Southern California—1876
Gemma’s warm breath turned to ethereal vapor in the frosty air as she marched determinedly toward the one-room schoolhouse. Unruly! That was the word. The children had been so full of energy yesterday that they had scarcely settled the entire day. Whether they had learned anything at all in the space of the seven hours was a mystery. The closer the days drew to Christmas, the more challenging it was to keep their attentions. Did all teachers suffer this problem or was she somehow lacking in the correct process of discipline?
Of one thing she was well aware—her education by tutors had not prepared her in the least for the life she now led.
Thank goodness for the one year she attended the university in Boston. Teaching was not so very different from being a lawyer or judge—particularly in the area of divvying out discipline. Her father had prepared her well in that regard.
She adjusted her small lunch pail and the books she carried to a more comfortable position in her arms and turned from the main road to the dirt path that led to the new school building. Fresh tracks marked the tall damp grass—an oddity this early in the morning. Unease rippled through her, making her shiver as she stared at them. The sun glistened on a thin layer of frost, but where the imprints occurred, the weeds and grass were crushed down and wet. The footprints circled from the front steps of the building around to the small attached woodshed at its side. They were large enough to be those of a grown man.
Now who would be lurking around the school at this hour?
She climbed the two front steps and pushed the skeleton key into the lock when the door moved freely. Odd... She had locked it last thing yesterday. Quietly she opened the door and glanced about the one large room, taking in the vague lingering scent of varnish that still clung to the new benches and the loose clump of pine garland that she had deposited on her desk before leaving yesterday.
To her left, in the back corner of the room, one of her older pupils sat at his desk slouched over a book. Fingers from one hand threaded through his stringy blond hair as he rested his head on his hand, completely absorbed in whatever he was reading. He hadn’t even noticed that she had entered the room. “Billy!”
He jumped in his seat.
“How long have you been here?”
“Got my chores done early and skedaddled afore Ma could find something more for me and Tara to do.”
She walked over to stand beside him. He was halfway through the book Robinson Crusoe.
Even though she was pleased to see him reading she couldn’t pretend to be happy about him breaking into the school. “How did you get inside? The door was locked.”
The excitement of the story dropped from his expression and he swallowed. “I didn’t hurt anything, Miss Starling. Honest.”
“That’s not the point. You shouldn’t have come inside at all. That is what a locked door indicates.”
“It weren’t locked all the way,” he said, his chin raising.
She cringed a little. “The proper use of the verb is wasn’t locked. And this isn’t open for debate.”
His confidence wavered slightly. “Maybe it was just half locked and when I jiggled it, it opened.”
She studied his earnest expression. No matter how he’d entered, rules were rules and he needed to follow them. “You are not to do it again. Understand?”
“Yes’m,” he said, contrite now, his face red.
She stared at him a moment longer, just to make her words stick. “For now, please see to lighting the stove and then go outside until you are called in with the others.”
Sullen now, he rose to do her bidding.
A twinge of guilt pricked her. Had she handled that correctly? It was important that she appear strong and capable. It was a fine line, she was learning, between keeping control of her classroom and yet not squelching her students’ zeal to learn. Billy was fifteen years old after all. When she was that age, she’d been full of the confidence of youth. She had considered herself practically grown no matter that her father called her his little girl still. At that age a dressing down by her teacher would have been humiliating. Perhaps she should have been more aware of that before chastising him. But then, perhaps given his age, he should not have trespassed in the first place.
The conflicting thoughts hounded her as she walked to the coat closet, setting her lunch pail on the shelf above the long row of pegs. Shrugging from her night-blue woolen coat, she hung it on the last wooden peg and then rubbed her hands together to warm them. The mornings had been chilly for weeks, but of late, they were downright cold. Snow was expected any day and with the snow—Christmas.
