Ashes on the Moor

by Sarah M. Eden

  “And we will be together,” Lucy whispered back.

  “We have never yet been apart.” Indeed, not a day of Lucy’s life had passed without Evangeline being there for her. They were as close as two sisters could be despite an eight-year age difference. “That will not change.”

  “If the two of you are quite finished with your chattering, I would like to return to the topic at hand.”

  Living in the same home as Aunt Barton grew less appealing with every conversation. Shielding Lucy from her barbs would require all Evangeline’s efforts.

  “Smeatley is in need of a schoolteacher,” Aunt Barton said. “Your grandfather is the most important man in Smeatley, owing to his ownership of the factory—”

  “I thought Grandfather lived in Leeds.”

  “Do not interrupt.” Aunt Barton’s stern expression did not change. “Your grandfather does not make his home in Smeatley, that is true, but he still wields a great deal of power there. As such, he has been granted the right to choose the town’s new teacher.”

  “And he is asking me?” She was utterly unqualified, not to mention completely disinterested in being a teacher.

  “We are not asking,” Aunt Barton replied.

  “We?”

  Aunt Barton folded her hands once more. She tilted her chin at a disapproving angle. “Your uncle is the acting head of the school board. He, of course, was included in this decision. I was consulted as well. We are all in agreement. It is essential that you learn not only to work but to work hard. You will not learn that sitting about being idle.”

  Evangeline shook her head, confused that everyone seemed to have overlooked one simple fact. “I do not know how to teach.”

  “We are hopeful you will rise to the occasion.” She did not sound the least bit hopeful. “You will learn what you must about teaching. Otherwise, you will fail.”

  Lucy’s pallor had grown. Evangeline took her hand and held it comfortingly, though she continued to speak to Aunt Barton.

  “I will do my best,” she promised. “You will discover that I do, indeed, work quite hard, and I will work hard every day.” She set her gaze on Lucy. “And we will gather our flowers and play our songs when I return home each evening.”

  Aunt Barton cleared her throat again. “You will not be living with us.”

  “We won’t?”

  With a sigh of annoyance, Aunt Barton clarified. “The schoolhouse has rooms for the teacher.” She thumbed through the small chains hanging from her chatelaine and produced a key. She held it out, its rusty, dingy coloring in stark contrast to her white gloves. “You will need this.”

  “We are to go directly there? Today?”

  Aunt Barton leaned back, settling herself comfortably. “You will begin teaching in only a few days. You’d do well to take the time to prepare for your students and to set your quarters to rights. The building has been empty for some time and will, no doubt, require a great deal of attention.” She patted at her perfectly coiffed hair. “You will go directly to the schoolhouse and begin your work. Lucy will remain at Hillside House with your uncle and me.”

  Shock rendered Evangeline unable to respond.

  Lucy’s tear-clogged voice broke the silence. “You won’t be with me?”

  Evangeline focused her thoughts and summoned her determination. “Lucy will come with me. We can make do with whatever we find at the schoolhouse.”

  Aunt Barton was unmoved. “That is not for you to decide.”

  “Aunt—”

  “Set your new house to rights, Evangeline. That must be your first priority.”

  “I—”

  That pursed-lipped, narrow-eyed gaze of her aunt’s returned with full force. “This is why you girls have a guardian. Lucy is too young to be on her own, and you, it would seem, are too selfish.”

  “How am I selfish for wishing to keep Lucy with me?”

  “You desire to have her with you more than her comfort and well-being.”

  With effort Evangeline kept herself from glaring at her aunt. Why, in heaven’s name, had she required this discussion now, with Lucy present? “You are decided?”

  “Your uncle and grandfather are decided. It is not your place to argue against them.”

  A lady simply did not contradict decisions made by her male relations. Her governess had explained that time and again. A lady did as she was instructed; to do otherwise only invited difficulty, uncertainty, and unnecessary misery. Quiet obedience made life far less complicated. She would do well to calm Lucy’s worries and set her own sights on creating a home where Lucy would be permitted to join her eventually.

