Sycamore Hill

by Francine Rivers

  “They can make the ride by themselves,” he admitted, and I sighed in obvious relief. “But I think I’ll come back for them anyway. I want to hear all the gory details of your first day teaching,” he added. I did not even attempt a smile that time. I turned around and started to march back toward the schoolhouse.

  “Oh, Miss McFarland,” Bennett called in overly polite tones. I ignored him and kept walking.

  “Miss McFarland,” he said, the politeness gone. I let out my breath in irritation and turned around.

  “What is it, Mr. Bennett?” I asked, barely managing to keep my voice polite.

  He grinned. “You be sure to have a very pleasant day.” He succeeded in presenting a cultured Bostonian accent exaggerated just enough to show his derision. I froze for a full second. Then I curtsied prettily.

  “Why, how nice of you, Mr. Bennett. And I will do just that as soon as you turn your old cow pony around and ride over yonder hill.” I managed a fair attempt at a Western drawl.

  He was laughing at me again, satisfied that he had aroused my anger. “See you at three, Abby,” he said, further infuriating me by his casual use of such a nickname. He rode off in the direction from which he had come. I stood fuming.

  By ten to nine, 61 children had arrived and were seated in the schoolhouse. The din of noise almost deafened me as I sat at the front desk, looking over my charges and silently gathering my courage. The only quiet children were Linda Bennett and Diego Gutierrez, who had both chosen back-corner seats together. Linda sat watching the ruckus with her hands folded on her desk. Diego watched with wary interest.

  Just ahead of them, separated by one desk, was pretty little Margaret Hudson with her sandy-brown pigtails and laughing hazel eyes. She was leaning across the aisle to talk to Patricia Studebaker. Her brother, Chester, was deep in conversation with Toby Carmichael, a red-headed, freckled boy with sad expressive eyes. On the other side of the room Matthew, Mark, Luke and John Hayes, the reverend’s sons, chortled gleefully together and looked anything but the angels Emily Olmstead said they were. Other children of outlying ranchers and farmers chattered with friends they had not seen for some time.

  Just as I was about to call the class to order, two older boys made a noisy entrance. They laughed boisterously as they slouched down into two front desks. I assumed these were the notorious Poole boys—Sherman and Grant. Their reckless air of defiance and mischief set them apart from the other children and raised my hackles.

  “Silence, please!” I tried above the noise. But the children continued to talk. A nervous tingle ran over my skin as the tension built. What if they refused to listen at all? A vision of Jordan Bennett laughing flashed in my mind and gave my voice the added strength it needed.

  “Silence, please!” Here and there, children ceased their chatter and looked at me. I waited, looking from one child to another, meeting their silent challenges. All but the Poole boys gave in.

  “Whenever you’re ready, gentlemen,” I said coolly, staring at each boy in turn, anger overriding my nervousness. Something in my expression must have reached them, for they flushed slightly and dropped into silence.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly and then looked up as a sound at the back of the room attracted my attention. Standing in the doorway was a little girl of about eight. She was dressed in a white pinafore trimmed with pink satin ribbons. On her small feet were high-buttoned white shoes that probably cost as much as my doe-brown dress and jacket. Her dark hair was braided into two long, shiny plaits with pink bows at each end. Her delicate hands were folded in front of her. She looked as though she had come to a party. Her pretty gray eyes looked directly at me, and a little smile flickered nervously across her face.

  The woman behind the little girl was dressed in even more finery. She wore a forest-green dress trimmed in brown, much like the one I had seen in the milliner’s window on my way up the main street. On her head was a flashy hat with dyed-green and brown feathers. The gray eyes were worldly and cool as they appraised me from head to foot. Then she smiled, a tight, defensive smile, before, she moved forward with her daughter in tow.

  “My name is Marba Lane, Miss McFarland.”

