Something flickered in Jordan’s eyes, but I was in no condition to analyze it, nor care if it meant repercussions later.
“Who do you think should take responsibility for Diego?” he asked in a quiet, hard voice.
“We all have a responsibility to Diego,” I said adamantly, then felt the astonished stares of Olmstead and Hayes. I looked back at them, ignoring Jordan Bennett.
“What are you talking about now, Miss McFarland?” Hayes ejaculated with impatience, his loud, deep voice carrying throughout the store, and I was sure he would be heard outside in the street as well. My chin jerked up.
“You deny Diego Gutierrez his right to an education because of... because of personal prejudice. Every other child in this community is at the mercy of your arbitrary decision-making. What you deny Diego today, you could deny tomorrow to Toby Carmichael because he’s a waif without parents, or Margaret Hudson because she’s outspoken about her opinions, or Katrina Lane because her mother has to work in a hotel casino.”
“There’s no reason to suggest expulsion of Toby or Margaret. Both attend church regularly,” Hayes assured me. “But you may have a point about Katrina Lane. I’ve been thinking about that girl and her mother lately.”
Olmstead’s gaze turned to Hayes, and he looked surprised. The lines in his forehead deepened as he was undoubtedly thinking about Ross Persall’s hotel order going to Thompson permanently if Katrina were to be expelled.
I could not believe I had heard Hayes correctly. Jordan Bennett’s strong fingers closed around my upper arm, and he turned me forcibly toward him. “However important you may think you are, your responsibility concerning the children starts when they walk into your classroom in the morning and ends when they walk out of it at the end of the day,” he said in a low, harsh voice. His fingers bit into me when I started to protest. “Now will you get out and let me handle this, especially since you’re so damned sure you know what’s best for Diego!”
“But, I can’t go...” I stammered, my mouth trembling under his vehemence. I thought of what the minister had just said concerning Katrina.
“You should have stayed in Boston. Damn it, woman! When are you going to learn to shut up and listen? Now get out of here! Unless you want to stay and make things worse!” He almost flung me toward the aisle leading to the front door. I had not the courage to defy him again.
Standing on the wooden sidewalk above the dirt street, I controlled my inclination to burst into tears of anger, frustration and hurt. Jordan Bennett was at the center of my mangled feelings, though I knew the other two men were the ones at whom I should be angry. Hayes more than Olmstead, for I had not been mistaken in seeing Olmstead’s recognition of the minister’s bad judgment. Perhaps that was good, and he would begin to lean more my way if only for monetary reasons.
I rubbed my temples, feeling the onslaught of a torturous headache. I had wanted to help Diego, and had only succeeded in making matters worse by mentioning Katrina Lane. Surely that vile man who dared call himself a servant of God would not really expel Katrina. If he did, he would have to find Sycamore Hill another teacher, I resolved. Fear entered my consciousness as I thought of that possibility. What would I do if it came to that? I had no savings. Everything extra I had managed to extract from my teaching income had gone into buying books from an Eastern mail-order house. Where would I go to live? I knew I would have to vacate the schoolhouse.
That thought was not entirely unpleasant, for I had not enjoyed living in that place with its strange sounds and oddly chilling breezes that made me certain of a presence I did not want to acknowledge. For all my reasoning, for all my insistence that I was curious, I was afraid of whatever else lived in the schoolhouse. And whatever Ellen Greer said, there was something there. I could feel it.
It was well into late afternoon, and I knew I should return to my quarters. But I could not face them. I needed to walk, to get away from Sycamore Hill, to get away from the responsibility that lay so heavily on my shoulders.
Jordan Bennett was wrong. I had to feel responsibility for the children beyond the time they spent in the classroom. My job was not from nine in the morning to three in the afternoon. It was from the time I got up until I went to bed, and even beyond that when I dreamed of incidents that happened during the day.
