“And he thinks she’s a boy? Seems like he would recognize her if he’d been paying attention. Is he under a fairy’s spell?”
“There are no fairies in As You Like It.” I thought for a moment. “Shakespeare wanted to show us how people get wrapped up in the idea of love and hardly see the person at all. That’s how my papa explained it to me.”
Lucy sighed. “Wrapped up in the idea of love—that sounds like Ella.”
“In what way?”
She frowned.
“You can talk about her, Lucy. Her ghost is not going to jump out of the cupboards at us.” I couldn’t help grinning. “At least, not in the full light of day.”
She took a deep breath. “Ella was a dreamer.”
“How so?”
“I never thought Cale was good enough for her, but I still felt sorry for him when it looked like she would throw him over. She wanted something from a fairy tale and couldn’t see what was right in front of her.”
“Was she courted by other boys at the male seminary?”
“Fannie used to tell her she needed to find a lighter-skinned boy, a boy with better prospects, but whenever she caught Ella smiling at her brother, Larkin, she’d spit fire. And yet Ella still trailed after them.” Her nostrils flared. “Used to make me so mad.”
“Because she left you behind?”
After a moment she nodded. “I don’t like talking about it.” She sighed, then gestured toward my books and papers. “Which scenes should I copy out?”
“Oh, good! Why don’t you start with Rosalind’s part? I know you are quick and write a fair hand.” I gave her arm a squeeze and rose to fetch more paper.
On Christmas Day we were entirely alone. Jimmy stayed long enough to make sure we had plenty to eat before setting out to visit cousins on the outskirts of town.
I’d never seen snow on Christmas, and it looked like Tahlequah would be no exception. It was nippy out, though—chilly and wet—so we huddled up with extra blankets in front of the struggling radiator and ate our breakfast of cold biscuits and preserves.
“It’s too quiet,” murmured Lucy.
“I like it,” I said.
“I don’t know. It’s a heavy sort of quiet.”
I gave her a sidelong glance. “Do you wish you were home with your family?”
“It’d be noisy there.” A smile flickered at her lips and then vanished. “But, no, I don’t.” She bit at her fingernail, then looked at me. “Do you know how hard it is for a primary to make it to the upper school?”
“I think so.”
“Well, it’s even harder for a primary-turned-upper-school girl to go back home. My ma and pa don’t speak good English, Miss McClure. They’re proper Christians, but aside from that, they keep to the old ways. When I come home, they stare at me like I’m a stranger. They get shy and tongue-tied. And sometimes they seem angry with me. I don’t understand it. They’re the ones who wanted me to get an education!”
“Maybe they worry that you look down on them?”
“But I don’t! I just don’t like the way they act queerly around me now. Sometimes it makes my stomach ache to be home.”
“Well, you’re talking to someone who’d prefer never to go home again.” It slipped out before I could think, so I quickly stood to forestall questions. “This newfangled steam heat is not as cozy as a fire. What would you think about some mulled cider?”
I was in the kitchen, warming my hands over the pot of cider, when I heard a shout in the distance. The sound was faint, but it had to be Lucy. I clutched my skirts and ran through the dining hall back to the library.
She was sitting up in her chair, her face pale with alarm.
“There was a banging on the door!”
I took a deep breath to calm my racing heart. “It’s probably someone from town, Lucy.”
The banging came again, making us both start.
“Should we ignore it?” Lucy looked ready to hide under her blanket.
I laughed shakily. “We’re not going to cower in the library every time someone comes to the door. I’ll go see who it is.”
The corridor was so chilly I had to grit my teeth to keep them from chattering. Pulling my shawl tight, I turned the corner into the vestibule. Through the glass windows I could see a tall form standing outside the doorway. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was a man, not a ghost.
I opened the door to find Dr. Stewart peering at me from under his hat, soaked by the rain and clutching his medical case to his body.
“I came to check on the patient,” he said, teeth chattering. “Actually, I came to check on both of you—Christmas is no time to be alone.”
