Sycamore Hill

by Francine Rivers

  I moved about, showing people where to sit. Ellen stayed me with a hand to mine. “Are you feeling all right, Abby?” she asked in a low voice. “You look very pale tonight.”

  “Just a case of nerves,” I said with a smile. “I’ll be fine just as soon as everything begins and goes smoothly.”

  “Everything will go very well, my dear.” She patted my hand. I wished she had resorted to her usual biting humor, then perhaps I could have snapped out of this dreadful state of nerves. My eyes drifted toward Jordan again. He was still talking with Marba, throwing back his head and laughing now at some witty remark she had made. Ross was laughing with them. He turned as though sensing my attention, and he smiled at me. I forced myself to smile back.

  Looking at my pinwatch, I saw that it was time to begin. I entered my room and shut the door behind me. Then I shushed the children. “Is everyone ready?” I asked in a cheerful tone, smiling at each one of them in encouragement. I was as nervous as they were—perhaps more so. My hands felt clammy. My head was floating with a strange kind of dizziness, and I felt nauseated. I took a deep, slow breath.

  “I’m so excited, I feel faint,” I admitted to them laughingly. Several giggled and seemed to relax by my disclosure. “Matthew, do you have your lines ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Everyone is into their costumes?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they all replied in hushed tones, wide-eyed with excitement.

  “Well, then, as they say in the theater, ‘break a leg.’” I leaned forward. “But not really, please.” They giggled again.

  I went out, leaving the door slightly ajar so that they could hear me. Taking another deep, calming breath, I stepped onto the low platform and leaned back against the edge of my desk, with my hands clasped in front of me. People saw me come from my room, and they grew quiet. I carefully avoided looking in Jordan Bennett’s direction, though I was aware his eyes were on me from the moment I came from my quarters. Marba Lane seemed more relaxed and was even smiling, her first tension dissipated. How I wished mine was! Ross was smiling at me with encouragement. Then I let my eyes trail over the other faces, picking out the friendly ones—Elvira Hudson, Ellen Greer, Charles Studebaker, Emily Olmstead.

  My heart was doing a nervous polka in my chest as I said my first few words of greeting and introduction. Once those were out with a voice that was thankfully unbroken, though slightly more breathy than usual, I felt my control returning. I went on to talk a little more about our play, an adaptation of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. I gave a brief synopsis of the story, explaining that due to a lack of time, we would act only the key sections. And then I introduced Matthew Hayes as our narrator. He marched forward with great dignity, his nervousness apparent in the slight shaking of the papers in his hand as he began reading in a slow, careful voice. I sat near the door where I could signal the children for their entrances. Sherman Poole came on first as Scrooge. There was some laughter from the parents as they saw the tall, lanky boy dressed and made up as an old man. Sherman grinned sheepishly and then launched into his threatrical debut with gusto.

  The play went very well. Toby Carmichael made a darling Tiny Tim, but it was Grant Poole as Father Christmas who brought down the house with laughter when he tripped over his costume and almost fell flat on his face. By the time the end came, everyone was thoroughly enjoying themselves, even Reverend Hayes. The children lined up on the small platform and made their giggling, now-confident bows to the applause of their proud parents. Then they scurried back to change into their costumes for the nativity scene and caroling.

  Some of my nervousness returned as I again stood in front of the filled schoolroom and spoke to the parents about the carols and the history of the nativity scene. I allowed the children five minutes for their quick change. We had rehearsed this many times, and I knew by a light tap on the door when they were all ready. I paused for a moment, looking at the door.

  The youngest girls came out first, dressed in their party best with paper wings and little halos. The parents twittered proudly among themselves. Then the boys came, scrubbed and combed and looking a little too innocent to be credible. I suppressed my smile as I looked at Sherman’s solemn look.

  A space had been cleared at the front of the classroom, and here Margaret and Diego knelt together as Joseph and Mary. A small doll was wrapped and lay in a basket. Luke, Harold and Chester were the Wise Men following the star held aloft by Matthew Hayes.

