Wooing the Schoolmarm

A spinster by choice

When Willa Wright’s fiancé abandoned her, he ended all her hopes for romance. Now she dedicates herself to teaching Pinewood’s children, including the new pastor’s young wards. If she didn’t know better, Reverend Calvert’s kindness could almost fool Willa into caring again. Almost...

Though Matthew Calvert adores his niece and nephew, he wants a family of his own, too. The more he sees of the pretty schoolteacher, the more he wants that future with her. Yet Willa, so warm to her pupils, is ice-cool toward him. But where there’s a woman like Willa, there’s a man determined to guide her back to love.

“Have these children names?”

Willa’s reversion to the formal, polite tone called Matthew back to his purpose in coming. “Yes, of course. This is Joshua—he’s six years old and in first grade.” He smiled down at his nephew. “And this is Sally.” His niece pressed back against his legs. He placed his hands on her small, narrow shoulders and gave a reassuring squeeze. “She’s five years old, and feeling a little overwhelmed at the moment.”

The hem of the teacher’s gown whispered over the wide plank floor as she came to stand in front of them. She looked down and gave the children a warm, welcoming smile he wished were aimed at him. “Hello, Joshua and Sally. I’m your teacher, Miss Wright. Welcome to Oak Street School.”

Miss Wright. She was indeed. Matthew frowned and sucked in a breath, irritated by such whimsy. Miss Wright, with her narrow, aristocratic nose and small, square chin, was wreaking havoc with his normally sensible behavior. He was acting like a smitten schoolboy.

DOROTHY CLARK

Critically acclaimed, award-winning author Dorothy Clark lives in rural New York, in a home she designed and helped her husband build (she swings a mean hammer!) with the able assistance of their three children. When she is not writing, she and her husband enjoy traveling throughout the United States doing research and gaining inspiration for future books. Dorothy believes in God, love, family and happy endings, which explains why she feels so at home writing stories for Love Inspired Books. Dorothy enjoys hearing from her readers and may be contacted at [e-mail].

Wooing the Schoolmarm

Dorothy Clark

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.

—Psalms 34:18

Books with historical settings require a great deal of time-consuming research. This book is dedicated with deep appreciation to Rhonda Shaner Pollock of the Portville Historical & Preservation Society for her gracious and unfailing help in uncovering details of a schoolmarm’s daily life

in a rural village in 1840. Thank you, Rhonda.

“Commit thy works unto the Lord,

and thy thoughts shall be established.”

Your Word is truth. Thank You, Jesus.

To You be the glory.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Chapter One

Pinewood Village, 1840

“Here we are. This is the schoolhouse.” Matthew Calvert looked from the small, white, frame building to his deceased brother’s children. Joshua had on his “brave” face, which meant he was really afraid, and Sally looked about to cry. Please, Lord, don’t let her cry. You know my heart turns to mush when she tears up. “Everything is going to be fine. You’ll make nice friends and have a good time learning new things.”

He placed his hands on the children’s backs and urged them up the steps to the small porch before they could resume their pleading to stay at home with him this first day in the new town. Their small bodies tensed, moved with reluctance.

He leaned forward and glanced in the open door. A slender woman was writing on a large slate at the far end of the room. The sunlight coming in a side window played upon the thick roll of chestnut-colored hair that coiled from one small ear across the nape of her neck to the other, and warmed the pale skin of a narrow wrist that was exposed by the movement of her sleeve cuff as she printed out a list of words. She looked neat and efficient. Please, God, let her also be kindhearted. He nudged his niece and nephew forward and stepped inside. “Excuse me.”

The teacher turned. Her gaze met his over the top of the double rows of bench desks and his heart jolted. He stared into blue-green eyes rimmed with long, black lashes, rendered speechless by an attraction so immediate, so strong, every sensible thought in his head disappeared.

The teacher’s gaze dropped to the children, then rose back to meet his. “Good morning, Reverend Calvert. Welcome to Pinewood.”

