The Moonlight School

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Patting Jenny’s whiskery nose, he glanced at Lucy. “Come to the brush arbor on Sunday’s fortnight.” He paused, realizing she might not understand him, which she didn’t. “Two Sundays from now.”

  “What’s a brush arbor?”

  “It’s church, held outdoors.” Gracefully, he swung a leg over Lyric like she was just another stepping-stone. “Some of the men work together to create a little sanctuary, right in the midst of God’s creation. We’ll have the worship service, and in the afternoon comes the singing school.”

  “Right in the woods?”

  He gave her that patient look. “‘Hope can be found even in the darkest of forests,’” he quoted. Then added, “As the psalmist says, ‘Let all the trees in the forest sing for joy.’”

  “What if it rains?”

  “I always say a prayer that the weather smiles upon us.”

  “Does that work?”

  That brought an easy smile to his lips. “So far, so good. In fact, we’ve had naught but glorious Sundays, the sky as blue as a jay’s wing, a light breeze chasing through the trees. It’s as if the Lord lays a hush over the world. Join us.”

  “I can’t,” she said uneasily.

  He acted as if she hadn’t said no. “There’s picnicking afterward. Some of the best fried chicken this side of the Big Sandy.”

  “Really, I don’t think I could even find my way to wherever it is you’re holding the brush arbor.”

  “Ask Cora to join you. She’ll come.” He pointed toward a thin trail between trees. “There’s the trail that leads straight back to town.” He glanced up at the tree tips, and she followed his gaze, noticing for the first time that afternoon was swiftly falling to dusk. “Sunset comes early in these mountains. Best not t’ linger.” He tipped his hat. “Good day, Lucy.”

  And once again she was left alone to find her way home. Jenny wiggled her ears back and forth, as if she was waiting for orders, and then finally gave up. She turned around and plodded toward the downstream trail that led home. At least, Lucy hoped the pony was homeward bound.

  THERE WASN’T MUCH SPARE TIME for Angie Cooper to read her beloved novels, but whenever Paw took the boys into the livery with him, she claimed the time for her own. The cabin was overly hot from a morning of bread baking, so she went outside to lie on the hammock hung between two big shade trees. She brought her book, fetched from deep under her mattress, far from snooping brothers and Paw’s watchful eye.

  Angie loved to read. There weren’t many books available to her, especially after Judge Klopp’s library burned down. Though that wasn’t a great loss to Angie; most of them books was dull as dishwater.

  Now these books, they be excitin’.

  As Angie settled into the hammock, a gentle breeze stirred the leaves around her, and as thrilling as the story was, her eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and soon she drifted off.

  “Oh my stars and garters! Don’t tell me you’re reading that.”

  Angie jerked awake, so violently that the hammock flipped her right out and she landed facedown on the ground. She pushed herself up to see Miss Lucy holding her paperback novel.

  Angie jumped up, brushed herself off, snarled, “That’s mine!” and grabbed the book out of her hands.

  “Does your father know you’re reading such . . . such . . .”

  Angie looked at the book. “Such what?”

  “A book of such dubious literary worth.”

  “Huh?” This lady spoke another language.

  “Where did you get it, anyway?”

  “Miss Norah done give it to me.”

  That admission caused Miss Lucy to gasp.

  Glory be! What a fussbudget. Angie hugged the book to her chest. “She give me lots of books to read.”

  “Books like that one? Cheap dime-store novels?”

  Angie frowned. “She knows I like reading.”

  Miss Lucy gazed at her for a long while, so long it made Angie squirm.

  She glanced at her bare toes. “I skip over the racy parts.” Sometimes. Not always. “What are you doing up in these parts, anyhows?”

  “Apparently, I’m lost. Or rather, Jenny is lost. I was told she would take me straight to town, but she ended up here. So much for a pony’s instinct to return to the barn for her oats and hay.”

  “Jenny’s instincts ain’t wrong. The trail to town goes right by our land.” Angie pointed to an opening in the trees. “You’d best be on yor way.”

  “I was hoping I could trouble you for a drink of water. For Jenny too.”

