“Come on. I’ll take you up to the house.” Flem climbed up to the wagon seat and reached down to help her up beside him.
It seemed to Fiona that he kept her hand tucked in his a bit longer than was necessary before releasing her and flicking the reins. But his boyish smile put her at ease.
As the horse started forward he glanced over to see her furiously shoving her hair beneath her bonnet. “It won’t help, you know.”
“What won’t?” She looked over at him.
“Trying to make yourself presentable.”
“Why not?”
He gave a deep chuckle. “My ma expected you to be like our last teacher. Her name was Hilda Hornby. She taught in Paradise Falls for more than twenty years before going to her eternal reward. That was three years ago.”
Fiona clapped a hand to her mouth. “You mean the children haven’t been to school in three years?”
He nodded. “But that’s not the problem.”
“What is?”
“Miss Hornby was a spinster, with crooked teeth, thick spectacles, and a face that would have stopped a plow-horse at twenty paces. What’s more, she never bought a new dress in all the years she lived here. Ma claimed that she used to sew her dresses from feed sacks, but I swear she was born in that shapeless gray rag she wore every day of her life.” He gave Fiona a long, appraising look that brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. “When my ma offered to put up the town teacher, she was expecting someone like Miss Hornby to keep her company.”
“I didn’t mean to deceive her...”
He threw back his head and roared. “I didn’t say you did. Besides, if you had two heads and breathed fire, Ma would still have offered you board.”
“She must be a very kind—”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it. The school board pays ten dollars a month to anyone willing to provide room and board to a teacher. If there’s one thing my mother knows, it’s how to squeeze a dollar from a lump of sand.” He reined in the horse and helped Fiona down, then led the way to the backdoor.
Inside a woman looked up from the table where she was rolling dough. Despite the heat of the day, gray hair was slicked back from her face and secured in a perfect knot at her nape. She wore a faded blue gown, and over it an apron of bleached muslin that was dusted with flour.
“Ma.” Flem was grinning as though enjoying himself immensely. “Look who just arrived. It’s the new schoolteacher, Fiona Downey.”
The woman’s smile faded. She took considerable time studying Fiona through narrowed eyes as she crossed the room.
Positioning himself so that his mother couldn’t see, Flem winked at Fiona. “This is my mother, Ulrica Rose Haydn.”
“You know I hate the name Ulrica, Fleming. I had an aunt by that name, and she was my least favorite.” Rose ignored Fiona’s outstretched hand while she meticulously dried her hands on her apron. “We weren’t expecting you until next week, when school starts, Miss Downey.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Haydn. I thought you would have received my letter of introduction by now.”
“There’s been no letter.” Rose’s tone was accusing.
Fiona flushed. “I mailed it almost two weeks ago.”
“There is no regular mail delivery in Paradise Falls. If someone wants to contact us, they usually send a message with the conductor of the train.”
“I see.” Fiona glanced at the table, set for four, and wondered how much longer she could stand without keeling over. Whether from hunger or exhaustion, her legs were threatening to betray her. The kitchen smelled of yeast and baking bread and all manner of wonderful spices that had her mouth watering. “If I could trouble you for a glass of water.”
Rose turned away and pointed to a bucket in the corner of the kitchen. “There’s a dipper. Help yourself.”
Fiona crossed the room and lifted the dipper to her lips, drinking deeply. When she looked up, Rose had returned her attention to the dough, rolling, kneading, pounding, then flipping it over to roll and knead again. She seemed to be taking great pleasure in pounding the lump of dough.
Without missing a beat she called, “Fleming, show the teacher where she’ll be staying.”
“This way.” He led Fiona through the parlor to what appeared to be an enclosed sunporch across the front end of the house. It had been made into a bedroom with the addition of a daybed, a scarred wooden chest, a desk and chair. Over the windows, sheets had been strung along wooden poles and tied back on either side. When untied, they would afford privacy.
