Through Rushing Water (42 page)

“The word
romance
has more than one meaning in regard to French.” Sophia handed the chalk to the next girl, who introduced herself as Lettie, now Laetitia. “Please write the word
Romance
with a capital
R
.”

Was little Rosalie remembering her capital letters?

When Laetitia lifted her arm to write on the chalkboard, her skirt rose to expose her petticoats. An all-female classroom generated a considerable amount of giggling.

“Thank you,” Sophia told the student, then addressed the class. “The Bible tells us to be kind to one another. We will not make fun of or embarrass each other.” She crossed her arms. “Besides, what you saw is a blessing. Do you realize how fortunate you are? You are eating well enough to grow out of your clothes. And you have clothes to grow out of. My last class had neither blessing.”

The girls blinked at her. Florence, called Florentine, raised her hand. “Who did you teach before?”

“The Ponca Indian tribe.”

Several girls gasped. “Wild Indians?”

She thought of the gentle people herded into wagons. “No, they were not wild. They have families like you. They had farms and houses. Many are Christian.” She must steer the lesson back to French. “When I first arrived at the Agency, I did not know Ponca, their language. And they knew little English. So which language did we converse in?”

Florentine asked, “French?”

“
Trés bien!
How did the Ponca tribe learn French?” Sophia was met with blank looks. “This is not a test. It is acceptable to guess. Did they vacation in Paris?”

Could there be a bigger contrast in material riches? Although the Poncas' emphasis on good manners and their quiet ways were quite Parisian.

“Are they close to Canada?” asked Margaret, now Margaux.

“It is a good thought.” Sophia pulled down the US map, another blessing. “Here is Canada. Until last week, the Poncas lived here, on the Missouri River, on Nebraska's northern border.”

Henriette's hand shot up. “Fur traders!”

“
Mais, oui
. The French sent fur traders throughout this area. And who else? Someone who told them about Jesus . . .”

“A missionary?”

“Oui.”
French Jesuits, to be precise, but best not wade too deep into theological morass on her first day. “And before the US government purchased this area, it belonged to—”

More hands shot up. “France!”

“The Louisiana Purchase!”

“Trés bien!”
A glance at the clock—each classroom had its own!—showed her the bell was about to ring. Sophia gave a brief explanation of Romance languages. “Tomorrow you will greet me and each other in French. And we will assess your skill levels and determine where to go from here.
Au revoir
.”

As the class filed out, Sophia compiled a mental list of everything she had to tell Will.

What was she doing? This was giggling schoolgirl behavior at its worst. Had she, at this grand age of twenty-nine years, fallen in love?

Surely not. They had simply been through a trial together, and she wanted to share her reflections with him and hear the thoughts from his deep well of spiritual wisdom. As she would with any other member of the agency staff.

Well, not Henry. Definitely not James.

Perhaps with Nettie.

No. She must be honest. She desperately missed Will. But did he miss her as well? Doubtful, after their last conversation.

Sophia bowed her head and asked God to give her the opportunity to repair her friendship with Will. And to show her if, as Nettie thought, they might be more than friends in the future.

A round face circled by ringlets peered in the doorway. Wide blue eyes studied her without blinking. “Is it true? You lived with Indians?”

Time, once again, to ignore the rushing water.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY

S
ophia's slippers made no sound on the heavily carpeted hallway. The supporting floor did not issue even the slightest creak. Which is why, even with her mind focused on Will, she easily heard the sound of a child crying.

Moonlight through the windows showed the girl in the fourth bed shaking. “Laetitia?”

“Mademoiselle. I'm so sorry to wake you,” the girl whispered. She blinked back the tears. In the moon's dim light, this girl bore a striking resemblance to little Rosalie.

“You did not wake me.” Sophia sat on the wool rug near the head of the bed, so they could whisper without disturbing the others. She blotted Laetitia's tears with the corner of the sheet. “Are you still upset about the girls' teasing?”

She bit her lip and nodded. “I know you said to be thankful we're growing, but I don't have any larger clothes.”

“Perhaps your—” Sophia stopped. Did the child have a mother? “Perhaps this summer, when you return home . . .”

The tears, rather than subsiding, intensified. “Our house burned down. We lost . . . ev-ev-everything.”

Sophia stroked the child's head. “I am so sorry.”

“It's foolish of me.” Laetitia gulped. “I'm far too old to play with dolls and she was packed away and . . .” The deluge resumed.

“And it was a comfort knowing your doll was home, while you are here. I understand. What did you name her?”

Laetitia's blush could be seen even in the dim light. “Oh, mademoiselle. My silly brother named her, because he liked to pull off her head—”

“Marie-Antoinette?”

The girl nodded.

“Was she beautiful?”

“No. I played with her too much. Her stuffing was coming out of her body in lumps like warts. And I'd cut off her hair when I was little, so she was bald in spots. Mother tried to glue it back on, but it came out uneven.”

“And you kissed her so much her cheeks turned brown.”

“How did you know? Were you a little girl once? I mean—”

“Well, I was never a little boy. Yes, I had a doll. Her name was Roza, not quite so important a name as yours.”

