Mail Order Mix-Up

by Christine Johnson

  “They wouldn’t know how.”

  “Someone must have helped them. I’d guess Mrs. Calloway, since they spend so much time with her and she happens to agree that they need a mother.”

  Garrett heaved a sigh. “I still don’t believe it.”

  “There’s only one way to find out. Ask.”

  Chapter Six

  Pearl waited beneath a borrowed umbrella for Alfred Farmingham to unlock the door to the schoolhouse. He had arrived at the boardinghouse just as breakfast was served, and Mrs. Calloway had set a place for him at the crowded table. Judging from his corpulent figure, he didn’t miss many meals. He had introduced himself as a councilman from Saugatuck, the town upriver, appointed to show her the school building.

  Before breakfast, Amanda had offered to join her, but the moment she’d heard Isaac and Sadie would be spending the day with Mrs. Calloway, she’d changed her mind. Fiona and Louise also declined, apparently having decided overnight to forgive Garrett for his misleading advertisement.

  “I’ve asked Roland Decker to find employment for all of you,” Pearl told them.

  Fiona had shrugged. “Maybe I won’t be needing work.”

  Louise had sighed. “I wonder if there’s a bookstore or library in town.”

  Pearl doubted it. From what she’d seen last night, not even a church steeple graced the tiny village. Nor could she spot the school. She’d soon found out why.

  The wood-framed structure was small, a single room, she suspected, and not in town. Instead, it was located along a sandy, rutted road in a rare wooded area. Moss peeked out between shingles on the roof and the windows could use a good cleaning.

  If not for the persistent drizzle and chill that heralded the upcoming change of seasons, the walk would have been a pleasant one. The narrow road, little better than a pathway, meandered along the river before cutting up over a rise and intersecting with another pathway that, as Mr. Farmingham indicated, led to Saugatuck to the south, and Goshorn Lake, and eventually Holland, to the north.

  “Here we are.” Mr. Farmingham pushed open the door and waited for her to climb the single step and walk inside. “As you can see, the desks are fairly new.”

  Pearl could see nothing of the sort. The benches and tables were worn, with initials and other doodling scratched into the surface. She ran a hand along one and it wobbled. The teacher’s desk looked sturdier, if small. A woodstove filled the front right corner. An uneven chalkboard had been hung on the front wall. Grimy windows lined each side of the single room. A cupboard stood in the back left corner, while pegs lined the wall on the back right. One room. No luxuries. This was nothing like the schools she had attended in New York.

  “This new school was built in ’55.” Mr. Farmingham swept an arm wide, as if boasting over it.

  “Fifteen years ago?”

  “Practically new. Why, I nailed shingles on the roof myself.”

  Pearl could not imagine the rotund man scaling a ladder, least of all climbing onto a pitched roof. She walked between the desks and found most of the tables sturdy. Likewise, the benches felt secure.

  “The teacher’s desk has drawers,” he pointed out.

  Pearl walked behind the desk. Sure enough. It was a proper desk with three drawers. She tugged out the top one. Empty. Same with the others. “Where are the supplies?”

  “In the cupboard, I assume.”

  “And the primers?”

  “The same, providing the children didn’t take them home last year.”

  “Home? Why would they take them home?” Neither Roland nor Garrett had mentioned anything about that last night.

  The councilman shrugged. “Some folks figured it was part of their tuition.”

  Pearl’s jaw dropped. “They must pay to attend?” She would have no students.

  “Not anymore. Not since our illustrious state congress decided all students could attend without charge.”

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Farmingham scowled. “Considering they took our money, saying the state could do a better job, and then didn’t send back half of it, no. It’s not a good thing.”

  Pearl’s mouth grew dry. “If you can’t pay my salary, I’d appreciate knowing that now so I can make other plans.”

  “Now don’t go getting yourself into a dander. Of course we can pay your salary. Just don’t go asking for anything else, if you know what I mean.”

  Pearl had a sinking feeling. Without basic supplies, teaching would be difficult if not impossible. “How many children will be in each grade?”

  “Let me see. There’s the Bailey boys from Saugatuck. Three. Add in the two Wardman girls. The Clapps from Goshorn makes seven, and then the Deckers make nine.”

  “Only nine? What ages?”

  “Make that twelve. I forgot about the Norstrands out on the farm. They’d probably send the three youngest, all girls, maybe the boys after harvest.”

  Twelve or possibly more. She could handle that. “What ages?”

  Mr. Farmingham shrugged. “All ten or less, I’d say.”

  “There aren’t any children older than ten in the area?”

  “They’re working, Miss Lawson. Like I said, after harvest, you might see some of them.”

  “And when would that be?”

  “About November.”

  November. Until then she would just have the little ones. Arithmetic didn’t require books, but she must have primers for reading and writing. She headed for the cupboard. “I need primers, even old ones. Surely the last teacher left them here somewhere.”

  Pearl opened the door to the large cupboard. Inside were tiny pieces of chalk, slates and primers in a dreadful state of disrepair. She lifted a book. It was waterlogged. She tested the chalk. Wet.

