Chapter 22
Every once in a while, the fates smile on teachers.
That’s what Violet had heard while studying for the profession and it stuck in her mind.
The teaching jackpot came in different guises.
This time, it turned out that she had less than half her pupils show up to the schoolroom. Less than half! In December—it was almost unheard of.
Maybe the unseasonably mild day kept them home. She couldn’t blame parents who saw an opportunity to gather family members together to tackle outdoor tasks when the weather cooperated. Most of her pupils were likely busy tending animals, fixing fences, hauling firewood, or making homestead repairs.
Like water runs downstream, luck finds its way to others. Violet decided to be lenient on the day’s lessons. Students spent the morning with their readers, but she declared it a day free of arithmetic, history, and recitations at the blackboard. The children were thrilled with the plan. One child declared the day nearly as good as her birthday had been.
After recess, Violet lined the children up by the blackboard in two rows. Taller pupils in the rear, younger and smaller ones in front. She stood back and surveyed the presentation.
“Very good. You all look perfect. I can see every smiling face, and your families will be able to see you all, too.”
The holiday custom in Charleston for schoolchildren to put on a Christmas show for family and friends fit right into the Wylder holiday plan. The musicale would take place during the holiday party, right before Santa Claus made an entrance to hand out gifts.
There didn’t need to be an extensive program but there had to be something—and so far, the children hadn’t practiced even one song.
It was past time—and Violet knew it. Hopefully learning songs on a Friday afternoon made sense. If the children were excited about the show and the music, they would practice over the weekend. They might even teach the songs to some of the children who weren’t present today.
Maybe the fates would smile some more on her and the Wylder schoolroom.
“We gotta sing ‘Rock-a Bye-Baby’ at the program, Miss Bloom,” the youngest of the Milligan sisters, Beatie, said. She reminded Violet of own sister, Pansy, so she had a special spot in her teacher’s heart. But now, her opinion met refusal.
“No, I don’t believe we will. We are going to sing Christmas carols.”
A few of the others smiled but Beatie scowled.
“But we gotta. Jesus is gettin’ born and havin’ a birthday. That’s what we sing to babies.”
“Let me make you a deal: When it’s your birthday, we’ll sing that for you but for the Christmas program we’ll sing some carols. Trust me, you are going to like the songs I’ve chosen.”
The child didn’t look happy, but Violet kept to her singing lesson. She ignored the disgruntled stare and willful refusal to sing.
Let her stew a bit. She’ll come around when she sees what fun the others are having.
“What’s a carol?” Owen held a hand up after he spoke. A good boy, but one who had a difficult time following classroom rules. Violet let it go, his speaking out of turn.
“A carol is a song we sing at Christmastime. Sometimes we go from house to house, singing pretty songs for our neighbors. That’s called Christmas caroling.”
“So we’re gonna sing outside?” Owen tilted his head to the side, ignoring the boy standing beside him who laughed at the question. “In the cold? We’re settin’ to sing in the cold?”
“No, you numbskull—we ain’t goin’ to be singin’ outside. It’ll prob’ly be snowin’ on Christmas Eve.” It was too much for Will to stand quietly by or to let her answer. He had to chime in—which forced her to correct him and issue a reprimand. The other children knew it and stared at the boy, waiting to see what would happen next.
Will knew it, too. He’d been too excited to hold his tongue. Now he’d pay the price for his thoughtlessness—and his use of the word “ain’t” in her schoolroom.
“William Hunter, what have I said about calling your classmates names?”
The eleven-year-old met her gaze. “Not to do it, ma’am.”
“And what did you call Owen?”
“I called him a numbskull, ma’am.”
“Is that his name?”
“No, ma’am.”
“And what about the word you used, the one I’ve corrected you about many times before?”
He crinkled his brows and tipped his head to the side. “Jackass, ma’am?”
“William Hunter! You did not call Owen a jack—you did not say that in my classroom, did you?”
A fast shake of his head sent his long brown hair sliding along his shirt collar. “No, ma’am. I thought you meant this morning, when I called him a jackass—but I ain’t done it in the schoolhouse, ma’am.” He smiled. “I just done it outside.”
While the other pupils learned the words to “Silent Night” Will stood at the chalkboard writing the word “numbskull” one hundred times so he would not forget the unsuitable word had no place in a young man’s vocabulary.
Violet tried not to look at Beatie’s sullen expression. The child flatly refused to sing, despite having a delightful voice and a genuine fondness for anything musical. Stubbornness kept the child’s arms crossed over her chest and the pink lips drawn into a tight line.
When they had practiced a half-dozen times, she passed out sleigh bells on leather straps to six of the children. When she offered one strap to Beatie, the little girl glared at the ceiling so Violet handed it to Owen who beamed as if she’d given him a bagful of mints.
