Page 25 of Ashes on the Moor Collector’s Edition

D ermot reached the overgrown hedge of the schoolhouse chilled to the bone. Rain had fallen off and on all day, leaving the air painfully frigid. ’Twas miserable weather to be working in.

His discussion with Thomas Crossley had been sobering. The family’d been on the verge of disaster for some time. The factory was not paying as much for wool as it once had, preferring the lower cost of buying from larger providers than from local farmers. This area of the country had been chosen specifically for woolen mills on account of the abundance of sheep. Yet, the mills were driving to ruin those who’d raised the sheep for generations and forcing them into the factories. The seeming inevitability of it was heart-wrenching.

The path leading across the school yard was riddled with puddles, some too large for hopping across.

None of the factory children sat on the interior stairs as they often did when waiting for their parents on rainy days. Dermot was later than he’d realized.

He hung his hat and coat on the hooks near Evangeline’s door. He gave a quick knock, then pushed the door open. That had become their agreed-upon entrance. How he’d come to be on such familiar footing with her, he couldn’t rightly say.

Evangeline stood near the fireplace, her gaze on the flames, her back turned almost entirely to him. Ronan sat in the rocking chair nearby.

“Good evening to you both.” Dermot summoned something of a sunny tone, not wishing to burden them with his own heavy thoughts.

He received a small, indiscernible reply from Evangeline, one not accompanied by even a brief glance in his direction. What had happened?

He moved to Ronan’s chair and patted him on the head, a gesture usually permitted without objection, but also without comment. This time, however, Ronan spoke.

“A man came and shouted at Miss Blake.”

What was this? “Someone shouted at you?” he asked her.

She made a small gesture of dismissal, still not looking at him.

“Who was it?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She turned away, clearly intent on moving further from him.

“She’s been crying,” Ronan said.

“Evangeline.” Dermot followed her to the window. “If someone’s made you cry, it most certainly does matter.”

She brushed back a strand of her hair, her eyes fixed on the darkness outside. “Did you know there are school inspectors whose job it is to go about deciding if teachers are worthy of their posts?”

“And this inspector was here today?”

She nodded.

“And he shouted at you?”

What began as a shrug, turned into a waving of her hands as if batting away the experience. Then she clutched her hands together and pressed them to her lips. Her next breath trembled with emotion.

The unnamed man had indeed made her cry. “You tell me who the inspector is, lass, and I’ll introduce him to the Irish way of expressing disapproval.”

His bluster died when a sob escaped her.

“You know how I hate when you cry.” He ran his hand along her arm, unsure how to offer comfort.

She brushed a tear away. “ I hate when I cry. I’ve managed not to for weeks and weeks, then one discouraging conversation, and I’m falling to bits.”

Dermot slid his hand around hers and held it gently. “What did this inspector say to you?”

“Nothing that wasn’t true,” she said quietly. “That I don’t know how to be a teacher. That I have no chance of keeping my position if he disapproves of me. That I am merely stumbling about doing a poor job.”

“And he shouted all of this?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t shout, but he spoke forcefully.”

“Within hearing of your students?”

She turned away, though she did not pull her hand free of his. “I told myself I would not take his criticisms so much to heart, but what if I lose my position?”

“Did he give you any indication of what it is he expected you to be doing differently?”

She nodded solemnly.

“And is it something you’re able to do?”

“I could do it, yes, but I’m not—” Whatever she meant to say died unspoken.

He lowered his head to look her fully in the face. Worry and exhaustion filled the lines around her eyes and mouth. She had nearly reached the end of her endurance for the day.

“Troubles only multiply when one is worn to a thread,” he said gently. “Come sit by the fire. I’ll fix us something to eat.”

He made to guide her back to the warmth of the hearth, but she held her ground. Hers wasn’t a posture of defiance or protest, but rather one of determination.

“What did you learn from Thomas Crossley?” she asked.

Saints knew the last thing she needed was further bad news. “That can wait ’til after you’ve eaten, don’t you think?”