  With me conducting, the children sang “Silent Night, Holy Night.” Their harmony was not always perfect, but never had I heard them sound more wonderful. Katrina Lane sang the second-verse solo as the other children hummed harmony. Her voice was pure and delightful, and she looked every bit the angel she was dressed.

  When the song was over, the children grinned delightedly. I smiled back, gave them a broad wink and said they were dismissed. The parents were clapping and standing up to greet their children, who were pouring down off the platform to receive their well-earned compliments.

  As I turned around, I felt another wave of dizziness, and a clammy chill came over me. It passed quickly, but left the same annoying nausea with which I had been too often plagued lately. I felt all the color draining from my cheeks. Turning quickly away from the attention of the parents, I headed toward my room where there was a chance of privacy and the excuse of a half-dozen trays of cookies waiting to be set out. Once there, I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. The nausea abated slightly, and my head stopped swimming.

  “Can I help you, Miss McFarland?” Elvira Hudson asked from behind me. I turned around and smiled with forced brightness. I gladly accepted her offer and indicated two trays she could carry out to the table while I took the grounds from the coffeepot. The smell of the rich brew revived my ill feeling. Usually I loved the smell of coffee, but not lately.

  Breathing through my teeth, I lugged the heavy commercial pot Ross had loaned me across the room to the refreshment table. Then Elvira and I began distributing the treats. As people came by for cookies, they paused to congratulate me on the Christmas program. I glimpsed Jordan at the far side of the room, talking again with Marba Lane. She looked toward me several times as she spoke, and I wondered if they were discussing me. Jordan’s arms were crossed over his chest, and he was smiling slightly. It was a friendly smile he had rarely turned on me, except the one time I wanted so desperately to forget.

  Everyone in town had come for the program. Even Sheriff Tom Hallender was there. He stopped at the table when the others had moved on. I noticed that his hair was growing very white at the temples, and he looked tired and drawn.

  “You’re doing a fine job of teaching, ma’am,” he commented. “I haven’t had any need to chase down truants lately.”

  Ross walked up to stand next to Tom Hallender. “With a teacher as pretty as Miss McFarland, who would want to play hooky?” He grinned. I was now used to Ross’s flirtatious manner, and for once I didn’t flush.

  “Do you plan to stay in Sycamore Hill?” Hallender asked.

  “Yes,” I answered, and then added with a smile that I hoped I would be allowed to stay. It was up to the school board as to whether my contract would be renewed at the end of the year. If it was, I could stay on permanently unless some unforeseen conflict arose.

  “Oh, they’ll renew it all right,” the sheriff said, seeming very sure. “There isn’t anyone around these parts that would want to work day and night in this place.” His words seemed to mean something other than the usual duties that went along with teaching, and I had started to question him when the good Reverend Hayes approached with his wife on his arm.

  “Tom, how are things with you?” The minister nodded greetings to the sheriff. Ross was standing next to Hallender, but Reverend Hayes looked right past him, and fixed his cold eyes on me. The only evidence of Ross’s reaction to the deliberate snub was a faint twitch in his cheek. He sipped at his coffee and then moved away from the table.

  “The
Christmas program was done fairly well,” Reverend Hayes said, and I was pleased by that compliment, the first of any degree at all that I had received from him.

  “Thank you very much.” I smiled. “I thought Matthew did remarkably well with his narration. Didn’t you? He does very well in any oral presentation.”

  “You showed sound judgment selecting him to do it,” the minister agreed proudly. “Your judgment was a little lacking in some others however,” he added after a pause. Hallender looked at the reverend with obvious interest. Elizabeth Hayes peered up at her husband pleadingly. When she squeezed his arm, he patently ignored her.

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “You never cease to amaze me, Miss McFarland,” Reverend Hayes said with a stem shake of his head. “How could you possibly have a Mexican boy play Joseph? It’s unthinkable! And that barmaid’s daughter as an angel? What a lack of taste and discretion!”

  Angry color came into my face. I hoped that Diego and Katrina were nowhere close by to hear such vile prejudice.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said levelly. “The children elected Diego to play Joseph, and as for Katrina, she has a beautiful voice and is a charming child.”