  Now it was Angie’s turn to sigh. She hardly ever had time alone, and the last thing she wanted to do was to give it up for this la-di-da lady. But Paw was always drilling into her to be good to others, even ones ya didn’t like. “Fine,” she said, aggrieved. “Wait here.” She took a few steps, then turned, lifting the book in her hand. “I suppose yor plannin’ to tattle to Paw on me about this.”

  “Of course not,” Miss Lucy said. “We’ll keep it between ourselves.” Jest as Angie turned around to head to the water pump, she added loudly, “However!”

  Angie froze.

  “However, I am going to find a book for you to read that will expand your horizons. I promise that you’ll no longer be satisfied with such common fare.”

  Angie rolled her eyes to heaven. There she went again, into her foreign language. Why couldn’t she talk like a normal person? “My fare is jest fine, thank you very much.” And she darted off to fetch the bucket and fill it at the pump. The sooner she gave her the water, the sooner the city lady would be gone.

  LUCY FELT DRAINED by the time she arrived at the livery. She found Finley James cleaning a saddle, a bucket of warm water by his side, and handed Jenny’s reins to him. “Fin, what’s Miss Norah like?”

  He scrunched up his face. “How do ya mean?”

  “Is she a good teacher?”

  “Like . . . how so?”

  “Does she challenge the students?”

  He shrugged. “She’s a heckuva lot better than the one we had afore her. That one kept a jug of liquor under his desk and nipped at it all the livelong day. Slept most of the afternoon with his head on his desk.” He rubbed his chin. “As soon as he started to drool, then we knowed he was out cold and we all slipped out the door. All but Angie Cooper, o’course.”

  Lucy thought of her schooling, of the discipline and high standards, and the dedication of the teachers.

  “Don’t be lookin’ so woebegone, Miss Lucy. School don’t matter much in the mountains. No need for it.”

  “But there is, Fin. There’s tremendous need for it. And Cora’s making sweeping changes. She’s working hard to make school matter to everyone.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He hung his head in defeat. “A man cain’t hardly go to town no more without Miss Cora chasin’ him back to school.” He made a whipping motion with his hand.

  “Is Miss Cora back?”

  He nodded. “Jest got off the train. Tol’ me she was thinkin’ ’bout startin’ Saturday school to make up for lost days.” He shook his head. “Ain’t that a frightful thing to tell a man at the end of a hard day at work?”

  Lucy didn’t know how to answer that, so she left Jenny with Fin and headed up the road to the office. Cora was at her desk, head down, scribbling away on a paper pad. She raised a finger (One minute), then lowered a palm (Please sit). Lucy pulled her chair from her little makeshift desk and placed it in front of Cora’s large one, then she sat down and waited. And waited. And waited.

  Finally, Cora set down her pen and turned her attention to Lucy. “Dear girl. You look upset.”

  “I’m . . .” Lucy scratched her head, convinced lice were crawling through her hair. “I’m . . .”

  “Overwhelmed? Shocked by the poverty? Horrified by the deplorable living conditions?”

  “All that, yes, and more.” She tried to let it all out as concisely as possible. Chickens in Mollie’s cabin, lice in Barbara Jean’s hair, barefoot boys who should be in scho
ol, the lumber company diverting the Bolings’ creek.

  Cora listened without expression. “Did your father not tell you about life in the hills and hollers?”

  “He did. But not all of it, only his version. There’s another side—Sally Ann, for example. Her farm is picturesque. And the forests . . . they fill me with awe and wonder. I suppose that’s why I feel so overwhelmed. There are such stark contrasts here. Serenity and beauty, filth and squalor. It’s hard to put it all together.”

  “Well said. There is a surprising amount of diversity in the mountains.”

  Lucy let out a sigh. “There’s one thing they all seem to have in common. They can’t read or write.” Leaning forward, her hands cupped her knees. “Fin claims you’re chasing down every child in Rowan County to get them into school. Now I can see why that’s so important to you.”

  “Absolutely critical. It’ll take a generation.”

  “A generation? How can a young man—like Finley James—prepare for the twentieth century when he can barely read?”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Lucy.”

