Sycamore Hill

by Francine Rivers

  “Sixty-four. Not many for a town this size. Some of the children do not attend because they are needed at home. Others are too young. There will be ten new pupils next year.”

  The task ahead of me seemed to grow with each word James Olmstead spoke. Sixty-four children! Lessons for all levels! Cleaning the schoolhouse and yard!

  “If children have academic difficulties, you will, of course, be expected to tutor them after school hours. If any become sick, you will make up lessons for them to do at home.

  “As for your own social conduct, you are not allowed to entertain men in your quarters, nor are you to be alone with a man for any reason other than school business, and then never after five in the afternoon.”

  “Are you serious, Mr. Olmstead?” I asked, unable to believe he was.

  “Absolutely,” he said, surprised that I should ask. “They are fairly universal rules, Miss McFarland.”

  “They seem archaic. I can assure you I have no intention of entertaining men in my quarters, but I am not even allowed to carry on a sociable conversation with a man except on school business?”

  “That’s correct. You will have as much social contact as you need with the Mothers’ League, the Women’s Church Guild and the local sewing circles.” With what Olmstead had already outlined as my duties, I doubted if I should have the time for any socializing.

  “You’re expected to attend all town meetings; however, you are not permitted to speak on any issue. You must remain neutral in all political conversations. As for the subject matter in the classroom, limit your teaching to reading, writing and arithmetic. Those are the basics, and anything else is unnecessary frill.”

  I wanted to interrupt and object, but James Olmstead continued unabated. “Now, about your dress.” I stiffened noticeably as he looked me over blandly and nodded approval. “Your present outfit is appropriate to your position, if a bit untidy.” After ten miles of walking, what did the man expect! “Ankles, wrists and neck are to be covered at all times. You are permitted to wear browns, grays, black, white or deep green. Anything else you are not. No furbelows. No jewelry except perhaps a plain watch pin. No ribbons, no fancy hairpins. Your hair is to be confined at all times.”

  “May I take it down when I go to bed?” I asked dryly, unable to resist. Olmstead looked shocked.

  “I hope you will not make a habit of speaking in such a manner,” he criticized, and I wished I had held my tongue.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized meekly. I suddenly felt very tired and depressed. I had thought I had escaped oppressive bondage, but apparently I had cast myself beneath the control of an even harsher master. The new life I had hoped for stretched dismally ahead of me.

  Emily Olmstead returned to the dining room, having finished the dishes. She sat down and glanced from her husband to me.

  “What have you been saying to Miss McFarland, Jim? She looks positively miserable.”

  “I’ve simply been informing her of what is expected of her,” he muttered defensively, Emily Olmstead looked sympathetic.

  “I suppose you neglected to tell her the good points,” she said on a sigh. What good points? I wanted to ask. She answered without a question.

  “The children are wonderful. Except the Poole boys, of course. You’ll have your hands full with them.”

  “Em, will you please….” James Olmstead was not going to succeed in silencing his wife this time.

  “Reverend Hayes’s four sons are perfect little angels, and all very quick-witted. So is Toby Carmichael, the poor waif. And Hudson Thomas’s little girl, Margaret, is a spunky, sweet child. Linda Bennett, Jordan’s daughter, is the prettiest and also the quietest, and it’s no wonder—”

  “Em.”

  “Katrina Lane is another story altogether. She’ll probably turn out to be just like her mother.”

  “Em!” This time her husband was heard. “Miss McFarland can’t be bothered with your senseless gossip,” he chastened. “Right now I think she would rather have a good night’s sleep. She’s got a full day ahead of her tomorrow, cleaning out the schoolhouse.”

  I wanted to laugh hysterically, but swallowed the urge with a determined effort of will.

  “Is she going to stay over there tonight?” Emily gasped, and her husband gave her a baleful look.

  “Why shouldn’t she? Now, don’t start in again, Em. Berthamae took fresh linen over this afternoon and made up the bed for her. She won’t notice the dust tonight. The place is perfectly habitable.” Emily looked from him to me and then down at her hands clasped in her lap. There were worse bondages, I thought suddenly.

