Courting Miss Amsel (7 page)

Chapter
SEVEN

Edythe stumbled in the direction of the staircase, but Mrs. Kinsley caught her upper arms and held her in place.

“Miss Amsel, what in the ever-lovin’ blazes is the matter?” Bewilderment puckered the woman’s face. “Sit down here.” Mrs. Kinsley pressed her onto the settee and sat beside her, slipping her arm around Edythe’s shoulders. “What’s this cryin’ about?”

Edythe could never remember behaving so childishly, not even when she was young, before Mama died. Dissolving into tears as an adult of twenty-eight years brought a rush of embarrassment. Yet the comfort of Mrs. Kinsley’s warm, motherly arm was strangely welcome, and she didn’t want to leave the soothing touch.

“I’m so sorry.” She swiped viciously at her cheeks, erasing the moisture. “I’m fine – truly I am. We’d better eat before the food grows cold.” She started to rise.

Mrs. Kinsley pulled her back down. “That roast’ll keep. Stay put ’til we sort this out.” Cupping her hand over Edythe’s knee, she gave a gentle squeeze. “I been livin’ almost sixty years now, an’ I’ve learned a thing or two about tears. Most of the time, they’re for a reason. But tears in and of themselves don’t solve a problem. Takes a little more – usually talkin’ things out. I know we’re newly acquainted an’ you got no good reason to confide in me, but I’m willing to listen.”

More tears gathered in Edythe’s eyes at the woman’s firm yet warm tone. For the past fourteen years, she’d carried every burden alone. A part of her longed to share her concerns, but it had been so long since she’d opened herself to anyone, she wasn’t sure how to begin.

Mrs. Kinsley folded her arms over her chest. “This have somethin’ to do with that letter you toted here yesterday?”

Edythe stared at her landlady. “How did you know?”

The lines around Mrs. Kinsley’s eyes deepened. “I seen how you kept fingerin’ the envelope durin’ supper last night. You hardly ate a thing. Then durin’ the night you was cryin’.”

Edythe drew in a sharp breath. “You heard me?”

Mrs. Kinsley shrugged. “Sound carries through the grate under your bed.” She gave Edythe’s knee another pat. “I think you’ll feel better if you talk about it, but if you’d rather not, I’ll understand.”

A few seconds of silence ticked by while Edythe nibbled her lower lip, contemplating what to do. Finally, Mrs. Kinsley sighed and braced her hands on her knees. “All right, missy, I can take a hint. Let’s – ”

The title
missy
pierced Edythe straight through the heart. She grasped her landlady’s bony wrist. “Mrs. Kinsley, what you said about Mr. Townsend earning a crown in Heaven for caring for someone else’s children . . .” Tears threatened once more. She blinked several times, sending them away. “Did you mean that?”

The woman pulled back, surprise on her wrinkled face. “Sure I did.”

“So . . . if you had the chance . . . you’d take in someone in need of a home?”

Mrs. Kinsley chuckled. “Seems to me I already did.” She assumed a conspiratorial air. “Town’s never had a lady teacher – always been a man. Nobody thinks twice if a man lives on his own, but havin’ a young lady livin’ all alone just didn’t set right with the town council. So they asked if I’d be willin’ to provide you with room an’ board. Bedroom at the top of the stairs not bein’ used for more’n takin’ up space, so I said I’d be proud to host the new schoolmarm.”

Mrs. Kinsley laughed softly. “Now, it’s not that I think of you as a child – it’s plain to see you’re a woman grown – but you were needin’ a roof over your head, an’ I provided it.” Her eyes flew wide. “But don’t think I did it out of hopin’ to earn a crown or to add a few dollars to my bank account.”

Although Edythe had only known Mrs. Kinsley for a week, she already knew the woman was not selfish. Crusty, perhaps, but not selfish. Edythe hung her head. “You aren’t selfish. But I am.”

