Donovan's Daughter

  one

  Marcail peered through the window as the train pulled into the Willits station. There was nothing unusual or remarkable about what she could see of the small town, but the fact that it was her new home made it, along with the moment, a thing to be treasured.

  The train came to a complete stop. Marcail stood in the aisle, her carpetbag in one hand. As she stepped forward, her heart beat against her ribs so hard she was certain the fabric on her dress was moving. She glanced down at her simple black gown with the long sleeves and high collar, and suddenly found herself hoping it would hold up under the censuring eyes of Willits’ school board members.

  There were a few other people disembarking with her at the train station. Marcail, wanting to soak up every person, every nook and cranny of this small town, smiled and greeted anyone who met her eyes.

  Her letter of introduction, held firmly in one hand, said she was to locate a Mr. Stanley Flynn. He was, the letter explained, the local banker. Because Marcail’s only piece of luggage was her one overstuffed bag, she carried it in one hand and the letter in the other.

  More than one shop owner stepped to the boardwalk in front of his store as she passed, and Marcail took time to smile and greet each one. She didn’t tarry long, however. Her desire to meet Mr. Flynn gave her a singleness of purpose that took her swiftly to the door of the bank and over the threshold. Once inside the small building, Marcail approached the single clerk who stood behind the counter.

  “May I help you, miss?” Marcail noticed he was very businesslike, his speech and manner proper in the extreme.

  “Yes, thank you. I’m looking for a Mr. Stanley Flynn.”

  “May I tell him who is calling?”

  Feeling much younger than her 19 years, Marcail gave her name and watched the bank clerk walk to a private office at the rear of the building. She looked around admiringly at the elegant surroundings of the compact room, taking in the gleaming woodwork. She thought she defected the faint odor of linseed oil.

  Moving to the windows that looked out over the street, Marcail spotted a cobbler shop, hotel, dry goods store, and what appeared to be a doctor’s office. When she heard footsteps behind her, she turned with a ready smile. A man was approaching, his smile cordial but his eyes watchful. He extended his hand to Marcail, who was well aware of his scrutiny. She was quite conscious of the fact that she looked like a girl on the threshold of womanhood, and not a woman fully grown. But Marcail was confident of her ability to teach, and in her posture and the very tilt of her head she unconsciously relayed just that.

  “Miss Donovan, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Stanley Flynn must have liked what he saw because his manner became very solicitous, his smile genuine.

  Marcail smiled in return. “It’s a pleasure to be here, Mr. Flynn.”

  She might not have been so confident or ready to smile if she could have read the banker’s thoughts, the first of which was that she was beautiful. The second was that she looked innocent enough to be malleable. It would be some time before Marcail would find out that she was Willits’ ninth school teacher in three years.

  Ten minutes later Mr. Flynn put Marcail’s bag in his buggy and drove Marcail to her house. As they appeared to be headed out of town, he explained that the builder of the schoolhouse and teacher’s home, some 30 years before, had not liked how noisy children could be. It had been his opinion that the school should be located on the outskirts of town. Since he had supplied most of the funds, the town had acquiesced.

  Willits was larger now, and the last houses on that end of town were within sight of the school. Still, a small group of trees on the town’s side of the school gave it a very distinct feeling of isolation. Marcail spotted one small farmhouse in the distance, but she asked no questions concerning the owner. She was much too captivated with her first glance at the small house into which Mr. Flynn was now leading her.

  Mr. Flynn did not tarry. Only five minutes passed before Marcail saw him to the front door, waved to him after he was back in his buggy, and shut the door. She turned back to the room, her hands going to her mouth, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. This was her house, her own little home! And some 50 feet away was the schoolhouse where she would start work on Monday.

  Marcail’s gaze roamed the room with pleasure. It couldn’t have been more perfect if she’d designed it herself. The main room of the house was spacious, with a kitchen in one corner. The one doorway led to a small bedroom. It was a house intended for one person, holding only two kitchen chairs at the table and a rocking chair near the stove.

  Marcail moved into the bedroom. The bed she found was very small, but then so was she, making her feel that everything was all the more perfect. The curtains on the window and the quilt on the bed were both a soft, sky-blue plaid.

  After throwing the curtains back to let in the sunlight, she went to work unpacking her single bag. She hung her other two dresses and put her undergarments in the drawers of the small dressing table. Her entire outer wardrobe consisted of three dresses—one brown, one dark blue, and the black one she was wearing.

  She set a few of her personal books on the nightstand, and put the others on the bed to be taken to the school. A picture of her mother as a young girl went on the dressing table, as did a picture of herself and her siblings taken in Santa Rosa. Marcail smiled at the homey touches.

  She stopped before the mirror that hung opposite the bed to check her hair. She was not accustomed to wearing it up because of its length and thickness, but her hairstyle and the dark-colored clothing were all a part of the stipulations set down in her contract.

  The last item Marcail removed from her bag was her Bible. She sat on the bed and held it in her arms, and then prayed aloud in the stillness of her home.

