Chapter 15

THERE WERE NO MORE SÉANCES after that, for Miss Crenshaw’s gimlet eye was always upon me. I wondered if Jimmy had told her something. He certainly did his best to avoid me.

My nights were taken up with marking anyway. Sure enough, Crenshaw had confronted me the moment she returned. And I’d had no choice but to confess the truth—I’d made some progress with my grade book, but most of the compositions and exams remained unmarked. She’d trained her withering gaze upon me for several terrifying moments. When she finally spoke, allowing me one week to get my business in order, I nearly fainted with relief.

When Olivia found me hunched over my desk, the compositions stacked all around me, she’d sighed in exasperation. Then she briskly explained the rubric she used to mark her students’ written work, demonstrating how it could be applied to English compositions. In the early-morning hours, I blessed her for simplifying the process, and for once I was glad of the tapping at the window—it woke me when I grew drowsy.

Once I’d returned all the student papers—and dutifully shown my grade book to Miss Crenshaw—I could finally distribute the scripts for As You Like It to the juniors and seniors. The principal frowned when I informed her of my choice—a play never performed by the seminary girls before. But when I showed her the scripts and explained the cuts I’d made, she nodded primly and gave her blessing for us to continue.

“Keep in mind, however,” she said in ominous tones, “that I’ll be watching.”

Casting the play took several days and involved all the upper-school English classes. To me it was much like a holiday, for one couldn’t conduct actual lessons when there were readings to be done, parts to be assigned, and set designs to be planned.

Fannie made it clear from the start that she expected the part of Rosalind. She read for it and nothing else, and it was whispered she had the entire part memorized before the second day of auditions. She read beautifully.

But I cast her as Orlando.

I told myself that Fannie, the tallest girl in the seminary, would be the best romantic hero. But my heart knew I just couldn’t let her have the prize. Why did she deserve the best of everything—she who treated everyone else so badly? I would set limits on her even if no one else dared.

“You all knew some of you would play male parts,” I said when she gave me a darkly mutinous look. “Orlando is the romantic lead—it’s a wonderful role, Fannie.”

“But I played Titania last year—as a junior!” She crossed her arms. “Perhaps I’d rather play nothing at all.”

“That’s fine.” My heart pounded. “You may work with the sophomores on set design.”

“Why are you punishing me?”

I took a deep breath. I would have loved nothing better than to ban her from the production altogether. How satisfying it would be! But … that was something a petty schoolgirl would do, so I choked back my pride and tried to imagine how Papa would convince her. He certainly wouldn’t wheedle or beg. He would direct.

“Fannie, you are tall and carry yourself with dignity. You have a commanding presence when you read. I cast you as Orlando not to punish you but because I thought your talents would be put to best use in that role.”

She stared for a moment, jutting her chin out. Then she looked about her, as if seeing for the first time the anxious faces of all her classmates. Did she see how much they dreaded her temper? How much they wanted this to be resolved?

Finally, she lifted her hands in surrender. “Fine! I’ll play Orlando. I hadn’t thought the fate of the world hinged upon it.” She looked at her classmates, her face determined. “But I warn you now—I’m going to upstage each and every one of you.”

I sighed in relief. “Thank you, Fannie. That settles just about everything, for Lucy Sharp has agreed to manage the scripts and act as prompter during rehearsals. There’s only one other item of business. Before Christmas, when the seminary boys came to serenade, I went up to the third floor and found the primaries dancing.”

Most of the girls looked confused, but Alice nodded. “Sometimes they put on little performances, and we go up to watch them.”

Fannie snorted. “I’m sure I never do.”

“It’s very sweet to see them dance and sing,” cried Alice. “Don’t you think so, Lucy?”

Lucy shrugged her shoulders lightly, her face a blank.

“I tell you this because it gave me an idea,” I said, affecting teacherly confidence. “Why don’t we invite the primaries to dance for the audience at the beginning of act four, right after intermission?”

The girls stared.

“Why would we do that?” asked Fannie.

“Well, they danced very prettily. And … I’m sorry for them, for they must feel rather lonely up there … from time to time.”

Lelia gasped. “Oh, I see what you mean—they could dance as the forest people.” She giggled. “It could be very quaint.”

“They could perform the Green Corn dance,” said Alice. “It’s a summer dance, but I don’t see why they couldn’t do it in April.”

