wood rose and licked at the large pot. The beads of water sliding down the iron sides hissed in protest. “I hope that someday I will be able to take care of you, and you will never have to do laundry again.”

Her mother smiled, dumped the first pile of dirty clothes into the washtub, set the washboard in place and reached for the bar of soap. “You’re a wonderful daughter to want to take care of me, Willa. But your future husband might have something to say about that.”

She snatched the soap out of her mother’s reach. “I told you there’s not going to be a future husband for me, Mama. I am never going to marry. Thomas cured me of that desire.” And Papa. “Now please, go and eat your bread while the rinse water is heating. I have to go.”

She put the soap back in its place, hung the towel back on its nail and picked up her basket. “Please leave the ironing, Mama. I will do it tonight. And I’ll stop at Brody’s on my way home and get some pork chops for supper. Danny told me they were butchering pigs at their farm yesterday. Now, I’ve got to leave or I’ll never get the schoolroom warm before my students come.”

She kissed her mother’s warm, moist cheek, opened the door of the lean-to and stepped out into breaking dawn of the brisk October morning. Dim, gray light guided her around the cabin to the road and filtered through the overhanging branches of trees along the path as she hurried on her way.

* * *

The stove was cold to the touch. Willa grabbed the handle of the grate, gave it a vigorous shake to get rid of the ashes that covered the live embers, then opened the drafts. The remaining coals glowed, turned red. She added a handful of kindling, stood shivering until it caught fire, then fed in a few chunks of firewood, lit a spill and closed the firebox door.

The flame on the spill fluttered. She cupped her free hand around it, stepped to the wall and unwound the narrow chain to lower the oil-lamp chandelier. The glass chimneys fogged from her warm breath as she lifted them one by one, lit the wicks, set the flame to a smokeless, steady burn and settled them back in place. Heat smarted her fingertips. She lit the oil lamp on her desk and blew out the shortened sliver of wood.

Everything was in readiness. Almost. She grabbed the oak bucket off the short bench and headed for the back door to fetch fresh drinking water from the well.

The door latch chilled her fingers. She stared at her hand gripping the metal and a horrible, hollow feeling settled in her stomach. This would be the sum of her life. She turned and surveyed the readied classroom, then looked down at the bucket dangling from her hand. She would spend her years teaching the children of others—until her mother’s strength gave out and she had to take over doing the loggers’ laundry to keep their home. Her back stiffened. “Well, at least I won’t have to live with a broken heart.” She hurled the defiant words into the emptiness, squared her shoulders and opened the door. If she hurried there was still time for her to write her letter before the children came.

Dearest Callie,

I was so pleased to receive your latest letter. And I thank you for your kind invitation to visit, perhaps I shall, later when school closes. I do apologize for being so tardy in answering, but you know helping Mama with her work leaves me little time for pleasurable activities.

I must tell you about Reverend Calvert and his wards. I am certain your aunt Sophia has written you about him as there is little talk of anything else in Pinewood since his arrival. And, truly, I am grateful for that as talk of Thomas’s hasty departure has ceased.

Willa frowned, tapped her lips with her fingertip and stared at the letter, then dipped her pen in the inkwell and made her confession.

You, and Sadie, and Mama are the only ones who know the truth of Thomas’s desertion of me. My pride demands that others believe I told him to follow his dream and go west without me, that the choice to remain behind was mine. I could not bear to face the pity of the entire village! Sadie knows well what I mean.

Oh, Callie, the folly of believing a man’s words of love. But I know you are aware of that danger. How my heart aches for you, my dear friend. I am so sorry your parents persist in their desire to find a wealthy husband for you, no matter his character. You write that you are praying and trusting God to undertake and bring you a man of strong faith and high morals in spite of their efforts, but I do not believe God troubles Himself with the difficulties and despairs of mere mortals. He certainly has never bestirred Himself on Mama’s behalf. Or mine.

Reverend Calvert is tall, and well-proportioned, and exceedingly handsome. He possesses an abundant charm, and a very persuasive manner. A dangerous combination, as you might imagine. One must stay on one’s guard around him lest

Light footfalls raced across the porch. The door opened. Willa wiped the nib of her pen, stoppered her inkwell and blotted the unfinished letter.

