Sycamore Hill (36 page)

I hesitated at her invitation, thinking what she would feel about
me if she were to learn the truth. Could I tell her? Could I stand to have her
affection change into shock and contempt? I swallowed hard, feeling tearful and
wanting desperately to run away.

“I don’t think—”

“Don’t give me any of your lame excuses, Abby,” she said sharply.
“You’re on vacation, and your time is your own. Now, you can spare me an hour
or two. You’re coming for lunch. Do you understand?” she said, speaking to me
as though I were a truant.

I could not help but smile at her manner. How I loved this
domineering old tyrant!

“All right,” I agreed.

Her pursed mouth twitched with satisfaction. “Then come along, and
we’ll have no further arguments about it.”

A short time later we sat in her room. The day was as bleak as I
felt, and I cast about frantically for something to say to lighten the mood
that had come with me. Ellen’s niece brought in a pot of coffee and two cups,
and my barely settled stomach began to turn. Ellen poured out a cup.

“You’ll have to come get it, Abby. My hands are too shaky for
passing it across to you,” Ellen instructed.

“No... no, thank you. I don’t feel like having any coffee right
now.”

Ellen looked at me sharply. “You look drawn.”

I tried to relax my facial muscles and smile, but my stomach was
tightening alarmingly. Without answering, I shook my head.

“You’re ill!” Ellen said.

The wave passed, and I opened my eyes and let out my breath
slowly. “I’ll be all right in a moment.”

“How long has this been going on?” Ellen demanded, annoyed at the
idea of my being sick. “Elvira Hudson said you didn’t look well the night of
the Christmas program. And when you came back in, you looked positively ready
to faint. Now you’re ill again. Have you seen Doctor Kirk?”

“No. There’s no need.”

“I disagree. You can’t go on like this, Abby. You look a wreck.
You’ve lost weight, and you don’t need to lose any. Now, don’t be so stubborn
and ridiculous. I’ll talk to Doctor Kirk myself and arrange an appointment for
you.”

“No!” I cried. “It’s up to me whether I see a doctor or not, and I
don’t want to see one!”

Ellen was silent but watchful. My face flushed under her
speculative glance.

“It’s nerves, that’s all. Really. There’s no need to concern
yourself, and I wish you wouldn’t!” I said, hoping she would stop staring at me
in that peculiarly discerning way of hers, as though she could see right inside
my head. I was sure she had guessed what was wrong with me.

“And just what do you have to be nervous about?”

I lowered my head, feeling the guilty color staining my face.
“Reverend Hayes suggested I start seeking another position,” I managed finally,
grasping that excuse and hoping it would satisfy her.

She relaxed slightly and gave an impatient sigh. “Yes. So I heard.
You were tactless to say the least. When are you going to learn to avoid that
man and keep your mouth closed. You have Diego reinstated, and Matthew Hayes
has learned his lesson. Don’t expect to work miracles by rearranging the
reverend’s head.”

I laughed, for just an instant forgetting my problems. “How did
you manage to be tactful all those years, Ellen?”

“Good question,” she muttered, then sniffed. “I think everyone was
just a little scared of me. I had most of this township in my schoolroom at one
time or another, you know.”

“You’ve been around long enough.”

“Don’t be impertinent!” she snapped, and then laughed with me. She
waggled her finger at me. “But don’t you think you’ve sidetracked me. I’ve had
experts try that over the years. Now, what’s bothering you?”

“It’s nothing that you can help me with, Ellen,” I said honestly.

“Is it the same thing that’s been bothering you for some time?”
she pressed, but gently. I rubbed my temples.

“It’s all interrelated.” I looked up at her, not even trying to
conceal the anguish I felt. “But I can’t talk about it. Not with you. Not with
anyone.”

For a long time Ellen did not say anything. She was deep in her
own thoughts. I shifted restlessly, my hands feeling very cold. What if I told
her?