My life was immersed in my occupation. Sometimes I felt smothered by it, as I did at this moment when things were going so badly. But I owed the children everything I could give them. What they learned from me would shape their lives. Other things came into it, of course. I did not think myself omniscient, but they had a right to learn basic skills, and I had the right to teach them more if I thought it necessary.
One of the things I longed to expand was tolerance. There seemed to be so little of it, even within myself, as I could not bring myself to tolerate the Reverend Jonah Hayes.
An afternoon wind whipped my skirts back against my legs. I could feel the chill biting into me, but I did not stop my walk. The sycamore grove was up ahead of me, and I headed for it as though a haven. I remembered the conversation I had had with Ross Persall, and wished for his company again. He had made me forget what I was for a while. He had made me feel attractive and desirable. He was not like Jordan Bennett, who made me feel ridiculous, stupid and like a child.
On the way up the hill I passed the lonely grave where Ross had dropped the wild flower. I hesitated. The wooden cross was tilted sideways as the body beneath began to decompose and the soil caved in on it. Leaning down, I straightened the simple marker.
“Who are you?” I whispered. “And why are you here and not inside the cemetery?”
Only the cold wind responded. I stood up and continued up the hill, feeling very depressed. I sat for a long time beneath the sycamores, which were now almost denuded of their big, bright-yellow leaves. I thought of little but the beautiful land around me. I looked beyond the town at the rolling hills with their sentinel oaks and tried to think of nothing. When I finally got up to leave, it was well after dark, and the stars were out in multitudes above me. Below, lights shone in home windows where families were gathered to discuss the events of the day.
Never had I felt so lonely.
For just an instant I wondered where Jordan Bennett was, and I felt such painful longing that I wanted to cry. How could I be so attracted to a man who so frequently clashed with me? Then I thrust him from my mind. It was a futile gesture, as his image remained like an engraving.
Walking back by way of the hills along the edge of town, I listened to the night sounds. I wondered if I would hear the ghost tonight, and I prayed for one uninterrupted eight-hour rest. I rubbed my arms against the cold, but did not increase my pace. There was no hurry to reach the schoolhouse. I had set food out for Orphan before going to the store. My stomach growled, and I remembered that I had started out to buy some supplies. There was little in my larder, and none of it appealed to me at the moment.
As I came down the hill, I hesitated. I looked at the schoolhouse and tried to make myself feel that I was coming home. I could not. I lived there in that place, but it was not my home. It was somewhere to lay my head. I counted myself lucky that I had an occupation that filled me. I could satisfy my needs by living for the children. Wasn’t that what Ellen had said? I smiled slightly. I would have to work so hard that I did not have energy to indulge in useless self-pity.
When I entered the back door of the building and walked into my room, I was surprised to see that the fire was still going in the stove. It was burning very low, but the embers shone red. I flicked open the grate and pushed in another log to last the night. It was a luxury I could ill afford, but I needed to feel warm, and a crackling fire always made me feel better no matter how depressed I was. There was something that answered a primeval need in the flickering flames. My mind became soothed as my body was warmed.
I walked to the door of the schoolroom. I stopped, reached out and then retracted my hand. I was unhappy enough without searching out something that
would aid in giving me a sleepless night. But it drew me. Reaching out again, I turned the doorknob and pushed inward.
The schoolroom was empty. I felt nothing, and oddly, I was disappointed. The front window had been grudgingly repaired by Olmstead last week, and there was no breeze to raise the patchwork curtains the children had made. I hugged myself against the chill and stared down at the scrubbed floorboards, feeling even more dejected. Had she even gone away to leave me alone?
A faint noise drew my attention. I trembled slightly as I stared into the darkened comers searching for her. I saw nothing, but I knew I had heard something. I felt someone watching me.
“Are you there?” I whispered, surprised that my voice did not sound strained. “Please, come and talk to me.”
A hand touched my shoulder.
