“Ione, what are you doing here?”
What was she doing here? She’d come here for a specific reason. She knew she had. Her mouth dried, and she could no longer look him in the eyes. Instead, she dropped her gaze to his chest. Not good. Over the top of his shirt’s neckline peeked tufts of dark hair.
“Ione.” Morgan clasped her elbow.
His hot touch jolted her, and she blinked fast. “Wh-what?”
“Are those the signs you made?”
“Signs?” She tilted her head, and her brows crinkled.
He gestured with a hand covered in white dust. “Those papers you’re clutching to your chest like a new bride…um”—he cleared his throat—“the ones you have in your hands.”
She did? Ione glanced down. Oh, I do. “I wanted to pass out these notices to men with families.” She shrugged and bit her lower lip. “The signs are back in the foyer.”
“Let me collect a few of each. I promise to see they get into the right hands tonight.” Turning, he tugged until she fell into step toward the exit. “I wish you would have mentioned your intention of breaching the entrance of this private men’s club.”
“But I didn’t even know about this place. I spotted several men entering.” Frowning, she stopped and pulled her arm from his grasp. “You honestly think I would have opened the door if I’d known what or who was ins—?” Hurt choked off her last word.
“No, I guess not.” He ran a hand through his hair then leaned over to reach into the satchel to retrieve a few cardstock signs.
Her gaze tracked his movements, noting the flex of his muscles from his lower back over his shoulder and all the way up his arm. Heartbeats thumped in her ears. Seeing him like this was almost as intimate as a wife viewing her husband. Heat flushed her cheeks. In the next moment, she imagined what her mother would say if she learned of this trespassing act. A wash of embarrassment hit.
“Here, take a few of these, too.” She shoved papers in his direction and slammed her hand against his rock-hard chest. Heat infused her skin, burrowing deep inside. “Uh, sorry. And I didn’t plan on invading the club.” She bent to snag the strap of her satchel. “I really am sorry.”
Morgan pressed a hand tight against the papers on his chest. “I understand, Ione. But please, just go.”
Nodding, she moved with wooden steps to the door, gave a quick peek over her shoulder at the men who returned to exercising, and then slipped through the opening. With a hand rubbing circles on her chest to revive her stuttered breathing, she glanced over her shoulder at the closed door.
Oh, my-my-my.
Now if she could get across the street and into the next block, her misadventure would end here. Surely, these men would not admit a woman had entered their sanctuary. Ione was halfway down the walkway when she heard a disgusted tsking.
Across the street stood Alda Othmann with hands on hips, shaking her head.
Caught.
Chapter Eight
Monday morning, Ione flitted from one task to another in the classroom. First, she opened windows for a cross breeze, then she worried the air was too cool and might cause a chill. So she closed them again. She’d skipped breakfast in order to open the room early and make her final preparations. The shopping trip to Kerrville fleshed out the supplies a bit more, but the shelves were not as filled as she would like. More of the desks held slates. Hopefully, children would bring books from home, and the reading portion of her day would be handled.
On Saturday night, she skipped the musical activities in the boardinghouse parlor, telling herself she needed to focus on her lesson plans. When really, she was a coward and didn’t know how she could look Morgan Shipley in the eyes again after the encounter at his private club.
Every time she’d sat at the small table to write out a schedule of when to present what subject, she’d get distracted by the memory of Morgan swinging on the rings and the fluid movement of his masculine body.
Her mind drifted to those athletic performances. The cry of a bird outside jerked her to the present, and she looked down to see her fingers caressing the back of a desk chair. Ach. She whirled and dashed back to her desk to snatch up the schedule for a final review.
