Sycamore Hill

by Francine Rivers

  No one had ever told me that Prudence Townsend was frail or sickly. I looked down at the grave, at the wooden cross where the earth had sunk in slightly. “How did she die? And why is she buried here, outside the cemetery?” I asked in a hushed tone.

  “She was buried here because the priest said she couldn’t be buried in consecrated soil,” he answered my second question. “A couple of men dug this grave in the dead of night so the children would never know about it. It didn’t even have a marker. No one knows who put this one up.”

  “But I don’t understand. Why all the secrecy? Why was she buried here?”

  “Because Prudence Townsend hanged herself, Miss McFarland,” he said quietly, and there was a cold expression on his face.

  “Dear God,” I gasped. “But why?”

  “Who knows?” He shrugged, disinterested. “Probably couldn’t stand the loneliness. But that’s why they had trouble finding another schoolmistress. Word got around these parts about what happened. No one wanted to live in that place, not after someone hanged herself there. People are superstitious, even if they don’t like to admit it. Some were saying Miss Townsend was still there.”

  I could feel my face turning very white as Hallender continued. “So Hayes said he’d write East to one of the schools.” And the head of the school had by chance been a friend of Bradford Dobson. “They all decided among themselves to keep the story about Miss Townsend a secret. They let the place go until you came.” He gave a harsh, mocking laugh. “They were all half expecting you to come running out of there the first night. When you didn’t, they figured all the stories about the ghost were just that—stories. You wouldn’t have stayed on in there otherwise.”

  Staring at the grave, I thought of the ghost in the schoolhouse. Now I knew who she was and why she was there. She was not a figment of my imagination.

  “She hanged herself from the front beam. The one nearest the desk. I figured she tossed the rope up over the beam, tied it around her neck and then jumped off the desk.”

  I shuddered.

  “She must have figured it would break her neck,” he went on. “But it didn’t. She must have kicked for quite a while before she finally died.”

  I pressed my hands over my ears. “Don’t...” I felt him watching my face. I felt sick.

  “I’m sorry,” he said when I finally lowered my hands. “My offer still goes. Why don’t you think about it?” I did not answer, and he looked grim. “I hope what I’ve told you hasn’t upset you too much.” I stared at him. “But you did ask,” he said defensively. Then he walked off, leaving me standing beside Prudence Townsend’s grave.

  ***

  Heedless of the darkening sky, I wandered in the hills behind town, finding the solitude my grief craved. I cried for Ellen, whom I had loved. Then I sank into a tortured despair over my own situation. When it became noticeable that I was pregnant, I would lose my livelihood. What would I do then? Could I go to Jordan and ask his help? No. I shook my head at the thought. I had some small bit of pride left, and I would rather die than ask his help. I did not want to live on his charity, while suffering his eternal contempt.

  That depressing notion kept repeating itself in my mind. I thought about Prudence Townsend. She had hanged herself because she could no longer bear the loneliness. I knew it was Prudence who haunted the schoolhouse, but now the supernatural was less frightening to me than the natural state of my own life, and the dismal future.

  It began to drizzle, and the dampness slowly seeped through my shawl. I hardly noticed, but continued to walk, head down, thoughts whirling in answerless questions and confusion. When the sky opened up, weeping its torrents down upon me, I ran for shelter beneath one of the ancient oaks that were scattered about. By the time I reached one, I was bone-cold and drenched to the skin. I waited for what seemed an eternity before deciding that the storm would not abate for hours. I would have to go on.

  The water streamed down from my face. My clothing stuck to me, weighing me down. Trudging down the slopes, I saw the schoolhouse, like some pathetic relic, in the storm darkness of late afternoon. The rain was beating its primitive cadence on the leaky roof. Water cascaded down, pouring onto the grass of the schoolyard. Little rivulets had already formed and were running down McPherson. Puddles grew in the center of the street. By morning the streets would be mud.