The formal tone of the teacher’s voice brought him to his senses. He broke off his stare and cleared his throat. “Thank you. I—” He focused his attention, gave her a questioning look. “How did you know who I am?”

Her mouth curved into a smile that made his pulse trip all over itself. She placed the book she held on her desk. “You are from the city, Reverend Calvert. You will soon learn in a village as small as Pinewood that one knows all the residents and everything that happens.” She brushed her fingertips together and minuscule bits of chalk dust danced in the stream of sunlight. “I dare say I knew within ten minutes of the time you descended from your carriage and carried your bags into the parsonage that you had arrived.” She gave him a wry look. “But, I confess, I did not know you were coming here this morning.”

“I see.” He lifted the left side of his mouth in the crooked grin his mother had called his mischief escape. “So I have managed a ‘coup’ of sorts by bringing the children to school?”

She stared at him a moment, then looked away. “So it would seem. Have these children names?”

Her reversion to the formal, polite tone called him back to his purpose in coming. “Yes, of course. This is Joshua—he’s six years old.” He smiled down at his nephew. “And this is Sally.” His niece pressed back against his legs. He placed his hands on her small, narrow shoulders and gave a reassuring squeeze. “She’s five years old, and feeling a little overwhelmed at the moment.”

The hem of the teacher’s gown whispered over the wide plank floor as she came to stand in front of them. She looked down and gave the children a warm, welcoming smile he wished were aimed at him. “Hello, Joshua and Sally. I’m your teacher, Miss Wright. Welcome to Oak Street School.”

Miss Wright. She was indeed. Matthew frowned at his burst of whimsy. Miss Wright, with her narrow, aristocratic nose and small square chin, was wreaking havoc with his normally sensible behavior. He was acting like a smitten schoolboy.

Children’s voices floated in the door. Their light, quick footfalls sounded on the steps. The voices quieted as five children entered and bunched at the doorway to stare at them.

“Come in and take your seats, children. We have a lovely surprise this morning. You are going to have some new classmates.” The teacher gave a graceful little gesture and the clustered children separated, casting surreptitious glances their way as they moved toward the bench desks.

Matthew drew in a breath and hid the pang of sympathy he felt for Joshua and Sally. “I’d best be going, Miss Wright.” She looked up at him and that same odd jolt in his heart happened. He hurried on. “The children have slates and chalk. And also some bread and butter for dinner. I wasn’t sure—”

She smiled. “That is fine.”

His pulse thudded. He jerked his gaze from Miss Wright’s captivating eyes and looked down at Joshua and Sally. “Be good, now—do as Miss Wright says. Joshua, you take Sally’s hand and help her across the street when you come home. I’ll be waiting for you.” He tore his gaze from Sally’s small, trembling mouth and, circling around three more children filing into the schoolroom, escaped out the open door. The children needed to adjust to their new situation. And so did he. What had happened to him in there?

* * *

“Miss Wright!”

Willa halted as Danny Brody skidded to a stop in front of her. “Miss Hall wants you.” He pointed behind her, then raced off.

Willa turned, saw Ellen promenading toward her and fought to hold back a frown. She loved her lifelong friend, but sometimes the pretentious ways she had developed irritated her. Still, one couldn’t blame Ellen for parading about. She was the prettiest girl in town now that Callie Conner had moved away—and one of the biggest gossips. If this was about Thomas again—

“Gracious, Willa, why were you walking at such an unseemly pace? If Danny weren’t handy I never would have caught you.”

“I have to fix supper, then help Mother with the ironing.” She shifted the paper-wrapped package of meat she held to her other hand for emphasis. “Was there something you wanted, Ellen?”

Excitement glinted in her friend’s big, blue eyes. “I wanted to tell you the latest news. Father told me that the new pastor is a young man. And nice-looking.”