“Now we’re going to sing ‘Jingle Bells’ so we know it in case Santa decides to visit us. He would like to hear it, I’m sure, so let’s sing clearly. And those of you with bells, jangle them when I wave my hand like this.” She raised her right hand beside her cheek and shook it back and forth. When she did, the jinglers jangled on cue. “Very good. So, let’s begin…”
This song elicited more enthusiasm than the first had. Her pupils sang loudly and with so much gusto that by the time they came to the concluding jingling and jangling, everyone was red-faced and smiling.
Except for Beatie, who had focused her gaze on the tips of her shoes.
Violet dismissed the children for the weekend. They dropped their bells on her desk, gathered their belongings, and put on their coats, boots, and cold weather accessories. She bid each farewell at the door.
When one tried to walk past without saying anything, Violet put a hand on her shoulder. “Goodbye, Beatie. I hope you have a pleasant weekend.”
A pause. “Goodbye, Miss Bloom. I hope you do, too.”
It didn’t come close to the typical farewell this child gave her, but it would do.
“I hope you’ll sing with us on Monday. I missed hearing your beautiful voice today.”
She didn’t get a response, but she knew the little one would consider her words. Part of teaching took place outside of the schoolroom, in the lessons the children took away from the things she said, the work they did, and the material she taught. Good teachers travel in their pupils’ hearts and minds. Now she hoped that Beatie carried her into the weekend and realized what was meaningful and necessary, and what was not.
Violet stood on the front step for a moment after the children blended into the passersby.
Cowboys, ranch hands, traders, townsfolk, drifters, miners, strangers, and neighbors filled the busy streets.
A Native dressed in fur and hides, with so many strings of beads hanging from his saddle that he click-clacked every time his horse took a step, passed. She assumed the man traveled to the far side of town where she knew some trading occurred. She would have stopped him right there and bought several lengths of colorful beads to use in her holiday decorations if it were possible. But that would start tongues wagging lickety-split so she contemplated making her own beads. If it were summertime, maybe she could have managed it by letting them dry in the sun but in the dead of winter the endeavor seemed unlikely to be successful.
Shaking her head in dismay, Violet turned to go back inside. She planned to clean the schoolroom as quickly as possible and get on home to see Lin.
“Miss Bloom! A moment of your time, please!”
She turned. Mister Harvey strode toward her. He carried a valise and held the hand of a young girl.
A pretty blonde woman walked beside them.
“Mister Harvey. How nice to see you.” Violet clasped her hands at her waist and waited for the trio to come closer.
When they were nearer, she saw that the expensive traveling outfits both females wore looked hand tailored. They each carried a fur muff. Their boots were black leather and even travel dust could not mask their quality.
No doubt they had alighted from the stagecoach. It was Friday, one of the two days of the week when the coach arrived in Wylder.
“Miss Bloom, I want you meet Miss Janet Harvey, my sister.”
Oh, his sister.
The jealous twinge she’d been struck by subsided. Violet smiled and murmured, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Harvey.”
“And yours, Miss Bloom.”
He looked from one woman to the other before he met Violet’s gaze and said, “And this is my daughter, Alexia. Alexia, say hello to Miss Bloom. She’s the schoolteacher in Wylder, so you’ll be seeing a lot of her.”
The girl had been staring at the snow-covered ground, but she looked up when her father finished speaking. Perhaps twelve or so, with striking hazel eyes and auburn hair, anyone would recognize the child as his by their similar high cheekbones and full lips. The resentful glare did not come from him, however.
“Miss Bloom.” The girl’s words dripped ice. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. But Father is wrong. I won’t be seeing you because I’m not going to this stupid little school in this stupid town. I hate Wylder—and I’m not staying, no matter what my father thinks.”
The smile froze on Thomas’s handsome face. He leaned nearer the child and said, “Honey, you’re being quite rude to Miss Bloom. You’re tired from traveling and need to rest. But first, you will apologize.”
Alexia met Violet’s gaze again. “I’m sorry I was rude to you.”
Thomas straightened.
“But I meant what I said—I hate Wylder and I’m going back to Philadelphia as soon as I can. And no one can stop me!”
The girl turned and ran. She dodged two huge horses pulling a wagon and dashed around the corner onto Wylder Street.
No one said a word because, really, what could anyone say to that?
The sparkle left Thomas’s eyes. His mouth set in a thin line and his shoulders fell. He looked diminished.
He put his hands on his hips.
Violet dropped her gaze to the pistol he wore. It was a Colt revolver, the same model used by Union soldiers. She had seen a few of the Army model 1860, like this one, when she helped in the hospital. Sometimes a Union soldier would be brought in if his regiment somehow left him behind, and his belongings would be kept with him—except, of course, for his weaponry.
They carried an assortment of rifles but many in the cavalry, artillery, and infantry troops used the Colt 1860.
Violet’s gaze lifted. She stood in the presence of a man who had most likely fought in the war for the Union side. The blood of Confederate soldiers was on this man’s hands.
She had been in his arms.
His lips had been on hers.
And she had enjoyed both.