Dermot swallowed a bite of sandwich. “Sometimes they smell like cheese sandwiches.”
“Sometimes they smell like mortar.”
“Are you telling me I smell?” Dermot bit back a smile.
Ronan shrugged. “Sometimes.”
Dermot ruffled the lad’s light brown hair. “Finish your sandwich. We’ll do a bit of whittling tonight.”
’Twas a favorite pastime of theirs, whittling. Dermot had always enjoyed it, and Ronan was showing a knack for it, but neither of them would get far if a lamp wasn’t lit. They hadn’t nearly as many windows in this house as Mr. Barton had in his. Light was in short supply during the day, let alone in the fast-approaching evening.
The schoolhouse had been quite dim. Heavens knew how Miss Blake was getting along.
As soon as she entered his thoughts, he pushed her aside. He had troubles enough of his own.
He took the glass off the oil lantern and turned up the wick, then he opened the tin box in which he kept both the matches and a small bit of peat he’d brought with him when they’d crossed the Irish Sea.
Dermot stole a glance at Ronan. Finding the lad focused on his sandwich, Dermot returned his attentions to the peat. The texture of it was familiar and comforting, a bit of his childhood he’d lost so young.
Dermot lifted the peat to his nose and took a deep breath. The scent took him home in an instant, first back to his years apprenticed to Mr. Donaughy, then even further, all the way to a white-washed cottage tucked against a hillside overlooking the sea and his own once-tiny footprints in the sand. The smell tied him to a place and time of which nearly nothing remained. Dublin smelled of coal on blustery days, but the country had smelled of peat fires. It had smelled of home.
With a sigh to clear his thoughts of those long-ago years, Dermot slipped the peat back inside its box. It didn’t do to go losing himself in memories when he’d work enough in the here and now. With a quick pull of a match, he lit the lantern and placed it on the rough-hewn table near the fireplace.
He pulled down the whittling knives and unfinished work. “Are you still carving a dog?” he asked Ronan.
The boy nodded. “Are you?”
“I am.” He bent over his nearly completed Irish wolfhound. He didn’t think Ronan had ever seen one in person. They weren’t found in Dublin, and he’d not encountered any in England. “Did you see any dogs about today?”
Ronan nodded. “Three, but they hadn’t any spots. Dogs should have spots.”
“I’d a dog with grand spots when I was younger than you are,” Dermot said. “He and I walked along the shore nearly every day.”
“Dogs should have spots.”
Dermot set his knife to shaping one of the hound’s ears. “Would you like to live along the sea, lad? Feel the spray of the ocean in the air and the wetness of the sand beneath your bare toes?”
“We should live here,” Ronan said, his tone both earnest and decided. “This is where we live.”
“And you’re happy here?” Dermot wondered about that often. ’Twas oddly difficult at times to know if Ronan was happy.
A knock interrupted any answer the lad might have given. Ronan’s brow pulled low as he glared at the door. They didn’t often have visitors. Almost never, in fact. He’d received a few unhappy droppers-by early in his time in Smeatley, though there’d not been trouble in months.
Dermot set his knife down and rose from the table. “Take care with your work, there. The knife is sharp.”
“Knives are supposed to be sharp.”
“That they are.”
Another knock, faster and louder than the last, sounded before Dermot reached the door. Someone was anxious, it seemed.
He cautiously pulled open the door, ready to cut off any tirade before Ronan heard too much of it. ’Twasn’t a mob nor a newly unemployed bricklayer come to wage a complaint, but Miss Blake, her eyes wide, strain pulling at the corners of her mouth. She was terribly pale, though he couldn’t say if it was a new development as her bonnet had hidden her face during their earlier walk.
“Miss Blake.” His statement of recognition held a bit of a question.
“I need your help.” The words came out in a rush, brimming with worry rather than inconvenience.
“What’s happened?”
“There’s a man in my house.” She took a quick, quivery breath. “He won’t leave. Please help me.”