“I’ll fetch you a basin of water.” Flem was still grinning when he walked away, as though enjoying a private joke.
Minutes later he returned with a basin and pitcher, which he set on top of the wooden chest. “Ma says to clean up for supper. As soon as Gray gets here, we’ll eat.”
“Gray...?”
“My brother.” He nodded toward the approaching horse and wagon that could be seen through the windows. “That’s him now. I think I’ll go wash up, before he sees me. Otherwise, he’s bound to find some work he wants done.”
Flem ambled away, leaving Fiona to stare at the man who leaped down from the wagon and wrestled her trunk from the back and up the steps. Behind him raced the biggest hound she’d ever seen. It was nearly as tall as a colt, its shaggy coat the color of caramel.
She hurried to open the door to the sunporch.
The man was so tall, Fiona had to tilt her head back to see his face. Unlike Flem, his hair was black as coal and his eyes, though blue, more nearly resembled the sky at midnight. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows. His pants and shirt were streaked with dirt and damp with sweat.
He paused on the threshold and simply stared at her. “You’d be the teacher.”
She stepped aside. “You’ll want to put that down. I know it’s heavy.”
“Not so heavy.” He set it in a corner, then turned to see the hound sniffing at her feet. “You know better than to come in here, Chester.”
Fiona knelt down and touched a hand to the hound’s head. “Hello, Chester.” She looked up. “Why can’t he come in here?”
“Because Ma would hit him with her broom if she caught him inside. She has no use for him.”
He walked outside, with the dog at his heels, and retrieved her satchel before setting it down on top of the trunk. This time the hound remained on the step while his master went inside.
As he crossed the room Fiona couldn’t help staring at the way his damp shirt stuck to his skin, revealing a ripple of corded muscle across his back and shoulders. Such wide shoulders. Though the conductor had been a big man, it had taken the help of a second man straining beneath the weight of her trunk, yet this man had carried it with seemingly little effort.
He carefully wiped his hand on his pants before extending it to her. “I’m Grayson Haydn. Everyone calls me Gray.”
“Hello, Gray. I’m Fiona Downey.” She was aware of his big, calloused fingers wrapped around hers ever-so-gently, as though taking great care not to hurt her. “Thank you for fetching my things.”
“You’re welcome. Gerhardt Shultz told me you walked here. Too bad he didn’t know I was heading into town. If you’d waited at the station, I’d have saved you the long walk.”
She nearly groaned at the thought that she’d taken that long, miserable walk in vain. Aloud she merely smiled. “It’s all right. I’m here now.”
Under her scrutiny he suddenly colored and turned away. “Sorry. I’ve tracked mud into your room. I’d better wash and fetch my father.”
It was on the tip of Fiona’s tongue to ask where his father was, but he was already out the door and climbing up to the seat of the wagon, with the hound close on his heels. He snapped the reins and the horse headed toward the barn.
She turned her attention to her trunk, grateful that she would have time to change into something clean and fresh before facing the Haydn family for supper.
Because there was nowhere to hang her clothes, she laid them
out on the bed and sifted through them until she found a simple dark skirt and crisp white shirtwaist with a high, modest neckline and narrow, fitted sleeves. She ran a brush through her dark curls and tied them off her face with a ribbon. Since she couldn’t bear the thought of forcing her feet into her new boots, she slipped into her old ones, gratefully wiggling her toes.
Hearing voices in the other room, she took a deep breath and opened the door of her room.
The parlor was empty, as was the dining room. She followed the sound of voices to the kitchen, where the Haydn family had already gathered. Their conversation ceased abruptly, and everyone turned to stare at her as she stood in the doorway.
Rose turned from the stove, where she was stirring something in a pot. Seeing Fiona’s clean clothes, she gave a huff of disdain. “No need to dress for supper here. We’re simple farm people. Live simple. Eat simple.” She pointed with her spoon. “Broderick, our new teacher, Fiona Downey.”
