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The Calling of Ella McFarland

By Linda Brooks Davis

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CHAPTER 1

Ella had aimed for this day all her life.

Perching on the edge of the tufted chair, she slipped off her gloves. A corset stave bit into her flesh, but she held herself erect. Such was expected of a teacher candidate at Oklahoma Territory’s Worthington School for Girls.

“Miss McFarland.” Stationed at the head of the library table, Mr. Abernathy gestured to a colleague on either side. “As the board of directors, we must emphasize that female teachers who marry are dismissed.” The man’s tone had turned as severe as his starched collar. “Unlike for men, marriage divides women’s loyalties.”

Women more prone to divided loyalties than men? Ella suppressed an urge to spout the challenge. A Worthington teacher knew her place. “Rest assured, sir, I am wedded to teaching.”

Perspiration dribbled down her spine. Was 1905 the hottest year on record? Plucking a handkerchief from a sleeve, she dabbed moisture from the cleft in her chin and pressed it to her nose. The library’s musty tomes and velvet window coverings tickled her nostrils and devoured the oxygen.

The man stifled a cough with a fist. “Your loyalty notwithstanding . . .”

She willed herself to relax. Had the Lord Himself not brought her to this premier institution of learning for the socially elite?

Indeed.

“We have reached deadlock.” Mr. Abernathy delivered the news as if it were trivial.

Ella’s insides clamped. “You’ve reached consensus not to reach consensus?” A recalcitrant spiral of her golden hair slipped from its pin and dangled near her eye.

Mr. Evans, far younger than his two associates, covered his mouth with a hand. Had he hidden a grin? Unlike the other men’s ties and stiff collars, an open-necked shirt peeked from beneath his brown serge coat.

“Suffice to say we must deliberate further,” Mr. Roberts said, his expression as drawn as his gray vest. Light reflected off his pate, and his head bob sent a tremor through his jowls.

Ella’s initial interview had been six weeks prior. The men required even more time? Undoubtedly, a panel of three women would find deliberations a simple task. But she held her peace. “Far be it from me to—”

“Well then.” Mr. Abernathy tapped a stack of papers into precise lines, as if doing so dismissed her.

To the contrary, Ella would make a reasonable inquiry. “Can you tell me, sir . . .”

The man’s eyebrows curved into question marks.

“How long might your deliberation take?” She met his stare with a steady gaze.

“These things take time, young lady.”

“May I, Mr. Chairman?” Mr. Evans said. Clear blue light shone in his eyes.

The chairman nodded to his junior associate.

“As you know from your initial interview,” the genial—nay, handsome—Mr. Evans said, “I joined the board when another member met with an unfortunate accident.”

“Aye.” Ella had read in the paper that the hard-of-hearing former member, a widower caught in a hail storm in the path of an oncoming train, left five fatherless daughters. God bless them.

“Filling that fine man’s shoes is a responsibility I do not take lightly,” he said and cleared his throat. “Further deliberations on my account are in order, I’m afraid. Can you return in two weeks?”

Despair threatened, but she smiled. “Of course.” Tugging on her gloves, she rose, as did the three gentlemen, their bearing as precise as the pinstripes on their suits.

“I’ll see you out.” Mr. Evans extended a hand, bringing with him the fragrance of sandalwood.

“That’s not necessary, but thank you.” Neither the man’s smile nor his fleeting dimple dispelled the unease that tussled in Ella’s middle. His glum, older associates exchanged a glance, as if communicating unspoken thoughts. Something was amiss.

Pausing at the doorway, she straightened her cotton shirtwaist and faced the men. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

Mr. Abernathy eyed her like a whooping crane spying a minnow. “See here—”

“We are divided.” Mr. Evans said, stepping nearer.

She gave a nod. “May I ask the cause of your disagreement?” Thankfully, she had chosen her simple linen hat. Her wide-brimmed straw would have bobbled in an unseemly fashion.

“We have learned of other . . . considerations,” Mr. Abernathy said.

“You’ve learned I’m not a capable teacher?”

“Of course not. You have an admirable record.”

Aye, nothing less than excellence was required of a farmer’s daughter in need of connections and a stable income.

“But under the circumstances of your family’s—”

“My family?” She puffed a curl off her forehead.

“Your family’s reputation. We have our students’ good names to consider.”

Gossip had reached even to Worthington? A finger of ire picked at Ella. “My parents must account for your uncertainty?”

“Certainly not. Gavin and Betsy McFarland make a fine Christian couple.”

“So it’s my twin brother?”

“To the contrary, Cade McFarland is known to be industrious and honest.”

“I see. It must be Hannah, my twelve-year-old sister.” Ella had vowed to bridle her saucy tongue or die trying. Would she write her own death warrant that very day?

“Young woman, you know precisely of whom we speak.”

Indeed. ’Twas the other McFarland girl, the dark chestnut-haired, golden-eyed beauty.

Ella returned Mr. Abernathy’s unflinching scrutiny. “Thank you for your time. Making such decisions must be . . . difficult.”

She shook Mr. Evans’s hand and strode from the library with her pride intact. Ella was a McFarland. She would behave as such.

Retrieving her parasol from the foyer hall tree and nodding to the receptionist, she helped herself through the double oak doors. As she descended the front steps, her dark gored skirt puffed outward with each footfall.

She scanned the billowed sky. July’s simmering sun and a blanket of reluctant rainclouds had created a sweltering ride to Worthington. Her blouse clung to her damp skin, but she set aside her discomfort. A two-hour drive stretched before her with tasks yet to accomplish before dark. She must hurry.

As she buttoned her gloves, she caught another whiff of the manly scent. Perhaps it was Bay Rum aftershave.

“Miss McFarland.”

Mr. Evans was persistent as well as gentlemanly, it seemed. She reached for the buggy’s folding step.

“Here, let me.” As he released the latch and pressed the step into place, sunlight glinted in his hair, as dark a brown as black walnut shells. He touched a hand to her elbow.

“Thank you, sir,” she said with a button-shoed foot on the step. Her legs wobbled, but she settled into the seat without stumbling.

“Don’t give up hope, Miss McFarland. I’ll do everything I can.”

She shook off the disconcerting effect of the man’s cobalt eyes and released the footbrake. “You’re very kind, Mr. Evans. Thank you.”

She flicked open her pendant fob watch. Ten o’clock. She should make it home in time tohelp Mama set the noon meal on the table. Five miles of back roads and a bridge over the Canadian River would take her into Indian Territory. Just past the Washita River, she would catch sight of the home place where her family awaited news.

Ella was their best hope, but hope was growing scarce.

Securing her hair with a comb, she squared her shoulders. Her snap of the whip belied her crumbling emotions as it urged her mare Bunny onto the thoroughfare toward home.

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