Brightest and Best (5 page)

“I was just about to have some pie,” Margaret said. “I wonder if you might want to sit on the porch and have a slice.”

“That’s the most hospitable offer I’ve had all day.” Gray took two slow steps up the stairs.

Margaret stood and smoothed her skirt, trying to will her heart rate to slow. “I’ll only be a minute.”

By the time she returned with a tray of pie and coffee to set on the low table beside the swing, he sat on what Margaret had come to think of as Gray’s side. He slowed the sway to take a plate from her and wait for her to sit next to him with her own pie. Margaret played with her fork for a moment while Gray filled his mouth with steaming fruit and crust.

“Mmm. You make a fine pie, Miss Margaret Simpson.”

“Why, thank you.”

Gray started the swing again, a gentle, fluid wobble in rhythm with the motion of his fork rising and falling. They sat in shadows now.

“I trust you know that I come around for more than your cooking,” Gray said, his eyes looking straight down the length of the porch.

“I rather hoped that was the case.” Beside him, Margaret pushed a clump of blackberries first one direction and then the other. “Would you like some coffee?”

“In a minute,” he said. “There’s something I’d like to ask you first.”

“Yes?” She felt his eyes on her and turned her head to meet his gaze.

“I wonder if I might express my growing affection for you.”

Margaret’s breathing stilled.
Affection.

Gray set his pie plate on the tray and took Margaret’s. Had he seen her tremble? She hoped not.

“If I have your kind permission,” he said, “I would very much like to kiss you.”

“You do,” she whispered.

Gray laid three long fingers at the side of her chin and leaned toward her. Margaret hadn’t been kissed in years, and no other beau’s kiss had been as delicious as this one. Gray lingered long enough to be convincing, but not so long as to raise alarms as to his intentions.

“I’ll go to bed a happy man tonight.”

Whether or not Gray slept, Margaret did not know. As many times as she closed her eyes determined to sleep, each time she shut out the shadows of her bedroom, she remembered his kiss.

It was good to know she had not turned into a dried-up spinster who could not make a man feel something.

Growing affection.
That was the way he put it. Not pity for her age. Not convenience because he didn’t know another suitable woman. Affection.

Still glowing from her dreams, Margaret rose early on Friday morning, dressed carefully, gave thanks for her breakfast, made notes about what she must accomplish—no matter how distracted she was—and walked six blocks to Seabury Consolidated Grade School. The principal offered two hours this morning for teachers who wanted to enter the building.

Margaret carried her leather satchel, which contained the composition book she used for her lesson plans, a set of colorful alphabet cards to attach to the classroom walls, and a rag and tin of vegetable soap with which she would polish the desks in the room. Every six-year-old deserved to find school a cheery, welcoming place on the first day of a robust educational career.

She had reached the desks in the third row when footsteps sounded in the hall.

Good.
It was time other teachers joined her determination to have classrooms ready when school resumed. The building’s custodian had mopped and scrubbed the rooms thoroughly in June after school let out and undertaken a list of minor repairs, but it was up to the trained teaching staff to be ready at the first bell.

The footfalls ceased right outside her classroom door, and Margaret looked up from her task. Immediately, she abandoned her vegetable soap and stood erect.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said.

Principal Tarkington stepped into the room with the school district superintendent, whom Margaret had met only once or twice in a room full of other teachers.

“Mr. Brownley asked me for a recommendation,” the principal said, “and I have suggested he speak with you.”

“Of course,” Margaret said, though she could not imagine what the superintendent would need her help with.

“I have some telephone calls to return,” Mr. Tarkington said, “so I’ll leave you two to talk.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tarkington.” Margaret watched him pivot and leave the room.

Mr. Brownley began to pace along the wall of windows.

“I’ve received some correspondence,” he said. “In responding, I require the assistance of a competent teacher dedicated to the principles of a sound public education, and Mr. Tarkington assures me that you meet this description.”

“I’ve been teaching for nine years.” Margaret rotated slowly to follow the path the superintendent was taking across the back of the classroom. “I believe I am accomplished in my profession.”

“I’m glad to hear you sound confident. That is just the disposition I seek.”

“I’m happy to help.”

Brownley crossed his wrists behind him and paced along the opposite wall. “Have you much experience dealing with resistant parents?”

Why didn’t the superintendent simply say what was on his mind?

“Occasionally I have met parents who do not understand the importance of regular school attendance,” Margaret said.

Brownley nodded.

“And if a child presents a disciplinary challenge, I find it constructive to win over the parents to offer a united front in resolving the matter.”

“Excellent.” Brownley pulled papers out of his suit jacket. “I have here two items of correspondence signed by Mr. Gideon Wittmer and others.”

“Mr. Wittmer?”

Brownley raised an eyebrow. “Do you know him?”

“Not exactly. I met someone who knows him.”

“Then you will not be surprised that these particular parents have children in one of the outlying one-room schoolhouses.”

“A school which is in need of both repairs and a teacher,” Margaret said.

Brownley’s face brightened. “I must say I had not expected you to be so informed on the matter.”