  “I shall be fine, really, Mrs. Olmstead. You’ve been very kind. I’m so tired, I’ll sleep like the dead.”

  Emily Olmstead’s rosy cheeks faded white with my reassurance, but she made no further comments. She stared at her husband, but he ignored her.

  “Get your shawl, Em,” he ordered. She hesitated and seemed about to say something, but her husband’s look commanded her obedience.

  With the Olmsteads, I retraced my afternoon walk up Main Street. Emily’s earlier exuberance was curbed. She hardly uttered a word all the way down the street. When we turned up a side street where Olmstead said the schoolhouse was located, she slowed noticeably, holding back, and then made some excuse to go back to the store. Her husband put his hand beneath her elbow, making her keep pace with him.

  The sky was darkening, and a few stars were out. Crickets were chirping. At the end of the street, separated from the last house by several hundred yards, I saw a modest building. It was surrounded by a poorly repaired picket fence that had not been painted in some time. Weeds grew high around the building, which seemed to stare at me with its two broken-window eyes. It looked sad and uncared for in the receding light of day. Off to the left of the schoolhouse were three majestic oaks. Another two grew behind and to the right. There was a broken-down outhouse, and a well in the vee of the hills beyond. On the building itself were bold black letters above the entrance, proclaiming its community function. The place looked as tired, disheveled and lonely as I felt.

  Emily Olmstead stopped at the gate. “I’ll wait here,” she said, ignoring her husband’s scowl.

  “Em, for goodness sakes.”

  “I’ll wait here,” she said, adamant. James Olmstead sighed.

  “All right. I’ll be out in a minute,” he muttered and held the gate open for me. He lit a lantern just inside the schoolhouse door and handed it to me. He pointed across the schoolroom at a closed door.

  “Your quarters are right through there,” he instructed without moving. Then he went on briskly. “Kindling and wood are out back. We’ll keep you supplied with what you need for the schoolroom. It gets cold in the winter. The roof in your room doesn’t leak, as far as I know, but if it does, the school board will make arrangements to have someone come by and fix it. You’ll be paid at the end of each month. Twenty-five dollars, as we agreed in our letter. Since you’ve got a place to live, you’ll be saving on rent. Food comes cheap hereabouts. It’s cattle and farming country, and people will be glad to share what they have with you.” Implying that I was to beg for handouts? I wondered. Dear God, my situation is becoming worse by the minute.

  “Well, that’s about it,” he finished and gave me a grim smile. “Speaking on behalf of the community, we’re glad to have you here. We hope you stay.”

  “Thank you,” I managed a semblance of a smile. He turned away, eager to be gone.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, turning back again. “The well is about two hundred yards back from the schoolhouse. They dug it outside the school grounds so there would be no chance of an accident with one of the smaller children. You’ll have to tote your water. There are buckets just outside the back door, but don’t forget about the steps. The bottom two are broken.”

  “I won’t forget.” My voice sounded flat.

  “Good night, then,” he said and walked out the door. I heard him speaking in low tones to his wife as they
moved away from the gate. I stood in the classroom, which was dimly lit by my lantern, and looked around. The floor was dust-coated. Desks were shoved around. Three of them were smashed and broken in a heap as though someone had intended to build a fire. The walls were gray. Spider webs with their lurking inhabitants suspended from room comers, and jumbled books reclined in a rickety cabinet. The teacher’s desk at the front of the classroom was bare except for the dirt that had accumulated with time. A message was scrawled in childish writing across the blackboard. “All who enter here be warned.”

  As I crossed the room to the door of my quarters, I left footprints in the dust. My heart sank to even deeper depths as I peered into the room that was to be my home. It was sparsely furnished with an old commode containing three small drawers. A washbowl and pitcher stood on top next to a towel and washcloth that had been carefully laid out by Berthamae Poole. The bed against the back wall was narrow but freshly made up. It had one blanket. Another blanket was folded and set on top a small table near a wood-burning stove. Above the stove was a shelf on which stood a tin can with long-stick matches. Hanging on a hook was another kerosene lantern. Drab, faded curtains hung in the one window, effectively blotting out any natural light that might have entered the dreary room. The floor was bare except for the film of dust and grit that had accumulated over a year since the previous teacher had left. Everything about the room was oppressive and pathetic.

