The sheep were their livelihood. If they had lost all their flock, or even nearly all, what in heaven’s name were they to do? Was their fate to be the same as poor Mr. Palmer, whose soul was being crushed inside the confines of the mill?
From beside her, Ronan’s small voice began to sing. The words were not familiar and they were not English, yet they were oddly comforting.
“Trasna na dtonnta, dul siar, dul siar,
Slán leis an uaigneas ’is slán leis an gcian;”
Dermot joined in, coming up the hill toward them and pulling off his mud-encrusted work gloves.
“Geal é mo chroí, agus geal í an ghrian,
Geal bheith ag filleadh go hÉirinn!”
Evangeline fully expected Dermot to follow Mr. Crossley’s lead and simply tell Ronan they were leaving. At the very least, she thought he might sit down beside the boy. Instead, he sat on the grass beside her.
He was warm, a buffer against the brutal wind off the moor. She silently willed him to move a touch closer, yet part of her hoped he didn’t. His presence proved unexpectedly unnerving. Every inch of her felt tense and on edge, an unidentifiable wish mixed with equal parts uncertainty.
The two McCormicks continued their song, both looking out over the expanse, neither seeming the least bothered by the cold or the wet or her presence between them. Her gaze fixed on Dermot. There was worry in his eyes, yet he was calm and unshaken.
She took a deep breath only to be assaulted by the taste of rancid smoke and the reminder of all that had been lost. John’s shaking frame. Mr. Crossley’s deeply lined face and slumped shoulders. A humble home not far distant where a family was in crisis. Her own family home, so far away, so empty. Her sister, alone and miserable.
It proved too much. She had kept her chin up and her eyes dry for weeks, but she couldn’t manage it any longer. She needed a moment of the strength she sensed in Dermot.
Just as John had leaned against her, and just as Ronan rested on her arm, Evangeline set her head on Dermot’s shoulder. She closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of the flock, the blackened ash on the grass, and pushed back the tears threatening to fall.
Dermot shifted, his arm slipping behind her, supporting her as she grieved. She kept her arm around Ronan, offering him the same comfort.
Their song had ended, and they didn’t take up another.
“’Tis a horrid sight, is it not?” Dermot said.
It was, indeed. “What will the Crossleys do now?”
“I’ve not the first idea, but I’ve a few suspicions.” He moved a bit, rendering her position instantly more comfortable. “Losing their flock to scrapie is the reason the Haighs are working at the factory now.”
Pain pulsed through her. “They cannot go there. They would be so miserable.”
She felt him sigh deeply. “I don’t know that they’ve a choice, lass. The moor giveth, and the moor taketh away.”
She looked up at him. “But it is not fair.”
“Life seldom is, especially here.” He adjusted his position again, this time so he was looking at her and she at him, though it meant his arm fell away from her shoulders. “I know you were vexed with me for not supporting your idea of bringing your wee sister here to live with you, but this”—he motioned to the scene before them—“is the reason I . . .” The sentence dangled unfinished, his face pulling in thought. “I’ve spent this morning burning what remains of a family’s dreams. This, Evangeline, is far too often what becomes of the fragile and delicate souls who come to this harsh and unforgiving land. Their hopes are dashed, reduced to ashes on the moor.”
Her lungs ached with her next breath and not from the smoke in the air. His words drove deep, ringing with a painful, undeniable truth. Yet what could she do? “Lucy is so unhappy where she is.”
“I’m not suggesting she isn’t,” he said. “I’m simply hoping you’ll consider that perhaps the harsh realities she’d find here are not such an improvement over the unhappiness she’s experiencing where she is.”
Evangeline did not care for either possibility. “I will not resign her to misery without attempting to alleviate her suffering.”
Dermot slipped his hands around hers. “’Twas a fine thing you did today, Evangeline, comforting the lads as you did. I thank you for that.”
Though being outside without her gloves would not only be cold but also horrifyingly improper, Evangeline found herself wishing she had left hers off. To have felt the warmth of his touch directly . . .
No sooner had she indulged the thought then Dermot released her hand. His expression turned stern, almost too stern, as if he assumed the air because he felt it proper and not because he truly felt it. He stood rather abruptly.
“Come along, then, Ronan,” he said. “We’re for home.”
She watched them go, confused, relieved, exhausted, overwhelmed. He had held her hand. He’d spoken gently. On this horrible day of loss and sorrow, he’d offered her kindness and comfort and had acknowledged her efforts to help.
The irascible, unapproachable neighbor whom she’d first met upon arriving in this strange and difficult town had shown a side of himself that was, in a word, wondrous.
Chapter Twenty-three
Dear Grandfather,
I thought you might appreciate hearing of my work here in Smeatley. When my students first began their schooling a few short weeks ago, not one of them could read or write, and they had no knowledge of mathematics. I am pleased to say they are making remarkable progress. Many are beginning to read. Nearly all know their alphabet and basic mathematics. My newest students are keeping pace as well.
