Romancing the Schoolteacher (4 page)

“Come in.”

Lindley opened the door and entered the dimly lit, ten-by-ten room. “You asked to see me?”

Keen frowned. “Close the door.”

Lindley did and moved toward the straight-backed chair opposite the desk cluttered with rock samples and papers.

“I didn't invite you to sit.”

Lindley straightened. “I'm sorry—”

“I'll tell you when you can speak.” Keen paused and took a deep breath. “Do you want this to work?”

“Yes, sir.” Lindley desperately needed this job to go well.

“You wandered off during the lunch break?”

“I didn't think I had to stay on the premises.”

“You came back late. You get lost?”

“No. I didn't realize how long I was gone.”

“Brady already doesn't like you. Says you aren't cut out for the work. He wants me to fire—how did he put it—your namby-pamby carcass.”

He couldn't do that. “I'll work harder and won't ever be late again.”

“Maybe a week in the mine will give you an appreciation for working the kilns.”

“You can't—”

“I don't want to hear it. Get yourself a cap lamp and sledgehammer. Then report to Ross. I think it will be real good for you to see what goes on underground. Now go.”

Lindley wasn't sure arguing would do any good, so he turned and left. He would work harder than any two men down there and be back up top in a week. Or less.

All this trouble because of a woman. He had to keep his head on straight. Focus on the job.

He grabbed the equipment and reported to Ross.

That evening, exhausted, he fell into bed but was roused awake sometime later by Gabe and Dora climbing into bed with him. That was when he heard the rain pelting the flimsy roof. “Did the storm scare you?”

Gabe shook his head against Lindley's side. “Our bed's wet.”

“Dora?”

“I didn't do it. The rain comed in.”

Lindley sat up, climbed over Gabe and off the bed. The bare wood floor was cold on his feet. He pulled the clean, warm quilt over their shoulders. Thank God it was dry.

Across the room, rain dripped down in two places on the straw mattress. He pulled the mattress to the middle of the room to keep it from getting any wetter. He placed a pan under each of the drips and put a bowl under a third drip in front of the door.

The mining-company houses, besides being small, had been built fast and cheap out of flimsy materials. He would see what could be done about them.

He lay awake most of the night, listening to the rain drip, drip, dripping inside the house.

Though his children didn't have school on Saturday, he still had to work. Mrs. Bennett welcomed Gabe and Dora for the day. She said that two more running around would hardly be noticed.

Sunday was a blessed reprieve. He did not want to get out of bed, but he must. His children needed to be fed, and they all needed to get dressed for church.

Even with fog hanging over the town and harbor, a lot of people lingered in the churchyard. He didn't see the schoolteacher. When piano music filtered outside, the crowd moved toward and in through the door. He found a place in the back pew just big enough for him and Gabe to squeeze into, so he pulled Dora onto his lap, causing his already sore muscles to protest.

He searched the pews for Miss Greene's auburn hair but couldn't spot her. She'd said she prayed before meals, so why wasn't she in church? Surely she went. It wasn't as if there was another option in town.

After three hymns, the pastor dismissed the pianist. Miss Greene stood and glanced about the filled room before sitting in the front pew. He hadn't thought to look for her at the piano. But now he knew.

* * *

Bridget returned to the piano for the concluding hymn, glancing once more about the room but not seeing Mr. Thompson and his children. With his prayer the other night at supper, she was sure he would be a churchgoer.

The morning had dawned to heavy fog. If a person didn't know where he was going, he could easily get disoriented. Had Mr. Thompson and his children gotten lost this morning? She hadn't seen them before the service started, and now it would be impolite to turn to look for them. She did hope they were all safe and well.

After the congregation finished singing, she continued to play while people filed out. She closed the hymnal and lowered the cover to the piano keys.

Upon standing, she sucked in a breath.

Mr. Thompson sat in the last pew with his children. He
had
been here.

She smoothed her dress, picked up her hat and shawl from the front pew and made her way down the aisle. As she approached, he stood, and her insides did that funny little thing they did when he was near.

He dipped his head. “Miss Greene.”

She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. “Mr. Thompson. Hello, Gabe. Hello, Dora.”

“Hi, Teacher.” Dora held her arms up to her.

“Dora, no.”

As he was speaking, Bridget set her hat on her head, leaving the ties hanging, and lifted the girl, settling the child on her hip. “I don't mind.” One day, she hoped to have children of her own. But at twenty-five, how likely was that? Each passing year plucked away at her hope like removing petals from a flower one by one and letting them fall to the ground. So she loved her students as her own. “Did you enjoy the service?”

“It was nice. I stayed because I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh.” She cringed inside at her impolite response. What could he possibly want to talk to her about? Certainly not that he had the same strange feeling in his stomach that she had when she was near him.

“I wanted to know how Gabe is doing in school and if it is working out having Dora in class.”

Of course he would want to talk about his children. She was such a silly ninny.

“If Dora is too much trouble, I can find someone to look after her. I won't have her being a bother to you.”

How considerate of him.

Dora rubbed one of Bridget's satin ties on her cheek.

“Dora is no trouble. She and Aggie keep each other occupied. I have some of the older children helping them learn the alphabet and numbers.” She glanced down at the boy. “Gabe is settling in just fine. Aren't you?”

Gabe beamed up at her and nodded.

Bridget noticed how striking Mr. Thompson looked in a clean crisp shirt and pressed trousers. Gabe's and Dora's clothes were quite nice for miner's children. How could he afford them? Then she realized that a missionary barrel with discarded clothes could easily account for their wardrobes.

Mr. Thompson reached out blistered hands and took Dora. Hands that hadn't previously been used to hard labor. “Well, I appreciate all you do in teaching the children.”