  “Wyatt says you’ve been having trouble getting the parents to send their children to school. He said that many parents just don’t consider an education to be important.”

  “They don’t always see the need for an education since the boys will all work in the timber someday. And some folks genuinely do need their children to stay home and help out with the farm work. Barbara Jean’s oldest boys, Willie and Sammy, for example. She’s a widow.”

  “Do you happen to know of a man named Andrew Spencer?”

  Something flashed through Cora’s eyes. Here and then gone. Hmm . . . what was Lucy missing here? She couldn’t quite catch its meaning. “I know him,” Cora said.

  “I want to speak to this Andrew Spencer about diverting the creek away from Barbara Jean’s cabin. She’s having a terrible time of it. The boys have to go a long distance to bring back water.”

  Cora rose and looked out the window. “Well, now’s your chance. He’s over at the railroad station.”

  Lucy joined her to see where she was looking. Over by the train station was a man standing with his back to them, holding a clipboard, walking beside a wagon filled with logs. As if he sensed he was being watched, he turned to look in their direction.

  Eight

  SO, THIS WAS MR. ANDREW SPENCER. He was surprisingly young, and startlingly handsome. No wonder Hazel had oohed and aahed over him. “I’m Lucy Wilson. I’m new to town. I work for Miss Cora.”

  His eyebrows lifted when she said her name, and he whipped off his bowler hat with a flourish. “I’ve been keeping one eye peeled for you, Miss Wilson. Why, you’re the hottest topic in town. Everyone’s been talking about you. I heard you were a real looker, but I didn’t expect you to be the prettiest little thing I ever laid eyes on.”

  Lucy knew her face was turning scarlet, because she could feel its radiating heat. She hadn’t expected Andrew Spencer to be a flirt. Nor did she expect him to have such a strong mountain accent, though his words actually had consonants on the end, unlike Fin’s. She turned away from him and ran a hand on the VV brand seared into the rough cut of the sawed-off logs.

  “I want to extend a warm welcome to this humble little town, Miss Wilson. Indeed, you are a sight for sore eyes.”

  “I hope you’ll think so after I give you this.” She handed him Barbara Jean’s letter and waited as he read it.

  With barely a glance, he skimmed the letter and tucked it in his pocket. “Thank you for the hand delivery.”

  “Mrs. Boling claims that Valley View Lumber diverted the creek away from her farm to create a pond.”

  “A pond?” He scoffed. “Hardly a pond. Nothing like the sort. That would be a gross and unjust exaggeration.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “A small holding pen for fallen logs.” He smiled, revealing bright white, even teeth and one—no, two deep dimples in his cheeks. “Temporary, of course. Everything will be righted as soon as we finish the harvest.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize the return of the flowing creek. Like a magic trick.

  His smile was more than a little dazzling, and Lucy had to look away lest she forget the purpose of her errand. “But . . . what about in the meantime? She has crops and animals and . . . goodness, loads and loads of children.” Just thinking of them made her feel an itch in the back of her head that took effort to resist scratching.

  “Miss Wilson, I thank you for your concern, truly I do, but Mrs. Boling had no objections when she signed the contract.”

  “I don’t think she understood that it would require altering the natural terrain.”

  “It was all spelled out in the contract with the lumber company. Your father’s company, not that I need to remind you.”

  She didn’t need reminding. A knot forming in her stomach made her drop her eyes, and she noticed the toes of her boots, now streaked with dust and dirt.

  “Try to see it from the company’s point of view, Miss Wilson. The weather hasn’t been cooperating. There was very little rain this winter and many creeks have run dry. It gave us ample time to do the cutting, but we had no means to bring those logs down to the railroad station to be shipped out. We had to create a holding pen to collect the logs, and form a navigable stream to get those logs to town.” He looked down the road and pointed. “And right on over to Jake Wilson’s sawmill.” He rubbed his chin in a thoughtful way. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe that Jake Wilson might be kin.”

  True, a distant kin. In the 1850s, Jake Wilson had built a water-powered sawmill and the town of Morehead grew around it. But Lucy recognized Andrew Spencer’s deflection tactic and tried to get the subject back on track. “Mrs. Boling counts on that creek for her own crops.”

