Donovan's Daughter Page 4

  The Austins had two children, nine-year-old Daisy and 11-year-old Marla, both of whom were in Miss Donovan’s class. Before the girls left the table the conversation turned to the high price Miss Donovan’s lunch basket brought at the auction. As soon as the girls were out of earshot, Kay teased Alex.

  “Honestly, Alex,” Kay spoke in feigned rebuke. “You didn’t even try to bid on Miss Donovan’s basket. You can’t tell me that you don’t find her attractive.”

  Alex’s eyes sparkled with laughter. “You’re right, Kay, I can’t tell you I don’t find her attractive, but it’s a good thing I didn’t bid, since I had only 25¢ in my pocket.”

  Kay became instantly alert, an action Alex did not miss.

  “Calm down, Kay, I have a sufficiency. My last three patients all paid with food, and you know when I go hungry, I land myself on your doorstep.”

  “Well, just see that you do!” Kay spoke the words with a gruffness she didn’t feel and left the table. Dean took a sip of his coffee and leaned back in his chair.

  “She worries about you.”

  “I know she does, but I’m fine, really.”

  “Tell me something, Alex. If Miss Donovan’s basket hadn’t topped out so high, would you have been interested?”

  “I don’t know,” the younger man answered honestly.

  “Linette has been gone for over four years, Alex. Does it still feel unfaithful to you when you think about marrying again?”

  “No, but sometimes I think I’ve lived as a bachelor for too long. I feel set in my ways.”

  “I can see why you would, since you’re all of 30.” Dean’s voice was dry, and Alex smiled. Both men were quiet for a few minutes, and then the youngest Austin girl joined them.

  “Do you want to see what I made, Uncle Alex?”

  “Sure.”

  Alex took the offered picture. It was a pencil drawing of an open field of grass and wildflowers. Daisy showed real talent, and Alex’s compliment was sincere.

  “Thank you,” she told him. “It’s for Miss Donovan because I think she must like pretty things.”

  “Why is that?” her father wanted to know.

  “Because she’s so pretty,” the young girl spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if this must be obvious to everyone.

  Daisy went on her way, and Dean started to ask Alex a question but found him studying the picture Daisy had left on the table. For some reason the look on the younger man’s face caused him to keep still.

  Marcail dropped the last of her hairpins onto the table and shook her head carefully. She massaged her temples as her hair fell out of its braids in a mass of waves down her back and to her hips. She sank into the rocking chair and prayed that her headache would go away.

  Until the last few weeks she had never worn her hair up for more than a few hours, and by the time church was over and she’d eaten with the family of one of her students, her head was throbbing. She fingered a few strands and thought with regret over the way Allie had responded when she asked her to cut it. Allie had been more than willing until they had arrived in Allie’s bedroom and Marcail had taken her hair down.

  “I can’t do it, Marcail.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t do it?” Marcail had been truly dismayed.

  “I just can’t,” her friend spoke apologetically. “I mean, I had no idea it was so long and beautiful. I just can’t cut your hair.”

  Marcail had sighed. “Who can I ask?”

  Allie shrugged. “I could ask Mama, but I’m sure she’ll say no.”

  “Will you check with her anyway?”

  Allie had gone to her mother then, but just as she predicted, Mrs. Warren would not touch Marcail’s blue-black locks.

  Marcail didn’t know what to do. She had to wear her hair up in public, and there was nothing wrong with the school board’s request. But Marcail was young, and Kaitlin had always encouraged her to pull her hair away from her face, letting the back hang free. Her hair curled naturally at the ends, so she never did anything but wash it and brush the tangles out.

  Marcail let her head fall back against the back of the rocker. It was a depressing thought, but it looked as though she would have to wait until she was in Santa Rosa for Christmas. Then she would ask Kaitlin to cut her hair.

  seven

  On Monday morning, the children had just taken their seats when a large black carriage pulled up in front of the schoolhouse. Marcail, having heard the horses, moved to the door. She watched as a frail boy of approximately 11 years stepped down and moved toward the school. Marcail spotted Mrs. Duckworth in the dark interior and knew that at long last Sydney had arrived.

  Marcail greeted her new student warmly and felt instant pity as she looked at his pale, pinched features. He was polite, but there was a hesitant, almost defiant look in his eye that, strangely enough, made Marcail want to hold him.

  Most of the children in class were familiar with Sydney, so Marcail wasted no time in long introductions. The day moved along very smoothly, and Marcail learned in no time at all that Sydney was in line with the others his age, if not ahead of them, scholastically.

  Not until the afternoon of Sydney’s second day in class did he show any sign of behavior beyond the ideal. Marcail asked him to come forward and take his turn reading aloud, but he told her he didn’t feel up to it.

  “Are you ill?” Marcail questioned him.

  “No, I just don’t want to.”

  “I’m sorry, Sydney, that you would rather not, but this is not a time when you have a choice. Please come forward and do your reading assignment.”

  Sydney stared at Marcail without moving from his seat.

  Considering this was Marcail’s first confrontation, she was very calm. “You will come up and read, Sydney, as I have instructed, or stay in your seat for the afternoon recess.”

