“I thank you for the compliment,” I say coolly. “I’m quite the spinster, though.” I’ve pulled my hair back into a severe bun, so tight it hurts my head, and I’m wearing my most dour dress.
“See that you stay that way,” Mr. Jeffers says in a fatherly tone.
I nod. Only single women are allowed to be schoolmarms. But I have no intention of marrying.
“The Cookes gave a steer to pay for this,” Mr. Jeffers tells me proudly, sweeping his arm to indicate the building. “We’ve got a collection going for improvements, to make this a real schoolhouse. The Cookes got ten young’uns for your class; they’re the ones what pushed for a school here, that and the new law. You’ll probably get about ten more. Some’ll pay in goods. Mr. McHenry will give you a fair price for things at the store if you don’t have no need for them.”
My classroom was paid for by a cow.
And it looks like it.
Greased paper covers the only window, letting mottled light inside. “We got glass comin’ in. Mr. McHenry ordered it himself,” Mr. Jeffers says quickly when he sees where I’m looking. “You’re from Chicago, ain’t ya?” he adds. “I mean, I know the train came from there, but you’re from the city proper. You talk like it.”
I nod.
“Wyoming’s a bit different from Chicago.”
I don’t bother responding; that much is obvious.
“It’s a good school, Miss Davies.” Mr. Jeffers, for the first time, sounds defensive, almost angry. I try to see myself through his eyes. My dress may be plain, but it’s still fine. And while I’ve tried not to show it, there must be something in my face that betrays my emotion.
“It is indeed a good school, Mr. Jeffers,” I say. “And I am right grateful to be here.”
“If it gets too cold, you can use the church,” Mr. Jeffers allows. “And there’s a good stack of wood for the stove.”
“Thank you.” The words are almost a whisper.
“We’ve arranged for you to room and board with Mrs. Franklin, down the street. She runs a ladies’ home. Got three seamstresses there already,” Mr. Jeffers says. “After this month, though, you’re to pay her direct with the fees you collect from the children.”
“Thank you,” I say again. “I had a trunk that was sent ahead. Will it be there?”
Mr. Jeffers laughs. “That’ll be at the general store,” he says. “One of the boys there’ll help you cart it back to the house.”
The general store isn’t hard to find — there aren’t that many buildings on Main Street, and the painted sign above the large windows reads MCHENRY’S STORE in large blue-and-gold letters. The paint is peeling a bit, but the windows sparkle and the floor is immaculately swept.
The shopkeep, McHenry, has my trunk waiting for me. I breathe a silent prayer of thanks to both God and Maggie.
I might just survive this after all.
The room Mrs. Franklin has for me is small and plain but serviceable. The same can be said of the food she serves for supper.
I don’t allow myself to open my trunk until that night. At the top of the trunk is my mother’s wedding dress, made of pale-blue silk covered with ivory lace and seed pearls. It was a last-minute addition to the trunk. I do not expect to ever wear it. But the idea of leaving behind this last piece of my mother . . . I couldn’t do it.
I imagine the way my mother felt when she wore this dress. I used to have a portrait of my parents after the wedding, their faces still and stoic. But when she wore the dress, she must have been filled with hope and joy. She truly loved my father, and I think he truly loved her. Before she died, I think my papa cared about things like love and happiness.
The dress crumples in my hands, and I hold it against my face, breathing in the scent of cedar from the chest where it was stored. The tiny seed pearls at the neckline dig into my skin.
As a little girl, I dreamed of picking apart the seams of this dress and refashioning it into my own.
I take a deep breath and fold the gown carefully. Best to avoid wrinkles.
At the bottom of my trunk are the eight books I felt most important to bring with me. King Lear is the most worn, my favorite play, but I’ve read my translation of Les Misérables almost as often. The McGuffey’s Reader I used when I was learning my letters. My father’s favorite book, A Pictorial History of the United States, is something I took just because it is something he loves.
The other books — philosophies — used to bring me comfort. My fingers linger over Socrates, but the book I select is my old favorite, Thomas More’s Utopia.
The words inside, however, do not calm my fears. They speak of a land I’ll never know, of happiness and peace I only thought I knew.