Though the teacher’s quarters were in abysmal condition when first I arrived, the space is now well-maintained, clean, and inviting. I have learned to keep house, work well within a budget, and have diligently expanded my repertoire of dishes I am able to cook.
Lucy will be quite content here, I am certain of it. I look forward to hearing from you regarding her expected arrival in Smeatley.
With all my love,
I am yours, etc.
Evangeline Blake
She had carefully worded the letter so as not to sound overly forward or give the impression that she thought her grandfather’s judgment lacking, while still encouraging him to reevaluate his decision. Striking that balance had proven exhausting.
Evangeline posted the letter on Saturday. She doubted her judgment throughout the day on Sunday, but by that evening, as the church bells tolled, she had reconciled herself to accept the outcome, whatever it proved to be. Though, in her heart, she held on to the unshakable belief that if Lucy was to be unhappy regardless of her location, she would do better to be unhappy in Smeatley than in Leeds.
In the meantime, she had students depending on her; she would not fail them. She rose earlier than usual on Monday morning, determined to greet her students ready and eager and hopeful.
She had spent a portion of her first pay on a simple shirtwaist that buttoned in the front. With some effort, she had altered one of her dresses—one that fastened exclusively in the back—to a skirt. Combining her new blouse and her refashioned skirt, she at last had another suit of clothing to wear. Better still, her new clothing allowed for swift and easy dressing each morning. Fewer days began in a state of struggle and panic. That was a step forward.
The sun rose later than it had when she’d first arrived in Smeatley. Even those students who arrived later in the morning now did so in darkness. She would need to ask her uncle for a larger allowance of coal to warm the schoolroom as well as lanterns to light it.
She greeted each child by name, reviewing silently his or her particular challenges and progress. When Susannah Crossley reached the door, though, Evangeline could not prevent herself from saying, “You’ve returned.”
“I’ve missed being at school,” she answered. “I hope tha was not too
upset that I were gone.”
“I was not upset at all.” She set her hand on the girl’s arm, rubbing it gently. “I have been worried for you and your family. I am so grateful to have you and your brothers back—” Only Billy was with her. Evangeline tried to remain calm. “Where is John?”
Susannah’s gaze dropped to her shoes, strain evident in her posture. “We’ve had troubles.” The short, quiet reply held a world of hurt and worry.
“Is he ill or injured?”
A subtle head shake served as her answer.
“Is he helping at home?”
Another shake of the head. Susannah seemed upset by whatever she was not telling Evangeline. That only made her worry more. She turned to Billy.
“Where is your brother?”
Billy’s brow strained. When he spoke at last, he did so quietly. “He’s bahn to t’ mill.”
The mill. Evangeline’s heart turned to lead. “Why—” She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat. “Why is John going to the mill?” How she hoped he was simply delivering something or running an errand.
Susannah squared her shoulders, her show of determination undermined by the heartbreak in her eyes. “We lost nearly all t’ flock. Come spring, we’ll not have enough ewes lambing. We’ll not have enough for t’ sheering or t’ slaughter.” Susannah’s gaze turned pleading. “Thomas has his work. I’m learning to be a teacher. Billy is too little. John had to be t’ one.”
John was too little as well. Far, far too little. “How long will he have to work at the mill?”
“All day,” Billy said.
That wasn’t what she’d meant, but she let it go. “When will he be able to attend school again?”
The defeat returned to Susannah’s posture. John, it seemed, would not be coming back.
Worry weighed heavy on Evangeline’s heart.
She motioned the two Crossley children inside but remained in the doorway a minute longer herself. John had been making such progress. He was enthusiastic and a joy to have in the class each day. He cared about the other children. He worked so hard.
“None of this will keep them from the factory.” Mr. Husthwayt’s words, which she’d dismissed as unnecessarily cynical, were proving prophetic.
She moved to the front of the room, attempting to focus her thoughts. Looking over her students’ faces, though, she could not bring herself to even speak. Were they all truly destined for a life in the factory? Even if they learned to read and write, even if they were taught mathematics and geography and any number of other things she longed to teach them, would it matter?
She had already lost John to the mill. How many others would follow?
“Good morning.” Her customary greeting felt like a lie.
Her gaze traveled to the place on the front bench where John always sat. She breathed slowly through her nose, reminding herself that the class was watching and waiting. They would take their cues from her.
“We’ll spend the first part of the morning as we always do before the remaining students arrive.”
Susannah rose from her spot and crossed to where the new students gathered for help and direction. The children went through the motions, moving with automatic steps to their groupings. A somber air hung over the room. Susannah’s charges bent over their slates, practicing letters and writing. The other children huddled around the two primers Evangeline had received from the school board.
Billy sat with his group, but his eyes remained on the window. His eyelids sat heavy. His shoulders drooped. Susannah did not appear to be in any better state than her brother. Their family had lost so much.
Was John as tired, as beaten down? Had he been given a hazardous job at the factory? Was he safe? Scared?
