Donovan's Daughter (The Californians, Book 4) (6 page)

Alexander Montgomery helped himself to a serving
of potatoes and then passed the bowl to the young girl on
his right. He was having dinner, as he did most Sundays,
with his best friends, Dean and Kay Austin.

The Austins had two children, nine-year-old Daisy
and 11-year-old Marla, both of whom were in Miss Donovan's class. Before the girls left the table the conversation turned to the high price Miss Donovan's lunch basket brought at the auction. As soon as the girls were out
of earshot, Kay teased Alex.

"Honestly, Alex," Kay spoke in feigned rebuke. "You
didn't even try to bid on Miss Donovan's basket. You
can't tell me that you-don't-find her attractive."

Alex's eyes sparkled with laughter. "You're right, Kay,
I can't tell you I don't find her attractive, but it's a good
thing I didn't bid, since I had only 25¢ in my pocket."

Kay became instantly alert, an action Alex did not miss.

"Calm down, Kay, I have a sufficiency. My last three
patients all paid with food, and you know when I go
hungry, I land myself on your doorstep."

"Well, just see that you do!" Kay spoke the words with
a gruffness she didn't feel and left the table. Dean took a
sip of his coffee and leaned back in his chair.

"She worries about you."

"I know she does, but I'm fine, really."

"Tell me something, Alex. If Miss Donovan's basket
hadn't topped out so high, would you have been interested?"

"I don't know," the younger man answered honestly.

"Linette has been gone for over four years, Alex. Does
it still feel unfaithful to you when you think about marrying again?"

"No, but sometimes I think I've lived as a bachelor for
too long. I feel set in my ways."

"I can see why you would, since you're all of 30."
Dean's voice was dry, and Alex smiled. Both men were
quiet for a few minutes, and then the youngest Austin
girl joined them.

"Do you want to see what I made, Uncle Alex?"

if
"Sure.

Alex took the offered picture. It was a pencil drawing
of an open field of grass and wildflowers. Daisy showed
real talent, and Alex's compliment was sincere.

"Thank you," she told him. "It's for Miss Donovan
because I think she must like pretty things."

"Why is that?" her father wanted to know.

"Because she's so pretty," the young girl spoke in a
matter-of-fact tone, as if this must be obvious to everyone.

Daisy went on her way, and Dean started to ask Alex a
question but found him studying the picture Daisy had
left on the table. For some reason the look on the younger
man's face caused him to keep still.

Marcail dropped the last of her hairpins onto the table
and shook her head carefully. She massaged her temples
as her hair fell out of its braids in a mass of waves down her back and to her hips. She sank into the rocking chair
and prayed that her headache would go away.

Until the last few weeks she had never worn her hair
up for more than a few hours, and by the time church
was over and she'd eaten with the family of one of her
students, her head was throbbing. She fingered a few
strands and thought with regret over the way Allie had
responded when she asked her to cut it. Allie had been
more than willing until they had arrived in Allie's bedroom and Marcail had taken her hair down.

"I can't do it, Marcail."

"What do you mean, you can't do it?" Marcail had
been truly dismayed.

"I just can't," her friend spoke apologetically. "I mean,
I had no idea it was so long and beautiful. I just can't cut
your hair."

Marcail had sighed. "Who can I ask?"

Allie shrugged. "I could ask Mama, but I'm sure she'll
say no."

"Will you check with her anyway?"

Allie had gone to her mother then, but just as she
predicted, Mrs. Warren would not touch Marcail's blueblack locks.

Marcail didn't know what to do. She had to wear her
hair up in public, and there was nothing wrong with the
school board's request. But Marcail was young, and Kaitlin had always encouraged her to pull her hair away from
her face, letting the back hang free. Her hair curled
naturally at the ends, so she never did anything but wash
it and brush the tangles out.

Marcail let her head fall back against the back of the
rocker. It was a depressing thought, but it looked as
though she would have to wait until she was in Santa
Rosa for Christmas. Then she would ask Kaitlin to cut
her hair.

On Monday morning, the children had just taken
their seats when a large black carriage pulled up in front
of the schoolhouse. Marcail, having heard the horses,
moved to the door. She watched as a frail boy of approximately 11 years stepped down and moved toward the
school. Marcail spotted Mrs. Duckworth in the dark
interior and knew that at long last Sydney had arrived.

Marcail greeted her new student warmly and felt
instant pity as she looked at his pale, pinched features.
He was polite, but there was a hesitant, almost defiant
look in his eye that, strangely enough, made Marcail
want to hold him.

Most of the children in class were familiar with Sydney, so Marcail wasted no time in long introductions.
The day moved along very smoothly, and Marcail learned
in no time at all that Sydney was in line with the others
his age, if not ahead of them, scholastically.

