The Revenant

by Sonia Gensler

  I considered his earnest face and wondered how much to tell him. Miss Crenshaw had not trusted the doctor with the full details of the accidents, but when I looked in his eyes, I felt sure he would keep our confidences. “The dreams, the sleepwalking, the little accidents—they’re all blamed on a … phantom,” I murmured. “And it’s not only Lucy who’s losing sleep over it. They all think Ella Blackstone has come back to haunt them.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I knew Ella.” His eyes softened. “She was a sweet girl. Even if I believed in ghosts, she’s the last person I would imagine coming back to haunt her schoolmates.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I said. “I was assigned her old room, you know. Sometimes—late at night—even my imagination gets the best of me.”

  “Take heart, Miss McClure. Once Miss Sharp is up and about, her nightmares and delusions will cease. As for the rest of the girls, their holidays spent at home will cure them of this ridiculous fear of phantoms.” His eyes twinkled. “There aren’t many ailments of mind or spirit that can’t be cured by Mama’s home cooking.”

  “Of course,” I said, chuckling to hear those quaint words spoken in his clipped Northern accent. “I am much reassured, Dr. Stewart.”

  I would have been glad to talk more with the doctor, but for the remainder of the meal, his attentions were focused on Fannie Bell at his right. I supposed they knew each other well, being brother and sister by marriage. But when I caught glimpses of Fannie’s face, it seemed to me her coy smile and high color did not arise from sisterly affection for the young doctor.

  With no one to talk to, my sense of being an outsider soon became oppressive. I’d been introduced to all the teachers at the male seminary, as well as the superintendent and his wife. They were polite and friendly without exception, but seemed less interested in me upon learning I was not Cherokee. There was much talk at the table of a former Massachusetts senator named Dawes and his ideas about allotment, most of which went over my head because I could find nothing interesting in it. I spent the greater part of supper staring at my plate and doing my best not to crash my cutlery into the delicate china.

  Once the meal was over and the tables in the parlor cleared away, I hoped to have a chance to breathe comfortably again. Olivia and I warmed ourselves by the fireplace while the adults and students mingled throughout the parlor. I contemplated the portrait hanging above the mantel, that of a young girl who looked much like Fannie, only a little kinder, and a little less vibrant.

  I turned to Olivia. “Is that Fannie’s sister? The one who died?”

  “Yes, that’s Sarah.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “We were in the same year. She was very different from Fannie.” She sighed. “We all envied her when we learned she was to marry the doctor.”

  “Did all the girls have a pash for him?”

  “Oh yes. And still do, of course.”

  Olivia was called away by a student, so I wandered out into the center hall on my own. To the right of the dining room was the library—my favorite room of any house. Walking past the group of girls clustered by the staircase, I paused at the doorway. The dying fire left the room a little chilly, and thus it was empty.

  This library was much grander than my papa’s, but still had that comforting odor of books and pipe tobacco that had soothed me back home when Papa was alive. I walked along the shelves, letting my fingers trail across the spines of books about history, politics, and agriculture. There was little fiction to be found, and what I did see was of an “improving” nature. There was no Shakespeare. Perhaps this explained something about Fannie and Larkin.

  I did find a book on the Cherokee language and syllabary, which I pulled from the shelf to page through. The letters of the alphabet were foreign and familiar at the same time, many of the shapes similar to those of the English alphabet but adorned with curious curves and curlicues. Some of the shapes looked more like Greek than English. Was this a language taught at the seminary? Did the students write or speak Cherokee in any of their classes? I’d never heard of it if they did.

  I was so wrapped up in sounding out the syllables in my head that I did not hear him enter.

  “Is Sequoyah’s book really that much more fascinating than the party?”

  Eli Sevenstar leaned against the doorframe, glass in hand and a lazy smile on his lips. Heat instantly came to my cheeks, and I clutched the book in both hands to keep from dropping it. Taking a breath to cool down, I returned the book to the shelf before turning to face him again.

