Chapter 3

CLASSES WERE TO BEGIN ON WEDNESDAY, 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.”

Olivia sighed. “You would not be the first doubter I’ve encountered. People close themselves off to what the spirit world tries to tell us, and when they do experience something out of the ordinary, they are quick to dismiss it as the work of imagination or fever.”

I shook my head. “My dear papa died most tragically, and if anyone had a reason to come back and haunt his family, it would be he. And if he were to communicate with anyone, it would be me. Yet I’ve never felt his presence, nor heard his voice. So, no, I can’t say I believe in spirits that visit the living.” I laughed. “In fact, I find this notion of spirits very backward.”

“You needn’t be so dismissive. I will not speak of it again.” With those words, she drew away a few inches, and I knew she would have walked off had we not been in formation. Instead, she retreated into herself, her face drawn with disappointment. We walked in silence for the remainder of the outing.

I dreamed of Papa that very night—the first time since those sad days right after his death. In the hazy murk of the dream, he was sitting by the fire in his study, surrounded by shelves crammed with books. Joy flooded my heart. Papa was not dead! He’d merely been resting in his study—waiting patiently for us to realize our mistake. I bounded into the room to embrace him, calling out to him. But no matter how loud I cried, he did not look up. My feet turned to lead and my arms grew heavy at my sides. I could not reach him. I called and called, but he only looked into the fire, his eyes sad and mustache drooping.

I woke with an ache in my stomach, an emptiness that had nothing to do with hunger. Why wouldn’t Papa look at me?

Mother had erased Papa’s presence from our house. His study was now the boys’ room. His clothing, pipes, toiletries, and books—almost all had been sold or burned. I’d begged her to let me keep his Shakespeare books and pocket watch, but the rest was lost. The last time I’d stood in that room, I could no longer smell the sweetness of his pipe tobacco. Instead, the air was ripe with the stench of soiled diapers.

I thought of Papa’s cold face in the dream. Had he refused to look at me out of anger? Did he blame me for leaving Mother?

I shook my head. Papa was dead and couldn’t be angry with me.

Mother was angry, to be sure. She begrudged the hours of labor she’d planned to extract from me, for she couldn’t afford to pay someone else to do the work. I was valuable to her, if only as a workhorse. Was I so valuable that she’d send the law after me? Would they be able to track me down and drag me back to the farm?

A tap near the window jolted me upright in the bed. I sat still and listened. Another tap. I drew back the covers and moved slowly to the window to pull the curtain aside. All was darkness. If there was someone underneath my window, I could not see him. Or her.

Had the noise come from inside the room? My arms prickled with gooseflesh.

Perhaps a ghost was standing next to me.

I shook my head, laughing at myself. I was acting as fretful as Brutus upon seeing Caesar’s ghost, but it was only the dream of Papa that had me twitching. I got back in bed and pulled the covers to my chin. All was silence.

Tap, tap.

“Stop it!” I whispered harshly.

Silence.

Shivering, I buried my face in the pillow and pulled the covers over my head.