“You?” The word blasted out on a note of incredulity. “Why, you’re a schoolmarm – givin’ your time an’ talent to a passel of youngsters. Why’n thunder would you say you were selfish?”

The tears Edythe had tried to squelch returned to pour down her cheeks in warm rivulets. “I did a terrible thing. I – I left home, and I left my sister behind.” Once the words started, she couldn’t control them any more than the tears that continued to rain down her face. “Missy is fourteen, the same age I was when my mother died. Being the oldest, I took over our entire household at fourteen. Missy was only a baby then, and I had four other siblings besides.”

“Land sakes.” Mrs. Kinsley’s blue eyes grew round. “That’s a fearsome load for a young girl.”

Edythe nodded, gulping. “It was hard, being ma to my brothers and sisters. Especially when Pa . . .” She shook her head, dispelling unpleasant memories. “The children might as well have been mine alone for all the attention he paid them.”

Mrs. Kinsley slipped her arm around Edythe again and gave her several pats. “Sounds to me like you’ve been earnin’ your crown, too.”

Edythe jolted away from the woman’s kind touch. “I don’t deserve a crown. As soon as Missy was old enough – the very age at which I was forced to grow up – I left her. All the others were out on their own. I decided not to wait until Missy grew up. I’d given my family fourteen years already . . . half of my life . . .”

Edythe paused, her mind tripping through the years of service, the years of waiting until she could grasp freedom from the responsibilities thrust upon her far too soon. “So despite my father’s endless pleas for me to stay home and care for Missy and for him, I earned my teaching certificate and I left. I left them all behind.”

Guilt sent her pacing the room, a feeble attempt to escape its clutches. “And now my brother Justus wrote to tell me Missy ran away. I’d asked Justus and his wife to keep her, but . . . but she missed me, so she ran away. No one knows where she is.” Worry and fear struck like lightning, nearly driving Edythe to her knees. “She’s only fourteen – a mere child, the same age as dear Martha Sterbinz. How could I have been so selfish? Why didn’t I stay?”

Mrs. Kinsley came at Edythe with open arms, wrapping her in a tight embrace. Edythe clung to the older woman, grateful for her understanding. She sniffed hard while Mrs. Kinsley rubbed her back.

“Don’t you go blamin’ yourself. Seems to me you gave your family plenty – more’n most would’ve done.” The encouraging contact of the woman’s warm palm was a healing balm to Edythe’s aching soul. “You need to be proud of the way you stepped in an’ played mama for your brothers an’ sisters. As for Missy . . .” Mrs. Kinsley took hold of Edythe’s shoulders and set her aside. “We’ll just be prayin’ that she comes to her senses an’ goes home.”

Edythe began pacing again. “She’ll never go home. Not to Pa. He’s so . . .” Edythe came to a stop. She sought an appropriate word. “Bitter. He wears one down with his constant melancholy.”

“Losin’ his wife like he did could bitter a man,” Mrs. Kinsley said.

Edythe shook her head. “It wasn’t losing Mama that soured him. It was something much less important.” But Edythe had no desire to discuss that part of her past life – it was over, it couldn’t be changed, and it needed to stay buried. As a teacher, she intended to make sure none of her students ever suffered the same fate as her illiterate father. “I wrote to Missy, asking her forgiveness, but now . . .” She bit her lip as another wave of guilt threatened to overwhelm her.

“Miss Amsel, if there’s one lesson I’ve learned more’n any other, it’s worry don’t add one day to our lives.” The woman marched forward and gave Edythe’s shoulders a squeeze. “All the stewin’ in the world won’t change the fact that your sister decided she wasn’t going to stay put. Stewin’ won’t find her. Stewin’ won’t do nothin’ more than give you dyspepsia.”

Despite herself, Edythe laughed. “Mrs. Kinsley . . .”

The woman put on an innocent face. “You think I’m funnin’ you? I’ve had my share of dyspepsia spells, an’ I can tell you from experience, they don’t do a body any good.” She smiled. “Listen, young’uns do foolish things. Your sister’s young – impetuous, yes?”