Fiona walked to the head of the table where a handsome, white-haired man sat, with Grayson close beside him. “Hello, Mr. Haydn. It’s very nice meeting you. I’m grateful that you and your wife are willing to share your home with me.”
With Grayson’s help the older man extended his hand and she shook it. One side of his face curved upward in a smile, while the other side remained immobile, giving him a bizarre, lopsided appearance.
She recognized the symptoms of stroke. Her father’s best friend, Professor Ian Goodenough, had suffered such a misfortune. She and Da had visited him weekly until he’d left Bennett to live with his married daughter in Boston.
“Are you a good teacher?” His words were oddly slurred, since only one side of his mouth worked properly.
“Oh, I do hope so. Only time will tell. This is my first teaching assignment.”
That brought another sniff of displeasure from Rose, who set a pot of stew in the middle of the table before taking her seat at the opposite end. She pointed to the chair that had been added beside Fleming’s. “You sit there.”
Fleming shot her a grin, putting her at ease as she sat.
Rose filled her own bowl first, then passed the stew to Fleming, who ladled some into his bowl before passing it to Fiona, who took only a little before passing it to Grayson. She watched as he filled first his father’s bowl and then his own.
They followed the same ritual with the freshly baked bread, and then the butter, followed by the jug of milk.
When the plates were filled, Rose stared pointedly at Fiona while saying, “We thank Thee for this food.”
In the next breath she added, “We are a God-fearing, church-going family. I expect anyone who lives under our roof to do the same.”
Before Fiona could even respond Rose bent to her meal.
While Rose and Flem ate, Grayson cut his father’s meat and vegetables into small bites, then closed his father’s hand around a spoon. With each bite, the son dutifully wiped his father’s chin before taking a quick bite of his own meal.
Because she was seated directly across from him, Fiona was acutely aware of the care Grayson was taking to see to his father’s comfort. She thought of her own father and how she would have loved to care for him. If only she could.
Oh, Da, please don’t let me embarrass myself by weeping in front of these strangers.
She closed her eyes, fighting the sting of tears. When she opened them, she realized that both Grayson and Broderick were watching her. She felt the warmth of a blush on her cheeks and ducked her head quickly.
She was grateful that the food was tasty. At least she wouldn’t have to lie. “This is grand, Mrs. Haydn.”
“No need to flatter. As I said, we eat simple food here.”
“To someone who hasn’t eaten in two days, it tastes heavenly.”
“Two days?” Gray’s head came up sharply.
Fiona’s cheeks reddened. She hadn’t meant to let that slip. “The train ride was longer than I’d anticipated.”
“Where is your home?” Broderick Haydn seemed unaware that his spoon was halfway to his mouth, and dripping on the tablecloth. But his wife noticed and gave a hiss of displeasure.
“Massachusetts. A pretty little town called Bennett.”
“You miss it.” Without glancing at his wife the old man carefully set his spoon back in the bowl.
“I do. Yes. This is the first time I’ve ever been away.”
“Do you have family there?”
She shook her head. Her voice lowered, softened, her brogue deepening, and she could feel the tears close at hand. “Not anymore.”
“Have some more stew.” Grayson shoved the pot toward her.
“Thank you. I will.” Fiona was grateful for the interruption. After filling her bowl she glanced over at the big, shy man, wondering if he had any idea what a favor he’d done, or if it had been entirely accidental.
“Rain’s coming.” Gray wiped his father’s mouth. “I’m going to move up the haying.” He glanced at his brother. “I could use a hand.”
Rose’s head came up. “I need Flem to help with the canning.”
“You’ve never needed his help before.”
“The tomatoes are rotting on the vines. I can’t keep ahead of them.”
Her husband dropped his spoon with a clatter, causing everyone to look over. He strained to pick it up, but his fingers refused to open. “I could pick the tomatoes.”
Rose fixed him with a look. “By the time you got them up to the house, canning season would be over.”