  “I didn’t know you were here tonight, Mr. Sevenstar. I did not see you before.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving a piece standing on end. “I stayed here last night with Larkin and was a little late coming down.” His smile widened. “Why? Were you looking for me?”

  “Of course not! I just …”

  “I ask because … I’ve been looking for you.”

  The cursed heat was flushing my neck and cheeks again. When did the room grow so warm? And why did my fingers ache with the longing to smooth his hair back down? It was much easier when all I wanted was to kick him.

  I lifted my chin, playing the cool lady. “Is there something you wanted to ask me?”

  “Not really. I just like talking to you. Especially when you’re not surrounded by an army of students.”

  “Why would you want to talk to a teacher?”

  He looked at me for a moment, as though considering how best to answer the question. “Maybe it’s because you don’t seem like a teacher.”

  My heartbeat quickened. “Why?”

  “You don’t have that look—the tight frown that says you’ve forgotten how to have fun.” He abandoned the doorway and stepped into the room. “And you always look as though you’re keeping a secret.” His voice lowered. “A very delicious secret.”

  This was dangerous. In so many ways. I clasped my hands tightly to keep them from trembling. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be talking in this way. In this room. Alone together.”

  “Why not?”

  He stepped closer and leaned against the bookcase. A familiar odor arose from him—was it brandy? Whiskey? It reminded me of Papa. The seminary boys were expected to be teetotalers, but I suspected dandies like Larkin Bell would partake from time to time. I wasn’t going to be a frowning schoolmarm about it, especially when he was smiling that smile. My stomach fluttered at the darkness of his heavy-lidded eyes, while my thoughts wandered to rivers and the sea. Had he looked at Ella this way? If so, how could she have resisted?

  He leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “What are you thinking?”

  I can’t say what I’m really thinking. “That Larkin Bell is a bad influence on you.”

  “Who’s to say it’s not the other way around?” His mouth curved in a mischievous grin. “Are you upset because I’ve been drinking? Is that why you don’t want to be alone with me?”

  “No, it’s not that. Um, it’s really that I shouldn’t be alone with you because it’s inappropriate.”

  “Why?” He leaned in even farther.

  “Because—”

  “Would it be inappropriate”—he glanced at my mouth—“if I kissed you?”

  I stared at him for a long moment, unable to look away. He held my gaze, his eyes wide and unblinking. Those eyes glittered with challenge, but they communicated something else too—something that made me bend toward him ever so slightly.

  The gentle chiming of the clock broke the spell. “O-o-of course it would,” I stammered, taking an awkward step back. “I can’t believe you would suggest such a thing to a teacher. I should … In fact, I really must—”

  “You’re not going to give me a demerit, are you, Miss McClure?”

  His mocking tone made me flinch. Was that what this was all about? It wasn’t me but the allure of the forbidden? My face flamed with anger now.

  “Do you think it’s amusing to tease me like this? Do you get some sort of thrill from making sugge
stive comments to teachers?”

  His brow furrowed. “No, not at all.”

  “You distress me by talking in such a way.”

  He stepped backward. “I’m terribly sorry. I thought … Well, I’m not sure what I thought.” He ran his hands through his hair again, a gesture that softened my anger. “I’ll leave you in peace.” He gave a quick bow and turned to walk out of the room.

  Wait.

  I longed to speak it aloud, to keep him near so I could explain. Tears of frustration sprang to my eyes, and I had no handkerchief. Real ladies always carried handkerchiefs, didn’t they? What an impostor I was.

  Of course it would be that moment that Miss Crenshaw chose to enter the room with Dr. Stewart. Dressed in heavy black satin, she seemed more than ever like an overgrown crow come to scold me.

  “Miss McClure, are you well? Was that Eli Sevenstar who just walked out?”

  “Yes, it was,” I replied, wiping at my eyes with a gloved hand. The doctor looked away, as though he ardently wished to be elsewhere.

  Miss Crenshaw frowned. “I’m not certain it was proper for the two of you to be alone together.”