  Exhausted and freezing, I dragged myself up the back steps. I snatched up the bucket, knowing I would need a hot bath if I were to avoid a chill. After dumping my sodden shawl on the floor, I headed back out into the rain to get water from the well. When I returned, I set the filled bucket on the stove and bent to take kindling from the box. My fingers were numb and clumsy, and I had to strike the long match several times before it ignited.

  It seemed forever before the fire was going strong. While I waited for the water to heat, I stripped out of my wet clothes and dried myself with a rough towel. Wrapping myself in a blanket, I sat down near the stove, waiting for the chill to melt from my bones.

  I felt like a drowned rat with my hair plastered against my head and my skin bloodless-white and goose-bumped. Finally, the water began to steam, and I gingerly lifted the bucket down from the stove and poured the contents into my bathtub. Testing the water, I waited another few minutes before stepping in and kneeling down. I washed my body with a washcloth and then dried myself again. Some of the chill was gone, but I was still cold. I pulled on my nightgown and wrapped myself in the blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Then I huddled near the stove for warmth.

  I must have dozed off, for when I next looked at the fire, it had burned down to orange coals. I stoked it again and wondered if I would ever feel warm. When I awakened later, it was well into night. I stood up, feeling stiff and sore. I sighed deeply and rubbed my back, remembering with a wry smile what Elizabeth Hayes had said about the symptoms of pregnancy. I had every one. I lay down on my bed.

  There was a scuffling noise in the schoolroom. It was too early for my lady of the schoolhouse, I thought, and I was too despondent to care anyway. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Ellen was dead. Jordan did not love me. I was alone. Oh, God, I was so alone.

  I dozed again, wrapped in my blanket. When I was awakened later, the rain was still pounding on the roof. A leak had opened in the center of my quarters, and I got up to put something beneath it. The ping of drops against the metal bucket sounded loud in the room. I lay for a long time, listening to it. In time my eyes closed slowly, lulled by the rhythmic beating of rain on the roof and the droplets splashing into the bucket. Then I heard the crying.

  Every few minutes it would start, softly and plaintively. It had happened so many times before, it had ceased to alarm me. But now there was added meaning to it. I remembered Tom Hallender’s story about Prudence Townsend and how she had died in the schoolroom. I remained still on my narrow, lumpy cot, but gradually I began to feel restless with the continued desolate moaning that came from the other room. I unwrapped the blanket from my legs and got up. The floor was icy beneath my bare feet, but I had no slippers. I drew the blanket up around my shoulders and cuddled inside it.

  Again the crying started. Almost unaware of what I was doing, I entered the schoolroom. It was freezing cold, and there were several leaks puddling the wood floor. As soon as I had opened the door, my lady of the schoolroom had stopped crying. I wondered if it were all illusion, as Ellen had once said. Then I remembered her face in death. Terrified, trying to scream. Had she seen the ghost? Or had the expression only shown fear that death had come to claim her? After all, I had never seen the ghost. I had only heard the faint crying and once smelled an essence of lavender. Was I now allowing Tom Hallender’s story to strengthen my beliefs that the ghost did in fact exist?

  I looked about the room, and there, on the beam closest to my desk, hung a rope. There was a noose at the end. I shuddered. I remembered the details of Prudence Townsend’s death, as related by the sheriff. Had the ghost put the rope there? Where had it come from? Once
before, it had been there, and I had pulled it down in a moment of fear-filled panic. Now that I understood, it did not seem so frightening somehow. I approached it, staring at it with a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. No emotion seemed to penetrate. I felt curiously numb. Then I looked at the desk and chair, and once again I remembered Ellen.

  I am alone, I thought, suddenly bereft. Totally, forever alone.

  As though sharing my pain, the lady of the schoolroom began to cry again. It seemed to come from nowhere... and yet everywhere, surrounding me like a shroud. My skin goose-bumped. The faint lavender scent I had experienced once before drifted into the room. I turned slowly, expecting to see some physical evidence of her presence. But there was nothing, and the crying stopped again. The room was filled with the sound of rain beating on the roof. I stood in tortured stillness until my muscles ached. My eyes roamed the room, searching. There was nothing but the shadows dancing on the walls.

