Ashes on the Moor

by Sarah M. Eden

  How can I insist that I be entrusted with Lucy’s care if I cannot even dress myself? She knew that the argument was unfair, the trouble being in the design of her corset rather than her own capability, but she felt certain Aunt Barton would wield this point against her if she ever learned of it.

  Long, frustrating minutes passed, but at last she had herself corseted, however inexpertly askew. She pulled on her black dress, purposely choosing one that fastened in the front. She shook the dust from her skirts.

  The mantelshelf became home to her family’s photograph and Lucy’s treasures so her sister would be greeted by these familiar, cherished things when she arrived.

  The morning passed in long, difficult hours. Evangeline washed walls and windows and dusted every surface. She hadn’t a proper broom, but she did her best to sweep the floor with a small hand brush, which proved tedious and ineffective. She didn’t want Lucy to be disappointed in their new home, but how could that possibly be avoided? The house was dark, dingy, and cramped, empty of all that would make it comfortable and inviting.

  She stood back and examined her work, her spirits dropping even further. Her focus slid to the family photograph, settling on her mother’s intent gaze.

  “What am I to do?” she asked in a whisper. “How could Lucy be happy in a place like this?”

  It wasn’t Mother’s voice that answered, but Evangeline’s own words from the day before: “I swear to you, Lucy. I will not ever leave you.”

  Lucy had begged, and Evangeline had promised. Shabby house or not, they would be together. That was what mattered. It would be enough. It would have to be.

  She tied her bonnet firmly on her head. She would return to Aunt and Uncle Barton’s home, request enough of her inheritance to furnish this house with all it needed, and bring Lucy back with her. Surely they would agree to that.

  The overgrown hedge did its utmost to prevent her from leaving, but she pressed through, careful not to snag her dress on the brambles. The tight space knocked her bonnet loose, but she righted it. Trimming the hedge needed to be high on her list of tasks, otherwise her students would arrive in tatters.

  How did one go about trimming a hedge? A specific tool must exist for such a task, though she hadn’t the first idea what it might be nor how to use it. Good heavens, she was out of her element. Yet even with a small bit of her inheritance, she could set things to rights. With a little more than a small bit, she could pay workers to do the things she didn’t know how to accomplish.

  With determined steps, Evangeline headed toward Hillside House. There was no risk of getting lost; she need only move downhill. At the bottom of Greenamble Street, she turned in what she was relatively certain was the right direction.

  She walked past a dry goods store and thought she spied a person or two inside. The same was true of the small, one-windowed tobacco shop and of the cobbler’s. Petersmarch was smaller than Smeatley, but those streets had been busier than this. Why was a town reported to be growing as quickly as this one was so empty?

  And where were the children she was meant to be teaching? Other than Ronan McCormick, she hadn’t seen a single child. Perhaps she would only have a handful of students. That would not be so unmanageable. Learning how to be a teacher was less daunting when faced with only a half-dozen pupils.

  The road curved around a central churchyard, shops lining the side opposite the green. Evangeline slowed her pace, studying her new surroundings, learning the lay of the town. One thing, however, continually pulled her gaze: the massive mill built of a tawny-colored brick, glowering down on the town from its high perch to the west. Little effort had been made at ornamentation. No noticeable details softened its straight lines and imposing solidity. Window after window sat dark against the brick. She wondered how much light actually entered the building.

  She knew the mill was not only a symbol of prosperity and innovation, but it also had saved the town of Smeatley from economic ruin, but Evangeline found the sight of it discomfiting. It was so cold and unyielding.

  She pulled her gaze away, forcing her thoughts on her final destination and the conversation to come. Aunt Barton was a formidable presence. But Evangeline’s need for the basic necessities in her new house, both for her own sake and Lucy’s, was a reasonable request. The trouble was, Aunt Barton was not always reasonable.