  I stared at her, noting her stiff spine and pursed lips. Why was it that every time I made a misstep, she was there to remind me of it? And why couldn’t she have the decency to speak to me in private?

  “No, Miss Crenshaw, it wasn’t proper at all. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” I swept past both of them, not caring that I might cause offense.

  I haunted Olivia’s side for the remainder of the evening, merely nodding and smiling as she carried on conversations for the both of us. I nearly succeeded in not looking for Eli, and therefore barely noticed him standing with Larkin and a small group of the senior girls. His voice, rising and falling in that teasing way, did not pique my interest in the least. Nor did I care to know which particular girl he’d focused his attentions upon, nor what it was exactly that caused her to laugh so prettily.

  On our way out, Olivia was called aside by Miss Crenshaw. I did not wish to join her in conversing with that woman, but neither did I wish to walk past Eli Sevenstar, who stood near the door with Mr. and Mrs. Bell. Where was I to go? Eli had thrown me so completely off guard that I was relieved when Fannie called out for me to join her where she stood with an older gentleman.

  “Miss McClure, you must meet Mr. Greening of Arkansas. He knows many families in Van Buren. Perhaps he knows your parents? What are their names again, miss?”

  I nearly choked.

  The man raised his finger. “No, don’t tell me—I’ve remembered! It’s Edward and Margaret, isn’t it? They had a daughter who went to a fine school in Columbia, Tennessee.”

  “That would be me!” I could have fainted from relief.

  The man, red-faced and grinning, reached out to shake my hand. His eyes conveyed no suspicion. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss McClure. I was telling Miss Bell how my memory plays tricks on me. I haven’t been back to Van Buren in a while, but could have sworn I heard McClure’s daughter was going to marry a Tennessee man, and yet here you are in Indian Territory!”

  “Yes,” I blurted awkwardly. “Here I am.”

  Fannie’s eyes were wide with affected concern. “Did you break off with your fiancé, Miss McClure?”

  “No, no, indeed, Miss Bell. There was no fiancé. Mr. Greening must be confusing me with another girl—a cousin, perhaps.”

  He frowned. “Well … I suppose you must be right. I was just so certain …” He trailed off, fiddling with his mustache in consternation. I looked past him to see that Eli Sevenstar had departed. My path to escape was now clear.

  I said good night to them, and to Mr. and Mrs. Bell. Then I rejoined Olivia, leaning heavily on her arm as we walked down the porch steps.

  “What’s the matter, Willie? You look as though you’ve received the most terrible news.”

  “I’m just tired,” I said.

  She patted my arm. “For all their fun, parties can be exhausting, can’t they?”

  Chapter 13

  I’D LOOKED FORWARD TO GOING to Olivia’s house at the end of term. The prospect of shedding the role of “Miss McClure, seminary teacher” to just be a girl visiting her friend pushed me through those final days before the holiday. Anyone as sweet as Olivia must have cheerful parents, and I was curious to spend time with a proper family, one in which everyone laughed and teased and scolded out of love.

  I relied on this visit to help put Mr. Sevenstar from my mind. I welcomed any distraction that could keep me from reliving the conversation at the Bell home, for I wearied of tearing his sentences apart and examining each word as though it were a specimen under a microscope. It was a fruitless endeavor.

  But during the final week of term, Miss Crenshaw called me into her office. I stood for a long moment, wondering what new trouble I’d brought upon myself, as she finished arranging papers on her desk. Finally, she looked up at me.

  “Miss McClure, you have provided me with only one grade report this semester, and it was woefully spare in details. If you had read our catalog carefully, you would know that I expect a report at the end of each month. I must be apprised of those students who fail to maintain a passing grade, for they should be kept in study hall on Saturdays until they raise that grade.”

  “But all my students have passing grades, Miss Crenshaw,” I said.

  “You say that, but in all these weeks, you have turned in grades for only one examination!”

  I stared down at my clasped hands. “I’m afraid, um, that I’ve fallen a bit behind in my marking, miss.”

