Chapter 20

THE DAYS LEADING UP TO the performance dragged on, with most of us dreading the inevitable failure of a Shakespearean comedy during such dark times. Instead of improving with practice, the girls’ performances grew increasingly stilted. Entire pages of lines were skipped during rehearsal. Arguments broke out, and tears were shed. Panic gripped the girls by the throat, and I hardly knew how to encourage them. What promises could I make? My spirits were just as depressed as theirs, if not more.

When Miss Crenshaw announced a forthcoming visit from Dr. Stewart during morning Chapel, the sudden burst of lifted spirits was quite palpable throughout the school. Even I, accustomed to numb perseverance, felt a thrill of excitement. As soon as the girls heard the doctor would be conveying an invitation, they fell to primping and hair arranging. I spent a fair amount of time in front of the mirror myself.

As Miss Crenshaw settled the juniors and seniors in the study hall, I caught Olivia’s eye. When she joined me, I threaded my arm through hers so that we could find seats together. Dr. Stewart, smiling shyly, stood next to the principal as everyone took her place. Once all were silent, Miss Crenshaw nodded to him. He cleared his throat.

“Our community has suffered a blow lately. No doubt your spirits have plummeted, and I hope to do something about that. Over the Christmas holiday, I spoke with Miss McClure and Miss Lucy Sharp about the spring play.” At his words almost every head turned to stare at Lucy and me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lucy raise her chin a little higher as the doctor continued. “I learned you were attempting something new—a Shakespeare play that’s not been performed at the female seminary before. As a man who is fond of Shakespeare’s works, I commend you. And I wish to commemorate this new production, and provide a welcome distraction from recent events, by inviting all juniors, seniors, and teachers involved in the play to my home, on the Wednesday evening before the performance, for a celebratory supper.”

The girls clapped their hands, prompting a blush to spread over the doctor’s cheeks. I couldn’t help leaning forward in my seat to stare at him. He really was most handsome when smiling.

“But, Dr. Stewart,” Miss Crenshaw said, her expression apprehensive. I sensed the collective intake of breath from the girls. “A school night? I fear this may not be appropriate—”

“Not to worry, Miss Crenshaw,” the doctor interrupted with a smile. “I promise to have the young ladies back to the seminary in plenty of time for their evening rest.” He paused for her reply and nodded vigorously when she smiled in acquiescence.

The girls cheered.

Curiously, his expression sobered. “I expect one thing in return,” he said in ominous tones. The girls quieted. “But it’s something I think will prove helpful to you. Miss McClure, I wish you to stage a few scenes after supper—as practice, you see, as well as entertainment for those who have worked behind the scenes and are not performing.” He gave a dramatic pause. “Well, what do you all say?”

At once the girls cried out their approval, clapping again and whispering among themselves. Olivia was grinning and I found myself clapping too, for finally, at long last, there was something to look forward to.

The doctor’s house was a tall structure with elegantly angled eaves and a snug little porch. Its wood siding gleamed with a fresh coat of white paint, as did the dainty fence that enclosed the property. Olivia told me the style was “Queen Anne,” which was considered very fashionable for Tahlequah. Inside the house we found upholstered furniture, floral wallpaper, and Oriental carpets on the gleaming oak floors. A butler and two maids, all solemn-faced negroes, were in attendance.

“Such a fine little home for a country doctor,” I murmured to Olivia as we looked about. “Like something out of a fairy tale. Are those permanent servants? I wouldn’t have thought his wages would allow for such a luxury.”

“Rumor has it that Mr. Bell paid for the servants when Sarah was alive and continues to do so now,” Olivia replied. “He built this house for his daughter, you see. Sarah was his favorite and always received the best of everything. I’m sure it pleased him to think of his grandchildren growing up here.”

“And now that will never happen.”

“It still might,” she said, nodding toward the doctor. He stood next to Fannie Bell, who held her chin high and stared down at those who walked past. I almost felt embarrassed for her, but also a little sickened by the thought of her snaring him. He was too good for her—a man dedicated to healing, not to lording his wealth and superior breeding over everyone else.