  “Thank You, Father, for bringing me to this place. It’s more wonderful than I could have dreamed.” Marcail didn’t speak again, but sat quietly and dwelt on verses from Psalm 46: “Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the heathen; I will be exalted in the earth. The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge.”

  two

  Marcail spent the next hour inspecting every inch of the schoolhouse. It was spotless and well equipped. She had brought along a few of her books and stood for a long time just looking at the way they sat on her desk. The platform in front of the blackboard, on which her desk sat, was raised about eight inches from the rest of the schoolroom floor. Marcail, whose height and frame were so diminutive, was very pleased.

  After she finished at the schoolhouse, she went home to make out a complete list of all the supplies she thought she might need. She was eager to take a walk into town. The schoolhouse and her home sat on the west edge of the community. A quick scan out the schoolhouse window had earlier confirmed that the only visible structures beyond were the small house and barn that she had spotted on her arrival.

  It didn’t take long for Marcail to reach the houses of town, but the shops were a bit further. She was flushed from the weight of her dress, as well as the warmth of the day, by the time she reached a storefront that said Vesperman’s General Store above the entrance. The building appeared to be half the size of Riggs’ Mercantile in Santa Rosa, but once inside there did not seem to be any lack.

  Marcail’s eyes took in pins and measuring cups, fly traps and thread, composition books and soap flakes, eggbeaters and blotters, cookie cutters and bibs, fabric and shoes, checkerboards and muffin tins. She chose a basket near the door and began to shop. Not until she was near the candy counter did Marcail meet the proprietor. He was a smiling man with a sandy mustache, who introduced himself as Randy Vesperman.

  Marcail liked him instantly. He answered all of her questions and informed her that his children, Erin and Patrick, would be in her classroom Monday morning. The friendly sparkle in his eyes confirmed that she had made her first friend. He encouraged her to take the basket in order to carry her purchases home.

  Marcail’s next stop was the bank. The tuto
ring she had done in Visalia for the two children who, for different reasons, were unable to attend the schoolhouse, allowed her to come to Willits with something of a financial cushion. She spent a fair amount in gaining supplies for the next month, but with the exception of a few coins to get her by, she deposited the rest into a savings account.

  It soon became obvious that the townspeople knew who she was. Several people approached her in the bank. One couple, the Whites, introduced themselves and their children, allowing Willits’ new schoolmarm to meet two of her students.

  Marcail was moving toward the door when it opened and a woman of immense proportions, both in height and width, swept in. She was dressed in black crepe, and Marcail felt instant sympathy for her mourning. It took her a moment to realize that the woman was not going to let her pass, causing her to finally look up into her eyes.

  “You must be Miss Donovan.” The voice was cold.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marcail replied and swallowed hard. The woman had the hardest eyes she had ever encountered.

  “I am Cordelia Duckworth,” the woman said, as if this explained everything. “I trust that Mr. Flynn made you aware that I’m expecting you for lunch tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Duckworth. I was planning on it.”

  “Well, see that you are. I’ll finish your interview then.”

  Mrs. Duckworth moved toward the teller without giving Marcail a chance to reply. Marcail left feeling a bit dazed. Interview. The woman had said interview. Marcail wondered suddenly if the teaching position was really hers.

  The basket was now starting to weigh on her arm. Turning toward home, she intended to reread every bit of correspondence she had received from the Willits school board.

  Dr. Alexander Montgomery closed and locked his office door before heading toward Rodd’s livery. Rodd always kept his horse, Kelsey, in exchange for free medical services. But considering that Rodd’s wife had had four babies in the last four years, Alex sometimes wondered who had gotten the better end of the deal.

  Kelsey, a rather high-spirited bay gelding, was more than ready to escape the confines of his stall. Alex could tell that he was ready for a run, but was careful to keep the animal on a tight rein until they were past the houses in town. Ready to heel his mount into a gallop, Alex spotted a lone, darkly garbed figure walking ahead of him on the road.

  She moved to the far edge of the road when she heard the horse approach, but Alex had the impression that she would not have even looked at him if he hadn’t stopped beside her. It took him an instant, even after she stopped, to figure out who she was and where she was headed.

  “Hello,” Alex called cheerfully. “You must be Miss—”

  “Donovan.” Marcail supplied the name and tried to see the man addressing her. The lowering sun was directly in her eyes, and even squinting didn’t give her a clear view of the rider. Having switched arms so many times while carrying the basket that she now held in both hands, she was afraid to lift her hand to shield her eyes for fear of dropping her load.

  “I can’t really offer to give you a ride, but why don’t I drop that basket on your doorstep?”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I’m almost—” Marcail stopped midsentence because he was already bending low from the saddle and taking the thick handle from her grasp.

  “I’ll just take this ahead for you. It was nice meeting you, Miss Donovan. By the way, I’m Dr. Montgomery.”

  Marcail did little more than raise her hand in a gesture of thanks before the rider was once again on his way. She continued her walk, knowing that if she passed that man on the sidewalk and he didn’t speak, she would have no idea who he was. Well, no matter really. He was a doctor, and Marcail knew she would have to be dying and then some before she’d have anything to do with him.

  three

  By the time Marcail climbed into bed that night she was very tired, but not discouraged. She had searched through her documents, and beyond her being listed as one of the school board members Marcail could not find any mention of a Cordelia Duckworth. There was nothing to indicate that she would be interviewed once she arrived. As much as Marcail wanted to stay in Willits, she trusted that if the door closed in this small town she was already coming to love, God had another teaching position for her elsewhere.

