Heart Appearances (Truly Yours Digital Editions Book 560)

by Pamela Griffin

  Nearby, a couple locked in a farewell embrace. For a fleeting moment, Darcy considered throwing her arms around Brent and giving him a quick peck on the lips. Wouldn’t that make his mouth drop open! The thought made her giggle.

  Brent looked at her. “Something amuses you, Miss Evans?”

  “Nothin’, Guv’ner. Nothin’ ter squawk habout anyways,” she deliberately replied in heavy Cockney, her smile wide.

  His gaze softened, and Darcy was sure he was remembering their first meeting a little less than a year ago at this train station.

  “I never told you,” he said, his voice quiet, “how impressed I am with how far you’ve come in such a short time. You’re a remarkable student.”

  Darcy managed not to let the smile slip from her face. Did he only approve of her now that she’d learned to talk right—well, almost right? The thought was disappointing. She wanted him to like her for the person she was on the inside. Not just for what she was being transformed into on the outside.

  The train’s warning whistle pierced the air, startling both Darcy and Brent. He stepped a few feet away, his actions almost self-conscious, and looked elsewhere. Darcy glanced toward Charleigh and Stewart and was relieved to see him draw his wife into his arms.

  A tall, dark-haired young man in a drab uniform drew Darcy’s attention as he stepped off the train. He returned her stare, then strode her way, a sly grin on his thin features. “Well, he-l-loo, sweet tomato. How’s about a welcome-home hug for a returning doughboy?”

  Darcy blinked. “Are ye talkin’ to me?”

  “I sure am, Sugar—British sugar, unless I miss my guess.” He rested his free hand on the post behind her, casually leaning her way. “So where do you hail from, sweet thing? I don’t seem to remember seeing you in our small town.”

  “Sir, I shall have to ask you to leave the lady alone.”

  Brent’s stern voice sounded from behind Darcy’s right shoulder.

  The man gave Brent a quick upward flick of his eyes. “This is between the lady and me,” he said. He leaned closer to Darcy, eyeing her as if she were a choice cut of beefsteak. She smelled sour whiskey on his breath. “How’s about you and me leaving this crummy dump and getting to know one another better?”

  “Sir!” Brent protested.

  “Aw, why don’t you dry up,” the stranger growled in disgust.

  Before she could push him away, Darcy watched as the top half of a black umbrella whammed the man’s shoulder from behind. He jumped and turned, fists raised. A short woman with white ringlets jiggling around her wrinkled face wagged a finger in his face, and he dropped his arms to his side in apparent shock.

  “Clarence Lockhurst, you leave that poor young lady alone and apologize this instant,” she said in a voice still strong for her advanced years. “You’ve been nothing but trouble since I had you as a student in my fourth-grade class. I had hoped that serving in the war might improve your disposition, if nothing else.” Her strict countenance melted into a grudging smile. “Still, it’s nice to see that the Germans didn’t shoot you full of holes. Though you’ll likely give your mother a case of the vapors, arriving like this without warning. But at least you made it home from that horrid hospital. Now come along. It’s a good thing I came to see my niece off, or I might not have run into you.”

  “Yes, Miss Finnelton,” the man muttered, and the woman walked away, obviously expecting him to follow. He seemed embarrassed, his gaze flitting to the platform before returning to Darcy again. He shrugged. “Sorry, Miss. I was only trying to have a little fun. No harm intended.”

  “Clarence!” the woman called without slowing her pace.

  Darcy watched in disbelief as the tall young man hurried after the diminutive old woman like a truant child. Somewhat amused by the spectacle, she turned to Brent. The words on her lips died when she saw anger flash in his eyes. Confused, she wondered if his ire was directed at her. Did he think she’d encouraged that man’s advances? Did he care?

  “Stewart is ready to board,” he said through tight lips. “Charleigh needs us.”

  Darcy blinked in surprise. This was the first time she’d heard Brent use their Christian names. Likely because his emotions were running high, he hadn’t been aware of the slip. Darcy just wished it could have been her name that rolled so easily off his tongue.

