Romancing the Schoolteacher (5 page)

He held up the paper. “You graded him too kindly on this. I'll see to it that Gabe rewrites this story correctly. Good evening.” He strode away.

She stared after him. Not only could Mr. Thompson read, but he knew rules of grammar and spelling. He spoke like a person with more than a rudimentary education, using words such as
deplorable
,
audacity
and
comportment
. And yet he was a miner. Certainly he could acquire a better position.

She went back inside to the warmth of her house.

Mr. Thompson didn't behave in a manner like any other miner she knew. The man was an enigma.

* * *

The heat of his embarrassment kept Lindley warm all the way home. He should have read Gabe's paper before accusing Miss Greene of bias. She would think poorly of him after this. That caused an ache in his chest. Though he knew he shouldn't, he liked Miss Greene. And now she would never think of him as a potential suitor.

Suitor? Posh. What was
he
thinking? He had neither the time nor the inclination to pursue a woman. That was what had made his first marriage so perfect. Prearranged, no courting. But he had to admit that he felt something for the schoolteacher. A pulling. A longing. A need. Something he hadn't felt for his late wife, Doreen, whom he had come to love.

He'd left Gabe and Dora at the Bennetts' before going to confront Miss Greene. He collected his children and headed to his own undersized dwelling two shacks down. How the miner families lived year in and year out in these houses that were little more than tents was beyond him. Some of them looked ready to fall down even though they were only a few years old. He would see what he could do to improve the living conditions. If a worker felt safe and content at home, he would perform better on the job.

He set Gabe at the rough-plank table with his story. “We will talk about this after I put Dora to bed.”

Dora gave her brother a knowing glance and then went down quickly. Lindley sat across the table from his son. “Why did you purposely write this poorly?”

Gabe shrugged.

“Did you do poorly because you wanted Miss Greene's attention? So she would have to help you?”

His son shrugged again.

“Gabe?”

His son sighed. “She helps students who can't do the work.”

“But you
can
do the work. Doing poorly on purpose is just like lying. Do you want Miss Greene to think of you as a liar? Someone she can't trust?”

Gabe shook his head.

“You aren't going to do this again, are you?”

Gabe shook his head again.

“You will stay inside at recess tomorrow and rewrite this story.”

His son had his head down and spoke in a sad voice. “All right.”

“And Miss Greene says you have been misbehaving in class. You will stop that at once. If I hear of one more instance, I'll send you to stay with your aunt Alice.”

Gabe jerked his head up. “I'll be good.”

“Very well. Now off to bed.” Lindley's sister wasn't bad, but she would make him toe the line. She made sure her children behaved and would have more time than Lindley to give Gabe attention. But sending his son away would be a last resort.

Gabe scuttled off to bed.

Lindley believed the schoolteacher was right. Gabe wanted her attention. He had been old enough to remember his mother, unlike Dora. His boy probably missed having a mother to soothe his fevered brow and tend to his scraped knees.

Lindley could understand that. Didn't he, as well, long for the teacher's attention? Yes, he had to admit he did. So maybe he should stop fighting himself and do something about it. Let her know he was interested in her. More than just as his children's teacher. If she didn't return his interest, then he would think of her no more in that manner.

The next morning, he walked his children to the schoolhouse early to talk to Miss Greene before he had to be at the lime mine. Only two more days of swinging the hammer. She wasn't there yet, so he let himself and his children inside.

He crossed to the potbelly stove and stirred the banked fire with a small chunk of wood until the coals glowed. He threw in some kindling and blew on it until the fire jumped to life and caught.

“Oh, Mr. Thompson.”

Lindley straightened, and his insides twisted at the sight of the teacher. He took a calming breath and crossed to her. “Miss Greene, Gabe is rewriting his story. If he doesn't finish before school starts, he is to remain indoors for recess to complete it.”

“That's acceptable.”

“I also wanted to apologize once again for my behavior last night. It was uncalled for.”

