wasn’t certain how a man went about these things. Did he tell her to stay put while he hustled around to her side? What if she laughed? Some girls he knew would have laughed at him — girls laughed at the strangest things. The idea of taking Miss Brandonberg’s hand made him feel all flustered and queer in the stomach.
In the end he deliberated too long and she leaped to the ground with a sprightly bounce, promising herself she’d do something about the manners of the Westgaard men if it was her only accomplishment here.
From the back of the wagon Kristian grabbed the ladder and followed her across the school grounds while she carried a bucket and rags.
At the door she spun to face him. “Oh, we forgot the key!”
He looked at her in amazement. “The door ain’t locked. Nobody locks their doors around here.” He leaned over and placed the ladder next to the foundation.
“They don’t?” She glanced back at the door. In the city, doors were locked.
“Naw. It’s open. You can go right in.”
As she reached for the doorknob her heart lifted expectantly. She had waited for this moment for years. She’d known since she was eight years old that she wanted to be a teacher. And not in a city school. In a school just like this one, a building all her own, where she and she alone had responsibility for the education of her charges.
She opened the door and stepped into a cloakroom — a shallow room running the width of the building, with an unfinished wooden floor and a single window on each end. Straight ahead was a pair of closed doors. To the left and right of them were scarred wooden benches and above them metal hooks for coats and jackets. In the far left corner stood a square table painted pale blue upon which stood an inverted pottery jar with a red wing design baked into its side and a wooden spigot, much like a wine cask. The floor beneath the spigot was gray from years and years of drips.
She glanced to her right. In the corner leaned a broom, and from a nail above hung a big brush by its wooden handle. She glanced up. Above her head the bell rope hung from the cupola, the huge knot at its end looped over a nail beside the wide white double doors leading straight ahead to the main body of the school.
Slowly she set down her pail.
Just as slowly she opened the doors, then stood a moment, rapt. It was totally silent, totally ordinary. But it smelled of chalk dust and challenge, and if Linnea Brandonberg thought as a girl regarding many things, she embraced this challenge with all the responsibility of a full adult.
“Oh, Kristian, look... ”
He had seen the schoolroom a thousand times before. What he looked at was the new teacher as her wide, eager eyes scanned the room.
The sun streamed in through the long narrow windows, lighting the rows of desks bolted to their wooden runners. Walllanterns with tin reflectors hung between the windows. Dead center was a two-burner cast-iron stove, its stack new and glossy, heading up through the tin wainscot ceiling. At the front of the room was a raised platform that, to her disappointment, held no desk, but a large rectangular table holding nothing more than a single kerosene lantern. There was a wooden chair and behind it a tiny bookshelf filled with volumes whose spines had faded into pastel shades of rose, blue, and green. There was a globe, a retractable map — tightly rolled — and blackboards on the front wall, with recitation benches on either side.
Her heart tripped in excitement. It was no different from a thousand others like it in a thousand other similar country settings. But it was hers!
Miss Brandonberg.
The thought made her giddy, and she moved across the length of the room, her skirts lifting a fine layer of dust. Her footsteps startled a mouse that came running toward her, then darted quickly in the opposite direction.
She halted in surprise and sucked in a quick breath. “Oh look! It seems we have company.”
Kristian had never before
In the end he deliberated too long and she leaped to the ground with a sprightly bounce, promising herself she’d do something about the manners of the Westgaard men if it was her only accomplishment here.
From the back of the wagon Kristian grabbed the ladder and followed her across the school grounds while she carried a bucket and rags.
At the door she spun to face him. “Oh, we forgot the key!”
He looked at her in amazement. “The door ain’t locked. Nobody locks their doors around here.” He leaned over and placed the ladder next to the foundation.
“They don’t?” She glanced back at the door. In the city, doors were locked.
“Naw. It’s open. You can go right in.”
As she reached for the doorknob her heart lifted expectantly. She had waited for this moment for years. She’d known since she was eight years old that she wanted to be a teacher. And not in a city school. In a school just like this one, a building all her own, where she and she alone had responsibility for the education of her charges.
She opened the door and stepped into a cloakroom — a shallow room running the width of the building, with an unfinished wooden floor and a single window on each end. Straight ahead was a pair of closed doors. To the left and right of them were scarred wooden benches and above them metal hooks for coats and jackets. In the far left corner stood a square table painted pale blue upon which stood an inverted pottery jar with a red wing design baked into its side and a wooden spigot, much like a wine cask. The floor beneath the spigot was gray from years and years of drips.
She glanced to her right. In the corner leaned a broom, and from a nail above hung a big brush by its wooden handle. She glanced up. Above her head the bell rope hung from the cupola, the huge knot at its end looped over a nail beside the wide white double doors leading straight ahead to the main body of the school.
Slowly she set down her pail.
Just as slowly she opened the doors, then stood a moment, rapt. It was totally silent, totally ordinary. But it smelled of chalk dust and challenge, and if Linnea Brandonberg thought as a girl regarding many things, she embraced this challenge with all the responsibility of a full adult.
“Oh, Kristian, look... ”
He had seen the schoolroom a thousand times before. What he looked at was the new teacher as her wide, eager eyes scanned the room.
The sun streamed in through the long narrow windows, lighting the rows of desks bolted to their wooden runners. Walllanterns with tin reflectors hung between the windows. Dead center was a two-burner cast-iron stove, its stack new and glossy, heading up through the tin wainscot ceiling. At the front of the room was a raised platform that, to her disappointment, held no desk, but a large rectangular table holding nothing more than a single kerosene lantern. There was a wooden chair and behind it a tiny bookshelf filled with volumes whose spines had faded into pastel shades of rose, blue, and green. There was a globe, a retractable map — tightly rolled — and blackboards on the front wall, with recitation benches on either side.
Her heart tripped in excitement. It was no different from a thousand others like it in a thousand other similar country settings. But it was hers!
Miss Brandonberg.
The thought made her giddy, and she moved across the length of the room, her skirts lifting a fine layer of dust. Her footsteps startled a mouse that came running toward her, then darted quickly in the opposite direction.
She halted in surprise and sucked in a quick breath. “Oh look! It seems we have company.”
Kristian had never before
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