“Good morning, Mith Wright.” Billy Karcher shucked his jacket and hat, hung them on a peg on the wall and gave her a grin. “I’m getting a new tooth. Wanna thee?”

“Good morning, Billy. I certainly do.” She folded the letter and tucked it into her lunch basket to finish later.

The second grader tipped his head up and skimmed his lips back to expose the white edge of a new front tooth.

* * *

“Thank you for the prompt service, Mr. Dibble.” Matthew watched the fluid stride of his bay mare as the blacksmith led her in a tight circle. She was no longer favoring her left rear leg. “She seems fine now. What was the problem?”

“Nail was set wrong. Irritated the quick enough it got sore.” The blacksmith shook his head and led the horse over to him. “It’s a good thing you brought her in. Shoddy work like that can maim a horse.” He handed over the halter lead. “I checked the other shoes. They’re all good.”

“That’s good to know.” He stroked the bay’s neck, got a soft nicker and head bump in return. “What do I owe you?”

“Fourteen cents will take care of it.”

He counted out the coins, smiled and handed them over. “Thank you again, Mr. Dibble. It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’ll look forward to seeing you in church Sunday.”

The man’s gray eyes clouded, his hard, callused hand dropped the coins in the pocket of the leather apron that protected him. “I don’t go to church, Reverend. I figure all that praying and such is a waste of time. God’s never done anything for—” The livery owner’s straight, dark brown brows pulled down into a frown. “I’ll leave it there. Details don’t matter.”

“They do to the Lord. But He already knows them.”

“He don’t pay them no mind.”

“Perhaps you’ve misunderstood, Mr. Dibble.” He smiled to take any challenge from his words, stroked his mare’s neck and framed a careful reply to the man’s acrimony. “God doesn’t always answer our prayers as we hope or expect He will. Or perhaps God hasn’t had time—”

“I understand all right. There ain’t no way to not understand. And He’s had time aplenty.” David Dibble gave a curt nod and strode off toward his livery stables.

He watched him disappear into the shadowed interior. “I don’t know what is causing Mr. Dibble’s anger and bitterness, Lord, but I pray You will answer his prayers according to Your will. And that You will save his soul. Amen.” He took a firm grip on Clover’s halter and started for the road.

A buggy swept into the graveled yard, rumbled to a halt beside him. He glanced up, tugged on the halter and stopped his horse. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hall.” He lifted his free hand and removed his hat, dipped his head in the passenger’s direction. “Miss Hall.”

“Good afternoon, Reverend Calvert.” Ellen Hall’s full, red lips curved upward. “How fortunate that we have chanced to meet. Isn’t it, Father?”

The words were almost purred. Ellen Hall looked straight into his eyes, then swept her long, dark lashes down, tipped her head and fussed with a button on her glove. A practiced maneuver if he’d ever seen one—and he’d seen plenty back in Albany. He ignored her flirting and shifted his gaze back to Conrad Hall.

“Fortuitous indeed.” The man’s blue eyes peered at him from beneath dark, bushy brows. “Mrs. Hall and I would like to extend you a dinner invitation, Reverend. Tomorrow night. Our home is the second house on Oak Street, opposite the village park. We eat promptly at six o’clock.”

The man’s tone left no room for refusal. And it was certainly impolitic to turn down an invitation to dine with one of the founders of the church, but he had no choice. He chose his words carefully. “That’s very kind of you and Mrs. Hall, sir, but I’m afraid I must decline. I’m not yet fully settled in and my children—”

“Will be welcome, Reverend. We shall see you at six tomorrow night.” The man glanced at his daughter, then flicked the reins and drove off.

Ellen gave him a sidelong look from beneath her lashes, lifted her gloved hand in a small wave and smiled. He dipped his head in response, then replaced his hat and tugged the bay into motion.

“Did you see that, Clover?” His growled words were punctuated by the thud of the bay’s hooves as he led her across the wood walk into the road. “If I ever see you flirting with a stallion like that, I’ll trade you to Mr. Totten and you can spend the rest of your days pulling his trolley.”

The horse snorted and tossed her head as he turned her toward home.