She shook her head. “I’ve worried for John all day. Knowing would be far better than continuing to wonder.”

He could appreciate that. “I’ll tell you all I’ve learned while you warm yourself. Can we strike that deal, then?”

The smallest hint of a smile touched her lips. “You have quite a knack for negotiation, Dermot McCormick.”

He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a light kiss there, something he instantly discovered he enjoyed doing far more than he likely ought. This woman, who hailed from a place far above his station, who at first had seemed such a sour sort of person, who likely looked down on him and his situation in life, had somehow found for herself a tender and welcome place in his affections.

He motioned her toward the bench near the fireplace. She went without protest or hesitation. Either she was more chilled than she’d admitted or she did not feel the same urge to remain near him as he felt toward her.

He distracted himself from that unwelcome thought by kneeling in front of Ronan. “Other than the shouting man, did you have a grand day?”

“John was gone.” With that, Ronan’s attention returned fully to his slate.

Dermot knew him well enough to realize there’d be no further conversation. He returned instead to his discussion with Evangeline.

“Thomas told me that the family is in a bad way, more so than any of us suspected.” He dug through her produce basket as he spoke. “Come spring, they need enough money to replace some of the flock, but ’twill be a difficult thing to manage, being poor as they are.”

Evangeline unfolded a light shawl hung over the back of the bench and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Which is why John has gone to the mill.”

“It is.” He dropped a handful of potatoes and an onion on the table. “’Tis also the reason Mrs. Crossley’s gone to work there herself.”

“Mrs. Crossley?” She spun to face him.

“Aye. Mr. Crossley’s finding what work he can, odd jobs here and there. Susannah’s been permitted to keep at her schooling on account of their hope that she’ll one day find herself a teaching position.”

Slowly, painstakingly, Evangeline lowered herself onto the bench. Her eyes had pulled wide and her mouth hung the tiniest bit open. She clutched her shawl closed with one hand, the other hiding somewhere within its folds.

Dermot whistled to capture Ronan’s attention. The boy looked up at him. “Come tear up some herbs, lad,” he instructed. He glanced at Evangeline.

“I know you’ve heard awful things about the mill, and I’ll not argue that it’s a joyous place for a person to work, but Mr. Farr required it to be built to the latest standards of safety and with a great many windows for allowing in sunlight. The equipment is new and well-maintained.” He took up a knife and began cutting the vegetables. “I’d not wish to work there m’self, nor would I want Ronan to while away his days within its walls. Yet, I don’t believe John is in truly dire straits, especially with his mother there. She’ll look out for him.”

“He was doing so well in school.” She tucked herself into the corner of the bench, leaning against its low back. “And he loved being out on the pastures. I can’t bear to think of him working at a job I know he will hate and missing the opportunity to learn.”

“The Crossleys have a plan for being free of the factory by spring. I’ve known them from almost the moment I moved to Smeatley, and they’re a family that accomplishes what they put their mind to.”

She seemed comforted by the thought. “And until John returns, Susannah can teach him, just as she’s done with—Oh, heavens. Johanna.” Quick as anything, her fear returned. “What’ll become of the little one? She’s too ill to be left alone all day, but her mother is at the mill.”

“I’ve not an answer for that, I’m afraid. But I’ve full confidence the Crossleys have sorted it out.”

He dropped the cut-up vegetables in the pot hanging by the fire, then poured in water from the pitcher. Ronan dropped in the herbs he’d been meticulously tearing. The lad had become more of a help with meals in the time they’d spent teaching Evangeline how to prepare them. The arrangement had not been comfortable at first, but they’d all benefited from it in the end. And Dermot had come to value their evenings together. He’d not truly understood before just how lonely he’d been.

“What I do not fully understand is why, of all the children in Smeatley, so few actually come to school and those who do come can stop when they choose to. Does not the new law require children to be educated?”

Dermot had learned all he could about the Education Act, wanting to make certain Ronan couldn’t be turned away. “The towns are required to provide education to all of the children. The children and their families, however, aren’t required to accept it.”

“But it would do them good,” she countered.