Edythe gave a hesitant nod. Missy was prone to rash behavior. Sometimes Edythe thought she behaved impulsively to garner Pa’s attention – to make him think about someone other than himself.

Mrs. Kinsley continued. “Could it be that in the time it took your brother’s letter to get from there to here, she already realized her foolishness an’ went on home?”

A bubble of hope bounced through Edythe’s chest. “I . . . I suppose it’s possible.”

“Then that’s what we’re gonna hang on to.” Mrs. Kinsley slung her arm around Edythe’s waist and led her toward the kitchen. “ ’Til we hear otherwise, we’re gonna pray, believin’ that your sister is safe an’ sound.”

They sat at the table and Mrs. Kinsley asked a blessing for the food. The woman added, “An’ thank You, Lord, for keepin’ Missy safe – we trust You to take care of that girl, since we can’t. Amen.”

Mrs. Kinsley filled Edythe’s plate to overflowing with oven-browned vegetables and tender slices of beef. Although the food was cold from sitting so long neglected, Edythe found it surprisingly flavorful, and her stomach growled in anticipation. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

Mrs. Kinsley harrumphed. “Considerin’ you hardly ate two bites last night an’ slept through breakfast this mornin’, I’m not surprised.” Then she grinned. “But seein’ you eat good now tells me you’re lettin’ loose of your worry for Missy.”

Should she be eating when she didn’t know if Missy was at this very moment going hungry? She lowered her fork.

“You stop that right now.” The woman’s sharp words startled Edythe. The landlady pointed to Edythe’s plate with her fork. “Don’t just sit there starin’ at your plate. Eat up.” When Edythe didn’t reach for her fork, Mrs. Kinsley snapped, “Is not eatin’ gonna make any difference for Missy? ’Course not – it’ll only make you sick. Gal as thin as you can’t afford to be skippin’ meals. So eat.” She gentled her voice. “Things’re gonna be fine – you mark my words.”

Desire to believe Mrs. Kinsley’s proclamation created a pressure in Edythe’s breast. “How can you be so sure?”

“We placed your sister in God’s hands. He’s capable of takin’ care of her better than you or me or anybody else could.” Mrs. Kinsley went back to eating, unconcerned.

Edythe forced herself to lift her fork to her mouth. But while she chewed and swallowed, eating by rote rather than for pleasure, she replayed her landlady’s words. “
We placed your sister in God’s hands
. . .” “We” intimated Edythe had done so, too, but she had no concept of what it meant to place something in God’s hands.

Chapter
EIGHT

By midweek, Edythe began to question the wisdom of visiting all her pupils’ folks. She still believed becoming acquainted with each family was a good idea, but exhaustion plagued her.

After teaching all day – and dealing with William Sholes’s persistent shenanigans; what would it take to make the boy settle down and behave? – she lacked energy to carry her through the evening. In hindsight, she wished she had planned the visits for every other evening rather than back to back, which would have given her some time to recuperate in between. But the schedule was set, people expected her – many of whom had insisted on cooking her supper – and she would honor the commitment. Surely she could handle the hectic pace for a mere three weeks. . . .

She gave the traces a little tug, prompting Mrs. Kinsley’s mare to turn in at the lane leading to the Libolt place. A square log house surrounded on three sides by now-empty fields waited at the end of the dirt lane. With its porch lit by two lanterns and yellow light glowing behind the uncurtained windowpanes, the little house sent out a cheery welcome despite its plain appearance. Gertie seemed to think so, too, because she broke into a trot that closed the distance.

Edythe set the brake and hopped down. She wrinkled her nose as the ceaseless wind carried the acrid scent of charcoal to her nostrils. Apparently Mr. Libolt, like many of the other farmers around Walnut Hill, had been burning off the stubble in his fields.

