We waited a long time, arms cramping as we held our fingers to the table. When we finally opened our eyes to look at each other, the tingling stopped. My arms felt heavy and cold. Somehow I knew nothing more would happen that night.
“It’s all right,” said Olivia, as though reading my thoughts. “Sometimes it takes a few sessions for anything to happen.”
“I felt something—I’m sure of it,” I said.
“Let’s give it a few days and see how we feel.” Olivia smiled. “I, for one, consider this a positive development.”
I absently returned her smile, but my eyes flashed to the bed. Eli’s note still lay under the mattress. My heavy limbs turned twitchy, and wild thoughts tumbled through my brain. I turned back to Olivia, searching her face. Did I dare show her? Must I keep every secret?
Her eyes narrowed. “What is it, Willie?”
“This tapping … I’ve checked that window many times to find the source. A few weeks ago, I searched the chiffonier, thinking something might be living in there.”
Olivia’s mouth dropped open, and she made to rise from the table.
“No, don’t get up. There’s nothing in there. I can’t find a thing to explain the tapping. But I did find something else.” I rose from the chair to retrieve the note from under my mattress. When I turned, Olivia’s eyes had widened with curiosity. I took my seat again and passed the note across the table.
She stared at the paper a moment before unfolding it. Her brow creased as she read.
“How very interesting,” she said softly.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“What should I say?”
“Olivia, it’s a love poem from Eli Sevenstar to Ella!”
She pursed her lips. “I assumed the initials stood for Mr. Sevenstar. That’s no surprise. He did court Ella for a while, you know. But he did not write this poem.”
I stared at her. “What do you mean?”
She shook her head, her eyes bright with amusement. “Sevenstar didn’t write this. He may have copied it out, but a lady poet named Emily Dickinson wrote it.”
“What? I’ve never heard of such a person!”
“And you’re the English teacher?”
My cheeks prickled with heat. “Shakespeare has always been my specialty,” I said quickly. “Papa didn’t think highly of female poets.”
“How unfortunate,” she murmured. “Oh, don’t look so fierce, Willie! I was only teasing.” She laughed softly. “Dickinson is not well known. My grandmother happened upon the book during her travels and shared it with me a few years ago. Very unusual style, don’t you think?”
“I can’t believe a lady wrote it. It’s so … suggestive.”
Olivia was quiet for a moment. “Why did you show this to me?”
I blushed again. I could never tell Olivia of my feelings for Eli Sevenstar—not if I wanted to keep my position and her friendship. I took a breath and tried to affect a lighter tone. “Fannie once said Eli was in love with Ella. I assumed it was a fleeting thing, but this poem—even if he did not write it—still conveys a great deal of passion, don’t you think?”
“It’s easy to get caught up in the romances of our students,” Olivia said, her tone soothing. “I well remember Eli courting Ella. They were a handsome pair, and he would have been an excellent match for a poor country girl like her. But Fannie did not like Ella receiving so much attention.”
“So Fannie teased Ella about her penniless full-blood beau, but then got angry when Ella attracted the attention of wealthier boys?”
Olivia sighed. “In the end it didn’t really matter, for Ella always went back to Cale. They simply could not quit loving each other. It was like something out of Wuthering Heights.” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.
“Well, I do know that book. Are you saying he was her Heathcliff?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“But Heathcliff was such an angry, violent sort of person.” I shivered. “Was Cale like that?”
“I don’t really know. The last time I saw him was during a gathering here at the school for planning graduation. He did seem quite stiff with anger that night, and poor Ella was quiet and pale.” Olivia’s mouth tightened. “A few days later, she was dead and Cale was gone.” Her eyes met mine. “I know what you’re thinking, and I simply can’t believe Cale would hurt her.”