“Although,” Olivia continued, “I’ve heard whisperings that Miss Bell has caught the eye of a wealthy young lawyer in town—one with aspirations to a political career.”

“A white man?”

She tilted her head. “Mixed-blood, with progressive ideals.”

From what I could tell, “progressive” meant to think as a white person, so it was practically the same. I wondered which was more important to Fannie—blood or money?

The sound of laughter distracted me from such thoughts. It seemed every spare inch of the reception room was filled with swishing skirts and fluttering fans. Dr. Stewart took pains to greet each guest individually, and as he took my hand, he smiled so warmly that I blushed.

“Miss McClure, you look radiant this evening.”

He almost made me forget I was wearing Olivia’s dress again. “Thank you, Dr. Stewart. I think we all are improved by our surroundings tonight. Your home is very lovely.”

His mouth turned down slightly. “It is a testament to my late wife’s good taste. I fear I cannot take any of the credit.”

I could think of nothing appropriate to say, but my heart went out to him. I squeezed his hand and smiled. Immediately, his eyes brightened. As he moved on to greet the next cluster of admirers, I could still feel the warmth of his fingers on mine.

“He seems to feel very comfortable with you, Willie,” said Olivia, when we were alone again.

“He has an easy way with everyone, I’m sure,” I murmured, fanning my face.

As I watched him greet the students, it was hard to believe I’d once thought him thin and gray-faced. He seemed an entirely different person now—golden rather than pale, his hair curling softly about a face that didn’t seem quite so narrow as before. That deep burgundy waistcoat brought the warmth of color to his cheeks. And he was wonderfully tall, taller than Papa even, so that all the girls had to crane their necks to look up at him. It was difficult not to indulge in hero worship when looking up at his face, framed as it was by the nimbus of golden hair. It brought to mind a line from Shakespeare, though I could not remember the play.

A bright face that cast a thousand beams upon me, like the sun.

Again I fanned my hot cheeks, embarrassed to be carried away by such romantic nonsense. But what danger was in it? He was a grown man, not a student. And I was a grown woman … for the most part. Looking at him made me feel like one. He may not have truly fancied me, but at least I didn’t have to feel guilty or improper about fancying him. I needed this distraction. In fact, I craved anything that helped banish Eli Sevenstar and his betrayals from my mind.

At supper I was seated next to the doctor as a guest of honor. Fannie, sitting at a separate table in the parlor with other students, frowned most unbecomingly. Make up your mind, I thought, and smiled back at her. Then I turned to the doctor, intent on playing the coquette and engaging him in flirtatious banter. Unfortunately, he was occupied with Miss Crenshaw, who was unusually animated that evening. Still, he did smile when he looked my way. A few times he spoke, usually to offer another piece of bread or something equally meaningless. I stammered in reply. I hoped Fannie wasn’t watching then, for undoubtedly I looked a fool.

A leisurely period followed supper, while the servants cleared the tables out of the parlor and placed chairs in two rows in the dining room. Miss Crenshaw encouraged the girls to stretch their legs or practice lines before the performance, but most of them clustered in groups for conversation, content to stay near the doctor. Olivia made eyes at me from across the room, beckoning me to her, but I wanted to walk about the house and learn more of the doctor from his surroundings. I returned to the reception room and glanced up the staircase, admiring the polished oak banisters. Two junior girls were walking down the stairs, and they smiled to see me.

“You simply must see Mrs. Stewart’s sewing room, Miss McClure. She had a most impressive Singer sewing machine. It’s the cleverest thing you could imagine,” said one of the girls. She frowned. “Too bad there’s no one to use it now.”

I made polite murmurings of excitement as I took the stairs, but in truth I cared little about sewing machines. I’m more curious to see the private areas of the house. My cheeks burned at such a thought. Did I hope to gain insights into the doctor’s character by gazing at the counterpane upon his bed?