  “Luke would have been an excellent Joseph,” the minister insisted, flatly ignoring my explanation about how the parts were chosen.

  “Luke would have done well, yes,” I agreed, trying desperately for calmness. My stomach was churning again, and I wished that the conversation would end so I could escape outside for a breath of cool night air.

  “If you agree with me, you should have chosen him,” Reverend Hayes told me briskly. “Joseph should have been played by a white child.”

  I started to tremble. I straightened up. The impatience from my own physical discomfort made me speak candidly. “I know a little about geography, Reverend Hayes. Jesus was born in Bethlehem, not in London. It’s highly unlikely that Christ would have been white... or blond... or blue-eyed. It’s more reasonable to assume he would have been dark-skinned, probably very dark, since he was a carpenter and therefore must have spent a good deal of time outside in the sun. And he traveled, walking over the land to preach the gospel to the people. He would have been brown, Reverend Hayes, very, very brown!”

  There were curious eyes on us, but I had kept my voice low enough so that others did not hear me. Hayes’s mouth was a hard line of anger and indignation. He gave me a long, eloquent look and then spoke in a hiss to his pale wife.

  “Get the boys! We’re leaving!” She scurried away to collect her four sons. Hayes did not move, and I noticed the color in his neck. I knew my own color was very high. There was a great deal more I wanted to say to this man, but I knew that I had already said quite enough. More than enough, as it was.

  “June can’t come soon enough, Miss McFarland. I suggest you begin looking for other prospects more suited to your temperament,” he hissed, hitting me at my most vulnerable point—my survival. The color washed out of my cheeks as he watched with immense satisfaction the effect of his words. I felt the nausea welling inside me as I watched him walk across the room and leave with his family. I closed my eyes and lowered my head.

  “The life of a public servant is about as thankless as they come, isn’t it?” Tom Hallender said. I looked up, and he smiled sympathetically. “God knows, you have enough work to do without having to take that kind of abuse. Beats me why you do take it, Miss McFarland. A young woman like you, well-bred, pretty. You should be able to find some position in a more exciting place—San Francisco, for example. There must be lots of things there that would be more rewarding and interesting than teaching farmers’ kids the alphabet and numbers while taking a lot of rough talk from a preacher who thinks you’re kin to the devil himself.”

  He shook his head, a bitter twist to his mouth. “I’ve worked for this town for thirty-six years. You want to know what I’ll get when I have to quit because I’m too old to handle the job? I’ll get a gold watch, if I’m lucky.”

  I thought of Ellen Greer and her two plaques. Ellen had been fortunate enough to have a niece who was willing to give her room. What would the school board have done to reward her for 50 years of service to the community if Ellen had had no one?

  “I was surprised you even stayed on. You must have heard about this place.” He glanced around the schoolroom.

  “May I have more coffee, Miss McFarland?” Elvira Hudson cut in, casting Tom Hallender a warning look. He stared back at her blandly. “Brady Apperson wants to discuss last year’s robbery with you, Tom,” she told him. Hallender’s eyes narrowed.

  “What about it?” he asked defensively. I remembered what Ross had said about the sheriff’s being unable to solve the crime.

  “He has a theory about how the robbers got away and where they went.”

  Hallender gave a derisive snort. “Maybe he’d like to take over my job,” he muttered bitterly as he set down his cup. “He can have it!” He cast me an apologetic shrug. “We’ve a lot in common, you and I, Miss McFarland. Neither one of us has any life we can call our own.” He walked away.

  “Don’t let Tom upset you, Miss McFarland,” Elvira said, leaning forward to pat my hand. She looked at my face with concern. “Are you feeling all right? You look quite pale.”

  “I just need some air.” I smiled weakly. “Excuse me.”