Her arms felt empty without the child. She walked out with them, the last four in the building.

“We won't keep you any longer. Good day, Miss Greene.” He tipped his hat, and they walked away.

Those children were fortunate to have been the exact right size for those clothes.

Quite fortunate indeed.

There seemed to be more to the man than met the eye. She'd best stay clear of Mr. Thompson until she figured out what.

A
fter full days of breaking rocks, Lindley had little energy in the evenings to give his children much attention. For the following week, it was all he could do to fix simple suppers, get Gabe and Dora settled down each night and fall into bed himself.

He had never done so much physical labor. Swinging a sledgehammer and hauling rocks were not jobs he would choose. The labor was both a blessing and a curse. A curse for how tired and sore he was, and a blessing because it afforded him no time or energy to contemplate the pretty schoolteacher.

But tonight, even overwhelmed with exhaustion, he stared at Gabe's paper and knew it wasn't right. Fifty-seven out of one hundred points? How dare that small-town teacher judge his son's work unworthy just because he was a miner's kid. Gabe took after his mother and was bright beyond his years. Lindley would just give that teacher a piece of his mind.

* * *

Bridget sat in front of her fire, stitching quilt blocks. She had half of them completed for her wandering-star quilt.

Someone banged on her door. She startled and dropped a block on the floor. She picked it up and set the quilting in the sewing basket beside her chair.

Who could be at her door at this hour? She never had evening visitors. She crossed to the window to peer out. Mr. Thompson stood on her porch. The sight of that man sent her insides into a tizzy. No, just the thought of him. What was wrong with her?

She opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Thompson.”

“Evening.” He stepped back and swung one hand out. “May I have a word with you?” His lips pressed into a thin line.

What had upset him? Hopefully nothing wrong with Gabe or Dora. She grabbed her wool shawl off the hook by the door and wrapped herself in it before stepping out onto the porch. The cold April air seeped through the shawl. She would invite him in her small house if it wasn't just the two of them. “What's the matter?”

He glared at her and then held out some sheets of paper, shaking them. “
This
is what is the matter.”

Bridget took his son's paper. A story. Gabe had gotten a poor grade. She was glad Mr. Thompson had come. She wanted to speak to him about it.

He continued. “Do you think that miners are stupid or something?”

She opened her mouth to say she didn't believe that at all, but he didn't give her a chance.

“That you don't have to treat our children fairly?”

Now, that wasn't true either. But he didn't appear to be interested in a conversation, just his unwarranted opinions of her. Good. His ire, misplaced as it was, would squelch her wayward heart. But his protectiveness of his son only endeared him all the more to her.

“You're more educated, so you scorn the rest of us? The upper crust looking down on the poor working folks, thinking you're better.”

She didn't think herself better. And being the schoolteacher in a mining town was hardly the “upper crust.” If there was a hierarchy, schoolteacher would be only half a step above, if that.

“My son is very smart. At his last school, he received all top marks. Even for work above his grade. And you have the audacity to give him a score like that? I question whether you are even qualified to be a teacher. I'm going to have the school board look into your credentials. You are not going to treat my son or any of the other children in this manner.”

His words were meant to hurt her, but instead, she saw his pain in thinking his child was being unfairly treated. So she let him blow off steam.

His tirade slowed, and he began repeating himself. He clamped his teeth together, stopping his flow. “Well, don't you have anything to say for yourself?”

“If you're ready to listen.”

Breathing heavily from his verbal attack, he gave a curt nod.

“I do
not
think I am better than anyone else. We are all equal in God's eyes. The children in this town,
all
the children, are dear to me.” She had an extra-soft spot for the miners' children because most of them didn't have hope for a better future than their parents. One hard life handed down from generation to generation like a family heirloom.

“Yet you grade a miner's child more harshly?”

She held out the paper in question. “Did you read your son's story?”

He squinted at the paper but didn't take it. “I don't have to. He was reading by age four. He is intelligent.”

“I agree. He is very intelligent. That's why his story bothers me.” She continued to hold the paper out. “Read your son's story. And if you don't agree with my grade, I'll change it.” She still wasn't sure if he
could
read.

He snatched the paper and began reading. “This can't be.” His pinched face relaxed a little at a time until his lips parted. “This can't be.” He shuffled to the next page. “This can't be Gabe's.”

And yet it was. She mentally sighed with relief. He understood.

He fisted his hand around the corner of the pages and shook them. “Gabe writes better than this. He wrote better than this at age five. Words he knows are grossly misspelled. And there is no regard for punctuation or grammar.”

“Is that not Gabe's name and penmanship?”

He let out a long breath that seemed to take any remaining anger with it. “It is.” He turned and sat on the porch step. “I don't understand.”

Finally, he was ready to listen. She sat next to him. But not too close, though she would have liked to. She shifted sideways to face him. “I believe Gabe is vying for my attention. That's why his work has suddenly become poor, and he's been misbehaving in class.”

He squinted at her. “Misbehaving? Gabe?”

She nodded. “He has seen other students get attention by causing trouble. And others need extra help from me on their lessons. That's why, when he acts up, I make him stand in the back of the schoolroom, away from me. And why I didn't talk to him about his work. I didn't want to reward him for this kind of behavior. I was going to speak with you about his schoolwork performance as well as his conduct.”

“He's never done anything like this before.”

“In less than two weeks in my classroom, he figured out how things work and devised a plan he thought would get him what he wanted. Your son is
very
bright for a seven-year-old.”

Mr. Thompson stood and turned to face her. “I'm sorry for making unfounded accusations against you.
My
comportment this evening has been deplorable.”

She stood, as well. “You were looking out for your son. I'm glad you care so much about how he is doing in school. A lot of the parents don't. They are either too tired from working or don't understand the value of an education for their children.”