“Of course.”
“Would tha tell us mother an’ father? They’ll never believe it if I tell them missen, but they’ll be right chuffed to have t’ teacher come braggin’ of it.”
Evangeline had grown accustomed to a number of the Yorkshire peculiarities in speech. Mr. McCormick had explained the utterly perplexing “missen” and “thissen” as the local version of “myself” and “thyself.” Evangeline had not yet heard the word “chuffed” and hadn’t the first idea what it meant. However, if Susannah, who had so eagerly agreed to help her, wished for her parents to be chuffed and if that chuffing required that the teacher deliver the news, then she would gladly do precisely that.
“I will tell your mother when she comes to pick you up this afternoon.”
Susanna shook her head before Evangeline even finished the offer. “Mother isn’t coming to fetch we today. Johanna is still sickly, and she doesn’t wish to leave her, but Father’s out tending t’ flock on account of there being illness among t’ sheep.”
“Who will be walking you and your brothers home?” As far as Evangeline knew, the Crossley children had never made that walk on their own.
“I’ve been given t’ task. Thomas dare not leave his job early.”
While Susannah was capable of guiding her siblings home, Evangeline felt a twinge of nervousness on the girl’s behalf. She had been given additional responsibilities by her family and her teacher on the same day. It was a lot to ask all at once of someone so young.
“I will walk home with you and your brothers,” Evangeline said. “Then I can meet Johanna and tell your parents of your news. I will need to bring Ronan McCormick with me, as he always remains at school until supper time.”
Susannah shrugged. “Us parents know Ronan. They’ll not be bothered by him.”
The morning went relatively smoothly. Susannah copied Evangeline’s methods of teaching letters to the newest arrivals. Whether or not that was the best approach, she could not say, but it was all any of them had known.
Hugo, though still difficult at times, was possibly her brightest student after Susannah. He had reached the point where he was ready to begin piecing together words. While the other students quizzed one another on the various letters and letter combinations and the sounds they made, Evangeline attempted to help him.
“Nee-vur.” He had made multiple attempts to sound out the word and was getting steadily closer.
“What other sound does the letter E make?” she offered by way of a hint.
He thought a moment, then tried the word again. “Neh-vur.”
“Precisely. The word is ‘never.’”
“It can’t be,” he insisted. “T’ letter E don’t make that sound.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Can’t be the word ‘nivver.’ I remember all t’ sounds for letter E, and that i’n’t one of ’em.”
Oh, heavens. She hadn’t thought of that. The sounds she was teaching them to associate with each letter and letter combination did not necessarily match the way they spoke. All the Yorkshiremen she’d met, be they men, women, or children, pronounced the word “never” as “nivver.” It was hardly the only word they pronounced differently than how it was spelled.
Beyond that, there were some words that would simply be wrong for them. What happened when she attempted to teach them the word “you”? They all used “thee” and “thou,” though they pronounced the latter as “tha,” which would only add to the confusion. She couldn’t simply teach them the Yorkshire equivalent because they spoke it in such a different way from how it was written that the proper spelling would make no sense.
She attempted an explanation. “The word is spelled to match the way it is pronounced elsewhere. Indeed, you will find that to be generally true. The written language more precisely matches the language as it is spoken elsewhere.”
Hugo eyed her with disgusted disbelief. “Then this reading is more for them what lives elsewhere. It weren’t meant for us in t’ north.”
“It most certainly is meant for you.”
His gaze narrowed in an unmistakable challenge. “How does t’ language spell ‘tha’?”
Sometimes the boy was too clever for his own good—certainly for her own good. “It is pronounced ‘thou’ elsewhere, and it is spelled T-H-O-U. However, outside of Yorkshire, the word used is ‘you,’ and when doing your reading, that is the word you will see most often.”
He shook his head. “Seems those what live elsewhere think themselves above us, making t’ words match their speaking and giving nowt of us words.”
Nowt of us words. How on earth was she to teach these children to read when they nearly spoke a different language? She took a moment to decipher his meaning, frustrated that she still had to translate in her mind so often.
Nowt of us words. Nowt was “nothing.” Us was likely being used as “our.” “Giving nothing of our words” was the exact phrase, but probably not precisely what he meant. He was saying those outside Yorkshire who didn’t write the way Yorkshiremen spoke either didn’t include any of their words or didn’t care about their manner of speaking. Regardless of the precise translation, she understood the gist. Further, she understood the implications for her as a teacher. She was, in many respects, attempting to teach these children to read a foreign language.
She refused to give up on her students, but she feared they would give up on themselves.
“There is some truth in your criticism, Hugo. But this is worth learning to do.” She spoke firmly but quickly, not wishing to give him the opportunity to declare himself finished with the endeavor. “If you will be patient and keep working, I promise you I will try to find a way for what you read to match the way you speak.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he did look curious. A quick perusal of the room told her that nearly all of her students were listening as well. The others would encounter Hugo’s same difficulty as they progressed in their studies. This was her opportunity to give them reason to keep trying.