  ❧

  The months seemed to fly by. Summer chased spring away, and the cool winds of autumn blew in early. Darcy had been at the Refuge almost an entire year, and in that time she had learned much—especially the meaning of true Christianity. It was more than the prayer she’d spoken at Turreney Farm, accepting Jesus as her Savior. It was a walk she needed to take every day of her life.

  She looked with concern to the closed schoolhouse door. Brent was late. For the prompt schoolmaster to be tardy was tantamount to a major crisis. She wrinkled her brow as her thoughts drifted to Charleigh. These past months in Stewart’s absence her friend had become a pale ghost, quiet, so much different from the Charleigh that Darcy had met years ago and come to love. Her faith in God was suffering too, and Darcy didn’t know how to help her, except to pray and be there for her when she could.

  The boys’ chatter and guffaws dwindled as the door opened, letting in pale September light—and Brent.

  He carried a folded magazine and smiled, looking her way. Darcy’s heart lurched in uncertainty mixed with an odd feeling of expectation.

  Taking his place at the front of the room, Brent eyed the class. “I have an announcement, but first I want you to hear something.”

  He opened the magazine, whose cover bore a color illustration by Norman Rockwell. Then, to Darcy’s astonishment, he read the poem she’d written months ago. Only the words sounded more proper, or maybe it was hearing them in Brent’s polished Eastern accent that made the difference.

  When he finished, he smiled at her. “Miss Evans, I suppose I should first ask your apology for submitting your poem without permission to a local contest the Saturday Evening Post was sponsoring this past spring. In defense of my decision, I didn’t want to unnecessarily raise your hopes, and as your tutor I acted—perhaps rashly, but it is done. I also took the liberty of correcting misspelled words, as well as a few small grammatical errors, before sending in your poem. I hope you’ll forgive me. Based on prior contests, I knew they would judge heavily on content, and on those grounds I decided to enter your poem.”

  Darcy blinked, trying to comprehend all he said. He was asking that she forgive him for correcting her assignment? And for sending it to a local magazine?

  She watched Brent walk to the desk that had been specially made for her, while pulling an envelope from his pocket. His blue eyes sparkled as he set the envelope on her desktop.

  “It’s my pleasure to inform you that you’ve won second place in the beginner’s category of the contest, the prize being eight dollars.”

  Gasps filtered through the room. Eight dollars? Whatever would she do with such wealth? She’d never had anything in her life, and now to be given this. . .

  With saucerlike eyes, she stared at the envelope.

  “What’re ya gonna do with all that money, Darcy?” Tommy asked softly in wonder.

  “I’ll bet she’s gonna buy them glad rags with all the bows and fripperies she was eyeing in that lady magazine the other day,” another voice piped up. “So she can be all purty-fied for certain people.”

  Darcy ignored Joel’s mocking words and the giggles that greeted his reply. Instead she looked up at Brent, still feeling as if she were in a dream. “May I tell Charleigh?” she asked, her question coming out in a squeak. She cleared her throat and lowered her voice a notch. “It might cheer her to know her idea of me learning brought about some good.”

  Brent turned his stern countenance from Joel to her, and his expression softened. “Of course, Miss Evans. You may be excused.”

  Sliding from her seat, Darcy grasped the envelope as though it might evaporate into thin air. The smoothness of the fine
-grained paper assured her it was indeed real, and her fingers clutched it more tightly. At the door she stopped and looked at Brent. His gaze still rested on her.

  “Thank you, Guv’ner, for sendin’ in me poem. But most of all thank you for believin’ in me,” she managed before hurrying out the door.

  Her mind played havoc with her heart. Why had he done it? Was there more to this gesture than a schoolmaster supporting a student? Could he, by chance, be starting to care for her?

  Knowing she’d find Charleigh in her room this time of day, where she often sequestered herself now that Stewart was gone, Darcy sped up the stairs by twos. Whatever would she do with all this money? She hoped her good fortune would bring a smile to Charleigh’s face. Should she also tell Charleigh how she felt about Brent, though her friend had already guessed? They’d never discussed him since the night he’d caught Charleigh and Darcy talking in the kitchen. All this time, Darcy felt she hadn’t any chance with Brent. But after doing such a nice thing for her and after the way he’d looked at her when he gave her the envelope—maybe he did care.

