“Guv’ner?”
He sighed. “What now?”
She crossed her arms on the desk and glared at him. “I don’t see ’ow I’m to learn to write good hif I ’ave to stoop like an ole woman to do it!”
“What?”
To her satisfaction, he raised his head, looking startled. He eyed the table where it hit below her waist. His brows gathered. “I’d forgotten about that. The desks were custom-made by one of the locals. He fashioned them for small boys.”
Her chin lifted. “Which I hain’t.”
“Which I’m not.”
Her brow creased in confusion. “What?”
“Which I’m not. If I’m to teach you proper grammar, we may as well begin now.”
“An’ what about the desk, Guv’ner?”
With a sigh, he slammed his book shut. “I suppose, until we find something more suitable, you’ll have to move up here with me.”
If he’d asked her to parade around the room in her bloomers, she couldn’t have been more shocked. “With you?”
He tilted his head. “Unless you have a better idea? My desk seems to be the only one that’s the right height. And, as you’ve pointed out, it’s important to maintain correct posture when learning penmanship. Take that chair in the corner. The boys should be along any minute.” He began moving stacks of books off one edge of his desk and onto the floor.
Darcy hesitated, then went to retrieve the chair. Noisily, she dragged it across the planks, set it in position, walked to the front of it, and plopped down again. “All right. Now what?”
He looked away from sorting a stack of books and adjusted his spectacles. Sunlight pouring in from the window made the curling edges of his still-damp hair glisten. Up close, his eyes were bluer than she remembered, and the fact that she noticed made her fidget.
“I suppose we should see just how far along you are academically before the rest of the class arrives.”
“A–ca–dem. . . ?”
“In your schooling.” He set a slate in front of her and slapped a piece of chalk on top. “Write your letters, if you please.”
Darcy could do that. She had used a pointed stick in the reform’s garden and scratched letters into the dirt while Charleigh watched. Eagerly, Darcy picked up the chalk and began forming each letter, sucking in her lower lip in concentration. She ran out of space when she still had five more to go and turned the slate so she could squeeze some along the edge, then turned it again to print upside down along the top.
“Finished!” she exclaimed, triumphant.
Brent turned from sorting the books to look. His eyebrows lifted. “Hmm. Next time don’t make your letters so large, and you won’t run out of room. Overall, it’s adequate, I suppose.”
She frowned and looked at the slate. Adequate? What did that mean? It didn’t sound good.
“Now, let’s hear you read.” He opened a book to the first page and slid it in front of her.
Darcy hunched over, brow furrowed, and studied the black print. “A Boy’s. . .Will. . .by. . .” Her brows bunched further. “Row-burt. . .Frost.” She lifted her gaze to his, expecting praise for her success.
“That’s Robert Frost,” he said, closing the book. “With a short O. All right, that’ll do for now.”
That’ll do? Darcy frowned. “So, ham I to learn from that book?”
“Hmm?” He looked up from jotting something down in another book. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Perhaps it’s not suitable for a young woman. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll look into acquiring more adequate literature for your schooling.”
Adequate. There was that word again. Darcy had a feeling she would grow to despise it.
A flock of young boys burst through the schoolroom door, as noisy as a gaggle of geese. Their chattering and guffaws ceased when they saw Darcy.
“What’s she doin’ here?” the one Darcy remembered as Joel said. He frowned at her, probably blaming her for his being sent to his room without supper.
“Is she gonna teach us?” the smallest boy, Jimmy, piped up. “Is that why she’s sitting at your desk, Mr. Thomas?”
“Ha! Her teach us? She can’t even talk right.”
“Then why’s she here?”
Pulling the cap off his white blond hair, Joel let out a spiteful laugh. “I’ll bet I can guess why she’s sitting at his desk, all right. She’s Teacher’s new pet.” He elbowed a gangly dark-haired boy next to him. “An’ you know what that means with the likes o’ her, don’t ya? Smoochin’ in the cloakroom, I reckon. Don’t ya think so, Ralph?”
The dark-haired boy chuckled. Heat raced to Darcy’s face as a few nervous titters filtered through the room.
