“Oh, I’m not worried about the tips, Sir. They never amount to much anyway.” He tried to make a joke of it, but the truth was, every copper that was laid on the table put him that much closer to the academy.
Ten minutes later, as James shoved his arms into the ragged sleeves of his coat, Mr. Browne came into the cloakroom and held out an envelope to him.
James questioned him with knit brows. But Mr. Browne merely thrust the envelope into his hands. James opened the loose flap and peered inside. A crisp bill with the likeness of Christopher Columbus engraved on its front stared back at him. It was a five-dollar note—one of the newly issued bank notes that James had seen pass through the hotel’s cash register on occasion. In fact, there had been several of the bills in the till the night he’d foolishly helped himself to its contents.
He shook off the memory. “It’s not payday, is it, Sir?” Even with the extra hours he’d put in, this was far more than he was owed.
“No, James, it’s not payday. But this is yours. It has your name on it.”
James turned the envelope over in his hands. Sure enough, his name was inked boldly on the front. “I don’t understand,” he told his employer. “What is this for?”
“One of your patrons left it on the table.”
“Are you sure?” He inspected the envelope again. “There’s no last name. There must be some mistake, Mr. Browne. I–I can’t accept this.”
“You can and you will, Mr. Collingwood. Apparently someone feels you offered exceptional service tonight.”
“But …” He looked from the envelope to his employer and back. “Five dollars, Mr. Browne! My service couldn’t have possibly been that exceptional. Do you know who left it?”
“I couldn’t say, James. I couldn’t say. But it could not be more rightfully yours. You take it and have a Merry Christmas. Go on home and get some rest now.” Mr. Browne turned and disappeared into the dining room.
James stared after the man in stunned silence as realization washed over him. The envelope he held in his hands was the answer to the prayer with which he had long hounded heaven. Added to the small amount he had saved already, he was only a few dollars short of making tuition for next term.
It was all he could do not to sink to his knees on the cloakroom floor in humble gratitude.
And that was exactly what he would do the moment he arrived home.
Chapter 1
Dakota Territory, 1871
Stella Bradford hurried across the campus of St. Bartholomew’s Academy, a stack of textbooks in her arms and a bulging drawstring bag looped over one shoulder. The petticoat beneath her long-sleeved cotton dress clung to her legs, and with her free hand she dabbed beads of moisture from her brow with a crumpled handkerchief. One should not have to perspire in October! If she didn’t hurry, she was going to be late for class, and it would be the second time this week. She was having enough trouble with this infernal English grammar class as it was. It certainly wouldn’t help matters to be late again.
The tower clock in the center of the campus quadrangle began to chime the hour, and Stella lifted her skirts above her ankles and broke into a very unladylike trot. She rounded the ivy-draped corner of Andrews Hall at top speed but was halted in her tracks when she bumped headlong into a broad masculine chest. The only thing that kept her from stumbling to the brick walk beneath her feet was the strong pair of hands that reached out to grab her by the shoulders.
“Whoa, Miss! Watch where you’re going there.” The voice was as deep as the brown eyes that looked down into hers.
“Oh, p–pardon me,” she stuttered, “but I’m about to be late for class.” She took a step back, out of the man’s grasp.
The last chime of the carillon clock died away on the still autumn air, and Stella gave a little gasp of dismay.
“It looks to me as though you are late,” the gentleman told her. “And at the reckless speed you were going, I’d venture to say you would have arrived so out of breath that you might as well not have bothered going at all.”
“Please,” she pled impatiently. “Let me pass. I simply can’t miss this class again.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, a rather wicked gleam in his eyes. “So you make a habit of tardiness? And let me guess—you are not exactly a candidate for honors in this particular class?”
She stamped her foot and took another step back. Of all the impudent—
She did not have time for this. Donning her most patronizing smile, she told him, “I do appreciate your concern, Mister …”
“Collingwood,” he supplied, tipping an imaginary hat. “James Collingwood.”