A sharp gasp erupted from my throat, making a high sound of fright. I swung around so fast, I lost my balance and started to tumble over backward, when strong, masculine hands grabbed me.
For an instant I felt blackness closing around me. I was engulfed in waves of dizziness. I shut my eyes tightly. My breath was coming in fast, jerky gasps. My heart was thundering out of control.
“Who were you expecting?” demanded a hard voice. “Ross Persall?”
I opened my eyes and stared up at the intruder. “Jordan!” my voice rasped. The room was too dark to read the expression on his face, but he was standing rigidly in front of me, his hands still biting painfully into my shoulders.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Bennett?” I strived for some control. I fairly squeaked when I spoke. Though the fright had dissipated, other more unnerving emotions began to keep my breath and heart in rapid motion.
Jordan did not answer for a moment. I could feel his eyes boring into me, and his anger was growing to a hard tension that was almost tangible.
“Who were you expecting?” he repeated.
“No one.”
I could hardly admit to him that I was looking for a ghost and asking it to speak to me. He would either laugh or think I had lost my mind. I could not bear another scene with this man. I just wanted him to go away and leave me in peace. So I took refuge in as much dignity as I could muster. Placing my hands firmly against his chest, I pushed back so that he freed me. Then I stepped back several paces more, though still facing him.
“I was not expecting anyone,” I said with measured calm, “and certainly not you creeping around in the dead of night. What are you doing here, Mr. Bennett?” I asked again.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he answered tautly.
“Here?” I looked around the darkened schoolroom.
“No. In there.” He jerked his head, indicating my quarters. “You’ve been in my room?” I stammered, the thread of control unraveling. “For how long... and how did you get in there?”
“Since early this evening. And you left the back door open,” he said dryly. “Almost as though you were expecting a visitor.” His voice was insinuating and very unpleasant.
“There’s never been any need to lock my door. But I will from now on, you can be sure of that!”
“Indeed?” he retorted mockingly. “Every night and against all comers?”
I frowned at him, wondering what was making him so upset. I could feel his anger crackling in the air.
“It’s been a very long day,” I said tremulously. “I’m tired.”
“Where have you been, damn you?”
If I thought of telling him to mind his own business, it passed so quickly from my mind, I did not realize it. His tone made anything but the truth a direct challenge. I did not know what he would do, and I did not want to find out.
“I walked up to the sycamore grove.”
“You’ve been up on that hill for six hours?” he asked. He quite obviously did not believe me. “Who have you been with?”
“I have not been with anyone. And what business is it of yours anyway?” I cried, the bravado rising. I felt as cornered and desperate as any animal in the woods stalked by a hunter.
Some of the tension seemed to drain from Jordan. “It’s damn cold in here,” he observed in a quieter, more controlled voice. “Let’s go back to your room and have our talk.”
“I would like to go back to my room. But not with you. And I’m not in the mood to talk with you either!”
He took a couple of steps toward me and grasped my wrist. Pulling me after him, he entered my room and shut the door behind us. Releasing me, he leaned back against it, his arms crossed. The candlelight showed the hard, uncompromising set of his face and the glitter of his blue eyes.
“Sit down, Miss McFarland!” he ordered in a cold voice. I sat. A humorless smile tilted his mouth. “Now, was that so damned difficult?”
I was shaking, and efforts to stop it were to no avail.
“If you’re trying to frighten me, you’re doing an excellent job of it,” I said, only afterward wondering at the wisdom of such an admission.
“You’re frightened? Miss McFarland, you don’t frighten easily enough!” he told me. “Someone should take you in hand, Abby,” he said more calmly now that he had gotten his way.
I did not try to argue with him. I sat in the chair by the table staring at him fixedly. My expression seemed to bother him. Jordan frowned and let out his breath. “Stop looking at me like that! I’m not going to hurt you, for God’s sake!”