Not until the afternoon of Sydney's second day in class
did he show any sign of behavior beyond the ideal.
Marcail asked him to come forward and take his turn
reading aloud, but he told her he didn't feel up to it.

'Are you ill?" Marcail questioned him.

"No, I just don't want to."

"I'm sorry, Sydney, that you would rather not, but this
is not a time when you have a choice. Please come forward and do your reading assignment."

Sydney stared at Marcail without moving from his
seat.

Considering this was Marcail's first confrontation, she
was very calm. "You will come up and read, Sydney, as I
have instructed, or stay in your seat for the afternoon
recess."

With ill-disguised boredom, he shuffled to the front.
Marcail listened attentively as he read. He did an excellent job, and she told him as much, but he pouted for
some time in his seat.

Marcail sat on the schoolhouse steps during recess,
and for the first time had to break up an argument
between two boys, one of whom was Sydney. She was
almost relieved when it was time to dismiss the children
and wondered if the rest of the year was going to be like
today.

Marcail went straight home and stayed on her knees
for over an hour in prayer for Sydney and the rest of her
class. By the next morning she thought she was ready to
tackle anything, but when Sydney disappeared during
the morning recess, Marcail nearly panicked. One of the
other children found him hiding behind the outhouse,
and Marcail, not doing anything to hide her anger, made
Sydney write sentences on the board until lunch.

Thursday was perfect. Marcail was not lulled into a
false sense of security, but it did give her hope that
Sydney could behave when he put his mind to the task. It
also made the events of Friday all the more painful.

By Friday at lunchtime Marcail had corrected the older
boys on more than one occasion about talking out of
turn. Sydney had been the worst offender. Marcail hoped that some time outside during lunch would help and that
he would come back in ready to work.

For an hour after lunch everything seemed to be more
settled, but there was an anxiousness about Sydney that
concerned Marcail. She turned to write something on
the board, thinking as she did that she would ask him if
he was feeling well. But as she turned back to the class, a
rock flew seemingly out of nowhere and struck her on
the cheek.

Marcail's head snapped back, more out of surprise
than anything else, and she grabbed the edge of her desk
to keep her balance. When Marcail looked up, her students were as still as death. She searched their faces and
felt frightened over the searing pain on her own.

Marcail finally reached with a shaking hand to touch
her face. She stared for a long time at the blood on her
fingertips. Her voice shook as she addressed the class.

"Throwing objects in this classroom will not be tolerated. Do you understand?" Marcail didn't wait for an
answer before going on, but she did notice that more
than one head turned toward Sydney.

"I find, children," Marcail's entire body had begun to
shake, "that I'm not feeling well. School will be dismissed a little early today."

It took a moment for the children to understand that
they could leave, but within the space of ten seconds
they exited the room with unusual haste.

Marcail stayed on her feet until she reached her house
where she collapsed on the bed. Unable to stop shaking,
she lay as still as she could for some minutes before
rising and wiping her face with a damp, cool cloth. She
stood before the mirror and cleaned the cut, which was
much smaller than it felt. In fact, with the blood gone, it
was barely noticeable. The effort of cleaning, along with the deep feeling of disappointment within her, tired her.
Again she sought her-bed.-

Once there, Marcail curled onto her side, her uninjured cheek pressed into the pillow, and tried to pray, but
she must have dozed because she lost all track of time. A
sound woke her, and she sat up wondering why she was
in bed during the day.

The pain in her cheek brought her thoughts quickly
back to earth as someone knocked on the door. Realizing
that it had been the knocking which had awakened her,
she halfway hoped that whoever it was would go away
before she answered. On legs that were just a little bit
shaky, she moved toward the door. The person standing
on the other side was Dr. Montgomery.

Marcail stared at him for five full, silent seconds before
realizing she was being rude. He was the last person she
wanted to see, but the least she could do was invite him
in.

"Please come in, Dr. Montgomery."

Alex stepped over the threshold, and once in the
room, turned to face Marcail. He didn't recognize the fact
that he'd just wakened her. She was as white as a sheet,
and if he'd had any closer relationship with her, he'd
have ordered her immediately to bed.

"I don't wish to disturb you, Miss Donovan, but Marla
Austin came by my office. When I asked why she wasn't
in school, she said you weren't feeling well. Is there
anything I can do?"

"No, no," Marcail spoke and took a step back toward
the door. "I'll be fine, but thank you for checking on
me." Marcail opened the door, relieved that this was all
he had come about, and stood expectantly.

Her message was more than clear to Alex, and he
moved toward the opening but paused in the doorway.
Because he was not comfortable with her color or the way she wanted to be rid of him, he was on the verge of
breaking his own rule about pushing medical attention
on someone who was sane enough to refuse him.