“He is.” Willa gave an inward sigh and relaxed. She should have guessed Ellen had stopped her to talk about Reverend Calvert. The new church and pastor were all anyone in the village talked about these days. Thank goodness. She disliked discussing anything pertaining to God, but at least the church topic had replaced the gossip about her abruptly cancelled wedding.

“You’ve seen him?” Ellen leaned close, gripped her arm. “What does he look like? I didn’t dare ask Father for details.”

She thought back to that morning. “Well, Reverend Calvert is quite tall…with blond hair and brown eyes.” She cast back for her impression of the pastor and tempered her words so Ellen would not guess she had felt a momentary attraction to the man. That would elicit a hundred questions from her friend. “He has a strong appearance, with a square jaw. But his smile is charming.” And his lopsided grin disarming. She ignored the image of that grin that snapped into her head and forged on. “As is his son’s. His daughter’s smile is more shy in nature.”

Ellen jerked back. “He has children?”

“Yes. Joshua and Sally. He brought them to school this morning.” She tilted her head to one side and grinned up at her friend. “How did that important detail escape you?”

“I’ve been helping Mother with my new gown all day.” Ellen’s lovely face darkened. “Father didn’t mention that the reverend was married.”

“Oh.” Willa gaped at her perturbed friend. “Ellen Hall! Surely you weren’t thinking of— Why, you haven’t even seen the man!”

“Well, gracious, a girl can hope, Willa. When I heard the pastor was young and handsome I thought, perhaps at last there was a man of distinction I could marry in this place. I should have known it was hopeless.” Ellen sighed with a little shrug. “I must go home. Mother is waiting to hem my new dress for Sunday. I’ll have to tell her there’s no hurry now. I certainly don’t care to impress a bunch of loggers. Bye, Willa.”

“Bye, Ellen.” Willa shook her head and cut across Main Street away from the block of huddled stores before anyone else could stop her to chat. Imagine Ellen being so eager to marry a “man of distinction” she would make plans toward that end before she even saw Pastor Calvert.

She frowned, hurried across the Stony Creek bridge and turned onto the beaten path along Brook Street. Perhaps she should have told Ellen the truth about Thomas and why their wedding had been canceled. Perhaps she should have cautioned her about trusting a man. Any man. Not that it mattered. Her friend was in no danger from the attractive Reverend Calvert, and neither was she. The man was married. And that was perfect as far as she was concerned. She’d had enough of handsome men with charming smiles.

* * *

Willa tossed the soapy dishwater out the lean-to door then eyed the neat piles of clean, folded clothing that covered the long table against the wall. The sight of the fruit of her mother’s dawn-to-dusk labor over hot laundry tubs and a hot iron kindled the old resentment. How could her father have simply walked away knowing his wife and child would no longer be allowed to live in the cabin the company provided for its loggers? He’d known they had no other place to go. If the company owner hadn’t accepted her mother’s offer to do laundry for the unmarried loggers in exchange for staying in the cabin…

Willa set her jaw, rinsed the dishpan at the pump, then walked back into the kitchen. She had struggled to find an answer for her father’s behavior since she was seven years old, and now she had—thanks to Thomas. Perhaps one day she would be grateful to him for teaching her that men were selfish and faithless and their words of love were not to be believed. But it had been only three months since he’d tossed her aside to go west and her hurt and anger left little room for gratitude.

She plunked the dishpan down onto the wide boards of the sink cupboard, yanked off her apron and jammed it on its hook. Thomas’s desertion didn’t bear thinking on, but she couldn’t seem to stop. At least the gossip had died—thanks to the new pastor’s arrival. She took a breath to calm herself and stepped into the living room.

“Why did you do the ironing, Mama? I told you I would do it tonight. You work too hard.”

Her mother glanced up from the shirt she was mending and gave her a tired smile. “You’ve got your job, and I’ve got mine, Willa. I’ll do the ironing. But it would be good if you’re of a mind to help me with the mending. It’s hard for me to keep up with it. Especially the socks.”

