Heart Appearances (Truly Yours Digital Editions Book 560)

by Pamela Griffin

  “Apology accepted,” he said quickly. When she didn’t move to go, he lifted his brow. “Was there something else?”

  She crossed her arms and cocked her head to the side, all awkwardness leaving her as she observed him. “Tell me, Guv’ner, why is it you don’t like to have fun?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Do I have to spell it out for you like I did last Christmas? Ever since I’ve known you, you do nothin’ more than work, eat, and sleep. I’ve never seen you unbend—not once mind you—and have a good time.”

  Brent cleared his throat. “Perhaps your definition of fun doesn’t coincide with mine.”

  “Okay, what’s your definition?”

  Brent opened his mouth to reply, then stopped to consider.

  “Aha! See there? You don’t even know what fun is!”

  “I most certainly do.” He removed his spectacles, grabbed his handkerchief from his pocket, and angrily swiped at the spotless lenses. “I just don’t feel the need to reply to your query.”

  “And I’ll bet my eyeteeth it’s ’cause you don’t know the answer.”

  “Miss Evans.”

  “Mr. Thomas.”

  Brent blinked, more stunned that she’d finally called him by his proper name than by her mimicking behavior.

  She uncrossed her arms, a sly smile lifting her lips. “All right then. Prove it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Prove to me that you can have fun.”

  Brent gave a curt shake of his head. “I hardly think a childish display of frolicking about in dead vegetation befits a schoolmaster of nine young boys.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “I’m not talking about that. I have somethin’ else in mind.”

  Unease crept up Brent’s spine at the sudden speculating gleam in her eye. “Such as?”

  “Two things really. Take part in the fence-paintin’ contest we’re havin’ on Friday.”

  Brent considered. He could referee without actually having to be involved in what promised to be a messy undertaking. “Agreed. And the second?”

  “I need your help with an idea for keepin’ the boys in line. It’s what I wanted to talk to you about in the first place.” She swept past him toward the front of the schoolroom.

  Puzzled, Brent turned and watched as she propped herself on the edge of his desk.

  “Better take a seat, Guv’ner. I have a feelin’ this will do more than just make your mouth pop open.”

  ❧

  Brent stared at her with uncertainty and approached slowly, his eyes wary. He still hadn’t replaced his spectacles, and Darcy again thought what nice blue eyes he had. Instead of taking his usual place behind his desk, he walked to her small writing table six feet away, pulled out the chair, and sat down.

  Darcy swiveled on his desk to face him.

  “Well?” Brent asked.

  “Just thinkin’ how to put it best,” she murmured. “All right, it’s like this. When I was in town with Michael and Alice, gettin’ supplies and such, I heard news of a carnival comin’ to a neighborin’ town next month. Now, bein’ as I had no idea what a carnival was, mind you, I did some askin’, and the storekeeper told me.”

  “A carnival?” Brent asked, already suspecting the worst.

  Darcy shrugged one shoulder. “It’s all on the up-and-up. I thought we could use the carnival as an incentive for the boys. A goal to help them show good behavior and keep up with their studies—that sort of thing.”

  Brent stared at her incredulously. “And just who do you propose to take nine miniature hooligans, still in the process of being reformed, out of the boundaries of Lyons’s Refuge and to a frivolous function held in an unsuspecting town?”

  “Why, you, of course. And me. And maybe Michael.” She smiled as his eyes widened. “But it would just be three boys, not nine. The three who try the hardest and show the most progress. Like winnin’ a contest, such as I did with that poetry one. That’s where I got the idea.”

  Brent only stared. After several seconds elapsed, he shook his head. “That’s the most preposterous idea I’ve heard! As I’m certain you know by now, there are those who are dead-set against having a reformatory in this town—though the community as a whole hasn’t rebelled. That we take the boys outside Lyons’s Refuge for church on Sundays is difficult for many to tolerate. But to take them to a carnival?”

  Her mouth thinning, Darcy stood and faced him squarely, planting her hands on her hips. “They’s just little boys, Guv’ner. Little boys who had a hard lot in life and are payin’ for their crimes. Why shouldn’t they be allowed to ’ave a good time now and hagain, like other boys their age, ’specially if they be earnin’ it?” Darcy forced herself to speak more slowly. When she was excited, she almost always slipped into her Cockney. “They’ll be well supervised, one-on-one. So there’ll be no shenanigans of any kind to worry about.”

