The Revenant (3 page)

I glanced at the white paper peeping out of the third volume of Shakespeare’s works—the collection of his tragic plays. How fitting. The letter had all the makings of a tragedy unfolding. But it now signified a tragedy averted, for rather than drawing me to my doom, it had spurred me to action. I pulled the letter out and smoothed it open on my lap.

Dear Willemina
,

Your father’s dream was for you to have a fine education, and you’ve worked hard to stay at the Athenaeum when I had no money for tuition. You’ve made me proud. You frown and shake your head as you read this, but I write the truth
.

We need you home now. My heart is heavy as the ink blots this page, because I feel your disappointment like a weight even though you’re so far from me. I am with child again. It is a blessing, to be sure, but right now it seems like a wasting disease has come upon me. I can barely rise from bed. The food won’t stay down, and I get sicker by the day. I can’t get the housework done, and it’s nearly killing me to chase after the boys
.

Willie, you are seventeen, with many years of schooling behind you. I need you at home. I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t so desperate. Mr. Toomey will come for you on Saturday. I beg you not to be rude to him. He’s been very good to us
.

When the child is older, perhaps we’ll get you back to school, though by then you might feel too old. By then you might be ready to marry and start your own family
.

I can barely sit up long enough to finish this letter
.

Mother

That letter was delivered to me at the Columbia Athenaeum four days prior, and I’d immediately hidden it in the pocket of my apron. All that day, despair had clutched at my innards, its dull ache nearly doubling me over. I’d dreamed up a thousand different ways to avoid returning to that farmhouse, where my father’s laughter had been replaced by the howls and crashings of twin boys. I’d offered to work at the school during the summer for paltry wages—most of which I sent home—just to avoid the place.

I’d been sweeping the floor in the Athenaeum’s dormitory, sluggish under the weight of my doom, when fate intervened in the form of Angeline McClure’s golden head popping through her doorway to beckon me.

Angeline was a young lady of refinement who kept her person perfectly tidy. Her room, however, always looked as though Mother’s little boys had been locked inside to run rampant. That day was no exception—the only difference was that two elegant trunks lay in the midst of the chaos. Apparently, Angeline was packing. When I entered the room, she stood next to one half-filled trunk, her eyes nearly bulging with excitement.

She wanted me to ask why she was packing. Her entire body quivered with the yearning to blurt her news. I crossed my arms and waited for the eruption—I would not call it forth myself.

“Willie, I am getting married!”

Angeline had been courted all summer by a well-to-do landowner, so this did not surprise me. She was only telling me because there was no one else around. She’d never taken much interest in me, for I was younger and a charity student. I knew her disdain and tried to stay cool, but the small sentimental part of my heart perked up to be singled out by her.

“Congratulations,” I said softly.

She clapped her hands with glee, then shoved a stack of papers off a chair and gestured for me to sit. Still smiling fatuously, she settled herself upon the bed without bothering to move the clothing scattered upon it. Then she held out her hand and wriggled her fingers so that I could not miss the sparkle. I murmured my admiration.

“It took some maneuvering on my part to secure this proposal, let me tell you.”

“How romantic,” I said, knowing the irony would be lost on her.

“In fact,” she continued, “I had to accept a teaching position to force his hand. And from quite a curious school! Can you imagine what sort of school it was?”

I shook my head.

“A seminary for Cherokee girls in
Indian Territory
! Is that not a scream?”

I tried to imagine Angeline, in her prissy clothes, demanding recitations from a group of sullen Indian girls. “Why did you want to teach there?”

“Gracious! Can you imagine
me
teaching
Indians
?” She frowned thoughtfully. “Accepting the position was the only way to push Jarvis into action. He was far too complacent before he knew I might leave for the back of beyond. It wasn’t until he set his eyes upon the letter offering me the position that he realized he might lose me.”

“Quite a gamble,” I said.

“Not really.” She tossed her head. “I knew it would work.” She looked at the disorder around her and sighed. “And now I must gather all this together, for on Saturday I leave for Arkansas so that Mother and I can prepare my wedding trousseau. But I’m already late for lessons with Reverend Wilson’s girls.” She tilted her head and scrunched her pale features into a pleading expression. “Would you mind, Willie—would it be a terrible inconvenience if I asked you to post a letter for me? I fear I shall forget.”

This was why she’d asked me in—not to share news with a friend, not just to crow over her “victory.” She needed me for an errand.

I forced a smile. “Of course. Give it to me and I will take it when I run errands for Mrs. Wilson.”

“Oh, it’s written, but not yet placed in an envelope. I really must dash. It’s all there on the desk—would you mind finishing it up for me? I’ll return the favor somehow, I promise.”

