Dorothy Clark - Wooing the Schoolmarm

A spinster by choice

When Willa Wright’s fiancé abandoned her, he ended all her hopes for romance. Now she dedicates herself to teaching Pinewood’s children, including the new pastor’s young wards. If she didn’t know better, Reverend Calvert’s kindness could almost fool Willa into caring again. Almost...

Though Matthew Calvert adores his niece and nephew, he wants a family of his own, too. The more he sees of the pretty schoolteacher, the more he wants that future with her. Yet Willa, so warm to her pupils, is ice-cool toward him. But where there’s a woman like Willa, there’s a man determined to guide her back to love.

“Have these children names?”

Willa’s reversion to the formal, polite tone called Matthew back to his purpose in coming. “Yes, of course. This is Joshua—he’s six years old and in first grade.” He smiled down at his nephew. “And this is Sally.” His niece pressed back against his legs. He placed his hands on her small, narrow shoulders and gave a reassuring squeeze. “She’s five years old, and feeling a little overwhelmed at the moment.”

The hem of the teacher’s gown whispered over the wide plank floor as she came to stand in front of them. She looked down and gave the children a warm, welcoming smile he wished were aimed at him. “Hello, Joshua and Sally. I’m your teacher, Miss Wright. Welcome to Oak Street School.”

Miss Wright. She was indeed. Matthew frowned and sucked in a breath, irritated by such whimsy. Miss Wright, with her narrow, aristocratic nose and small, square chin, was wreaking havoc with his normally sensible behavior. He was acting like a smitten schoolboy.

DOROTHY CLARK

Critically acclaimed, award-winning author Dorothy Clark lives in rural New York, in a home she designed and helped her husband build (she swings a mean hammer!) with the able assistance of their three children. When she is not writing, she and her husband enjoy traveling throughout the United States doing research and gaining inspiration for future books. Dorothy believes in God, love, family and happy endings, which explains why she feels so at home writing stories for Love Inspired Books. Dorothy enjoys hearing from her readers and may be contacted at dorothyjclark@hotmail.com.

Wooing the Schoolmarm

Dorothy Clark

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.

—Psalms 34:18

Books with historical settings require a great deal of time-consuming research. This book is dedicated with deep appreciation to Rhonda Shaner Pollock of the Portville Historical & Preservation Society for her gracious and unfailing help in uncovering details of a schoolmarm’s daily life

in a rural village in 1840. Thank you, Rhonda.

“Commit thy works unto the Lord,

and thy thoughts shall be established.”

Your Word is truth. Thank You, Jesus.

To You be the glory.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Chapter One

Pinewood Village, 1840

“Here we are. This is the schoolhouse.” Matthew Calvert looked from the small, white, frame building to his deceased brother’s children. Joshua had on his “brave” face, which meant he was really afraid, and Sally looked about to cry. Please, Lord, don’t let her cry. You know my heart turns to mush when she tears up. “Everything is going to be fine. You’ll make nice friends and have a good time learning new things.”

He placed his hands on the children’s backs and urged them up the steps to the small porch before they could resume their pleading to stay at home with him this first day in the new town. Their small bodies tensed, moved with reluctance.

He leaned forward and glanced in the open door. A slender woman was writing on a large slate at the far end of the room. The sunlight coming in a side window played upon the thick roll of chestnut-colored hair that coiled from one small ear across the nape of her neck to the other, and warmed the pale skin of a narrow wrist that was exposed by the movement of her sleeve cuff as she printed out a list of words. She looked neat and efficient. Please, God, let her also be kindhearted. He nudged his niece and nephew forward and stepped inside. “Excuse me.”

The teacher turned. Her gaze met his over the top of the double rows of bench desks and his heart jolted. He stared into blue-green eyes rimmed with long, black lashes, rendered speechless by an attraction so immediate, so strong, every sensible thought in his head disappeared.

The teacher’s gaze dropped to the children, then rose back to meet his. “Good morning, Reverend Calvert. Welcome to Pinewood.”

The formal tone of the teacher’s voice brought him to his senses. He broke off his stare and cleared his throat. “Thank you. I—” He focused his attention, gave her a questioning look. “How did you know who I am?”

Her mouth curved into a smile that made his pulse trip all over itself. She placed the book she held on her desk. “You are from the city, Reverend Calvert. You will soon learn in a village as small as Pinewood that one knows all the residents and everything that happens.” She brushed her fingertips together and minuscule bits of chalk dust danced in the stream of sunlight. “I dare say I knew within ten minutes of the time you descended from your carriage and carried your bags into the parsonage that you had arrived.” She gave him a wry look. “But, I confess, I did not know you were coming here this morning.”

“I see.” He lifted the left side of his mouth in the crooked grin his mother had called his mischief escape. “So I have managed a ‘coup’ of sorts by bringing the children to school?”

She stared at him a moment, then looked away. “So it would seem. Have these children names?”

Her reversion to the formal, polite tone called him back to his purpose in coming. “Yes, of course. This is Joshua—he’s six years old.” He smiled down at his nephew. “And this is Sally.” His niece pressed back against his legs. He placed his hands on her small, narrow shoulders and gave a reassuring squeeze. “She’s five years old, and feeling a little overwhelmed at the moment.”

The hem of the teacher’s gown whispered over the wide plank floor as she came to stand in front of them. She looked down and gave the children a warm, welcoming smile he wished were aimed at him. “Hello, Joshua and Sally. I’m your teacher, Miss Wright. Welcome to Oak Street School.”

Miss Wright. She was indeed. Matthew frowned at his burst of whimsy. Miss Wright, with her narrow, aristocratic nose and small square chin, was wreaking havoc with his normally sensible behavior. He was acting like a smitten schoolboy.