8:00 o’clock—Greeting, Patriotic Song, Roll-call
8:15 o’clock—Penmanship
8:30 o’clock—Arithmetic
9:00 o’clock—Oral Reading
9:45 o’clock—Break
10:00 o’clock—Geography
11:00 o’clock—Music and Singing
11:30 o’clock—Lunch and Recess
12:15 o’clock—Storytelling (Teacher Reads)
12:30 o’clock—Recitation
1:00 o’clock—Grammar
2:00 o’clock—Inside Exercises
2:15 o’clock—History
3:00 o’clock—Art
3:30 o’clock—Dismissal
She’d debated about breaking the day at noon, but reasoned thirty minutes earlier would be easier for the children traveling the longest distance to the school. She hoped some parents wouldn’t think having indoor exercises to be a strange choice. Her college courses had emphasized the need for physical activity to round out a child’s education.
Equipment. She jerked upright and shot her gaze around the room. In her cleaning endeavors, she hadn’t uncovered any hoops or balls or ropes. Her hands clenched in frustration. The professional conduct course said that teachers would have an interview with the superintendent, who would provide an inventory of the supplies. In that way, the teacher would be aided in her preparation of a well-balanced schedule. Tonight, she would find out the name of the school official and write a letter, asking for more specifics about a budget, testing, and supplies.
A glance at the pendulum clock displayed seven fifty-five. Ione gave a last tucking of her blouse into the waistband of her skirt and patted her upswept hair to be sure no tendrils had loosened from the pins. Then she walked down the middle aisle to the entrance and pulled the rope to ring the school bell. The resistance was stronger than she expected, and a stuttered, three-note clanging made her imagine the call sounded like Come to School, Come to School.
Although her stomach tumbled in anticipation, she stood at the top of the stairs and waited for the students to appear. And waited. From the spot on the rise, she could look down onto the closest streets of Dorado, but she saw no children moving in her direction.
Mister Othmann swept the porch of the mercantile. The doctor’s horse and buggy were parked in front of his surgery. A deputy lounged against the corner post in front of the sheriff’s office. Her gaze then went to the opposite end of Main Street, to Shipley’s Carpentry, but the angle was wrong to see into the workbench area of Morgan’s shop.
As the seconds ticked by, she worried that in her wish to present proper fliers and signs, she hadn’t distributed the announcements with enough advance notice. Although, more than one of the mothers at yesterday’s church service had given big sighs of relief when informed school would be reopening the following day.
So, where were the children? Then a horrible thought hit, and she swayed, bracing a hand on the schoolhouse wall to remain upright. Had her appearance at the turnverein been gossiped about? Were parents keeping their children home because of her inadvertent intrusion into that inappropriate setting?
Her pulse raced. If that were true, then she’d failed before she even started. Unbidden, the looks of disappointment that had covered her parents’ faces appeared in her mind. She wrapped her arms around her middle and sagged against the wall. Could she endure returning home and facing Charles and Viola with another failure?
A faint rhythm sounded in the air. This was different, softer, than the sporadic clang of Berg’s forge hammer she’d been hearing as she waited. Movement caught her eye, and she stood straight, watching a cluster of children approaching along Third Street. The group was arranged from tallest in the front to shortest in the back. They marched like a company of soldiers—gazes front, one arm at their sides
, holding a lunch pail or a slate, and the other arm swinging in cadence to the steps.
For a moment, she admired the formation and then wondered if that’s how Miss Fletcher had trained them. Seeing the front row reach the bottom step she moved to the far side of the entrance. “Good morning.” She held out her hand toward the door. “Please enter and line up along the blackboard.” Boys taller than her passed into the building, and a couple gave her a sideways look. Not what she’d envisioned while sitting in college classes. “Good morning, everyone. Please make a line at the blackboard. Any order is fine.”
Why wasn’t she being greeted in return? That was very unexpected. The last little child, a girl who looked to be only five or so, hopped onto the landing and glanced up with big blue eyes.
Ione smiled and received a smile in return, which quickly dissolved into a stern look before the girl stomped into the school. Puzzling over that odd gesture, Ione pulled the door closed and moved into the foyer. All of the pegs remained empty. Because classes were resuming midterm, she figured the children were already in the habit of putting coats on the pegs and lunches on the shelves. That hadn’t been one of her instructions. An item to be changed for tomorrow.
