Liz Ireland (14 page)

When he finally was able to see, he discovered four pairs of blue-eyed blond-haired girls peering down at him, like curious little angels in plain blue dresses. At least they weren’t giggling.

He tried to speak, but only one word came to his lips. “Cecilia.”

As he felt himself slipping away, he wondered at his choice of last words. Maybe it was all that blond hair. Or maybe it was because he knew what he would most regret about dying right now. He’d never get that dance.

* * *

Bea Beasley propped her chin on her chubby hand and sighed. “I miss Mr. Pendergast, don’t you?” Beneath her, lying across the first step of the schoolhouse, Mr. Wiggles sighed in agreement.

But Cecilia was the one who had been asked the question. “Mmm,” she mumbled distractedly.

Bea regarded her with watery eyes. “Oh, you’re so brave, Miss Summertree! It makes me want to cry when I think that I’m the only one who knows how heartbroken you are.”

Cecilia harrumphed a response. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure what tag to put on the crazy jumble of feelings inside her. Pendergast had been gone for over two days now, and the truth was she was still stunned.

His disappearance had created quite a stir. Half the town—Beasley’s half—felt that the lying Yankee must have absconded with funds they hadn’t discovered missing yet. The other half, a contingent led by Dolly and Dr. Parker, maintained that Pendergast had stumbled out of town in his delirium, and was who knows where by now. Dolly had even tried to drum up enthusiasm for a search party, but Buck had dissuaded her. As far as he was concerned, the schoolteacher could wander right into the Gulf of Mexico.

Cecilia withheld her opinion. More compelling to her than where Pendergast had gone was how she felt about his leaving. First there was disappointment. People weren’t cheering her in the streets for having figured out he was a fraud, after all. And being reinstated in the schoolhouse wasn’t quite the coup she’d anticipated. Pendergast’s sneaking out in the night had deprived her of a decisive victory.

And then there was an odd restlessness to cope with, which she put down to boredom. Annoying as the man had been, he had at least given her something to focus her attention on. She had tried these past two days to throw herself into planning the school pageant, but she was finding it difficult to get too excited about Pilgrims just now.

“Maybe in his delirium,” Bea conjectured aloud, because of course she had sided against her father on this point, “maybe Mr. Pendergast will wander into a Quaker community, like the hero did in
The Gun-toting Peacemaker.
”

Cecilia was beginning to think she would have to read some of Pendergast’s books, which were still stacked next to her bed. From Bea’s descriptions, they sounded as if they might keep her from brooding.

“Of course, that doesn’t do
you
any good,” Bea added. “Because most likely Pendergast would fall in love with a Quaker woman, and where does that leave you? You’ll still be here, getting older and sadder, pining away for your lost lover until you become so eccentric that the town considers you a freak.”

“Thanks, Bea.”

“Oh!” The little girl seemed to sense she might have said something inappropriate. “I hope you didn’t think I meant anything against you, Miss Summertree, when I said that I missed Mr. Pendergast,” Bea assured her.

“No offense taken,” Cecilia replied. In spite of Bea’s inflated estimation of the tragedy of Pendergast, the little girl did seem to be the only person in town who was sympathetic to her loss-of-Pendergast malaise.

After a moment of silence, Bea stubbed her toe along the runner board of the stair. “You know what?”

“What?” For a moment it seemed as if the girl might have a secret to tell about Pendergast. “I don’t want to be Priscilla this year.”

Cecilia first felt disappointment that they were only talking about that stupid pageant, and then her eyes widened in surprise. Ever since she was five, Bea Beasley had played Priscilla Mullins in the school harvest pageant. The little girl must be depressed!

“Oh, Bea, you don’t want to give up your prize role! Mr. Pendergast would want you to have it.”

Bea sighed long and hard. “Well, of course. Naturally I still want to be the lead. But this year I want to be Dolly Madison.”

“Dolly Madison wasn’t a Pilgrim,” Cecilia told her.

Bea rolled her eyes. “I
know
that. I think this year we should do the burning of the White House. Mr. Pendergast said we could.”

Great. Cecilia wished the man had consulted her before making all sorts of promises to Bea on the eve of his disappearance. Now she was going to have to deal with this. Of course, when it came to the pageant, Bea always got what Bea wanted.
The burning of the White House?
How on earth were they going to manage that?

