River to Redemption Page 4

  Aunt Tilda turned away from the stove. “You is too young to be on your own.”

  “I could sleep there and come over here every day to help you.” Adria really wished she had her doll to hold.

  Louis and Aunt Tilda looked at each other and then they both sat down at the table on either side of Adria. Louis reached over and laid his hand over Adria’s. “That would be a fine thing if it could be, missy, but that ain’t somethin’ we can make happen. Massa George, he’ll see to findin’ you a place.”

  “What if it’s a bad place? Somewhere I don’t want to go. I’d have to go anyway, wouldn’t I?” Adria looked at Louis.

  “Now, that ain’t likely to happen. Most folks is good folks, especially to pretty little girls like you. They might take you in like one of their own.”

  “And they might not.” Aunt Tilda slapped her hand down on the table. “We can’t just let this child go wherever. Better if we find a place for her our own selves. Like you’re always saying, Louis. The Lord will provide.”

  Adria’s heart lifted a little. If the Lord provided it, then it would be good and not somewhere where’d she have to sleep in the barn. She didn’t know why she thought that. She never knew anybody who slept in the barn except the man who took care of the horses at the livery stable, and he had a regular room there with a bed and everything. She’d seen it once when she went with her daddy to borrow a horse and wagon to fetch home a table from her grandmother’s house. For a second, hope flared. She had a grandmother, but then she remembered she’d died. Everybody died.

  Louis looked doubtful, but he said, “It could be we should think on it. Say a prayer and see where the Lord might lead us.”

  “And do it quick.” Aunt Tilda’s voice was firm. She looked at Adria. “Tell me, child. Is there anybody you remember knowing? Anybody at all.”

  Adria tried to think. She knew people. Mrs. Hostetter from next door. Carlton, the boy who liked to chase her around the schoolyard. Mr. Riley who sat in front of them at church. The schoolteacher, Mr. Harmon. But then he was dead. She’d seen the schoolteacher’s wife at the graveyard. The woman had been nice. She’d smiled at Adria through the tears she was shedding for her husband. She had been alone. Alone like Adria.

  “The schoolteacher’s wife. I know her,” Adria said.

  Louis looked over at Aunt Tilda. “We saw her at the cemetery the other day when I took the little missy to see where her family lay. The lady did look nice enough. Not much bigger than a minute, like she hadn’t had anything good to eat for a spell.”

  “She looked all alone,” Adria said. “Like I’m going to be if I can’t stay here with you.”

  Again Aunt Tilda and Louis stared at one another for a long moment. Then Louis bent his head.

  Aunt Tilda shushed Adria when she started to say something. “Better let Louis pray it out, child. Or pray with him.”

  Adria wasn’t sure what to pray, but she shut her eyes and pulled up the memory of the schoolteacher’s wife. She hadn’t been very tall and, like Louis said, slim as a reed. She had pretty blonde hair tucked up under a black hat. Adria almost smiled remembering the woman telling her she should keep some things under her hat. Things like Louis and Aunt Tilda trying to figure out what to do with her and not leaving it all up to Mr. George.

  Adria didn’t say her prayer out loud. She didn’t even put it into words in her head. She just sent up a longing to the Lord to find her a home with the schoolteacher’s wife.

  Then Louis looked up. “There’s words somewhere in the Bible that says the reason we don’t have is because we don’t ask. I’ve heard preachers expoundin’ on that very thing.” Louis looked up at the ceiling. “So I’m askin’, Lord.”

  “It’s her, the schoolteacher’s wife, you need to be askin’,” Aunt Tilda said.

  “What with both you and the Lord tellin’ me that, I best be givin’ it a try.” Louis patted Adria’s hand. “Run, get that doll of yours, missy, and we’ll walk on over that way.”

  Five

  A musty smell greeted Ruth when she pushed open the door of the schoolhouse. Little wonder since the place had been closed up for weeks. School hadn’t been in session for several months, although Peter had often gone to the small building to plan for the coming term. Sometimes Ruth had come with him to clean away the cobwebs.

  The building with only the one big room had been used as a school off and on for years, but the place had been vacant for a while before Peter came to teach here. Peter had recruited a few parents to help make the benches and long narrow tables that served as desks from planks donated by the sawmill just outside town. Ruth ran her hand across one of the planks. Roughly finished to be sure, but sturdy.

  A slate lay on one of the benches, forgotten by a student last term. The slates were used to write their lessons with chalk. They could be erased and used over and over. Only a few of the older students used paper and pen. Not that Peter had many older students. After a certain age, his students generally bypassed school to stay home and help their parents. Much too young, Peter believed.

  He had been proud to teach the boys and girls to read, write, and do basic arithmetic. He prayed daily for each of his students, even those who gave him the most trouble and especially the ones who had no interest in being at school.

  “They think reading is something they will never need,” Peter told Ruth. “They just want to work the land, they say. Once they can sign their names and add and subtract, they decide they have learned enough. Perhaps in the past that was enough, but the world is changing. In these modern times, we have newspapers and books available to rich and poor alike, but what good will that be if a person cannot read? It saddens me to think of what they’ll miss. All for the lack of learning.”

