CHAPTER 14.
Six months later…
Had so much time passed since the night I fled Briarwood Hall with my tail between my legs? Most would say it was but a dream. A trick played upon a frightened girl’s imagination. For me, once I arrived in New York, I was more than just a frightened girl. I was homeless, had no money, and was forced to beg for a moldy crust of bread.
Poverty is the quickest way to humble the proud.
I thought about sending a cable to my aunt, hoping she would take pity on me and offer me a place at her table. But I knew Eileen was better off without me. She had her dolls, her dollhouse, and a wardrobe full of frilly dresses with hair ribbons to match. What could I possibly offer her in my current predicament?
Now, one might argue I could have sold Anjuli’s sari. In my mind, that would have been an unforgiveable breach of trust. She had entrusted it to me to keep it safe. I would not fail her, no matter how hungry I was.
That’s not to say I wasn’t tempted.
I hope she never knows how close I came to exchanging a work of art for a bowl of watery soup. I don’t know how I managed to hold on to it. All I knew was that I was the guardian of something I did not wish to possess and guarded it with all the breath that was in me.
For that, I think Anjuli would have been grateful.
I hope she was wherever she may be.
Once I left England, I didn’t look back. I took what jobs I could, found a room at a rooming house, and counted my pennies. When I finally had enough, I took a train out to the last place anyone would dare to look.
South Dakota.
De Smet, to be exact.
A speck on the proverbial map if you wanted to be precise.
I didn’t know what I would do once I got there, but knew it would be extremely difficult to find me. And that was what I was afraid of. I had taken something that did not belong to me and was terrified the colonel would send Scotland Yard or hire a Pinkerton to track me down. He could have.
But he didn’t.
When a month went by, then two without so much as a postcard, I knew I was safe.
For now.
Eventually, I found employment. But that was only after I let my hands heal. Leaving England had the peculiar effect of closing my wounds. Though I was scarred for life. Maybe the sari had a magical quality to it. I was still a skeptic, no matter what I’d seen and heard. I was stubborn that way.
Forever the doubting Thomas.
That was my creed when I applied for a teaching position after the previous teacher, Miss Ellis, died shortly after the new year. The local school board required an oral examination for certification and references. I passed the oral exam but lacked the references, saying my previous employer would kindly pass them along as soon as they could locate the file.
Living with Colonel Havelock had given me more than scarred hands.
He had also taught me the fine art of mendacity.
I figured I’d work long enough to save up enough money and move back to Rhode Island. Maybe Canada. By then, I’d have references and experience to aid me in my quest for the perfect job. In the meantime, I found a place to live and began life as a schoolmarm.
I was happy.
For a time.
Like Anjuli once was. Sometimes I would take out her sari and stroke the delicate fabric, feeling sad I could not comfort her. I tried not to think about the colonel or my previous life at Briarwood Hall. I thought if I stayed, Colonel Havelock would have done to me eventually what he did to Anjuli.
There was no proof. No conclusive evidence that he did anything at all. All I knew was that he slowly went insane living in that house and would have acted on some wicked impulse to harm me.
That day in the conservatory, I’d seen it in his eyes. What he was capable of. What we are all capable of. As I doused the candle and slid into bed, I knew I had made the right decision.
It would all work out in the end… somehow.
* * *
When I first started teaching, the children resented my clipped manner of speech and made fun of my clothes. I’d brought nothing with me when I fled England and had to resort to secondhand shop finds that I tailored to my petite frame or gladly accepted donations from the local church.
Pride couldn’t keep you warm during a South Dakota winter.
Though awkward at first, I settled into a routine that found me up at six and in the classroom by seven. Miss Ellis had been a fifty-year-old Confederate widow from Houston who put the fear of God into her pupils with both a wooden ruler and something called a “Ten Timer.”
I don’t know what it was as Miss Ellis’ lesson plans were vague, but whenever I mentioned the subject, the students would pale and drop their slates. I decided I would not use the threat of punishment to enforce discipline and sought to earn their respect.
That was easier said than done.
Some of my pupils were taller than me and not averse to intimidation.
