Donovan's Daughter Read online

  Marcail would have been surprised to know that Mrs. Duckworth watched from the living room window until she was out of sight. The older woman was torn between consternation and admiration. Consternation because Miss Donovan wasn’t going to be as easy to manage as she hoped; admiration because in a very respectful way she’d stood up to her, and that was something few people had ever done.

  four

  Marcail spent the rest of the day in the schoolhouse preparing for Monday morning. Her mind was never far from her luncheon with Mrs. Duckworth. However, each time she felt her worries assail her, she prayed and asked the Lord for wisdom.

  Marcail was writing her name on the blackboard, her last job before heading back to her house to prepare some supper, when someone knocked and entered.

  “I really thought they were exaggerating. Well, it wouldn’t be exaggerating because that means something gets bigger. What’s the opposite of exaggeration, when you really mean something is small?”

  Marcail stared at the round, pink-faced young woman in the doorway and smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Maybe if you tell me what they were exaggerating about.” Marcail was beginning to think she’d walked into the middle of a bad theater performance.

  “Your size. I mean, they said you were tiny, but I never dreamed . . .”

  Marcail couldn’t help but laugh. The other woman was talking again, so she tried to control herself.

  “And here I thought we were going to be good friends, but being with you is only going to accentuate my size.” The talkative visitor moved closer.

  “Your hair is really black, isn’t it? I mean, really black, and mine is so blonde it’s almost white.”

  Marcail laughed again, and the rotund blonde smiled also, thinking the new schoolteacher was just wonderful.

  “My name is Alice Warren. But you can call me Allie because we’re going to be friends.”

  “I’d like that.” Marcail smiled a genuine smile. “My name is Marcail Donovan, and you can call me Marcail, since we’re going to be good friends.”

  “Marcail.” Allie tested the word on her tongue. “Do you spell it with a k?”

  “No, it’s M-a-r-c-a-i-l, but the c is hard.”

  Allie beamed. “I like it. It suits you.” Allie’s face turned to a sudden frown. “But I don’t think Alice suits me. I’ve always pictured myself as a Mirabelle.” She finished this last sentence with a dramatic sigh.

  “Mirabelle?” Marcail bit her lower lip to camouflage her smile.

  “You don’t think so?”

  The smaller woman shook her head apologetically, and they both laughed.

  In the space of the next few minutes, Marcail discovered that Allie’s family ran the sawmill at the other end of town. She had two older brothers, both of whom were the bane of her existence, or so she proclaimed.

  They talked for the better part of an hour before Allie jumped up with a hand to her mouth.

  “I completely forgot why I was here. Mother wants you to come to dinner after church tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’d love to. Thank you.”

  “Good. I’d better go now. By the way, how old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Allie sighed. “I’m 20. Do you think we’ll ever find husbands?” She sighed again and flew out the door. She’d have returned to hug Marcail if she could have read her thoughts.

  I don’t need a husband, Allie—not when I’ve found a friend like you.

  Church was not at all what Marcail expected. The building was fairly large and packed with people. They sang good hymns of faith for most of the service, but not a word of Scripture was read, even during the short sermon. Marcail wondered if this was something out of the ordinary and not the norm. She certainly hoped so.

  Marcail met just about all of her students that day, and by the time she emerged from the building, she was certain the Warren family must have left without her. They had not.

  Marcail exited the building to find Allie standing with two well-built, good-looking men. She approached with a smile, and as soon as she reached them Allie said something outrageous.

  “Marcail, these are my brothers, Logan and Mallory. I believe they are about to make absolute fools of themselves where you are concerned.”

  Marcail’s gaze flew to the faces of the men flanking their sister, but they didn’t seem to be the least put out by her remark. Both of them smiled as though Marcail were a dream come true, and reached at the same time to escort her to the wagon. Allie pushed their hands out of the way with an unladylike snort and took Marcail’s arm herself.

  “Just ignore them, Marcail, or we’ll be here all afternoon deciding who is to help you into the wagon.”

  The boys were on hand to see the ladies into the rear seat, and Marcail soon learned that Allie was right—her brothers couldn’t seem to take their eyes off her.

  With both men turning to look at her every few minutes, the ride seemed to take forever. Their actions caused Marcail to stop and think of how few young women she had seen in church that morning.

  Allie’s parents had gone ahead of their children, so dinner was nearly on the table when the young people arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Warren were gracious, hardworking people, and they welcomed Marcail into their home as if she were a long-lost daughter. But when the dishes were passed and everyone began eating without a prayer of thanks to God, Marcail began to wonder if there wasn’t something very important missing from the lives of these dear people.

  Allie and Marcail took a walk after the meal. Marcail was greatly relieved to escape the interest of the Warren boys. It wasn’t that she found them repulsive; they were nice-looking and seemed very kind. But their quiet watchfulness was beginning to unnerve her.

  “How do you fill your days, Allie?” Marcail asked her new friend.

  “I keep the accounts for the mill and help Mama around the house. I know she likes my company, but she is so anxious to see one of us marry and make her a grandma that it seems that’s all I hear.”

  “So you don’t really care that much if you get married?”