  Ruth dusted off the chair behind Peter’s desk and sat down. She was so proud to be married to Peter Harmon. A good man. He could have chosen any profession. A lawyer. A doctor. A man destined for political office perhaps. It wasn’t beyond the realm of imagination to think he might have someday been governor if that was how his ambitions ran. But no, he wanted nothing more than to teach.

  He had come to America from England while still in his teens and eventually found his place here in Springfield. Ruth had been attracted to him on sight, but Peter encouraged her to take her time. To think of the years ahead when, if she married a man with land, she could have a more secure and settled future. But Ruth’s heart had already settled. Settled forever and now broken in bits.

  When she opened up a book left on the desk, dust motes flew up to dance in the strip of sunshine coming through the window next to her. A reading primer with the words written in larger, dark print. The desk drawer grumbled as she pulled it out. A ruler. Scissors. A composition book. An empty inkpot and pens. She pulled out a sheet with a list of names. Last term’s students. She wondered how many of them were still living after the cholera epidemic.

  With a heavy sigh, she put the paper back in the drawer and shoved it closed. The wood squeaked even louder in protest going back in. A bit of beeswax could fix that. Not that it mattered. The school no longer had a teacher. The cholera epidemic had upset all of normal life.

  She stood up and peered out the window at the street. Perhaps that wasn’t true for everyone. Commerce appeared to be picking up in the town, with people going in and out of the businesses. The hotel was just up the street. She’d heard the owner, George Sanderson, was back in town. That made her think of his slave, Louis, who had buried Peter and all the dead. She couldn’t help but wonder what happened to the girl she’d seen with him on Cemetery Hill. Adria Starr. Surely a relative had come for her. She’d have a home.

  More than Ruth had. She had sold Peter’s pony and the buggy. She doubted she got a fair price, but she was desperate. The hotel stay had taken all her cash and she had rent to pay while she searched for a job. She’d asked around town without any luck. Many of the businesses were family run, with more than enough relatives to fill any hiring needs. Ruth had no r
elatives in Springfield.

  The night before, she had written to her brother to tell him about Peter, but she hadn’t asked for his help. Not yet. First she would go to Louisville and seek employment. The thought frightened her. She’d never been to a big town. But in such a place with so many people, she would surely find work of some sort. A clerk or a family in need of a tutor. Failing that, a maid. She was in no position to be proud.

  The day was hot, so she pushed up a couple of the windows. She should leave. Walk back to her rooms and continue sorting through the accumulations of her short life with Peter. Maybe she could bring his books here to the school building for the next teacher. The bookcase too. She couldn’t take it or the books with her. She had a trunk for her clothes and some necessary household items in case she was able to rent a room. A few books, perhaps. Peter’s Bible for certain and some of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s works. A few slim volumes of poetry.

  What dreams she’d once had of perhaps writing poetry herself. Peter had encouraged her. A proper pursuit for a genteel woman while she raised her children. That along with needlework, for which she had never shown any aptitude. Her mother had despaired at her uneven stitches. Embroidery seemed such a terrible waste of time when she could be reading.

  With a sigh, she turned to lower the windows and head back to her rooms. There was no reason to put off leaving Springfield. While she would miss the town, perhaps it would be good to make a fresh start. Away from all the memories rising up to surround her in this place.

  At the same time she didn’t want to surrender those memories. That must be why she lingered in the schoolhouse. She felt Peter so strongly here. His voice seemed caught in the air. Alive and happy. While at their rooms, she could think of nothing but how he’d looked stretched out on their bed, breathing his last ragged breaths.

  As she pushed the second window down, she saw Harold Franklin, one of Washington County’s justices of the peace, making his way purposefully toward the school. That was good. She could give him Peter’s key. Finish this part of his life and hers.

  “Mrs. Harmon.” He came through the door without knocking, but then she supposed a person didn’t have to knock to enter a school or a church.

  “Mr. Franklin, how are you?” She picked up her reticule and moved through the benches toward him.

  “Well, thankfully. So many weren’t.” The smile on his face, reddened by his walk down the street, disappeared. “You have my sincere condolences regarding the loss of your dear husband. Such a wonderful man. A fine teacher. The kind of citizen we need here in Springfield.”

  “Yes.” She didn’t trust herself to say more than that. To keep any stray tears at bay, she studied the man in front of her.

  He was short, with a healthy girth and an effusive way. Always ready to shake a hand and point out the better parts of his town. He reveled in the role of justice of the peace. The governor appointed him to the position years ago, and fortunately for Justice Franklin, the appointments were for life. Other justices in the county served a while and resigned, but not Harold Franklin. Being a justice of the peace was his calling, he sometimes said, as though he were a preacher instead of an appointed official. But in spite of all that, Ruth was glad to see him looking well and hardy. It meant that something in Springfield was the same. Somebody hadn’t died.

  “Such a shame. All those lost to our town. But Springfield will recover. We will see that it does, and one of the things we need to make sure of is that we have educational opportunities for our children.” Justice Franklin threw out his hand as if addressing a crowd instead of only Ruth. “While some think a parent can teach a child all that’s necessary for life, you and I both know that’s not true. Our children need to advance beyond us, to become better citizens in the future. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Harmon?”