  “But a carnival?” he stressed. “Now, I’ll admit the fence-painting idea you devised is rather a good plan. It reminds me of a scene in a book by Mark Twain. However, a carnival is entirely out of the question. Not only would we most likely have to get permission from the judge who released the boys to our care, but there are other problems I foresee as well.”

  “Sure it isn’t only ’cause you don’t like ta have fun?” Darcy challenged.

  He blew out a short breath. “Really, Miss Evans—”

  “If I told you Charleigh was in favor of the idea, would that make you think twice?”

  He halted whatever he was about to say. “You’ve talked to Mrs. Lyons about this?” At Darcy’s abrupt nod, he lifted his brows in surprise. “And she agreed?”

  “Most definitely. She said it was a smashing idea.”

  “And I thought she had more sense than that,” Brent muttered, shaking his head and looking away. His gaze met hers again. “And Mr. Larkin? What does he say?”

  “Michael was there when I talked to Charleigh. He thought the idea a grand one.”

  “He would.” Brent slowly replaced his glasses. “It would appear that I’m outvoted by members of the board.”

  “Meaning?”

  He looked at her, pained acceptance filling his eyes. “Meaning, Miss Evans, that in all likelihood we shall be attending a carnival.”

  ❧

  Late morning sunshine washed the grounds and the row of eager boys standing along the discolored wooden fence. Each lad held a paintbrush. Nine glowing, expectant faces turned toward Darcy, waiting for the signal. She eyed the row one more time to make certain everyone was in position, then cupped her hands around her mouth.

  “Go!” she yelled.

  Brushes plopped into pails of whitewash, and loud swishes of hard bristles on wood met her command. Gangly arms rapidly worked up and down as each boy painted his section of fence, striving to be the first to complete the contest. The winner would be awarded one of Darcy’s famous blackberry pies all to himself. In addition, the winner would be given a free hour on Saturday while the other boys did their chores. Everyone who participated would receive a small prize—ribbons Darcy herself had made using Irma’s box of sewing trinkets and scraps. Depending on how this first contest went, other contests might follow until all fences at Lyons’s Refuge were whitewashed, a late task considering that freezing weather would soon be coming.

  Darcy thought of something Charleigh said when Brent questioned her about the wisdom of issuing rewards for the contest. “All through the Bible the Lord blessed His children when they did what was right and good,” Charleigh said. “And He still does today. Children need a goal to work toward. Everyone does.”

  As Darcy watched the boys work, she pondered Charleigh’s words. Darcy supposed her goal was to work at bettering herself and talking right. Charleigh’s goal was to have a healthy baby. Stewart’s goal was obviously to help his family, since his father’s death. And Brent?

  Darcy cast her gaze to where he stood between two myrtle trees. With his hands behin
d his back, he watched the contest a safe distance from the boys. What goals did Brent have? Likely, if he did entertain goals, they revolved around teaching his students and keeping the peace at Lyons’s Refuge in Stewart’s absence. Certainly his goals could have nothing to do with fun. The boys had long ago dubbed him “Ole-Stick-in-the-Mud-Thomas.” Darcy pondered the term. Although Brent wasn’t old, being in his mid-twenties if he were a day, seeing him standing there in his brown suit on the sodden ground, he did fit the adage well.

  Darcy chuckled. The pleasant breeze must have carried the sound to Brent, for he turned his head to look. Seeing her gaze focused on him, he raised his brows suspiciously, which made her giggle again. She lifted her hands, palms up, in an innocent gesture, the grin growing wide on her face. Slowly, she shook her head, as if she had no idea why he stared so. His mouth twisted and he narrowed his eyes as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

  “Hey! You did that on purpose!”

  The lighthearted moment broken, Darcy darted a glance along the fence. Herbert, his face tomato red, glowered at Joel. “You meant to sling whitewash on me.” He used his sleeve to wipe the offending streak from his jaw.

  “Did not!”

  “Did so!”