  Allie was quiet a moment, and Marcail apologized for intruding.

  “You didn’t intrude, Marcail, but I’m not sure a girl like you can understand what it’s like for me.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by ‘a girl like me.’”

  “I don’t know either. It’s just that the girls who have no desire to be married are the ones all the boys chase, and girls like me, who really want a husband and family, can’t seem to draw anyone’s attention.”

  “I guess it does seem that way at times, Allie, but I believe that if God wants a person to be married, then He shows that person exactly whom they’re to marry, and when.”

  Allie stared at her new friend uncomprehendingly, and Marcail knew that all she’d just said was completely foreign to Allie.

  The subject of marriage and God was dropped for the time, but Marcail asked God to open the door someday. She wanted to introduce Allie to the Man, Jesus Christ, who would change her life forever if only she would let Him do so.

  five

  On the first day of school Marcail had the worst attack of nerves she’d ever experienced in her life. The coffee she drank made her feel sick to the stomach, and when she burned the piece of bread she was going to eat, she decided to go without.

  Too excited to stay home, she was over at the schoolhouse an hour before the children were expected. There was no need to ring the bell when the time came because the children were already on their way. Marcail rushed to the door when she spotted the first group heading toward the schoolhouse.

  Mr. Flynn had given Marcail a list of whom to expect. She noticed that Sydney Duckworth’s name was not on the list. Without him she had 19 students, the youngest of whom was seven and the oldest 15.

  Marcail introduced herself to the children as they entered the classroom, and then requested their first and last names, even if she’d met them the day before. She fold them to take any seat f
or the time being. They did as they were told, but each and every one turned in his seat to stare at the new teacher. Marcail felt compassion for them. Up to the time she was ten, her mother and then her sister had been her only teachers. When that changed she clearly remembered how worried she’d been about the new instructor liking her.

  “Good morning, class,” she greeted her students once she was in front of the blackboard. Marcail smiled at them with sincere warmth and felt her heart melt over some of the shy smiles she received in return.

  She proceeded to tell the class a little bit about herself before asking each student to stand and introduce himself again. From that point forward, the day flew. Marcail could hardly believe her eyes when the big clock on the wall read 3:00.

  A few parents came in wagons to claim their children, and two students had horses they had stabled for the day in the small barn out back. Most walked, however, and Marcail stood at the door until they were far from view. She stepped back into the room and stood smiling at the little signs that clearly showed children had been there: a crooked chair, marks on the board, the globe on the floor.

  “Thank You, Lord.” She whispered the words. “Thank You for a wonderful day.”

  Marcail had been teaching school for ten days with no sign of Sydney Duckworth. It wasn’t hard to figure out that Mrs. Duckworth had decided against sending him. Even though Marcail would like to have met him, she had other things on her mind, specifically, the lunchbox social scheduled for the next day.

  When Marcail got up on Saturday morning she had already planned what she would put into her basket to be auctioned. The proceeds went to the school, and Marcail was determined that everything be perfect.

  She found a small-handled basket in the cupboard, and after lining it with a yellow linen hand towel, she began to fill it with the lunch she had prepared. All the women of the town, married or single, were encouraged to attend and bring their baskets. The auction would start promptly at 10:30, so all baskets could be auctioned off in time for a noontime picnic for the entire town.

  Marcail used a little piece of string and paper to label her basket. She held the paper for just a moment and stared at the name. Miss Donovan. She felt a little thrill each and every time she wrote it.

  Not certain where the auction was to be held, Marcail left the house a little early. She should have known not to worry since the noise from people gathering in the town square could be heard from 300 yards away. From a distance it sounded as if all 296 of Willits’ residents were in attendance.

  Marcail greeted the families she knew as she made her way to the blanket Mrs. Warren had laid out for her family. Allie was the only one seated, and Marcail joined her.

  “Hi, Marcail. Is your basket all set?”

  “I think so. What’s in yours?”

  The girls traded baskets, and then exchanged compliments and conversation until a good-looking, dark-haired man walked by. Marcail’s gaze followed him as he passed.

  “Handsome, isn’t he?” Allie sounded almost smug.

  Marcail laughed over being caught looking. “Yes, he is,” she said with an unrepentant grin. “Why haven’t I seen him before?”

  “Oh, he keeps to himself. Some say he’s still mourning his wife. But she’s been gone for over four years.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Dr. Alexander Montgomery,” Allie answered and chattered on, but Marcail caught little of it. Her mind was conjuring up a man bending from the saddle to relieve her of her basket, his manner solicitous, his voice kind. But a cold feeling had swept down her spine on hearing the word “doctor.” His good looks and the previous kindness he’d shown her were overshadowed by his title. Marcail knew that if they met and talked she would be cordial, but past experience told her she would never be completely at ease in his presence.

  More thoughts on Willits’ doctor were cut short when the auction began. The women carried their baskets and hampers forward and joined the crowd around the stand.

  Mr. Flynn from the bank was the auctioneer, and the first basket belonged to Mrs. Warren. It was customary for the woman whose basket was on the table to step forward to the platform during the bidding. Mr. Warren knew his job and bought his wife’s basket. It went for a good price and that seemed to get the ball rolling. Baskets and coins were exchanged amid a backdrop of laughter and great fun.