  Outside Charleigh’s room, Darcy knocked. She didn’t wait for an answer but opened the door and stepped inside, her mind so filled with conflicting thoughts that she didn’t stop to consider that she was barging in without invitation.

  Charleigh halted in the process of retrieving her dressing gown from the back of the chair. Her long nightgown detailed her rounded stomach.

  Darcy inhaled swiftly, her gaze lifting to Charleigh’s. “Why-ever didn’t you tell me?”

  Charleigh released a weary breath and sank to the edge of the bed.

  Her own news forgotten, Darcy closed the door, pocketed the envelope, and hurried to sit beside her friend. She looped an arm around her shoulders. “Does Stewart know?”

  “I couldn’t tell him. Not after losing the others. And with his father’s recent death, he has so much on his mind as it is.” Charleigh hesitated. “And I couldn’t tell him before he left because I didn’t want to use the baby as a means of keeping him here.”

  “You’ve known that long?”

  “I suspected it.”

  “Oh, Charleigh, that’s why you fainted that day, isn’t it?” Darcy should have realized, though with Charleigh’s plump form and roomy-waisted dresses it had been difficult to tell. “Have you been to see a doctor?”

  “No. I suppose I should.”

  “Yes, you should,” Darcy stated firmly. “And what’s more, you should stay off your feet. I’ll take over your duties until the babe comes.” The prospect was daunting, but Darcy had observed Charleigh often in the year she’d been at Lyons’s Refuge. With Irma and Brent’s help, surely they could keep things running smoothly so Charleigh could get the rest she needed.

  “I’m frightened.” Charleigh turned wide green eyes her way. “I don’t think I could stand to lose another child. To have a doctor tell me there’s no hope for this one either. I–I’ve never been this far along—” Her voice broke.

  Darcy grasped Charleigh’s cold hand and squeezed it. “There, there, Luv. That’s no way to think. Between us, we’ll pray that the good Lord protects the wee babe and brings it safely into the world in due time.” She hesitated. “Do you know when that might be, by chance?”

  Charleigh looked away. “In December, I think. Near Christmas.”

  “I’ll have Irma call and see if the doctor can come today. You stay in bed and rest. You’re looking a mite pale. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Oh, Darcy. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re so strong, and lately I feel as if my strength is seeping away. I’ve found it harder and harder to trust God.” The admission was made with shame.

  Darcy gave her friend an encouraging smile. “Well, then, we’ll see what we can do to boost your faith again, shall we?” Like a mother hen, Darcy ushered Charleigh under the sheets and tucked her in. “But for now get some rest. And don’t you worry about a thing, Luv. Darcy has everything under control.”

  She almost believed her bold statement. Keeping the assured look on her face until she closed the door behind her, Darcy prayed, “Oh, Lord, I’m sure going to be needin’ Your help. And help me friend, Charleigh; give her peace. Help her babe to grow strong—”

  The front door banged open. “Where is everybody?” Herbert’s voice sailed up the stairwell. Knowing Herbert, who got into more trouble than Darcy could have believed possible, she was sure some minor injury needed tending to.

  Darcy closed her eyes. “About that peace, Lord,” she muttered, “I sure could be usin’ a dose of it as well.”

  Six

  The early October sun did what little it could to warm his back as Brent left the schoolroom. He had no idea what to do about Joel—about half the class, really. With Stewart’s absence and Charleigh bedridden due to strict orders from the doctor, the boys took advantage of Brent. It seemed a day didn’t pass that one of them wasn’t disciplined for infractions inside and outside the classroom.

  Brent rounded the schoolhouse, wondering how to handle the issue. Michael had moved to Lyons’s Refuge with his wife to offer aid as well as reinforcement. Though Charleigh’s father was tenderhearted to the lads, his massive size and gruff voice let them know he wasn’t someone to cross. Yet Brent didn’t want to run to Michael every time one of the boys misbehaved. Surely Brent was man enough to take on nine lads smaller than he?