“Did Jordan find you outside the schoolhouse?” she asked suddenly,
her eyes piercing.

My mouth opened and then shut. “Was he looking for me?” I parried,
knowing it was useless.

“Abby...” she said warningly.

“Yes. We talked,” I wearily admitted.

“And what has Ross Persall to do with you?”

“Ross?” I gasped. “Nothing. We’re friends.”

“Women are never friends with a man like Ross Persall,” she
snorted derisively.

“Well, I am. We’ve talked on occasion, and he seems very nice.”

“Charming is a better word.” She sniffed.

“You don’t know him,” I said defensively.

“No. But I don’t expect it’s any great loss.” She pointed to the
sandwiches. “Come, come. Eat something.” I shook my head. “At least try,” she
said with concern. I picked up a half, handling it for a moment before forcing
myself to take a small bite. I chewed the spongy mass and swallowed.

“You left the schoolroom in such a hurry, I was worried about
you,” Ellen admitted, having munched a bite of her own sandwich. “Then Jordan
disappeared for a long time, and he came back in looking like thunder itself.
You returned looking like death warmed over, and Ross Persall followed a few
minutes later, watching you with a possessive air. And I saw him cast Jordan
more than one accusing look. Now, what does all that mean?” She raised her
brows slightly.

“I was sick. Mr. Bennett happened by at the most inopportune time.
We argued a bit, then Ross Persall came by and simply misunderstood what was
going on. There’s nothing between Ross and me for him to feel possessive.”

“And Jordan?”

My face turned a guilty red.

“Abby?”

“There's nothing....” I started to lie, and then couldn’t. I shook
my head and felt the tears welling into my eyes, blinding me.

“Abby...” Ellen said softly, her voice so gentle and tender, it
was my undoing. I started to sob. I put my hands over my face. I heard her get
up from her chair by the window and move across the room. Her arm came around
my shoulders.

“Abby...” she repeated, and the distress was evident in her tone.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve known there was something wrong for some time now.
Won’t you trust me, dear?”

“I can’t talk about it. I can’t.” I looked up at her through my
blurred vision. Her arms came around me, cradling me against her.

“You could tell me anything. It wouldn’t matter. I love you like
my own daughter.”

I pulled away, feeling the full weight of my guilt. I looked up at
her. I could not stand it. I got up and hurried to the door.

“Abby! Please, let me help you!” Ellen pleaded.

My fingers closed around the knob, and for an instant I leaned my
forehead against the door. “Oh, Ellen,” I moaned. “You wouldn’t love me if I
told you. You’d never even want to see me again.”

By some minor miracle no one saw me hurrying back to the
schoolhouse. No one saw me go out the back door and run past the well and out
into the rolling hills, where I could find a few hours’ solitude and peace. I
had to think. I had to find some way to work things out.

It was very late when I returned to my room. As soon as I walked
in, I knew someone was there. The teakettle was on and was steaming madly. Upon
checking, I found it almost empty. The door to the schoolroom was ajar, and I
went in. For a moment I didn’t see anything. Everything seemed to be in its
place. Then I saw someone sitting in the chair at my desk. My heart stopped and
then started again in a rapid drumbeat. I moved forward slowly, straining my
eyes to see who it was. There was no movement.

Then I recognized her. Her pale eyes were wide open and staring,
her mouth sagged in a soundless scream. The fingers of her right hand clutched
at the front of her dress.

“Ellen?” I rushed forward and touched her. She was freezing cold.
She slid sideways into my arms.

“Ellen! Ellen!”

She was dead.

Clouds darkened overhead, threatening to add another deluge to the
storm that had already swelled creeks and puddled the streets. The wind whipped
wildly through the sycamore grove, making the branches groan with protest. The
last few leaves released their weakened hold and spun off dizzily. Everywhere,
the world seemed gray and cold.