“All is forgiven.” She set her books and papers on a nearby desk. “Please don't worry over it any further.”

He stepped forward. “I was wondering—I mean my children and I were wondering if you would join us for a picnic lunch after church on Sunday.”

“That's not necessary. I appreciate your concern for your children.”

His mouth went dry, and his heart felt as though it were shrinking. She didn't want to go with him? She didn't like him, as well? Disappointment stabbed him in the chest.

“I promised to reciprocate the favor of a meal. I must insist. My children will be sorely disappointed if you don't join us.”

She removed her bonnet. “If you insist, I would love to join you. All of you.”

He had pressed the matter and even used his children to get her to agree. And now she was only going out of obligation. What had gotten into him?

S
itting in the first row at church on Sunday, Bridget pulled the edge of her handkerchief through her fingers. Down one side, around the corner, down the next, around and around the square of cloth. She tried to focus on the sermon but had difficulty concentrating.

She wasn't sure if today's picnic was simply reciprocating a meal, or if it meant something more. She fancied the idea of it being more—what woman wouldn't want to know she was attractive to a handsome man?—but she knew she should discourage any interest from Mr. Thompson. And she toward him.

At least until she could figure him out.

She heard the minister clear his throat and shifted her gaze to him.

He was staring at her and tilted his head toward the piano.

She went to the instrument immediately, embarrassed to have been so distracted as to miss her cue. After the final hymn, she played it through again while some of the congregation left. She closed the piano and gathered her things.

This morning several clusters of people lingered.

Mr. Thompson waited with his children in a back pew until she came down the aisle to where he stood. “Good morning, Miss Greene. Beautiful day for a picnic.”

She stepped into the pew row to get out of the way of others now ready to leave. “Then the fog has burned off?”

He leaned down a bit to peer out the window. “It still looks pretty thick.”

Then what had he meant by “beautiful day for a picnic”? “If the weather is too much, we can put off the picnic to another day.”

“If Islanders put off things until days were clear, precious little would get accomplished. Rain may dampen things, but this is just a little fog.”

It was a lot of fog, but she liked his attitude. And his use of “Islanders” meant he was likely a native of San Juan Island or had lived here most of his life. She patted the handle of her basket. “I baked cookies for dessert.”

Dora jumped up and down where she stood on the pew seat. “What kind? What kind?”

“It's a surprise. You'll have to wait until after lunch.” She turned her focus back to Mr. Thompson. “Where are we going to picnic?”

“Well, I was hoping you would have some suggestions. I don't know the area yet.”

“Very well, then. Shall we go?” She knew just the spot. One of her favorites, in view of the harbor, but not too close to the water to put the children in danger.

As the afternoon wore on, the fog didn't so much lift as get swallowed up in a darkening sky. It would rain soon. But she didn't want to leave. She was enjoying the afternoon with this enigmatic man and his children.

There had been miners before who had shown an interest in her, but none of them had given her that strange feeling inside that this one did. Maybe it was simply the mystery about him that piqued her interest. That he could be so much more than a simple miner if only given the chance. Or maybe he was more. Either way, she needed to hold on to her heart.

The food had already been packed away when the first drops fell. She sprang to her feet, gathered up the two baskets and the beige quilt, and raced for the covering of the trees. She stopped and turned around. “You're going to get wet.”

Mr. Thompson stood a few feet away in the rain with his children. “It's just a little water.”

Dora held up her arms.

Mr. Thompson scooped her up and spun around. The man was dancing in the rain with his daughter. And enjoying it. He motioned to her to join them.

That was when she first noticed the limp in Mr. Thompson's left leg. Had he injured himself at work? She hoped he was all right.

Gabe clapped his hands and danced around, too.

Watching Mr. Thompson out there with his children told Bridget that this was simply the reciprocation of supper. For if he were trying to woo her, he would not be dancing and laughing in the rain but trying to impress her. All this “rain dance” accomplished was to make him more appealing.