What about Eli? I knew from Shakespeare that passion had two sides, that a shift in circumstances could turn fervent love into violent hatred. Othello was besotted with Desdemona, but Iago’s manipulations drove him to such heights of jealousy that he murdered her. It was easy enough to draw a parallel to Cale. Having loved Ella since childhood, he must have agonized over the attention she received from other boys. Eli, on the other hand, hadn’t known her as long, so his affection wouldn’t have been deeply felt. He couldn’t have suffered the same depth of betrayal as Othello or Cale.
And yet Eli’s note spoke so eloquently, so passionately, even if it did borrow words from another.…
“It’s all so puzzling,” I said.
She yawned delicately. “I’m not sure what to say about that note, Willie. I suppose you could ask Mr. Sevenstar about it at the Bell Christmas party.”
“I could never do such a thing! I just wondered … was the tapping noise pushing me to find it?”
Olivia looked thoughtful. “Perhaps.” Then she frowned. “But hasn’t the tapping continued since you found it? One would think if the intention was for you to uncover the note, the tapping would stop once you did so.”
“I suppose you’re right. I can’t think straight anymore,” I said, yawning in unison with her.
“Let’s go to bed. We’ll try this again soon.”
Olivia seemed quite composed as she bid me good night, but my racing mind wouldn’t let me sleep. It wasn’t the thought of ghosts that preoccupied me. Rather, it was that damnable note to Ella. On the one hand, I was relieved Eli hadn’t written it. And yet, wasn’t it just as painful to think of him reading a poem and being reminded of her? Jealousy stabbed at my heart as I imagined Eli copying out the suggestive lines—words that surely had made Ella blush as she read them.
I was jealous of a dead girl. Was it possible to sink any lower?
Chapter 12
THE WEEKS FLEW BY AFTER THAT, the days full of work rather than ghostly encounters, and somehow Olivia and I never found a favorable time for the next séance. Each of us was distracted by the burdens of teaching as we drew nearer to the end of term. I’d established a fragile authority in most of my classes, but it took everything I had to stay one step ahead of the students. While Olivia diligently kept on top of her marking, I allowed the papers to stack up next to my desk, dedicating the bulk of my time to preparing each day’s lessons.
At night, when I stared at those untidy piles of paper, I told myself it was easier for Olivia to manage her workload. She did not teach writing. Olivia had lab work, botany sketchbooks, and other such things to score, but surely none of those assignments was as time-consuming to mark as an essay.
However, I was never too busy for the Saturday trip to town. And by late November, my panic over what to wear to the Bell Christmas party had mounted to epic proportions. On one cold and rainy day, when few girls dared to venture outdoors, Olivia and I chaperoned a group of seniors on a trek to Foster’s. It was a shivering trek of dampness, but each of us needed something for the party. Once there, I made my way to the ready-made items. Olivia kept to my side as I perused the scanty selection of dresses.
“This is a very pretty color,” I said. “I adore the cape ruffle and puff sleeves.” I held a smooth wine-colored wool fabric in my hands, barely resisting the urge to place it against my cheeks. “It’s a good price, don’t you think?”
Olivia tilted her head. “It is handsome, indeed. But you cannot wear it to a supper.”
“Why not? I think it’s very fine!”
“It’s a tea gown, Willie. It’s meant to be worn only in one’s own
home.”
“Oh, bother!” I let go of the material with a sigh. “What should I do, Olivia? There are plenty of blouses and skirts to be found ready-made, but no dresses—at least none that I can afford. I don’t have the money to purchase a tailored dress, nor do I have the skill or time to make one myself. What’s to be done?”
“Perhaps if you hadn’t waited so long, we could have worked on a dress together? I’m a decent seamstress.”
“Now I shall have to wear a shirtwaist and skirt to a formal gathering and be laughed at by Fannie Bell’s entire family. Who would have thought I’d need such fine clothes for Indian Territory?”
Olivia flinched. Then she turned her back to me, pretending to inspect a pair of gloves. I clutched at her arm.
“Oh, Olivia! Please forgive me. Was that a rude thing to say?”
“It seemed rude to me,” she murmured.
“It’s just that I’ve been constantly surprised since I got here … surprised at how …” I trailed off, unable to find the right words.
