She didn’t move. “Do you have a one-per-day limit on entering your house?”
“The cheek on ya, woman,” he grumbled. “I’ve told you before that I’m not patient, but I’m no ogre either. Come in and get your blanket.”
She took a single step inside and stopped, folding her arms in a posture of defiance. Stubborn colleen.
“Have a seat, then.” He motioned to the spindle-back chair near the low-burning fire. “And don’t you go jutting your chin out at me over the invitation. The night’s a chilly one, and the warmth’ll do you good.”
For a moment she looked as though she meant to object, but her gaze slid to the glowing embers and the bravado left her stance. In a voice quieter and far more subdued than he’d yet heard from her, she said “Thank you” and crossed to the fireplace.
I’m playing nursemaid to a fine lady—one who resents the effort. How did fate and I come to have such a falling-out?
He pulled a bowl from its shelf, snatching up a spoon at the same time. The ladle was yet in the pot hanging over the fire. Without a word, he filled the bowl with stew and held it out to her.
She eyed it and him with obvious misgivings. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s food. You eat it.”
Her eyes were snapping. He suspected she had little enough experience with life to have encountered difficulties of this nature. The fine and fancy were treated quite differently than those living hand-to-mouth. He shouldn’t delight in watching her grapple with her change in situation, but the way her frustration lit her eyes was oddly fascinating, as was the fierceness she used to keep that dissatisfaction in check.
“I came only for a blanket.” She began to stand up, still not having accepted the stew. “I know better than to depend too heavily on your benevolence.”
“Starving yourself to make a point will do no one any good, least of all yourself.” He set the bowl in her hands. “Take the food, and stop being stubborn.”
“You stop being overbearing.”
He groaned as he stepped away. “Serves me right for opening the blasted door.”
Truth be told, he was grateful she’d come by. Though they weren’t friends, he’d no wish for her to be cold and hungry with no one to turn to.
He pulled a heavy woolen blanket from the chest in the corner and set it, still folded, on the floor beside her. “Once you’re done with your supper.”
“I won’t inconvenience—”
“I swear to you, Miss Blake, if you can’t find a means of graciously accepting what I’m generously offering you, I’ll dump that bowl of stew right over your head. And what’s more, I will enjoy it.”
Instead of returning his quip with one of her own, Miss Blake pressed her lips together. The slightest of quivers shook her chin. Her gaze dropped to her untouched bowl.
Sweet mercy. “Don’t cry, now. Not over something a quarrelsome ol’ dog like me said to you.”
“I do appreciate your generosity.” Her words were thick, a clear indication she was indeed close to tears. “I’m simply overwhelmed, and tired, and hungry, and . . . I have had a terrible few days.”
Those terrible days, no doubt, had something to do with the Lucy she’d mentioned at the Bartons’ home, the one who was in Leeds. Dermot hadn’t sorted that mystery entirely, but ’twas plain as the nose on his face that this Lucy meant a great deal to Miss Blake and that her absence was a point of great concern.
“I’m not bothered by you being here,” he assured her, “and Ronan won’t be either.” He’d have thought otherwise if not for the boy’s unexpected wave. “I know what it is to have terrible days, Miss Blake. I’m sorry you’ve had a few of your own lately.”
She turned her haunting blue eyes on him. “How did you get through your terrible days?”
“I ate a great deal of stew.” He nudged the folded blanket closer to her. “And I got a good night’s sleep.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t one for conversations, are you?”
“Not with the English.” He walked back to the table where Ronan sat, working at his whittling.
Miss Blake was not done discussing the matter at hand. “That decision must have rendered your life rather quiet.”
“‘That decision,’ Miss Blake, was not mine.”
She turned in her chair to look at him. “Your neighbors don’t talk to you?”
“Not a soul—except for one,” he said dryly.
He swore he saw amusement flash in her eyes. “Perhaps that’s because you’re a quarrelsome old dog.”
“I would say that’s exactly why.” He took up his knife and a block of uncut wood. “Ronan, I’ll wager you a tuppence that Miss Blake’ll not finish her stew but rather will spend the evening flapping her gums like she’s been doing.”
“Quarrelsome dog.”
Miss Blake had a sense of humor after all, it would seem.
“Eat your stew, woman.”
A fleeting smile crossed her features as she faced the fireplace and tucked into her stew. She’d jested with him. Had tossed him a smile. The woman was being friendly.
Dermot wasn’t at all accustomed to that.
Chapter Eight
Evangeline’s basket of supplies arrived sometime the next day. She couldn’t be certain when, as the items were simply left on her doorstep without so much as a knock. Perhaps that was for the best. She would have asked whichever of the Bartons’ servants had been tasked with the delivery if they had been present when Lucy had departed the day before and if she had seemed afraid or lonely. The answer, no matter what it had been, would not have offered any reassurance. Indeed, the only comfort she’d felt of late had come from Mr. McCormick last evening. It was a sad state of affairs when one’s own family could not muster as much kindness as the town curmudgeon.