“Oh, not that rubbish,” said Fannie. “Surely you don’t want to put everyone to sleep with that tiresome old custom? The very idea makes me yawn.”

“Do you have a better suggestion, Fannie?” I asked.

She smiled. “I think we mustn’t take it all so seriously. We should make it fun. I like Lelia’s idea of using the primaries to represent the quaintness of the forest people.” Her eyes brightened. “I know! Oh, it would be so amusing.”

I’d rarely seen her so animated—at least about something remotely related to school. “What, Fannie?”

“They could perform a warrior dance. Surely Lucy could teach them something.” She gave a sly glance at Lucy, who stared at the ground and said nothing. “And,” she continued, “we could dress them in buckskin and put feathers in their hair.”

“And give them bows and arrows to carry!” cried Lelia.

Alice raised a hand. “Or hatchets?”

“Would our audience enjoy it?” I asked.

“Oh, there’s no doubt,” said Fannie. “As long as Miss Crenshaw will allow it. She rarely lets the primaries out of the attic, you know.”

“It’s not an attic,” said Lucy, speaking for the first time. “It’s the third floor, and I’m certain they think it a refuge from girls like you.”

“And I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Fannie, raising her chin. “Anyway, it will be great fun. We are putting on a comedy, after all.”

“Since you are so keen, Fannie, I’ll put you in charge of the primaries.”

Her eyes flashed with panic. “But—I have a whole new set of lines to learn!”

“You may choose some sophomore and freshman girls to assist you.” I stood tall, for it felt very teacherly indeed to delegate. Certainly it would do everyone good to have Fannie well occupied. “Who better than you,” I continued, “to make sure this performance will be charming?”

• • •

The next Saturday I chaperoned a group of junior girls in charge of costumes for the play. The weather was unseasonably warm, and thus everyone was cheerful as we set out. We were on the hunt for woodsy-looking fabric appropriate to the Forest of Arden.

At Foster’s store we encountered Dr. Stewart, which sent the girls into flirtatious sighs and giggles. “Hello, ladies,” he said, sweeping off his hat. His blue eyes were merry. “Buying material for dresses today?”

I allowed them to explain their quest, standing by as they effused about romantic forest attire. The doctor nodded and smiled very attentively, but when his eyes turned glassy, I directed the girls toward the bolts of fabric. He grinned at me over their heads, his eyes grateful, and I blushed with pleasure.

We’d just found a fine rust-colored cotton, which the girls proceeded to unroll for experimental draping, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a tall figure standing a few paces away. I turned to find Eli Sevenstar, hat in hand.

For the past few weeks, I’d forced him from my mind—so effectively, in fact, that I’d become convinced my schoolgirl crush had waned. And yet there I was in Foster’s, heart leaping and cheeks burning at the mere sight of him across a room.

“Excuse me a moment, girls. Stay right there.” They looked beyond me to Eli, their brows wrinkling. But at that moment I didn’t care what they thought. I casually stepped toward him, taking care to keep a bit of distance between us. Larkin Bell stood at the front of the store, talking with Dr. Stewart. It seemed we would be watched from all sides—but that didn’t mean we’d be heard.

“Did you wish to speak to me, Mr. Sevenstar?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

“I did.” He cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology.”

My heart, still leaping, began to sing a little too. “I am listening.”

“Before Christmas, at the Bell home, I took liberties in the way I spoke to you. It was inappropriate, I know that now.”

The words sounded rehearsed, but his eyes crinkled with genuine worry. I could not look away or feign indifference.

“I accept your apology,” I said quietly. “I only wish I’d known, as a student, how much words could hurt a teacher, even if they were only meant in jest.”

“I meant to tease you … as a friend, not as a teacher.”

I lowered my voice another notch. “It pleases me that you might think me a friend.”

His eyes widened, but before he could say anything more, I said goodbye and turned back to the girls, who were doing their best not to stare. In the distance I heard Larkin Bell, his tone peevish, asking, “What was that all about?” I did not hear Eli’s response. I didn’t need to. I’d seen the look of relief, and of hope, in his eyes. And at that moment I didn’t care that I was a fool for encouraging him to hope at all.