  “What happened?” She thrust a moldy volume at Mr. Farmingham.

  “I—I don’t know.” He backed away. “I don’t oversee the school. That’s Mr. Stockton’s responsibility.”

  Stockton. She’d heard that name before. She searched her memory. Ah, yes, Roland’s boss was named Stockton. “Very well, then. I will speak with Mr. Stockton.”

  Farmingham blanched. “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s not here.”

  “What do you mean? Doesn’t he own the general store?”

  Farmingham mopped his brow. “He owns the whole town of Singapore, but he’s not here.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “In Chicago.”

  Well then, she’d reach the man through Roland Decker. Pearl dropped the ruined primer on the nearest desk. “These must be destroyed. Mr. Stockton will have to replace them.”

  Farmingham wiped his round pink face. “He isn’t going to be happy.”

  Whoever this Mr. Stockton was, he inspired fear even in a councilman from another town. Pearl didn’t have political aspirations. She had children who needed to learn.

  “Happy or not, he will supply primers.” Even if it meant nagging Roland within an inch of his life.

  * * *

  Roland reached the top of the dune after Holmes. Thinking the older man would not be able to manage the deep sand, he had hung back. Holmes proved an intrepid hiker, scaling the dune faster than Roland could on a good day.

  Today was not ideal. Last night’s rain had calmed to an annoying drizzle. Though they wielded umbrellas, the chill sank into the bones. From the top of this tallest of the dunes, he’d expected to see Lake Michigan’s rolling waves, but the mists shrouded them. Likewise it prevented seeing how far the dunes extended, which he’d hoped to impress upon the investor. This sand would not run out anytime soon, making his glassworks the perfect answer for Singapore’s future.

  “Can’t see much today,” Holmes no
ted.

  “Imagine that three more dunes, nearly as large, stand between us and the water. They stretch for miles north and south of the river mouth. The supply is virtually unlimited.”

  “You own this property?”

  That was the problem. “I know who does.” Stockton. “And he might be eager to sell under the proper circumstances. I do own riverfront property large enough for the glassworks.”

  “But no supply source.”

  “As I said, the owner of this property would be willing to deal.” Roland could feel the investor’s interest slip away.

  “You’re certain of this.”

  “I know the man personally.” He forced a casual smile. “He is a businessman first. Once he sees the advantages, he’ll sell the sand if not the property.”

  Holmes grunted, unimpressed. “If this is as good a deal as you’re making out, why hasn’t he developed this glassworks already?”

  “His interests and investments are in timber.”

  Holmes grunted again. “I believe I’ve seen enough. Let’s head back to town.”

  Roland followed the man down the dune. Without Holmes’s investment, Roland couldn’t afford to build the factory. Without the factory, he couldn’t convince Stockton to sell the sand. He’d tried already. Stockton wouldn’t sell until he saw progress. Then he wanted a cut of the profits in addition to the cost of the sand. Roland had run through the figures a hundred times, and it always came out in his favor as long as he could secure the capital at the right rate of interest to build the glassworks. No one here or in Holland would invest. They’d all laughed him out of their offices. Holmes was his best chance. If he turned down Roland, the dream would slip away.

  “How did your supper with the ladies go last night?” Holmes asked when they reached the bottom of the dune.

  “Fine.” Roland didn’t want to discuss that debacle, especially with a man who held matrimony in the highest regard.

  “They are a lively bunch, especially Miss O’Keefe. She does speak her mind.”

  “Not as much as Miss Lawson.”

  Holmes gave him a strange look. “The schoolteacher?”

  Roland nodded.

  “I didn’t think she was responding to the advertisement.”

  “She’s not, but that didn’t stop her from taking charge. She expects me to find them all employment.”

  Holmes guffawed. “Now that’s a woman worth her salt.”

  “She’s interfering.”

  “She’s looking after the other three, like a hen looks after her chicks.”

  Roland didn’t relish the comparison, for it reminded him that she had gone to the children first. What if Garrett took his advice and then considered Pearl the best prospect for a wife? Even though Roland didn’t care to marry, he didn’t want his brother marrying her.

  Holmes must have read his mind, for he asked, “Did your brother settle on any of them?”

  “No.” Roland squirmed. “It seems he didn’t place the advertisement after all.”

  “He didn’t? Then who did?”

  “We’re pretty sure his children did, though they won’t admit it.” All their persuading and threatening had produced only tears.

  Holmes guffawed. “From the mouths of babes.”

  “They’re six and seven years old. They couldn’t have placed an advertisement on their own.”

  “True.”

  “My guess is the woman who looks after them took the lead.”

  “But that’s not the point, is it?” Holmes’s eyes twinkled in spite of the dismal gray light. “They want a mother and found a way to take matters into their own hands.”

  Roland sighed. “But now there are three women expecting a husband, and one groom determined not to marry. What if Isaac and Sadie like one of the women?” Pearl came to mind again. “What then?”

  “Then they’ll convince their father.” Holmes clapped him on the shoulder. “Wait and see. Everything will work out. They’ll get their new mother.”