  The Poole boys twittered, and I gave them a silencing look. Emily Olmstead had mentioned Marba Lane, but she had not explained her disapproval of the woman. I looked at the woman standing before me, taking in the beauty of her finely boned face. Her makeup was almost theatrical, but done with an expert hand.

  “This is my daughter, Katrina.”

  “We’re pleased to have you, Katrina.” I smiled at the little girl. “There’s a seat over there.” I indicated the one in front of Linda Bennett. Katrina looked up at her mother, and the woman nodded. The little girl crossed the room, very aware of the children watching her. I smiled at Marba Lane, and the woman smiled back, all her previous aloofness dissolving from her hard eyes.

  “Thank you, Miss McFarland,” she whispered, and I stared with surprise at the woman’s expression. She turned and walked back up the aisle. A man dressed in an expensive dark suit and white shirt was leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed, waiting for her. He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. Dark-brown hair fell forward on his tanned brow and grew in neatly trimmed thickness over an aristocratic head. He had warm brown eyes that seemed to laugh at the world rather than at me, like Jordan Bennett had a habit of doing.

  The man was assessing me. Rather than feeling angry at his perusal, I felt flattered. There was an air of sexual vitality about him that stopped just short of blatancy. His smile was full of charm and a silent compliment.

  Marba Lane looped her arm through the man’s, and he escorted her out. I noted that he moved with a grace that did nothing to insult his masculinity and only seemed to further emphasize the controlled power of his well-toned body.

  I wondered briefly who the man was and then returned my attention to the growing chatter in the room. Once I had regained the children’s attention, I wrote several assignments on the blackboard.

  As the children worked, I studied them. I noted how they held their pencils, how they concentrated, if they were restless or bored, and I made voluminous notes. As their papers began coming in, I quickly looked them over to form some idea of how much each child knew. Then I began grouping the children by their abilities.

  By noon most of the children were well-started in their assignments. I rang the bell and dismissed them for lunch recess and outdoor play. I observed them in their play, noticing which children grouped together and which were excluded. Katrina Lane remained by herself beneath one of the oak trees. Her solemn little face was inscrutable as she watched the other children playing. Linda Bennett and Diego Gutierrez stayed together, talking in whispers and darting glances at the other children.

  The Poole boys and the four Hayes boys started up a rowdy game of tag. Their laughter and antics were balm to my tense nerves. When they found a ball under the front steps, they started a keep-away game. When the ball accidentally came flying in my direction, I surprised myself by catching it with ease. My toss back was accurate, and they encouraged me to join in the game. Laughing, I agreed and encouraged more children to join with me.

  At 2:30 I had the children clear their desks and pass all materials forward for storing away by Sherman, Luke and Margaret. Then I sat on the front edge of my desk.

  “I am very pleased with the way things have gone today for all of us,” I began, smiling as I looked from face to face. “From the work you’ve done today, I will get some idea of where you are and what you need work on.”

  I paused, folding my hands. “Now, for your homework assignments....” Loud groans issued from the class. I gave a faint, amused smile and imitated their groans with one of my own.

  “Yes, homework,” I repeated and silently laughed at their woebegone looks. ‘Tonight I want each one of you to go home and think about what you particularly want to learn here at school. Not just reading, writing and arithmetic, but anything else that is of spec
ial interest to you.” James Olmstead would have a stroke! “Write it on a slip of paper and drop it in this little box tomorrow morning. You may leave your name off if you wish,” I added. Faces were beginning to brighten again. “Also I would like you to write down things you think we should do to the schoolhouse.” A chuckle escaped Sherman Poole, and I looked down at him with a wry smile.

  “Short of burning it down, of course, Sherman.” The children laughed. I waved my hand indicating the drab surroundings. “I’m sure you agree it needs improvement. And if you can forage paint, material scraps, plants, anything you think we could use, we might just be able to make this pathetic old building into a pleasant place to behold.”

  “What color paint, Miss McFarland?” Andrew Olmstead piped up.

