Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) (11 page)

Though Sarah loved the Galvans and appreciated their kindness in caring for Rebecca more than she could ever have expressed, she was honestly concerned with Rebecca's upbringing. Though Rebecca was learning proper concern and conduct toward others, she was not learning proper etiquette and ladylike behavior. She was tomboyish, energetic, and uncontrolled. Sarah worried about it but didn't know what to do. There simply were not enough hours in her limited time with Rebecca for her to address all the things a mother should be teaching her daughter.

"What is most important after all?" she would chide herself. "That she have the proper attitudes—or that she express them in ladylike fashion?"

Of course, Sarah always convinced herself without difficulty that Rebecca was getting the most important of the two. But she still chaffed inwardly as she watched her daughter's unbridled energy spilling itself out in unladylike fashion. What could she do? What
should
she do? She hated to always be chastising Rebecca or nagging at her when they spent their brief times together. Yet—

Sarah knew that if Rebecca attended the small local classroom, she would be as unskilled in proper conduct as the local youngsters—who seemed decent and likeable enough, but who in all honesty were not trained in any social graces.

"I may not be here forever," Sarah reasoned to herself. "If—if there is ever—ever enough money—or ever the opportunity—I may sell the business and move to a city. How would Rebecca be able to cope in a society where proper manners are important?"

Sarah had to admit that in her present state, she herself might not fare so well in society. Whenever she stood before her mirror she looked at her simple, hurried hair style, her thin, pinched-looking face, her plain, patched garb, often mannish in appearance, and shuddered.

"No," she reasoned with herself on more than one occasion, "it is not the fault of the Galvans who have lived as simple, frontier folk all their lives. It is the fault of me—Rebecca's mother. I am no longer showing her how to be a proper lady. But how do I change that? What must I do?"

Sarah had no real answers. There didn't seem to be a way open to her. She had to be what she had to be in order to care for the material needs of her child—and yet in the doing, she was also denying young Rebecca the training in social graces that should also be her right. But how to balance the two tasks? It deeply troubled her.

***

Sarah was not sure if her driving skills had improved or if she simply trusted her team to a larger extent, but she found that she no longer had to keep a constant eye on the horses nor hold the reins with the same intensity. That freed her to think, to observe, and even on occasion to peruse an outdated newspaper that she picked up on the depot platform.

Since meaningful conversation was difficult in her job, she longed for some indication of what was going on in the world. So she drove, her eyes often lifting to the team and the road, but her thoughts were taken up with the bits of news she garnered from the paper she held in her hands along with the leather reins.

On one such day as Sarah scanned the paper and responded with various emotions or mental stimulation to the articles she read, her eyes drifted down the page and settled on an advertisement in the left-hand corner. "Tall Elms" was emblazoned across the top of the ad. Sarah's eyes moved on down to catch the next words. "Finishing School for Young Ladies." Sarah was immediately interested. In the midst of stately elms, here was a school that promised to educate, train in all the social graces and the arts of interest, prepare for life, and grant the poise and self-assurance needed to get a young woman launched into her world—wherever that might be. And the school started them right off as six-year-olds.

"Imagine that," breathed Sarah. "They even teach music." Sarah had sorrowed many times at not having her piano with her in the West. As a young child, she had been given the privilege of learning to play the instrument, and had become quite skillful. She missed her music terribly, but she felt even worse that Rebecca would be denied the right.

"Imagine that," she said again.

The ad went on to explain that the school had the best of faculty, led by Miss Nola Ann Peabody. Following the name was a short list of degrees and accomplishments.

"What about the religious training?" Sarah asked herself. "I certainly don't want to send my child to a school where she will not get training in her faith. And I want to be sure that the training is in keeping with my own beliefs."

Sarah found the paragraphs that dealt with the school's position on religion. She was relieved to find that what would be "consistently and conscientiously taught" was quite in keeping with her own religious views. She breathed a deep sigh of relief and thought again of how much Rebecca could benefit from attending the school.

"Oh, if only—" began Sarah, then quickly checked herself. There was no way she would ever be able to afford such a school. No way.

She sighed deeply and allowed the newspaper to fall to the floor at her feet. She gathered the reins more firmly in her hands and sighed again. Her agitation must have traveled down the leather thongs to the horses, for Gyp tossed his head and Ginger stirred and hurried her plodding steps.

"Hi-ya," called Sarah, urging the team to faster action. Her heavy heart and troubled thoughts made her impatient with life in general and with this load of freight in particular.

There was no way that the tiresome, demanding job would ever produce enough income to give her little girl the education that she deserved. Sarah felt trapped and defeated.

***

"Why not?" she later reasoned as she stared again at the ad she had ripped from the pages of the worn newspaper. "At least I can write and ask." She hesitated a moment when she looked at the address and realized it was nearly a thousand miles away. "Oh, Rebecca," she mourned aloud, "how could I possibly let you go so far away—" But she thought again of the importance of a good education for her daughter, and this sounded like such an ideal school.

So Sarah got out her long-neglected writing kit and seated herself at the kitchen table. Carefully she dipped the pen in the inkwell, flexed her stiff, unyielding fingers, and began her letter. She was appalled at her penmanship. Her fingers did not respond in the neat, even script that had won her acclaim as a student in her hometown school. She stopped and worked with the fingers, trying hard to limber them up, stretching, massaging, flexing, and coaxing. By the fourth attempt she knew she had to be satisfied with her effort. Though she was still displeased with it, it did look much better than her first try.