“That will be enough!” Brent stood and rapped his ruler sharply on the edge of the desk, then snapped his forbidding gaze to Joel. “For your impertinence, Mr. Lakely, you may come an hour early to the classroom every day for the rest of this month and start the fire in the stove.”
Joel’s mouth tightened. “Yes, Sir.”
Brent released a weary breath and set the ruler down. “Nor will I have any slang in this classroom.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you may apologize to Miss Evans.”
“Wha—” At the teacher’s lifted brow, Joel cut short his indignant reply. “Yes, Sir. Sorry, Miss Evans,” he clipped, his eyes glittering with hate as he looked her way.
Brent sank back to his chair. “As to the numerous inquiries regarding Miss Evans’s appearance in our classroom, she is to learn alongside you gentlemen. And I trust you will behave like gentlemen?”
Grumbles and groans met his query. Darcy gazed over the room of scrubbed faces, some curious, some suspicious, a few of them openly hostile, until she found a pair of kind brown eyes underneath a long swatch of mousy brown hair. The boy offered her a tentative smile. Darcy returned it. Perhaps things would soon improve.
“Pull out your slates and we’ll begin today’s lesson.” Brent adjusted his glasses.
Darcy reached for the slate but in her haste knocked it off the desk. It hit the planked floor with a resounding clatter, eliciting another round of chortles from the boys. Her gaze whipped to Brent’s weary one.
Then again, perhaps not.
Three
A streak of branched lightning zipped across the nighttime sky, making an erratic slash beyond the thicket at the eastern side of the house. Soon, a distant crash followed. Brent stood on the covered porch and listened to the rain beat down on an overturned barrel, similar to the sound of many drums. From behind, a muted yellow light shone on the porch. He turned to see who had joined him.
Looming over Brent by almost a foot, Stewart Lyons, the headmaster of Lyons’s Refuge, came through the door. Premature gray sprinkled his hair, but his strapping build was that of a youth’s. His hazel eyes lifted to the sky. “It looks as if the storm is passing.”
Brent nodded. “It would appear so.”
The light vanished as Stewart closed the door behind him. “That Darcy is something else. Imagine her saying that my fiddle playing reminded her of a rummy’s who used to play at the tavern. She’s certainly not afraid to speak her mind, is she?” Amusement laced his words.
“No, she’s not.” Brent returned his gaze to the rain. In the past weeks since he’d taken on the task of schooling her, he never knew what she would suddenly say or do next.
“Your situation reminds me of a play an acquaintance of mine attended years ago.”
Brent winced. Don’t say it.
“Pygmalion, I think it was called. Ever hear of it?”
Brent closed his eyes, resigned to his fate. “I remember reading the review. It’s a play by Bernard Shaw, set in London, about a Cockney flower girl and a professor of diction.”
“That’s right. Though you hardly remind me of the irascible Henry Higgins—at least from the way my friend described him.” Stewart grinned.
Brent managed a smile. Well, that was a relief. Or was it in the same league as being con
sidered stuffy?
The two men continued to stare at the storm, watching the lightning move northeast. When Stewart again spoke, Brent detected a somber tone in his voice. The trickling sound of rain falling from the eaves added to the dreary mood.
“I received a letter from my family in Raleigh today. My father is ill. It sounds serious.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Brent studied Stewart, whose hands were now shoved into his pockets. He looked more tense than usual, still staring into the dissipating storm.
“Thank you.” Stewart glanced his way. “I’d like you to take my place while I’m gone—if I go. I haven’t made a solid decision yet. I wanted to talk to you first. If it became known that three women were running the reform—two of them former felons and one an old woman—the state might take the boys. Judge Markham already considers our methods of reform unconventional. It took a great deal of persistence on my part to get his support when I first got started. Especially since the idea of reformatories was still so new and my concept was so unlike the others.”
“If you do go, how long will you be gone?”
“I have no idea. My parents and I were never close, one reason I came to New York with my cousin, Steven. After his suicide, my family turned against me. But that’s all history now.” He sighed. “With Father ill and likely to die, I feel I’ve no option but to go to them. It’s my duty. My oldest brother died in the war, and I’m the only son left.” Stewart’s words trailed off. “So many good men died. So many.”