“Come in at once!” I cried, ushering him into the vestibule and shutting the door. I’d forgotten he would be alone on Christmas, his wife having passed and his own family far away.
He seemed to read my thoughts. “I’ve been invited to the Bells’ for supper tonight, but I had the morning free and thought I’d stop by and bring you some Christmas cheer.” He reached within his case and brought out a colorful tin. “It’s candy my family sent from Chicago. Very fine stuff, but I couldn’t eat it all myself.”
I grinned. “I’ve just made hot cider, and Jimmy left us a loaf of gingerbread. You must come sit by our radiator. It’s not as festive as a fire, but better than standing in this freezing vestibule.”
Lucy’s face brightened at the sight of the doctor. She opened her mouth to speak but then ducked her head shyly.
“See, it’s only the doctor come to keep us company,” I said, pleased to see the happy flush spreading over her cheeks.
After he’d given me his coat and warmed himself before the radiator, Dr. Stewart offered to bring another chair from the parlor. He was shivering when he returned. “I was going to ask why you didn’t sit in that cozy parlor, but now I understand. It’s terribly cold in there!”
“Yes, we much prefer it in here. It’s still chilly, but the books seem to provide some insulation.”
Lucy still smiled shyly at the doctor. With his ordinarily pale cheeks broadened by a grin and reddened with cold, he seemed quite animated. The damp air made his hair curl, and his eyes glittered a bright blue. I could see why Olivia sighed when she spoke of him, and how Fannie might yearn to take her sister’s place as his wife. He was a handsome man and very gentlemanly. A little reserved, but improving upon acquaintance.
Best of all, I need not feel wicked for admiring him.
When I returned from the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with gingerbread and mugs of steaming cider, I found the doctor closing up his medical case. Lucy’s eyes followed his every move.
“Our patient is doing quite well,” he announced. “A few more weeks and she’ll be able to walk on that leg again. It was a clever idea to set her up on this floor for the nights. Keeping her off the stairs saves stress on the fracture and encourages swifter healing.”
He spoke quickly, almost as though to cover his unease. Was he nervous here with Lucy and me? No doubt we were staring.
I cleared my throat. “Have a seat, Dr. Stewart. Would you take some cider?”
We sat quietly for a while. I racked my brain for sensible topics of conversation, inwardly cursing Lucy for her dull silence. Finally, after a few false starts in which we both tried to speak over each other, the doctor gestured toward the piles of paper upon which Lucy and I had been copying scripts.
“It looks like the two of you have been hard at work on some new project.”
“We’re copying scripts for As You Like It,” said Lucy, suddenly bold.
“Ah, for the spring play!” He glanced again at the papers, his eyebrows raised. “No Oberon and Titania this year, then? It is nice to have something new.”
“Do you enjoy Shakespeare, Doctor?” I asked, a trifle eager.
He nodded. “The histories, particularly. I am quite fond of the Roman plays—Julius Caesar, Coriolanus, and the rest.”
“I find those plays in my volume of tragedies.”
“But they are based on history. Shakespeare made great use of my favorite book, Plutarch’s Lives.” He smiled. “I’m certain a young lady would prefer the comedies.”
I did, but something in the way he spoke made me want to deny it. I’d never minded before when Papa said such things, but the words made me a little prickly after my battles in the classroom. “The sophomores read a portion of Julius Caesar earlier this term. It’s a very bloody play, but one can’t help being swept away by Antony’s funeral speech, right along with the crowd.” I paused, hearing the words so clearly in my head. “My father played Mark Antony once, you know.”
His eyes glinted. “Your father was an actor?”
The breath caught in my throat. “Oh, it was only in school,” I said quickly, “but to this day he still trots out the old ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen’ at parties and such. He’s quite the ham.” I looked down and laughed—a high-pitched sound that seemed to echo throughout the room. I expected to find both the doctor and Lucy staring at me in wonder, but when I looked up, they were contentedly sipping cider.