  There was plenty of work ahead of me tomorrow, I thought with a wry smile. I would not have time for self-pity and thoughts of what might have been had the Haversalls been honest, loving guardians. But the loneliness. Would I be able to bear that?

  There was a stillness around me like a shroud. After a few minutes I became aware of a cricket rubbing its courtship song somewhere in my room. Outside an owl hooted from one of the oaks.

  My companions, I thought. Then, putting my hands to my face, I cried uncontrollably.

  Chapter Four

  After moving the desks from the schoolroom, I spent my first day sweeping out dust and cobwebs. Then I lugged bucket after bucket of water into the place and, setting up a ladder, began scrubbing the grimy walls. By the end of the day I had barely completed half of the room. My hands were raw and chapped by the harsh soap Olmstead had contributed for my cleaning efforts. I looked around at my work and sighed heavily. It was clean, but it did not look it. Depressed, I dumped out the last bucket of dirty water and quit for the day.

  With my last few dollars in hand, I dragged myself to the general store and bought some much needed supplies. Olmstead gave me the use of his wheelbarrow to carry my purchases back. By the time I had stashed things away and returned the wheelbarrow, I was so hungry and tired I felt sick. I could not face another minute of work, even to cook, and collapsed without dinner onto my narrow bed. I slept until dawn.

  After several unsuccessful attempts to light my wood stove the next morning, I poured kerosene onto the kindling. It worked but almost singed my hair. I cooked a pot of coffee, several brown eggs and warmed a half-loaf of leftover bread Emily Olmstead had given me as a gift. Replete, I felt ready to tackle the schoolroom.

  I lugged more water, mixed in more detergent and set to work on the walls on the other half of the room. By that evening my quarters were also scrubbed down. Forcing myself to cook, I made a cheese-rice-and-vegetable concoction that was more nutritious than delicious. Then I took a sponge bath. Falling into bed, I expected to find sleep immediately, but it was impossible. All I could think of was the work yet ahead of me, the lessons I needed to prepare for 64 children; the yard work; the floor scouring; the minor repairs, such as fixing the picket fence, the squeaking doors; the tom bookbindings; the loose chalk tray; the wobbly desks. So many things to do and only a few more days in which to do them. I had never worked so hard in my life.

  The third day saw me on my hands and knees scrubbing floors. By the end of that day my back ached from toting water from the well, my legs were sore from walking and getting up and down from the floor, and my arms felt like limbs of wood hanging from drooping shoulders. Yet when I went to bed, I still tossed and turned. The more I needed rest, the more impossible it became. I could not stop thinking of the work that still stretched out before me.

  Finally, in frustration, I got up and stood at my window. The first thing I sensed was the disgusting malodorous outhouse, which the children and I were expected to use. Anger made my blood boil.

  I would be double-damned if I was going to dig a hole for an outhouse, I decided. If anything was “heavy work,” as Olmstead had phrased it, that was! Surely, the kind citizens of this town did not expect that of me as well as everything else they had given Olmstead to outline. More resentful thoughts began to whirl in my exhausted brain, and then an idea struck me. I started to laugh, a jubilant sound in the depressing darkness and glum atmosphere of my austere quarters.

  Everything was going to be just fine, I thought with another chuckle. If Olmstead and the rest of his demanding school board did not like my methods of maintaining the schoolhouse, they could always register their complaints with me. I would be more than pleased to listen. I laughed again. However, by that time I hoped my plans would be well started if not completed.

  The following morning I was in much better spirits, though still tired and stiff from my strenuous labors. I took care of minor repairs and was satisfied with my accomplishments by the end of the day. The picket fence had all its sticks in place, the door did not squeak anymore, the bookbindings were glued back, and the chalk tray no longer wobbled. I had checked all the desks and found them in good repair. The three smashed ones I used for firewood. Everything was moved back into place again. It was Saturday, and school was scheduled to start on Monday. That gave me the following day to make my lesson plans.