And with that, she was gone to teach her lessons. I stood up and waded through the clutter to the desk. Fortunately, her letter was on top of the pile of papers, so I folded it and poked around for an envelope. She’d not addressed one, of course, and I would have to beg coins for postage from Mrs. Wilson.

The letter from the school lay underneath, and I copied the address onto Angeline’s envelope. Angeline hadn’t for a moment intended to teach at this simple charity school, and I felt a flash of sympathy for the principal who would receive her letter declining the position.

I was about to leave when something caught my eye in the letter from the seminary. It was a number—a number that leapt off the page and slapped me in the face.

$450.

I grabbed the letter and looked closer. “Room and board are provided, and the salary is $450 per annum.”

Four hundred and fifty dollars? With none of it going toward food? And a room of one’s own—surely a teacher would have her own room. Her own bed, at least. Four hundred and fifty dollars to teach a group of simple Indian girls?

My heart began to pound.

I rifled through the papers on Angeline’s desk. At the very bottom was her teaching certificate, newly signed that summer. After staring at it for a moment, I added the certificate to the letter and envelope. Then I gathered the remaining papers into a neat pile on the desk. But of course she would notice that and wonder. So I set my small bundle of papers down and looked about me. I would have to tidy the entire room. I could leave a note telling her it was my wedding gift to her, for I knew how busy she was. Hands hot and trembling, I collected the clothes from the floor and bed and folded them neatly. It was so easy I could not see why she couldn’t manage it herself.

When I beheld the cape, with its high ruffled neck and satin ribbon, my heart expanded. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. And Angeline had many things like it—elegant clothes for which she cared so little that she would toss them upon the floor. Would she miss this beauty? In her fleeting gratitude for my tidying labors, would she miss this one cape?

I decided not and carefully stuffed it into my drawers.

I need you at home. I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t so desperate. Mr. Toomey will come for you on Saturday
.

The next day—my first full day at the seminary—would be Saturday. I smiled to think of Toomey arriving at the Athenaeum only to learn I’d vanished. His jowls would sag with confusion, his eyes narrow and piglike as he stared at Mrs. Wilson. She’d grow uncomfortable under that gaze of animal stupidity. Finally, he would shake his head and turn away, leaving her sighing with relief to have him gone from her parlor.

I folded the letter and returned it to the volume of Shakespeare’s tragedies, where it marked act 3, scene 4 of
Hamlet
.

“Mother,” I whispered, “you have my father much offended.”

Part of me had wished to put a match to that letter. After some consideration, however, it seemed better to keep it. I would read the letter when doubt weakened my resolve. I would turn to it when worried that my lies and deceits were corrupting me.

Mr. Toomey—Mr.
Gabriel
Toomey—was my stepfather. A red-faced man with a lumpish body and little learning. Our neighbor when my father was alive, he was free with his advice on farming and raising livestock. Apparently, he was free with my mother as well. Why else would they marry so soon after my father’s death? She gave birth to twin boys a mere eight months later. And now another was on the way.

I would not—
could
not—return to that.

Chapter 3

C
LASSES WERE TO BEGIN ON
W
EDNESDAY
, and each day brought a new wave of girls to the school. Many arrived on the stagecoach as Lucy and I had; others were brought by wagon or simply walked from the far reaches of town. There were fair-skinned, smartly dressed girls like Fannie and her friends, but many of the girls were plainly attired and darkly handsome. The rural primaries were easy to spot, for they looked more than a little ragged as they huddled together in the vestibule. Miss Crenshaw saw to them herself, quickly ushering the girls upstairs to join those who were more like them.

I kept to my room as much as possible, reviewing the texts Miss Crenshaw had provided for me. I’d thought to be teaching basic skills to rough Indian girls, but as I pored over McGuffey’s
Sixth Eclectic Reader
and Swinton’s
Studies in English Literature
, I knew a battle lay in wait. This was no charity school for girls needing instruction in proper speech and manners. This was an institution of higher learning, and the students thought too much of themselves to be grateful for anything I had to offer. The part I played had become more challenging, but there was no turning back.

The night before classes were to begin, I sat on my bed and stared at the wall. I’d read through the textbooks until the words blurred on the page and I’d despaired almost to the point of tears. Perhaps it was childish, but sitting still and tracing the wallpaper pattern with my eyes seemed to smooth out the jumble of my nerves.

A knock came at the door, making my heart leap.

“Come in?”

The door opened and Olivia Adair peered around the edge. Relieved, I waved her in. After a moment’s hesitation, she sat next to me on the bed. It would have been very cozy had I not felt so ill at the thought of teaching the next day.

“Miss Crenshaw asked me to pay you a visit.” She took my hand very solemnly, concern widening her eyes. “Are you nervous?”

“I am absolutely terrified!”