“You can’t force good things on people,” he said. “You can only hope they’ll see the good and want it for themselves.”

“I suspect you are trying to gently tell me that I am worrying too much.”

He sat on the bench beside her. “I’m only saying that you love your students and that you’ve come to care about the people of Smeatley. Neither is a bad thing.”

She sat up straighter, facing him. “When I first arrived you hardly had a good word for the people of this town.”

“I know it. They’d given me precious little reason to think well of them.”

“Is that not one of the greatest tests of a person’s character?” She spoke as if asking herself the question. “Caring about the welfare of people who do not seem to deserve it.”

“I suppose it is.” He let his shoulders droop from the exhaustion he’d been fighting all day. “Life’d be far easier if we weren’t required to be decent.”

She laughed as he’d hoped she would. “I, for one, am grateful that you are a vast deal more than decent.”

He leaned back and folded his hands on his belly. “You didn’t know me before you came here. I was gruff and unfriendly and meaner than a bull with his tail on fire.”

“Oh, no, you were like that when I arrived.”

He looked at her, then burst out laughing at the mischievous amusement lighting her features. “I’m glad you’ve come to Smeatley. You’re a joy, you know that?”

“Those are kind words coming from a man who is meaner than a smoldering bull.”

His first urge was to laugh again, but the truth of her words struck him with unexpected force. The sentiment was odd for him. He didn’t consider himself an unkind person, simply an aloof one. He’d never been inclined toward sentimentality or any real closeness with other people. He’d been apprenticed at such a young age and that loneliness, coupled with the gruff personality of his master, had taught him to keep a distance from people. ’Twas simply easier that way. Evangeline had been a thorn in his side early on—an annoyance. How, then, was she pulling this tenderness from him?

“Dermot?” Her voice recaptured his attention. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I was only teasing.”

He recovered to a degree. “I know you were.” He rose abruptly and crossed to the pot, giving it a stir and keeping her out of his line of sight. Quite suddenly, he was upended and uncertain.

A man didn’t discover he’d changed so wholly without being tossed about by the realization.

“I do seem to have offended you,” she said. “I am sorry.”

He shook his head without looking back. “I’m not offended, only hungry.”

She didn’t speak, and he didn’t look at her, but the sudden tension in the room was unmistakable. His discomfort was apparent, and she didn’t know what to make of it. He wasn’t entirely sure himself.

“I have a bit of bread left from the children’s tea,” she said. “I’ll fetch it. We can have some with our supper.”

He stirred the pot again. “A good idea.”

He heard the rustle of her skirts as she moved swiftly from the room. He kept his gaze on the flames even as he yearned to follow her from the room, to catch her before she climbed the stairs to the schoolroom and keep her with him. The longing was strong and unshakable.

Ronan sat in his chair, making his wooden horse run along the arms of the rocker.

“Do you like Miss Blake?” Dermot asked the lad.

“I do.” Ronan didn’t look up from his figurine, but his answer was sincere.

“And do you like having her with us?”

“I do.”

Dermot’s tension lessened. “I like her too, and I like having her with us.” He liked it quite a lot.

“We should keep her.” With that declaration, Ronan turned in his seat and focused fully on whatever game he was playing.

Dermot turned his back to the fire and paced away. Evangeline had extended her friendship to him—to them . That was a far cry from what he was feeling for her. Somewhere between his gruffness upon first meeting her and this very moment, he’d grown incredibly fond of her, more than fond if he were being honest, though he was not yet ready to put a word to it.

Did she share any of those same tender feelings? Did she think of him as anything other than a neighbor and a help and a friend?

He passed the doorway just as she stepped across the threshold. His pacing stopped. His eyes refused to leave her.

She stepped further inside, pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “I did not find the bread. Sometimes one of the children takes it. I cannot begrudge them the bite to eat. So many of them are terribly hungry.” She moved directly to Ronan and tucked the quilt more snug around his lap, managing the thing without disrupting his play. She brushed her hand lightly over his hair before moving to the fire and giving the soup a quick stir.