Brushing the travel dust and wrinkles from her full skirt, she stepped onto the porch and lifted her hand to knock on the planked door. But before her knuckles connected with wood, the door swung open and nine-year-old Henry greeted her with a gap-toothed grin. He hollered over his shoulder, “Ma! Schoolmarm’s here!”

At once, Mrs. Libolt bustled from the stove, where an enticing scent wafted from a large black pot. A toddler trailed beside her, clinging to his mother’s skirts. Mrs. Libolt held her hands out in greeting. “Miss Amsel, come right on in. Henry, close that door tight, now – evening air’s turned cool. Anna, don’t dawdle – finish settin’ that table. Willie, come get Claude before he trips me.”

The children all bustled to obey. The littlest one wailed when Willie grabbed him around the middle and hauled him to the opposite side of the room, but Mrs. Libolt’s laugh carried over the child’s high-pitched protest. “Young’uns . . . always underfoot.” The woman’s bright smile put Edythe at ease. “We’re proud you come to join us for supper. The children’ve been excited.”

From the table, Anna chirped, “Mama made biscuits an’ heart stew!”

Edythe swallowed. “H-heart stew?” Suddenly the aroma didn’t seem quite as pleasant.

Mrs. Libolt nodded, her smile never dimming. “Oh yes, the heart’s the most tender part of the beef. It’s one of our favorites, an’ when we butchered last weekend, the young’uns insisted I save the heart an’ cook it up for their schoolmarm’s visit.”

“My . . .” What could she say? “How thoughtful of them.”

Catching Edythe’s arm, Mrs. Libolt drew her farther into the simple, unadorned room. “You don’t need to stand there by the door. Give Henry your cloak – sure is a pretty one. Don’t see many velvet cloaks around Walnut Hill.” The woman stroked the expanse of red fabric draping over Edythe’s shoulder. “I’m thinkin’ Miz Scheebeck’s got one, but bein’ the mercantile owner’s wife an’ gettin’ a discount from the catalog, she can afford one better’n the rest of us.”

Edythe, uncertain how to respond, slipped her cloak free and laid it across Henry’s waiting arms. Mrs. Libolt’s gaze followed Henry as he moved to the sitting area of the room and placed the deep red cloak over the back of a chair. The longing in the other woman’s eyes made Edythe feel guilty. She’d chosen her nicest worsted suit and fine velvet cloak out of deference for Mr. Libolt’s position on the town council. Now, looking at the rustic cabin and the woman’s humble calico skirt and muslin shirtwaist, she felt decidedly overdressed and out of place.

Smoothing her hands over the well-fitted waist of her garnet dress, she said, “May I help with anything?”

Mrs. Libolt’s jaw dropped. “You’re our guest! You just sit down over there – the young’uns’ll keep you company while I finish up. Soon as Hank comes in – he’s seein’ to the barn critters – we’ll commence to eatin’. Won’t be long now. Go ahead an’ sit.” She shooed Edythe the way Edythe often shooed her students from one area to another.

Edythe allowed Anna to lead her past the table set with dented tin plates and mismatched cutlery to the sitting area. She and Anna sat side by side on the sawdust-stuffed settee, and the toddler brother sidled up to lean on her knees. When Anna tried to get him to talk, he put his finger in his mouth and turned shy. But Henry, Anna, and Will made up for their little brother’s lack of words. Their comments tumbled one on top of the other as they each shared whatever they deemed important.

Listening to the children’s jabber while their mother worked cheerfully at the stove and occasionally sent a smile in their direction, Edythe felt better about planning these visits to the children’s homes. Not only did the parents seem pleased to host the new teacher for an evening, seeing the children at home gave her a completely different perspective of them.

On Monday evening, Jane Heidrich, who rarely spoke or smiled in class, nearly bubbled while showing the schoolmarm her chickens and the pigs she’d raised. Clearly, Jane felt more confident on her family’s farmstead than in the classroom, and Edythe had made a mental note to offer the girl lots of encouragement. The two little Ellsworth girls, magpies in class, were apparently overwhelmed by having their teacher in their home on Tuesday. They’d sat wide-eyed and silent through the entire meal. Now, on her third night of visiting, the Libolt children, whom Edythe had dubbed “animated,” proved they were much more energetic in their home than in the schoolhouse.

