Chapter 4

The entire student body and faculty of Wickham Academy had assembled in the great entryway in front of the Olympiad scoreboard, now covered again with a cloth.

Caroline stood in a row with her fellow teachers. Of course, not all of the students could fit into the space, but others filled the hallway and the parlor beyond the hall. She knew Mr. Mason was probably just as nervous as she was about seeing the team averages so far.

The murmurs rippling through the gathered students ceased as Mrs. Wickham raised both hands as if to summon the students closer. “I have verified the averages for each of the subjects in the Olympiad for the first quarter of the school year. Mind you, there are but three more two-month quarters for the school year, so we are how far through the year?”

“One-fourth, Mrs. Wickham,” a quiet voice said among the group.

“Very good, Miss Bardway, very good.” She turned to face the cloth and gave a soft tug, and the cloth came away from the scoreboard. The room fell silent as they all took in the sight of the team averages.

Caroline scanned the numbers below her name: Mathematics 82, Grammar 95, Literature 88, French 88, Latin 79, Geography 91, History 90, Art 98, Sciences 84. The Latin score made her wince and wonder who needed more help. The other scores were relatively strong, except for Mathematics.

She compared her numbers to those of Mr. Mason’s, with his being: Mathematics 92, Grammar 93, Literature 83, French 90, Latin 84, Geography 92, History 85, Art 92, Sciences 84.

Who had the best average of all the grades so far? She glanced toward Mr. Mason, whom she hadn’t really spoken to since the morning talk in the classroom about Miss Ware.

“So, we took an average for both teams and found it quite surprising,” said Mrs. Wickham. “In fact, it is so surprising that we will give the team with the highest average this first quarter a special prize, right now.”

Excited whispers echoed in the hall. Caroline smiled. Of course she wanted to be ahead, but she also wanted all the students to succeed.

“As I said, it was a surprise to me,” Mrs. Wickham continued. “To celebrate, the winners will be treated to an autumn festival, complete with caramel apples, candied popcorn, a hayride, and a bonfire before we release for Thanksgiving.”

Cheers went up, but subsided as the students realized they might not be the ones participating.

“The average for Miss Parker’s team is eighty-eight point three. And the average for Mr. Mason’s team is also eighty-eight point three.” Mrs. Wickham sounded triumphant. “Of course, there is room for improvement, but I trust that both Miss Parker and Mr. Mason, and the teachers on their teams, can help you students to continue to do well through hard work and perseverance.”

So they were all getting a celebratory prize? Yes, Caroline had known the averages for her own classes. But to have the same overall average as Mr. Mason’s team?

He ambled up to her as the students were rejoicing with each other. “Yes. I checked the math. My overall average is the same.”

She smiled. “I have a hard time believing it myself.”

Stephen extended a hand in her direction. “Please, accept my apologies for the other day. I wasn’t trying to suggest your way is faulty. It’s very different from mine, but I can see you get results and your students are succeeding.”

Caroline shook his hand. “Of course I accept. You too have had students succeed with the way that you teach.”

“I do believe we can both be a resource for each other, to help students who don’t respond to our best teaching method.”

“I agree with you.” She looked down. They’d stopped shaking hands and stood there, hands gently clasped. She slid her hand from his grip.

“So, Thanksgiving is soon,” Mr. Mason said. “How do you plan to spend the occasion?”

She swallowed hard. “I plan to stay here. We have a meal with the students who remain at the academy throughout the school year. I usually make pies.”

“Really? Well, this year, I plan to stay at Wickham’s as well. My parents are hosting a supper at their home in Connecticut, and they understand it’s a way to travel. Christmas, now, we may all gather here at Wickham’s.”

“That will be a pleasant gathering for all of you, I’m sure.” She looked forward to a break and to seeing her family, but not to the trappings that went with the holiday.

“Yes, I’m hopeful it will indeed be pleasant this time around.” He looked pensive.

“This time around?”

Before he could respond, Charlotte came swooping in. “Can you believe that? Same average? You two didn’t plan this, did you?” She wore a wide smile.

“No, we certainly did not.” Caroline couldn’t help but be free with her own grin. “I’m already planning for how we can do better for the next quarter. It will be a challenge, with thoughts of Christmas in their heads, but I’ll do the best I can.”

“I’m here to help you however I can.” Charlotte’s enthusiasm bubbled out. She glanced at Mr. Mason. “You, sir, may fend for yourself.”

Mr. Mason looked taken aback, and at that, they all laughed.

The academy held the promised celebration of autumn, which involved a bonfire, apple cider, and homemade doughnuts, after several days of examinations that ended on a Friday. Caroline suspected that the celebration was more about the examinations being completed than the upcoming holiday. It was a time for the teachers to rejoice as well.

Caroline stood in the front doorway holding a platter of doughnuts sprinkled with sugar, still warm. She inhaled the sweet, spicy aroma. As she did, she glimpsed Mr. Mason preparing the bonfire, placing short branches and sticks and scrap wood into a growing pile.

The pile seemed to be growing very large indeed, perhaps due to Mr. Mason’s enthusiasm about the whole affair. His cheeks were flushed, and the hair brushed back and spiking from his forehead lent a boyish demeanor to his expression.

He paused when he saw her enter the courtyard. She grinned at him, and his grin in return made her glance down at the doughnuts. Not a one had slipped out of place.

Caroline strode toward the pile of wood. “The students will be here soon. You’d better grab a doughnut now, while you still can. I’m not sure how many more Cook will make.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He wiped his hand on his trousers before taking a doughnut from the plate.

She set the platter down on a small table, where bottled cider—apple juice, really, that the girls had made themselves—had already been placed.

