Ashes on the Moor

by Sarah M. Eden

  She picked up her pace to reach him. Her apologetic smile did not receive so much as a nod in return. He simply resumed their journey, her trunk in his hands. It wasn’t overly heavy nor large, but he certainly managed the cumbersome load better than she had during the longer-than-expected trek.

  The streets were nearly empty. No dogs barked. No voices were raised in conversation. Not even a birdcall filled the air. The quiet hung unnaturally about her, as though a cacophony would burst forth at any moment. This place felt pushed and pulled and pressed upon, and Evangeline was not at all sure what she thought of it.

  “Have you lived here long?” she asked her companion.

  “A year and a bit.”

  That, it seemed, was to be his entire answer. She’d always understood the Irish to be quite talkative people. Perhaps a different question would help, one without such a quick answer. She needed the distraction of a conversation.

  “What is it that you do here?” she asked.

  “I carry trunks for chatty women.”

  So that was to be his attitude. She could match him dry retort for dry retort if he wished to tread that conversational path. A series of quick steps brought her to his side.

  “Do you charge extra for your cheerful conversation?” she asked.

  “Naturally. A man’s got to make a living, you know.”

  Just how far did he mean to take this tongue-in-cheek conversation? “Trunk carrying is a noble profession, I will grant you that. How do you endure the crushing weight of the ceaseless praise you must receive?”

  He eyed her sidelong, his mouth an unreadable slash in his otherwise blank expression. Evangeline did not believe that he was truly as emotionless as he appeared. She’d known a tenant of Lord Bentley’s in Petersmarch who walked about stone-faced and severe. As a child, she’d found him intimidating, but as she’d grown, she’d sensed something more beneath the facade, and the glare began to feel like a mask he wore.

  The reminder of the home she’d not wanted to leave brought to mind the sister who’d watched, with tears streaming down her face, as Evangeline had followed Aunt Barton to the back terrace. Lucy had begged her not to go.

  She had disappointed her sister; she knew she had.

  Evangeline took in as much air as her tight lungs would allow. She would soon be alone in the schoolhouse that was to be her home. In private, she could allow her emotions to surface, giving way to the tears she’d kept tucked away. By the time she and Lucy were reunited in the morning, their new home would be in order, Evangeline would be the master of her grief, and they could begin this new, if unwanted, chapter in their lives. They would find their happiness again.

  “You’re to take this lane,” Mr. McCormick said. “Greenamble Street.”

  She stepped around him enough to look up the road. And look up she did. This end of town sat directly against the side of a small but steep hill. Who had decided to place the schoolhouse here? The children would be exhausted before they even arrived for lessons.

  “Is it as steep as it seems?” She hoped the answer was no.

  “No.”

  At last, a bit of good luck.

  Then he added, “It’s steeper.”

  Of course it was. There was nothing for it, though, but to make the climb. She squared her shoulders.

  “We can go slowly if you’re needing to,” Mr. McCormick said.

  “I love sharply angled streets,” she tossed back. “In fact, I believe I love them more than you do and that you will be the one struggling to keep up with me.”

  His mouth didn’t so much as twitch. Perhaps he’d not been blessed with a sense of humor. Or, more likely, he had one but was too stubborn and surly to allow it even a moment’s free reign.

  His son, so quiet at his side, kept his eyes fixed on the toys he held in his hands. Yet there was something in the set of his posture, his shoulders turned slightly toward them, that told Evangeline he was listening more than he appeared to be. Her brother James had often held himself in just that way.

  In a single heartbeat, her posturing and frustration with Mr. McCormick dissolved in a rush of grief.

  James. Her beloved James. He was gone, just like the others.

  Gone. The remembered church bells echoed inside her. Gone.

  “Were you meaning to stand here all the day long?” Mr. McCormick said dryly. “Or might we jaunt on up?”

  “Why are you so sour?” The question flew from her lips before she could stop it.

  “Because, unlike you, I don’t love steep streets—not when I’m carrying a heavy trunk for a dithering lass who can’t make up her mind which way she’s going or when.”

  She raised her chin. “You are not very amiable.”

  “What I’m not is patient.” He twitched his head toward the street.

  Evangeline’s ongoing feud with fate certainly hadn’t abated. Tears clung to her throat. For hours she’d worked for every steady breath, for every dry blink of her eyes, and this man was quickly pushing her to the limit of her emotional strength.

  Mr. McCormick set down her trunk and squatted, facing his son. His expression and posture surprised Evangeline. There was concern and tenderness and—despite his insistence that he did not possess this particular virtue—patience.

  He said something to the boy, then pointed up the street and gave a quick nod. His son ran ahead, not looking at his father nor at her. Evangeline watched him go, her thoughts and heart in Cambridgeshire. James was— No. James had been six years younger than she.

  As quickly as that, her grief pierced her. She had spent the past days, even more so the past hours, either feeling everything or nothing. She had little choice but to cling to the latter, at least while she was in Mr. McCormick’s company.

  He stood up again, her trunk slung over his back.