Fiona couldn’t even imagine her own mother speaking in such a manner to her father, especially in front of a stranger. But they seemed unaware that she was even there until she spoke. “I could pick tomatoes and help with the canning, Mrs. Haydn.”
Rose set down her fork with a snap. “You are paid to teach. I am paid to feed and shelter you.”
Fiona stared hard at her plate, knowing her face was flaming. Silence settled over the table as the others finished their meal without a word.
“I see you made strudel.” Flem turned to Fiona with a wide smile. “Ma knows it’s my favorite.”
Rose carried a platter to the table and began passing around the dessert, still warm from the oven.
After one bite Fiona’s smile returned. “I thought you said the food was plain. I’ve never tasted anything quite like this before.”
Rose looked aghast. “Never tasted strudel? What kind of place is this Massachusetts?”
“They’re mostly Irish.” Fleming grinned at the others. “I think that would explain the accent.”
Fiona seemed startled. “I have an accent?”
“So thick you could cut it with a knife. You didn’t know?”
She could feel her cheeks burning. It had never occurred to her that others would hear the lilt of Ireland in her voice. “Is it offensive?”
Flem gave a low chuckle. “That depends. If you’re Irish, I suppose it’s pleasant enough.”
In the awkward silence that followed, Grayson shoved back his chair. “If you’ve had enough, Papa, I’ll help you out to the back porch now. You’ll want to smoke your pipe before bedtime.”
The old man nodded his agreement, and the two men moved slowly away from the table.
Fiona got to her feet. “I’ll help you with the dishes, Mrs. Haydn.”
“The kitchen is mine.” Rose’s words left no room for argument. “I’ll have a lunch prepared each morning, which you can take to school. If you’re awake early enough tomorrow, Grayson can drop you at the schoolhouse on his way to the fields. The building’s been empty for several years now, and will require some work. If you’re not up in time, you’ll have to walk.”
“Is the school far from here?”
“Not far.” Rose cut a second slice of strudel for Fleming, who’d lingered at the table. “No more than a couple of miles.”
Flem made a great show of kissing his mother’s hand as she set down the strudel.
“Stop that foolishness.” Though she spoke t
he words sternly enough, there was the faintest flicker of humor in her eyes.
“Only if you promise me a third piece when I finish this.”
“We’ll see.” She turned away and met Fiona’s eyes. The spark of humor vanished as quickly as it had come. “We use the parlor in winter time. In summer we sit on the back porch until bedtime. You can sit with Grayson and Broderick, or go to your room.” She turned away and began stacking the dishes.
Rose’s sharp dismissal brought a grin to Flem’s face, as though he found his mother’s temper amusing.
It took Fiona only a moment to decide that, as pleasant as the night air might be, what she needed was escape.
Once in her room she thought about dealing with all the things from her trunk. But the sight of the bed was too great a temptation. Not even the unfinished letter to her mother could dissuade her.
Piling all her clothes on the desk, she drew the curtains and undressed quickly, before crawling into bed.
From somewhere beyond her door she could hear the quiet hum of voices in the kitchen. Rose’s voice, low, angry, and Flem’s, warm with laughter. Once or twice she thought she heard her name, but it seemed too much effort to make out the words.
It doesn’t matter, she thought wearily. Let them say what they would about her. They could criticize her accent, or speculate on how she’d lived so long without ever tasting strudel. Flem could relate how foolish she’d looked when he’d come upon her, boots in hand, or the fact that she was far too young to be taken seriously as a teacher.
The sweet, rich scent of pipe smoke drifted past the window, and she was reminded of how much her da had loved to sit and smoke on the pretty little porch, with his wife on one side of him and his daughter on the other.
She swallowed back the tears that threatened. For now, for this night, she had a roof over her head, and enough to eat. For at least the next year, she had no choice but to make her home with the Haydn family in Paradise Falls. And then she would do whatever it took to get as far away from this place as possible.
It was her last coherent thought before sleep claimed her.
THREE