Dermot needed no more than that; he’d not ignore a woman in distress. “Ronan.” The boy had stopped his whittling, clearly aware of the exchange at the door but not joining in. “We’ve a task, lad. Blow out the lantern and come along.”
Dermot reached behind the door and snatched his shillelagh from its spot. He held the door while Ronan stepped out, then snapped it shut behind them all. The lad clung to his side, upended by the change in their usual evening pursuits. Dermot gave the boy’s shoulder a quick squeeze, having learned early on that a kind touch—if offered by him—often soothed Ronan’s worries over new things and people and places.
He eyed Miss Blake as they made the quick walk to the schoolhouse. She was pale to the point of being worrisome, with dark circles under her eyes. If he had to guess, he’d say she’d been crying.
“Did this man in your house hurt you, Miss Blake?”
She shook her head.
“You’re full certain of that?”
Tension filled every inch of her stiff posture, but exhaustion dominated her expression. “I’m certain.”
They passed through the overgrown break in the hedge and into the front gardens of the schoolhouse. Only the smallest bit of light illuminated the windows—a single lantern, he guessed. Perhaps a candle or two.
“Keep to Miss Blake’s side,” Dermot told Ronan. “I’ll step inside first.”
Ronan responded by gripping Dermot’s coat and shaking his head frantically. He made a noise of distress and frustration. Being left with a stranger in an unfamiliar place would be overwhelming for the boy, but what could Dermot do? Until he knew who was inside, he didn’t dare bring Ronan along.
“If Miss Blake stays out here, could you sit on the stairs just inside?” he suggested. “I’ll only be on the other side of the next door.”
Ronan frowned as he thought. After a moment, he gave a small nod, though he didn’t relinquish his hold on Dermot.
“We’ll do that then.” He only hoped the arrangement truly did work.
The front door wasn’t locked. Either Miss Blake hadn’t felt the need or she’d left in great haste. Dermot stepped across the entryway and to the stairs.
“Set yourself down just there,” he told Ronan. “I’ll be through this door.” He motioned to the one that led to Miss Blake’s rooms. “And I’ll leave the door open, so you’ll be sure to know when I come back out.”
Ronan agreed, though reluctantly. He sat, his posture tense.
“I’ll be but a moment,” he reassured his boy.
He took a single step inside Miss Blake’s living quarters. Only a few candles lit the nearly empty room. Dermot could make out a silhouette. A large, broad silhouette. ’Twas little wonder Miss Blake had been worried.
“Make yourself known,” he called.
“McCormick? That you?”
“I’ll have your name.” Dermot spoke sternly. Until he knew who was in the room, he’d proceed with care.
“Owd Bob,” the man answered with a laugh.
Dermot lowered his cudgel. Saints above. Miss Blake had sent him over here, fighting stick in hand, on account of Ol’ Bob?
“What brings you to the schoolhouse?” he asked.
Ol’ Bob stepped near enough to be lit by the candlelight. “I were just deliverin’ for the new schoolmistress.”
“You can’t come stomping in here without warning. You have her jumpy as a mouse in a room full of tabbies.�
�� He pointed a finger at Ol’ Bob’s silhouette. “And if you tell her I compared her to a rodent again, I’ll have your neck. She’s sore at me over that as it is.”
“Is she a friend to thee?”
“I’d not call us friends.” Dermot shook his head. “Our acquaintance is only as long as the walk from Hillside House to here. I brought her from there to here, is all. On Mrs. Barton’s orders.”
Ol’ Bob doffed his hat and held it dutifully to his heart. “Ah, her high-and-mighty lordship.”
Most of Smeatley called Mrs. Barton that, though never in her presence.
“You’ll have to knock if you’re coming ’round here, man,” Dermot said. “You can’t be walking in on a lady unannounced.”
“I didn’t know she were here.” Ol’ Bob popped his hat atop his head.
Having sorted the mystery, Dermot returned to the entryway where Ronan sat anxiously. “Come along, then. ’Tis only Ol’ Bob.”