Uncomfortable, Brent looked away. Stewart never talked about the fighting he’d seen, and Brent preferred it that way. He settled his hat more firmly on his head. “I should return to my room. I have papers to grade.”
“And about what I asked—would you be open to taking on the job of temporary headmaster, as you did during the war?”
Brent nodded. “Of course. You can depend on me.”
“Thank you, Friend. You’re a good man.”
Brent moved toward the schoolhouse and released a self-derisive laugh. A good man? Hardly. If the truth were known, he was a coward. When the Great War had been in progress, the prospect of fighting terrified him. Guns and grenades were not for him.
All through childhood, Brent’s peers had labeled him “lilylivered.” An appropriate title, to be sure. He lacked the bravado that made men like Stewart, who’d won a medal for saving his company of men, a hero in people’s eyes. Moreover, it hadn’t boosted Brent’s self-esteem when, after being drafted, he was rejected for having flat feet. Even a plausible excuse for being unable to fight didn’t erase the belief Brent fostered that had he been accepted, he would have abandoned his company in the heat of battle and fled. Like a lily-livered fool.
Unlike Stewart. The town’s war hero.
❧
Darcy wiggled her back against the plump cushion, enjoying the fire’s warmth. The boys sat in a semicircle on the rose-patterned carpet around Charleigh, who sat in a rocker, reading from a book. Nine pairs of eyes watched Charleigh’s face as she brought Louisa May Alcott’s words to life: “ ‘You cannot be too careful; watch your tongue, and eyes, and hands, for it’s easy to tell, and look, and act untruth.’ ”
Darcy hid a smile at the rapt expressions on the boys’ faces. Four weeks ago, when Charleigh first started reading Little Men, she’d been met with groans and complaints that it was a “sissified book.” She ignored their objections and each Sunday evening read one chapter aloud. Soon the little scamps sat entranced, eyes shining, eagerly waiting to hear the latest goings-on at Plumcrest—the school that was as odd as Lyons’s Refuge and also contained a variety of boys, some with quirks much like theirs. Darcy overheard the lads talk one night and knew that each identified with a certain boy in the story, and each looked forward to hearing what his character was up to next.
Darcy’s gaze swept the nine upturned faces. A hint of innocence glimmered, even in the older ones’ eyes. These boys were just boys, after all. Not miniature hooligans, as some of the townspeople whispered. Many of these lads had been dealt a hard lot in life and had done what they could to survive. How well Darcy understood them.
When Charleigh first explained how she and Stewart ran the place—by discipline mixed with love—Darcy had been perplexed. She’d been sentenced to only one reformatory—and that one for women. But the strict matrons, daunting schedules, and never-ending work could not equate with life at Lyons’s Refuge. Here, Charleigh and Stewart treated the boys as if they were their own, though strict discipline was administered to those who didn’t abide by the rules. In the two months since Darcy had arrived, she saw Lyons’s Refuge more as a home for boys than a true reformatory.
Daily schedules included chores, schooling, and then more work around the farm. Filling meals cooked by Irma and Darcy satisfied the boys, who later would gather for thirty-minute devotions with Charleigh and Stewart, then hurry off to an hour of studying lessons before bedtime. Saturdays were much the same, with the exception of no classes, which gave more time to finish lessons Brent had assigned. And Sundays were days of rest at Lyons’s Refuge.
Up early, Stewart and Charleigh took the three youngest boys to the country church a few miles away in Stewart’s noisy motorcar, while Brent and Darcy took the rest in the wagon. Afterward they returned home to another sumptuous meal, and the boys were allowed a couple of hours’ free time to do pretty much as they pleased. Before bed, Charleigh sat in the rocker by the fire, with the boys gathered around, and read them a chapter from God’s Holy Word. She then picked up a book—sometimes Charles Dickens or Robert Louis Stevenson or another author’s work. But always it was a story to fuel every boy’s imagination and make each face glow with anticipation.
The front door opened, letting in a blast of cold, snowy air; and Darcy looked toward the foyer. Brent walked in, his spectacles immediately fogging from the warm room. His bowler hat, scarf, and coat were speckled with white. He pulled off his glasses and glanced at Charleigh, whose back was to him, then at Darcy. Putting a finger to his lips, he shook his head, then quietly moved to the back of the house.