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Collingwood, but I cannot waste my time standing here arguing about either my habits nor my grades—as if it were any of your business!”
“Or,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The correct word is ‘or.’ Either my habits or my grades. It’s ‘either, or’ and ‘neither, nor.’ “
Of all the nerve! How dare this complete stranger stand here and correct my grammar!
He folded his arms across a broad chest and stepped back to gaze at her. “And let me guess,” he said. “English Grammar is the class you’re tardy for?”
“For which you are tardy,” she shot back. He raised an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”
“The correct phrase is ‘the class for which you are tardy.’ It is not proper to end a sentence in a preposition.” She bobbed her chin for emphasis, crossed her arms, and glared at him, pleased beyond words to have beat him at his own game.
The corners of his lips curled in a slow smile. “Touché, Miss. I stand corrected.”
Recognizing his deference to her, Stella’s smile became genuine. She turned, ready to continue on to class, but remembering her manners, she tossed an apology over her shoulder. “I am sorry to have bumped into you. And thank you for … for catching me.”
Stella hurried on her way, her face flushed and warm—and from more, she feared, than the warm sun of an Indian summer.
The campus was nearly empty, and Mr. Collingwood’s winsome smile still lingered in her mind when she stepped inside Voorhaven Hall a few minutes later. The heels of her shoes clicked on the tiled floor and echoed through the spacious corridor, tattling on her tardiness to anyone who was listening. Both doors to the classroom were closed, but Stella heard noisy chattering inside. Behind the frosted beveled glass in the front door, boisterous, flitting shadows testified that the session had not yet been called to order. She opened the door and was relieved to see that Dr. Whitestone had not arrived. She quickly made her way to her assigned desk at the back of the room. She slipped into her seat, pulled the drawstring bag open, and rummaged inside for her fountain pen and notebook.
A few minutes later, the door swung open and the class quieted immediately. Stella followed the other students’ collective gaze to the door, but it was not Dr. Whitestone’s profile she saw behind the frosted pane. Instead, the shadowy silhouette behind the door looked vaguely familiar. Recently familiar. She took in a sharp breath as the man she’d nearly bowled over on campus a few minutes ago stepped into the room and placed his small valise on the oak desk at the front of the room. Without looking up, he unfastened the latch on the case and took out a bulky textbook, then stepped behind the podium.
Clearing his throat loudly, he looked over the room, waiting until he had their undivided attention. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Dr. Whitestone took ill suddenly, so I’ll be substituting for him this hour. My name is Mr. Collingwood and I’m new to the English department here at the academy.”
His gaze moved from student to student in the large classroom, and Stella thought she saw an amused glimmer of recognition when he noticed her shrinking in her seat at the back of the room. He turned and picked up a stubby length of chalk from the lip of the blackboard. “Please open your texts to page ninety-two, and copy the three sentences at the top of the page into your notebooks.”
As th
ey worked, the studious sounds of chalk on slate and pen nub on pad filled the otherwise quiet room. When the substitute had finished chalking the sentences on the board, the students went to work diagramming them.
Once nouns and verbs had been labeled, Stella was completely lost. She was far more concerned with the dangling hangnail on her left pinkie finger than with the dangling participle Mr. Collingwood was so intent on identifying. Why does it matter? she thought, allowing herself to be carried away on a daydream. She wanted to be an architect, not a grammarian. She loved the logic and precision of mathematics. She couldn’t care less about the structure of the sentences on the board. But let her study the structural design of the historic buildings on campus. Now there was an interesting and worthwhile pursuit.
“Isn’t that right, Miss Bradford?” a bass voice broke into her reverie.
“Um … I—I’m sorry. Could you repeat the question, please?”
The other students tittered like grammar school children, and Stella felt the blood rise to her cheeks.
Mr. Collingwood chose to ignore her and turned to another student who was waving his hand madly. “Yes, Mr …” The instructor referred quickly to his seating chart. “Mr. Granger?”