  I thought of the funeral, and an image of Jordan flashed in my mind. My hand slowly moved down over my abdomen, and a desolation so fierce filled me that I felt pain from it. My baby... and Jordan’s. It was here inside me, waiting for life.

  What then? A child unloved by its father, shunned by the community because of the sins of its mother? To be labeled a bastard all his life? The word ricocheted through my mind, growing louder. A bastard. Jordan’s bastard. I thought of Diego and the pain I sometimes saw in his expression. A confusion and longing mingled. Did I want that for my baby? And what was the solution? I thought of Prudence Townsend hanging from the front beam, and suddenly her act seemed my only answer.

  “Prudence?” I whispered softly into the darkness. Nothing. “Prudence....” A faint sobbing sounded. “I know why you’re here. I understand. The sheriff told me how you died.”

  My eyes drifted to the rope suspended from the beam. I reached out and fingered it. For an instant a bubble of hysteria caught in my throat. Then I felt empty and still inside, almost as though I were already dead and the fighting was over.

  The crying had begun again, low and plaintive in the darkened room. I knew Prudence was here with me.

  “Prudence,” I whispered shakily, again reaching out to touch the rope dangling from the beam. “I have no one either. No place to go.” The crying softened and then stopped altogether. There was a strange hush in the room.

  My eyes opened wide as I saw something across the room. It defied description, but sent an instinctive shivering up my spine. Gasping with terror, I jerked back, colliding hard with my desk and falling sideways.

  I was frantic to escape. I rushed toward the front of the schoolroom, bumping into desks and tripping against things in the darkness. My breath rasped. My heart thundered. I reached the door and twisted feverishly at the knob.

  “Abigail....”

  Something hit me from behind. I cried out in shock and pain. Then blackness engulfed me.

  Chapter Twenty

  From somewhere outside, birds were singing. My head ached abominably, and I did not want to open my eyes. But I have to get up, I reasoned. I was so cold, and the only way I would get warm was to get close to the fire. As cold as I was, it must have gone out. I reached down, thinking that I could pull the covers up more tightly. But my fingers encountered only my nightgown and then moved to touch bare wood beside me.

  Forcing my eyes open, I stared upward and saw the beamed ceiling overhead. What was I doing in the schoolroom? I fought off the wave of dizziness and nausea as I pushed myself up. I pressed my hand against my head. It throbbed, and I fingered a lump encrusted with blood beneath my hair. How had that happened?

  Disoriented, I sat up completely and hung my head down to keep from fainting. I tried to remember. Then pieces of the night before began to return. Had I dreamed it all? I had certainly not dreamed up the lump on the back of my head. But what about the rest? I wondered, looking around the room. There was no rope suspended from the front beam, and everything seemed normal except for a few desks shoved from their usual positions.

  Had Prudence Townsend tried to kill me? No, that wasn’t right. I had wanted to kill myself, and then she had come at me. Then something had hit me from behind, and I fainted. But I had been at the front door of the schoolhouse. My head was spinning, and I closed my eyes. Nothing made any sense, and it hurt my head to think about it.

  First things first, I thought. I’m so cold. I’ve got to get the fire started and warm myself before I catch pneumonia.

  The fire was out, and the woodbin was empty. Sighing, I dragged myself into some clothes, pulled on stockings and shoes and started out the back door. The sunlight hurt my eyes and sent a throbbing pain through my head. I stood wavering at the top of the steps, holding tightly to the railing. Thank God, James Olmstead had finally fixed the back steps, I thought. I started down, carefully, because I was dizzy and unsteady on my feet. I should stop and sit down. But I’m cold, my mind argued back and forth with itself. The sooner I get the firewood, the sooner I can build the fire and get warm.

  At the bottom of the steps my head was hurting so badly, I knew I would have to sit down for a minute. But before I could, I fainted.

  “Abby... Abby...” The familiar voice roused me. My eyelids flickered and then opened. I stared up into Jordan’s taut face, meeting his concerned gaze in confusion. “What in blazes happened to you?” he demanded harshly. “I found you at the bottom of the steps in a dead faint.”

