Most importantly, Angie was convinced the Lord had set Finley James aside jest for her.
Until the city lady showed up.
Angie had never known jealousy before; she’d never needed to. Her brothers adored her, her father depended heavily on her. He was always tellin’ her that she was the best catch around, that it was only a matter of time until Fin figured that out. Angie believed him. But Lucy Wilson changed things. She was prettier than Angie, and smarter, and knew more, and talked fancy and dressed fancy. Bother! Even Angie could see why Fin was smitten.
Did Lucy return his feelings? Was it possible she was growing sweet on him? She smiled and laughed plenty around him today.
Angie rolled on her back and stared at the ceiling. Every problem had a solution, her paw often said. Mebbe . . . Angie could find somebody older to start paying attention to Lucy Wilson. Mebbe then she’d act her age and leave Fin alone. But who?
Brother Wyatt? No. He was too holy a man for Lucy Wilson, too fine and good. City ladies needed city men.
Angie smiled. Andrew Spencer. Slick, polished, smooth talking, handsome as the devil. He’s jest the one. One dandy man for one dandy lady.
CORA WAS SELDOM IN HER OFFICE, and seldom relaxed. Moments like today, when no interruptions came at the door to pull her away from her desk, were a luxury. But when Lucy did have time alone with Cora, she felt as if she were starting to understand her, inside and out. Her father’s cousin was such a unique individual. Cora was a traditional woman in a man’s world, using every tool she could—charm, knowledge, enthusiasm, determination—to bring the light of learning into people’s lives. The more she was around Cora, the more inspired she was to try and be more like her.
On this foggy morning, Lucy finished a few letters and handed them to Cora to sign.
“While I look these over, might I ask you to make some tea?”
Lucy smiled. That was Cora’s invitation to sit a spell and visit. Those moments topped Lucy’s list of all-time favorites. When she returned to the office with two cups of hot tea, Cora had already pulled up Lucy’s chair next to her desk.
She accepted the cup from Lucy gratefully and took a sip. “Tell me, how did you enjoy the singing school?”
“I thought it was quite clever. And the mountain people certainly enjoyed themselves. You should have heard them moan and wail when Wyatt announced the last song.” Lucy sat back in her chair and blew on her tea to cool it. “Cora, it dawned on me that the reason the singing school is necessary, or at least the shape note notation, is because those people are illiterate.”
“Most are.” Cora sipped her tea. “Some are semi-literates. They might have had a bit of schooling here and there.”
“I’m a little ashamed to realize how I’ve taken for granted my education.”
“You and everyone else. Most Americans don’t realize what a privilege it is to read. It may shock you to know that two-thirds of the world cannot read.”
Lucy set her teacup on Cora’s desk. “But if they can’t read, how can they take part in the world? How can they vote? Or pay for goods and not get cheated?” She rose and paced the room. “I don’t mean to sound callous, but two-thirds of the world is an overwhelming statistic to grasp. What I do understand is that Barbara Jean Boling has six boys to raise and she can’t even write her own name. She had to scratch out a wobbly X on that letter to Valley View Lumber. Finley James struggled to make change from a dollar. Miss Mollie can’t even read a note from her own daughter.”
Cora’s eyebrows lifted. “I can tell you’re learning much about the people.”
“So far, what I’ve learned is that their day-to-day lives are incredibly hard.”
“True, but don’t pity them, Lucy. Don’t even think it. They’ll sense it from you and their pride will be wounded.” She picked up her pen to start back to work, then paused as a new thought came to mind. “The real pity boils down to illiteracy. It renders the mountain people victims.”
“How so?”
Cora put her pen down and leaned back in her chair. “It takes an effort of the imagination to put oneself in the place of the illiterate. To picture what life is like for one who must get all his information by ear. If a man cannot read or write or vote, he cannot speak. He is mute. He is forgotten. You might think it’s a pity they cannot read, but the real tragedy is they cannot speak.” She picked up her pen. “That, Lucy, is the real tragedy of the twentieth century.”