Dr. Stewart swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You might share Plutarch’s Antony with your students, Miss McClure. I’m sure they’d be interested to learn how closely Shakespeare’s version of the funeral oration follows his narrative.” He paused. “Those were days when men took matters into their own hands rather than talking endlessly and getting nowhere.” He set his plate upon the small table near his chair. “I would be happy to stay longer, for it’s been a pleasure talking with you both, but unfortunately, I have patients at the asylum to attend to.”
I shivered. “That sounds most unpleasant, Dr. Stewart.”
“It’s part of my contract, Miss McClure—I attend to patients at both seminaries, the insane asylum, and the jail.” He smiled thinly. “I would love to be a man of leisure, free to fill the day with reading and sport, but instead, I am forced to work for my living.”
“But your work is important,” said Lucy earnestly.
His mouth softened. “Of course.” He stood. “I do thank you both for your hospitality. You have cheered me on this cold, wet day. But now I must take my leave.”
Perhaps we were fools to be so easily moved to giddiness, but hours after the doctor left, Lucy and I were still smiling at the memory of his visit. If only there’d been someone to whom we could boast of it!
I awoke to darkness and distant screams. The chapel again? I sat up in bed, listening. It seemed to be coming from directly below me. Lucy. The ghost had found her.
Heart thudding, I scrambled to light the lamp and then pulled my wrap about my shoulders. By the time I’d reached the stairs, the screams had subsided into sobs. The downstairs corridor was so cold I could see my breath in the lamplight. When I reached Lucy, she was sitting up in bed with the covers clutched to her wet face.
“Lucy?”
“It was the water! I was drowning in it, so heavy I couldn’t swim to the top. Something was holding me down, Miss McClure—pinning me to the riverbed!”
I looked around. There were no overturned tables or chairs. The pictures on the wall still hung where they had earlier that day. The only odd thing was the bitter cold, but that could be blamed on the faulty radiator.
I sat on the edge of the bed. “Lucy, it was only a dream.” An older teacher might have pulled her into an embrace to console her, but it seemed awkward for me. So I smiled and patted her hand. “It was a terrible nightmare, I know, but that’s all.”
She wiped her face and looked at me, her eyes still frightened. “She knows it was my fault.”
“Who?”
“If she knows it was my fault she’s dead, she should know how sorry I am, shouldn’t she, Miss McClure?”
“How was it your fault?”
But she only shook her head and burst into tears once again. I could get no more details from her that night. I did bring an end to her crying, however, by offering to sleep in the parlor. She settled back into bed once she knew I’d only be a few steps away.
I made up a pallet on the settee, shivering at the cold in the room. When I turned down the flame on the lamp, the velvety darkness engulfed me. I crawled under the heavy pile of blankets but could not fall back to sleep.
For some time I lay awake and wondering. Was pain causing Lucy to become unhinged in the mind? Or did she truly believe she had something to do with Ella’s death? What would make a girl my age wish for another girl’s death? I thought daily about flaying Fannie Bell alive, but if she were to drown, I wouldn’t blame it on myself for thinking ill of her.
The room grew warmer, as though the steam radiator had suddenly redoubled its efforts. The panicked tightening of my muscles gradually eased. Perhaps it was because Lucy slept across the hall, but I did not feel alone. Why did the girls find this room so off-putting? It was quite cozy, indeed. I snuggled into my blankets, feeling toasty warm and well protected … almost as though someone watched over me.
Chapter 14
I WAS WARM AS A KITTEN curled up against its mama. So warm and safe in the heavy darkness. Eli lay behind me, cradling my body against his chest and stroking my arm. His touch made my flesh tingle. His breath feathered my cheek.
My eyes opened. I blinked at the darkness.
It had been a dream. A beautiful, scandalous dream.
But still I felt the weight of someone—or something—next to me. The hand continued to stroke my arm, sliding up to my neck and cheek, nearly covering my mouth before my limbs finally unfroze and I leapt off the settee.