  Ruth had somewhat tuned out the man’s speech as she considered how to make a graceful exit. So the question and his direct stare caught her a bit off guard. “Yes,” she said weakly with the hope she hadn’t claimed to agree to something totally disagreeable.

  “Of course you do.” The justice smiled down at her and took a deep breath.

  Ruth pulled the school’s key out of her pocket and spoke up before the man could launch into another oratory barrage. “It’s good that you dropped by. Here is Peter’s key to give to the next schoolmaster.”

  He didn’t take the key. “That’s just it, Mrs. Harmon. It seems to us, those of us who know the most about our town, that you would be the perfect person to take your good husband’s place as teacher. We hear you’ve been inquiring about this or that position around town, and so here is a needed position you are well qualified to fill. Your late husband told me himself what an invaluable help you were when he prepared his lessons. Your English skills are excellent, and if we’re not mistaken, you received a well-rounded education at the Loretto School. Quite enough to qualify you completely for the position. So what do you say? Can we count on you to continue in the wake of your husband?”

  “I . . .” Ruth searched for words.

  “You don’t have to answer right away. I understand this might be sudden.”

  Ruth gathered herself. “Are you saying that the town is willing to pay me for teaching?”

  “As a matter of fact, we have considered the idea of supporting the school in such a way. That has not been an approved part of our town’s budget. It still is not, but a few justices in addition to myself are willing to contribute to your salary. That with the necessary fees collected from the families of those children who attend will assure you a fair salary. I give you my word on that.” He paused, and then like an archer who had saved his swiftest arrow for the last shot, he went on. “I do think Mr. Harmon would want you to step into his position and not let our Springfield children slide back into ignorance. He always seemed to care so much for his students.”

  She started to open her mouth and say she had no idea how to run a school, but then she seemed to almost feel Peter’s hand on her shoulder. It was more his words than hers when she said, “Yes. I can be the teacher.”

  “Excellent.” Justice Franklin beamed at her. “Excellent. We will leave it up to you to gather your students and decide when to commence school. Generally fall is a good time for those rural children near enough to come into town to school. That will give you some time to prepare. I am certain our county’s citizens will be more than ready to come forth with the necessary fees for the betterment of their children.”

  Once back in her rooms, she realized while the man had spoken of a fair salary, he’d mentioned no numbers. If she could gather any students, she would have to convince the parents to pay. Many of them had been willing enough to pay Peter, but would they feel the same with her as teacher? A woman with no teaching experience. Even if she did obtain enough students for the school term, how would she survive until school began in October? Peter had been in demand as a tutor between terms as some of the young men sought application into prestigious schools, but that would not be a path open to her.

  Yet, in spite of the worries, the thought of stepping into Peter’s place, the thought of teaching, stirred awake the first bit of excitement since cholera had stolen everything she held dear. She picked Peter’s Bible up out of her trunk. A slip of paper he must have used to mark his place fluttered to the floor as the Bible fell open to Isaiah 40, where verse 31 was circled. But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.

  The verse was so like Peter, always charging forth in life, yet at the same time, ready to do exactly what the verse said and wait upon the Lord. Now she was the one who needed to renew her strength in order to face each day to come. Alone. No, not alone, Peter would say. With the Lord one was never alone. She had told him many times that he should have been a preacher, but he said teaching was a calling spoken of in the Bible, the same as preaching. A calling cut short. Could she step into that c
alling even if she trembled at the thought of failing?

  She leaned down and picked up the paper that had fallen out of the Bible, and there in a steady hand, Peter had drawn an eagle in flight. Strong wings carrying it forward. Under it he had written Ruth’s name.

  Six

  That afternoon, Ruth sat down at Mrs. Jackson’s kitchen table to compose a letter to send out to potential students. Mrs. Jackson, who rented them the upstairs rooms in her house, had not returned to Springfield as yet after the cholera epidemic. She sent notice for the rent to be paid to her representative at the bank. She obviously didn’t know about Peter, since she had addressed the letter to him, but Ruth saw no reason to inform her landlady about his death. Not as long as she could pay the rent.

  Her throat tightened a bit at the thought. She had counted her remaining money before she came down to the kitchen to write the letter. Enough for two more months’ rent if she was very careful about what she bought to eat. At least Mrs. Jackson had lowered the rent amount since she wouldn’t be supplying their breakfasts and evening meals. She had told Ruth she was free to cook her own meals, but Ruth hadn’t bothered to build a fire in the fireplace. She had little appetite, so the apple and cheese bought at the store on the way home from the schoolhouse would suffice.

  She stared down at the sheet of paper in front of her. The letter was easy enough to write, but then what? She had the list in the drawer at the school but shrank from the idea of sending a missive out to parents of a child who may have succumbed to the cholera. Mrs. Jackson could have helped her. The woman seemed to know everyone in Springfield and their business, but according to her note, she didn’t plan to return until September.

  Justice Franklin might be able to help with the names. Or perhaps Louis, George Sanderson’s slave, could tell her which children had not survived the cholera epidemic. When she saw him at the cemetery, he had claimed to remember each person he buried.