  Chapter Six

  Aunt Barton’s butler ushered Evangeline inside Hillside House. He silently led her through an ornate vestibule that boasted a colorful mosaic floor and stained-glass windows. Stepping into the entrance hall, Evangeline was met with a grand staircase flanked by gold-leafed statues and the newest in gas-­fueled lamps. More stained-glass windows high above the foyer filled the space with a rainbow of color. Every surface shone, free of smudges, free of dust. This was a far sight grander than the schoolhouse. The opulence nearly put even her beloved Blakely Manor to shame, except this luxury felt suffocating, burdensome. There was no sense of comfort and ease.

  The butler led her up the wide staircase, his chin held at an angle even a duchess would be hard-pressed to replicate. Aunt Barton had insisted that keeping their relationship secret would require Evangeline to prove herself without the aid of her influential family. Here was evidence that her aunt had been correct. Evangeline was nothing more than a visitor come to beg a moment of the mistress’s time.

  The butler guided her to an open doorway, gave her a brief nod, and then returned downstairs.

  Evangeline paused at the threshold. It was a library, small when compared with her father’s but far more ostentatious. Seeing this, no one could doubt that the Bartons were quite wealthy. That, Evangeline suspected, was intentional.

  Beneath one of the tall, leaded windows, Ronan McCormick occupied an armchair far too big for him. His gaze rested on a carved figurine in his hand. He didn’t look up at her, though Evangeline felt certain he’d seen her. She took the same approach with him that her family had always used with James: greeting him as unobtrusively as possible and allowing him to decide what level of interaction he was comfortable with. She kept her gaze averted from Ronan but allowed the smallest of smiles to curve her lips, just enough of a happy expression that, should he choose to glance her way, he would know she was glad to see him but didn’t mean to impose.

  It was with that vague expression on her face that she met the eyes of Ronan’s father. He sat in an armchair pulled up to a wide, cherrywood desk behind which sat a man Evangeline hadn’t seen in years: her uncle Barton.

  He was angular, all corners and long lines, with a thick and bushy mustache. The only thing about him that had changed since Evangeline had last seen him was the generous sprinkling of gray in his dark hair and the fine cut and cloth of his suit. Uncle Barton was older, but he was also more prosperous.

  “Do continue your business,” Aunt Barton said to the men. “I will see to this interruption.”

  Mr. McCormick didn’t wait even the length of a breath. “As I was sayin’, Mr. Barton, you’ll never be filling your positions to capacity if this town can’t hold the workers you’re needing.”

  “And this proposal of yours would provide the hands?” Uncle Barton sounded intrigued.

  “All who live near enough to the mill now are working there. All who live too far for coming in and out of town each day won’t ever be working there. Their homes are too far afield. I’m proposing you build workers’ housing, just as has been done elsewhere.” Mr. McCormick pulled out a thick roll of papers. “I’ve not made this proposal lightly, Mr. Barton. I’ll show you how it’ll make you money in the end.”

  Aunt Barton had crossed nearly all the way to the door. In a harsh whisper, she snapped out Evangeline’s name, then motioned her to step further into the room.

  “What has brought you here? Do you not have a schoolroom and living quarters to set in order?”

  Evangeline ignored the scornful tone. “I have come for L
ucy.”

  “Lucy is not here.”

  “Where is she?” She need only have Aunt Barton point her in the direction of Lucy’s room, and they could be on their way.

  “She is in Leeds.” Aunt Barton spoke those four words as if they were no more exceptional than a comment on the weather or a listing of foods on the menu.

  Leeds? Shock rendered Evangeline silent for a long, heart-­pounding moment. Lucy—who was only twelve years old, and who had, until yesterday, never been apart from her family—was in Leeds.

  “Why is she in Leeds? Who is with her? She is too young to be on her own.”

  Aunt Barton pressed her lips together even as she arched one of her thin eyebrows. “She is with her guardian. That hardly constitutes being alone.”

  Grandfather was Lucy’s guardian as well as the trustee of both of their inheritances. But Aunt Barton had previously indicated that he didn’t wish for them to reside with him. “She is visiting him?”

