Sycamore Hill by Francine Rivers Page B

more detergent and set to work on
the walls on the other half of the room. By that evening my quarters were also
scrubbed down. Forcing myself to cook, I made a cheese-rice-and-vegetable
concoction that was more nutritious than delicious. Then I took a sponge bath.
Falling into bed, I expected to find sleep immediately, but it was impossible.
All I could think of was the work yet ahead of me, the lessons I needed to
prepare for 64 children; the yard work; the floor scouring; the minor repairs,
such as fixing the picket fence, the squeaking doors; the tom bookbindings; the
loose chalk tray; the wobbly desks. So many things to do and only a few more
days in which to do them. I had never worked so hard in my life.
    The third day saw me on my hands and knees scrubbing floors. By
the end of that day my back ached from toting water from the well, my legs were
sore from walking and getting up and down from the floor, and my arms felt like
limbs of wood hanging from drooping shoulders. Yet when I went to bed, I still
tossed and turned. The more I needed rest, the more impossible it became. I
could not stop thinking of the work that still stretched out before me.
    Finally, in frustration, I got up and stood at my window. The
first thing I sensed was the disgusting malodorous outhouse, which the children
and I were expected to use. Anger made my blood boil.
    I would be double-damned if I was going to dig a hole for an
outhouse, I decided. If anything was “heavy work,” as Olmstead had phrased it,
that was! Surely, the kind citizens of this town did not expect that of me as
well as everything else they had given Olmstead to outline. More resentful
thoughts began to whirl in my exhausted brain, and then an idea struck me. I
started to laugh, a jubilant sound in the depressing darkness and glum
atmosphere of my austere quarters.
    Everything was going to be just fine, I thought with another
chuckle. If Olmstead and the rest of his demanding school board did not like my
methods of maintaining the schoolhouse, they could always register their
complaints with me. I would be more than pleased to listen. I laughed again.
However, by that time I hoped my plans would be well started if not completed.
    The following morning I was in much better spirits, though still
tired and stiff from my strenuous labors. I took care of minor repairs and was
satisfied with my accomplishments by the end of the day. The picket fence had
all its sticks in place, the door did not squeak anymore, the bookbindings were
glued back, and the chalk tray no longer wobbled. I had checked all the desks
and found them in good repair. The three smashed ones I used for firewood.
Everything was moved back into place again. It was Saturday, and school was
scheduled to start on Monday. That gave me the following day to make my lesson
plans.
    I spent Sunday making lists of projects needed to be done. Then I
worked late into the night on lesson plans for the first few days of school.
Nervous excitement kept me awake the whole night, and the rising sun found me
very apprehensive, but smiling.
    Just after eight o’clock I spotted a man riding down the hill
behind the schoolhouse. Trailing reluctantly after him were two children on
matching pintos. The three stopped for a moment, and the man spoke to the
children—one, a girl in a pretty lilac dress, and the other, a boy in somber
brown pants and shirt. Then the three rode forward. As they came out of the
shadows of the oaks, I recognized Jordan Bennett. Emily Olmstead had not
mentioned a son as well.
    I hurried from my window to the back door. Just as I started down
the steps, I heard the crack and remembered Olmstead’s warning about the stairs.
I jumped over the last three and heard Jordan Bennett laughing. My heart
pounded, and I managed three slow breaths to smother my rush of temper. Then I
smiled brightly and strode through the tall grass to meet the approaching trio.
    “Are you really that eager?” Bennett