  He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “Mrs. Boling was fully informed of the process. It’s all in the contract.”

  “Mr. Spencer, Barbara Jean Boling can’t read! She didn’t know what she was signing.”

  He coughed a laugh. “She knew enough to bargain for a better price for that choice stand of pines. She wanted full cash in advance, which isn’t our usual policy. Normally, we pay half up front and half after harvest.”

  Lucy stilled. Andrew Spencer smiled in a conciliatory way, as if he realized her logic had been trumped. “Look, let’s not worry ourselves about such unpleasantness. I’ll have some of the boys deliver a few barrels of water to the Boling cabin.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning, first thing.”

  “And every week until the creek is restored?”

  “Done!” He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll tell the boys to pick up the pace. Everything will be back to normal in no time. You can tell her that very thing.”

  “Well . . .” She was softening.

  He took a step closer to Lucy. “Are all the girls in Lexington as pretty as you?”

  She backed up a step. “I’d say they’re much prettier.”

  He took another step toward Lucy and flashed that dazzling smile. “Impossible.”

  She blushed. Oh dear heavenly goodness, closer up, he was even more handsome. Straw-colored hair and sparkling blue eyes. As blue as the skies behind him. His cocky grin told her that he already knew his effect on her.

  “Maybe I can show you around Morehead sometime.”

  She looked up and down at the sight of Morehead, a rather unremarkable valley town tucked between two ridges. Its one main street had a handful of brick and timber storefronts, the Normal School, the Gault Hotel, the freight station, the county jail, and narrow roads that stretched to who knew where. “I venture to guess that would only take five minutes.”

  He laughed. “Ah, but I suspect you haven’t seen a few of my secret spots.” He winked, then smiled. His eyes were full of merriment and caprice. Jaunty. That was the word for him. He would have been right at home back in Lexington. A sought-after escort for the many social events of the season.

&n
bsp; She tried to remain deadpan, refusing to swallow his flirtatious bait, but there wasn’t a girl in the world who could have resisted returning his smile. Infectious. That’s how it felt. She refused to fall under his spell, but it was no small task to remain aloof to his charisma. “Perhaps, someday,” she said, glancing toward Cora’s office. “For now, I’ll let you return to your work. And I’ll return to mine.”

  As she crossed the road, she could feel Andrew Spencer’s eyes following her, appreciating her. It wasn’t an altogether unpleasant awareness.

  DWARFING MISS MAUDE’S BREAKFAST TABLE was a large vase with a dozen long-stemmed red roses. All eyes were on Lucy as she carefully eased into her chair, staring at the roses. They were stunning. Exquisite. “Where on earth did someone find blooming roses in March?”

  “What does it matter?” Miss Viola said. “All that matters is who sent them. They’re for you!”

  “For me? But . . . from whom?”

  “Let’s find out! Open the envelope, dear. The suspense is killing us.”

  “Speak for yourself, Viola,” Mrs. Klopp said with a sniff. “I’m a firm believer in minding one’s own grits.”

  Miss Viola shooed off such fussiness with a flick of her hand. “Do tell, Lucy.”

  Lucy took the little card from the bouquet and ran her thumbnail under the envelope’s seal. The card read:

  Water barrels are on their way to the Boling farm. As a gesture of good will, allow me to take you to lunch today. I’ll pick you up at noon.

  Andrew Spencer

  “Who?” Miss Viola said. “Who sent them?”

  Lucy felt her cheeks grow warm and her mind grow blank. “I . . . um . . . um . . .” All she could do was stammer. Then a suitable response came to her. “They’re from a business acquaintance of my father’s.” She tucked the card back in the envelope and set it by her napkin.

  Miss Lettie peered at her over a cup of steaming coffee. Her sparse eyebrows were lifted as if waiting to hear more.

  “Andrew Spencer,” Lucy said, instantly regretting that admission.

  Mrs. Klopp’s cheek twitched. “In my day, roses were a sign of a gentleman caller announcing his intentions.”