  With ill-disguised boredom, he shuffled to the front. Marcail listened attentively as he read. He did an excellent job, and she told him as much, but he pouted for some time in his seat.

  Marcail sat on the schoolhouse steps during recess, and for the first time had to break up an argument between two boys, one of whom was Sydney. She was almost relieved when it was time to dismiss the children and wondered if the rest of the year was going to be like today.

  Marcail went straight home and stayed on her knees for over an hour in prayer for Sydney and the rest of her class. By the next morning she thought she was ready to tackle anything, but when Sydney disappeared during the morning recess, Marcail nearly panicked. One of the other children found him hiding behind the outhouse, and Marcail, not doing anything to hide her anger, made Sydney write sentences on the board until lunch.

  Thursday was perfect. Marcail was not lulled into a false sense of security, but it did give her hope that Sydney could behave when he put his mind to the task. It also made the events of Friday all the more painful.

  By Friday at lunchtime Marcail had corrected the older boys on more than one occasion about talking out of turn. Sydney had been the worst offender. Marcail hoped that some time outside during lunch would help and that he would come back in ready to work.

  For an hour after lunch everything seemed to be more settled, but there was an anxiousness about Sydney that concerned Marcail. She turned to write something on the board, thinking as she did that she would ask him if he was feeling well. But as she turned back to the class, a rock flew seemingly out of nowhere and struck her on the cheek.

  Marcail’s head snapped back, more out of surprise than anything else, and she grabbed the edge of her desk to keep her balance. When Marcail looked up, her students were as still as death. She searched their faces and felt frightened over the searing pain on her own.

  Marcail finally reached with a shaking hand to touch her face. She stared for a long time at the blood on her fingertips. Her voice shook as she addressed the class.

  “Throwing objects in this classroom will not be tolerated. Do you understand?” Marcail didn’t wait for an answer befo
re going on, but she did notice that more than one head turned toward Sydney.

  “I find, children,” Marcail’s entire body had begun to shake, “that I’m not feeling well. School will be dismissed a little early today.”

  It took a moment for the children to understand that they could leave, but within the space of ten seconds they exited the room with unusual haste.

  Marcail stayed on her feet until she reached her house where she collapsed on the bed. Unable to stop shaking, she lay as still as she could for some minutes before rising and wiping her face with a damp, cool cloth. She stood before the mirror and cleaned the cut, which was much smaller than it felt. In fact, with the blood gone, it was barely noticeable. The effort of cleaning, along with the deep feeling of disappointment within her, tired her. Again she sought her bed.

  Once there, Marcail curled onto her side, her uninjured cheek pressed into the pillow, and tried to pray, but she must have dozed because she lost all track of time. A sound woke her, and she sat up wondering why she was in bed during the day.

  The pain in her cheek brought her thoughts quickly back to earth as someone knocked on the door. Realizing that it had been the knocking which had awakened her, she halfway hoped that whoever it was would go away before she answered. On legs that were just a little bit shaky, she moved toward the door. The person standing on the other side was Dr. Montgomery.

  Marcail stared at him for five full, silent seconds before realizing she was being rude. He was the last person she wanted to see, but the least she could do was invite him in.

  “Please come in, Dr. Montgomery.”

  Alex stepped over the threshold, and once in the room, turned to face Marcail. He didn’t recognize the fact that he’d just wakened her. She was as white as a sheet, and if he’d had any closer relationship with her, he’d have ordered her immediately to bed.

  “I don’t wish to disturb you, Miss Donovan, but Marla Austin came by my office. When I asked why she wasn’t in school, she said you weren’t feeling well. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, no,” Marcail spoke and took a step back toward the door. “I’ll be fine, but thank you for checking on me.” Marcail opened the door, relieved that this was all he had come about, and stood expectantly.

  Her message was more than clear to Alex, and he moved toward the opening but paused in the doorway. Because he was not comfortable with her color or the way she wanted to be rid of him, he was on the verge of breaking his own rule about pushing medical attention on someone who was sane enough to refuse him.

  “Are you sure I can’t do something for you?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” This time her voice was emphatic. “But thank you for stopping.”

  She seemed to be a little more at ease with him heading outside, and Alex, assuring himself that she looked a little better than before, went on his way. He sat astride Kelsey for a few seconds before starting down the road, wondering as he did so how she’d obtained the little cut on her cheek, and knowing in light of her almost frightened response to him that he would probably never find out.

  eight

  Marcail spent a long time studying her Bible and praying on Saturday morning. She read in the book of Philippians, the second chapter, that she was to put others first, but one of her students had acted in violence toward her and that was not to be tolerated. Marcail knew she had to go for help and advice.

  By 10:30 she was on her way to see Mr. Flynn at the bank. The scratch on her face was very small, unnoticeable really, but Marcail was quite conscious of it.

  The bank teller gave her a searching look when she asked for Mr. Flynn, and she forced herself not to reach toward her face. She watched him disappear into the back office and reappear with the bank manager.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure, Miss Donovan?” Mr. Flynn smiled cordially until he got a close look at Marcail’s tense features.

  “I have a problem I need to discuss with you, Mr. Flynn. Is this an opportune time?”