“I’m afraid that is the extent of my knowledge.”

Brownley pulled out the chair from behind Margaret’s desk and sat down. “It’s a delicate matter.”

Margaret waited.

“This is the letter requesting funding for a new schoolhouse.” He laid one sheet of paper on the desk and positioned a second beside it, precisely one inch apart. “And this is the letter asking for names of teachers the local parents committee might correspond with about the open position.”

“I understand that these are considerable challenges,” Margaret said, “given the limited time before school opens.”

“If only it were as simple as that.”

Margaret waited again.

“We will not be rebuilding the school, Miss Simpson, nor looking for a new teacher.”

“Oh.”

“Mr. Tarkington tells me you are one of his best teachers. Surely you can appreciate that these circumstances suggest that now is the right time to integrate these pupils into the consolidated school.”

“We have a fine grade school. And the high school is excellent as well.”

“I agree. And I’m confident that we can accommodate the thirty or so students being displaced by closing their school.” Brownley folded the letters and returned them to his pocket.

“Of course I wish to be helpful,” Margaret said, “but I feel unclear as to what you are asking of me.” These were administrative matters. Shouldn’t the superintendent and the principal work out the details of the transition?

“Mr. Tarkington tells me you can be quite persuasive.”

Once again, not knowing how to answer, Margaret waited.

“Some parents may resist our plan,” Brownley said. “I would like you to persuade them of its virtues.”

“Me?”

“You did say you wanted to help. This will be a significant change for all of the families affected, but the Amish families in particular will need to understand that they must comply with this decision.”

Margaret gulped.

Ella sat in a wooden yard chair she did not quite trust. It dated back to the early days of her parents’ marriage, and it creaked. The sound was ordinary, especially for the age of the chair, but after the creaking and groaning of the schoolhouse ceiling before it caved in, she would have preferred a chair more respectful with its silence. She looked up from her book about the health of chickens and saw her stepbrother crossing the farmyard.

Stepbrother
was not a word that settled naturally in her mind yet. She used it readily enough to describe members of other families, but attaching a first-person possessive pronoun to the word complicated its meaning.
My stepbrother.
She avoided saying the phrase, instead referring to both David and Seth by their names in conversation.

David was a nice enough boy—a young man. He was nearly fifteen, out of school, nearly ready to begin attending Singings and consider courting. If he had any objections to his mother’s decision to marry Jedediah Hilty, Ella never heard him voice them. Yet he seemed to walk around wrapped in a secret Ella could not decipher. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. Her mind was full enough of her books and Gideon and Gideon’s children.

Ella expected David would walk past her to the barn or into the house. He might nod or lift his hand in a brief wave. Instead, he shuffled toward her. She had already caught his eye, whether she meant to or not, so she couldn’t ignore him now.

Silent, he stood beside her for a moment and stared down.

“How are you, David?” Ella said, wishing she could go back to her book.

“I’m fine.”

He said nothing more. His eyes were not fixed on his feet, as Ella had supposed, but on the stack of books on the ground beside the chair.

“Do you like to read?” she asked.

He nodded. “Do you mind if I look at the books?”

“Go ahead.”

He squatted and went through her pile. “You read a lot about animals.”

“I like to understand how to take care of them,” she said, “or just to enjoy them.”

He had his hand on
The Birds of Geauga County.
“What’s your favorite bird?”

Ella twisted her lips. “I love the sound of a mourning dove, but I like the name of the American coot.”

He smiled. “I like the chimney swift for the same reason.”

Now she smiled. “I didn’t know you liked birds.”

“They’re interesting from a scientific perspective.”

This surprised her. “You like to read about science?”

He nodded. “Sometimes. There are a lot of things I want to understand better. Not just science.”

“What are some topics you’re curious about?” This was by far the longest thread of conversation Ella and David had ever exchanged. He tilted his head. “The war.”

“The war in Europe?” Ella’s heart spurted.

“I’m not supposed to be curious about that. But I am.” He shuffled through the books again. “Do you have any novels?”

“No,” she said slowly. “I don’t read novels.”

“Oh. Okay.”

She let a beat pass before asking, “Do you read novels?”

“Only two or three. My
mamm
doesn’t approve. She says only the
English
read them.”

Ella closed her book around one finger.

“There’s so much world out there.” David stacked the books neatly. “I don’t know why I’m supposed to be afraid of it.”

“I don’t think the point of our ways is to be afraid.”

“Never mind.” David stood up.

“David—”

But he was already walking away.

T
hree days later, Margaret opened her composition book to a fresh page and smoothed it down against Gideon Wittmer’s simple polished oak dining room table. Margaret could feel the solid craftsmanship of the chair she sat in and admired the smoothly sanded end tables in the front room and the braided rug that brought warmth to the wood floors.

Three days earlier she had never been on an Amish farm, and now she tried not to stare at the two bearded men in plain black suits. Though the two
English
fathers were clean shaven and dressed in the more familiar coveralls of farm laborers, their expressions matched the stern expectation of Gideon Wittmer and Aaron King.