  Marcail’s basket was one of the last to be auctioned. She moved toward the platform and took the hand offered her as she stepped up. Her eyes briefly met those of Dr. Montgomery’s before he released her hand and she turned to face the audience.

  There was a moment of silence that caused Marcail to become a shade nervous. What she couldn’t know was how she appeared to the townspeople at that moment. She wore her dark blue dress with the white collar. Her black hair, braided and then wrapped into a fat bun, shone in the sunlight, and the young, vulnerable look she sported on her beautiful face was enough to stop the men of the town dead in their tracks.

  “Well now,” Mr. Flynn said softly, as though shouting would spoil the moment. “Most of you have met our new schoolmarm, Miss Donovan. Let’s give her a grand welcome to our small town by bidding high on her basket.”

  The bidding started at two bits, and Marcail smiled when it swiftly went to 40¢. There seemed to be four young men bidding—the Warren boys and two men Marcail did not recognize. She felt her face flame when her basket went over a dollar, and the crowd began to cheer with each accelerated bid.

  Mr. Flynn didn’t yell sold until the bidding stopped at $2.75. Marcail had never heard of such a high bid for a lunch basket. She moved in a state of shock and once again felt the doctor’s hand before suddenly being grabbed by someone and nearly pulled from the platform.

  “Take it easy, Rowie.” Marcail heard the smooth tones of Dr. Montgomery’s voice. “You’ve won the basket fair and square; there’s no need to pull her arm off.”

  “Sorry.” The young man apologized but did not relinquish his hold on Marcail’s arm.

  “Do you two know each other?” Again the doctor spoke.

  Marcail could only shake her head as she stared first at the doctor and then at the burly stranger who held her arm in a possessive grip.

  “Miss Donovan, this is Jethro Kilmer. Rowie, this is Miss Donovan.”

  “How do you know her?” Rowie’s jaw suddenly jutted forward, and if Marcail had recognized the signs of jealousy, she would have backed completely away from this squarely built man who had bought her lunch basket.

  “She’s my closest neighbor, Rowie. You know I live past the schoolhouse.” The doctor’s voice was once again honey smooth, and the younger man calmed visibly.

  Marcail was given no chance to thank Alex for his help before she was pulled across the grass to the area where everyone had placed their blankets. When Rowie stopped to look around, Marcail gently disengaged her arm.

  “Which blanket is yours?”

  “I was sitting with the Warrens.”

  Rowie’s head spun around so quickly to face Marcail that she thought he might have hurt himself.

  “You like one of the Warren boys?”

  Marcail blinked at the aggressiveness in his voice. “Allie and I are friends,” she explained calmly.

  Again she watched him relax. She could tell he was going to take her arm again and drag her off to who-knows-where, so Marcail turned and walked with steely determination to the Warrens’ blanket.

  Mr. and Mrs. Warren were already seated on the blanket. Seth Porter, a man Marcail had not met, bought Allie’s lunch. He and Allie were headed their way. Allie introduced Marcail to Seth, and they talked for just a few moments. Marcail immediately noted the excited gleam in Allie’s eyes and the lovely blush on her cheeks each time Seth looked in her direction.

  Everyone was in high spirits as they began to eat, but Marcail soon discovered that this lunch was going to be work. Rowie sat as close to her as she would allow. She did her best to keep her small basket between them. He
didn’t have much to say, but she felt his eyes on her much of the time. When he wasn’t watching Marcail, he was looking at the other people on the quilt as though he wished they would disappear into another state.

  Logan, who had not bid on anyone else’s lunch, stared at Marcail also, putting something of a damper on her afternoon. Mr. Warren seemed to sense what was happening and sent his gawking son on an errand as soon as he was finished eating.

  People began to mill around, and Marcail was tempted to rise also. Weighing how safe it would be to wander around town with this man, she hesitated. When Seth, Allie, and Mr. and Mrs. Warren left, leaving only Rowie and Marcail on the blanket, he spoke.

  “You don’t have a boyfriend back home or anything like that, do you?”

  “I’m sorry, Jethro, but I don’t feel that’s something you need to know.”

  “I like it that you call me Jethro.”

  Marcail sighed with frustration. He hadn’t heard a word she said. Rowie went on to ask Marcail a score of questions about how she liked children and housework. That he was in the market for a wife was more than obvious. Marcail decided to nip his thoughts in the bud, at least where she was concerned.

  With a gentle tone, she told him in no uncertain terms that she was not in the market for a husband. Rowie looked crestfallen until Marcail told him it wasn’t personal, and that she didn’t want to be married to anyone. Rowie didn’t push the point, but Marcail had the distinct impression that he believed he could change her mind. When they parted company later that day, Marcail did so with a prayer that Jethro Kilmer would not push her, because if he chose to, his feelings were certain to get hurt.

  six

  Alexander Montgomery helped himself to a serving of potatoes and then passed the bowl to the young girl on his right. He was having dinner, as he did most Sundays, with his best friends, Dean and Kay Austin.