Hers the Kingdom (58 page)

     There were times when I wondered where he got his ideas. "I think you should teach the botany 'field class,' as Sally calls it. In fact, I suggested that she ask you—I know you read every botany book in Owen's library last year, and you know more about plants than anyone in all of southern California, I think. So why shouldn't you share with the twins?"

     "There are times when you should listen better, Lena," he said.

     "Do you want me . . ." I started.

     "I always want you," he interrupted, looking at me in a way to make me blush.

     Flustered, blushing in spite of myself, I continued, "I started to say do you want me to collect the books again?"

     "OK, Missy," he teased, using the singsong cadence of the Chinese, "This Oriental man knows many mysteries, many secrets . . . he knows of places, high in the mountains, places of great beauty, where a man and a woman . . ."

     "Soong," I whispered, raising my hand to his lips, "you embarrass me." He only smiled, and looked at me in a way to make me flush and feel warm.

     "In the Soston Canyon, at three?" I asked, and he nodded yes.

     A few minutes later, Sally intercepted me in the courtyard. "Miss Lena," she said, smiling, "you're all pink—you look pretty enough to put in a vase."

     To her surprise, I gave her a quick hug. "There," I said, "I've been wanting to do that ever since you arrived . . . what? Three months ago, now? I am so very pleased that you've come to us."

     Her brown eyes grew wide with pleasure. "I can hardly believe my good fortune," she answered, "six months ago I was more alone than I had ever imagined a person could be, and my prospects
were dreadful. Now, here I am in Paradise—with you and Miss Willa and the twins."

     "It must be those freckles!" I laughed; she looked at me for a moment, raised her eyebrows in an elfin expression, and said, "Of course, that's it! I knew they must be magic."

     What brought Sally to us, in fact, was a combination of events, not all of them happy. Sara had happened to be in Philadelphia not long after the death of Sally's father, Justin Fairleigh. He was a learned, doubtlessly eccentric man who earned a modest living by translating scholarly papers. His wife had died in childbirth when Sally was three, and he had insisted on rearing his daughter by himself, without so much as a maiden aunt nearby. He even provided her education, which was, as Sara explained, "classical, elegant, and exuberant."

     When Justin Fairleigh died, leaving his only child an exceptionally modest inheritance, she decided to go West. Since the only respectable way a single woman could go to the territories was as a schoolteacher, Sally made contact with an Ohio group which found positions for teachers. She was packed and ready to go when Sara learned of her situation, and persuaded her to postpone her departure until she could write to her friends on the Malibu. The rest, of course, is history. Happy history.

The beach cottage had been turned into a schoolhouse. Sally, the twins, and several of Trinidad's children studied there each morning. We took our midday meal together—Willa, Thad, the twins, Sally, and me. As the weeks wore on, we discovered Sally's first failing. She was not punctual. More often than not, she and the twins came running in late, out of breath and with hands dripping water from a hasty washing. We would hear them race up to the porch, Sally entreating the children to rush. "Hurry, love, hurry," she would say, and the twins would be giggling and rushing at the same time, and enter breathless.

     Willa seemed unperturbed, but Thad did not. After three days of this, Willa did allow a mild reproach. "Trinidad doesn't like it if the bread is cold," she said.

     "I know, I'm really very sorry. I shall try not to have it happen again," Sally had said.

     But it did happen again, and this time Thad exploded.

     "Kit," he said sharply, "your face is filthy. Go give it a proper scrub. And you, Porter, look at your hands."

     Silence. We watched Kit's eyes, big and blue, fill.

     "Mr. Reade," Sally said, "I'm afraid it's my fault. I rushed them so . . ."

     Porter sat tall, staring at Thad, angry.

     "Go!" Thad shouted at him.

     For a moment I was afraid, for my son did not move, but continued to stare at Thad.

     Willa took over then, standing and taking each of the children by the hand. "Enough, Thad," she said, "I'll wash them up, don't make such a fuss. Perhaps what we do need, Sally," she said over her shoulder as they left, "is a clock in the schoolhouse. Take the one in the second parlor. Thad, you can do that for Sally."

     Thad sat, glowering at his plate.

     Sally, trying to heal the breach, turned to Thad and said, lightly, "I deserve your wrath, Mr. Reade. I admit it. And I plan to reform. I'm sure I won't be late again, even without the clock in the parlor. In fact, I have my father's pocket watch packed away. It has a lovely chime, and I will keep it on my desk. So you really needn't go to the trouble of bringing in the clock."

     Thad did not so much as look up. His rudeness—and his anger at the twins—made something boil up in me. "Your father's watch should be kept in a safe place, Sally. Especially so near the ocean, where sand or salt air can ruin it. The clock in the parlor is sturdy, and it chimes on the quarter hour. You will be adequately reminded. Isn't that right, Thad?"

     I had used that tone with Thad no more than three or four
times in the whole of his life. It brought him up, stiffly.

     "Yes, Aunt Lena. I'll be happy to bring the clock this afternoon."