  Marcail was able to blow out her lantern with a peaceful heart. Having eaten only a light supper, she fell asleep dreaming about the bread she planned on baking the next morning.

  At 11:30 Saturday morning, having finished her baking earlier, Marcail started out for her luncheon appointment. Feeling as though Mr. Vesperman would welcome her inquiry, she stopped and asked for directions to Mrs. Duckworth’s home. He was more than happy to oblige, but Marcail caught what she thought might be pity in his eyes. She prayed that her imagination was working overtime.

  Following the directions she was given, Marcail headed through town, passing businesses she had seen only from a distance. When she met people on the street, they were friendly, and Marcail found herself hoping she would be able to stay. Mr. Vesperman had told her that she wouldn’t be able to miss the Duckworth house, since it was as far to the east of town as the schoolhouse was to the west. It was set apart and seemed all the more grand as the ground rose to meet it. Marcail had to move up a slight incline to the front steps.

  The Duckworth house was an imposing structure, and Marcail felt rather intimidated as she approached. The sensation intensified after knocking on the massive front door. Marcail began to feel like a child waiting to see her teacher. She scolded herself over groundless fears.

  As she might have expected, a servant answered the door. Marcail was led toward the rear of the house to an elegant dining room. She paused on the threshold, her head tipped back to take in the massive chandelier that seemed to fill the ceiling. The sound of a sharply cleared throat brought Marcail’s head around.

  Mrs. Duckworth was already seated, and with a regal nod of her head, bid Marcail to enter. She did so and took the chair being held for her by a nervous-looking man-servant.

  “You are very prompt. I like that,” Mrs. Duckworth declared stoutly. Several more servants joined the first two, and the food began arriving. Before Marcail could think twice, her plate was filled with a sumptuous piece of roast beef and all the trimmings.

  Marcail watched as her hostess picked up her fork. She was about to follow suit when the interrogation began.

  “So tell me, Miss Donovan, are your parents living?”

  “My father is.”

  “And your mother, did you ever know her?”

  “Yes, she died when I was nine.”

  “Siblings?”

  “Yes. One sister and one brother.”

  “Older or younger? Do they have families? Tell me about them.”

  Marcail took a breath. “They are both older. My sister, Kaitlin, is the oldest. She’s married to a man named Marshall Riggs, and they live in Santa Rosa. They have three children. My brother is also married. He and his wife, Charlotte, live in Hawaii with their two children.”

  Mrs. Duckworth ate while her guest answered questions, but Marcail, not knowing when the next question would come, did nothing more than hold her fork in her hand.

  “And this is your first teaching assignment; is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been a private tutor, but I’ve never had my own school.”

  “And you understand the terms of the contract, that your clothing and conduct must be above reproach at all times?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Marcail watched her hostess take another bite of food and thought this might be the only chance to ask a question. “I’m a little confused, Mrs. Duckworth. I didn’t expect to be interviewed. I thought the job was already mine.”

  “The job of teaching the town’s children is yours,” the older woman answered without hesitation. “I am interviewing you, however, to see if you are suitable to teach my grandson. Right now Sydney is with his parents, but he lives with me much of the time. He’s
a delicate child, and they simply do not understand him. I usually hire private tutors to see to his education, but I thought it might be time for him to try the classroom again. And since you are the person at the head of that classroom, I must make certain you are sensitive to Sydney’s needs.”

  A small warning bell was ringing in Marcail’s mind. “I’m not a teacher who plays favorites, Mrs. Duckworth. If Sydney does his work and is respectful to my authority, we’ll get along fine.”

  Unfortunately Mrs. Duckworth did not appear to have heard her.

  “You haven’t told me about your father, Miss Donovan.”

  Marcail blinked at the change in topics, but was willing to accommodate nevertheless.

  “For years he was a missionary to Hawaii, but now he’s a pastor for a small church in Visalia.”

  “Is he remarried?”

  “No.”

  “And you, Miss Donovan, are you looking for a husband?”

  “No, ma’am. I want to teach school.” It sounded like a platitude even to her own ears, but it was the truth. “I’m not saying that I’ll never be married, but I don’t wish to be now, and probably not for quite some time.”

  “You understood that your conduct is to be above reproach?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The contract was all very clear to me.” Marcail’s voice was losing some of its congeniality after being questioned time and again over a matter she felt was settled.

  Marcail glanced in front of her to see that her plate had been removed. She hadn’t had a bite. Setting her fork down, she leveled her eyes on her hostess. She watched as Mrs. Duckworth looked at her own soiled napkin and then to Marcail’s empty place setting. To her credit she had the good grace to look momentarily ashamed.

  Marcail would have loved to ask what her little game was, but she knew the question would have been disrespectful. When dessert was offered, the young guest declined, and not long after, thanked her hostess and went on her way. As far as Marcail was concerned, the interview was over.