“I won’t,” Tommy said defiantly, rising from his seat. He towered over me by a head. Maybe two. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Clearing my throat, I knew if I showed fear, the others would never let me forget it. I thought about how I dealt with Colonel Havelock. “Very well, Mr. Garson. I will be certain to inform your father of your reticence in diagraming a sentence.”
I turned and walked away. Once at the chalkboard, I continued the lesson. Tommy Garson stuck out his tongue, arrogant and more defiant than ever. At the end of class, I wrote out a quick note and asked him to hand it to his father. “And don’t ball it up,” I said sweetly. “I shall write a note every day until your father reads it.”
Tommy eyed me resentfully, shoved it into his pocket, and went along his merry way.
Most of the boys were like that.
As I erased the lesson on the chalkboard, I thought his defiance might have something to do with the fact he wasn’t expected to do much after his eighth year. Most children of farmers and homesteaders were needed at home and only sent to school to learn how to read and write. Boys such as Tommy weren’t like Joshua. They were never expected to go to Yale or Harvard when they would be too busy pulling a plow.
It was a sad but realistic view.
Things were different on the homestead. You learned how to milk a cow, how to plant a crop, and married the first girl you held hands with at the ice cream social. I knew this because the girls liked to giggle about it. Many of them were not much older than me and had already handed out name cards to the young gentlemen who caught their fancy.
I thought it was rather forward to do such a thing.
But, like Mrs. Hutchins might say, “To each their own.”
A daily ritual of mine was to sweep out the classroom and straighten the desks. It helped calm me after a long day fighting Tommy Garson. The boy was frightening when provoked. I did my best to stand my ground, but I suspected he would keep pushing until I pushed back.
The eventual result would likely be messy and probably quite painful.
I didn’t want to think about it and continued tidying up the classroom. I swept up odd bits of paper and stubby ends of chalk. I placed books back on bookshelves and made certain the coal stove was ready to be lit. The thing was older than me and twice as mean, but necessary to brave South Dakota’s harsh winters. The blizzard of 1888 was the worst on record, with snowfall up to 40 inches in some places. Children were released from schoolhouses early and froze to death, trying to get home.
I swore that would never happen on my watch and kept a ready supply of coal stashed in the cloakroom.
Could one plan for every contingency? I tried. I kept small sandwiches and apples on hand in case some of the poorer students didn’t bring a dinner pail. I kept a small pot of tea nearby in case someone got thirsty. I purchased school supplies with my own money, keeping extra slate pencils and writing tablets tucked in my desk. I kept pins and sewing kits for torn hems. I even kept a stack of fresh handkerchiefs at the bottom of my drawer to dry the tears of those who scraped a knee or played too rough during recess.
I doubt my pupils knew how much I cared about them.
In a way, I substituted them for Eileen, whom I missed dearly.
Though we exchanged letters, I suspected my aunt intervened on my sister’s behalf. Half of the presents I sent never reached their recipient, for when I asked Eileen if she liked the picture books I’d sent, she replied they must have gotten lost in transit.
“Oh, well,” I liked to say whenever Eileen sent me a postcard or little gifts of perfumed cakes of soap. I would thank her profusely and apologize for the missing picture books.
When not struggling to teach a schoolhouse full of reluctant children, I occupied my time cleaning and decorating the small clapboard house De Smet provided for their teachers. It was located on the outskirts of town and within walking distance of the school. I was offered the use of a wagon and a team of dappled grays, but politely refused.
I was unfamiliar with the care and upkeep of horses and thought my plate was full already. So, I walked the three miles every day to and from my little schoolhouse. I didn’t mind.
It helped me think.
And I needed to think.
Though I tried not to think about Colonel Havelock, guilt gnawed at me like a ravenous lion. Sometimes, I’d read the local papers, trawling the international articles with my heart in my throat. There was never anything but the usual petty squabbles between ambitious members of parliament or some fracas in China.
1895 was shaping up to be a quiet year.
At least in my neck of the woods.
I finished sweeping the floor, took one last inspection of my little schoolhouse, and walked home.