She sighed. “You
are
a kindred spirit. I knew it the moment I saw you.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“It didn’t sound reassuring, did it?” Her eyes sparkled. “I meant that you are feeling exactly the way I felt the night before my first day as a teacher. And I did not die of terror, so neither shall you.” She squeezed my hand. “I’d be worried if you
weren’t
nervous, because that would mean you were setting yourself up for disaster tomorrow.”

“All this talk of death and disaster is souring my stomach, Miss Adair.”

“I have a little suggestion that might help you tomorrow. It’s a trick, really.”

I leaned forward. “Please share it.”

“No matter how carefully you prepare, when you face your first class, you will feel like a schoolgirl with no authority. It happens to every new teacher.”

But I
am
a schoolgirl
.

I shook my head, banishing the thought. “Do go on.”

“You must prepare yourself by remembering the sternest teacher you ever knew. Can you think of one?”

I considered my recent teachers at the Athenaeum. “Well, Miss Kirtley was rather fearsome.”

“Good. Identify the qualities that made her so.”

“That’s easy enough. She was thin as a rail with the pointiest elbows you’ve ever seen—so pointy you’d cut yourself if you brushed against her. And she was terribly vain and prissy. But her most fearsome quality was her mean tongue. She never said anything unseemly, but when she was disappointed in you, her words sliced you open like a knife.”

Olivia grinned. “Excellent! Now, tomorrow when you face the class, you must imagine yourself as Miss Kirtley. Not that you must flay the girls with your words—just pull Miss Kirtley’s authority around your shoulders like a cloak. I promise it will help.”

“Truly?”

“I wore the cloak of Miss Morton for weeks—we called her Monstrous Morton during my school days—and it served me well. You’ll be fine, Miss McClure. And I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

She returned to her own room shortly after that, leaving me slightly less terrified than I was before. It wasn’t until I was settled into bed that I remembered—she’d still not explained the mystery behind my spacious turret room. Why was I given a student room meant for four when more senior teachers made do with less? If I survived the first day of classes, I would ask her.

The morning bell was to ring at five-thirty on Wednesday, but I woke hours before dawn. I kept my eyes down during breakfast and Chapel, lifting my head only when Miss Crenshaw made her announcements and teacher introductions. When she declared my name and whence I’d come, I held my chin high and tried to look fearsome.

Recitations began at half past eight, and I started the day with the seniors. It was a small group—only eight girls—but each wore a crisply ironed apron over her striped blouse and narrow skirt. My own limp shirtwaist and skirt were shabby by comparison. These girls were the same age as me, but clearly more refined. Were they smarter? If they were, I couldn’t let them know it.

I called roll with a moderately steady voice. Two girls had Bell as their surname, and one used it as a middle name—these three were the ones I’d met in the parlor on my first day at the seminary. Were they all cousins? The two prettier girls sat together at a desk three rows back, their heads held high. The third one sat nearer to the front, her eyes dark and eager behind thick spectacles.

Lucy Sharp, the quiet girl who’d sat next to me on the stagecoach, now sat at a desk in the front row. I’d learned from Miss Crenshaw that she was the only full-blood girl in the senior class.

Once the roll was called, I picked up our reader, gripping it tightly to disguise the tremor in my hands.

“Ladies, if you will now turn to page eleven in your readers—”

A hand shot up in the air. Fannie Bell, the tall and elegant girl from the parlor, was hailing me.

“Yes, Miss Bell?”

“Aren’t you going to tell us about yourself, miss?”

I stared at her stupidly.

“That’s what new teachers do at the beginning of the year.”

Of course they do
. I hadn’t prepared a speech. Why hadn’t I prepared a speech?

“What do you wish to know?”

Their faces instantly told me what a sorry response that was.

“You seem very young,” said Fannie, her demeanor prim but her green eyes flashing with mischief. “How long did you teach before coming to the seminary?”

I knew this trap only too well—I’d seen girls set it at the Athenaeum. As soon as they knew a teacher had come straight from school, their respect plummeted dramatically. They began to calculate the pranks they could pull. Why hadn’t I thought of this?

“I think you know, Miss Bell, that before arriving here I was at the Columbia Athenaeum in Tennessee.” That was vague enough. They might actually believe I’d been teaching there. “Now, if you’ll open your readers and turn to—”

Fannie Bell was raising her hand again, and this time she didn’t wait for my acknowledgment before she spoke.

“How do you like your room, Miss McClure?”

What was she playing at? “I have a lovely room.”

“Do you hear anything at night?” Her eyes widened. “Have you seen anything
strange
?”

A nervous titter arose from some of the girls, while others squirmed in their seats.

I took a breath and spoke slowly. “I haven’t heard or seen anything, Miss Bell.”

“I ask, Miss McClure, because …” The girl next to her—Lelia, the one who broke her cup in the parlor—shook her head vigorously, but it only seemed to fuel Fannie’s ardor. “I ask because that room belongs to a dead girl.”