None of this will save them. No matter what she did, they would all end up in the mill.
Dermot stepped inside on the heels of that thought, Ronan in tow. Evangeline’s heart ached with relief at the sight of him, as if she’d been struggling for breath and air had arrived at last.
She crossed to the doorway, intent on telling him of her worries, wanting his thoughts and his views. A growing part of her also hoped he would take her hand again. That moment had repeated in her mind again and again, bringing new comfort and an undeniable delight.
Dermot motioned Ronan to his usual table, then turned his attention to her. “You seem troubled.”
“John has gone to work at the mill.” The words brought a fresh wave of pain.
Dermot’s jaw dropped a fraction, and his eyes widened. “John Crossley?”
She nodded. “Susannah told me this morning.”
“Their situation must be worse than I’d imagined.” The observation was as much directed at himself as to her.
Worry clutched at her chest. “What if John is in danger or afraid? He ought to be here. He ought to be where he is cared about.”
Dermot took her hand in his. “I know you’re worried for him, but just now, your students need you. The Crossleys’ situation is known to all the children, I’m certain of it. And they’re worried. Life is terribly uncertain for the lot of them.”
“Like ashes on the moor.” She quietly repeated the comparison he’d used on Saturday. She’d thought of it often since then.
His concerned expression eased her burden. The kindness in his dark eyes and the gentleness of his touch captured her thoughts for a long, tender moment.
“Look after your children,” he said. “I’ll talk with Thomas and see what I can learn.”
His hand dropped away slowly, though his gaze lingered.
Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. She managed to utter a “Thank you” though the two words emerged quiet and uncertain.
A smile tugged at his lips. “Was that a question?”
Heavens knew she had a great many questions. More every time she saw him, in fact.
“I will see you this evening,” she said.
He nodded. “Chin up, lass. ’Twill all be well in the end.”
She told herself as much many times as the morning went on. She was not truly certain he was right, but she was willing to hope.
After the children enjoyed a small, quick tea—she did her best to have slices of bread and butter for them, since very few brought food from home—they all sat on their benches. She made a habit of reading to them each afternoon from James’s book of folktales, which she brought up to the schoolroom every morning. Today, however, she had something else in mind. The children needed a bit of cheer after the blow of John’s departure.
“I have a special treat for you today,” she said.
The few smiles she saw looked no more genuine than hers felt. It had been a difficult day all around.
“Mrs. Crossley has been helping me write out a story for you, one told in the language of Yorkshire.” That gained her a bit more interest. “I hope you will be able to read it yourselves in time, but today I would like to read it to you, as much of it as I have written out thus far.”
She and Mrs. Crossley had not finished their efforts. With all that had happened, it might be some time before they were able to continue working on the Yorkshire-language stories. But a single page or two was better than nothing at all.
“Of an August nooin—”
The children snickered at her attempts to pronounce “noon” in a Yorkshire manner. She smiled back at them and pressed on.
“—Mary were sittin’ in t’ garden, in t’ front on her were t’ orchard. T’ leaves were spent ower—”
More laughter. More smiles.
“—wi’ flahs.”
Though they grinned more broadly, Evangeline could also see that they were confused. Her pronunciation, even with the words spelled the way she had heard them from Mrs. Crossley, was clearly not great.
“I am attempting to say ‘flowers,’” she told them. She t
ried again. “Flahs.”
Laughter filled the room, Evangeline’s included. Even Hugo smiled, something he almost never did anymore and certainly not that day.
“The sooner all of you learn to read this, the better,” she said. “My Yorkshire speaking is terrible.”
“Don’t us know it,” Billy Crossley tossed back.
The room erupted in laughter again. Into this happy moment came the one person capable of dispelling it: Aunt Barton. She hadn’t come alone. Uncle Barton stood beside her, and, next to him, was a man Evangeline did not recognize. The stranger wore somber colors and a look of pointed concern.
Evangeline nodded to the class and motioned for them to stand as she’d taught them to do when Aunt Barton visited. The show of respect had seemed to soften her view of them.
“Miss Blake.” Aunt Barton always managed to make her name sound vaguely insulting.
Evangeline offered the obligatory curtsey, encompassing all three of the visitors in the gesture. “Welcome.”
Uncle Barton spoke for them. “Miss Blake, this is Mr. Garvey, the school inspector.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Evangeline had never heard of a school inspector, and she didn’t like the sound of it. She allowed not the slightest hint of uncertainty or worry to touch her expression. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Garvey.” She executed a curtsey worthy of her governess’s approval.
He gave a brief dip of his head before passing her and stepping further into the classroom. He looked over the students, though whether his impression was favorable or not, Evangeline could not say.
“Students,” she said. “This is Mr. Garvey.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Garvey,” they said in near unison.
He made a sound of ponderous surprise. “Good afternoon, pupils.” With those three words, Mr. Garvey showed himself to not be a Yorkshire man. That would make the children more wary.
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