As I walked toward the post office to mail my usual payment to Mother, I saw Fannie coming toward me. She walked with bold strides, her face determined. I considered postponing the errand but couldn’t bear to give her the satisfaction of knowing I did so because of her. She said nothing, but waved for me to go ahead. Mindful of her standing behind me, I kept my envelope facedown when handing it to the clerk and hoped she didn’t notice the extra coins I passed along with it. A sense of misgiving chilled me when I turned to find her studying my face. Giving her a stern nod, I brushed past to walk out the door. Her eyes had been sly, her brows arched in challenge. Fannie Bell was up to something, and whatever it was didn’t bode well for me.

When we returned to the seminary, I carried one of the many packages of material up to the third floor. Mae sat with her friends in the alcove, all of them giggling companionably. Her expression sobered when I beckoned her to the corridor.

“I have the fabric for your costumes, Mae. Do you wish to see?”

She led me to her room, where I spread the caramel-tinted cloth upon her bed.

“Mind you, I couldn’t find actual buckskin. I suppose we shouldn’t have been able to afford it if I had. Miss Thompson told me you girls could work on the costumes in your sewing classes. The dresses should be simple tunics—modest and comfortable. Miss Thompson has some ideas.”

Mae nodded.

“How are the dance rehearsals coming along?”

She grimaced. “Miss Fannie doesn’t know much about warrior dances.”

“Oh well, it’s meant to be lighthearted fun.”

“Still, I don’t see what a Cherokee dance has to do with Shakespeare, but I suppose you know more about that.”

“None of us is terribly concerned with historical accuracy,” I said quickly, “and neither was Shakespeare.”

I’d tried to dismiss her concern, but a vague sense of unease settled over me. I looked away, my eyes drawn to the curving wall of the turret and its three windows.

“You have more windows than I do, Mae. It makes your room much brighter.” I walked toward them and looked out upon the seminary’s front lawn. “Do noises outside your window ever wake you at night?”

“No, miss.”

“Oh,” I said, strangely disappointed.

She tilted her head. “But I heard voices once.”

“What voices?”

“A girl’s voice. I think it was Ella. She was talking from her window, right below mine.”

“Who was she talking to?”

“Don’t know. A couple of times, when the moon and stars were bright, I saw her running from the school.”

“Where was she going?”

“To the river, I think.” She shivered. “It made my flesh creep to see her run off in the dark in her white nightie. She looked like a ghost already.”

I walked back down the stairs to Lucy’s room, planning to cheer her with talk of costumes. She sat on her bed frowning over my volume of Shakespeare’s comedies. Though she tried to smile when I showed her the samples of cloth, her distraction was obvious.

I gestured toward the book in her hand. “What’s wrong, Lucy?”

“I’ve been reading through As You Like It again. Listening to rehearsals has got me to thinking.”

“Thinking of what?”

“Miss McClure, I don’t like this play!”

I hadn’t expected that. To be honest, my face flushed with sudden anger. But I took a breath and thought for a moment before speaking. “What don’t you like about it, Lucy?”

She sat up straighter, her face suddenly animated. “Well, for one thing, I don’t like this Duke Senior. I suppose we’re meant to feel bad for him because he’s exiled, but he’s having a merry old time in the forest with all his friends. Does he ever think of the danger his daughter’s in back at court? No!”

I blinked at the ferocity of her words. “Perhaps he thinks a young lady would be much safer at court than in the woods.”

“But he knows what sort of person his brother is! Why leave his dear Rosalind in the hands of such a villain? My pa isn’t perfect, but he wouldn’t leave me behind like that. He wouldn’t forget me.”

“Nor would mine,” I murmured.

I stared at the wall behind her, my mind drifting to the past when Papa was absorbed in his local theater ventures. During the good times, he’d invite the actors to the house—to our study. While they drank and laughed, I would sit in the corner, blinking against the thick clouds of pipe and cigarette smoke. And when the production was in trouble, Papa would lock himself away with his whiskey for hours—days, even.

But I’d never felt forgotten. Actors and productions came and went, but Papa and I always had each other.

“That’s not all, miss,” Lucy continued. “It’s Rosalind and Orlando who truly bother me. They don’t know each other. They’re only pretending to love, as if it’s some sort of game. You can’t love someone you’ve only spoken to for a few moments. Why doesn’t Shakespeare write about lovers who grew up together, who’ve known each other all their lives? I’m sickened by this ‘love at first sight’ nonsense—it’s all shine and no substance.”