LATER IN THE WEEK, Paw asked if Angie would bring the boys to the livery after school and she agreed quickly. It gave her a chance to watch for Andrew Spencer. When she heard the jangles of a horse and wagon, she hurried to the front of the livery. There he was, at the railroad station looking over a load of freshly delivered lumber. Paw and the boys were in the back, so she hurried toward the station. She waited until Andrew Spencer finished talking to the wagon driver.
“Do you happen to know where Miss Lucy Wilson is? I been looking for her everywhere.”
He stopped and turned to face Angie. “Miss Lucy? Have you tried the superintendent’s office?”
“No, I haven’t. I’ll do that. I jest thought you might know her whereabouts, seeing as how she speaks of you so often.”
He preened like a rooster. “She speaks of me often, does she?”
“Oh my goodness, yes. She never stops talking about you. Your hair—”
His hand immediately smoothed his hair.
“—your sense of humor.”
He grinned.
“And then . . .” She glanced at the poster on the railroad bulletin board “. . . there’s the dance coming up on Saturday.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “Jest between you and me and the fencepost, I think she’s hopin’ you might ask her to go.”
“Is that right?”
“Well,” Angie said with a shrug. “What do I know? I jest listen a lot.”
ANDY SPENCER SEEMED to be everywhere at once. Lucy could barely turn around in town and there he was, smiling at her with his magnificent smile. Today, he appeared in Cora’s office with one hand behind his back, and whipped his hand around to reveal what he’d been hiding—a bouquet of spring flowers. “Come to the dance with me on Saturday night.”
She held the blossoms to her nose to inhale their scent. “Saturday?” Stalling, she started rooting through a cupboard for an empty mason jar. She thought she’d seen one, tucked away.
“Saturday night. You like music, don’t you? It’s supposed to be a real humdinger.”
“Of course I like music.” She found the jar and put the flowers in it. “I suppose that sounds fine.”
He leaned a little closer. “You could sound more excited.”
“I’m sorry, Andy. I am excited.” And she was, especially with him just inches away from her. He was an exciting man, dashingly handsome and full of life. She knew how delighted her father would be to hear that she was being courted by Andrew Spencer. If Hazel were to know, she would start addressing wedding invitations.
“Then why do you seem as if you’re a million miles away?”
She arranged the flowers in the jar. She didn’t want to tell him that Finley James had just delivered a letter from her father, telling her to expect him on the train tomorrow evening. It unsettled her. Her father rarely came to Morehead. “I just have a lot on my mind.”
Andy didn’t seem to know what to say next—and neither did Lucy—so she went out to the bathroom to fill the jar with water and when she returned, he had left. She found a note on her chair to be ready at half past seven for the dance on Saturday evening. At the bottom, he added an XO.
Her heart beat faster with excitement, her stomach flipped once or twice in nervousness. She looked again at the XO he’d scribbled. Everything about Andrew Spencer was made to order. So why did she feel such mixed emotions about him?
FATHER HAD ASKED Lucy to meet at the Gault Hotel for dinner at seven o’clock. When she arrived in the dining room, she found her father—and Hazel—at a corner tab
le, holding hands and whispering to each other. Lucy tried not to recoil, but there was something uncomfortable about seeing your father act like a silly schoolboy in love.
Her father spotted her first and jumped from his seat to greet her. “Lucille, come sit down.”
Lucy brushed cheeks with Hazel and sat down. As she spread the napkin over her lap, she smiled. “Hazel, you look quite well.”
“Do I?” She touched the hairs on the nape of her neck and gave a sideways coquettish look at her husband.
“Indeed, you look lovely, dear,” he said, kissing the back of Hazel’s hand. “You always do.”
Lucy took a sip from her water glass, trying not to cringe.
“Your father tells me that Andrew Spencer is squiring you around.”
“Squiring? Hardly that! We’ve only just met.”
“Your father thinks the world of him. A genius in business, he says.”