She told herself that Lucy knew full well that Evangeline would not rest until they were together again. She imagined that Lucy’s new school was a warm and inviting place, staffed by teachers who were kind and gentle and filled with students who would become her dear friends. Lucy would be well. She would be. Evangeline would believe that no matter her doubts.
Her gnawing hunger alleviated a bit by an apple she found in the basket, Evangeline made the trek upstairs to the schoolroom for the first time since her arrival. Her concerns for Lucy had occupied her every thought, but Lucy was gone, and Evangeline could delay no longer. Her students would begin arriving the next morning.
Evangeline needed to put her time to good use. She needed to prove herself capable enough for even her grandfather’s exacting standards.
The schoolroom door was unlocked. Indeed, it hadn’t even a keyhole. She wondered if the omission was a good sign or not. The hinges protested as she pushed the door open.
She stepped inside the dimly lit room. Dust sat upon every surface. This space was no better than her neglected quarters downstairs. The town was required by law to educate its children, but the evidence pointed at a clear reluctance to do so.
Evangeline had done her best to address the state of things below, but without a broom and only a few rags, she had been hard-pressed to make any progress. Sweeping an entire building with a brush would take a tremendously long time and, once the children began coming, would need to be done every day. It was far from the only job she needed to do. The windows required washing. The room needed arranging for school. She had yet to locate any schoolbooks or slates. Of course, somewhere in the midst of everything else, she needed to determine what in the world she would do come morning. She hadn’t the first idea how to be a teacher.
Dust stirred as Evangeline crossed to the far end of the room. Though she had always preferred soft colors and pale laces, she was grateful in that moment to be dressed in black. The color would hide any smudges and smears of dirt from her cleaning efforts.
Her arms and shoulders ached
from the hours she’d already spent cleaning her own space. They protested the prospect of more time spent in the same pursuit. But what option did she have? She could not welcome her students to such a neglected space.
The first order of business was arranging the long benches in a way that made sense for a schoolroom. What that arrangement might be, she couldn’t say. Her schoolroom had been the nursery in her home, with only herself and her siblings learning under the watchful eye of their governess. They’d sat at a single table, surrounded by books and maps, paper and slates. They’d had all they needed and an educational guide who knew what she was about. The children of Smeatley would have neither.
I will simply have to do my best.
She decided on a U-shape for the benches, as that would allow her to see all of the children and all of them to see her. Of course, she was assuming the number of students matched the number of spaces on the benches. What if the numbers were far larger? Heavens, that did seem likely. From all she had heard, the town had grown during the past few months and seemed likely to continue doing so.
The benches proved heavier than she’d expected. Inch by inch, she pulled and pushed them into position. The scraping sound grated on her ears, as if declaring that she was thoroughly unfit for the task she’d been assigned. She could not even set up the schoolroom in a proper and efficient fashion; how could she ever hope to oversee the room when it was filled with children?
She tried to clear her mind of doubts as she worked well into the afternoon. Her empty stomach loudly protested the physical exertion. She might have simply hurried downstairs for a quick bite if not for the fact that she hadn’t the first idea how to prepare any of the items she’d been sent. The basket consisted mainly of vegetables, few of which could be eaten raw. The carrots might have made a quick lunch eaten as they were, but she could not bring herself to face yet another glaring example of her deficiencies.
Mr. McCormick knew how to prepare such things. The stew she’d eaten at his house had included potatoes and turnips and carrots. If he would help her learn how to cook, then she would be ready for Lucy when she returned.
But a lady ought not cause difficulties or inconvenience people. Heaven knew she’d done enough of that already where her neighbor was concerned. Yet, what choice did she have? She would utterly fail without help, and failure meant losing Lucy.
She would simply have to ask for help in a way that did not make her too much of a burden.
She headed downstairs and crossed directly to the photograph on the mantelshelf. “What do I do, Mother? I don’t wish to disappoint you, but I do not know how to navigate these waters.”
She watched that still, silent face, desperate for one moment of reassurance, one single word of guidance.
“I will do my best,” she whispered. “I only hope it will be enough.”
Evangeline returned to the rough-hewn table. She dropped a potato, turnip, and carrot into her upturned apron, then pulled the apron’s hem to her waist. She smoothed her finger over the glass covering her beloved family photograph and offered silent words of love and longing. She straightened Father’s pipe, brushed a bit of dust from the edge of James’s book, and touched the tiny crook held by George’s shepherd figurine. Then, her vegetables held fast in her apron, she hurried out.
She barely managed to pull the heavy door closed with a thud. The key fought her, but she forced it to turn. Mr. McCormick had advised her to lock up; she hadn’t neglected to do so since. He knew this town and its inhabitants better than she did. He also had far more experience of the world than she could claim.
Reaching the McCormick home would be easier and faster if not for the steepness of the street. She felt like she was navigating stairs rather than taking a quick jaunt.
Her knocks generally went unanswered for a moment or two. Whether the hesitation was common for him—he did not, after all, seem the type for eagerly welcoming visitors—or he took his time answering her knocks in particular, she could not say. Her father had often praised her for her patience, so she stood on the McCormicks’ front step, her apron clutched tight, and waited.