Peter Granger smugly answered the question—something about noun-verb agreement that meant absolutely nothing to Stella. She slunk a little lower in her seat. After forty interminable minutes, during which Stella prayed fervently that she would not be called upon again, the bell in the hallway finally sounded, and Mr. Collingwood dismissed them.
Stella attempted to blend in with the flow of students and sneak out the back door, but she was stopped short. “Miss Bradford?”
She turned to find James Collingwood beckoning her with a slender finger.
“I’d like to see you for a moment, please.”
She stepped back and waited for the last student to file out, then wove her way through the labyrinth of desks to the front of the room. “Yes?” she said, forcing her sweetest smile.
He gazed at her thoughtfully. “You don’t much want to be here, do you?” he said finally.
“Here at the academy? Why, of course I do! I—”
“No,” he interrupted. “I mean in this grammar class.”
She had the decency to hang her head. “I’m sorry, Sir. I–I just don’t understand it. It makes no sense to me. And frankly—” Suddenly feeling brave, she plunged in with her reasoning, gathering confidence like steam as she went. “Frankly, I see no reason why anyone needs to know whether a verb is active or inactive or whether a noun is proper or not. I mean, really, Mr. Collingwood, when you are on the street, how likely are you to strike up an intriguing conversation on the topic of dangling participles?”
He threw back his head and laughed. For a moment she was inclined to feel that he was laughing at her, but the warm gleam in his eyes assured her otherwise.
“Miss Bradford—I do have your name right, don’t I?” he asked, running his finger down the seating chart again.
She nodded.
“You may be correct in your observation. However, I have not yet achieved a powerful enough position here at the academy to do away with the grammar requirement, and until such day as that has been accomplished, I’m afraid you shall be compelled to remain in Dr. Whitestone’s class and learn enough to earn a passing grade.”
She conceded with a slump of her shoulders.
He laughed again. “Oh, come now. It can’t be that awful, can it? Dare I remind you that this class is meant to be merely a refresher course? Didn’t you learn to diagram a sentence in your high school?”
“I could never make sense of it,” she said flatly.
“Ahh … Well, Dr. Whitestone tells me he has suggested that you work with a tutor to get your marks to a more acceptable level in this class.”
She nodded slowly, wondering how he could have known this. “Yes. I’m supposed to have my first session tomorrow, though I don’t know what good it will do.”
James Collingwood took a small appointment book from his inside breast pocket and leafed through it. “I don’t know if he has mentioned it to you yet, but I feel it is only fair to inform you that Dr. Whitestone has appointed me to be your tutor.”
As if he thought she would require proof, he pointed to a neatly printed notation in the logbook. Sure enough, there, beneath tomorrow’s date, on the line reserved for four o’clock, was her name.
She gaped at him. “You are the tutor I’ve been assigned to?”
“I am the tutor to whom you have been assigned, yes. And one you are obviously in desperate need of,” he said, with a sidewise grin.
Her mind scrambled to think of a comeback. True, he had ended his pathetic quip in a preposition; but she didn’t dare argue with him, for she realized with dismay that his words were correct—in substance, if not in grammar.
Chapter 2
James Collingwood locked up the classroom and plodded down the hall, completely drained after a long day of filling in for Arthur Whitestone. As he stepped from the building, he shielded his eyes against the waning afternoon sunlight and started across the campus lawn. Though autumn had begun to paint the campus in its annual array of gold and scarlet and James looked forward to the chill air the season would bring, for now, he savored the warmth of the sun on his face.
He breathed a contented sigh and quickened his step. The ghost of what he had once been sometimes haunted his thoughts; but on days like this, the satisfaction he found in teaching managed to eclipse the unchangeable truth of his past. Working with Dr. Whitestone’s students had reminded him all over again how greatly his life had been redeemed, how readily God could remake a worthless sinner into a willing servant.
