Softly Falling by Carla Kelly

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    Will just didn’t want to give up. “No French postcards?”
    “None,” she said firmly, not sure what he meant, but taking her cue from the frown on Jack’s red face.
    “I’m from Connecticut and I have farmer’s almanacs,” Stretch said.
    “Could you use a grammar book?” Indian asked.
    The others stared at him. “I’m not ignorant,” he said pointedly. “Came in a missionary barrel from back East somewhere. I can read and write.”
    “I’d like that more than you know,” she said. “Thank you, Monsieur Fontaine.”
    Indian grinned at her and the others stared. Evidently, this had been a day of firsts for several of the Bar Dot’s residents.
    And then the noon hour was over. Silent, his head down, her father had worked his way slowly through Madeleine’s wonderful stew. In fact, the cook had peeked from the open door of the kitchen to see how he did, which touched Lily. When he finally finished, Madeleine pushed Chantal forward with cookies done up in a bit of waxed paper. Clarence Carteret accepted them with a smile.
    “See, Papa? You’ve been missed,” Lily said simply.
    He had trouble rising, but she could stand beside him and help him to his feet without attracting too much attention. And once he was on his feet, Amelie held open the screen door. He couldn’t walk fast, so Lily linked her arm through his and turned his meander into a stroll.
    At the door to his office, he looked at her for the first time. “D’ye think anyone noticed?” he asked, his voice wistful.
    “Papa, they were glad to see you at lunch,” she assured him. “And now since I have free time until school starts next week, I’ll help you here.”
    They spent the afternoon side by side at the desk, Lily copying whatever correspondence needed a firmer hand, and her father adding up columns, then adding them up again and again. She wondered how on earth he had kept his job. By the end of the afternoon, he could only sit and shake. To her relief, Mr. Buxton must have been busy elsewhere. His eyes kind, Fothering brought in tea at four o’clock.
    She thanked him. As he turned to go, she said, “Fothering, Chantal Sansever and I are going to clean out the schoolhouse tomorrow. Could you mention to Luella that we would like her help too? It is going to be everyone’s school.”
    He was too good a butler to appear doubtful. “I will suggest it,” he assured her.
    “That’s all I can ask.” Lily clasped her hands together. “I . . . I’ve never taken the lead in anything before, but I think a school should be everyone’s investment.”
    “I am certain I can cajole Mrs. Buxton into allowing me to assist,” the butler said. “As for Luella, perhaps her natural curiosity will inspire her.” He stood in the door, obviously teetering back and forth about saying more. Then he succumbed. “May I say, Miss Carteret, I have difficulty believing that you have never organized anything before. You have a knack.”
    And then he was gone, leaving her to wonder about this knack. The thought nourished her as she walked to their shack with her father, who was so desperate for a drink that he could barely contain himself. He went directly into his room. In another moment, she heard the clink of a bottle, a massive sigh, and the creak of bedsprings. Clarence Carteret, remittance man and general all-around failure, had made it through another day.
    As she stood on the porch, unwilling to endure another evening like the one before, Lily noticed a stack of books and pamphlets on the bench by the front door. She came closer, impressed to see a leather-bound copy of Ivanhoe , with the title in gilt letters. And there was Pierre Fontaine’s promised grammar, a real treasure.
    She made a space and sat down with books on each side of her. She picked up Toby Tyler or Ten Weeks with a Circus , practically new, and a note fell out. She opened it. “Dear Miss Carteret, I’ll be their tamorrah, but I can’t get dirty. L,” she