Where the Trail Ends: American Tapestries by Melanie Dobson Page A
Authors: Melanie Dobson
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this life.
He’d longed to go to school as a boy, but his mother had never been able to afford the fees. He had spent hours with an elderly neighbor, learning to read from the few books she owned, until hismother died. Then Uncle Neville brought him into his manor and hired a tutor.
He drank up those early lessons with a quenchless thirst. Even as a boy, he remembered feeling a bit like Joseph of the Bible, going from prison to palace in a day. He was suddenly Lord Neville Clarke’s nephew, his honored and esteemed heir, and he was offered an education to go along with it.
Uncle Neville was thrifty with his praise, but Alex hoped he’d made the man proud. If his father were still alive, would he too be proud of the man Alex had become? Alex never knew his father.
The only father Alex had ever known left him and his mother when he was four. He barely remembered Fulton Knox, but he remembered enough to know that he didn’t want to follow in the steps of a man who prized neither education nor family.
His stepfather had been an entertainer who’d charmed Alex’s mother away from the life of a noblewoman, and she’d been too proud to attempt a return when Fulton left her penniless. She had been convinced that her first husband’s relatives would turn her away.
But they hadn’t turned away Alex. His aunt had been hesitant, but his uncle had welcomed him into his home. Without children of his own, Uncle Neville had been eager for an heir.
Perhaps if he had the blood of an entertainer, Alex thought wryly, he might have charmed these students into staying in school. Or perhaps he should have caned all of them into submission...though he doubted that even a good caning would make these ruffians obey.
He glanced out the window again. He couldn’t blame them, he supposed, for wanting to be outside on this beautiful day, but even if it were pouring rain, they probably wouldn’t want to learn. At least not from him. How he wished he could convince them that a good education would give them the opportunity to work with their minds instead of their hands.
He leaned back at the table, glancing down at his own hands. Sometimes he wished he knew how to work with his hands instead of directing other people to do so. He’d never admit it to anyone, but sometimes he even wished he could have the joy of planting corn or wheat like Tom Kneedler and watching it grow.
Perhaps he could teach the students the importance of using their hands and minds alike.
He raked his fingers through his trimmed hair. It was all a grand joke, the idea of Alexander Clarke trying to teach anyone. He didn’t know the first thing about children, nor did he have a clue how to inspire them. He’d wanted to sneak out of the classroom long before they did.
The door opened at the back of the room and he looked up, wondering if one or more of the children had decided to return to school. But instead of a child, the lovely Taini sauntered into the room.
She slowly crossed the floor, her dark green English dress rustling with every step, and she sat at one of the front desks, folding her hands before she spoke in her father’s language. “Where are your pupils?”
He answered her in rudimentary French. “They like the sunshine more than school.” Her brown eyes flashed as she tucked strands of straight black hair behind her ears. “I like the sunshine too.”
He nodded, glancing out the window again.
“But I am not like them. I would also like to learn English.”
He looked back at her, his pulse racing at the glance she gave him. She wasn’t that much older than some of his students, having married her first husband when she was only fourteen.
She fluttered her long eyelashes, her eyes speaking as loudly as any words. Everything within him shouted, “Leave!” but he’d learned early in life that it was better to confront a problem than run from it.
He crossed his arms. “I think it is a good idea for you to learn English, but I am not a
He’d longed to go to school as a boy, but his mother had never been able to afford the fees. He had spent hours with an elderly neighbor, learning to read from the few books she owned, until hismother died. Then Uncle Neville brought him into his manor and hired a tutor.
He drank up those early lessons with a quenchless thirst. Even as a boy, he remembered feeling a bit like Joseph of the Bible, going from prison to palace in a day. He was suddenly Lord Neville Clarke’s nephew, his honored and esteemed heir, and he was offered an education to go along with it.
Uncle Neville was thrifty with his praise, but Alex hoped he’d made the man proud. If his father were still alive, would he too be proud of the man Alex had become? Alex never knew his father.
The only father Alex had ever known left him and his mother when he was four. He barely remembered Fulton Knox, but he remembered enough to know that he didn’t want to follow in the steps of a man who prized neither education nor family.
His stepfather had been an entertainer who’d charmed Alex’s mother away from the life of a noblewoman, and she’d been too proud to attempt a return when Fulton left her penniless. She had been convinced that her first husband’s relatives would turn her away.
But they hadn’t turned away Alex. His aunt had been hesitant, but his uncle had welcomed him into his home. Without children of his own, Uncle Neville had been eager for an heir.
Perhaps if he had the blood of an entertainer, Alex thought wryly, he might have charmed these students into staying in school. Or perhaps he should have caned all of them into submission...though he doubted that even a good caning would make these ruffians obey.
He glanced out the window again. He couldn’t blame them, he supposed, for wanting to be outside on this beautiful day, but even if it were pouring rain, they probably wouldn’t want to learn. At least not from him. How he wished he could convince them that a good education would give them the opportunity to work with their minds instead of their hands.
He leaned back at the table, glancing down at his own hands. Sometimes he wished he knew how to work with his hands instead of directing other people to do so. He’d never admit it to anyone, but sometimes he even wished he could have the joy of planting corn or wheat like Tom Kneedler and watching it grow.
Perhaps he could teach the students the importance of using their hands and minds alike.
He raked his fingers through his trimmed hair. It was all a grand joke, the idea of Alexander Clarke trying to teach anyone. He didn’t know the first thing about children, nor did he have a clue how to inspire them. He’d wanted to sneak out of the classroom long before they did.
The door opened at the back of the room and he looked up, wondering if one or more of the children had decided to return to school. But instead of a child, the lovely Taini sauntered into the room.
She slowly crossed the floor, her dark green English dress rustling with every step, and she sat at one of the front desks, folding her hands before she spoke in her father’s language. “Where are your pupils?”
He answered her in rudimentary French. “They like the sunshine more than school.” Her brown eyes flashed as she tucked strands of straight black hair behind her ears. “I like the sunshine too.”
He nodded, glancing out the window again.
“But I am not like them. I would also like to learn English.”
He looked back at her, his pulse racing at the glance she gave him. She wasn’t that much older than some of his students, having married her first husband when she was only fourteen.
She fluttered her long eyelashes, her eyes speaking as loudly as any words. Everything within him shouted, “Leave!” but he’d learned early in life that it was better to confront a problem than run from it.
He crossed his arms. “I think it is a good idea for you to learn English, but I am not a
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