Darcy hesitated for two full paragraphs of the story before rising and going in search of him. The others didn’t notice her leave; or if they did, they paid no attention.
She found Brent in the kitchen, pulling the loaf of bread from the bread box. He turned upon hearing her footsteps.
“Hello,” Darcy said, remembering to pronounce her “H” as Charleigh had taught her. “We missed you at dinner.”
He gave a slight nod. “I had grades to average. The time slipped by me unawares.” With a knife, he sawed two pieces from the rye loaf and set them at precise angles on a plate.
Darcy noticed he wasn’t wearing his spectacles. Without them, his eyes appeared much bluer and brighter. Flustered that she should pick up on such a thing, she looked away, to the table. His glasses lay on top.
Not thinking, Darcy plucked them up. She raised them to the light, peered through the fogged lenses, rubbed them on her skirt, and, curiosity getting the best of her, slipped them on.
“Aaeee!” she squealed. “Things appear as they did years ago—when I was about in me cups!”
Heat rushed to her face when she realized what she’d blurted. Though she’d learned much about manners since coming to Lyons’s Refuge, too often the past slipped out to embarrass her.
Brent said nothing. After a moment he cleared his throat and lifted the spectacles from Darcy’s nose. “Yes, well, they aid me in my vision impairment.”
She watched as he slipped them back on. He looked at her for a few seconds before turning to butter his bread.
“I have some stew in the icebox for you,” Darcy said. She opened the one door of the tin-lined wooden contraption where Irma stored perishable food. Blocks of ice kept the interior cold. “I’ll heat it on the stove and dish you up a bowl.”
“No, really, the bread is enough.”
“It won’t be no bother,” Darcy insisted, pulling the
container off the shelf and slamming the door shut.
“Really, Miss Evans, there’s no need—”
Darcy swung around and crashed into Brent, who’d come up behind her. The uncovered beef stew splashed onto his pristine linen shirt and tweed vest. Involuntarily, Darcy dropped the pan, her hands flying to her mouth in horror. The pan hit the floor, splashing the wooden planks, her skirt, and Brent’s neat, creased pants with the rest of the brown juice.
Darcy’s shocked gaze flew to Brent’s. His eyes were filled with what looked like pained acceptance—something she’d seen many times. He moved his once-shiny brown shoe to dislodge a potato slice that rested on top.
“Perhaps I’ll forgo dinner tonight. I’m really not as hungry as I thought.” His smile was feeble at best.
“I–I’m sorry,” Darcy stuttered, backing up. “Really, I ham.” Slowly she shook her head, then hurried from the room.
❧
Brent watched her go, his mind a tangle of thoughts that resembled Charleigh’s wild ivy growing on the windowsill. Perhaps he shouldn’t have said what he had. With a heavy sigh, he reached for the dish towel, dampened it with water from the pump, and blotted his clothes, attempting to remove the stains.
Darcy remained an enigma. One minute she was bold and brassy, saying whatever she pleased; the next she was as sensitive as a child whose pencil drawing had been ridiculed by an unfeeling adult. Brent was frankly astounded at her intelligence and at how quickly she learned. She wasn’t far from catching up to the boys in her studies. Grammatically and in areas of deportment, Charleigh had worked wonders with her. Though, of course, the young Miss Evans still had a great deal to learn.
Brent never knew what to expect from the British spitfire. She was a cyclone in his well-ordered and perfectly planned existence. A cyclone that tore from the roots everything proper, staid, and orderly, in Brent’s estimation, and replaced it with impulsiveness, disorder—and a zest for living and having fun.
He glanced at the spill on the floor and bent to mop it up with the dishcloth. He’d never experienced fun or even been allowed to play. His parents had raised him with a rigid code of conduct—so severe that it sent his brother running from home before his sixteenth birthday. Brent shook his head, sobering at the thought of Bill and the life of crime he’d chosen. Bill and he had been so close once. . . .
Heart Appearances (Truly Yours Digital Editions Book 560) Page 3
