Donovan's Daughter

  Looking at his wife’s stiff back covered by her still-wet hair, Alex was at a complete loss for words. Helplessly, he glanced around and spotted her hairbrush on the table where he’d set the lantern. He picked it up and began to draw it through her hair.

  Moments passed in silence.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Marcail said, her voice as flat and distant as when they’d first met.

  “I realize that.”

  Again silence fell.

  “You said you bruise easily.” Alex spoke and let the sentence hang.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you seen your back?” Alex wanted to know.

  “No.”

  Alex digested these monosyllabic answers for a moment and then knew it was time for some gut-level honesty.

  “I’m learning the hard way that I can’t assume anything with you, Marcail. So I’m going to ask you some specific questions, and I expect honest answers.” Alex paused a moment with her hair, but Marcail didn’t reply.

  “Does your back hurt?” The question had an obvious answer to his mind, but he needed to start somewhere.

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  Here Marcail hesitated. “Quite a bit,” she finally returned.

  “You say it happened at the school—was it on your way home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Down the steps?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you fall?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  This answer was the last thing Alex expected, and he stopped brushing again.

  “Why can’t you tell me?”

  “Because I’m too weary to fight you if you overreact.”

  Alex thought this statement was as cryptic as they came, but after a moment’s thought, a horrifying idea came to mind.

  “Marcail, did someone push you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Again Alex felt completely in the dark, and suddenly very discouraged. He’d begun to think that he knew this woman, that they were slowly becoming one; but she was as closed to him right now as she’d been before they wed.

  Alex picked up the lantern and took it with him as he moved to the other side of the sofa. There was not as much room there, but Marcail shifted back slightly so Alex could sit in front of her.

  The lantern light flickered across her eyes, eyes that had lost hope. Alex had never seen Marcail like this; it frightened him.

  “Talk to me, Marcail,” he pleaded with her softly. “Let me help you. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, but please don’t shut me out when I care so much.” Alex reached for one of her hands and held it between his own.

  Marcail, in a fog of pain and anger, saw for the first time how difficult this must be for Alex. The look of concern she saw on his face was like a sudden lifeline. Prompted by his gentle touch and tender eyes, Marcail began to speak.

  “I’ve gone over it and over it in my mind, and I can only figure that he saw us kissing.”

  “Who saw us kissing?”

  “Sydney. He was at school so early yesterday morning. I didn’t even hear him arrive. He’s infatuated with me, you know, and it must have upset him to see you kiss me goodbye. He was quiet all day, and that always scares me, but I never dreamed he would—”

  Marcail halted, and Alex urged her to go on. She pointed toward the string she had placed on the sofa table and Alex reached for it. Marcail spoke when it was in her hands.

  “This was tied across the top step when I left the schoolhouse yesterday.”

  Alex could only stare at the heavy string, stunned beyond belief. He desperately wanted to hold her, but knew it would only give her pain.

  “He’s been my mission field since I arrived, Alex. I mean, I love the other children, but I felt so strongly that God wanted me to reach out to Sydney and that he needed me.”

  “Shhh,” Alex spoke as he stroked her hand. “Don’t try to understand it all now. We’ll have plenty of time to pray and figure out what to do when you feel better.”

  “I don’t think I could pray anyway. I want to, but the hurt—it’s so bad . . .”

  Alex quieted her again and helped her to stand. It didn’t seem to register with her that he was taking her into the bedroom. He helped her carefully onto her good side in bed and covered her with the blankets. He’d lit the bedroom lantern and turned it low. Kneeling down, he found her staring sightlessly at his chest.

  “I’m sorry, Alex,” she said, her voice filled with utter defeat. “It seems that all you do lately is take care of me. What a disappointment I’ve turned out to be as a wife.”

  Alex didn’t reply. Nothing could be further from the truth, but Marcail was in no shape to hear anything right now. He watched her eyes close and then flutter open again, this time in fear.

  “Are you going somewhere, Alex?”

  “No, I’ll be right here,” he assured her.

  Marcail’s small hand came out of the covers and touched his chest. He felt her grip the fabric of his shirt and say softly as her eyes closed in sleep, “I hope the bell doesn’t ring again tonight.”

  forty-five

  Long after Marcail slept, Alex sat in the kitchen struggling with his anger. The look on Sydney’s face earlier that day was now easy to identify—it was guilt. Even at the very obvious evidence of his crime, Alex was not angry at Sydney but at his grandmother, and not just angry—livid.

  He tended to be overprotective where Marcail was concerned, but this, this was an outrage! Because of the selfish, blind foolishness of an old woman, a little boy was being raised to think he could do anything that came into his head.

  A sudden image from months ago, before he and Marcail were even friends, came to mind. He remembered one of the Austin girls telling him that Miss Donovan had not been feeling well so school had been dismissed early. Alex had stopped to check on her, wondering as he did about the scratch on her face. He now knew exactly who had caused that scratch.

  The recollection did not help Alex’s mood. He found his anger kindled anew at the very thought. However, just as suddenly as Alex’s anger flamed back to life, it died. He sat very still when he realized he was being swept away by his emotions.

