Belonging Page 3

  “Miss Kristoffersen. How are you today?”

  “I’m well, thank you, Mr. Murphy.”

  “Is there something you need?”

  “Yes.” She held a slip of paper toward him. “I’ve written down everything that I require.”

  He shook his head, not taking the paper from her. “Just tell me what you’re after, and I’ll get it for you.” He moved toward the wall and took up a large basket. “It’s faster that way.”

  “All right,” she answered, a note of surprise in her voice. “I need a scrub brush … a house broom … some China laundry soap …”

  Colin moved around the store, finding the requested items quickly. The smaller items went into the basket, the broom he leaned against the counter.

  “Some English breakfast tea … a pair of reading spectacles, number thirty … and fishing tackle.”

  “Fishing tackle?” He stopped and turned to face her, certain he’d misunderstood.

  “Are there no streams or rivers to fish in hereabouts?”

  “Well, yes. But—”

  “Then I shall require fishing tackle. I enjoy the exercise it provides as well as being outdoors, and I like nothing so much as fresh trout for dinner.”

  He wouldn’t have pegged her as the outdoors type, but he wasn’t one to argue with a customer. Her money was as good as anyone’s. “What precisely do you need?”

  “I was unable to bring any gear with me.” A pink flush colored her pale cheeks. “I shall require all of the basics. Pole, reel, line, hooks, basket, landing net. That should suffice for now. But I—,” the blush deepened, “I must be careful how much I spend. Until I draw my first pay.”

  “Of course. I understand. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll put everything together for you.”

  Felicia relaxed a little after Colin Murphy turned away. It was galling to have to admit her funds were in such short supply. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, of course. That was her pride. And as everyone knew, pride went before a fall.

  “Miss Kristoffersen?”

  She turned to find the Murphy girl standing nearby. Charity wore a simple gingham dress of green and white with stockings on her feet but no shoes. Her dark hair was caught back at the nape with a wrinkled white ribbon, the bow uneven.

  “Have you been over to see the schoolhouse yet?” the child asked.

  Felicia nodded. “Yes, I went this morning. The classroom needs a good scrubbing before school starts. I thought I would take care of that tomorrow morning when it isn’t quite so hot.”

  “Can I help you? “

  “May you help me.” She smiled to soften the correction. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather play with your friends than help me clean?”

  “Nah. I can play with Suzanne and Phoebe anytime, and I like to help. Honest.”

  “Well, I suppose the answer is yes, then, as long your father doesn’t mind.”

  “Can I—I mean, may I, Papa?”

  Colin reached to take a fishing rod from a display on the far wall. “May you what?”

  “Help Miss Kristoffersen clean the schoolhouse.”

  That brought him around. “If you want to clean, you could start with your room.”

  “Papa.” Charity rolled her eyes.

  Felicia stifled a laugh.

  Colin looked at her. “She might be more hindrance than help. She can be a chatterbox.”

  Felicia smiled. “I believe I should like her company anyway.”

  “Then I suppose it’s okay by me.” He turned back to the display of fishing tackle, this time selecting a reel.

  As she watched him, Felicia found herself wondering about his wife. She had yet to meet Mrs. Murphy. Hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of the woman yesterday or today. She hoped they would meet soon. She would like to thank her for the use of the lovely cottage. Surely a woman had a hand in making it so warm and welcoming.

  Perhaps we’ll become friends.

  She would like to have a friend, someone with whom she could share her thoughts, her hopes and dreams. She’d enjoyed some casual friendships while in normal school, but she hadn’t had a close, tell-me-your-secrets, share-with-me-your-dreams kind of friendship since she left the city of Chicago at the age of ten. Back then it had been with a girl named Jana Lynch, who’d lived in the same tenement building, one flight up. The two of them, who’d shared not only their deepest secrets but also the same birthday, had been thick as thieves. But after leaving Chicago, Felicia had lost touch with Jana, just as she had with her brother and sister.