By the time Hank Libolt entered the room and Mrs. Libolt called everyone to the table, Edythe was grateful Henry, Anna, and Will exhibited restraint in the classroom; their enthusiastic chatter wore out her ears. They fell silent, however, when their father folded his hands to say grace. Mr. Libolt’s formal, almost terse, way of addressing God differed from Mrs. Kinsley’s ease in speaking with her Maker, but Edythe reminded herself she shouldn’t try to assess prayers. She knew little, if anything, about what it meant to talk to God. She ought to pray for Missy each day, the way Mrs. Kinsley did, but thus far Edythe had allowed her landlady to offer all of the prayers.

“Here now, Teacher, you hand me your plate.” Mrs. Libolt held her hand toward Edythe, a smile splitting her face. “Guests first.”

Edythe did as she was bid, and Mrs. Libolt ladled a huge serving of meat and vegetables swimming in a thick brown gravy onto Edythe’s plate. Edythe kept her hands in her lap and waited while Mrs. Libolt filled the other plates. Mr. Libolt and the children plucked up spoons and began to eat as soon as they had food in front of them. A year ago, Edythe would have done the same thing, unaware of societal niceties. But she’d learned more than teaching skills at the normal school – her fellow students, many of whom came from more genteel backgrounds, had unwittingly taught Edythe how to be a lady. So whether those around her exhibited proper manners or not, she chose to do so. Perhaps her students would absorb some of the social graces.

Anna, seated on Edythe’s left, gave her a puzzled look. “Why ain’t you eating, Miss Amsel? Don’t you like stew?”

“Oh yes, I like stew a great deal.”
Heart
stew, though? She wasn’t sure. “I’m letting mine cool a bit so I don’t burn my tongue.”

Anna grinned. “Just blow on it.” She blew so hard, broth spattered across the table. Mr. Libolt scowled, and Anna hunched over her bowl.

Edythe lifted her spoon and took a hesitant bite. The flavor was exactly like beef roast stew, but the thought of what she held in her mouth made it hard for her to swallow. She silently congratulated herself for achieving one bite and dipped her spoon a second time.

“So, Teacher – ” Mr. Libolt met Edythe’s gaze from across the table. No smile lit his face. “What were you doin’ with the young’uns out on the play yard with all them ropes?”

Edythe lowered her spoon, confused until she remembered the activity from last week. “Oh, you’re referring to the learning project on latitude and longitude.” She flashed a smile at Henry. “Although it was a lesson for the fourth- and fifth-grade students, your Henry caught on to naming the degrees quite well. I was proud of him.”

Henry beamed, but Mr. Libolt’s frown deepened. “Latitude and long . . . what?”

“Longitude, Pa.” Henry’s skinny chest puffed. “It’s like the earth is all covered with lines an’ people use ’em to find a place anywhere in the world – even in China!”

Angry streaks rose from Mr. Libolt’s neck to his cheeks. He gave his son a stern glare. “You just hush there.” Henry ducked his head, and the man pinned Edythe with the same glower. “The young’uns around here’ll be farmers one day. How is knowin’ how to find some place like . . . like
China
” – he made the word sound offensive – “gonna do ’em any good?”

Mrs. Libolt released a high-pitched laugh, and her hand fluttered by her throat. “Oh, now, Hank, I’m sure Miss Amsel’s got her reasons for teachin’ what she does. She means well.”

Edythe squirmed as the man shot his wife a silencing scowl. “Mr. Libolt, I – ”

“Our youngsters don’t need anything fancy. Teach ’em readin’, writin’, arithmetic . . . some history so they know about their country.” Mr. Libolt plunked his spoon onto the table, nodding at his own words. “Maybe use the
Farmers’ Almanac
for lessons on weather an’ when it’s best to plant – that’d serve ’em fine. But all that jumpin’ around on ropes seems plumb foolish to me.”