Lucy could see the hope in Hazel’s eyes and had a suspicion what was behind it: If Lucy were married, that would take care of her new husband’s former life. Check. Done. In the past.
“So what’s new in Lexington?”
“Well, I’ve convinced your father to redecorate the house.”
Lucy looked to her father for a response. He had never wanted to change anything. He kept his eyes lowered, buttering his bread as if it was the most dangerous task in the world.
“The décor is outdated,” Hazel said. “It needs brighter colors, some original and surprising elements—it needs personality.”
Oh, it had plenty of personality, all right. But that personality had belonged to Lucy’s mother.
“And . . .”
Lucy looked up.
“Your father is allowing me to redecorate Charlotte’s room.”
Lucy stilled. Her father hadn’t let anyone in that room, other than the housekeeper, who was permitted to dust it once a week.
Hazel reached over to stroke her father’s cheek. “We’re going to turn it into a nursery.”
“Oh, I see.” Slowly, her meaning dawned on Lucy. “Oh!” She looked at her father, whose eyes were fastened on his bride’s.
“Isn’t it wonderful news?” Hazel was glowing. “The baby is due in September, the doctor says.”
Lucy sat there, stunned. Yet she shouldn’t be stunned. Hazel was a young woman. She deserved to have a family of her own. Still . . . her father was no spring chicken.
Spring chicken. Oh my goodness. I’m starting to talk like the mountain people.
Fortunately, Hazel and her father were oblivious to Lucy’s shock. They were too busy staring into each other’s eyes.
“It is wonderful news,” Lucy said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. They both turned to her, as if they’d almost forgotten she was there. “Perhaps you’ll have a son, Father.”
He smiled, Hazel smiled, and Lucy couldn’t help but smile. They seemed so . . . happy.
But then Hazel’s smile faded. “There’s another reason we’ve asked you here tonight.”
More news? Lucy wasn’t sure she could stomach much more. Is this what it felt like to be afflicted with collywobbles?
Hazel placed her hand over Lucy’s and looked intently in her eyes. “I learned a very troubling thing. Your sister has never had a grave marker.”
Lucy looked to her father, who said nothing, just sat looking down at his plate. “I suppose . . . ,” she said, “that’s because there’s always been a hope that we might find Charlotte.”
“Oh Lucy, it’s been over eleven years now. It’s time. With your father’s permission, I’ve ordered the marker. It’ll be ready on Saturday. We plan to place it next to your mother’s grave. A small ceremony.”
A long, painful moment passed.
“We want you to be there for the ceremony,” Father said.
“But . . .”
“No buts,” he said, and then, “we . . . I . . . want you there.”
Lucy kept her expression stoic, but inside was swirling the old and terrible question: What had happened to Charlotte?
LUCY LEFT FATHER AND HAZEL at the Gault Hotel and walked slowly, deep in thought, down the road to Miss Maude’s boarding house.
There was no dissuading Hazel from insisting that Lucy return to Lexington for the ceremony of placing the headstone over Charlotte’s empty grave. At the heart of Lucy’s reluctance was that it meant all hope was lost that her sister would ever be found—something she and her father never had wanted to admit. Hazel, both pragmatic and forward moving, realized the time had come. Hazel wasn’t wrong. It just hurt so much to face that fact.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts that didn’t realize Brother Wyatt was behind her until he fell into step beside her.
“Must be something powerful going on in that head of yours. Called out to you so loud that a flock of birds took off.” He peered into the sky. “Frightened ’em clean off to another county.”
She stopped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. So you’re staying in town tonight?”
“Yes. Here to get my mail. I’m hoping my new music pamphlets have arrived.” He looked up the road toward the ridge. “Heading back up into the hills tomorrow. There’s another singing school on Sunday. Same place. Same brush arbor.” He turned to face her. “You’ll come?”
Sunday? “No. I don’t . . . think so.”
Wyatt took a step toward her. “Lucy, are you all right?”
Lucy shook her head. “No,” she confessed. “No, I’m not.”
“Can I help?”