“Can tha find books written t’ way we speak?” Susannah asked. She likely had already begun to realize the discrepancy in what she was seeing and hearing.
“I do not know.” Evangeline felt honesty was her best approach. “But I will try.”
The look on her students’ faces told her this was no small promise. She smiled at each of them in turn, then repeated in tones of confidence and sincerity, “I pledge my word: I will try.”
Chapter Seventeen
The children worked well the rest of the day, though frustration was rampant. They were attempting to learn a difficult skill, made harder by the mismatch of language. The topic of Yorkshire-specific reading materials did not resurface during school hours but was the first subject Susannah broached during their walk toward the moors that afternoon.
“Does tha truly think tha’ll find books written for us?”
“I do not know.”
Susannah’s mouth dipped on the ends, her brows furrowed in thought. “Why would there not be any?”
Evangeline wished she had a definitive answer, or at least some words of encouragement. Truth be told, it was most likely that the Yorkshire manner of speaking was not considered “proper,” and books meant for schooling were unfailingly proper.
“It’s because they think of us as nowt but clapt heads.”
“What is a clapt head?” Evangeline asked.
“Someone what’s not very clever or smart. Someone what can’t learn.”
“Who has been speaking so unkindly of you?” She couldn’t imagine Susannah had ever left Smeatley, but who in town would say such things to a child?
“Many local girls work as maids for Mrs. Barton. She scolds them for being ignorant and not speaking proper.”
Embarrassment heated Evangeline’s cheeks not only at the realization that her aunt would be so crue
l but also that Susannah’s revelation was not the least surprising. “Mrs. Barton ought not to treat them poorly.”
Susannah shrugged. “She’s south folk.”
“I am also from the south.” Evangeline hazarded a glance at the girl and immediately regretted it; there was no hint of reassurance in Susannah’s expression. “Do you believe I look on you with disdain?”
There was no response, which was answer enough. The silence stung Evangeline’s heart.
John and Billy walked a few paces ahead of their sister. The two, while always respectful during class, seldom spoke to Evangeline directly. Most of her students were the same way. While she had assumed that it was the inevitable result of concentration on their studies, a different explanation now arose in her mind. They were not comfortable with her. They felt and responded to a distance they believed existed between her and them.
She had come to care about her students, but they viewed her with suspicion. How could she overcome that? How could she prove her worth to them?
She was so distracted she’d hardly noted the distance they had traveled. Upon looking around, truly looking around, she was struck by the change in her surroundings. They had alighted over the hill to the east of Smeatley and stepped out onto the vast expanse of the moor.
She had heard tales of moorland, of its barren and desolate character. The sight that met her eyes, however, did not match the picture she had formed in her mind. True, there were few trees or bushes, but the endless sea of hills was covered in tall grasses waving in the wind, and dotting the landscape were patches of deepest purple. It was an untamed beauty unlike anything she had seen before. She could not look away.
Susannah moved ahead, joining her brothers. Evangeline adjusted her pace until she came even with Ronan, who had been walking between the two groups.
“Have you been on the moor before?” she asked him. “I have not, but it is beautiful.”
“Moors do not have many trees,” he said. “They’ve a few, but not many. They have grass, but the grass is not always green. They’ve shrubs sometimes. Sometimes trees. But always grass, and always hills.”
Evangeline had known Ronan for weeks, but this was the first time he had ever spoken to her. She had not been entirely certain he could speak. He continued delineating the nature of the moors and their particular assortment of flora. He did not once veer from the subject matter, neither did he pause for her to join the conversation.
As he waxed long, memories of James flooded her heart, and a lump formed in her throat. The two boys shared the same quietness, the same earnest concentration, and, now, the same infatuation with facts and information.
She managed to interject only one word in the midst of Ronan’s litany: sheep.
That sent the boy on another soliloquy. Sheep, he told her, grazed on the moor, and sheep farmers raised and looked after them. The sheep gave wool and meat and lambed in the spring. His was clearly a curious mind. If he could be taught to read, he could learn anything his heart desired. Books had been James’s haven and his greatest joy.
“This is us house, Miss Blake,” Susannah called back, drawing Evangeline’s attention to a humble stone home tucked into the small dip created by the gentle slope of two adjacent hills.
Small outbuildings dotted the land, and stone walls cordoned off fields. The sheep she had seen as they’d approached likely belonged to the Crossleys. The fields must have been for grazing, as nothing appeared to be growing in the vast stretch surrounding the home. Could crops be grown on the moor? Had the family any source of income beyond their flock and Thomas’s bricklaying money?
Mrs. Crossley stepped out of the front doorway as they approached. Her gaze slid over her children before resting, wide and worried, on Evangeline. “Miss Blake. We weren’t expecting thee.”
“I have come with good news,” she reassured her. “I wished to tell you in person.”
That relieved the worry in Mrs. Crossley’s expression though none of the discomfort. “Come inside.”
Evangeline followed the children, but Ronan stopped short at the doorway. She recognized the anxiety in his face. This was an unfamiliar place and situation. Few things had upended James more quickly or more thoroughly than the unknown.