Laetitia looked over her shoulder, toward Sophia's room. “Do you have her still? Can I see her?”

Sophia shook her head. “We had to leave Russia quickly, so Roza was left behind.” Even now, thirteen years later, the smells returned to her. The bite of vodka when her father whispered the one word that would compel movement from a vain sixteen-year-old: Siberia. The musty peasant cloak used as her disguise. The choking reek of the fishing boat that had spirited them away from St. Petersburg, past Kronstadt's Forts, to the uncertainty of freedom. And overriding all, in her father's sweat, a smell she would later realize was fear.

“Did you go back for her?” Laetitia whispered.

“No, I am sorry to say, we could not.”

“Did you cry?”

“Certainly. Great rivers of tears. My father read to me the story of Job in the Bible. Are you familiar with it? Job lost everything, but all was restored, given back to him. But I thought Job probably missed his first family even when he got a new one. And of course I only wanted Roza.”

“What do you think happened to her?”

“Ah, Miss Laetitia. A wonderful question. My father said a new family would move into our house. And their daughter would love Roza.”

Laetitia greeted that idea with as much suspicion as the young Sophia had. “Do you think so?”

“No. No one could love Roza like I did. Besides, she looked so dreadful, with her stuffing lumpy like tumors, her hair chopped to bald, her cheeks brown. Who but me would want her?”

“Just like Marie-Antoinette.”

“Exactly.” Sophia stroked Laetitia's hair. Her mother must be so proud to have such a daughter. “Close your eyes and I will tell you what I think. Perhaps, when we get to heaven, we will find Marie-Antoinette and Roza.”

The big eyes popped open again. “Maybe they're already in heaven. Maybe they're playing together. And they have perfect skin again. And perfect hair.”

“After all, it is heaven.” Sophia raised her hands. “Close your eyes again, sweet Laetitia, and dream of Marie-Antoinette.”

“And Roza.” Her eyes finally closed. “Did you ever get another doll?”

“No. I received something much better,” Sophia said slowly, pacing her words to the child's breathing. “I learned that no matter what happens—losing my doll, leaving friends, moving far away—God is always with me. As He is with you.”

As He is with the Poncas . . .

“As close as a prayer.” She paused and listened to Laetitia's breathing. “And we know we can trust Him with our future.”

Whether or not that future included Will . . .

Laetitia slept.

Sophia returned to her bed, praying she did not dream of little girls without dolls, without shoes, without a home.

She read her evening prayers, then closed her prayer book and poured out her worries for the Poncas.
And as far as what happens with Will .
. . She took a deep breath.
Please let my heart and mind be Yours
.

Perhaps if she needed another bookcase in her classroom—

No, the school was more than adequately equipped, and classroom furniture at Brownell Hall was not Will's responsibility. If Sophia asked him to walk with her after Sunday dinner, Tilly and Harrison's children would insist on accompanying them. If . . .

The congregation rose for the final hymn. Had she missed the entire sermon?

Tilly's friend, the one she had introduced in the milliner's, greeted her. “I'm curious about your time with the Indians,” the woman said. “Did you live in a tepee?”

Sophia forced her attention back to the woman. Rather than blame others for their ignorance, she needed to take the opportunity to educate. Certainly this time last year she had no concept of the Ponca Agency.

“No, we lived in a house. As did the Indians. They were taught carpentry by Will.”

Sophia nodded toward the man who, as her students would say, looked trig in a well-tailored tan suit and patterned necktie. The man on her mind from the time she awoke to the moment she closed her eyes at night. The man she dreamed about too. He guided his nephews toward the door.

While Sophia had been lost in her reverie, Tilly's friend had departed. Sophia watched the back of Will's head and waited for an opportunity to speak to him. Any opportunity. “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!” One of her students, what was her name? May. Manon. She towed an older man toward Sophia. Despite his slender frame he carried himself with a presence of power. The crowd parted.

“
Bonjour
, Manon.”

“
Bonjour
.
Je me presente mon papa
, Judge Dundy. Father, Mademoiselle Makinoff.”

Sophia extended her hand. “I am honored.”

“You're the talk of the town. May told me you've been working up on the Niobrara, with the Indians.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“I'd like to hear more about it. Could you come to dinner today?”

Oh, these Americans with their spontaneity. In Europe such a request would require a week's exchange of carefully penned correspondence.
Alors
, if informality was the rule of the day, Sophia would break every rule in Europe's etiquette book in her quest.

She smiled and fluttered her lashes in her most charming way. “I would love to. But, Judge Dundy, if you are truly interested in the Ponca Indians, you might also invite my coworker, Mr. Willoughby Dunn—”

She scanned the crowd as May left to rejoin the group of students walking back to Brownell Hall. Had Will left already? Her heart sank.

The judge patted her hand. “Don't worry, little lady. My wife caught him at the door.”

“Splendid!” Sophia excused herself to Tilly, then followed Judge Dundy out. This would work well. After dinner Will would escort her home and she would—