“No. No one can.” She left him at the front door and hurried upstairs before she burst into tears. As soon as she reached her room, she flopped on the bed, in a bit of a state. The conversation with her father and Hazel had left her with a harsh recollection that, once begun, was nearly impossible to stop.
Staring up at the ceiling, she remembered that terrible day . . .
As Lucy and her father searched the railroad station, she was scared but certain Charlotte could be found. Her little sister was always sneaking off, getting into something she shouldn’t. Surely, she was hiding somewhere. It would be just like all those other times when Charlotte slipped away, oblivious to the alarm she had created. Every railroad employee stopped to help Lucy and her father search for Charlotte. With all of them looking, they would find Charlotte in no time at all. Surely, she would be found.
But as darkness descended, there was still no sign of her. The police arrived, interviewing Lucy, and Father. Search parties were created to scour the surrounding area, with lanterns held high. By morning, nearly everyone in town was out searching for little Charlotte. Yet there was not a single trace of her whereabouts.
In the days that followed, Father posted a reward. He and Lucy went to each town on the rail line, knocking on every single door, asking if anyone had seen any sign of the lost little girl. Churches held prayer vigils. Newspapers ran the story on their front page. Still, not a single clue turned up. Charlotte was simply gone. As much as Lucy told herself that it just didn’t make sense, that it wasn’t possible, that someone, somewhere must have seen her, that Charlotte couldn’t be gone without a trace . . . yet she was.
After a week of searching, the police told Father—who hadn’t slept more than an hour here and there in seven days—to go home, that they would contact him if something turned up. Lucy overheard one police officer tell another that the child must be dead.
At last Father agreed to go home and wait for word. When they reached the house, he locked himself in Charlotte’s room and wept. Lucy sat outside the door, helpless, unable to say or do anything, guilt settling over her like a thick and heavy mantle.
When he finally emerged, he never spoke of Charlotte again.
Eleven
FINLEY JAMES HAD FINISHED cleaning out the last stall at Arthur Cooper’s livery and lay down on a haystack for a little shut-eye jest for a moment or two, or mebbe a little longer, when he suddenly heard someone yoo-hooing for him. He jolted up when he rea
lized Miss Lucy had come looking for him, and in his scramble to get up, he fell right off the haystack. He jumped up, ran a hand through his bushy hair, and wiped his face down with his old handkerchief before he showed hisself. “Howdy, Miss Lucy,” he said, walking toward the front of the livery, trying to act as calm as a man could be when his heart was beatin’ double time.
“Fin, are you all right? Your face is bright red.”
“Is it?” He put a hand against his face. “Jest working hard, I reckon.” To be truthful, Fin felt downright dizzy. Miss Lucy was beautiful. Flawless. Like a porcelain doll.
He scratched his face. Mebbe he should start to shave.
“I found these two letters on my chair with a note from Cora to deliver them to Miss Mollie today. Cora’s gone to Cranston to check on a school.” She walked over to the pony’s stall. “Would you mind getting Jenny’s saddle and bridle on? Last time I tried, I put the saddle on backwards.”
Fin grinned. “I’ll deliver the letters for you. I’m going right by.”
“Oh thanks, Fin, but Cora wants me to transcribe for Miss Mollie and bring down letters to post in the mail.”
And Fin couldn’t write. Not much, not in a straight line, anyhows. Unfortunate shortcoming on his part, but it did present a sweet opportunity to spend time with Miss Lucy. “I’ll ride along with you. I’m about done here.”
“Oh, would you, Fin? I’d be ever so grateful.” Her lovely face brightened like the sun had come out, and for a moment he felt dazed. Stunned. It reminded him of once coming across a delicate wildflower in the dark forest, such an unlikely place for beauty to bloom.
After Fin saddled Jenny up, he was pleased to see that Miss Lucy finally knew which side to mount her on, though she still needed a boost. As they made their way upstream, a few raindrops fell and Miss Lucy asked if they should turn around.
The Moonlight School Page 12