She nodded, crossed the rag rug and seated herself opposite her mother at the small table beneath the window. “I have two new students—Joshua and Sally Calvert. The new pastor brought them to school today.”

“I heard he had young children. But I haven’t heard about his wife.” Her mother adjusted the sides of the tear in the shirt and took another neat stitch. “Is she the friendly sort or city standoffish?”

“Mrs. Calvert wasn’t with them.” Willa pulled the basket of darning supplies close and lifted a sock off the pile. “The pastor is friendly. Of course, given his profession, he would be. But the children are very quiet.” She eyed the sock’s heel and sighed. It was a large hole. “Mr. Dibble was outside the livery hitching horses to a wagon when I passed on my way home. He always asks after you, Mama.” She threaded a needle, then slipped the darning egg inside the sock. “He asked to be remembered to you.”

“I don’t care to be talking about David Dibble or any other man, Willa.”

She nodded, frowned at the bitterness in her mother’s voice. Not that she blamed her after the way her father had betrayed them by walking off to make a new life for himself. “I know how you feel, Mama. Every word Thomas spoke to me of love and marriage was a lie. But I will not let his deserting me three days before we were to be wed make me bitter.”

She leaned closer to the evening light coming in the window, wove the needle through the sock fabric and stretched the darning floss across the hole, then repeated the maneuver in the other direction. “I learned my lesson well, Mama. I will never trust another man. Thomas’s perfidy robbed me of any desire to fall in love or marry. But I refuse to let him rob me of anything more.” Her voice broke. She blinked away the tears welling into her eyes and glared down at the sock in her hand. “I shall have a good, useful life teaching children. And I will be happy.”

Silence followed her proclamation.

She glanced across the table from beneath her lowered lashes. Her mother was looking at her, a mixture of sadness and anger in her eyes, her hands idle in her lap. “You didn’t deserve that sort of treatment, Willa. Thomas Hunter is a selfish man, and you’re well rid of him.”

She raised her head. “Like you were well rid of Papa?”

“That was different. We were married and had a child.” Her mother cleared her throat, reached across the table and covered her hand. “I tried my best to make your father stay, Willa. I didn’t want you hurt.”

There was a mountain of love behind the quiet, strained words. She stared down at her mother’s dry, work-roughened hand. How many times had its touch comforted her, taken away her childish hurts? But Thomas’s treachery had pierced too deep. The wound he’d given her would remain. She took a breath and forced a smile. “Papa left thirteen years ago, Mama. The hurt is gone. All that’s left is an empty spot in my heart. But it’s only been three months since Thomas cast me aside. That part of my heart still hurts.” She drew another deep breath and made another turn with the darning floss. “You were right about Thomas not being trustworthy, Mama. I should have listened to you.”

“And I should have remembered ears do not hear when a heart is full.” There was a fierceness in her mother’s voice she’d never before heard. “Now, let’s put this behind us and not speak of Thomas again. Time will heal the wound.” Her mother drew her hand back, tied off her sewing thread, snipped it, set aside the finished shirt and picked up another off the mending pile. She laid it in her lap and looked off into the distance. “I’m so thankful you hadn’t married Thomas and aren’t doomed to spend your life alone, not knowing if you’re married or a widow. One day you will find a man who truly loves you and you will be free to love him.”

Willa jerked her head up and stared at her mother, stunned by her words, suddenly understanding her bitterness, her secluded lifestyle. She’d always thought of her father’s leaving as a single event, as the moment he had said goodbye and walked out the door, and her wound from his leaving had scarred over with the passing years. But her mother lived with the consequences of her father’s selfish act every day. Her father had stolen her mother’s life.

She caught her breath, looked down and wove the needle over and under the threads she’d stretched across the hole in the sock, thankfulness rising to weave through the hurt of Thomas’s desertion. At least her life was still her own. And it would remain so. She would let no man steal it from her. No man! Not ever.