  “Boys!” Brent came up behind them. “What’s going on here?”

  “He meant to do it, Mr. Thomas.”

  Joel crossed his arms, apparently forgetting he still held a wet paintbrush. “You can’t prove it,” he said, a smirk on his face. “It was an accident, pure and simple.”

  Darcy wondered why a little more whitewash should matter to Herbert, who was already spattered with white, but she kept silent.

  “It weren’t no accident!” Herbert’s eyes narrowed. “It was about as much an accident as you stopping up the stovepipe with—”

  “Shut up!” Joel growled and uncrossed his arms, all indifference gone.

  Herbert’s expression was smug. “That’s why the stove didn’t work right last winter, Mr. Thomas. ’Cause Joel took some old rags and climbed the roof—”

  With a ferocious yell, Joel barreled into Herbert, tackling him to the ground. “You squealer! I’ll show you not to double-cross me. You’re just as much to blame for holding the ladder.”

  Joel straddled Herbert and lifted the hand holding the paintbrush high. Before Brent could intervene, Joel gave the boy’s face a few quick swipes with the brush, covering Herbert’s red skin with white until he resembled a ghost. “There, have some more!”

  “Aggghhh!” Herbert’s hands went to his face. “He got it in my eyes! I can’t see!”

  “Mercy! What’s going on now?” Irma screeched as she ran from the kitchen door, raising her skirts high. “Joel, you stop that this minute!”

  Brent now had both arms around Joel, who still swung the paintbrush like a weapon, and pulled him back. Herbert lay on the ground, howling, hands over his eyes. Michael, his great size making him awkward, ran from overseeing the boys at the end of the row. He lifted the injured boy off the ground and jogged to the house.

  “Irma, call Doc Sanderson,” Brent ordered through clenched teeth as he restrained a struggling Joel. “Miss Evans, wash Herbert’s eyes out.” He looked at the other boys, and Darcy noticed his glasses were missing. “The contest is canceled.”

  Ignoring the cries of disappointment, Darcy ran after Michael, her heart beating with misgiving. Once inside the house, she pumped water into a basin. In the hallway, Irma cranked the telephone, trying to get the operator. She spoke into the mouthpiece on the wooden box attached to the wall. “Hello, Miranda? Miranda, can you hear me? Get Doc to the Refuge as soon as possible. One of the boys is hurt.”

  Darcy stared into the filled basin. Lord, help me. Don’t let this poor boy go blind. Show me what to do. She positioned the crying Herbert, placing his upper body over the table and turning his head sideways. Dipping a cup in the water, she saw she would need another pair of hands and glanced at Michael. “I could use assistance.” Her voice wavered with the doubt she felt.

  “Of course, Lass.” His expression grave, Michael took hold of Herbert’s small wrists, forcing the boy’s curled fingers from his face, and held them in one massive hand. With his other hand, Michael held the boy’s head steady.

  Using her thumb and forefinger, Darcy opened his tightly clenched eyelid and trickled water into the corner of his eye. Herbert howled in pain, but she didn’t stop. Instead, she repeated the process several times with both eyes. Her heart wrenched at his pitiful sobs.

  When the sound of horses’ hooves and the jangle of harness finally came, Darcy felt a sudden relief, knowing someone more qualified would soon be taking over. Portly Doc Sanderson bustled into the kitchen. He quickly surveyed the scene, his full lips thinning. “Take the boy into the parlor, Michael. Put him on the sofa. I’ll examine him there.”

  Michael carried Herbert into the next room, and Doc followed. Darcy collapsed onto the vacated chair and propped her elbows on the wet table. She dropped her forehead onto her palms. “Help him, Lord. Take care of his eyes.”

  “Amen,” Irma murmured. “I’ll make coffee.” The clang of metal hitting metal rang through the air while she went about her task.

  Darcy eyed the water that had run off the edge of the table to form a puddle on the planks. “I’ll take care of this mess.”

  As she put away the mop, the back door opened and Brent walked inside. His suit jacket was covered with white smears and speckles, his hair was disheveled, and his glasses were missing. Never had Darcy seen the proper schoolmaster in such a state. She propped the mop against the wall. “What happened to your spectacles?”