“I’d better go home,” Cecilia said, making no commitment to the little girl’s idea. She pushed herself off the stairs and started walking.

Bea and Mr. Wiggles tagged alongside her. “And my father said he would donate any materials the school needs for the pageant.”

“How generous,” Cecilia said.

“As long as I get to be Dolly Madison,” Bea stipulated.

Cecilia gritted her teeth. She’d forgotten that being able to enjoy being strong-armed by a ten-year-old was a requirement for the teaching position in Annsboro. Honestly, there were times when she wondered if it had even been worth campaigning against Pendergast to get her old job back. Working at Dolly’s was easy once she had gotten used to the physical aspect of it, and it was less of a headache.

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Cecilia said.

“Oh, good! Miss Summertree, you’re almost as good a teacher as Mr. Pendergast was!”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it! Can I go tell my father about the pageant?”

Cecilia nodded, and Bea and her yellow dog streaked off down the street, leaving her in their dust. As she neared Dolly’s, the pageant problem retreated to the recesses of her mind, and she thought again of Pendergast.

It was strange not having him in the boardinghouse anymore. The conversation always flagged at dinner now—once speculation about Pendergast’s vanishing had run its course. She missed his dark mischievous eyes watching her over the table sometimes. And at night, in her spacious room, when she lay in the soft down bed that he had lain in for so many nights, still breathing the rough scent of him that lingered on the pillow her head rested on, it was practically impossible to sleep for all the questions that would run through her mind.

Who was he really, and where had he gone? She couldn’t stop thinking of the times he had kissed her, the way his arms felt wrapped around her waist, pinning her to him. Did he remember these things, or had she just been one among hundreds of passing flirtations in his life?

Oh, it was terrible the way he had been able to manipulate her. The man was insufferable, frustrating and infuriating. She was a thousand times better off now that he was gone, and she had her old job back, secure until Beasley managed to find another teacher who would suit his overblown needs. Maybe she would even try to get a teaching certificate herself, Cecilia thought. Her father might be willing to ship her off to the teacher’s college, if he thought it would keep her out of trouble.

Before Pendergast had entered the picture, she had only cared about the job because it kept her away from the ranch, in town, where there were lots of people. Now that Pendergast was gone, it was clearer than ever that town was pretty boring, too. And there were so many annoying people to deal with!

As if to underscore her thoughts, she noticed Buck’s horse outside the boardinghouse. She headed inside, hoping to find something to eat before dinner in the kitchen; unfortunately, Buck and Dolly were holding court there.

“Hi, Cecilia.” Buck spared her only the briefest of glances. Ever since last Saturday night in front of the schoolhouse, Buck had said barely two words to her, though he did seem to puff himself up to show her what a marvelous masculine opportunity she had passed on. And the name Cici was strictly a thing of the past. He only had eyes for Dolly now—wide, surprised eyes, as if he didn’t know what had hit him.

Dolly, however, was all benevolence again. And why shouldn’t she be? Cecilia thought churlishly. The man of her dreams had fallen head over heels in love with her. Everything had worked out fine for Dolly.

Of course, things had worked out fine for herself, too, Cecilia thought dismissively, what with the job, and the room, and... She sighed. All told, a job and a room were better than nothing. Those things had certainly seemed important to her a week ago.

There was water in a pitcher by the sink, and she poured herself a tall glass.

“Long day?” Dolly asked her.

Cecilia grunted in reply.

“Maybe you should take a nap,” her friend suggested, watching her face anxiously.

“Oh, I’m not tired.” Cecilia sighed. She didn’t know what she wanted to do. Tiresome as they were, at least Buck and Dolly were adult company after a day with rowdy children. “Don’t mind me,” she said.

Dolly sent a secretive little smile across the table to Buck.

“What is it?” Cecilia asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Dolly replied. Then she smiled again.

Oh, she hated it when Dolly did this to her! “What?” she insisted.

“It’s just that I was telling Buck a little theory of mine.”

Cecilia wasn’t sure she wanted to hear this, but she couldn’t help asking, “What theory?”

“That you’re in love with Pendergast.”