“You know the Crossleys,” she reminded him. “There is nothing to fear here.”
But he only shook his head and kept his feet firmly planted. This was a complication she should have foreseen. Mother had always been able to soothe James, though Evangeline suspected it was as much a matter of her familiar presence as it was the influence of something she had said. Ronan was not familiar enough with Evangeline for her to have offered that same comfort.
“He doesn’t have to come in.” John stepped back out, joining Ronan on the pathway. “We’ll have a look at t’ sheep. He allus likes watching ’em.”
It seemed Ronan had visited the Crossleys before. Something must have been different this time for him to refuse to enter the house. A different person present or someone missing who was always there. In an instant, the obvious answer occurred to her. His father was not here. That would be plenty enough to disconcert him.
John urged Ronan to follow him. After a moment, he complied. The two boys walked toward the nearest stone wall, neither of them speaking yet seeming comfortable with the silence.
Evangeline watched a moment. Whether it was a lingering sense of the protectiveness she’d always felt for James or her growing fondness for Ronan, she could not say, but she found herself fighting the urge to call him back. John had shown himself a dependable child and in possession of a good heart. He would look after Ronan.
“It’s right parky out,” Mrs. Crossley said. “Come in and warm up.”
“Parky” must have meant “cold” or “bad weather.” Heavens, she hoped the language would eventually become easier to understand.
The interior of the Crossley home reminded her of the many tenant cottages dotting Petersmarch. It also reminded her strongly of her own residence in Smeatley. A few short weeks earlier she might have found such a place cramped or dreary, being accustomed to the bright and open spaces of her childhood. This new life, however, had taught her a different view of things.
What she had once thought of as mere accommodations had begun to feel like a home to her. Her small space was cozy and warm even on a “parky” day like this one. Having set the space to rights herself and invested her own toil and effort in keeping it clean and well-maintained, she felt a sense of ownership she’d never had before. Her small corner of the schoolhouse was not large or impressive, but it was hers.
She saw that same pride in Mrs. Crossley’s face as she offered Evangeline a seat at their rough-hewn table.
“Might I meet Johanna first?” she asked. “I have long wished to make her acquaintance.”
“Aye.” Mrs. Crossley turned to Billy and said something that sounded distinctly like “Put wood in the oil.” Billy immediately crossed to the front door and closed it.
How did “put wood in the oil” indicate closing the door? She could think of absolutely no explanation.
“T’ little one is just in here.” Mrs. Crossley led Evangeline past the table and the wood box, toward an interior doorway set in the same wall as the fireplace. “It’s a warmer room.”
The small bedchamber held nothing beyond a bed pressed against the opposite wall, a small chest at the foot of the bed, and a rocking chair on which sat a small girl—tiny, truth be told—wrapped in a faded quilt. The fireplace opened into the room, adding much needed warmth.
Brown eyes looked up at her from within a pale and weary face.
“You must be Johanna.” Evangeline kept her tone as light as she could despite her growing concern for the little girl’s health. “I am Miss Blake, and I am so pleased to be meeting you at last.”
Johanna sat up a little straighter. “I’ve been practicing
us letters.” Her voice held more air than it did strength. “On t’ slate.”
“I know. Your sister has told me how well you are doing.”
A smile, strained with effort, made a brief but sincere appearance. “Susannah means to read to us once she learns how. Stories and such.”
“Do you like stories?”
Johanna nodded, though the gesture required greater effort than it ought.
“I will see if I can find some stories for her to learn to read.” Even as she made the promise, Evangeline’s mind worried over the difficulty of teaching the children to read using books written in English as it was spoken in the south counties. Could these Yorkshire children learn to decipher it? Or would they simply be frustrated at the unfamiliar words and turns of phrase?
Mrs. Crossley slipped past Evangeline and moved to the chair. “Best lay down for a time, babbie. Tha looks terribly pulled.”
There was no objection. Mrs. Crossley slid a trundle from beneath the bed, and Johanna settled on it, her blanket tucked around her.
Silently, and with a smile of apology, Mrs. Crossley indicated that they ought to step out.
“Poor girl. She’s allus jiggered and needs rest.”
Jiggered. Yet another word she had no experience with. “Tired” or “worn” was her best guess.
“Tell me t’ news tha’ve come with,” Mrs. Crossley said as they returned to the main room of the house.
Susannah stood nearby, watching Evangeline with anticipation.
Evangeline assumed a bright and cheerful expression. “I asked Susannah today if she would consider assisting me in teaching the children at the school.”
Mrs. Crossley looked to her daughter and received a broad smile in response.
Evangeline pressed on, encouraged. “Knowing that Susannah has been teaching her sister and, seeing how quickly she, herself, is learning, I feel confident that she will be a tremendous help to those students who are struggling.”
“Ah, dear girl.” Mrs. Crossley pulled her daughter into an embrace. Though Susannah was likely not twelve years old yet, she was nearly of a height with her mother. “We must tell thy father. He’ll be right chuffed, he will.”
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