When Mr. McCormick opened the door, his brows pulled low in the middle while remaining still at the ends, forming the opposite of his frown. The effect was likely meant to be intimidating, emphasizing his grumpy demeanor, but for reasons Evangeline couldn’t explain, it inspired an inarguable desire to smile, not with amusement, but something far closer to relief.
“Ah, is it yourself, Miss Blake?” His usual tone of irritable exhaustion had changed to dry acceptance. “What is it brings you ’round claiming your daily knock?”
She knew she was pushing the bounds of polite hospitality, but she did not know anyone else; at least, no one who would help her.
She revealed the three pathetic bits of vegetable tucked inside her apron. “Do you know how to cook these?”
He eyed her collection, then looked up at her, his pulled-brow frown still in place. “You’ve come begging cooking lessons?”
“A few words of instruction would suffice.” That should allow her to learn a necessary skill without proving truly burdensome. It was as good a balance as she was likely to strike. “The stew you so kindly shared with me last evening contained all three of these, so I know you know what to do with them. A bit of guidance, however small, would be most welcome.”
“Have you never cooked a vegetable or made a soup?”
Not a week past, that lack hadn’t been the point of derision it apparently was now. Evangeline kept her expression of friendly determination firmly in place. “I have not.”
He tipped his head slightly to the side, eyeing her sidelong. His eyelids narrowed to slits. “And what of being a schoolteacher? Have you ever done that before?”
“I have not.” Uttering those three words damaged her pride more than she could have predicted. She had never professed to be a teacher, nor had she chosen to be one.
He muttered something that did not sound at all like English. Irish, if she had to guess, and, she would further wager it was not an age-old expression of confidence. Mr. McCormick turned away from the door. No doubt he meant to leave her in her ignorance and uncertainty.
“Please, sir,” she said, softly. “I have been forced into a situation for which I neither asked nor wished, but I am doing the best I can.”
He stopped but did not look back at her.
“I know my best is not good enough,” she continued. “Not yet. I need a little help while I am finding my footing. Surely you can feel some degree of compassion for someone in such a situation. I am in dire enough straits to accept pity if need be. I am hungry, sir. I am hungry, and I cannot cook these things without some help. And worse still, I am without my family, and proving myself capable and competent is my sole means of being reunited with the only kin I have left in this world. Please, help me.”
Mr. McCormick looked at her at last. His mouth still formed a sharp frown. His brows had not returned to a position of ease or pleasure. Yet his countenance seemed softer.
He stepped aside and waved at her to come inside.
He meant to help her? As easy as that? She’d had to work hard to convince her aunt and uncle to aid her situation, yet a simple appeal seemed enough for her gruff neighbor.
“Either you’re not hungry or you’re not in a great hurry,” he said.
She pulled her wandering thoughts back in order. “Forgive me. I am unaccustomed to receiving help when I need it. I’ve known so little of that these past days.”
“Odd. I seem to recall you receiving ample help here the last few nights. Every night, in fact. At about this hour.”
Despite his gruff tone, she found herself nearly smiling at him. She ought to have felt unwelcome or at least unsure of herself, but somehow his grumbling eased her uncertainties.
“You did give me permission for one knock each day,” she rem
inded him.
“Ought to have made it one each fortnight.” He waved her inside again. “How is it you’re wanting to prepare your vegetables?”
“Any way at all, really. I haven’t the first idea how to go about any of it.”
“Easiest is roasting them. You poke ’em a time or two with a fork, then set them amongst the coals. That’ll take a bit of time, though.”
She nodded, committing the simple instructions to memory. “What if I don’t have a great deal of time?”
“Meaning, what if you put off your meal preparation until supper time and have nothing to eat though you’re hungry enough to have a go at the vegetables raw?”
She shrugged a single shoulder. “I suppose that is one possible scenario.”
“Then there’s but one thing to do.”
She was intrigued. “What is that?”
He motioned with his chin toward the chair near his fire. “Same thing you did last night.”
“I can’t take more food off your table, Mr. McCormick.”
“Fair enough.” He held out his hand. “You can trade me your potato for a bowl of soup.”
It still felt as though she was taking advantage of his reluctant generosity. A single potato would hardly replace a bowl’s worth of soup.
“I can see you intend to argue with me,” he said. “I’d advise against it.”
“Because you fear I will best you in a battle of wills?”
He shrugged a single shoulder in a rather impressive imitation of her own earlier gesture. “I suppose that is one possible scenario.” He even managed to recreate her Cambridgeshire accent. Quick as lightning, he resumed his usual tone and demeanor. “Mostly I’m too weary for arguing civilly, and I’ve no desire to curse at a woman.”
“I thank you for that. And, in deference to your forbearance, I will skip over my planned arguments and simply take my place near the fire.”
“Thank you.” Those two words were filled with conflicting emotions: annoyance, relief, amusement, weariness. For a man who put forth nothing but grumpy standoffishness, he certainly could pour a lot into only a few syllables.
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