  “Yes, certainly.” He’d become somewhat tense himself in the last few seconds, and his movements were agitated as he led Marcail to his office. Marcail took the chair Mr. Flynn gestured toward and watched as he sat behind his desk. She was on the verge of explaining her visit when Mr. Flynn spoke.

  “Is there a problem with someone in your class?”

  “Yes, sir, there is.”

  “I hope it’s not Sydney Duckworth. I can go to the parents of anyone else in town, but if Sydney’s been difficult, well, you’ll just have to do your best.”

  Marcail couldn’t believe her ears, and her look must have registered her surprise.

  Mr. Flynn continued: “I know I’ve shocked you and probably caused you to think I don’t deserve my position as head of the school board. However, Mrs. Duckworth will make the town miserable if I go to her and complain.”

  “He threw a rock at me, Mr. Flynn.” Marcail’s voice reflected her mounting anger. “It hit me in the face!”

  “You saw him do this?”

  “You can’t possibly be questioning my word?”

  “No, I’m not.” Mr. Flynn’s voice was kind. “But please understand, Miss Donovan—Mrs. Duckworth will.”

  Marcail was silent for an entire minute. This was inconceivable to her.

  “I guess I’ll have to go to Mrs. Duckworth myself,” Marcail said, thinking she had come up with a logical solution.

  “I really hope you won’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the last five times a teacher went to Cordelia and complained about Sydney, she pressured the rest of us into keeping our children out of school until the teacher quit. We’ve had to hire other teachers in the middle of the year. In fact, you’re the ninth schoolteacher we’ve had in three years.”

  “And you let her get away with this?” Marcail was incredulous. “Just because you’re afraid she won’t speak to you the next time you pass on the street?”

  “I wish it were that simple,” the banker’s face was drawn. “You see, Mrs. Duckworth owns over half the town, including this bank. When things don’t go her way, our rents go up or we find ourselves completely out of work.

  “Having to wear dark clothing and put your hair up at all times is part of her belief that the schoolteacher must be a shining example to the children of town. But, she’s completely blind to her own selfishness or the deeds of her grandson.”

  Marcail felt something grow cold inside of her. It chilled her to think that one person had this much power.

  “You could just up and quit; others have. You certainly have grounds, but we’re very pleased with your work and hope you’ll stay.”

  For just an instant Marcail’s heart grabbed at the word “quit.” How easy it would be to run home to Father, but then Marcail remembered how badly she wanted to prove to herself that she could do this.

  She also realized the word “quit” was not a part of her vocabulary. She shook her head ever so slightly.

  “I take it that means you’re not quitting. Well, I’m glad to hear it. I’ll start making surprise visits to the schoolhouse every few days. I think if more than one person is watching, Sydney will be less likely to act up.”

  Marcail nodded almost numbly. She could see that nothing more was going to be offered to her. As Mr. Flynn saw her to the door and she began the walk home, her mind worked over the options before her. Quitting was out, but she could go to Mrs. Duckworth. However, Mr. Flynn’s initial response to her predicament had shown her that such a move would cause trouble for the entire town.

  Marcail was tempted to write her brother-in-law, Rigg, or her father and pour out her entire story, knowing instinctively they would show up in Willits within hours or days of hearing from her. But all her life she’d been protected, and she so wanted to stand on her own this time.

  Marcail’s mind played over every second of the previous afternoon, and she realized that in throwing that rock, Sydney had succeeded in shocking even himself. With that in
mind, Marcail decided that she would confront Sydney on Monday so he would know where he stood, and then pray there would be no more outbursts.

  “Hello, Miss Donovan.”

  Marcail was startled out of her musings by the sound of Dr. Montgomery’s voice. She’d been so intent on her walking and planning that she had not heard his approach.

  “Hello, Dr. Montgomery.” Marcail’s hand had gone to her throat in surprise. She tried to smile pleasantly, but as usual he made her nervous, and she was a bit embarrassed over how preoccupied she’d been. She watched as he swung from his mount to stand before her.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Marcail replied, actually mustering up a smile.

  Alex nodded and continued to watch her. He had wanted a closer look at her than his mounted position would allow, and now he was able to see that her color was much better than the day before. In fact, she was rather flushed. On the other hand, her discomfort in his presence hadn’t changed in the least; she was obviously afraid of him. He wondered absently if it was just him, all doctors, or men in general.

  Marcail was standing as far from him as propriety would allow, and for some reason Alex was torn between turning on his best bedside manner or laughing. The latter won out, and Marcail watched as his eyes lit with some inner amusement.

  Alex witnessed the raising of her chin and knew that the voice she used to address him was one she used with her students.

  “Was there something you needed to see me about, doctor? If not, my schedule is quite full, and I’d like to be on my way.”

  Alex caught a light of vulnerability in her eyes, slight, but nevertheless evident to him. All humor fled.

  “I’m glad to see you’re doing well, Miss Donovan. Please don’t let me keep you.”

  Marcail nodded to him by way of answer and turned even before he mounted his horse. She felt his eyes on her back for some steps, but before long her mind was back on Sydney and she didn’t give Willits’ handsome young doctor another thought.