I clutched at the matches near the lamp, knocking several to the floor. Then I held still and listened, but the only sound to break the silence was my heavy breathing. No one was there. I clutched at my blankets, felt them come away from the settee without resistance. The air seemed to grow colder by the second. Pulling the blankets around me, I found a match and with trembling hands lit the lamp.
The settee was empty.
Nearly crying with fear, I dragged my blankets into the library and laid them next to Lucy’s bed. I could not bring myself to extinguish the lamp. A long night of restless tossing on the hard floor followed. I woke first the next morning and quickly folded up my makeshift pallet, spared the trouble of explaining to Lucy.
I returned to my bed after that, and neither of us was troubled again for the remainder of Christmas break. But I could not forget Lucy’s face when she woke from her nightmare, pale as a corpse in the lamplight. Nor would I soon forget the feel of that ghostly hand on my body.
The students returned from their holiday rested and cheered, as though the time away had helped them forget the nighttime terrors at the seminary. I was delighted to see Olivia looking pink-cheeked and plump with Christmas ham. She immediately launched into tales of family arguments, odd cousins, and endless farm chores. When finally spent, she asked about my holiday at the seminary.
“Did you get all your marking done?”
“Almost all of it,” I lied. “But that wasn’t what occupied my mind the entire time.” I told her of Lucy’s dream and my strange haunting in the parlor.
Olivia’s eyebrows rose in alarm when I described the phantom hand that nearly covered my mouth. “What do you think it—she—meant to do?”
“I don’t know. Smother me? But why be so tender at first?”
“It’s very odd. I wonder why such a thing happened in the parlor and never in your room—her old room.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “We must try to make contact again. I brought a little surprise with me that might help us.”
“Shall we meet in my room again?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Considering your recent encounter, I think not.”
“Where, then?”
We stared at each other, and then both spoke at once.
“The parlor.”
That night—or perhaps I should say early the next morning—Olivia and I crept down the dark staircase and through the chilly corridors to the parlor. As soon as
we’d closed the two doors, Olivia pulled a candle and matches out of her carpetbag and struck up a little flame. Taking the utmost care to keep quiet, I drew two chairs around a small table, and Olivia set the newly lit candle upon it. Then she drew something wide and flat from her bag and placed it upon the table next to the candle. It was a wooden board, stained rich brown and lacquered to a gloss. I touched the cool wood, tracing my fingers over the letters and words stenciled upon it.
“This is your surprise?”
“It’s a talking board,” she whispered. “It should be much more efficient.”
Somehow, the words séance and efficient did not pair well in my mind.
She dug around in her bag and pulled out one last item—a small triangle with stubby little legs at each corner. She set it upon the board and gestured for me to sit.
“You put your fingers lightly on the planchette.” She rested her own fingers upon the triangle. “See how it glides around? When it comes to a stop and seems to be pointing at a letter or word”—she indicated the yes, no, and goodbye—“we know we’re getting somewhere. But you have to hold your fingers very lightly on the planchette. You must not move it—the spirit will do the moving.”
“How do we get it to … talk?”
“We’ll ask it questions, of course. But first let’s say the Lord’s Prayer.”
I’d never understood what God and ghosts had to do with each other, and how being prayerful would help the ghosts reveal themselves, but I dutifully whispered it along with her.
“Now,” she continued, “we must clear our minds. Focus on the candle flame and try to empty all the thoughts from your head. We’ll move the planchette in a figure eight until it wants to move on its own.”
We were quiet for a moment, our eyes following the moving triangle.
“You already thought up some questions?” I whispered.
“Yes. Now concentrate!”
I shifted my gaze to the flickering light of the candle, focusing to keep my fingers and body relaxed. The only sounds were our breathing and the faint sputter of the candle wax melting. The triangle glided silently over the board. After a moment, I felt a tingle spread along my fingers. I looked up and saw Olivia staring back at me, her eyes wide.
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