She rounded the corner to discover no line had been formed. Instead, all the desks were occupied, but the smallest students sat in the back, where they couldn’t possibly see over the heads of the other students. The strapping youth were scrunched into a front row where their long legs barely fit under the desktop.
Fighting to keep surprise from her expression, she thought back to her courses. She’d had a lesson about students tricking the teacher. The best solution was to ignore the trick and go on as before. As she approached the blackboard, Ione forced a laugh and swung an arm toward the front of the classroom. “Good joke for the new teacher. As you can see, I’ve written my name on the blackboard. I am Mss Forrester.” She paused, expecting a chorus of welcoming cries.
The children sat with their hands clasped and resting on the desk, gazes forward.
Odd. “Please rise and form a line at the blackboard. I need to establish a roll-call sheet.”
No one moved.
Although she knew pointing was rude, she needed to gain control. “You”—she aimed her attention at the tallest boy in the second row with a cowlick lifting the front of his blond hair—“what is your name?”
“Ich spreche kein Englisch.”
German? Her spirits flagged. How could these children speak only German? Something was very wrong in this classroom. Had Miss Fletcher taught them in their native language without relaying that information to the superintendent?
No matter. The classroom was now under her control, and she had to figure out how to provide educational lessons. With an exaggerated gesture, she bent her knees and swung her arms high. “Everyone stand.”
The children glanced at one another, eyebrows high.
Again, she swooped an arc with her hands that accompanied a bending of her knees and repeated the instruction.
Whispers in a foreign language passed among the students.
Ione walked to the little girl who’d appeared friendly out on the porch and pantomimed grabbing someone by the upper arms and then setting down the person hard. “Stand.” A twinge of guilt hit when the girl’s eyes shot wide. But, from the rustle of clothing, Ione knew all the other students watched the interaction.
The little girl scrambled off the seat and stood at the side of her desk.
Being sure to smile, Ione extended her hand and pointed that the girl should take it. The slide of the small hand into hers did something to Ione. Her throat tightened, and she congratulated herself on making this tiny connection. She walked the girl up to the blackboard and turned her to face the students before releasing her hand. “Wait here, please.” She held out her hand, palm facing the girl. Oh, good grief, this is like training a dog.
Then Ione gazed at the other students and walked to the boy who’d spoken. Before she could get out a word, she saw his legs flex and untangle from his cramped position. “Walk to the front.” To the instruction she added a hand wave.
After several more repeats of her pantomimed actions, the children moved as requested to join the others. She suspected the boys didn’t want to hold her hand, and that was fine. Whatever got them to where she wanted them. Grabbing her notepad and a pencil from the desk, she started at one end and stopped opposite a boy who stood as high as her chin. “What is your name, please?”
“Ich spreche kein Englisch.”
Ione scoured her mind for a solution. Teaching must occur, and she had to be able to distinguish one student from the other. Squinting, she studied his face to find one identifiable feature—a scar in his left eyebrow. “You’re Hans One.”
Next to him stood a girl with flaxen braids and green eyes.
Ione moved in front of her and tried again. “My name is Miss Forrester. What is your name?”
The girl shrugged. “Ich spreche kein Englisch.”
Of course, you’d say that. This girl’s distinguishing feature was a freckle dotting her skin under one eye. Ione fought to keep her voice calm. “You’re Greta One.” By the time she’d worked her way down the line, noting specific features that wouldn’t change like hairstyles, she couldn’t keep the panic at bay. The morning schedule was in shambles, the children still wore their coats, and Ione’s nerves were stretched taut. Then, as she organized the students into the proper arrangement with more pointing at children and tapping of desktops, Ione had an epiphany. If they didn’t speak English, then every student, no matter their age, was at the same starting place for instruction. No more creating several lesson plans to encompass all the grade levels.