* * *

Matthew gathered his courage and peeked in the bedroom door. If Sally spotted him, the crying and begging to sleep in Joshua’s room would start again. He considered himself as brave and stalwart as the next man, but Sally’s tears undid him.

Moonlight streamed in the windows, slanted across the bed. He huffed out a breath of relief. She was asleep, one small hand tucked beneath her chin, her long, blond curls splayed across her pillow. He stared at the spot of white fabric visible where the edge of the covers met her hand and a pang struck his heart. He didn’t have to go closer to see what it was. He knew. She was clutching her mother’s glove.

Lord, I don’t know what to do. Will allowing Sally to have Judith’s glove lessen her grief? Or does it prolong it? Should I take the glove away? I need wisdom, Lord. I need help!

He walked to the stairs and started down. He loved Joshua and Sally and willingly accepted their guardianship, but being thrust into the role of parent to two young, grieving children was daunting. He was faced with tasks and decisions he was ill-prepared to handle. That one child was a little girl made it even more difficult. And he had his own grief to contend with.

He shot a glance toward the ceiling of the small entrance hall. “I miss you, Robert. And I’m doing the best I can. But it would be a lot easier if you’d had two sons.” The thought of Sally’s little arms around his neck, of her small hand thrust so trustingly into his made his heart ache. “Not that I would want it different, big brother. I’ll figure it out. But it would certainly help with the girl things if I had a wife.”

He frowned and walked into his study to arrange his possessions that had come by freight wagon that afternoon. Why couldn’t he find a woman to love and marry? He was tired of this emptiness, this yearning for someone to share his life with that he’d been carrying around the last few years. He wanted a wife and children. Having Joshua and Sally these last few weeks had only increased that desire.

He lifted a box of books to his desk, pulled out his pocketknife and cut the cord that bound it. Robert had known Judith was the one for him as soon as he met her. But he’d never felt that immediate draw to a woman, the certainty that she was the one. He’d been making it a matter of prayer for the last year or so. But God hadn’t seen fit to answer those prayers. Unless…

He stared down at the book he’d pulled from the box, a vision of a lovely face with beautiful blue-green eyes framed by soft waves of chestnut-colored hair dancing against the leather cover. His pulse quickened. Was what had happened to him in the schoolhouse God’s answer to his prayers? There was no denying his immediate attraction to Miss Wright. An attraction so strong that he’d lost his normal good sense and eyed her like a besotted schoolboy. That had never happened to him before. But was it the beginning of love? Or only an aberration caused by his loneliness and grief?

He slid the book onto the top shelf of the bookcase behind his desk and reached into the box for another. It had been a humbling moment when the church council had asked him to leave the pulpit of his well-established church in Albany for two years to come and establish a foundation for the church here in Pinewood. But he’d been inclined to turn them down because of his loneliness. If he couldn’t find a woman to love and marry among his large congregation and abundant friends in the city, what chance had he to find one in a small, rural village nestled among the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains in western New York?

He scowled, put the book on the shelf and picked up another. Robert’s death had made up his mind. He had accepted the offer, hoping that a change of scene might help the children over their grief. Two years out of his life was a price he was willing to pay for the children’s healing. That was his plan.

He reached into the box for the last book, then paused. What if God had placed that yielding in his heart because He had a plan? One that helped the children, but also included the answer to his prayers? He blew out a breath, put the last book on the shelf and tossed the empty box to the floor. And what if he were simply letting his imagination run away with him? At least he knew the answer to that question. “Thy will be done, Lord. Thy will be done.”

He picked up the box with his desk supplies, cut the cord and started putting things in the drawers.

Chapter Two

Willa spotted their gray-haired neighbor sweeping her walk next door and sighed. Mrs. Braynard was as plump as her mother was lean, and as cheerful as her mother was bitter. She was also kind and concerned and…nosy. She closed the door and walked down their short, plank walk to the leaf-strewn beaten path beside the street. “Good morning, Mrs. Braynard. How is Daniel today?”