Several girls gasped. Lucy Sharp put her head down on her desk. With great effort, I closed my gaping mouth. I needed to put a stop to this, but the back of my neck was tingling and curiosity got the better of me.

“What do you mean, Miss Bell?”

“Ella Blackstone lived in that room for three years, but she drowned ever so tragically last spring. There are some who say she haunts the school.” She held my gaze, challenge in her eyes. “Have you seen her ghost, Miss McClure?”

Someone laughed—a high-pitched, hysterical sound—and a strained silence followed. I felt certain my face was red, that perspiration must be staining my underarms, but as Fannie boldly stared at me, I took a deep breath and gathered my courage.

“I’ve not seen or heard a single thing. I do not believe in ghosts, Miss Bell. And I will not tolerate you, or anyone else, speaking of them in my presence again.”

Fannie Bell frowned mightily but said nothing.

“Now,” I said, my voice pitched a little too high, “if you all will turn to page eleven of your readers, we will review the elements of proper elocution.”

The remainder of that class was a terrible bore, but at least there were no more interruptions. The instant the bell rang, the girls leapt from their desks and pushed their way out the door in a most unladylike fashion. Should this be allowed? Was it regular? I wasn’t certain. I did know I needed to be stricter in the future … and much less of a ditherer.

It wasn’t until the sophomores walked in that I finally remembered the cloak of authority. No wonder I’d been such a ninny with the seniors! I was playing
me
instead of a teacher. I turned my back to the class under the guise of arranging papers, but in truth I took a moment to meditate upon Miss Kirtley. When I turned around, I hadn’t merely stepped into her cloak—I’d stepped right into her pointy little body.

I played Miss Kirtley to the hilt with the rest of my classes—so cold and stern that they gave me no problems. Perhaps it was because they were younger. Perhaps it was because these groups didn’t have a Fannie Bell to pollute the atmosphere. Whatever the reason, I was grateful.

The day’s labors concluded with the afternoon constitutional—an hour-long walk around the grounds of the school. The girls lined up, two by two, and marched forward as though part of a military drill. I fell in with Olivia Adair, glad to have sympathetic company for the first time that day.

“Did Miss Kirtley come to your rescue this morning?” she asked with a grin.

“I forgot her during my first class, but she performed very well afterward. Tomorrow I must call upon her if I’m to impress my authority upon the seniors.” I looked about to make sure Miss Crenshaw was nowhere near. “In fact, Miss Adair, I must ask you about something that occurred with the seniors today.”

She smiled. “Please call me Olivia—the students are too distracted to hear us now.”

“Oh, and you must call me Willie.” Her friendly charm had so disarmed me that it came out before I could think. “Willemina is my middle name,” I said quickly when she raised her eyebrows. “I’ve always despised the name Angeline. My dear papa called me Willie, and I should like for you to do the same.”

“Of course, Willie. What is it you wish to ask?”

I lowered my voice. “Fannie Bell told me something very curious. She said my room belongs to a dead girl.”

Olivia looked down, her shoulders drooping. “Ah, she speaks of Ella Blackstone.”

“She drowned?”

“She did, and it was devastating. She shared a room with Lucy Sharp, whom you know from the senior class, along with two other girls. Lucy would not stay in the room afterward. In fact, each of the remaining girls made it clear that she did not wish to sleep in that room any longer.”

“A drowning death is very sad, but why avoid the room? It’s not as though she died
there.
”

Olivia looked away for a moment. “Many of the girls believe poor Ella was murdered by her beau, who then ran away.”

“Murdered? How intriguing!” I sobered at Olivia’s dark expression. “I mean, how dreadful. Simply horrible, of course. But I still don’t see how this concerns the room I was given.”

“Some believe her spirit cannot rest because of the violence done to her. They think she haunts the school—that she haunts
your
room.”

I snorted. “They said something like that in class. You can’t possibly believe in such things as ghosts!”

Olivia’s face was stony. “I prefer the word
revenant.
”

“What?”

“It’s an old word my grandmother used. French, I think, for
one who returns.
” Her expression softened slightly. “We lost Ella, but her spirit returned to the place where she was happy and beloved. Now her spirit is confused.”

I could only stare at her for spouting such idiocy. Papa had often scoffed at the weak-willed and easily led, but I hadn’t truly known what he meant until that moment.

“I am sensitive to these things,” she continued, “and I have felt a presence—there are cold spots in the building, strange rapping noises, and water faucets that turn on when no one is nearby.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“I am. Don’t you believe in spirits that become trapped in the earthly plane?”

“No, I do not. There are plenty of ghosts in Shakespeare, but my papa always insisted they were born of the characters’ fevered minds, and would only be taken for spirits by the poor and ignorant. He loathed such superstitions.”