“Since you got here, you’ve been surprised at the heights of civilization achieved by the lowly Cherokee people?”
I bit my lip. “I suppose you have every right to be sarcastic. But you must understand that your people are nothing like what I’ve read or been told about Indians.”
“There are many different tribes, each with its own traditions and customs, you know. And each tribe has its own idea of what it means to be civilized.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
She looked at me for a moment and finally smiled again. “I have an idea for your gown.”
Over the next few days, Olivia and I worked together on altering one of her dresses, shortening the length and taking in the waist and bust. During those sewing sessions in her cozy little room, I learned much about her. Olivia’s family lived comfortably, if not richly, as farmers. Her grandparents had come to Indian Territory by choice and not as part of the forced removal in the middle of the century. Her parents had been married twenty-one years and still tolerated each other quite well, and she had two younger brothers who worked the farm.
“I love teaching. It’s a fine feeling to be so independent,” she said one night. “But I sometimes wish I could teach without leaving my family. My brothers seem to grow a foot every year and soon will be men. They change so quickly during the term that we’re practically strangers when I finally see them. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
I hoped my nod was convincing.
“I always longed for a sister. Do you have brothers and sisters?”
What should I say? I didn’t remember Angeline speaking of siblings, but was that because she didn’t have any or because she was so stuck on herself she never thought to mention them? I decided on the former. Only children were much more likely to be spoiled.
“I am all the daughters of my father’s house,” I finally said. “And all the brothers, too.”
Olivia quirked an eyebrow. “I suppose that means you are an only child. Which one is that?”
“Twelfth Night, of course.”
“Of course,” she said with a smile. “But did you wish for siblings?”
I snorted. “Not at all. I hated the thought of sharing Papa’s attention with others. I preferred having him all to myself.”
She nodded slowly, then her eyes brightened. “Willie, would you like to come home with me for the Christmas holiday?”
My mouth fell open.
“We don’t live in a fancy house,” she said quickly, “but it’s homey, and Mama is a first-rate cook. You’d adore the animals, Willie. We could go riding if the days aren’t too cold. I have the sweetest little mare, so plump and cheerful.” She paused, biting her lip. “I do go on, don’t I? You must be planning a return to Van Buren for the holiday.”
“No!” I blurted. “I mean, I planned to stay at the seminary for the break. I have so much marking to do, you know.”
“You could bring your work with you,” she said shyly.
“Oh, Olivia, I would love to come.”
“Wonderful!” she breathed, and then grinned so broadly that I saw every one of her pretty teeth.
A week later, I found myself staring in the mirror at a young lady attired none too shabbily for an evening party.
I wore no jewelry but had splurged on a pair of long white gloves and a set of decorative hair combs. A curly fringe was all the rage among the students, but I still could not bring myself to cut the front of my hair, for Papa never could abide the fashion. I did, however, take special care in pinning the greater part of my hair very high and then braiding separate strands to weave around the knot. The combs provided much-needed sparkle.
But my dress was the true triumph. Two years old and yet still very fine to me, it was made of light blue silk with velvet and lace trim at the neck and bodice. The sleeves were elegant puffs that fell almost to my elbows. An umbrella skirt, trimmed at the edge with velvet and lace, fell to the floor and swished behind me as I walked.
With one last glance at the mirror, I pinched my cheeks and bit my lips. Then I lifted the black cape from the bed and placed it on my shoulders, delighted to finally be able to wear my stolen finery.
I met Olivia downstairs in the vestibule. She looked stately in a flowing cloak that covered what I knew to be a satin gown of deep crimson. Her hair was swept up on top of her head, the thick knot cleverly decorated with sprigs of holly. I took a deep breath and sauntered toward her, clutching at the trim of my cape in anticipation of her envy.
Her eyes widened. “Willie, you are going to freeze in that thing! Isn’t it a spring cape?”
I blushed. “I don’t know. I suppose it might be.”