  Alex reached for his Bible, always present on the kitchen table. He turned to a couple of verses he recalled, James 1:19,20, and read aloud in the still house. “Wherefore, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath; for the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.”

  After he read, Alex began to pray. He started by confessing his wrath, and then gave the whole ugly affair to God. He thanked God that the ringing of the bell had been for a minor incident and he’d been able to come right home. As he prayed, Alex realized he was not the one who should be offended, but that sins had been committed against God.

  He also realized that he was going to need to take his cue from Marcail. She had been afraid of how he would react, so he figured she must have some idea how she wanted things handled. It might take some time before she felt up to it, but as Alex climbed into bed beside his bruised wife, he determined to learn all he could from her concerning Sydney Duckworth.

  Alex left the house first thing Sunday morning to see Stanley Flynn. He told him briefly that Marcail had suffered a fall and was not feeling well. He also told him not to expect her back at school for at least two days, possibly longer.

  As he rode home he realized he might have made her furious with such a move, but unless he missed his guess, she was not going to want to do much of anything for the next 48 hours.

  Marcail lay motionless in Alex’s soft bed. Usually able to sleep through anything, the closing of the front door, along with the pain in her back, had startled her awake. She found herself silently imploring Alex to be coming in, and not heading out for the day. She rolled, ever so carefully, onto her back. A moment later Alex appeared in the doorway.

  Marcail’s fingers moved on the covers in a semblance of a wave, a
nd Alex entered. He pulled the curtains back on both windows before retrieving a chair from the kitchen and placing it close to the bed. Not until he was seated and had taken a close look at Marcail’s features did he speak.

  “I have quite a few questions I’d like to ask you.” Alex’s mind was so set on the accident that he failed to ask Marcail how she felt.

  “About my fall?”

  “Not directly. I want to know about Sydney, and how he behaves in class.”

  Marcail nodded. “I’m still kind of sleepy, but I’ll do my best.”

  “It doesn’t have to be right now. I went to see Stan Flynn this morning. I told him you’d fallen, and he wouldn’t be seeing you for at least two days.”

  Marcail’s eyes widened at this, but Alex went on.

  “I know you care about your class, Marc, but you can barely walk.” Alex’s voice was extremely reasonable. “You also have to teach for the next three months, and I don’t think it’s wise to tax yourself when you still have so many weeks before you’re through for the summer.”

  “I may be through teaching long after the summer,” Marcail said suddenly, and Alex stared at her. “I’ve decided to talk with Cordelia Duckworth, but I want to wait until school is out and I’ve had a few weeks off.”

  Alex could see this had been on her mind and wanted to show his support of her decision. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Alex’s anger flared. Thinking she was still trying to keep him at arm’s length, he retorted in a tight voice, “Whether you like it or not, Marcail, we are husband and wife.”

  Marcail blinked in surprise. “I never said I didn’t like being your wife,” she told him quietly.

  “No, you haven’t said anything, but you still think and act like a single woman. I’m sorry, Marcail,” Alex rose wearily, thinking how tense all of this was making him. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He went on before Marcail could reply. “Would you like to sleep some more or have a little something to eat?”

  “I’m not very hungry,” Marcail told him.

  Alex nodded. “I’ll leave you to rest then.”

  Alex did leave her, closing the door on his way out. Marcail was still awake when he checked on her two hours later.

  forty-six

  “How about some soup?” Alex asked as soon as he saw that Marcail was awake.

  “That sounds good. If you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll come to the table.”

  It was on the tip of Alex’s tongue to ask if she needed help, but he knew what her answer would be. He left and shut the door once again.

  Marcail had prayed for most of the two hours that had passed, but the strain of her conversation with Alex was still present. She did not know what to do.

  Maybe I do act like I’m single, she thought to herself defensively. But it’s hard to get close to someone you hardly know. The moment the thought formed, Marcail saw it for the flimsy excuse that it was. Alex had showed her in countless ways that he wanted a real marriage, but Marcail had been hesitant. What she was waiting for, she didn’t even know herself.

  What a mess. Marcail muttered as she painstakingly climbed out of bed. Once on her feet, she realized she would have to go to the living room to get her robe. A glance at the kitchen table and the aromas filling the air told her Alex had been busy.

  Marcail came back to the table feeling modestly covered and actually experiencing hunger pains. Alex prayed before they ate, and the meal progressed in near silence. As Alex cleared the table, Marcail spoke up.

  “Did you want to hear about Sydney now?” Her voice was tentative, and Alex turned from his task at the basin.

  “I would like to hear, but only if you’re up to it.”

  “What exactly did you want to know?”

  Alex rejoined her at the table. “I want to know if this is typical of Sydney. I mean, his behavior in your class—has he tried things before?”

  Marcail nodded. “Sydney is unpredictable at best. He has trouble with his temper, not an unusual occurrence in any child, but he turns violent with little or no warning.”

  “Is this the first time the violence has been directed at you?”