  Without a word, he fished them from his coat pocket. A wire earpiece had broken off, and a crack zigzagged over one lens.

  Darcy peered up at him sheepishly. “Er, sorry, Guv’ner. Why don’t you sit down and rest a spell? Irma’s makin’ coffee.”

  His sober countenance melted into one of relief. “Coffee sounds superb.” He took a seat opposite Darcy. “How is the boy?”

  “Doc’s with him in the parlor.”

  Brent nodded, his gaze pensive as he studied his hands clasped on the table. Irma set down two steaming cups of coffee and followed it with two plates, each containing a thick slice of blackberry pie. “No sense letting it go to waste,” she muttered.

  Darcy stared at the dessert she’d made only this morning. The purplish black berries and sauce oozed from beneath a thin, flaky crust. A prize for the winner. What a farce that had turned out to be!

  Darcy pushed away her plate, unable to enjoy the treat. Brent, apparently, had no such compunction; and Darcy watched as he lifted a forkful of the fragrant pie to his mouth.

  “Ah, Miss Evans, you’ve outdone yourself,” he said after he chewed and swallowed the first bite. He drank the rest of his coffee. “Irma, may I have another cup?”

  Irma let Darcy know from the start that she preferred to be known simply as “Irma,” and Darcy assumed that was why Brent called the cook by her Christian name.

  “It’s a crying shame about your suit.” Irma tsk-tsked. “Not sure I can get whitewash out, being how it’s got lime and whiting in it, but I can give it a try.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate the offer. However, I think such an attempt would prove futile.” Brent gave Irma a faded smile and held out a sleeve. “The paint appears to have absorbed into the wool and dried. I’ve needed to acquire a new suit for some time, and I suppose now is the time to do so.”

  “You can have what’s left of my eight dollars,” Darcy blurted. “I still have a little over four dollars left.”

  Brent’s eyes widened. “I can’t take your money, Miss Evans.”

  “Whyever not?”

  The question seemed to baffle him. “Because it’s yours.”

  “Well, now, I know that. I’m offering it. All, or as much as you need.” She lowered her gaze to her untouched pie. “I’m feelin’ a mite guilty—bein’ as how the contest was my idea. And you’ll need new
glasses.” Uncomfortable, she took a sip of the bitter black brew, trying not to scowl and hurt Irma’s feelings. She really didn’t like coffee.

  “I appreciate your generous offer.” Brent’s voice came more quietly. “But I do have adequate funds to obtain a suit. I keep a spare pair of eyeglasses in my bureau drawer, as well.”

  Darcy gave a swift nod but didn’t look up. She took another sip of coffee.

  “Well, I need to be seeing what Charleigh wants for her lunch,” Irma said, bustling from the room.

  Brent picked up his cup. “Don’t feel too badly, Miss Evans. Everyone is entitled to a substandard idea once in a lifetime. It’s part of being human.”

  Her gaze shot upward. “Substandard?”

  “A bad idea.” When she shook her head in confusion, he added, “The contest.”

  “Oh, but I don’t think my idea a bad one.”

  His sympathetic expression changed to one of incredulity. “Surely you must be jesting.”

  “No, Guv’ner.” Her voice came steady, and she carefully set her cup on the saucer. “Herbert and Joel are always bickering. Why should all the lads be punished for the mischief of two boys?”

  His cup hit the saucer with a harsh clink. “Miss Evans—”

  “Hear me out, Guv’ner. What happened today isn’t so unusual, though ’tis a pity the scuffle ended with Herbert injured.” Concern washed over her again as she turned her gaze toward the closed door that led to the parlor. “But Herbert is always gettin’ hurt, and Joel is always fighting—usually Herbert. You can hardly blame the contest for what happened today.”

  He released a weary sigh. “Granted, you may be right. Yet what do you propose we do to prevent this problem from resurfacing in the future?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “Simple. Because of their behavior, Joel and Herbert are excluded from the next contest. Tomorrow is Saturday. We’ll try again then.”

  Exasperation filled Brent’s eyes. “Miss Evans, did anyone ever tell you that you are one obdurate woman?”

  “Obdurate?”

  “Stubborn.”