The letter was a simple one, sent only to inquire about their school and about the fees charged for the education.

Sarah licked the flap and pressed it against the body of the envelope.

"I will post it tomorrow," she promised herself. She knew she would have many days to prepare herself for the answer. The mails would not bring back a return letter for several weeks. Maybe even months, she told herself.

If and when it came, what would the reply be? Sarah wondered what she really wanted it to be. Of course, she longed to give Rebecca a good education. But could she bear to be all alone, with Rebecca miles away becoming a proper young lady? There would not even be the welcomed few hours at the end of each day and the precious Sundays when they had the entire afternoon together.

Sarah cherished those times with Rebecca. She longed for them throughout the working hours—and then often felt bad when they were together as she watched her young daughter become more and more like the frontier people around her. Was that what Michael had expected for his daughter? Of course he had thought that she, Sarah, would be nurturing and training their daughter—not running a business and turning over the main portion of Rebecca's care to another. Tears of frustration and sorrow filled her eyes.

Was she letting Rebecca down? Was she letting Michael down? Was there something more she should be doing? Was there any way that she could stretch the monthly earnings to cover a school bill? Was there any way that she could add to her income?

Then Sarah remembered that the debt at the bank was almost paid up. Soon the team, the wagon, the whole business would be hers, debt free. She would not have to make the hated trip to the sturdy brick building and count out her hard-earned bills and coins into the eager hand that stretched for them.

No. She would soon be her own boss and perhaps—just perhaps—the extra money would cover the costs of a young daughter at boarding school. Sarah felt slightly comforted as she laid the letter on the table so she would not forget it the next morning.

Sharing the Plan

Was it a miracle or just coincidence,
Sarah wondered as she fingered the letter she held in her hands,
that the reply to her letter arrived the very day she had counted out the last payment to the banker?
Whatever the case, she could hardly wait to get home to read the contents.

After she had cared for her team she hurried into the coolness of her kitchen and lowered herself to one of the painted chairs. Her hand trembled as she tore open the envelope and lifted the pages to catch the light from the window.

It was a long letter, bearing the signature of Miss Nola Ann Peabody with the interesting letters behind her name. Sarah scanned the first several paragraphs. She would read them in detail later. Her immediate question was if she could afford to send Rebecca.

The monthly cost nearly took her breath away. It was far more expensive than she had imagined. Mentally she began to calculate. It was impossible. She could never make it. It was a dream that couldn't ever come true. She simply wasn't able to make that much money with the freight run.

She stood to her feet, still trembling, and lifted a hand to brush back a wisp of hair. As she moved, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall. Even Sarah was shocked at how much she had changed since Michael's death.

"Look at me," she whispered to herself. "Just look at me. I'm a—a skeleton. I—I'm unkempt and—and old. Michael would—wouldn't even know me now."

Sarah wanted to return to the chair, lay her head on her arm and weep.

But she did not allow herself the comfort of tears. Instead, she straightened her tired back, lifted her chin, and stared back defiantly at the face in the mirror. "Well, I won't have this kind of life for Rebecca," she declared aloud with a voice remarkably calm. "She will be properly educated. She will be trained in—in something—so that should she ever be on her own she will not have to—to resort to any activity unbecoming to a—a lady. She will be one. Somehow. I'll do it— somehow. I will."

And Sarah forsook the woman in the mirror and crossed to her bedroom to improve her appearance before the little trip to the Galvans for Rebecca. She still had several months before Rebecca would be ready for her first year. Sarah would spend those months saving. She would have the equivalent of the bank payment as additional income now. And she could find other ways to cut corners. By the time Rebecca had to leave for school, Sarah should have been able to save up for the initial expenses, she reasoned. From then on—well, she would cross that bridge when the time came.

***

"Why don't we marry Uncle Boyd?" asked Rebecca at the supper table.

Sarah had assumed that the child had forgotten the foolish gossip of the town's busybodies, and she looked at her daughter in alarm. Had the idle talk started again? She had been so careful. Even distant to the two men who had been so kind to her. She often felt ashamed of her own stiffness. She refused the cups of tea as much as she had looked forward to them. And she never even stopped to chat with Boyd if she could avoid it. She always found something pressing that needed to be done while he helped Newton unload the freight. She missed the chats, but she had no intention of feeding the town's gossip mill.

Here was Rebecca boldly bringing it up as though they were speaking of what they should have for lunch.

"What—what do you mean?" stammered Sarah.

"We should git married and—and be a fambly."

"Family," corrected Sarah. "We should be a family."

"Ya-ay," agreed Rebecca noisily, lifting her hands to clap them in the air. Sarah at once realized her misstatement.

"No. No, I didn't mean—that," Sarah quickly explained. "I just meant that—that was the proper way to say it—not that—that it was what I thought should be done. I mean—I have no intention—none whatever of—of marrying anyone, Rebecca. I—we—don't you understand?"

Rebecca looked crestfallen.

"You promised," she accused her mother.

"No. No, I certainly did not promise any such thing. I was—was simply correcting your—your word—fambly. I—I didn't mean—"

"But you said it," cut in Rebecca. "You said we should be a—" She stopped and thought hard, then slowly and carefully pronounced the word, "fam-i-ly. You said so."

"Yes—I said it, but I didn't mean that we—" Sarah stopped and rose to her feet. She didn't wish to be involved in this ridiculous debate with her young daughter. It would spoil their whole evening together, and their time was limited at best.

"What should we do tonight?' she asked as brightly as she could. "Would you like to make cookies?"