Ronan obediently rose and grabbed hold of Dermot’s coat, following him onto the outer step. Miss Blake watched Dermot expectantly.
“’Tis only Ol’ Bob delivering something,” he said.
“Who is he?”
Dermot hadn’t intended to play nursemaid, but it seemed that was the job handed to him. “He’s a man for hire. Carrying, delivering, moving things about.”
“Entering houses without knocking,” Miss Blake added.
“A talent of his. I’d suggest you lock your doors if you’re not wanting visitors.” Dermot couldn’t stand about chatting all the night long. He’d a lad to see to and care for and to get to bed on time. And he’d a business proposal to prepare for Mr. Barton, one that meant the difference between a fine, steady future and uprooting the two of them again in search of one.
“Old Bob is not dangerous, is he?” Her tone was quiet, uncertain.
Dermot shook his head. “He’s harmless enough.”
“Then I am simply to wait until he leaves?”
“We’ll wait until he leaves.”
That brought her worry-filled eyes back to him. “You said he wasn’t dangerous.”
“So he isn’t. Still, you’re living here on your own and you’ve a man you don’t know in your house. We’ll wait until he’s gone.”
“And until I’ve locked the doors.”
He nodded. “I’d recommend it.”
Miss Blake sat on the top step. “I have a feeling Smeatley will require some getting used to.”
“It will at that.”
She turned enough to look up at him standing in the doorway. “How long did you live here before you stopped feeling out of place?”
He tapped his chin. “I’d wager another ten years or so. Twenty if all goes as it is now.”
She sighed deeply, her shoulders drooping. “That is not very encouraging.”
“I’m not tasked with relieving your uncertainties, Miss Blake.”
“Apparently what you are tasked with is being offended by every word I say no matter how innocuous.” She sounded truly irritated. “I said it earlier and my sentiments have not changed: you are not very friendly.”
“We are neighbors, miss. Neighbors needn’t be friends.” ’Twas the philosophy that’d pulled him through the past year. No one truly wanted him here, and that was fine with him. He didn’t need friends. He only needed money enough to see to his and Ronan’s care. That was all.
She raised her chin and skewered him with a dagger-sharp glare from her blue eyes. “I am sorry to have bothered you this evening, Mr. McCormick. I assure you I will not knock on your door again this night.”
“You’ve reached your knocking limit as it is,” he reminded her.
Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you were jesting about that.”
“If you’re feeling particularly daring, you can test your theory.” Truth be told, he’d not turn her away if she found herself in dire straits, or even in uncomfortable straits if it came to that. He simply preferred peace and quiet and being left alone.
Ol’ Bob stepped out and doffed his hat. “I’m bahn ter home.” He dipped his head to them. “Good night to thee an’ all.” He walked down the path and disappeared through the thick hedge.
Bahn ter. Dermot had lived in Smeatley for months before he’d made sense of that turn of phrase. ’Twas the Smeatley way of saying one was going somewhere. The locals had any number of such oddities. “Tha” rather than “thou.” They said “nowt” when meaning “nothing” and “owt” when meaning “anything.” “Allus” took the place of “always,” and “summat” was the Yorkshire way of saying “something.” The list had only grown the longer he lived in this particular corner of the world.
Dermot motioned Ronan toward home. Before stepping away, he paused, intending to remind Miss Blake to lock her door.
The church bell rang out, and Miss Blake jumped, turning with jerking movement toward the sound. She pressed an open hand to her heart. “Why are the bells ringing?”
“It’s dusk,” Dermot told her.
“They ring at dusk?” Though he’d not have thought it possible, the lass had grown paler.
“And every morning at dawn,” he said.
“Oh, merciful heavens.” Her voice rasped out. “They ring twice every day?”
“That they do.”
She wore a look of absolute horror. “How do I make them stop?”
“Well”—Dermot assumed his most serious expression—“you either marry the vicar and use your wifely influence to convince him to stop ringing them, or you burn the church down. Truth be told, I’m not sure which method I’d consider the more drastic of the two.”
