when hiking across the wilderness?” Priscilla, with her matching hats, bags and gowns, managed to irritate Louise on a daily, if not hourly, basis. “There’s sand in my shoes, and my stockings are ruined. That doesn’t even begin to address the damage to my complexion.” She tilted her parasol so it now shaded her face.
The girl came from wealth and no doubt the Evanses needed the income that such a student brought, but she was a handful. The new school had been blessed with a benefactress in Fiona Evans’s mother-in-law, who had helped to get it started and instituted the scholarships, but she could not support its continuing operation. To survive, the school must turn a profit. That meant accepting and enduring spoiled girls like Priscilla Bennington. In three weeks, the eighteen-year-old had thrown nearly a dozen tantrums and refused to follow direction. Louise suspected Priscilla had been refused by or expelled from every school in Chicago. Here, she headed up the haughty trio.
“This is hardly the wilderness,” Louise pointed out for the benefit of the other students, for whom she still had hope. “We are only a short distance from the school.”
She might as well have been talking to herself, for all five girls bunched together whispering and giggling. Louise’s calm temperament frazzled.
“Then perhaps you should return to that school.” The strong bass voice sent a jolt through Louise and brought a sudden halt to the giggling. This man was not pleased. Not at all.
Louise had endured enough opposition for one day. Though he towered over her, she would not let a perfect stranger determine what she would and would not teach her students.
She squared her shoulders. “We will return as soon as we finish examining this example of artemisia campestris.” She pointed to the tall wormwood. “As you can see, the drought has stunted its growth, making it an ideal subject for study.”
The man stared at her as if she’d spoken a foreign language—not an unusual reaction from the men in Singapore. This lumber town didn’t boast many educated men or women. Before Mrs. Elder grew gravely ill and left for Chicago with her husband, Louise had kept house for her and the Captain. Both were well-read and their home boasted a large library, but they’d sent for their books this summer, leaving the town woefully deficient in reading material.
“You’re standing on federal government property,” the man stated. “That’s trespassing.”
“I am a teacher from Mrs. Evans’s School for Ladies. We are conducting the day’s study in the field.”
His scowl showed no sign of departing. “I don’t care if you’re Mrs. Evans herself, this is still government property. Regulation states that you must obtain permission to be here. Mr. Blackthorn didn’t tell me he’d given anyone permission to walk on lighthouse property.”
Louise set her jaw. “He has never objected to my presence in the past.”
“He gave you permission then?”
“No one has ever needed permission before. Why, many walk to the lighthouse in order to visit with members of the Blackthorn family.”
“That’s different,” he acknowledged. “The walkways are open to everyone, but you are not on them.”
The man was being most impertinent. “According to the late President Lincoln, our nation’s government is of the people, by the people and for the people. Thus, government property belongs to the people of this country.”
The girls twittered. A most inopportune reaction, for it clearly incensed the man standing before her.
His face darkened. “And the people have elected representatives to put laws in place. Those laws state that the land surrounding a lighthouse is set aside as federal government property. The marking posts and signs are clear.” He pointed to a half-buried post. “You are trespassing.”
“We are a small group of women. What harm can we do?”
“Don’t you know that the previous lighthouse collapsed into the river thanks to erosion?”
Louise did not, but she saw no relevance in this point. “I’m certain a small group of women were not responsible for undermining the structure.”
“Footsteps break down the surface of the dune, making it easier for the sand to slide downhill.”
The hulking man was grasping at straws, and she had no intention of letting him push her from her purpose. Ordinarily she preferred calm to the storm, but this man was utterly unreasonable.
“Fine. I will speak with Mr. Blackthorn, then.” Louise began walking in the direction of the lighthouse, expecting this newcomer, whoever he might be, to stand aside.
He did not. “I will speak to Mr. Blackthorn. If he approves your study, I will personally deliver that news to the school. Until then you may return to your classroom.”
Odious, impossible man! She pointed her magnifying glass at his far-too-broad chest. “There are no plants inside the classroom. That is why we are in the field.”
“Then choose another field outside government property.”
“This happens to be the sole specimen of artemisia campestris within easy walking distance.”
He bent to grab the plant, as if to yank it from the sand.
“Stop!” Louise grabbed his hand and was shocked by its warmth and strength. “Don’t kill it.”
“It’s a plant.”
She removed her hand and felt the heat flood her cheeks. What had possessed her to touch a man she didn’t even know? A handsome man. A man that her students found more than attractive.
The whispering behind her had begun again. She could just imagine what they were saying. Priscilla might consider it a breach of etiquette. The girl could make trouble for her—or for the school.
“Are you all right?” The man peered at her.
She looked at the dune, at the sky, at anything other than the comely visage before her. She pressed a hand to her midsection, though it was her heart that raced.
“Perhaps I did overexert myself.”
His lips twitched, as if a smile wanted to break out. “In that case, let me escort you down the dune. Simply point out the building where your school is housed, Miss...?”
He must be terribly new to town if he didn’t know that Mrs. Evans’s School for Ladies was the closest building to the lighthouse, excepting a lumber warehouse and the second sawmill.
He extended an arm. “Miss?”
She cleared her throat, realizing she hadn’t introduced herself. “Mrs., actually. Mrs. Smythe. I’m widowed.”
My, that had come out just as flustered as she felt. And her cheeks must be blazing red. What an outstanding mess of things she’d made.
The twittering behind her had stopped, so she hazarded a glance at the man. He was smiling—no, grinning—as if he thought he’d triumphed by making her blush!
Louise