“I think I’ll have one too.” She helped herself to a doughnut and took a bite. Her mother would make doughnuts like these, tasting of apple and spices, but the sugar coating the tops of these bits of doughy fried goodness was a luxury.

“After the testing, I believe I could sleep the entire weekend away,” Stephen commented.

“So could I, it feels like. I’m encouraged by their scores, I think—although scores are only one indication of how a child learns.”

“I share that sentiment with you.” Mr. Mason downed the last of his doughnut.

They fell into an easy discussion about the weather, predicting when they might have the first snowfall, and Caroline found herself enjoying the conversation. She did like talking with her other fellow teachers, but this conversation felt different.

She realized it was because she didn’t speak with men much, if at all. She couldn’t recall the last real conversation she’d had with her father, but figured it must have been during the Christmas season last year. Her exchanges at church services on Sunday were mere pleasantries, greetings to the reverend and other men in the church, most of whom had wives.

“Why did you decide to become a teacher?” she heard herself asking.

Mr. Mason inhaled slowly. “I covered a long road of bad decisions, long story short, and decided I’d had enough. I didn’t want to join my father in the family business. We haven’t always gotten along. I figured teaching is an honorable profession and something I could do. So I studied for my examination and passed it on the first try. Then I secured the position in Cambridge, and now here we are…. And you—what about you?”

Caroline swallowed her bite of doughnut. “My mother wanted better for me than she had, and I was always a good student, if a bit distractible, so she encouraged me to become a teacher. So I did.”

It had always been a simple, logical choice for her.

“I’m glad we’ve both ended up here, no matter what the outcome, Caroline.” Mr. Mason nodded slowly. “May I call you Caroline?”

“Why, yes, if I may call you Stephen—after school hours.”

“Of course you may.”

Caroline found herself smiling as the sounds of young laughter filled the courtyard.

“Look! Miss Parker has doughnuts!” a girl shrieked with delight.

All too soon, the school closed its doors for Thanksgiving, giving students the following day as a break as well, so those who lived close enough could visit their families and have a long weekend.

The others, a handful of students who lived farther away than a short carriage ride, as well as Stephen and Aunt Marjorie and Miss Parker, were staying at the academy to have a meal together for Thanksgiving.

Without school in session, there was little for Stephen to do other than act as a helper while Miss Parker made pies. He watched her expertly trim the piecrust edges. She was at ease in the kitchen in a way he’d never seen a woman other than the cooks in his family’s kitchen.

“Can you please fetch more eggs for the buttermilk pie?” she asked him. Today she wore her hair back in a simple braid instead of in a twisted knot pinned to her head. The look made her appear younger. Not that she appeared old to him, but … today he felt as if he were seeing a glimpse of not just Miss Parker, the teacher, but Caroline, the woman.

“What did you need again? Eggs? How many?” He found his voice fumbling, cracking as if he were an adolescent.

“Six, please. I believe Agnes, Cook’s assitant, gathered enough yesterday. They should be in the bowl at the end of the cutting board.” She gestured with her head, then winced. “Ouch.”

She lifted up one hand, her index finger bearing a stripe of red that began to run down her finger. Stephen immediately stepped in her direction. “Let’s get a towel on that, quickly.”

“There are towels in the butler’s pantry.”

Stephen took her by the elbow and guided her away from the counter, leaving the piecrusts behind them. Inside the butler’s pantry off the kitchen, he opened a drawer and found a small cloth. Before he clamped it onto the cut, he examined it. He’d given aid to people with a bloody nose and busted lip here and there over the years, so this cut wasn’t much of an incident. But Miss Parker’s face had paled at the sight of the blood that ran down her finger.

“Here.” He wrapped the edge of the towel around her finger. “This will take but a few moments.”

As they waited, he stared down at the cloth covering her hand while she stared at the pantry drawers. Footsteps alerted them that someone was entering the kitchen.

“Well, she was here a moment ago.” It was Aunt Marjorie. “Caroline was preparing to make pies. Ah, it’s just as well. Did you see my nephew?”

“No, not since he brought in more wood for the fire.” The second voice was Cook’s.

“So what do you think of my nephew and Miss Parker? Do you think they are getting along?”

“About as well as I would think they might. They are both young, intelligent individuals.”

Miss Parker looked up at him, questions in her eyes. She moved to pull away from him, but he stopped her, putting his finger to his lips.

“I will not listen and eavesdrop,” she whispered.

“This is unintentional. What do you think they would say if they found us here?”

“That you are tending to my cut.”

He glanced over her head toward the kitchen.

“I believe they might make a good match. But then, I’m not entirely sure.” A pause, then the swishing of long skirts on the wooden floor. “Perhaps she’s upstairs. Although I don’t see why she’d leave a crust only partly rolled out.”

Cook murmured something about the facilities before the two women left the kitchen and it was silent once again.

This time, he let Miss Parker’s hand go. She peeled back the towel. The bleeding had stopped, mostly. He wasn’t sure where they had bandages, but he imagined there was something in a cupboard nearby.

“A good match? Did you hear your aunt? She thinks we might make a good match?” Miss Parker shook her head. “Why would she think that?”

“Caroline—”

“Stephen. I have a job here, one that I have enjoyed for years. I refuse to give it up.”

“No one has asked you to do that. I’ve never asked to court you, or seen you in any fashion other than related to the school.”

“Except today.”

“This is a holiday on which we give thanks to God for His blessings, and all come together.”

“Yes. But I’m not about to put my job in jeopardy. Your aunt has rules, and they are in place for a reason.”

“Take a deep breath—relax. You are my fellow teacher and, I hope, a friend. We can be friends, can’t we?”

She nodded. “I don’t see why we can’t be friends.” Then she smiled.

He smiled back. “Good. Because I’ll enjoy besting my friend’s team in the Olympiad.”