Dermot took a single step closer to her, then another. Uncertainty added an edge of strain to his movements, to his breaths, to the very beatings of his heart. He’d not any idea of her feelings for him, but he no longer had any doubts about his attachment to her.

She straightened the book on the mantelpiece, then ran her fingers the length of the pipe beside it. She patted the head of the little shepherd statue. Her attention lingered longest on the photograph of her family. Dermot had studied it before, seeing in the unmoving faces a story of love and loss and a glimpse into Evangeline’s past. She had come from ease and privilege to this place of want and sorrow. What remained unknown was who and where she would be in the years to come.

We should keep her. If only it were so easy as that.

She turned. Their eyes met. Did she see the questions he grappled with? Did she know how unsure he was of so many things? He had always been one for decisiveness and moving toward a goal without hesitation. Why, then, was he suddenly overcome with doubt?

“Dermot?” She stepped closer. “Are you unwell?”

He shook his head.

“Are you certain? You’ve been out all day in horrible weather.” She stepped even closer and lightly pressed her hand to his forehead. “I would not be the least surprised if your entire crew has pneumonia.” Her fingers skimmed his cheek. “You do not feel overly warm.”

He slipped his hand along hers, threading their fingers. She bent her fingers around his, holding onto him just as he did to her. He kept their entwined hands at his cheek, simply breathing.

He kissed her fingers one after the other. He lingered longer with each touch of his lips. It was foolish of him, inviting the heartache he felt certain would come of this, but there was no helping it. His heart spoke far louder than his mind.

A knock sounded at the door. They pulled away on the instant, both watching the other, wide-eyed and silent. Surprise registered in every inch of her face, though whether ’twas a pleasant surprise he couldn’t rightly say.

Another knock shattered the tension in the room.

“I—I should answer that.” She spoke breathlessly, her voice heavy with uncertainty.

He nodded. “That you should.”

She stepped away from him and to the door.

Dermot moved immediately to the window, taking advantage of the draft as well as the privacy to settle his own thoughts. He’d not intended to share such an intimate moment with her. He didn’t regret it; he simply didn’t know what to make of it. She’d not objected when he’d kissed her hand and held it so tenderly, yet the shock on her face afterward cast that into question.

Keep your head, man. All’s not lost.

Ronan, thank heavens, appeared to be oblivious to it all. They’d simply go about things as before until he knew with greater certainty what Evangeline was feeling.

She returned shortly, a look of distraction on her face.

“Who was at the door?” he asked, proud of his steady voice and unaffected demeanor.

“One of the Bartons’ servants. Mr. Barton wished to inform me that Mr. Farr will be coming at week’s end to make an inspection of his mill, your building project, and my school.” She sounded worried, a sentiment he could appreciate. Mr. Farr was the most powerful man in Smeatley. He controlled nearly everything in this town, including both of their livelihoods. “What if he is as unimpressed with my efforts as Mr. Garvey was?”

“He will not catch you unawares,” Dermot reminded her. “Be ready for him when he comes. Have your students prepared to show him all they’ve learned.”

She nodded vaguely, making a small circuit of the room. “Ican do that. I can prepare the proof he is looking for. I can. I must . This is my one chance to show him all I have accomplished. If I can convince him, he might speak to Mr. Garvey, which would help secure my position. Otherwise, I’ll have no hope of being with my sister again.”

And if Mr. Farr was not overly impressed with the housing project, Dermot had no chance of being permitted to continue with it. He would be forced to move at the very time when remaining in Smeatley was of paramount importance to him. Ronan was thriving and learning. He, himself, had opportunities for precisely the kind of work he wished to do. And Evangeline was here, their future unknown but showing promise.

“You do all you can to be ready to prove your worth to him,” he said. He knew all too well how difficult it was for someone of the working class to impress those of Mr. Farr’s social status. “I’ll do the same. We’ll both succeed, I’m certain of it.”

She squared her shoulders, a posture he’d often seen her assume. Though she too often hid her fire, Evangeline Blake was a woman of determination, and he loved her all the more for it.