morning.”
John shook his head. “You are the most stubborn man I know. Would it hurt you to rest for a few more days?”
Duffy glared at him. “Yes, boss, it would. I’m tough.”
“Stubborn old coot.” John shook his head. “I give up.” He turned toward the door and said over his shoulder, “Take care of yourself.”
“Always do, boss,” Duffy retorted.
Once out of the building, John headed across the stable yard to enter the house. He climbed the stairs and with a few strides down the hall, he entered his daughter’s room. He knew that with the trip to town and helping the new teacher to settle in, he’d be home too late to see Elizabeth before bedtime, to tuck her in and hear her prayers. But he wanted to see her anyway.
Silently, he moved across the floor until he stood next to the bed and watched her sleep, the moonlight illuminating her innocent face. With a smile, he leaned down, kissed her check and smoothed the blanket over her shoulders.
Elizabeth had always been more his daughter than Celeste’s. With her endless energy and constant chatter, she’d worn her mother out, but he’d loved riding with the child, reading to her and caring for her as she grew up.
How have I been so blessed to have this beautiful child?
As he readied himself for bed, he thought again of the new schoolteacher, unable to rid himself of the nagging doubt. How to handle the situation, to assure the community—and himself—that Miss Cunningham had been the correct choice, even though she’d also been the only choice?
He’d keep an eye on her until he felt comfortable. For his daughter’s sake, for the sake of all the children in the community, he would make sure all was right with the new schoolteacher. After all, he’d accepted the challenge to find a teacher. He’d hired her. He was responsible.
He was a Sullivan.
Pain—excruciating pain—and the sensation of turning and twisting, of lurching and rocking racked Annie. She grabbed the side of the coach and reached out for Matilda.
But the young woman wasn’t there. With a sob, Annie woke up and attempted to sort out where she was and what had happened, why her right arm, her head and both legs—in fact, her entire body—hurt so much.
It was early morning. She knew that by the tendril of sunlight breaking through darkness to illuminate a narrow strip of ceiling. In the distance, a rooster crowed. In the dim light, she could make out something dark that stiffened her right sleeve. When she rubbed the cloth between her fingers, it crinkled. Blood, she realized.
Her arm throbbed. The blue skirt had wrapped itself around her legs. She shrieked in pain as she tried to untangle herself.
Most amazingly, she was alone on a clean bed in a room with white walls, spotless white walls. No sound of raucous celebration came from the other side of the wall.
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered when she realized where she was and why. If this wasn’t a moment to pray, even if she didn’t expect any response, she didn’t know what was. “What should I do, Lord?”
Her stomach growled—not surprising since she’d last eaten with Matilda almost a day ago.
How could life change so quickly and completely? It felt peculiar to know that the driver of the coach had buried Annie MacAllister out there, but here Annie sat in Matilda’s clothes, on her bed, in her schoolhouse and with her name. Annie couldn’t change any of that.
She looked around and realized she’d slept exactly where she had fallen across the bed last night, fully clothed, not even pulling the sheet over her. Her stomach reminded her again that she hadn’t eaten anything before she’d dropped into bed.
Shivering in the cool morning air, she stood and stretched before she padded into the kitchen barefoot. She hated the thought of having to shove her feet into those sturdy little shoes. Why couldn’t Matilda’s feet have been just a bit larger?
That thought sounded so ungrateful. “I truly am appreciative, Matilda,” she whispered. “Thank you.” Then she shuddered. Taking the shoes off the feet of a dead woman had been one of the worst things she’d ever had to do.
In the cupboard above the stove, she found a can of tomatoes and an empty cracker tin. The other cupboard was bare except for several dead crickets and a shriveled piece of something Annie couldn’t identify but wasn’t hungry enough to try.
She’d eaten less than tomatoes for breakfast before, but at least she’d had a can opener then. Now she didn’t. Certainly no one expected her to go without food, although never having been a teacher before, she didn’t know. She thought Matilda would have brought food with her if that had been a requirement. Perhaps she could find Mr. Sullivan’s house and ask him.
She picked up the bucket by the door of her bedroom, carried it outside and filled it from the pump in the yard, moving carefully. She saw no firewood so went back inside, took off her clothing and washed in cold water. Nothing unusual there. When she finished scrubbing off the grime and carefully cleaning the wounds on her arm and head, she put her bloodstained clothing in the water to soak.
Then she turned toward the valise. She hadn’t had time the previous day to do more than pull a skirt and basque from the suitcase. Today she needed to see what else was inside. She took a deep breath. She did not look forward to exploring Matilda’s personal effects. Taking on the identity of a dead woman had been more difficult, complicated and emotional than she’d ever considered.
Inside were two dark skirts, simple and austere with a pleat down the back, like the one she wore. One was brown and the other black. She pulled out two matching basques, each with new white collars and worn but spotless cuffs, and hung them next to the skirts. Under them, Annie found a lovely white jersey with a short braided front and jet beads around the high neck. For special events, Annie decided as she stroked and savored the softness.
Then came a black shawl, a pair of knitted slippers, several pairs of black cotton stockings, five handkerchiefs, a few more hairpins, a sewing kit and a small box. Reluctantly, she opened the little package. Inside she found a silver watch to pin on the front of her basque. When Annie ran her finger over the engraved vines, tears began to slide down her cheeks. This must have been the teacher’s prized possession.
She set the watch down and forced herself to continue. In the bottom of the bag were two books, a notebook filled with writing and many little pictures and another letter. Annie was completely overwhelmed. She’d never had so many nice things. She’d never owned cotton stockings or a cashmere jersey or any jewelry.
Annie put on the black skirt, buttoned the basque up the front and then pulled on the slippers. With no mirror in the little room, she smoothed her hair back into a bun as best she could.
Then she wandered into the empty schoolroom. She didn’t want to be there—and yet she did, very much. She was curious and excited and more than a little afraid with absolutely no idea how she would teach twelve children what she herself did not know. But she felt safe here. She would soon have wood and coal and perhaps something to eat.
She touched the books on her desk and opened one. What did those black marks stand for? She ran her hand down the page as if she could absorb their meaning. The paper felt rough and cold. The circles and lines and odd curlicues printed there fascinated and confounded her. Here and there
