Gently, James took the broom from her work-roughened hands and ushered her into the front parlor. “I’ll spend my hard-earned dollars however I choose. And if I choose to spend them on my favorite sister, what business is it of yours?”
She rolled her eyes, but he heard the love and gratitude in her voice when she ordered him, “Go wash up for supper. It’s just you, me, and old Mrs. Bellingham tonight.”
James sat facing the door of the small study hall in Robinson Library. For the third time in as many minutes, he pulled his watch from his vest pocket and inspected it. She was already five minutes late. Much as he hated to begin their very first tutoring session with a reprimand, he would not tolerate tardiness. Stella Bradford had demonstrated with their very first meeting that she had no regard for punctuality. Well, his time was valuable, even if hers was not.
A clatter in the hallway beyond the door interrupted his thoughts, and a few seconds later, as her perky countenance lit up the room, he quickly decided to let her tardiness go unmentioned for this one time. If it happened again, she would hear about it in no uncertain terms.
He rose from his chair. “Good day, Miss Bradford. Please, come in. Have a seat.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Collingwood. I do apologize for being late,” she said, her breaths coming in labored, rapid gasps. “I confess, I don’t know my way around the library yet.”
He pulled out the chair beside his at the table. “Please, sit down … unless, of course, you’d like a moment to catch your breath.”
She looked at him carefully, as though she were trying to decide if he was angry. He returned her gaze with a smile meant to put her at ease, and she took the chair.
“Thank you. I’m sure you must think that I am forever tardy.”
He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. What else was he to think? But she quickly relieved him of the need to reply.
“Well,” she said brightly, opening her textbook decisively and resting her chin on one slender hand. “We’d best get started. I fear you have taken on a hopeless case in me, Mr. Collingwood, but I’m willing to give it a try if you are.”
“All right,” he said, amused by her brashness. “Let’s begin with the sentences we worked on in class yesterday—since you seemed to be a bit lost. That was on page ninety-two, I believe.”
While she copied the lines onto her notebook, he scooted his chair back a few inches so he could watch her discreetly. Her unruly curls were fugitives from the hairpins meant to hold them in place, and they formed a becoming halo about her fair face. He watched with amusement as she traced each letter simultaneously with pen and with tongue, like a first grader just learning to write. Surprisingly, the resulting script was elegant and refined.
She glanced up and caught him watching her. “Yes?”
“You—you have lovely penmanship,” he finally stuttered.
“Why, thank you. Shall we begin?”
“Of course.”
He began to walk her through the process of naming the parts of speech in the sample sentences. But once past the basics of noun and verb, she floundered. He patiently defined adverbs and adjectives, but it seemed obvious from her blank stare that he was not getting through to her.
Finally, with exasperation in her voice, she laid down her pen and turned to him. “Why must we dissect this sentence as though it were a frog in the biology laboratory? I can see quite clearly that it is a frog and that it can jump. Isn’t it enough to know that? Why is it also necessary for me to know that the slimy thing has a heart and lungs and muscles and other ghastly parts? Will the frog jump any farther once I know how to label its parts?”
James scrambled to think of a way to counter her charming metaphor, but before he could utter a word, she answered her own question.
“No, it will not jump any farther because the poor creature will be dead!”
He burst out laughing. She certainly had a point.
But she ignored his laughter, her voice rising an octave. “Truly, Mr. Collingwood, I see no use whatsoever in tearing apart a perfectly fine sentence when I can understand its meaning quite well without taking it apart.”
An idea came to him. He placed his fountain pen on the table and leaned back in his chair. “What, might I inquire, is your field of study here at the academy,
Miss Bradford?”
“I am going to be an architect.” By the resolute tilt of her chin, he suspected that she’d had to defend her ambition on more than one occasion. It was a highly unusual aspiration for a young woman.
“An architect, eh? Well, that is a fine goal. But let me ask you: Do you take the same attitude toward the study of architecture that you seem to have taken with the study of the English language?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you believe it unimportant to understand how a building is constructed before you go about designing one yourself? Does it not matter a great deal that you know exactly how the beams and rafters should be secured? That the cornerstone be square and precisely placed?”
“Of course it matters,” she said. “But I don’t desire to build sentences, Mr. Collingwood. I desire to build buildings.”
“Ah …” He held up a finger in triumph. “But whether you desire to or not, you have been ‘building’ sentences since you walked in that door”—he indicated the door to the study room with a slight tilt of his head—“and I must inform you that several of those sentences have been quite poorly constructed. Now—”
She opened her mouth, but he cut her off with an upraised hand.
“Please. Hear me out. When you are established in the business of architecture, do you not think it would be to your advantage to be able to communicate with your clientele in a grammatically correct fashion?”
“Certainly, but—”
He sighed and held up a warning hand. “Miss Bradford, I think it is clear that I am not going to convince you of the necessity of knowing how to properly diagram a sentence. But you must concede that passing this grammar class is a requirement for graduation from the academy. You will never become an architect without a passing grade in English grammar. Correct?”
He waited until finally she nodded in defeat.