  She clasped Lucy’s hand in both of hers and met her distraught gaze. “We will be apart only this one night, dearest. I will work tirelessly to get the schoolhouse ready, then you can come live there with me.”

  “We’ll be together?”

  “As always,” Evangeline said.

  “Just as you promised.” The statement was nearly a question, a plea.

  “Just as I promised.” She took the ribbon, hanging limply in Lucy’s hand, and untied the knot. “We will not be living in a place so fine as Blakely Manor, but it will be home to us, just as that beloved house was.” She tied the ribbon in a bow at the end of Lucy’s long braid. “And you will have family in Smeatley: myself, of course, but also your aunt and uncle. And when Grandfather visits, you will have him as well.”

  Aunt Barton interrupted her attempt at reassurance. “We have judged it best if you don’t bandy about the fact that you’re related to your grandfather or your uncle and me. In fact, we insist that you do not.”

  “But we are family.”

  “The people of Smeatley did not take kindly to your uncle being placed in charge of the mill; some accused him of being given the position only because he was a relation of the owner.” Aunt Barton tugged at her gloves, straightening the wrinkled fabric. “They will never give you a moment’s opportunity to prove yourself if they know your connection to your grandfather.”

  “He feels this way as well?” Evangeline asked.

  Aunt Barton’s expression turned icy. “He and I have spoken at length about you, and we see eye-to-eye. You would do well to accept that your uncle and I speak for him in these matters.”

  Evangeline’s heart dropped to her toes. As dismal as she had felt about coming to Smeatley, the prospect had only grown more bleak. She was being forced to take a job she’d not looked for nor knew how to properly perform. She and Lucy would be required not to acknowledge the only family they had left and would be disregarded, essentially disowned, in return. She could not imagine how Lucy’s presence in the Bartons’ home would be explained if she was not to be acknowledged as family.

  “How will—” She stopped herself from asking about the requirement to hide their connection. She did not wish to emphasize that within Lucy’s hearing. “How long will I be working as a teacher?”

  “Until your grandfather is convinced you can be trusted with access to your inheritance.”

  Evangeline had been told only the smallest bit about the legacy left to her by her parents. Her grandfather controlled it entirely. It seemed, however, that he might be convinced to allow her enough of it to live a life more aligned with the one she and Lucy had known.

  She pulled her sister to her side, keeping her arm tucked around her. This one night they would be apart, but Evangeline would spend that night making some semblance of a home for Lucy. She would throw herself into her unexpected responsibilities and prove to her grandfather that she was hardworking and capable. She would gain access to her inheritance, and they could live wherever they chose, perhaps Petersmarch.

  They could return home. Together.

  Chapter Two

  Smeatley, Yorkshire

  England was no place for an Irishman. Dermot McCormick knew that well enough. His Eng
lish neighbors knew it, too. But as they all were quite stuck with each other, Dermot chose to find humor—however dark—in the situation. ’Twas a challenge finding reason to be amused by the unkindness of others.

  He’d worked hard and done well for himself. A skilled brick mason was valuable in a town growing as fast as this one. Dermot had helped build the recently opened grand mill. He’d worked the long hours expected of him, never allowing himself to rest on the job.

  Mr. Barton, the mill manager, had taken note and placed Dermot at the head of the crew of bricklayers finishing the renovation of his personal home. Though the English work crew had first met Dermot’s authority with resentment, they’d soon learned to listen and do their work, else they found themselves off the job.

  Thomas Crossley, a local lad new to bricklaying but eager to learn, rushed across the back lawn to where the crew was near to finishing their day’s work. At fifteen, he was considered old to be learning the trade, but it seemed to Dermot a far sight better that children be children, and trades and work and professions be delayed a bit. Circumstances didn’t always allow for that luxury, as he knew all too well.

  “Mistress is back,” Thomas called. “She were comin’ up t’ drive in that fine carriage of hers but a moment ago.”

