Read Online Sycamore Hill by Francine Rivers - Free Book Online Page A

to keep my
voice polite.
    He grinned. “You be sure to have a very pleasant day.” He
succeeded in presenting a cultured Bostonian accent exaggerated just enough to
show his derision. I froze for a full second. Then I curtsied prettily.
    “Why, how nice of you, Mr. Bennett. And I will do just that as
soon as you turn your old cow pony around and ride over yonder hill.” I managed
a fair attempt at a Western drawl.
    He was laughing at me again, satisfied that he had aroused my
anger. “See you at three, Abby,” he said, further infuriating me by his casual
use of such a nickname. He rode off in the direction from which he had come. I
stood fuming.
    By ten to nine, 61 children had arrived and were seated in the
schoolhouse. The din of noise almost deafened me as I sat at the front desk,
looking over my charges and silently gathering my courage. The only quiet
children were Linda Bennett and Diego Gutierrez, who had both chosen
back-corner seats together. Linda sat watching the ruckus with her hands folded
on her desk. Diego watched with wary interest.
    Just ahead of them, separated by one desk, was pretty little
Margaret Hudson with her sandy-brown pigtails and laughing hazel eyes. She was
leaning across the aisle to talk to Patricia Studebaker. Her brother, Chester,
was deep in conversation with Toby Carmichael, a red-headed, freckled boy with
sad expressive eyes. On the other side of the room Matthew, Mark, Luke and John
Hayes, the reverend’s sons, chortled gleefully together and looked anything but
the angels Emily Olmstead said they were. Other children of outlying ranchers
and farmers chattered with friends they had not seen for some time.
    Just as I was about to call the class to order, two older boys
made a noisy entrance. They laughed boisterously as they slouched down into two
front desks. I assumed these were the notorious Poole boys—Sherman and Grant.
Their reckless air of defiance and mischief set them apart from the other
children and raised my hackles.
    “Silence, please!” I tried above the noise. But the children
continued to talk. A nervous tingle ran over my skin as the tension built. What
if they refused to listen at all? A vision of Jordan Bennett laughing flashed
in my mind and gave my voice the added strength it needed.
    “Silence, please!” Here and there, children ceased their chatter
and looked at me. I waited, looking from one child to another, meeting their
silent challenges. All but the Poole boys gave in.
    “Whenever you’re ready, gentlemen,” I said coolly, staring at each
boy in turn, anger overriding my nervousness. Something in my expression must
have reached them, for they flushed slightly and dropped into silence.
    “Thank you,” I said quietly and then looked up as a sound at the
back of the room attracted my attention. Standing in the doorway was a little
girl of about eight. She was dressed in a white pinafore trimmed with pink
satin ribbons. On her small feet were high-buttoned white shoes that probably
cost as much as my doe-brown dress and jacket. Her dark hair was braided into
two long, shiny plaits with pink bows at each end. Her delicate hands were
folded in front of her. She looked as though she had come to a party. Her
pretty gray eyes looked directly at me, and a little smile flickered nervously
across her face.
    The woman behind the little girl was dressed in even more finery.
She wore a forest-green dress trimmed in brown, much like the one I had seen in
the milliner’s window on my way up the main street. On her head was a flashy
hat with dyed-green and brown feathers. The gray eyes were worldly and cool as
they appraised me from head to foot. Then she smiled, a tight, defensive smile,
before, she moved forward with her daughter in tow.
    “My name is Marba Lane, Miss McFarland.”
    The Poole boys twittered, and I gave them a silencing look. Emily
Olmstead had mentioned Marba Lane, but she had not explained her disapproval of
the woman. I looked at the woman