Too much had happened that day, and I was perilously close to losing control and crying. I looked away from him and blinked rapidly. My fingers twisted together in a knot on my lap, and I swallowed convulsively. I am not going to cry in front of this dreadful man, I told myself fiercely.
“Diego is reinstated. He’ll be back in school Monday morning,” Jordan said tiredly. He was rubbing the back of his neck as though it ached. He did not look at me as my eyes swung back to him with that announcement.
“Oh!” My fingers loosened their death grip on each other. “But how did you ever manage?”
“After you almost made a complete mess of the whole thing?” he finished wryly. “Hayes is at the mercy of pressures himself. And you needn’t worry about Katrina Lane. I don’t think he’ll be doing anything to her.”
“Oh, thank God,” I sighed in relief. “I was so afraid he was serious about removing her as well as not allowing Diego to come back.”
“He was.”
“I just don’t understand that man!”
“Obviously not, or you would have handled the situation a damned sight better than you did.” The irritation was back in his voice. He moved away from the door. There was no place for him to sit except on my bed. Jordan Bennett stepped away from that restlessly and began to finger my possessions. He touched my brush and comb set lying on top of the old dresser. He picked up a chipped cup and set it back on the shelf, glancing over the cabinet with its meager boasting of supplies. Then he picked up a book and read the title.
“You go in for heavy reading,” he commented, opening the new volume of Greek plays Bradford Dobson had sent.
“How did you get Reverend Hayes to reinstate Diego?” I asked curiously.
“I have my methods of dealing with people like him,” Jordan said in a cool voice. He was reading the inscription Bradford Dobson had written on the inside cover: “‘With much admiration and wishes that this will supply you with hours of cathartic enjoyment. Your servant always, Bradford Dobson.’” Jordan was frowning. “Who’s Bradford Dobson?”
“He was solicitor to my late guardians.”
“Young or old?”
“What possible difference could that make to you?” I asked in confusion.
“None.” He snapped the book shut and dropped it on the bed.
“I liked Mr. Dobson very much. He was very kind. In fact, he was the one who helped me find this position.”
“You call that kind?” Jordan gave a harsh laugh.
“I had to find some way to make a living.”
Jordan looked at me. “Why didn’t you just marry some poor f
ool? That’s what most women do, isn’t it?”
“I can’t speak for most women, Mr. Bennett, but for myself, I could not marry just to have a roof over my head or food on the table.”
“There are men who could supply you with more than just room and board,” he commented idly. “You could have beautiful clothes, jewelry, whatever you wanted... under certain circumstances.”
“And for what price?” I asked dryly, thinking about the loss of self-respect. Then I wondered what I would say if Jordan Bennett were to propose such a marriage arrangement to me. But, of course, he was speaking generally, not specifically. It’s always easy to be objective when your own emotions aren’t involved.
“You know very well at what price, Abby. You aren’t that naive.” He looked at me with such an intimate scrutiny that I could scarcely misunderstand his meaning. I wondered if he was deliberately trying to embarrass me. If he was, I was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had indeed succeeded. I was stonily silent and kept my expression blank.
“Well?” he drawled. “What would you say to such a proposal, if any man were tempted to offer you one, that is?” He made the possibility seem very remote and made me feel like the least attractive woman in the world.
“A woman who accepted such a proposal would be little more than a prostitute,” I answered in a flat tone of indifference.
He raised his brows derisively. “Harsh judgment for the majority of womankind.”
“You’re very cynical. Could it have anything to do with your own personal experience?” My question was rhetorical, but I could hardly believe I had mouthed it at all. I prepared myself for a storm.
Jordan Bennett’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How very incautious you can be,” he said in a low voice, a tilt to his mouth. “But you are right. My wife was little more than a whore, but what she lacked in genuine emotion, she well made up for in skill.”
A pain started in the pit of my stomach and spread through my system at the thought of Jordan with his wife. I kept my face bland. He watched me closely, almost as though he was assessing the effect of his words.
Sycamore Hill Page 19