Once the final student was settled into a desk, Ione’s mood had improved. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard. Tossing away everything but the plan for the simplest level, she walked to the blackboard and lifted the chalk square. In this pose, she felt control returning to her spirit. She’d enacted lessons at the blackboard as part of her coursework. “Now, students, you will learn your alphabet. That is the basis for everything else to come.” Using big strokes, she wrote the first five letters of the alphabet. Pointing the end of the chalk at the first one, she turned to the class and enunciated with exaggerated lip movements. “This is the letter ‘a’ and it is a vowel. Repeat after me, ‘a.’ ”
No response. Again, Ione pointed to the letter, spoke the sound, and then cupped a hand around her ear. Finally, the combination of tapping on the chalkboard then spinning with one hand cupped to her ear and the other hand waving toward her own body produced a single quiet ‘a’ from the front row. Ione smiled and nodded then glanced at the seating chart. “Good job, Greta Four.”
The little girl beamed until whispers in German wiped the smile from her face. She hung her head.
Determination to get this right filled her and Ione repeated the process for each letter of the alphabet. But she was the only person in the classroom who spoke. By the time she excused the class for lunch and recess, Ione could do no more than flop into the desk chair and close her eyes. She was already physically exhausted by the energy involved in pantomiming every request. By mid-morning, her optimistic attitude had vanished. An entire morning spent on teaching—no, that wasn’t the right word—on presenting the twenty-six letters of the alphabet. In no way could she send home assignments. The remainder of the day, not to mention the term, stretched forbiddingly ahead.
But she would not quit.
By the time she reached the boardinghouse at the end of the fourth teaching day, she could barely put one foot in front of the other. Even opening the front door demanded more energy than she thought she possessed. Her satchel strap had slipped from her shoulder and hung at her elbow. Chalk dust marked several spots on her chocolate brown shirtwaist. While demonstrating the calisthenics she wanted them to copy, she’d lost several hair pins.
The creak of someone moving off the divan preceded Morgan’s appearance at the sitting room
door, newspaper in hand. “Ah, I hoped you were the arrival.” Then his brows crashed down in a frown, and his gaze scanned her appearance. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”
Her shoulders sagged. “I’m not hurt. Exactly.” She uncrooked her arm and let the satchel drop to the floor with a thud.
“Then why are you so subdued and…disheveled?”
Unable to keep her feelings hidden a second longer, she pressed her hands over her face, incoherently muttering her frustration.
“Come in here, and we’ll talk.” With a gentle arm at her waist, he guided her into the sitting room, right to the divan. Then he grasped her hands to lower her. “Now, sit.”
Without looking where she was, she let gravity take its course and landed with a plop, arms draped at her sides. “Getting off my feet feels good. Thank you.” As the aches and pains in her body ebbed, she was aware Morgan still held her hand, and his thumb moved over the ridges of her knuckles. The sensation soothed her ruffled mind and frazzled spirit.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
Four simple words spoken in a quiet way had the power to open the floodgates of her emotions. Tears erupted faster than she could blink them away. She sat upright and turned, gripping his hand. “Why didn’t the town council hire a German-speaking teacher? I can’t possibly teach these children, because they don’t speak English.”
Eyebrows winged high, he jerked back his head. “Who doesn’t?”
“All of them. Only two or three of the youngest Gretas utter a few English words aloud when called upon. But then whispers from the other cut them off so they clam up and don’t say another word the rest of the day.”
“This town has more than one girl named ‘Greta’?”
“Well, I have to call them something.” She leaned back against the divan and rolled her head to face him. “All the girls are Greta with a number one through seven, and the boys are Hans numbered up to six. My first thought was using Hansel and Gretel, but I restrained myself. Back when I felt discretion was needed and figured that choice was too obvious.”
Ione's Dilemma: Dorado, Texas Book 6 (Grandma's Wedding Quilt 8) Page 8