  She made a final attempt at conversation. “Your son seemed in a hurry.”

  “The lad’s anxious to be home.” Mr. McCormick’s tone hadn’t softened. Why was the man so put out with her?

  “Home is a comforting place.” She walked alongside him as they headed up the street.

  “It is that,” he said.

  Evangeline eyed him. “Did we just agree on something?”

  Mr. McCormick glanced up with a look of overdone pondering. “Sky’s not falling.” He trudged onward.

  He was not one for prattling on. It was just as well. Evangeline had lost whatever earlier desire she’d had for lighthearted conversation, however distracting it might have been.

  “This’ll be you,” Mr. McCormick said, jutting his chin at the thick hedge directly to the side of the road. It was too tall to see over.

  The hedge? He must be mistaken. She glanced behind them, then up ahead.

  “’Tis a bit overgrown.” Mr. McCormick motioned to the hedge again. “You’ll simply have to press your way through like a water vole squeezing in and out of her den.”

  “Did you just compare me to a rodent?”

  “I’d not dare, miss,” he said. “Rodents are far quieter.”

  If pushing her way through a hedge meant being free of Mr. McCormick’s company, she’d gladly do her best impression of a water vole or badger or whatever other animal he meant to compare her to.

  Evangeline stepped up beside him and found a small gap in the hedge. She pushed the overhanging branches back, slowly, carefully passing through to the other side.

  Tall, wild grasses filled a small front garden. Overgrown trees dotted the area, several with their branches resting atop the roof of an L-shaped building, one hardly bigger than the small tenant cottages of Petersmarch. Even taking into account the upper story, the schoolhouse was tiny indeed.

  Narrow windows checkered the building, sitting in uneven intervals. At least one of them appeared to be missing its glass. The house bore all the hallmarks of disuse and ne
glect.

  Evangeline’s heart dropped to her toes. Aunt Barton had scolded her for believing her new house had been appropriate for Lucy. That, it turned out, had not been an entirely inaccurate assessment. Perhaps the situation was better inside.

  “Have you a key?” Mr. McCormick asked.

  Her mind refused to work through the mystery of that simple question. But then she fished through her wrist bag and found the key Aunt Barton had given her during their long train ride. She pulled it from her bag just as they reached the two stone steps in front of the door. The key slid in the hole easily, but turning it required the use of both her arms. How long had this door been locked, unused and unopened?

  The hinges squeaked loudly as she pushed open the door. Dust particles hung in the air, dancing in the sunshine spilling in from behind her. Directly in front of her was a staircase and, just to the right of it, another door with another keyhole.

  “I was only given one key,” she said, thinking out loud.

  “Perhaps you’re meant to burrow in,” Mr. McCormick suggested.

  “Like a rodent?” she tossed back dryly.

  “Except louder.”

  She chose to ignore that observation. She hadn’t another key; the one that had unlocked the front door did not fit in this interior one. With a tiny, unspoken prayer, she decided to test the knob. Fate chose to be kind in this small thing; the door opened easily.

  The room beyond was dim. The air tasted stale and smelled of must.

  “Is this the schoolroom?”

  “I’ve not the slightest idea.” Mr. McCormick moved past her and set her trunk on the floor.

  Fully expecting him to walk away, she turned to thank him for his help. But he simply leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest as if waiting for something.

  “You needn’t stay if you’d rather be on your way,” she said.

  “I would rather be on my way, but you’ve not the slightest notion yet if your quarters are here or up the stairs.”

  What did that have to do with him remaining?

  Her confusion must have shown because he answered the question she hadn’t voiced. “’Tis a bit of a heavy trunk, miss. I’ll carry it if you’re needing it up there.”

  He was irritable, there was no denying that, but he was showing himself to be thoughtful. Still, she didn’t intend to try his patience.

  Evangeline made her way through the dimness toward a sliver of light peeking through a covered window. Her fingers found the stiff curtains, which she pulled back. More light came in through the dingy glass, illuminating the space enough for her to see a table and a spindle-back chair near a small fireplace and a bench under another covered window.

  She spotted another door, this one on an exterior wall. An old iron key, like the one in her hand, sat in the lock, ready and waiting. With effort, she turned it and pulled the door open, filling the space with sunlight. In the corner, barely lit enough to be seen, hung a few pots and cooking implements. She had found her living quarters. Her dingy, dust-covered, sparse, dark living quarters.

  “I believe the trunk stays here.” Mr. McCormick tapped it with his foot. “We’re up the street a few paces—the only house with a yellow door. Should you need anything, give us a knock.”

  For a moment, she could do nothing but stare in mute shock at his offer. The day had been terrible and sorrowful. He, of all people, had offered a kind word, a moment of compassion. She hardly knew how to respond.

  “But we’ve a limit of one knock per day, so don’t go abusing the invitation.” There was the Mr. McCormick she’d come to expect.

  “I will set a goal of one knock per lifetime,” she said.

  He nodded firmly. “Then we’ll get on just fine, Miss Blake. Just fine, indeed.” With that, Mr. McCormick left.

  And she was alone.