I started to give examples of the bard’s other lovers—Beatrice and Benedick, for instance—but stopped when I saw tears in her eyes. It wasn’t Shakespeare who was upsetting her. It was Ella. Ella and her fairy-tale notions of love. Ella running to the river and forgetting those who loved her.

“Are you thinking about Ella?”

She sighed. “It’s coming up on a year since she died. Next week the boys will come to help plan the graduation celebration, and I don’t know if I can bear it without her.”

I patted her hand sympathetically, but I knew there was more to her morose attitude than that. It seemed about time to confront what truly bothered her.

“Lucy, why did you say her death was your fault?”

She opened her mouth but said nothing. After a moment she pressed her lips together, shaking her head.

I tried another tack. “Why did she go to the river that night? It’s quite a walk from here.”

Lucy took a deep breath. “At first, she’d go there to meet Cale.”

This didn’t shock me, considering what I’d already learned from Jimmy and Mae. Back in Columbia I’d known girls who sneaked out of the Athenaeum on warm nights all the time. Some were foolish enough to be caught and punished, while others were far more clever. “You say it was Cale, at first? What happened?”

“I told you Ella broke off with him?”

I nodded.

“Well … there was someone else.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. All the boys liked her. But Fannie teased her for loving a poor full-blood. Was she going to work a farm for the rest of her life? She told Ella the finest girls married richer boys. Whiter boys.”

She paused, her face crumpling. Impatience tempted me to shake her until she spat it all out, but “Miss McClure” had to wait until she’d regained her composure. Finally, her breathing calmed.

“Go on, Lucy.”

“Last spring she was restless,” she said quietly. “Ella nearly jumped out of her skin when I said her name. She’d slipped out of the school at night in the past but was doing it more often to meet this new boy. It went on for months. I thought she’d get us both expelled. And every time we saw the seminary boys in town, Cale would take me aside and ask questions. I grew up with the two of them—they both were my friends. I was pulled in opposite directions, you see? When she told me she was going to meet this … whoever … and that everything would be fine afterward … I snapped.”

“How?”

“I told Cale where she’d be.”

“Why? Did you mean to punish her?”

“Maybe.” She bit her lip. “But I didn’t want her to die! He was shaking with fury, so angry that I’d kept the truth from him for months. He said I’d betrayed him. He grabbed my arm so roughly … I truly thought he might hurt me.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “And I sent him to her! Am I responsible for what happened to Ella?”

“No, Lucy. Of course you’re not.” I thought for a moment. “What about the telegram Eli Sevenstar received? It said something about Cale trying to stop her. Did he try to stop her from meeting this person—someone who ended up causing her death?”

She frowned. “I always figured Cale got to her first. And when the other one got there, no one was about.”

“And when this other boy heard about Ella’s death, he wouldn’t have said anything for fear of being suspected.” I paused, thinking through the implications. “But what if Cale never went to the river? What if he tried to stop her, like the telegram said, and she laughed him off? Pushed him away? Perhaps he was so angry, so deeply hurt, that he just walked off in the middle of the night.”

“Who killed her, then?”

“Maybe it was an accident.”

“You think she walked into the river and fell over? She could swim, you know.”

“Well, I still wonder if she drowned herself.”

Lucy shook her head forcefully. “I said it before—that wasn’t in her nature. Misfortune hit her hard all her life, and she always came through it. That’s what I loved about her.” She swallowed hard. “It makes more sense it was Cale. The other one loved her, and she chose him.”

That night thoughts of Ella and her secret lover kept me awake. Fannie had pushed the poor girl toward the fairer-skinned, wealthier boys. But she didn’t encourage Ella to make a play for her own brother, at least according to Alice and Lucy. It was more likely to be one of his friends.

Eli, for instance. He’d admitted to loving Ella in front of everyone. He’d even copied out a passionate poem for her, which she’d not had the decency to throw away. The thought made me more than a little sick.

I fell into a restive sleep, dreaming of Ella. I’d never seen a photograph of her, but in my dream she had long black hair, flowing loose, and skin the color of milky tea. She sat in the parlor, talking to a boy without a chaperone. I needed to interrupt them, to scold them for such impropriety, but I was frozen in place. Ella’s eyes flashed, and as she tossed her long hair, I saw who sat so close to her, whispering seductive words of rivers and the sea.

Eli Sevenstar, of course.