A crowd followed six men bearing a small pine box on their
shoulders. They moved slowly up the street and through the gate of the
cemetery. People drew tightly together to ward off the cold. The men lowered
the box, setting it on slats across a yawning hole. Here and there people
sobbed or spoke in low, aggrieved voices. Reverend Hayes moved forward, flanked
by Jesuit Father Anthony from Sycamore Hill’s only other church, St. Joseph’s.
Ellen Greer had been a shared servant of the town, and her funeral was a joint
concern.

Father Anthony spoke first, briefly and poignantly, summarizing
Ellen Greer’s career and years of unselfish service to the people. Reverend
Hayes spoke then, his voice subdued as he talked of Ellen’s strength of mind
and character and of the debt everyone owed her.

Jordan Bennett, as one of the pallbearers, stood at the front. His
face was pale and controlled. The dark suit he wore looked expensive. It was an
Eastern cut, and it made him seem remote and all the more a stranger to me.

The eulogy became a drone of sound against the wind. Words were
lost. I watched as the six men, Jordan among them, lifted the small, poor
casket and took the slats away. I closed my eyes. I wanted to blot out the
picture of Ellen being set into that cold, dark grave at the top of the hill.
The words “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” drifted to where I was standing,
slightly apart from the crowd. I winced when I heard the thud of soil as it was
dropped in upon Ellen.

“... You can tell me anything. I love you like my owndaughter....”
Ellen’s voice came to me. Tears burned and then coursed down my cold cheeks.
“Abby... Abby... please let me help you. I love you like my own daughter....”

The pain in my chest was excruciating. If only I had been there,
perhaps I could have helped her. But Doctor Kirk said she had died almost
instantly of a heart seizure. He said she had been ill for a number of years.
But if I had been there, I could have comforted her. I could have held her
close to me so that she would not have been so afraid. I could have told her
how much I loved her. I had never told her. But I had not been there when she
needed me. And Ellen had died alone in that cold, haunted schoolhouse.

“Miss McFarland,” someone said softly. I opened my eyes and saw
Ellen’s niece, Sadie, standing before me. She held out something. The little
package was loosely tied with parcel string. “I think my aunt would have wanted
you to put these up in the schoolhouse somewhere. They’re her service plaques,”
she explained, her voice wobbly. I took them and nodded. I was unable to speak.
Fifty years of teaching, two small bronze plaques. I stood silently, tightly
gripping the pieces of memorabilia that represented Ellen’s entire life.

A picture of Ellen’s face flickered in my mind’s eye. She was
smiling that taunting smile of hers and wagging her gnarled finger at me. Then
another picture superimposed itself. I saw her face in death, eyes open in
fear, mouth in a silent scream for help. And she had been alone. All her life,
Ellen Greer had been alone, even in the end.

People moved past me down the hill. I felt their stares. Everyone
knew that Ellen had died in the schoolhouse. Everyone knew I had discovered her
body. Some, hearing my screams, had sent Tom Hallender to investigate.

I overheard one townswoman saying to another, “Did you see Miss
Greer’s face that night? She saw something. That’s what killed her. She saw
something there in that place. I’m not sending my little girl back there,
that’s for sure.”

Had Ellen seen the ghost? Was that what had frightened her so
badly that she had suffered the fatal seizure? I stared back into the faces
that passed me. Jordan was approaching. His eyes were seeking mine and
rendering some message I was incapable of comprehending in my grief over Ellen.
I turned away quickly and made my way down the hill to the gate. I felt like
walking; so I started back along the fence and up toward the grove. I had
stopped by the lonely grave with its wooden marker when Tom Hallender caught up
with me.

“Miss McFarland, could I have a minute of your time, please?”

When I did not answer, he moved closer. He looked at the plaques
clutched in my hand. “Not much to show for fifty years, is it?” he said
bluntly, repeating my private thoughts of only moments before. I wished he
hadn’t.

“There are other things more important, Sheriff,” I answered
quietly, wanting him to leave me alone with my grief.