“What!”
Cecilia nearly choked on a slurp of water. Hearing this kind of talk from Bea was one thing—she had lied to Bea, after all—but where had Dolly picked up such a notion?

“Well, you certainly have been in a bad mood since he left,” Dolly explained.

“Think you’d be happy, getting what you wanted and all,” Buck said derisively.

“I am happy!” Cecilia snapped.

“Oh, you poor thing, you don’t have to put on a brave face for us.” Dolly lowered her voice. “Besides, Cecilia, that night by the schoolhouse, I
saw
what you two were doing by the well.”

Cecilia’s face paled even as Buck’s reddened. “What were they doing?” The anger in his voice indicated he might rethink the search party idea.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Cecilia said. “It was just a little kiss.”

Dolly’s eyebrows lifted dramatically.

“It’s not as if I asked him to!” Cecilia protested.

“Cecilia,” Dolly lectured, “you
followed
him out there.” She said this as if she herself hadn’t done the exact same thing—but after Buck, of all people.

“Hell,” Buck said, “Cecilia’s been trailing after Pendergast for weeks. The slicker probably thought she was easy game.”

Cecilia couldn’t believe her ears. Was this what people were saying about her? “I was attempting to prove to everyone that Pendergast wasn’t who he said he was!”

“By kissing him?” Buck asked.

“I didn’t want to kiss him,” Cecilia said. Buck and Dolly laughed at her, and Cecilia could feel herself redden. “Besides, I was right about him, wasn’t I?”

Dolly shook her head sadly. “Poor Mr. Pendergast. I know he’s just out there wandering like a vagabond, a poor lost soul.”

Cecilia huffed in outrage. “That’s ridiculous! He’s probably in another town, pretending to be
their
schoolteacher.”

“Now why would he want to do that?”

This was a sound question. Hard as she tried, Cecilia couldn’t figure out what Pendergast’s game was.

Buck snickered. “Maybe so he can spark
their
old schoolteacher.”

Cecilia’s spine stiffened. She couldn’t believe Buck—the man who until four nights ago was willing to pledge undying love to her—was treating her so shabbily. So much for the Dooley Hodges tradition in this town!

She looked over and saw Buck’s hand covering Dolly’s across the table and suddenly felt like the odd man out. She decided to go up to her room before the two of them actually started billing and cooing right there in front of her.

“I think maybe I’ll go up and rest, after all.”

They smiled at her patiently as she trudged away, feeling lonelier and more restless than ever.

“And I’m glad he’s gone!” Cecilia hollered behind her, just to make sure they didn’t cling to the notion she was carrying a torch.

Seeing her large inviting room should have given her a little lift, but it didn’t. When she looked at the fluffy bed that would have been so relaxing to flop onto, she remembered that it still smelled of Pendergast, and that lying in it would remind her of his stirring up feelings inside her that were the very opposite of relaxing. And when she moved toward the rocking chair, she saw Pendergast’s little valise was still sitting beneath it.

The contents of that black bag were no mystery to her. She had sifted through the old clothes and little stack of letters more times than she wanted to count. Dolly had also looked through his things—although, unlike her scrupulous friend, Cecilia had torn into those letters the first moment no one was looking, relieved when she learned that the Rosalyn Pendergast who had written them was only an old spinster sister.

Unfortunately, nothing else in the letters pointed to a contradiction in Pendergast’s story. But why had he never mentioned his sister? And why, unless one were to believe Dolly’s foolish hypothesis about his wandering about the countryside in some kind of fever-induced trance, why would a man who had carried these letters all the way across six states leave them in a boardinghouse room as if they meant no more to him than the soiled shirt they were buried beneath?

It was suspicious. But she and Pendergast had never spoken on personal topics, so it wasn’t so strange that she knew nothing of his sister. And perhaps he had simply forgotten the letters.

Now she wished she had asked him more about himself. Not only would it have been the only way to discern whether his leaving the letters had any special significance, but she also found her mind inexplicably craving information about the man. In moments of repose, questions would pop into her mind. Who were his parents? What kind of house had he grown up in? Had he ever had a sweetheart? That last preyed most on her mind, aside from the question that inevitably recurred no matter how futile she told herself it was to ask—who was Pendergast really?