worry. We won’t charge you for anything unless you agree.”
“In that case, go ahead. It may be a waste of your time, but I suppose you realize that.”
A hint of an idea occurred to David. He smiled at the bank manager. “You could be right. I just want to make sure I tie up any loose ends before I make the trip back to Chicago.”
He exited the bank with quick steps. His day was going to be longer than he had expected.
Chapter Nine
C amellia Thornton pushed back a lock of hair and leaned over the table where the younger children were copying the alphabet onto their slates. She enjoyed working with the sharecroppers’ children, offering them tools that would ensure them brighter futures. One day soon she would begin bringing Amaryllis to the schoolhouse and including her in the lessons she prepared for these children.
Mary, one of her youngest students, caught her tongue between her teeth, her gaze focused on her slate. She glanced up as Camellia walked toward her side of the table. “Am I doing it right, Mrs. Camellia?”
Glancing at the line of letters, Camellia rewarded the child with a bright smile. “You have most of the letters right, but you’ve mixed up
B
and
D
. It’s something I had trouble with when I was your age.” She rubbed the bottom of each letter with the heel of her hand and watched as the child wrote them in once more, praising her when she succeeded.
As she went to another side of the table to help twin siblings Abraham and Zipporah, another of the younger children—a boy named Bobby—tugged on Mary’s braid. Camellia started to chastise Bobby but stopped when Mary stuck her tongue out at the child and returned her attention to her slate. It might be better to ignore the byplay since Mary didn’t seem overly concerned.
Camellia had arranged the children around the table according to their ages, which ranged from five to twelve. The older children often helped her with the younger ones, learning not only the current lesson but also how to pass their knowledge along to others.
She noted a couple of empty chairs and wondered if their parents had insisted the children work today instead of coming to school. Although most of the sharecroppers were grateful to send their children to school, one or two of them balked from time to time, deciding they needed the extra hands with planting or harvesting more than they needed educated children.
“Mrs. Camellia, what is that smell?” Abraham Shasta was a ten-year-old with cheeks the color of mahogany and a heart of gold. He and Zipporah always sat side-by-side in the schoolroom and were inseparable, even when working or playing outside.
Camellia glanced toward the window, surprised to see that the air was hazy. “I don’t know.”
Zipporah lifted her nose and sniffed. “It smells like a cookstove to me.”
This morning when Camellia had walked to the schoolhouse, no clouds had been evident. Had a thunderstorm overtaken the plantation while they studied? She walked away from the children to investigate further.
With each step she took, the air became more pungent. Her heartbeat tripled its speed, threatening to jump out of her chest as she wrenched the door open. Smoke—dense and gray—crept between the gnarled trunks of the oaks surrounding their cabin. It writhed through the upper limbs, ruffling the leaves and obscuring the sky. Her mind screamed the dreaded word as she shut the door with a snap,
Fire!
What should she do? Where was the fire? Should they run or remain in the cabin? She chewed on her lower lip as she considered the wooden walls of their schoolhouse cabin. If the fire came too close, this place would burn up in a few seconds. She couldn’t take any chances with these children’s lives at stake.
Maintaining a calm façade to keep from frightening the students, she made up her mind. They would go to the big house and raise the alarm.
An idea came to her, and Camellia clapped her hands for attention. “We’re
“In that case, go ahead. It may be a waste of your time, but I suppose you realize that.”
A hint of an idea occurred to David. He smiled at the bank manager. “You could be right. I just want to make sure I tie up any loose ends before I make the trip back to Chicago.”
He exited the bank with quick steps. His day was going to be longer than he had expected.
Chapter Nine
C amellia Thornton pushed back a lock of hair and leaned over the table where the younger children were copying the alphabet onto their slates. She enjoyed working with the sharecroppers’ children, offering them tools that would ensure them brighter futures. One day soon she would begin bringing Amaryllis to the schoolhouse and including her in the lessons she prepared for these children.
Mary, one of her youngest students, caught her tongue between her teeth, her gaze focused on her slate. She glanced up as Camellia walked toward her side of the table. “Am I doing it right, Mrs. Camellia?”
Glancing at the line of letters, Camellia rewarded the child with a bright smile. “You have most of the letters right, but you’ve mixed up
B
and
D
. It’s something I had trouble with when I was your age.” She rubbed the bottom of each letter with the heel of her hand and watched as the child wrote them in once more, praising her when she succeeded.
As she went to another side of the table to help twin siblings Abraham and Zipporah, another of the younger children—a boy named Bobby—tugged on Mary’s braid. Camellia started to chastise Bobby but stopped when Mary stuck her tongue out at the child and returned her attention to her slate. It might be better to ignore the byplay since Mary didn’t seem overly concerned.
Camellia had arranged the children around the table according to their ages, which ranged from five to twelve. The older children often helped her with the younger ones, learning not only the current lesson but also how to pass their knowledge along to others.
She noted a couple of empty chairs and wondered if their parents had insisted the children work today instead of coming to school. Although most of the sharecroppers were grateful to send their children to school, one or two of them balked from time to time, deciding they needed the extra hands with planting or harvesting more than they needed educated children.
“Mrs. Camellia, what is that smell?” Abraham Shasta was a ten-year-old with cheeks the color of mahogany and a heart of gold. He and Zipporah always sat side-by-side in the schoolroom and were inseparable, even when working or playing outside.
Camellia glanced toward the window, surprised to see that the air was hazy. “I don’t know.”
Zipporah lifted her nose and sniffed. “It smells like a cookstove to me.”
This morning when Camellia had walked to the schoolhouse, no clouds had been evident. Had a thunderstorm overtaken the plantation while they studied? She walked away from the children to investigate further.
With each step she took, the air became more pungent. Her heartbeat tripled its speed, threatening to jump out of her chest as she wrenched the door open. Smoke—dense and gray—crept between the gnarled trunks of the oaks surrounding their cabin. It writhed through the upper limbs, ruffling the leaves and obscuring the sky. Her mind screamed the dreaded word as she shut the door with a snap,
Fire!
What should she do? Where was the fire? Should they run or remain in the cabin? She chewed on her lower lip as she considered the wooden walls of their schoolhouse cabin. If the fire came too close, this place would burn up in a few seconds. She couldn’t take any chances with these children’s lives at stake.
Maintaining a calm façade to keep from frightening the students, she made up her mind. They would go to the big house and raise the alarm.
An idea came to her, and Camellia clapped her hands for attention. “We’re
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