  I still could not believe Jordan was here. I forced my eyes away from him, afraid he would see too much in my face. The stove came into view, and the cabinet. Orphan was meowing at the back door, demanding her morning bowl of milk. I winced as I pushed myself up.

  “Ohhh, my head,” I groaned, reaching up to press my hand against the throbbing spot. Jordan roughly pushed my hand away and drew me forward into a full sitting position. My hands instinctively pressed defensively against his chest.

  “I know you can’t stand having me touch you anymore,” he said in a hard voice. “But take my word for it, I’ll be a gentleman.” I closed my eyes, wishing my heart would stop its erratic beating. I could feel the hard muscles of Jordan’s chest beneath my fists, and I curbed the desire to spread my fingers.

  “You’ve got yourself quite a goose egg,” he commented, and I felt warm breath against my hair. “What did you do to yourself, for God’s sake. Fall down the stairs?” His voice was still hard and dictatorial. Bristling at his tone, I pushed back and then wished I hadn’t. My head spun sickeningly.

  “Just take it easy for a minute. I’ve got to clear the blood away,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. It was almost my undoing. With a damp cloth he swabbed the spot. I sensed the exact moment when his mood changed. His hand moved from the nape of my neck to my shoulder. His touch was subtly gentler.

  “Abby....”

  I had to say or do something before Jordan knew the power he had over me. “I... I don’t feel well.”

  He gave a throaty laugh. “And it’s no wonder.” His hands moved in a lingering caress down my back. I took my hands from his chest and clenched them tightly together.

  “Please let go of me.”

  Jordan stiffened slightly, and then his hands dropped away. He remained sitting on the cot, and I could feel his eyes boring into me. Then he got up and turned away. “How did it happen?” he asked in a curiously flat voice.

  “What?”

  “The bump on your head, what else?” he said harshly, raking his fingers back through his tawny hair and casting me an impatient glance over his shoulder.

  “I’m not sure,” I managed, thankful that he had moved away. My senses were returning. I swung my feet from the cot.

  “You’d better not stand up just yet,” he suggested. My head was swimming again, and I gave a faint laugh.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  “Did you fall down the steps?”

  “No. Something hit me last night.”

  Jordan’s gaze became piercingly intent. “Last
night? You’ve been out there since last night?”

  “No. In the schoolroom.”

  “Then what were you doing on the back steps?”

  “I woke up in the schoolroom, and I was so cold. The fire was out, and I didn’t have any wood in the box. So I went out to get some. I guess I fainted.”

  I pressed my fingers against my temple. I heard Jordan move, and I looked up as he stalked out the back door, slamming it behind him. I stared in confusion, thinking he had gone away. What had I expected? For him to care? Hadn’t I learned anything?

  A moment later the door opened, and I looked up. Jordan scowled at me. “Is your head hurting you again?”

  “N-no...” I brushed the tears away quickly, averting my eyes from his.

  He dumped a load of wood in the bin and set to work on the stove.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked, feeling stupid the moment the question was uttered.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “You don’t have to do that. I can...”

  The look he gave silenced me. “No. I don’t, do I? I wonder why I’m bothering.”

  “Why are you then?” I asked, stung.

  He exhaled sharply, but ignored my question.

  When the fire was restarted, Jordan stood up and turned around. I had been watching him, remembering what it had been like being loved by him. There was a warm, curling sensation in the pit of my stomach, and it seemed to be spreading. When he looked at me, I looked away defensively.

  “Do you want to sit by the fire? You’ll get warm faster than sitting at the other end of the room,” he commented dryly, his eyes coolly enigmatic. I did not answer. Nor did I move. “I’ll stand by the door if it makes you feel any safer.”

  The bitterness of his tone made me flinch. But I stood up and moved slowly across the room. The dizziness had lessened, and so had the throbbing. I sat down at the table, remembering the last time he had been here and what had happened then. My face felt warm, and I kept looking at my hands. Jordan stood by the door, his arms crossed over his chest. I could feel him watching me, and I knew there was no gentleness in his expression.