“They ring every day.” She spoke the four words as a dismayed realization rather than a question. “What kind of purgatory is this?” she whispered.
She spun around and rushed up the steps. The door slammed closed with a loud, reverberating blow.
Purgatory? All on account of pealing church bells? The lass was an odd one, to be sure. And, he feared, a touch too fragile for life in a rough-and-tumble factory town. If she was unequal to the job of teaching here, then Dermot was in a fine pickle, indeed.
Chapter Five
Evangeline laid atop the straw tick, her coat spread over her for warmth, flinching with every peal of the church bells.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
The pain of grief, which only sleep had allowed her to escape, returned. It spread, reaching the very tips of her fingers, weighing down the very air she breathed, thundering with every beat of her heart.
Gone. Gone.
She rolled over onto her side, focusing on the dim light peeking around the dingy window coverings and illuminating the dancing flecks of dust. She could taste the dirt in the air, could feel the grit in her eyes and on her skin.
Her coat proved an insufficient blanket. The sandwich she’d eaten on the train the afternoon before had long since ceased keeping her hunger at bay. She was cold and famished and so very alone.
Gone. Gone.
She allowed herself to wallow in her suffering only until the last peal sounded.
She had never been apart from Lucy before. When George had gone to school and James had retreated into his books, she and Lucy had spent their days together, growing ever closer, ever fonder. Enough years separated them to add a maternal aspect to her view of their relationship, but she considered Lucy her friend as well as her sister. She simply had to get her sister back.
Evangeline sat upright, pulling on her coat like a knight of old donning his armor. It was time to get to work. The sooner she set her house to rights, the sooner she would have Lucy with her again.
Her assessment of her surroundings the night before had been disheartening. The house held no fuel for warmth, not even a lantern. There was no food. No blankets. No rags for cleaning. The sum total of her belongings were the clo
thes she’d brought with her, a table and bench, a spindle-backed chair, a straw tick, and three pots. She hadn’t a bowl or plate or utensils. She hadn’t even a teakettle.
Evangeline sighed and stood, determined to do all that must be done. She crossed to the window and pulled back the heavy cloth hanging over it.
The evening had been dim so she’d not been able to truly see the area surrounding the schoolhouse. She could see it now though. The back bushes were overgrown, just like the hedge at the front of the house. Weeds choked what looked to be a small kitchen garden. Roses grew wild and unchecked in a flowerbed.
Everything about this house felt forgotten. Perhaps that was why Aunt Barton had sent her here: to be forgotten.
She could practically hear George teasing her for that black thought. “Ever the dramatic one, aren’t you, Evangeline?” He would have laughed—they all would have—and her spirits would have been lifted.
Evangeline forced a deep breath and pushed away the unwelcome reminder of her loss. She knelt in front of her trunk and lifted the lid. In an instant, she was overwhelmed by the smell of home: Father’s shaving soap and the hyacinths Mother grew in her garden. How had those scents followed her here? She’d brought no flowers or soap, but the aroma had come just the same.
I am strong enough to endure this. I have to be.
Her first task was to dress for the day. That bit of normalcy would help tremendously. She pulled her chemise and underclothes from the trunk only to uncover the photograph she’d hidden away the day before. Her heart lodged in her throat. She ran her fingers around the wood frame, then over the cold glass, tracing the outline of her family. Beside the photograph lay Lucy’s stolen treasures: Father’s pipe, James’s book, and “George,” the ceramic shepherd.
She would find a place of prominence for these so her family could, in some small way, be with her in this unfamiliar place. She would at least have a tiny hint of home.
Evangeline pulled her corset from the trunk, eyeing it with misgiving. It was not designed for self-dressing, and she no longer had a maid to help her. She struggled, twisting and turning and pulling in whatever way she could. Getting it off the night before had not been easy, but putting it back on was proving nearly impossible.
Ashes on the Moor Page 4