  “Anything you can scrounge and that your parents are willing to give,” I answered. “We’ll leave the outside of the building as it is, but we’ll decorate the inside any way you want... within reason.” I smiled at Sherman’s devilish look. “As for the play yard, we’ll clean that up little by little and set up a baseball diamond.” There were cheers at that announcement. I grinned. “And for those little darlings who get into trouble with the teacher...” I eyed Sherman and Grant pointedly, “they can help dig a new latrine for that disgusting outhouse of ours.” The children roared with laughter, and Sherman and Grant sank down into their seats with mock fright.

  “Well, do you think you have enough to keep you busy and out of mischief tonight?” I asked with a laugh. There was a loud joyous affirmative.

  “Then there’s just one more thing. From now on, wear clothes you won’t mind getting dirty. We’re going to try to make school fun as well as instructive.” I raised my brows questioningly as I glanced over the children. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed!” they cried.

  I smiled. “Class dismissed. I’ll see you all tomorrow morning at nine sharp.”

  There was a mass scrambling for the door and rollicking laughter as the children surged out of the building and ran off in all directions for home. Chores awaited them before they could begin their foraging for the schoolhouse.

  Katrina Lane walked out of the schoolroom with the same air of fragile dignity with which she had entered. I watched her with a slight frown. No little girl should be so solemn and withdrawn. She should laugh and enjoy life. I decided to try to make that happen somehow.

  Linda Bennett and Diego Gutierrez remained sitting in the back of the classroom. Both looked relieved that school was over. Linda was tracing carved initials on the desk top with her finger while Diego watched me.

  “Diego,” I said, meeting the boy’s intent scrutiny, “your printing is excellent. I’d like you to help John Hayes and Toby Carmichael improve theirs.”

  The boy’s expression closed over. His mouth became tighter. “They won’t let me,” he told me flatly.

  “Why do you think that?” I asked.

  “They won’t,” he repeated harshly, not elaborating. “Just take my word for it.”

  “Can we try anyway?”

  He did not answer, but I could see that he was thinking about it. The idea did not seem to please him. “How about if I just put you in a group with those two boys? Then they can learn from you without having their noses pushed into it,” I suggested, feeling that there must be some animosity between the boys. They had not played together in the schoolyard, but then Diego had not once attempted to join in the group games.

  “Maybe,” he relented only slightly, but did not seem any the more eager. Linda looked up, those marvelous violet eyes clear for a moment of their shyness.

  “The other boys won’t play with Diego because he’s Mexican," she explained candidly. For a moment I did not know what to say, and I knew my face showed my startled state.

  “How can you be sure that the other boys feel that way?” I directed my question to Diego. “You didn’t try to join in with them in any of their activities. Have you tried before?”

  “He came to school two years ago,” Linda started to say, but Diego gave her a quelling glance, and she stopped, her finger beginning its tracing again.

  “And?” I looked at Diego. He averted his gaze and stared toward the blackboard. There was no defiance in his attitude. Linda looked at him.

  “Tell her, Diego,” she pleaded softly.

  “No,” he snapped, glaring at her. “And you’d better not either.” There was more pride than threat in those words, and Linda sighed.

  “Well, how did it go?” came a deep voice. I looked up sharply to see Jordan Bennett lounging in the doorway, his hat pushed back from his forehead. He directed his question to the children and then glanced briefly in my direction. Linda ran to him, and he lifted her up with an affectionate laugh that did something strange to my stomach. Linda chattered with more animation than she had had all day, while Diego approached with more dignity. Bennett asked a question in fluent Spanish, and the boy answered with one word.

  "Bueno.” He nodded, smiling up at Jordan Bennett. Bennett looked across the room at me as I busied myself with the children’s papers.

  “You don’t look any the worse for wear,” he commented dryly.

  “How did you expect me to look?” I managed an amused laugh.

  “A little more haggard than you do,” he admitted. “But as you said this morning ... give it a day or two.”

  Was he really so hopeful of my failure? It was obvious that he had not the least respect for my capabilities. But why was he so antagonistic?