  Aunt Barton nodded. “Only until arrangements are made for her to leave for school.”

  “Leave for—? He is sending her away to school?”

  Aunt Barton stood with her hands folded in front of her, the picture of calm serenity. “He feels it best.”

  Best? It was not remotely best.

  “She belongs with me.” Evangeline pressed her hand to her heart. “She needs me.”

  “And what of her education?” Far from empathetic, Aunt Barton’s tone was accusatory.

  “I live at a schoolhouse, for heaven’s sake.” Panic and anger mingled at a furious pace. Evangeline forced herself to regain a sense of calm. A lady did not grow forceful. In more serene tones, she spoke again. “I will be working as a teacher. I can see to her education.”

  “Do you honestly mean to suggest that the education you would provide her would be preferable to what she would receive at a fine school chosen by her trustee? Are you truly so selfish?”

  Again that particular accusation was lobbed at her. “It is not a matter of being selfish—”

  Aunt Barton’s brows dropped in dry disbelief. She turned to Uncle Barton. “Are you hearing this, Robert?”

  To Evangeline’s dismay, both her uncle and Mr. McCormick looked up.

  “It seems,” Aunt Barton continued, “that Miss Blake has placed her judgment above that of Mr. Farr.”

  Uncle Barton made a noise of disapproval, but did not otherwise answer. Mr. McCormick’s sharp gaze jumped between Evangeline and her uncle, impatience filling the lines of his face. No doubt the interruption bothered him. He had come on his own business, and her efforts were interfering with his.

  That was hardly her fault. And this matter was too crucial to leave unresolved. Yet his attention made her unaccountably nervous.

  “I had no intention of asserting that my judgment was superior,” she told her aunt and uncle. “I am simply explaining that Lucy and I have never been apart, and we ought not to be separated at such a difficult time.”

  “You’ve not been here twenty-four hours and are already demanding that we bend to your whim?” Aunt Barton tsked. “You will be an utter failure with such an unladylike attitude of entitlement.”

  Uncle Barton wore such a look of contemplation that there was no doubt in her mind he was evaluating her. This moment, she sensed, would set the tone for their future interactions. Uncle Barton, who had seldom visited her family, had always seemed to be a man who valued logic above sentimentality, but he also possessed an unmistakable air of self-possession. He would not respond any better to an appeal to his tender nature than he would to an attitude of superiority. She must remain thoughtful and calm, and not put herself forward overmuch.

  “I did not mean to interrupt.” She faced her uncle fully. “Indeed, I would have happily waited until your business was complete. I came because Mrs. Barton instructed me to do so yesterday. I came because I wish for Lucy to be with me again.”

  The plea did not appear to appease him. If anything, his expression hardened. “I have not completed my business with Mr. McCormick. You may wait near the door until I have time to discuss this.” He motioned her toward the threshold, watching her with stern expectation.

  Confusion coupled with frustration and worry in her overburdened mind. Why was she being treated with such disdain? She had explained that she hadn’t meant to disrupt, that she had come because she had been told to. She was behaving civilly, appropriately. Yet she was being scolded, reprimanded, and denied the one thing she had asked for.

  She made her way back across the room. A chair sat a few paces from the doorway. She lowered herself into it and folded her hands on her lap, prepared to wait with patience and composure and not let any of her frustration and exhaustion show.

  Lucy is in Leeds. If Evangeline had access to her accounts, she could join her there or bring her back to Smeatley. Somehow she would keep her promise to her sister.

  Emotion burned at the back of her eyes. She could not allow herself to give in to her growing despondency.

  She dropped her gaze to her hands and breathed deeply, clearing her thoughts and tucking her grief away. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Ronan, who sat with a carved horse in his hand and looked nearly at her. How she wished she knew him well enough to move to his side, to ask him about his figurine or his day. He reminded her so much of James. To have been granted even a moment of his company would have been a much-needed salve.