“Didn’t you hear that we’re riding on the wagonettes to the Bell house? Those canvas flaps will barely keep out the cold night air. Don’t you have anything warmer, like the coat you bought last week?”
I shook my head. “It’s too cheap and plain. I’d rather be cold.”
“Maybe I can wrap part of my cloak around you.” She took my hand with a gentle laugh and pulled me toward the door.
Had I not already been shivering with chill upon our arrival, I would have trembled at the grandeur of the Bell home. Olivia told me the house was built before the war, back when the Bells owned slaves and were one of the richest families in the territory. Still, I wasn’t prepared for the stately white dwelling with the pedimented gable and columned porch—a style much like the finest plantation homes in Columbia, Tennessee. It was the sort of home Papa always dreamed of owning.
Two young negro men in plain serving garb rushed forward to help us out of the wagons and up the steps to a porch brightly lit with lanterns. Another man opened the door for us, and I couldn’t help but gasp when Olivia and I walked into a grand entrance hall decked with fragrant greenery and candles. We were greeted by Mr. Bell, a tall, gray-haired man of stately bearing, who stood next to his wife, a petite woman with porcelain skin. I could see something of Fannie in Mrs. Bell’s face, but the mother’s fading beauty was more delicate. Fannie’s dark hair and high cheekbones bore the stamp of her Cherokee father.
Larkin stood next to his mother, looking handsome and pompous in his finely tailored clothes. Fannie, however, was breathtaking. I couldn’t help admiring her white evening gown, embroidered with a thread that sparkled, her tiny waist made tinier by a tightly cinched corset.
“You look lovely, Fannie,” said Olivia, echoing my thoughts.
“How wonderful to see my teachers in all their finery,” cried Fannie. “And Miss Adair’s dress looks quite becoming on you, Miss McClure. How clever and economical of you to make it over for tonight.”
Larkin snickered, and I blushed in dismay. Olivia quickly murmured our gratitude to the Bell family and then pulled me to the side, making way for the next group to greet the hosts.
“Don’t pay any attention to her,” she whispered. “Only someone spiteful would judge you for wearing my dress, let alone comment on i
t. You look wonderful.”
I took a deep breath, banishing the echo of Fannie’s words from my head, and smiled brightly at Olivia. “I am ready to see the house.”
Olivia led me into the double parlor, where the partition had been opened to create one large room illuminated by two sparkling chandeliers. Fires roared in two fireplaces decked with greenery and red ribbons. Several tables were laid with china and silverware.
The male students, dashing in their fine suits, clustered together and smiled at the girls. My pulse quickened as I searched for Eli Sevenstar’s face among them.
I could not hold back the heavy sigh when I didn’t find him. I looked about the entire room, scrutinizing each group, but did not see him. He had not come. Now I wouldn’t see his expression when he beheld me in Olivia’s fine dress. There would be no opportunity to speak to him. In truth, there was nothing left to look forward to.
“Is this where we shall eat?” I asked Olivia, gesturing limply at the tables.
“No, this is where most of the students will take their supper. Let me show you the dining room.”
I felt ill at ease during the meal, for Olivia was seated far away from me and I was placed between a shy teacher from the male seminary and Dr. Stewart. The teacher seemed quite old, nearly thirty, and as an algebra teacher had nothing interesting to say. He stuttered a few words before lapsing into pained silence, and I had little desire to coax him back into conversation. The doctor, on the other hand, turned to me during the first course. His friendly blue eyes put me at ease.
“I must visit Lucy Sharp again tomorrow. I trust she is resting properly? You haven’t given her too much schoolwork, have you?”
It was the first time I’d seen him smile. When animated with humor, his narrow face was even more handsome. I smiled back, feeling a pleasant flutter in my stomach.
“We haven’t burdened her overmuch,” I said, hoping to sound ladylike and clever. “She was a healthy girl before the accident, so I’m sure her leg will heal quickly enough. It’s her mind I have concerns about.”
His smile faded. “What do you mean?”
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