  It would be nice to have someone like Jana in her life again. Felicia didn’t mind being alone. Solitude was not a thing to be dreaded. But it would be nice to have a friend, all the same.

  “Miss Kristoffersen?”

  Lost in thought, she hadn’t realized Colin Murphy had turned to look at her once again. “Yes?”

  “I’ll have to place an order for a trout basket and the reading spectacles. I’ll have them in by next week.”

  “That will be fine.” She followed him to the counter, where he quickly totaled her purchases.

  “Three dollars and eighteen cents,” he said as he looked up.

  Oh dear. Her small savings would surely not last her for the next five weeks at this rate.

  “If you’d like, I can put it on account.”

  Felicia shook her head. “No, I prefer to pay for it now. But thank you.”

  If the frugal Kristoffersens had drummed anything into her head over the years she was with them, it was that she should never live beyond her means. The Frenchman’s Bluff school board had provided her not only with housing but with a well-stocked larder. Her needs should be few in the weeks to come. Surely she could manage until she received her pay, even with the cost of cleaning supplies and fishing gear.

  She opened her purse and counted out the coins until they equaled the amount due. “I believe that’s accurate.” She slid the money across the counter.

  “Do you need help carrying everything?”

  “No, I—”

  “I’ll help her, Papa!” Charity hurried to stand beside Felicia, her eyes bright with excitement, as if carrying a customer’s purchases was the highlight of her day. “Can I help, Miss Kristoffersen?”

  “May I,” Felicia corrected again. “May I help. And yes, you may.” She looked down at Charity’s stockinged feet. “But I think you’d better put some shoes on first.”

  “Oh! Right! I’ll get ‘em.” In an instant, Charity disappeared into the adjoining living quarters.

  A short while later, Felicia and the girl entered the cottage behind the mercantile. Felicia set the items in her arms on the kitchen table, and Charity followed suit.

  “Do you often help your father in the store?”

  “Sure. Lots.” Charity leaned over and sniffed the roses that were still in the indent of the table. “He likes me to be there with him most of the time.”

  “And what of your mother?”

  Charity glanced up. “I don’t have a mother. She died when I was little.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  The girl shrugged. “I don’t remember her.”

  “I was ten when my mother passed away.” Felicia sank onto a chair. “I still miss her.”

  “I’m eight.”

  “Are you? I thought you were at least nine.”

  “I am, almost. My birthday’s comin’ up in September. September fifth. Ten more days.” She took a quick breath. “Papa says I look like my mama.”

  Felicia smiled at the girl. “Then your mother must have been very pretty.”

  “Papa says so.”

  She felt a tug of empathy for her landlord. He too knew about the loss of a loved one. Perhaps that explained his reserve. Perhaps he wasn’t as emotionally withdrawn from his daughter as she’d first thought him.

  “Are you gonna go fishing today?” Charity asked.

  “No. Not today. And tomorrow I’m going to be busy at the school. But perhaps on Friday
, if someone will be kind enough to show me the way.”

  “I can show you. Papa and I go fishing on the river lots in the summer. I know the way to our favorite spot. I could take you there.”

  Felicia felt a rush of affection for the girl. “That’s very kind, Charity, but maybe your father doesn’t want anyone else to know the location of your favorite place to fish.”

  “He won’t care if you know.”

  “Well, we’ll see. Don’t tell me anything until you ask him.”

  FOUR

  The schoolhouse was a single-story, rectangular building with white clapboard siding and a gabled roof. It was set on a stone foundation that rose several feet above the ground, giving it a somewhat imposing air. Rather than being hung in a steeple, a cast-iron bell had been attached to the wall on the right side of the entry.

  On her second morning in Frenchman’s Bluff, Felicia stood in the opening that separated the cloakroom from the classroom, a sense of satisfaction and expectation rising in her chest. How she’d longed for this opportunity. The years of frustration were behind her now. Very soon she would stand before her students and begin teaching them. She would be able to open their eyes to a world beyond this land of sagebrush and rabbits, cattle and sheep. She wanted that for all of her students, of course, but especially for the girls. She wanted them to understand that they weren’t inferior to men, only different from them. That they could reach higher than they thought possible. That God had ever so much more in store for them than they could even dream.