  I spent Sunday making lists of projects needed to be done. Then I worked late into the night on lesson plans for the first few days of school. Nervous excitement kept me awake the whole night, and the rising sun found me very apprehensive, but smiling.

  Just after eight o’clock I spotted a man riding down the hill behind the schoolhouse. Trailing reluctantly after him were two children on matching pintos. The three stopped for a moment, and the man spoke to the children—one, a girl in a pretty lilac dress, and the other, a boy in somber brown pants and shirt. Then the three rode forward. As they came out of the shadows of the oaks, I recognized Jordan Bennett. Emily Olmstead had not mentioned a son as well.

  I hurried from my window to the back door. Just as I started down the steps, I heard the crack and remembered Olmstead’s warning about the stairs. I jumped over the last three and heard Jordan Bennett laughing. My heart pounded, and I managed three slow breaths to smother my rush of temper. Then I smiled brightly and strode through the tall grass to meet the approaching trio.

  “Are you really that eager?” Bennett grinned.

  “Does it surprise you?” I countered with a smile that did not show my nervous tension. “But as for that jump, I forgot about the broken steps.”

  “You always seem to be doing some dance or other when I see you,” he teased, reminding me unkindly of my collapse in the road. I chose to ignore that comment and turned instead to look at the children. Neither resembled Jordan Bennett, but both were beautiful in contrasting ways. The little girl, whom I assumed to be Linda, was looking surreptitiously through a veil of fair lashes. Her eyes were an unusual violet. The smile on her face was faint with shyness.

  The boy, not much older than the girl, was dark-skinned, black-haired and brown-eyed. He looked at me with openly curious appraisal. However there was a tension about him. His thin shoulders and his full mouth looked too hard and firmly set for a boy so young.

  “Miss McFarland.” Bennett doffed his hat mockingly. “Meet my daughter, Linda, and Diego Gutierrez, the son of my housekeeper. Say good morning to your new schoolteacher, children.” His tone irritated me, but I was careful not to show it. Both children mumbled some polite, mechanical response, a
nd I smiled, ignoring the sparkle of mischief that lighted Bennett’s eyes.

  “Now go into the schoolhouse and get the best seats you can. Today should prove very interesting,” he further told them, making it sound like some grand entertainment was in store for them rather than classroom instruction. They obeyed.

  Bennett laughed again, and I practiced my willpower with a polite, if somewhat stiff, smile.

  “You’re looking rather tired this morning, Miss McFarland,” he grinned, obviously pleased about it. What a typical Jordan Bennett observation, I thought, stifling the urge to tell him to go home.

  “I should be,” I commented.

  “Oh? Did you do a little work around here?” he asked, glancing around the overgrown school yard I had not yet gotten to. “It doesn’t look like it.”

  My smile stayed plastered to my face, but I knew my eyes were speaking volumes. “Give it a few days, Mr. Bennett, and you might be very surprised.”

  “I do hope so,” he said dryly, the corner of his mouth jerking up in suppressed amusement. “I’ll even go so far as to loan you a scythe.”

  “I’d prefer a horse and plow,” I commented coolly. Bennett threw back his head and laughed. Then he looked at me, and something flickered in his eyes.

  “That I’d like to see. A fair maid from Boston proper behind a horse and plow. People would come from miles around just to see such a spectacle.” There was an odd bite to his words, making it a deliberate insult. I decided to pick up the thrown gauntlet.

  “I may be from ‘Boston proper,’ as you put it, Mr. Bennett,” I said calmly, my smile now more a baring of teeth, “but in Boston we have some semblance of manners. As to your ‘fair-maid’ label, it’s misplaced entirely. And I don’t appreciate being made fun of.”

  “I still maintain my first impression,” he commented blandly.

  I felt momentarily bemused. Then I remembered. “Oh,” I sniffed, “that I won’t last out the term, you mean. Well, I shall try not to let your opinions prey too heavily on my mind.” I waved my hand in airy dismissal. “Will you be returning for the children, or are they permitted to find their way home without your escort?”