Wooing the Schoolmarm by Dorothy Clark

Author:Dorothy Clark
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Steeple Hill
Published: 2012-10-04T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

“Very good, Eli.” Willa took the stick of chalk the boy handed her and turned to the class. “Chloe, please come and work the next problem.”

Someone coughed. She sighed. It was that time of year. There would be coughs and sniffles among the children all winter. She made a mental note to bring in camphor and keep thyme and peppermint tea on hand and gave Chloe the chalk.

The sun’s golden rays streamed through the small glass panes from a blue, cloudless sky. It was a welcome break after the cold weather they had been experiencing. But there was a dark cloud hanging over her. This afternoon it would be two days since Thomas had made his threats. Nothing had happened yesterday. When would the gossip start? Would she have to face it when she left school today? Her already-sour stomach roiled. She dreaded having her name besmirched, even if, as her mother said, no one in the village would believe the lies.

“I’m done, Miss Wright.”

“Oh. Yes. Very good, Chloe. You may take your seat.” She focused her thoughts and moved over to stand by the slate board. “Now that the examples are completed, I want you first graders to copy the last four problems on your slates and write the answers. Be sure to keep your numbers in a straight line and make your plus signs clear.”

She raised the piece of chalk and wrote the five vowels in upper and lower cases. “Kindergartners, write these letters on your slates, and form them carefully. I shall come around to check them and to help you. Second graders—” She brushed the chalk dust from her fingers and lifted her gaze to the last bench where the oldest children in her class were seated. Mary Burton was bent forward, her forehead resting on her crossed arms on the bench desk. That did not bode well. Mary was a very painstaking scholar.

“Mary?” She hurried to the young girl, placed her hand on her small back and leaned over her. “What’s wrong, Mary?”

“I don’t f-feel good.” The muffled words ended with a cough.

“Look at me, Mary.”

The eight-year-old lifted her head and looked up at her through squinted eyes.

“Have you a headache?” She noted Mary’s glassy eyes and red cheeks and placed her hand on her forehead. Too warm.

“Yes, Miss Wright.” Mary coughed and winced. “My stomach feels sick, too.”

“All right. You rest, dear.”

Mary’s friend and seatmate raised her hand.

“Yes, Susan?”

“Mary didn’t eat her potato at dinnertime, Miss Wright. And she’s been coughing all day.”

“Thank you, Susan.” That was true. She’d noticed the cough, but only as a distraction. One or the other of the children were always coughing and, given the cold weather they’d been having until a few days ago, she’d placed little importance on it. Now, with the headache, fever and stomach upset taken in conjunction with the cough…

She shifted her gaze to the second row. “Jeffery…” The boy stood and turned to face her. “I want you to run home and tell your mother that I said Mary is ill and she should bring the wagon to take her home.

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