  “I thought as much.” Her mouth curved into a grim smile. “That is why I am insisting you stay at school over the holiday break.”

  I gasped. “But, Miss Crenshaw—”

  She waved her hand to silence me. “Yes, I’m sure you had wonderful plans, but your students should be your first priority. And that means getting your grade book in order.” She reached across the desk to pick up a letter. “I’ve also been in communication with Lucy Sharp’s parents. Dr. Stewart has advised that she not travel home for Christmas because it would put too much strain on her leg.”

  “And you wish me to play nursemaid to her?”

  Miss Crenshaw raised an eyebrow. “You were going to be here anyway, so I can’t see how it would be a problem for you to keep an eye on the poor girl.” She set the letter down. “That is all, Miss McClure.”

  “Yes, Miss Crenshaw,” I mumbled.

  Olivia pouted with disappointment when she heard the news. We shared some sharp words about the principal in private, but in my heart I knew I had only myself to blame. I’d often thought of staying up all night to work through those stacks of compositions, especially when the tapping at my window kept me from sleep. But when I looked at the papers, I didn’t have the slightest idea how to mark them. I knew which ones were good (only a few of them) and which were bad (all the rest), but the problem was explaining why a paper was bad and what must be done to fix it. I could remember my teachers covering the pages of my compositions with red pencil markings—instructive words that blurred together when I tried to read them. I envied those teachers now, for at least they’d had something to say.

  I took comfort in the fact that, at the very least, I would have plenty of time to finish my marking during the long, lonely holiday. I needn’t fret and rush. And I had Lucy to keep me company. Along with Jimmy the cook, we were the only ones to remain after everyone else had been conveyed to the train station or fetched by family.

  We set up a bed for Lucy in a quiet corner of the library so I would not have to help her up and down the stairs each day. With Jimmy’s assistance, I dragged in two comfortable chairs from the parlor and set them before the radiator. When I wasn’t working at a table, I sat quietly with Lucy.

  The peace and silence settled into my bones—this was what I’d been missing ever since those long-ago days of playing quietly in Papa’s library. Now that we were rid of the grueling dail
y routine, time took on a suspended quality. There was no need to rush or worry. I banished Eli from my mind, refusing to allow his ungallant behavior to disturb my new tranquility. No terrible dreams plagued me, nor any screams or bumps in the night. Even the late-night tapping at my window ceased. I hadn’t slept so well since before Papa died.

  Before heading out for her own holiday travels, Miss Crenshaw had reminded me that I must work with the music teachers to put together a dramatic performance lasting no more than ninety minutes and reflecting the school’s strict adherence to propriety. The prospect of herding the girls into a public performance should have terrified me, but instead, I was excited to finally put Papa’s teachings into action. Though Crenshaw hadn’t suggested it, I’d seized upon As You Like It as the best candidate for staging. A few parts would have to be trimmed back or dropped altogether, but that didn’t trouble me. Cutting down the text was a wonderful distraction from marking, and I’d never been overly attached to Touchstone and Audrey’s bawdy romance anyway.

  Lucy sat in her chair, sullen and quiet.

  “Lucy, would you help me copy out scripts? We don’t have the funds to purchase several editions of the entire text, so I’m copying out each part with the proper cues. My papa once told me that’s how it was done in Shakespeare’s day.”

  “But we do A Midsummer Night’s Dream every year,” she said, peering at my work. “The girls know it already.”

  I left the table to sit next to her. “I want to do As You Like It. What part would you like?”

  “Me?” She snorted. “I’m no actress.”

  “How do you know? You were quite good when we performed poetry.”

  “That was different. There were no parents or townspeople watching. Besides,” she said, tapping her splinted leg, “I’ve got this to worry about.” She glanced over at the book in my lap. “What’s the play about? Is it sad?”

  “Not at all. It’s about two female cousins who must don disguises and escape to the forest. One of the girls must dress as a boy, which proves interesting when she encounters the young man with whom she fell in love while at court.”