  She set aside the water pail and wooden crate that held her cleaning supplies and walked about the classroom. A teacher’s desk sat on a raised platform at the front. Behind it, blackboards and chalk trays ran the full length of the room and continued halfway down the left wall as well. Eight windows, the lower halves covered with gingham curtains to discourage daydreaming, let in plenty of light for studying.

  Twenty-one student desks were arranged in three rows of seven, and as she walked down one of the aisles, her fingers trailing over the desktops, Felicia pictured each seat filled with a pupil, younger students in the front, older students in the back. Here, as elsewhere in the country, children often left school too soon, some of them by age thirteen or even younger. She wanted to change those dismal statistics in this community, in this school. She hoped she would one day see many of her students go on to study at universities.

  First, however, she must make a good impression on the parents and the members of the school board so they would want her to stay on as the teacher, year after year.

  “So I’d best get busy,” she said to herself as she began pushing desks toward the walls.

  “I’m here, Miss Kristoffersen!”

  Felicia turned in time to see Charity Murphy dash into the classroom.

  “Did you start without me?”

  “No.” Felicia laughed softly. “I haven’t begun anything except to move the desks.”

  “What can I do?”

  “We’ll need some water. Can you take the pail and fill it from the pump?”

  “Sure.”

  Bucket in hand, the girl disappeared as quickly as she’d arrived.

  Rolling up her sleeves, Felicia walked to the small storage closet in the back corner of the room. From it, she withdrew the sturdy broom she’d found there the previous day, along with a second water pail, and began sweeping the wooden tongue-and-groove floor, starting at the front and working her way toward the doorway. A few minutes later, she heard Charity’s voice outside. Again she smiled. Mr. Murphy was right. His daughter was a chatterbox, talking even when there was no one near.

  But she was mistaken about that. Charity wasn’t alone when she reentered the classroom. A woman was with her.

  “Mrs. Summerville,” Felicia said aloud, thankful she’d remembered her name. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Miss Kristoffersen. I heard you were giving our schoolhouse a good cleaning and hoped I could be of help to you.”

  “That’s very kind, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  Kathleen Summerville tied around her waist the apron she’d brought with her. “Don’t be silly. It’s no imposition. Where would you like me to start?”

  “And me,” Charity chimed in. “What d’ya want me to do? I got the water.”

  Felicia drew in a quick breath. “I’ll have you”—she looked at Charity—“wash the blackboards.” Her gaze shifted to Kathleen. “And you and I can scrub and oil the floor, if you don’t mind.”

  “It’s why I’m here. Let’s get started.”

  Charity must have had the opportunity to clean the blackboards before, for she knew exactly what to do. With a rag and the bucket of water in hand, she went to the far end of the blackboard. She needed a stool to reach the top part of the blackboard, but she didn’t seem to mind climbing on and off the stool again and again as she inched her way across the front of the room.

  The two women quickly set to work as well. Sharing a bucket of wash water between them, they got down on their hands and knees and began scrubbing the floor.

  “Where’s Suzanne and Phoebe?” Charity asked after a lengthy period of silence.

  “At home,” Kathleen answered. “They’re baking cookies with Mrs. Hasting. Maybe you’d like to go help them when you’re finished here.”

  “Oh, boy! Would I!”

  Felicia laughed along with Kathleen when both women noticed Charity moving the wet cloth in bigger and faster circles.

  “Your daughters and Charity must be good friends,” Felicia said as she applied more elbow grease to her own task.

  “Yes, they are. They’ve known one another since they were toddlers.”

  “And your husband? Is he in business here in Frenchman’s Bluff?”