The man’s comments carried Edythe backward in time. Her father’s voice rang in her memory:
“You . . . becomin’ a teacher? Plumb foolishness. You’re an Amsel, girl – mule stubborn an’ rock dumb. You can’t teach nobody nothin’ worth knowin’.”

Determinedly, she met Mr. Libolt’s narrowed gaze. “It seems you and I view the purpose of an education from opposite perspectives. You believe teaching should be limited to fundamentals. While I certainly see fundamentals as the base of learning, I believe a good teacher also strives to expand a child’s knowledge, to open him to new and exciting ideas and worlds beyond the limited scope provided by the basic subjects.”

Edythe lifted her chin and continued, her voice strong. “When the children finish their year with me, I hope they will have made strides in their reading and ciphering skills. But more importantly, I hope they will be better
thinkers
. It is my goal that the children grow as students, but also as people living in a constantly changing world.”

Mrs. Libolt stared at Edythe, her jaw slack. The children, with the exception of little Claude, who went on eating, held their spoons in their motionless hands and gaped at their teacher. Edythe realized her voice had risen during her lengthy discourse. Aware that she’d made everyone around the table uncomfortable, she sank a bit lower into her chair.

Mr. Libolt’s face glowed bright red, and he folded his thick arms over his chest. “Sounds to me like you’re wantin’ to make our young’uns unhappy with the life they got here. You’re wantin’ ’em to think about takin’ off” – he threw one arm outward, nearly clopping Claude on the side of the head – “an’ bein’ more’n farmers. Aren’t farmers good enough for you, Teacher?”

How had the conversation turned combative so quickly? Although many of the students in her classroom would certainly turn to farming when they finished their education, she wanted them to know other opportunities existed. But how to explain that without making the man feel inferior for choosing farming as his vocation?

Finally, settling on an answer, she swallowed and spoke in a calm, reasonable voice that belied the nervous churning in her belly. “Mr. Libolt, I assure you I do not view farming as less important than other occupations. In fact, my own father was a farmer.”
Until he lost our family’s homestead . . .
“I have no intention of
dissuading
students from becoming farmers. If that’s what they choose, I will encourage them in the endeavor and attempt to instill in them the skills they need to be successful.”

Mr. Libolt’s frown did not lessen, but Edythe plunged bravely onward. “But I feel it is my duty to let the children know how many opportunities exist.” She held out her hands in supplication. “What if Henry or Little Will wishes to become a doctor, or to one day move to a big city and work in a factory? Shouldn’t he be given the chance to explore other occupations that might be of interest to him?”

The man snorted. His wife chided, “Hank . . .” He snorted again.

Edythe bristled. Mr. Libolt’s reaction too closely mirrored her father’s behavior. Despite her intention to speak calmly, her tone turned sharp. “You would deny your son the pursuit of his own dream because it doesn’t align with what you chose for his life?”

“You’re bein’ impertinent, missy.”

The man’s growling tone sent a warning Edythe knew she should heed. How would Mr. Libolt respond if she told him she would have been trapped in a life of servitude, battling bitter regret, had she followed her father’s plans for her? Having discovered the courage to flee Ed Amsel’s entrapment, she could not sit idly by and watch this father squelch his children’s dreams.

She took a deep breath. “Mr. Libolt, I’m sincerely sorry that you don’t see the value in subjects beyond the rudimentary. But I cannot modify my personal objective as a teacher to bow to your” –
narrow-minded
quivered on her tongue, but she caught herself and replaced it – “opposing view. I hope you will respect my position as much as I respect yours.”

Mr. Libolt stared at her, his lips forming an upside-down U of displeasure. Before he could speak, Mrs. Libolt screeched her chair backward and rose. She flashed a too-bright smile around the table. “I baked up an apple-walnut cake for dessert. Who’d like some?”