  Remembering the altercation at the train station with the man who’d accosted Darcy, Brent pressed his lips together. He hadn’t been able to help her. The one brief look the loutish man had tossed his way made it clear he thought Brent lacking in the area of fisticuffs. Not that Brent had desired a fight—quite the opposite. But it stung that a stranger thought him unable to protect and that an elderly woman wielding an umbrella had exhibited more courage than Brent.

  He halted suddenly, spotting Darcy and four boys across the expanse of yard, underneath the shedding oaks. The rakes they’d been using lay propped against the massive trunks, forgotten. All five were cavorting, chasing one another and dumping handfuls of brown, crimson, and yellow leaves on unsuspecting heads.

  Brent sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. Why should it surprise him to see Darcy in such a role, rather than the one she should be adopting—that of overseeing the boys’ chores? As Brent watched, Lance came at her from behind with a pail and showered her head with leaves at the same time Tommy bent to the ground and sprayed her with leaves from the front.

  “Aaaeee,” she squealed, her Cockney coming to the fore. “I’ll see ever’ one o’ you scrubbin’ floors, I will! And that’ll be after ye rake the yard. So ye think ye can get the best o’ Darcy Evans, do you?” Swiftly she changed direction, going after Lance. He shrieked and ran but didn’t get far before she tackled him as if she were a football player and not a woman wearing a dress. They both went laughing and rolling into the only pile of raked leaves—scattering them. Red, yellow, and brown vegetation flew everywhere.

  Shaking his head, Brent closed his eyes.

  “Hey, Guv’ner!” Darcy’s cry sliced through the cool air. Brent grimaced at the annoying name she persisted in calling him but looked her way.

  “Come join us!” She scooped up an armful of rich autumn colors and sent her bounty sailing into the air, with the abandonment of a gleeful child. “The leaves are fine. Crisp and crackly—perfect for rollin’ about. So what say? Care to join in the tussle?”

  “Join in the. . . ,” he repeated quietly in shocked disbelief. With a shake of his head, he moved in the direction of the schoolroom. The four walls offered safety, sanity. He had enough troubles; no need to invite more.

  Rapid crunching sounded behind him, growing louder. “Hey, Guv’ner—don’t leave yet!” Darcy’s voice was breathless.

  Knowing that the sensible thing would be to keep walking—before he was attacked from behind with a bucketful of leaves—Brent increased his pace, almost to a jog. She grabbed his sleeve and pulled. He whirled and h
astily brought up a hand to block his eyes, expecting a smattering of leaves to dash him in the face. The action unbalanced them, and Darcy tumbled against his chest, almost sending them both to the ground.

  In a reflexive act, Brent threw his arms around her at the same time she grabbed handfuls of his vest. An electrified moment elapsed before she lifted her stunned gaze. Equally shocked, he stared down at velvety eyes rimmed with black curly lashes. Eyes so dark, they held traces of deep, mesmerizing blue-purple.

  “Hey! Look at Teacher and Miz Darcy,” Ralph’s voice piped up. “Reckon Joel was right and they’ll be smoochin’ in the cloakroom next?”

  A chorus of chortles met his question.

  Heat racing to his face, Brent dropped his arms from around Darcy’s waist and stepped as far back as he could. She still clutched his vest, his shirt underneath, and one suspender.

  “Miss Evans!” he exclaimed. “Would you mind releasing your hold?”

  “What?” She blinked as if coming out of a stupor. “Oh, sorry!” She let go.

  The suspender snapped back into place with a sting. By this time, the giggles from the boys had turned into rip-roaring laughter.

  “Excuse me. I’ve business to attend.” Brent turned and again headed for the safety of the schoolhouse.

  “But, Guv’ner. . .”

  With his back to her, he hastily tucked in the few inches of shirt material that bagged loose above his high-waisted trousers. Once through the door, he sensed her presence behind him. He was sure of it when she barreled into him, stepping on his heels as he came to a stop.

  Nowhere was safe any longer.

  Letting out a slow breath for patience, he faced her. “Yes? You wish to speak with me?”

  A sheepish expression crossed her pink face, now shiny from her exertions. With bits of colored leaves in her disheveled hair and clinging to her skirt, she looked little more than a girl. “I’m sorry, Guv’ner. Really I ham. But you walk so fast!”