  Saints preserve us all. Mrs. Barton’s absence the past week was the only reason they’d managed any work at all. The woman was forever changing her wishes, then pitching a very sophisticated fit when inconvenienced by her own fickleness. How any person could be equally stubborn and changeable, he still couldn’t say. The woman was an oddity worthy of a traveling circus.

  Dermot made quick work of cleaning the trowel he’d been using before setting it in his bucket with his other tools. “I’ll face down the she-devil.”

  Thomas slipped off his cap and held it to his heart, his expression theatrically solemn. “Tha were a good man, Mr. McCormick, and tha’ll be sorely missed.”

  “You think she’ll best me as easily as that?”

  The look of mourning still firmly on his features, Thomas shook his head. “I never said it’d be easy. But, mark thee, death’ll seem right welcome by t’ end, as it allus is to those what face down—”

  “Enough, lad.” Dermot knew from experience that Thomas’d go on for ages if allowed to. “You’ve my full confidence should the need to eulogize me arise. In the meantime, set your mind to your work or it’s your own funeral we’ll all be planning.”

  Thomas smiled as Dermot had known full well he would. The lad gathered the empty water buckets. He was charged with seeing that the crew had water enough for their work throughout the day, and he took his job seriously.

  Dermot turned to his other men. “You’ve a full hour left of working today. You’ll not shortchange the master.”

  They indicated their understanding, some with nods, some with grunts.

  He crossed the lawn to the back of the house and stopped at the edge of the terrace where the Bartons always met for their consultations. He crossed himself for good measure and said a preemptive prayer for forgiveness, knowing he’d be thinking uncharitable thoughts in no time. A mere moment passed before Mrs. Barton joined him on the grass.

  “How is the work coming along?” she asked.

  “All will be in order by Friday week, provided nothing’s changed in your expectations.”

  Mrs. Barton eyed him through narrowed lids. “I still expect what I’ve always expected, McCormick: work worthy of the generous amount we are paying you.”

  When he took into account the misery Mrs. Barton had caused him and his crew, that “generous” payment felt far more like a pittance.

  “I have a task for you this evening,” she said.

  “I’ve a task for my own self,” he said. “Working on that wall of yours, in fact. Unless, of course, you’re not wanting it to be finished on schedule.”

  Mrs. Barton ignored him, as she always did. “Mr. Farr has secured the town a teacher.”

  Mr. Farr, who happened to be Mrs. Barton’s father, owned the mill. Though he did not live in Smeatley, the well-to-do man held sway over anything and everything that happened in the tiny town. While Dermot was glad to hear Mr. Farr had found a teacher at last—he’d a boy of his own in need of schooling—he hadn’t full confidence in the people Mr. Farr had selected to fill other important positions in the town.

  He’d chosen his son-in-law as the mill manager, and Mr. Barton, though not so changeable and frustrating as his wife, was so tightfisted in the running of the mill that corners were often cut and expenses avoided that could be beneficial to them all.

  And the vicar he had brought in—though many in town argued that Mrs. Barton had been the one behind the selection—was a toady of a man, who, according to the gossip of Dermot’s workers, spent his sermons reminding churchgoers to work hard in the factory and live lives free of complaints.

  The teacher might prove just as much of a disappointment.

  “As you live near the schoolhouse,” Mrs. Barton continued, “you’re to accompany her there and see she arrives in the right place, well and sound.”

  Delivering women to their homes was an odd job for a brick mason, to be sure, and one that’d prevent him from seeing that his crew finished their work for the day. “Could not a servant be tasked with carting the teacher about?”

  Mrs. Barton gave him one of her characteristic icy stares. “Perhaps. That would allow me time to discuss with you some of the thoughts I’ve had about the wall.”

  “I’ll see to the teacher.”

  Oh, how he loathed that smug look she’d so perfected. The woman thought herself right about anything and everything under the sun.

  Dermot turned toward the small copse of trees where his boy, Ronan, spent his days. The lad didn’t always respond when his name was called, so placing two fingers in his mouth, Dermot let out a shrill whistle. That never failed to capture the lad’s attention. Ronan looked up from his neat rows of rough-carved wooden figures. Dermot waved him over. Obedient as ever, the lad began gathering his toys.