  “Are you hoping I’ll only last a few days?” I dared ask. That he considered the question seriously with just the faintest twist of his mouth was a slap in my face. I controlled my expression, only the slight upward tilt of my chin indicating that his silence hurt.

  “The children need a teacher,” he commented. “You’ll do as well as anyone else they could find around here.”

  “Thank you for your vote of confidence,” I muttered. I looked away from his penetrating eyes to the two children watching us curiously. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.” I smiled, hoping Bennett would take the hint and leave. He read my thoughts and gave a low laugh.

  “Good afternoon, Miss McFarland.” He doffed his hat.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Bennett,” I answered politely.

  For the next few days school progressed well. I kept the children busy with class assignments. During recesses I gave them a choice of outdoor play or painting in the classroom. Many preferred to plaster the walls with colorful drawings of trees, people, animals and anything else they fancied. After two days the room was a bright art display of varying talents. Several plants sat on my desk and the corner bookshelf. Scraps of material were sewed together by the girls to make colorful curtains for the front windows, which were unrepaired by James Olmstead and his school-board members.

  Few difficulties arose between the children. After Diego’s initial reluctance, he agreed to move into the group of boys including Toby and Luke. He was welcomed without comment, and the boys began to copy his writing techniques when they heard my praise of his work. Later, Diego began to join in the outdoor games, leaving Linda free to become acquainted with several of the girls her own age. Still overly shy, she became friends with the more extroverted Margaret Hudson, who hardly gave her a chance to speak.

  Katrina Lane still remained to herself, even though the other girls made some overtures to her. The only fight that broke out all week was between Sherman and Grant Poole over who was to pitch in a baseball game that had not even begun yet. With pick and shovel, the two boys made remarkable progress on the latrine.

  When Saturday came, I was grateful for the day’s respite. Though I thoroughly enjoyed the classroom hours with the children, my schedule had proved grueling. Papers and lesson plans kept me up late into the night, and I had to rise early each morning to get everything in readiness for the children. At least, I thought with some satisfaction, the schoolroom had become more cheerful with the children’s artistic contributions.


  Intending to do my wash, I was in the process of toting water when I heard laughter coming from the front play yard. Coming around from the back, I spied Jordan Bennett coming up the street on his buckboard. Behind him a sturdy horse was tied and following. In the back of the wagon was a hand plow. At a safe distance behind the horse I spotted Sherman and Grant following, laughing between themselves.

  From the gleam in Jordan Bennett’s eyes I knew that his malicious intention was to make me look a complete fool. Squaring my shoulders, I started forward to meet him at the front gate.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bennett,” I greeted him pleasantly enough. “How kind of you to come by to plow our play yard for us.”

  Jordan Bennett laughed. “Nice try,” he said in a low voice only I heard. “Just unload it over there, boys,” he instructed Sherman and Grant. Matthew Hayes had arrived with two of his brothers. They all were more than eager to oblige Bennett’s order.

  “The horse and plow are my contribution to your cleanup efforts.” He grinned.

  “I’m sure I should be very grateful,” I said glumly.

  “I’ll even be kind enough to give you a quick lesson,” Bennett went on. I knew he expected me to decline and tell him what he could do with his horse and plow.

  “All right,” I agreed. “I’m more than willing to learn if it’s necessary.”

  His blue eyes narrowed as he considered me in silence. He jumped down off the buckboard. “We’ll see if you have the back muscles for it,” he commented. “A woman of your intelligence should be quick enough to learn something as simple as plowing a field. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “I don’t imagine I’ll be the first.”

  With a few succinct instructions he showed me how to harness the horse, which was looking dubious about the whole thing. I eyed the animal warily, half expecting it to kick me. Jordan looped the reins about my shoulders, positioned the plow and stood back. I had watched the play of his hard muscles through his cotton shirt. He made everything look easy, and my confidence grew. After taking the plow for a step or two, he turned the job over to me.