Upon his graduation from St. Bartholomew’s Academy the previous year, James had been offered a job as an assistant to his professor and mentor, Arthur Whitestone, the head of St. Bart’s English department.
For this first year, his job mostly entailed grading papers and serving as a secretary of sorts to Dr. Whitestone. The work provided a modest income while he continued postgraduate studies at the academy. His ultimate desire was to become a professor himself. He had discovered the deepest fulfillment whenever he was given an opportunity to preside in the classroom.
And now, at his mentor’s request, he’d taken on an additional assignment—one that would test his mind, not to mention his patience. Dr. Whitestone had asked him to tutor a student, the daughter of the department head’s longtime friend Marcus Bradford. James had agreed without hesitation. He loved to teach, the extra money would be a blessing, and besides, how difficult could it be to help a first-year student with the basics of English grammar?
He smiled to himself, remembering the two exchanges he’d had with the young woman since then. Had he met Stella Bradford before Dr. Whitestone’s proposition, he might have spent a bit more time in prayer before agreeing to the job—and he might have negotiated for a higher wage as well. Yes, he would have all he could handle, attempting to impart a grammatical rule or two into the brain of that little spitfire. But he welcomed a challenge, and the distraction would be good for him. With her halo of sunny curls and that engaging wit, James could see how Stella Bradford might, indeed, become quite a distraction.
Leaving the grounds of St. Bart’s, he headed east. His sister’s boardinghouse, where he lived, was almost a mile from the college. He didn’t relish the thought of making this walk once winter set in. On a day like today, it was difficult to believe that blue skies would soon give way to snow flurries and bitter winds, but it would happen soon enough. This was the Dakota Territory, after all. He walked past the lumber mill on the edge of town. Here, at least, business seemed to be booming in the postwar economy; and James offered up a little prayer of thanksgiving. He knew too well the despair of financial hardship and what it could do to a man.
In front of him, the tattered slate shingles of the three-story boardinghouse rose through the trees, and he quickened his pace. He wondered how Sylv
ia was feeling. His sister worked far too hard. Since her husband’s death two years ago, she hadn’t had much choice. He would be glad when his tuition was finally paid and his first wages were in the bank so he could be of more help to her. How he would manage to get her to allow him to help, he wasn’t sure. He knew Sylvia still felt guilty for the trouble he’d gotten into, though the Lord knew that his sister was no more to blame than God Himself. Why, she’d been a mere girl when it had all happened. Still, he’d committed his crime in an attempt to help her, and Sylvia seemed intent on making it up to him somehow.
As he opened the gate to the yard, he spotted his sister on the wide front porch. Wearing a light cotton dress and wielding a decrepit broom, she beat at the handful of prematurely fallen leaves that skittered across the whitewashed floor. The surface was already clean enough to eat from. She smiled when she noticed James coming up the walk, but Sylvia’s smiles never quite reached her eyes.
“Hi, Sis.” He bounded up the steps and planted a kiss on her smooth, pale cheek.
“Hi, Jimmy. How was school?”
He laughed. “You make me sound like a little boy just home from grammar school.”
“If the shoe fits …,” she said wryly.
“And how was your day?” he asked, ignoring her joke. “Did Mr. Graves bring the rent money by?”
“Half of it.” She sighed.
He shook his head and grumbled under his breath. “Well, that’s something, at least.” Unknown to Sylvia, he had delivered a stern lecture to Herbert Graves just last evening. How was his sister supposed to make a living—let alone pay for the medicine she needed—when her tenants refused to pay their rent?
“Well,” he brightened, “you go ahead and see the doctor. I took on a tutoring job today. That’ll tide us over.”
Sylvia shook the broom at him. “There is no ‘us’ about it, Jimmy. That money should go to your tuition loan,” she scolded. “I don’t want you spending your hard-earned dollars on me.”
Tracie Peterson, Tracey V. Bateman, Pamela Griffin, JoAnn A. Grote Page 40