From the window of the cottage, Sally watched him approach, on horseback, across the stretch of dunes, picking his way carefully around clumps of dune grass. The clock was tied to the rear of his saddle, which caused him to dismount by swinging his leg forward and over. She noticed how gracefully he executed the awkward motion. It was not the first time she had watched Thad, unseen, not the first time she had noticed how easily he sat his horse. He was not so much taller than she, but he was tanned and lean, and he moved easily in this magnificent country. There was something in his face that she did not understand, but that touched her. She frowned. She had had so little experience with young men, men her own age. She hadn't a notion what it was about her that he objected to. Yet she knew there was something, and she knew she would have to find out what it was. Because Thad Reade could send her packing. He could cause her to lose her position, and she couldn't bear it. The place, the women, the children. No, she could not bear to lose them now.

     She opened the door before he could knock, so that he needn't break stride while carrying the heavy timepiece. She directed him to the place she had cleared, in plain view of the table that served as her desk. "Wonderful," she said, clapping her hand. "Now we shall never be late again, I promise!"

     To her surprise, Thad smiled. It was a shy smile, flickering as if to go out. "I am sorry to have made such a fuss. It wasn't worth having little Kit cry. She really is a nice little girl."

     Sally looked at him then, weighing the risk, even while she knew she would take it.

     "Why don't you like me?" she asked.

     It brought him up short. Thad turned, walked to the window that looked out onto the beach. Without saying anything, he
turned back to the clock and began to check its mechanism, busying himself with the setting and winding. And all of the time he was silent, he neither looked at her nor seemed inclined to answer.

     Sally knew to wait.

     He turned, sat on the table almost nonchalantly and smiled, widely this time. It was an engaging smile, very like his father's, though Sally could not know that. She only knew that it was the most charming smile she had ever seen.

     "I've been wondering about that myself," he began, slowly. "At first I thought it was simply that you reminded me of the East—all the girls I met when I was in school in New Hampshire. There wasn't much that I liked about the East, and the girls seemed particularly silly."

     "But . . ." she started, and he stopped her.

     "You asked a question. Let me answer. It was obvious, rather quickly, that you weren't at all like the Eastern girls I had known, so I have been trying to think of what else it could be. The answer is hardly admirable."

     Now he seemed to grow uncomfortable, his smile faded. "I didn't want to go away to school, not ever. All I wanted was to stay here, on the ranch. But my father and mother would not allow it. They insisted I be sent East to get an education. They said it would be impossible for me to be properly educated here. So I spent all those years—the better part of my life—in the East, and I cannot remember even one day when I felt happy there. Not one day."

     Again, Sally waited, sensing his need to finish.

     "Now, of course, the twins are to be educated here, on the ranch. Suddenly, it is not only possible to get an education here—it is possible to get an
extraordinary
education. You should hear what they have to say about your abilities as a teacher! You are an absolute wonder, they say. By the time the twins are ready for high school, they will be so far advanced that they might as well sail right into the university, they say."

     Sally smiled, a very small smile.

     And Thad smiled, too.

     "They're right, of course," he went on. "You are a fine teacher—that's easy to see. But then, I've known all along that it was possible to stay right here, and learn all one needs to learn. I've known that you don't have to go to Massachusetts or New Hampshire to get a proper education."

     "I agree, of course," Sally answered, cautiously.

     "So you see, I've resented you—unfairly, I know that now. It's not your fault that I wasn't allowed to have a Miss Sally Fairleigh. And it's not the twins' fault, either."

     "Whose, then?" Sally asked, and the question surprised him.

     "My parents," he said, "my mother."

     "Could it have been that your father simply wanted his son to follow in his footsteps? Sometimes Eastern men, especially those who have gone to schools like Harvard and Princeton, have a special sort of attachment to the place. Could that have been?"

     "No, I don't think so," Thad answered. "My father always said he wanted me to go East, but I think my mother could have changed his mind, had she wanted to. And remember, I was only nine when he died. After that, she sent me away."

     "I don't know," Sally said, looking at him thoughtfully. "I suppose I'm only glad that she decided differently for now, for the twins. Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I'm terribly happy to be here. And perhaps it's arrogant of me, too, but I do believe I am as good a teacher as can be found in the East."

     Thad smiled again, the clear, beautiful smile. "Now I have apologized, and I promise never to be rude to you again."

     "And I promise never to be late again," she answered.

     "I wonder which of us will break our promise first?" he asked.

     "Me! I will, at least I hope it is me—because I think I couldn't bear having you feel annoyed with me again."

     "But if you are late, I will be annoyed, won't I?"

     She laughed, easily. "I know I shouldn't . . . but I have this terrible habit . . ." He was grinning, so she went on. "Your aunt has said you have a magnificent collection of shells, one started by you and your father, and she says you know a great deal about sea life. I'm wondering if I can tempt you to . . ."

     "You do tempt me," he said. "No, I know what you mean, don't blush—your color is high enough—I can't take on any teaching duties for the time being. Ignacio is teaching me, I want to learn as much as I can about the ranch, and he is allowing me to do much of the work of the next rodeo. When that is done, I may have some extra time."

     "I don't give up easily, I'll remind you," Sally said, following him to his horse.

     "You won't have to," Thad told her.

     She watched him ride away with a mixture of feelings. She was relieved that the tension between them had been banished, yet puzzled and troubled by his explanation, which signaled trouble between Thad and his mother. She admired Willa; she had felt a kinship to her—and now there was doubt. Why, she wondered, hadn't Willa allowed Thad to stay on the ranch, when clearly he loved it so?
Take care
, she told herself,
perhaps there is something you do not know. Be satisfied to have solved your own problem.