“Perhaps, then, we should use that fact alone as our motivation for continuing: You must have a passing grade in this class; it is my job to see that you achieve it. Do you think we might be able to get somewhere with such an understanding?”
She thought for a minute, and a slow smile spread across her face. “That makes more sense than anything else I’ve heard this afternoon.”
He returned her smile. “It’s decided then. I will do my best to impart the knowledge you need to pass this class, and you will do your best to understand the material, regardless of how useless you believe it to be. Agreed?”
She nodded again, and they set to work.
For the next hour, he wrote sentences, and she struggled to—as she’d so aptly put it—dissect them. She was certainly bright enough, with an impressive vocabulary that seemed to expand in direct proportion to her frustration. And she did, indeed, grow frustrated as she struggled to comprehend and label the parts of speech represented in the increasingly complex sentences he invented.
Feeling she had reached her limit. He printed one last string of words on the notepaper in front of him: Stella Bradford has successfully completed her first grammar lesson under the expert tutelage of James Collingwood. He slid the pad of paper in front of her.
She read it and let out a little snort of laughter. “Oh, this is an easy one,” she said. “Let’s see …” She took her pen and underlined her name. “‘Stella Bradford’ is the noun; ‘has completed’ is the verb.” She glanced up at him with a mischievous gleam in her eyes and continued. “‘Successfully’ is a questionable adverb, and ‘under the expert tutelage’ is a highly fictional qualifying clause.”
He laughed. “Now you’re making up entire new categories for the parts of speech.”
“I’m sorry,�
� she said coyly, “but your ridiculous sentence demanded it.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh and closed the notebook. Pushing back his chair, he told her, “I can see that you have had all the expert tutelage you can handle for one day.” He pulled the watch from his pocket. “And we’ve gone over our time as it is.”
She stood beside him and gathered her things. “Thank you,” she told him, turning serious. “I truly hope you don’t feel you’ve taken on a lost cause.”
“Not at all,” he said encouragingly. “I believe we’ve already made some progress.”
She left the room with a cheerful “Good day.”
He straightened the chairs, closed the door behind him, and went into the main room of the library. As he approached the wide front doors, he saw that his student was just leaving the building also.
He held the door for her, and they walked out into the fresh air together. The sun was low in the west. “It will soon be dark,” he said. “Do you live nearby, Miss Bradford?” St. Bart’s had only recently opened its doors to women, and the campus housing was for men.
She shook her head. “I live with my parents a couple miles outside of town. But I am going to the mill to meet my father. I usually ride home with him each evening,” she explained.
“Ah, Bradford Mills. Of course. I just happen to be going that direction. I’d be delighted to have your company as far as the mill.”
She hesitated for the slightest of moments, then transferred her bag and books to her right arm and placed her left hand around the crook of his offered arm. “Why, thank you, Mr. Collingwood,” she said.
They walked in silence for a few moments, and he wondered if he’d made her uncomfortable. After all, in spite of the fact that he was probably only four or five years her senior, he was an employee of St. Bart’s—and her instructor.
“So tell me about this desire of yours to design buildings,” he said, attempting to make conversation.
She looked up at him from beneath curly lashes, as if to determine whether or not he was teasing. Apparently deciding that his question had been sincere, she launched into her story. “Mama says I’ve been sketching houses and churches and shops ever since I could hold a crayon in my fist.” She clenched creamy, white knuckles to demonstrate.
It was all James could do to resist wrapping that delicate little fist in his own large hands. He forced himself to concentrate on her words.
“Papa has been in the lumber business as long as I can remember, and I’ve always been fascinated watching houses and buildings arise from the flat earth. I guess you could say I was born to it.”
“I suppose so,” he conceded.
“Tell me about yourself, Mr. Collingwood.”
He turned to her as they strolled along the walk on Main Street. “You know, Miss Bradford, if I’m going to be your tutor, I think you could call me James. Unless I’m teaching Dr. Whitestone’s class, of course. A more formal title might be appropriate in front of the other students.”
“Of course. Well then, please call me Stella.”
“It’s a very lovely name.”
“Why, thank you. I’m named after my great-great-grandmother, Stella Mae Bradford.”
“She would be proud.”
“I’m told that I am a lot like her,” Stella confessed. “Like my father, too.”
“Oh? And how so?”
She gave an impish grin. “A little stubborn, a little tenacious, more than a little pigheaded, I’m afraid.”
He reeled back in feigned surprise. “You? Surely not.”
“I hide it well,” she said, sounding quite serious.
He didn’t have the heart to tell her that she didn’t hide it nearly as well as she might think. Instead he said, “Rightly directed, those can be endearing qualities, you know.”
“Endearing?”
“Charming, appealing.” He defined the word for her.
She smacked his arm with a dainty hand. “I know what it means, silly. I was challenging the idea itself. I’m afraid not many people find my stubbornness charming.”
Little do you know, he thought. “Maybe you are right. Perhaps ‘beneficial’ is a better word. Sometimes it pays to be stubborn and tenacious.”
“I wish you’d tell that to my father,” she said, a frown creasing her forehead.
“There are certainly worse qualities a child could have than a little stubborn streak,” James replied.