  I turned away and moved as quickly yet inconspicuously as possible across the room to my door. Perhaps the solitude would make the nausea and dizziness subside. With my door closed behind me, I took several deep breaths, but they did not help this time. I knew I was going to be sick. My fingers fumbled frantically at the back door. I could not face the stench of the outhouse, and I thought of fleeing to the privacy of the old oak beyond the well. But I would never make it. I stumbled down the back steps and made it to the wall of the schoolhouse. My stomach heaved, and I retched several times. Nothing came up for I had not been able to eat all day. When the spasms were over, I leaned weakly against the wall.

  “You’re in a fine state of nerves, aren’t you?” Jordan whispered right behind me, his hands grasping my shoulders at the same instant he spoke. I jerked. My muscles went rigid. My heart began pounding at an alarming pace. To my further humiliation, I was sure I was going to be sick again. I started to shake, fighting desperately for control.

  “Go away,” I groaned, another wave of nausea rising. I tried to pull away, but he drew me back against him, bracing me.

  “Calm down, Abby. You’ve got yourself all wrought up. Take a couple of deep breaths,” he instructed. I obeyed, praying I would not be sick in front of him again.

  “Please, please just go away,” I begged, tears of frustration blurring my vision. Jordan’s fingers kneaded my shoulders.

  “You needn’t be embarrassed. I’ve seen people sick before.”

  I shook my head, closing my eyes and clamping my mouth shut. The wave swelled up and then graciously receded.

  “I’d chance a bet that this is all due to your fear of facing me after what happened between us at the river,” he murmured with a taunting laugh. I yanked my shoulders, trying to be free of him. His fingers bit into my flesh, holding me still. He lowered his head and whispered harshly against my ear. “What did you expect me to do tonight? Announce to the damned township that we made love?”

  My muscles loosened as the dizziness returned. I felt too miserable to fight him or speak. I wanted to turn toward him and seek the comfort of his arms around me. But there was no comfort there. Only exquisite torment and later, shame.

  Jordan caressed my shoulders again. His fingertips moved over and down to trail along my collarbone. I closed my eyes as a sigh escaped me. He continued the massaging, slowly drawing me back against his chest. His face moved against my hair. He lowered his head, and his lips roved down as he kissed the curve of my neck. I shuddered, feeling a fire kindled in my body.

  “Abby,” he breathed against my skin. “Abby, it was good between us. Why did you run away fro
m me like that?”

  Memory returned. In the space of a second I remembered every detail of what had happened by the river, and what he had said to me afterward. All the shame I had felt then flooded back, and I gasped with the agony of it.

  Twisting, I tried to free myself. Jordan’s fingers tightened painfully as he swung me around. The sudden movement set my head reeling sickeningly.

  “Leave me alone,” I stammered.

  “I should, by God. I don’t know why I bother with you. I’ve never chased after a woman in my life. But I want you ... and I know you want me.” The admission seemed tom from him against his will.

  “No.” I shook my head. My hands reached up to press futilely against the strong muscles of his chest. “You’re wrong.”

  I saw his mouth turn up in a sardonic smile. “No? Do you want me to prove it to you?” he demanded in a low, challenging voice. “It’d be damned easy, Abby. Damned easy. I’m not a novice where women are concerned,” he went on relentlessly, reminding me that he had already had one wife and still might have a mistress living with him. A picture of his arms around Reva Gutierrez, his mouth taking her, tormented me.

  “But you’re the most passionately responsive one in my experience,” he said harshly, his head moving down as though he intended to prove his point and his power over me. I began to struggle in earnest then, and the suddenness of my fight bought my momentary freedom. He reached for me, and, desperate, I raised my hand to slap out at him as I had done once before. His fingers closed so tightly around my wrist, I thought the bones would be crushed.

  “You’ll come out the loser in any slapping contest you wage against me,” he ground out through his teeth. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time?” His temper seemed barely in check, and I could feel the violence coiled inside him.

  I stared up into his blazing eyes and saw the rigid fury in his expression. My eyes opened very wide in fear. He stared down at me, seeing my fixed, still expression. The rage died, and the grimness left his face. His fingers loosened their agonizing grip, allowing the circulation to return. He started to say something when I heard someone saying my name.