  Mr. McCormick resumed speaking to Evangeline’s uncle. Her encounters with Mr. McCormick had shown him to be gruff and unpersonable, yet the lilting timbre of his Irish voice proved soothing. “Your factory’s not fully staffed because you haven’t enough workers nearby to fill the positions. If you’re to compete at all, you’ll be needing workers, and they’ll be needing a place to live.”

  “You make a compelling argument, McCormick,” Uncle Barton conceded. “I can see the value in the houses, but why should I place you in charge of building them? Why not someone else?”

  “I saved your mill,” Mr. McCormick replied without the least doubt in his voice. “The work was in disarray and so far behind schedule there was doubt it’d ever be finished. I brought the work quality up and cleared your crews of those who ought not to’ve been employed—something your local foreman wasn’t willing to do. Why would you place anyone else in charge of this new project?”

  Uncle Barton nodded both his acknowledgment and his approval. Approval. Mr. McCormick, despite being difficult and Irish, which was a liability of almost unspeakable proportions in England, had earned her uncle’s approval.

  She listened closely, attempting to sort out the mystery of how he had done it. If there was a way to impress her family despite a poor beginning, she needed to know what it was.

  “Putting local men off the crews didn’t earn you any friends,” Uncle Barton said.

  Mr. McCormick didn’t look the least saddened by that fact. “How many people hereabout would’ve been my friend as it was? I know the history between our people. I know the unlikeliness of that being set aside. As much as I’d enjoy raising a pint in the pub with the local lads, I’ve too sensible a view of the world to mourn what I’d no right to expect in the first place.”

  His declaration struck Evangeline with unexpected force. He chose not to mourn what was out of his reach, and that choice, it seemed, gave him a degree of peace. Perhaps there was wisdom in that approach. But how did one determine what was and was not a rational expectation when lost in a situation that was new and unfamiliar?

  “I’m not needing an answer immediately,” Mr. McCormick continued. “You’re too careful a man of business to make such a decision without contemplating it. Keep the drawings and the ciphers. Think it over. If you’re not for building the homes, I’ll take on the position overseeing the rebuilding of the Lilycroft Mill in Bradford.”

  “You have been offered that position?”
Uncle Barton’s full attention rested on Mr. McCormick.

  “I have.”

  Worry filled her uncle’s expression. Perhaps he was not so hard-nosed as his wife.

  “Grant me a few days to ponder before you make a decision regarding Bradford,” Uncle Barton requested.

  “I can grant you a week,” Mr. McCormick said, “but not much beyond that. I need to be where I have work.”

  “I understand.” Uncle Barton held out his hand to the Irish­man, and they shook firmly.

  Mr. McCormick turned toward his son. “Come along, then, lad.”

  Discomfort tiptoed over Evangeline as her neighbor moved nearer. The man made her uncomfortable but not in a fearful way. He simply made her feel even more out of place than she already did. The doubts that had niggled at the back of her mind for the few hours she’d been in Smeatley grew when he was nearby.

  She kept her gaze away from him, maintaining the rigid posture her mother and governesses had taught her when she was young.

  As the McCormicks passed, Ronan raised his hand not holding the carved horse and gave her a tiny wave. He spoke not a word. He did not actually look at her. But with that gesture, a brief instant of reaching out when she felt so alone, the dear little boy captured her heart.

  “Now, Evangeline.” Her uncle’s sudden words pulled her attention to him. “Let us address your difficulties.”

  She rose, anxious and uncertain. A lady does as she is bid. A lady does not draw undue attention. A lady does not make trouble. What, then, was a lady expected to do in a situation such as hers?

  “You are upset that your sister is in Leeds,” Uncle Barton said.

  “I am upset that she is not here as I was told she would be,” Evangeline corrected. Careful not to sound accusatory, she pressed on. “If you had lost nearly all your family, would you not be desperate to keep with you the one remaining member of that family? Lucy needs to be with me. She needs to come home.”