  That’s what had kept Roland awake all night.

  * * *

  A bell tinkled when Pearl pushed open the mercantile door. She’d been surprised to discover the store occupied the ground floor of the building that the Deckers called home. At first she couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t seen that last night. Then she realized Roland had approached the building from the rear, perhaps on purpose.

  Regardless, she must secure primers from Mr. Stockton, and Roland would know where to find the man. For all she knew, he had spoken to Mr. Stockton in Chicago before embarking for Singapore on the Milwaukee.

  The door slipped shut. No one rushed to meet her or to even greet her. She surveyed the goods on display. All were utilitarian, from basic foodstuffs to durable fabric in a few plain colors, ready-made Kentucky jeans and an assortment of tools and cooking implements that would serve in a shack or over the open fire.

  A long counter ran in front of the smaller items: soap, jars of medicines, tonics, perfumes, tobacco and the like. An account book presided over the center with a small display of candy sticks and drops to one side. No one manned the counter.

  Curious. If Roland was in back, he should have come out at the sound of the bell.

  She tapped the tip of the umbrella on the floor, and the last of the precipitation slipped off. “Hello?”

  No answer. If anything, the quiet was more pervasive, no small feat considering the numbing howl of the sawmill.

  “Is anyone here?”

  The question met the same lack of response.

  Perhaps she should check outside. He might be unloading supplies from one of the ships in port. She turned and caught her reflection in a mirror hung next to a display of hats. Hers was askew, probably from that umbrella. She took a moment to straighten it and was just replacing the last pin when the bell jingled, signaling a new arrival.

  She had to step back to see the front door. By then, the businessman, Mr. Holmes, was entering the store.

  “Let me know what he says to the plan,” the man said.

  Roland appeared next, shaking the rain from his umbrella. “You can be sure I will. Don’t worry. Stockton will approve the plan wholeheartedly.”

  Stockton. There was that name again. Regardless of Roland’s plan, her business must come first. On the other hand, she shouldn’t interrupt their conversation, like Fiona would. She spotted a bench near the stove and sank onto it. Considering the chilly day, a warm stove sounded wonderful. She extended her cold hands, but no heat emanated from it.

  “...like to speak with the leaders up in Holland,” Mr. Holmes was saying.

  They must have moved closer.

  Pearl slid across the bench in order to be out of earshot. She did not eavesdrop. She’d learned that lesson the hard way in the orphanage when she thought the Chatsworths had chosen her. Instead, it was Amanda.

  “I’ll go with you,” Roland replied.

  Surely they’d seen her. She glanced back, but they were in discussion near the counter, both facing away from her. Pearl covered her ears with her gloved hands, but it made no difference.

  “No need, son. I understand the Lily Sue is headed that way in the morning. No sense taking you away from your business again.”

  “Charlie can man the store while I’m gone.”

  “That lad? He doesn’t look older than twelve.”

  “Fourteen.” Roland said it as if proud of the boy. “I had three jobs by that age.”

  “Yet you got your learning. That’s most important.”

  Pearl could almost hear Roland bristle.

  “He knows his letters and can add up a full page of numbers in seconds.” Roland’s defensive reply set off Pearl.

  She couldn’t help herself. She shot to her feet. “I suppose y
ou think that’s enough, that a boy of fourteen can’t learn anything more in school.”

  Roland whipped around, but his initial surprise soon turned to annoyance. “Endless schooling might be all well and good in New York City, but on the frontier, a boy can’t afford to waste time in primary school.”

  “Waste time! Education is never a waste of time.” She stomped a foot and would have stuck a finger into Mr. Know-It-All’s chest if not for Mr. Holmes’s chuckle.

  Roland shifted his attention to the businessman. “You agree with Pearl, er, Miss Lawson?”

  Mr. Holmes had a kindly face. Pearl had noticed that on the ship. How he fit into Singapore was still unclear, but his opinion seemed to matter a great deal to Roland.

  Holmes shook his head. “As a matter of fact, you both have a point. Education is valuable, as Miss Lawson indicated, but sometimes a family can’t afford to send their children to school, especially once they’re old enough to earn an income.”

  Pearl felt her cheeks heat. She’d been so focused on what was best for the boy that she’d forgotten about the cost to the family. Mr. Farmingham had tried to tell her that in a roundabout way. The farm came first. A family struggling to make ends meet needed every income they could get. Other than the little ones, she could expect only girls in her class. Even though tuition was no longer required, she couldn’t expect the families to purchase new primers. She needed Mr. Stockton to step up.

  “Can I help you find something?” Roland asked her.

  This was her chance. “I’m looking for Mr. Stockton.”

  Mr. Holmes peered at her. “You, too?”

  Roland, on the other hand, looked irritated. “Why would you need to speak to Mr. Stockton?”

  “Mr. Farmingham told me that Mr. Stockton is the head of the school committee.”

  Roland gave her a quizzical look. “Is there something wrong with the school?”

  “Indeed there is. I need books, especially primers.”

  “There aren’t any primers?” Mr. Holmes exclaimed.