  “No. One day, very early in the year, he threw a rock and hit me in the face. I think he scared himself, because for a long time after that things were calm. Beyond that, he’s pulled away from me when I have his arm, and shoved past me so strongly that I’ve had to take a step backward.”

  “What does he do to the other children?”

  “Kicks their desks, pulls hair, that type of thing. I don’t consider any of it harmless, and I always punish him. But since I can’t go to Mrs. Duckworth, my hands are tied. I have used his love for me to get through to him at times. My telling him that I’m disappointed seems to carry more weight than anything else I say or do. By the way, how did he seem at your office?”

  “I didn’t recognize it at the time, but he looked guilty. At first I thought he was afraid of something, and then he seemed so relieved when I told him he’d see you at church.”

  They fell silent for a time, and then Marcail spoke. “At first I was too shocked to feel anything, and then I felt betrayed. Now I’m afraid. I’m afraid of Sydney, and I won’t be able to let him out of my sight for the remainder of the year.”

  “Are you sure you should wait until summer to confront Mrs. Duckworth?” Fearing for her safety and halfway hoping she would lose her job, Alex wished he could order her to quit.

  “Yes, of that I’m sure. I don’t know why, except that I feel a definite peace about finishing the year. If I go to Mrs. Duckworth now, I’ll lose my job as well as all touch with the children.

  “Who knows,” Marcail went on, her voice expressing a glimmer of hope. “Maybe God will use this accident in a mighty way—a way that would bring Him glory.”

  Alex didn’t reply to this, and Marcail left the table moments later. She made up her bed in the living room, and Alex took that as a sign that she wanted to be left alone.

  Alex’s prediction about Marcail not wanting to work right away proved to be true. It was Tuesday afternoon before she put a dress on and began to even start feeling like her old self.

  Things had continued on a strained note between husband and wife through this time, but Alex’s care of Marcail could not be faulted. He was at home as much as his work allowed, leaving notes at his office to ring the bell for emergencies only. He had Marcail soaking in a warm bath both morning and evening, and even though Marcail hated it, Alex checked her bruises after each evening bath.

  After supper Tuesday night, Marcail said she was desperate for some fresh air. Alex, knowing it could only do her good, helped her into her sweater. She planned to walk around the perimeter of the yard until he finished the dishes.

  As it was, Alex had barely started the dishes when Marcail came back through the door. She tried to hide it, but Alex saw fear in her eyes.

  “What’s happened?”

  “The Duckworth coach; it’s coming up the road.”

  Alex’s brows rose in surprise, but he spoke calmly. “It would seem, Marcail, that this incident is going to come to a head long before summer.”

  The young schoolteacher could only nod. Alex told her if she wanted to wait in the bedroom he would answer the door and then come for her. Marcail was tempted, but felt the problem was really hers and she should be present.

  She took a place at the kitchen table, her hands clenching in her lap when the knock sounded. Alex answered the summons, and both were surprised to see Sydney standing alone on the step.

  Marcail’s heart broke at the sight of him, and she watched as he looked up at Alex and then peered tentatively past him to get a better view of her. His eyes were huge and questioning in his pale face, and Marcail wasn’t sure what he expected to see. A moment later, he covered his face with his hands and burst into tears.

  forty-seven

  Marcail said nothing as Alex put a hand to Sydney’s back and guided him t
o a kitchen chair. He pressed a clean handkerchief into the boy’s hands and then sat down in the chair beside him.

  Marcail, watching from her place across the table, was not sure what to say. She knew only that her heart was breaking with love for this little boy. She understood that to reject him right now would be devastating, but neither was she going to accept his standard line about it not happening again.

  After some minutes, Sydney began to contain himself and look at the adults at the table.

  “Sydney,” Marcail spoke, sounding very much like a teacher. “Does your grandmother know you are here?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Montgomery,” he sniffed.

  Marcail nodded. “She’s not waiting out in the carriage, is she?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Again Marcail nodded. “Then why don’t you tell us why you came.”

  This time it was Sydney’s turn to nod, and suddenly he looked terrified all over again. His words were halting, but understandable.

  “I came—to tell you—I’m sorry—” he stopped as though out of breath, and Marcail spoke.

  “I forgive you, Sydney.”

  Sydney nodded again but didn’t look at all relieved. “Can I ask you a question?” He paused, glancing between both adults, whose expressions were open and patient, before settling terrified eyes on his beloved teacher.

  “Will I go to hell for what I’ve done?” he burst out, his face crumbling, tears barely held in check.

  “Come here, Sydney,” Marcail beckoned compassionately and shifted in her chair so she could take him in her arms. It was too much for the 11-year-old, and his tears came in a torrent. Another five minutes passed before he was able to breathe normally. Both Alex and Marcail took that time to pray silently.

  Finally raising a tear-stained face, Sydney asked, “Will I, Mrs. Montgomery? Will I go to hell for what I’ve done?”

  Marcail hugged him close once again. She stroked the hair from his damp little forehead and began to speak softly.