  “My husband passed away two years ago this past spring.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Kathleen sat back on her heels. “Harold managed the bank for his father before he took ill.”

  “I’m sorry,” Felicia said again. “He must have been young when he died.”

  A bittersweet smile touched Kathleen’s lips. “Yes. Too young. After he died, the girls and I moved in with Harold’s parents. I don’t know what I would have done without them.” She shook her head, then said, “But you’ve lost someone too.” She motioned with the scrub brush toward Felicia’s black attire.

  Felicia answered the unspoken question. “The couple who raised me. They died last March.”

  For most of her life, she’d thought the Kristoffersens had adopted her. They’d introduced her to others as their daughter. She bore their surname. Not until they were dead had she learned the truth. There’d been no legal adoption. Perhaps they’d meant to, but they never had. And while the Kristoffersens hadn’t bothered to tell her she wasn’t legally their daughter, her “cousin” had been quick to set her straight.

  “Is that why you left Wyoming?” Kathleen asked, bringing Felicia’s thoughts to the present.

  “Yes.” It was easier to answer that way than to say she’d had only two choices: marry one of Lars Kristoffersen’s grandnephews or strike out on her own.

  The choice had been an easy one to make.

  Joe Reynolds, postmaster of Frenchman’s Bluff, placed a catalog and an envelope on the mail counter and slid them toward Colin. “See you’ve got another letter from Margaret’s mother.”

  Colin grunted an acknowledgment.

  “That woman’s more dependable than the turning of the seasons. Come rain or come shine, she writes to you and your girl every month.”

  “That she does.” Colin took the mail from the counter, the letter from his mother-in-law resting on top of the catalog. He didn’t have to wait to get home to know what the letter said. Olive Day would ask when Colin and Charity were coming for a visit. She would inquire about his daughter’s schooling and bemoan the absence of culture to be found in a small town. Then she would offer some sort of incentive to lure him back to Ohio.

  Why did the wo
man refuse to believe him when he told her that he and Charity planned to remain in Idaho, that they were content here, that this was their home? Yes, she was faithful in her correspondence, as Joe had said, but she was also obtuse. Or perhaps she was merely stubborn—not unlike Margaret had been at times.

  “Hey, I’ve got something here for the new schoolmarm.” Joe held up another envelope. “Mind takin’ it with you?”

  “Don’t mind at all.”

  Colin bid the postmaster a good day and exited the post office, pausing for a moment on the boardwalk. The day was shaping up to be another scorcher. It wasn’t yet noon, and already the heat was intense. But clouds were riding the western horizon. With any luck, they would sweep across the valley and bring rain, and cooler temperatures, with them.

  Colin tugged on the brim of his hat to better shade his eyes. He’d intended to return straightway to the mercantile, but instead, he set off in the direction of the schoolhouse. After all, he had a letter for Felicia Kristoffersen to deliver. He glanced at the envelope. An initial and last name were written in the upper left corner. A name that matched the one in the indent. A relative, no doubt, but who? Miss Kristoffersen hadn’t mentioned remaining family in her application. He’d gotten the impression she was alone in the world, but it didn’t seem so now. Who could it be?

  His curiosity surprised him. What did it matter who wrote to her or what the relationship was? She wouldn’t be in Frenchman’s Bluff for long. These single female teachers never were. And it would be the children who suffered because of the board’s tight fist with a dollar.

  He scowled. If he felt so sure that would happen, that Felicia Kristoffersen had come to their town only to find a husband, why was he allowing Charity to spend so much time with her? Wouldn’t it be better to limit their interactions as much as possible? He could have told Charity she had her own chores to do rather than let her join her teacher at the school.

  A few minutes later, as he climbed the steps of the building, he heard laughter coming from inside. When he stopped in the doorway to the classroom, he observed two women—Felicia Kristoffersen and Kathleen Summerville—on their knees, the fabric of their skirts dampened by wash water as they scrubbed the floor, and his daughter seated on a stool, watching them, a dirty rag in her hand.