She turned and peered up at him. “You sound as though you speak from experience, Mr. Collingwood. Did you cause your father as much anxiety as I’ve caused mine?”
“I don’t know about fathers, Stella. Mine died when I was very young. But … well, let’s just say that I gave my mother far more trouble than the good woman deserved.”
“And is your mother living?”
“No. She died a few years ago. But I will be forever grateful that she lived long enough to see her son back on the straight and narrow path.”
“I’m sure you made her proud,” Stella said.
“I had much for which to atone,” he told her, surprising himself with his honesty.
Stella looked at him, intense curiosity in her eyes, but she didn’t voice the questions that were obviously in her mind. Instead, she asked, “And you live in a boardinghouse, you say?”
“Yes. Since her husband’s death, my sister takes in boarders. If it were winter, you’d be able to see Sylvia’s rooftop”—he pointed ahead toward a group of homes that rose above the trees in the distance—“just in front of that tallest gray roof to the south.”
They chatted pleasantly all the way through town, and as they approached the mill, James fought to think of an excuse to continue their conversation, to see her again. “Have you lived in Clairemore long?” he asked.
“Since I was about twelve,” she replied. “We moved here from Barton’s Grove after Papa bought the mill.”
Stella went on chattering about her family, but at the mention of the neighboring town, James felt his face grow warm and his heart begin to pound in his ears. He struggled to pay attention to what she was saying, but he wondered if there would ever come a day when he could be reminded of his past without flinching.
Chapter 3
Stella didn’t know what had caused James Collingwood to turn suddenly sullen, but as the mill came into sight, her concerns shifted in another direction. She released James’s arm and turned to him. “This will be fine. Thank you so much for walking with me.”
He kept his arm bent, offering it to her again. “Please, let me take you to the door. I don’t mind.”
“No, truly. I’m fine.”
But it was too late for her protests. From the corner of her eye, she saw Papa open the door of the mill office and step outside. He spotted her immediately, and even from a distance, she could see him craning his neck, trying to figure out the identity of this man who was harassing his daughter.
“You go on, Mr. Collingwood,” Stella urged. “There’s Papa now. I’ll be fine.”
James seemed to sense her unease and tipped his hat in farewell. “Good day, then. I’ll see you for a lesson on Thursday?”
“Yes, of course.” Stella was distracted, worrying that her father would try to detain her tutor and grill him without mercy, as was his habit where her suitors were concerned. But once James Collingwood started on his way, she saw that her father had ordered their rig brought around and was standing beside the wagon, waiting for her.
She hurried to meet him, took the hand he offered, and climbed up onto the wagon seat.
“Hello, there,” Papa said, climbing up beside her and clicking his tongue at the team. The horses gave a low whicker and turned toward home as though they knew the way by heart.
As they headed west, Papa indicated James’s retreating form with a backward flick of his thumb. “You had an escort, I see.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“A boy from the academy?”
“Yes. He graduated last year, that is. Now h
e’s an assistant in the English department.”
“He teaches at the school?” Stella heard accusation in his voice.
“He’s Dr. Whitestone’s new assistant, Papa,” she explained. “His name is James Collingwood. He’s working toward a professorship at St. Bart’s.”
“He’s Arthur’s assistant, you say?”
Stella nodded. “Yes. He’s the one Dr. Whitestone assigned to tutor me.”
“I see,” her father said, stroking his silvered beard, obviously deep in thought.
For a moment, Stella dared to wonder if perhaps James would pass muster with her father simply because of his connection to Arthur Whitestone. Papa had the highest regard for the department head.
But she was mistaken. The interrogation had only begun. “And just how did this Mr. Collingwood come to walk you home?” Papa demanded.
“I finished my session with him—my tutoring session—and he … he noticed that it was beginning to get dark, so he offered to walk me home.”
“Home? Did you tell him that you live a good distance in the country?”
It took every ounce of self-control she possessed to keep her voice steady. “I told him, Papa, that I was meeting my father at the mill. Mr. Collingwood lives at his sister’s boardinghouse east of town.” She pointed back toward the group of older homes beyond the mill. “Since he was going this way already, he offered to accompany me.”
Papa grunted as though he didn’t buy Mr. Collingwood’s story. Stella could barely stifle the sigh that escaped her. For as long as she could remember, her father had scared off every young man who’d dared attempt to court her. Papa was a wonderful, generous, Christian man, and she knew that his intentions were fueled by deep love and a desire to protect his daughter. But if one more log were thrown on the fire of his intentions, she would end up a spinster for eternity. Perish the thought!
Until now, there had never been anyone who mattered enough for her to risk her father’s ire. But something told her that James Collingwood might just change all that.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. But when the horses slowed and turned up the lane that led to the Bradford farm, Papa turned to her. “I never liked the idea of you going to the academy in the first place, Stella Mae.” He shook his head in apparent exasperation, but the hand he laid on her shoulder was gentle. “You and this harebrained notion of yours—an architect! I don’t know what you—”
Tracie Peterson, Tracey V. Bateman, Pamela Griffin, JoAnn A. Grote Page 41