  Evangeline lowered herself onto her traveling trunk, sitting on the edge just as she had that morning in her family’s parlor. She had left a warm and inviting home, a place where she’d felt welcome and loved and treasured, to live in a disused and neglected building in a cantankerous and inhospitable town.

  How can I possibly bring Lucy here?

  Dust sat so thick on the floor she could see her footprints. The window had likely not been cleaned in years. The floor around the fireplace was darkened with soot and ash. She had but one chair and, as near as she could tell, no bed. Or any food. Or a blanket.

  A lady quietly performed those tasks expected of her. But what was she to do when those tasks and expectations bordered on the impossible?

  Chapter Four

  Dermot had reached out to that blasted woman and offered her a kindness, telling her to come by if she found herself needing any help, and she had returned an expression of disgust. When would he learn to simply leave the English be? Still, he stopped in the middle of the road, debating whether or not to turn back. That room had been bare as bones, not a crumb of food in sight or a blanket or lantern. He’d not even spied a bed. Where was the woman to lay her head? What was she to eat?

  You’re turning soft, you are, fretting over someone you don’t even know—one who turned her nose up at you not a moment ago.

  Miss Blake hadn’t wanted his help, so there was little point offering it again. That reminder set him on his way home.

  Ronan was sitting on the step outside their distinctive yellow door. He’d chosen the bright color to aid his lad in finding their house when they’d first arrived in this unfamiliar hamlet but, long after Ronan had learned the way, Dermot had kept the color as a reminder of the colorful doors of his own beloved Dublin. And because it vexed his very staid neighbors.

  He unlocked and opened the door, motioning Ronan in ahead of him.

  It was the same routine every day. Dermot wasn’t certain when it had started, only that it didn’t change. Each evening, Ronan rushed inside and carefully placed his carved figurines in a neat line against the wall beneath the front window. The lad then hung up his coat and cap on the nails beside the door. Ronan waited until Dermot was beside him as the boy liked doing that part together.

  Then Ronan would join him at the shelves beside the fireplace where the pots and spoons were kept. A chair sat nearby in anticipation of this twice-daily moment when Dermot prepared their meal and Ronan broke his silence.

  “Mr. Palmer made the mortar too runny today. Mortar mustn’t be runny.” With that eager introduction, Ronan dove wholeheartedly into the subject of mortar. ’Twas always that way with him. Whatever he chose to speak about, he spoke of it endlessly, digging down to the smallest of details. Imagine if the boy could learn to read. His mind, already eager to learn, would have endless supplies of knowledge on whatever struck his fancy.

  While the boy prattled on, Dermot cut thick slices of bread and cheese. He hadn’t the energy to build the fire, so their sandwiches would be cold, as they often were. Ronan never complained so long as the food was familiar.

  Ronan stopped talking to begin eating, allowing Dermot a chance to slip in a word or two. “How did you fill up your time today?”

  “The windowpanes at Mr. Barton’s house needed counting. I got up as high as one hundred, but I didn’t know the numbers that came next, so I had to stop.”

  “At one hundred you’re for starting over again at one, but adding the words ‘one hundred’ to the front. One hundred one. One hundred two. On like that.”

  Ronan nodded even as he practiced the new words. “What happens when I’ve reached the end?”

  “Then you begin saying ‘two hundred’ before all the numbers. ’Tis a terribly convenient thing, that. You needn’t remember anything new for ages and ages with counting.”

  Ronan took another generous bite of his sandwich.

  “And did you know,” Dermot continued, “if you learn your ciphering, you needn’t count each windowpane on its own?”
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br />   He had his boy’s full attention. “Could I cipher pebbles or bricks or leaves?”

  “For sure and certain. Anything at all you’re wanting to count can be ciphered.”

  The sandwich hung limp in Ronan’s hands. His wide eyes were fixed on Dermot. “I want to learn that.”

  “That’s what school’s for, lad. And we’ve a school in Smeatley, and now a teacher. You can learn all the fine and useful things Miss Blake means to teach you.” He hoped she proved fit for the post. He’d hate to think he was making promises to his boy only to have them broken.

  Uncertainty clouded Ronan’s expression. “Miss Blake smells like flowers.”

  Dermot had noticed that, himself, but hadn’t dwelled on it overly much. At least not so much as warranted thinking on it again. “You don’t care for flowers?” he asked Ronan.

  “Only flowers should smell like flowers. People should smell like people.” Ronan had always been very particular about things. He could be led to accept new ideas and ways of doing things but only with a great deal of patience and explanation, and sometimes not even then.

  “Ladies like to smell of flowers,” Dermot said. “I’d imagine because they’re fond of them and fond of smelling sweet.”

  Ronan’s brow furrowed more deeply. “People should smell like people.”

  “Female people smell like flowers sometimes.” Dermot tried a slightly different approach. “And sometimes they smell like soap, just as you do after you’ve washed up.”

  Ronan scrunched up his face in distaste. No eight-year-old boy cared for a wash. He quickly recovered though, and offered an example of his own. “Sometimes people smell like dirt.”