Then Gabe came over and grabbed her hand. “Come on, Teacher.”

Bridget resisted, but Gabe insisted. She gave in, letting the baskets and quilt drop, and allowed herself to be pulled out into the rain.

She cringed at the drops hitting her and soaking into her clothes.

Mr. Thompson set Dora down. He took one of each of his children's hands, and they reached for Bridget's. Little wet fingers in hers. Dancing in a circle, Bridget still hoped not to get too wet. The desire to run back to the covering of the trees skittered through her mind. But it was already too late, and she didn't want to disappoint the children.

Tilting back her head, she let the rain refresh her face. When she did, she felt lighter and began to laugh. She hadn't had this much fun since she was a child. Her parents would have a fit if they could see her now.

How could a woman not lose her heart to this man? He loved his children and apparently loved life, not letting hardships get him down.

* * *

The continuing rain dripped from Lindley's hat and hands and face, though it had slowed to more of a drizzle. He picked up the quilt from the protection of the trees. It had remained relatively dry. He held it open to Miss Greene. “To keep you warm.”

“Oh, wrap the children in it. I would hate for them to get sick.”

She was right, of course, but he wanted her warm, as well. He would hate for
her
to get sick. He folded the quilt once and wrapped it around Gabe and Dora together so that it covered their heads as well as their bodies.

The foursome set out for Miss Greene's house, their feet making squishy sounds on the soggy earth.

Concerned for Miss Greene, he said, “Are you warm enough?”

“Yes, I'm fine.” She pulled her shawl a little tighter.

Though her wrap looked to be warm, possibly wool, he wasn't so sure it was all that much help as soaked as it was. “I'm sorry for getting you all wet.”

Her mouth turned up at the corners. “Are you in control of the weather? Did you
make
it rain?”

“No, but still, it's my fault.”

“I don't recall you dragging me out from under the trees.”

Obviously, she wasn't going to blame him. She had been reluctant, even squinting as the first drops had hit her. “No, but my son did.”

His children waddled together a foot or so ahead of him, bundled in the tan quilt.

“And I could have easily outmuscled him.”

Gabe jostled his sister. “Pick up your side or you'll trip.”

Dora did her best to comply.

Miss Greene smiled at the children's backs and continued, “You looked as though you were having a lot of fun. Carefree.”

Not exactly carefree. “I still feel bad.” Playing in the rain was not the way to impress a lady. If his sisters found out, they would give him an earful. Each of them. He didn't have that many ears.

She didn't seem to mind the rain at all now. “Have you always loved the rain?”

Loved the rain? No, he didn't love the rain. More like a tolerance. “Not particularly.”

“But you were having such fun.”

He had to work at it.

Dora tripped and landed on her hands and knees on the muddy ground.

“Dora!” Gabe stopped. “I told you so.”

His daughter whimpered.

Lindley helped Dora to her feet and wiped her hands on his pants to clean off most of the mud. Dora wrapped her arms around his neck, and he stood, holding her.

Gabe tugged the quilt tighter, apparently glad to have it to himself.

Lindley picked up the conversation where it had been left hanging when Dora fell. “When I was a boy, I didn't mind one way or the other. Rain was rain. I didn't like it when my mother wouldn't let me go outside because of it.”

“So what changed?”

He wasn't sure he should tell her, but at the same time he wanted to explain his strange behavior so she didn't think him touched in the head. “When I was twelve, I ran away when it was raining and slipped over a cliff. I was trapped for hours. It was dark, and I was so cold.”

“How awful. What caused you to run out into the night?”

He shifted his daughter in his arms. “It was the afternoon and light out. I was angry with my father for being unfair to my older sister. He hated the English, and Rachel was in love with a British officer. So I ran off. It was stupid, really.”

“You must have been so frightened.” Her gentle, sympathetic tone comforted him.