To my relief, the upstairs rooms were unoccupied. The sewing room and guest bedchamber, though pretty enough, held little interest for me. The doctor’s bedchamber, however, required a pause for admiring the bed frame and furnishings, all made of intricately carved wood, as well as the brick fireplace topped with a gleaming oak mantel.

But it was the adjoining room that made me gasp in delight.

It was a study much like Papa’s, with shelves lining the walls and a great leather chair sitting in the corner. At one end was a wide desk, very tidy except for a stack of anatomy books. At the other was a window looking out over the back garden. Such a window would provide a lovely prospect in the daytime.

I walked about the room, lightly stroking the spines of books, straightening the inkpot and blotter, and breathing in the scents of wood polish and leather. The only odors missing were those of spirits and pipe, but I did not mind their absence. Unlike my papa, Dr. Stewart would not cough so terribly from the smoke, nor would he lapse into childlike incoherence after taking too much liquor.

The books near the desk were all to do with the doctor’s work—heavy medical tomes that did not interest me. But to the left of the window I found familiar titles. There was a handsome three-volume set of Shakespeare, much more costly and in better condition than my own. I gently pulled the collection of comedies from the shelf, paging through to revisit old friends. The engravings were charming. I was tempted to sit in the chair and lose myself in my favorite stories, but the performance was to begin soon. So after breathing in its leathery scent one last time, I placed the volume back on the shelf.

The shelves held many other classics of English and American literature, as well as works in French. I could not make out the titles of the latter, for we never could afford the additional tuition for French courses, but they were lovely little books nonetheless. As I moved on to the translations of great works in Latin and Greek, one in particular caught my attention. It was positioned quite near the leather chair, and thus I could imagine the doctor reaching for it often. Plutarch’s Lives.

I looked behind me to make sure I was still alone, then slipped the book off the shelf. I flipped to the table of contents and found the chapters on Antony and Brutus. Perhaps it would prove entertaining to compare them to Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, as the doctor had once suggested. I scanned the pages of dense print. It soon became clear that Plutarch would strain my powers of concentration to the very limit, so I closed the book and lifted it back to the shelf.

That was when I saw it—an elegant little volume perched face out behind the larger books. The cover design of wilted flowers caught my eye first, but when I saw the title, my heart leapt in my chest.

POEMS

Emily Dickinson

I reached into the bookcase to work the smaller book out from behind the others. I set it on top of Plutarch, intending to study its table of contents. Instead, it fell open about a third of the way through, where a folded piece of paper had been placed between the pages. I gasped to see the poem marked by the paper. The title—“The Outlet”—was unfamiliar. The text, however, brought a familiar flash of heat to my cheeks.

My river runs to thee:

Blue sea, wilt welcome me?

Feeling light-headed, I turned back to the inside cover page and saw the name scribbled there: Charles Stewart. Only the C had a distinctive loop at the top that made it resemble a lowercase e.

The folded paper, a creamy linen of good quality, looked to be a letter. My fingers itched to unfold it. I glanced behind me one more time and then carefully spread the letter open with my right hand.

I read the first few lines, then skipped down to the signature. My stomach convulsed. I read the letter all the way through.

Dearest Charles,

You have not done right by me, failing to meet me at our usual place and time after refusing to set a date for our wedding. I can live with this secrecy no longer. It is a slow poison that devours a little more of my heart each day. Soon enough our secret will be obvious to everyone, so please let us make our love known before scandal tarnishes it forever. I have given you everything, and all I wish in return is to take care of you. I will leave school so that we can be married. You cannot wish me to go home and confess how I have been used and abandoned by a man whom everyone respects and admires.

Meet me Friday night at our usual place. If you don’t come, I will have no choice but to go to Miss Crenshaw and explain why I cannot continue at the seminary.

Yours forever,
Ella                

Hardly knowing what I was doing, I slipped the letter into my bodice. Then I carefully set the book at the back of the shelf and placed the volume of Plutarch in front of it. As I did, I heard footsteps behind me.

I turned to see Dr. Charles Stewart standing in the doorway.