  When Dermot returned his attention to Mrs. Barton, she was no longer standing alone.

  “This is Miss Blake,” Mrs. Barton said, “our new teacher.”

  The lass beside her wore a black dress, one far finer than any he’d seen in Smeatley, with gloves that didn’t appear to have been mended again and again. She stood with perfect, prim posture.

  “You have a very peaceful back garden.” Miss Blake’s wide-brimmed bonnet kept much of her face hidden. “Très charmant.”

  Unmended gloves. Fashionable dress. And a bit of French tossed in amongst her fine English words. This was no destitute woman looking for whatever work she could find, grateful for any position even if it meant wandering off to a tiny speck on the map like Smeatley.

  Mrs. Barton finished the introductions. “Miss Blake, this is Dermot McCormick. He’ll be showing you the way to the schoolhouse.”

  Dermot thrust out his hand to shake Miss Blake’s. She didn’t take up his offer, but simply eyed his hand.

  “You’re meant to snatch it up,” he told her. “Give it a good shake. ’Tis a way of saying ‘It’s pleased I am to meet you.’”

  “I’ve never shaken hands with anyone before.”

  Oh, blessed fields of clover. She was even too high in the instep for hand shaking. “I’ll not overtax you, Miss Blake. We’d best trek on. I’ve supper to put on after we’ve seen you delivered.”

  “You speak of me as though I were a parcel.” Her muttered words carried a hint of amusement.

  He set his hand against Ronan’s back and gave him the lightest of nudges, setting him moving forward. Dermot led the way, his lad keeping close to his side. Around the side of the house they went, up the garden path, and through a gate leading to the street out front. Ronan kept pace with Dermot’s longer strides. Miss Blake, however, did not
.

  She dragged a trunk behind her, something he’d not taken notice of at first. She might manage it on the lower streets of Smeatley, but the schoolhouse sat on Greenamble, the steepest of all the lanes and streets and alleyways in town. At the pace things were going, she’d never reach the top.

  “Bide here a moment,” he told Ronan. “Miss Blake’s taken on a load greater than she ought.” Heavens, he hoped that was only true in reference to her traveling trunk. Smeatley needed a capable teacher. Ronan needed a capable teacher.

  Miss Blake had only just reached the iron gate when Dermot reached her. She pulled her trunk with both hands, her progress laborious.

  “Were you wanting to be left behind, then?” Dermot asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” Again a quiet mumble, completely lacking the traditional English irritation.

  “Seems you ought to have packed a bit lighter,” he said.

  She allowed her trunk to drop flat. Her shoulders drooped. “If I’d known I’d be pulling it across town, I would have.” She nodded toward the street ahead. “How much farther?”

  “Never fear, you’ve plenty more of this bleak ol’ town to see before setting your trunk down for good.”

  “You don’t seem to care for Smeatley.” She was likely eyeing him from under her black bonnet. “Is it because you aren’t from here?”

  “Now why would you be thinking I’m not Smeatley born and raised?” His tone held all the dryness of a vast African desert.

  “Certainly I am not the first person to piece together your origins.”

  “I assure you, Miss Blake, this entire town has sorted that out and decided precisely how they feel about it.” He took hold of the handle of her trunk. “Come on, then. You’ve a bit of a climb ahead of you.”

  Chapter Three

  Mr. McCormick looked back over his shoulder. His eyes were so dark his pupils were almost undetectable. It was not, however, the color of his eyes but the frustration in them that set Evangeline moving at a faster clip.

  This Irishman was not only a touch grumpy but he had also shown himself to be in a tremendous hurry. Perhaps he did not realize that someone new to town would require some time to orient herself and become acquainted with the place. He likely didn’t realize that she had, that very day, not only buried the majority of her family but also bid farewell to her one surviving sister and so understandably struggled to find the energy for a quick-paced jaunt across town. She suspected that even if he had realized as much, he still would not have summoned the patience to wait.