But the final word fell flat. Home was in Petersmarch. It always would be.
“Mr. Farr disagrees,” Aunt Barton said. She did not need to refer to Evangeline’s grandfather in such formal terms now that Mr. McCormick was gone, yet she did. The message was clear: no matter their circumstances, Aunt Barton would always think of her as something less than family.
“Perhaps if I spoke with him—” Evangeline’s request was cut short by her aunt’s derisive laugh.
“Speak with him? You do think your judgment is superior to his. What utter nonsense.”
“I do not believe that is what she was implying,” Uncle Barton said.
Relief began bubbling inside Evangeline. Despite her earlier dismissal, she had been heard.
Aunt Barton took hold of the conversation. “Dearest,” she said to her husband through tight lips, “are you suggesting that she ‘speak with’ Mr. Farr? You know his stubbornness as well as I do. You know perfectly well how he will respond when told he is wrong. He will not change course without ample evidence that doing so is prudent.”
Evangeline saw an unexpected bit of hope in that declaration. “I need to show him that I am fit to be Lucy’s caregiver and oversee her education?”
Uncle Barton nodded. Aunt Barton simply glared.
Evangeline’s mind spun, attempting to sort it all out. Grandfather would not believe her capable of providing for Lucy’s education until he had seen her provide an education for others. She would not begin her work as a teacher for two days yet, and there would be no indication of her abilities until she’d been at her new line of work for weeks.
Weeks. She could not leave Lucy in Leeds for weeks.
“Perhaps he could be convinced to postpone her education until my abilities as a teacher have been determined. Surely he cannot argue against my fitness to look after her in general.”
“You have put your house in order?” Aunt Barton spoke with palpable doubt.
Uncle Barton watched too closely for Evangeline to be anything but honest.
“Not entirely. The house needs a few things, and I’m unable to obtain them on my own. As you know, my accounts are under the control of my trustee, and I cannot access my funds to obtain the things I need without your permission.”
Grandfather had given Uncle Barton the ability to access her funds should he feel her reason for doing so was warranted.
“You mean to withdraw from your accounts so soon?” Aunt Barton asked. “That is worryingly irresponsible.”
Why was her aunt so determined to think and speak ill of her?
“I will not withdraw an exorbitant amount.” She hoped her nervousness didn’t show. Mr. McCormick had not appeared distressed while making his business proposal. She hadn’t a doubt that his confidence had done much to improve Uncle Barton’s view of his position.
And, yet, he was a man. Men were permitted shows of confidence and ambition. The same in a woman was viewed as arrogant and brazen. Explaining without being assertive was her best approach. A lady, after all, would not do otherwise.
“I do not intend to purchase furnishings or fine decorations or anything that might be considered frivolous. I need only the most basic of things: linens, blankets, dishes, a bit of fuel for warmth, and enough food to see me until I receive my first pay. I don’t even have a broom.”
“The school board ought to have provided such things for a new teacher.” Uncle Barton no longer addressed Evangeline but spoke directly to his wife. “This was an oversight, one we are duty-bound to address.”
Her aunt still seemed set against it. They watched each other with a tension that boded ill. How had a simple question of linens and supplies led to an argument between them?
Aunt Barton’s posture grew more rigid. “I would expect you, of all people, to be quite careful with her inheritance, Robert.”
Why “him, of all people”? What had Uncle Barton to do with her legacy from her parents?
“I do choose to be prudent, yes,” Uncle Barton responded. “But in this instance—”
Aunt Barton’s expression hardened. “In this instance what?”
His shoulders drooped almost imperceptibly. “I only meant that this is a matter for the school board, of which I am the acting head. The teacher ought to be provided with the basic necessities.”
“Then she shall be provided with them,” Aunt Barton declared. “You need only make the vicar aware of her needs, and the church will provide a basket.”
“A charity basket?” Evangeline asked in shock.
Aunt Barton turned disapproving eyes on her. “You are living a more humble life now than that to which you were accustomed. Turning your nose up at charity will not serve you well. And it will certainly not secure your grand—Mr. Farr’s approval.”
“I wasn’t turning my nose—”
“We are seeing to the concern you raised.” Aunt Barton intertwined her fingers and assumed her lecturing expression. “Complaining about the way in which we accomplish it only gives you an air of unladylike ingratitude.”
Evangeline bristled at the accusation. She’d objected because using charitable funds to meet her needs felt wasteful when she had, tucked away in an account, the means of meeting those needs on her own. She suspected her aunt would not believe her if she tried to explain. Indeed, Aunt Barton likely wouldn’t allow the explanation in the first place.
“Robert, I do believe this is the best approach.” Aunt Barton closed some of the distance between herself and her husband. “We will procure the things she needs, and her account need not be touched.”
Uncle Barton did not respond immediately. His brow pulled low as his gaze wandered away, unfocused. He tapped a finger on the desktop.
“Dearest?” Aunt Barton offered the endearment in tones of impatience.
“A basket, yes,” Uncle Barton said, “but not through the vicarage. This matter should be seen to by the school board. I will not burden the church with it.”
Aunt Barton raised her chin to a painfully dignified angle. “Very well. I assume you will tell me if I am needed at all.”
On that declaration, she strode from the room, head held high. She did not so much as glance at Evangeline as she passed.
Her uncle watched his wife leave, a look of frustration on his face. He returned his gaze to the papers on his desk. “I need to see to my work.”
“Yes, of course. I will return to the schoolhouse and await the basket of supplies.”
He nodded, but didn’t look up at her. It was a dismissal, a discourteous one, but likely the sort she needed to grow accustomed to. A young lady born to a family of some means and living in one of the principal homes in a small and tight-knit neighborhood was, by default, treated with some tender kindness. A stranger relegated to the run-down schoolhouse would not be seen in the same light.
“Might I ask one question?”
“If you are quick.”
“How am I to show Mr. Farr”—in time she might grow accustomed to referring to her grandfather in such formal terms—“that I can be entrusted with Lucy’s care if he is never here to see the evidence for himself?”
“Mrs. Barton will report to him regularly.”
That was not reassuring. Aunt Barton had made her opinion of Evangeline quite clear. “Oh, dear.”
Her uncle glanced up at her, and for a moment, he appeared almost empathetic. “Mr. Farr visits Smeatley now and then. When he next comes, he will see the evidence for himself.”
“How often is he here?”
“Not often, though I expect he will come around in another month or two.”
Another month or two. She would be separated from Lucy for another month or two. How could she bear it?
“Send word if you find the schoolroom lacking in supplies.” Uncle Barton focused on his papers.
The interview h
ad come to a close. She would be given no further opportunities to plead with him nor make a case for Lucy’s swift return. Her only chance of reclaiming her sister lay in convincing her grandfather, a man of legendary stubbornness, to change his mind.
Chapter Seven
Life had crushed too many of Dermot’s dreams for him to live with any degree of hope. He knew he’d presented his idea to Mr. Barton clearly and convincingly, yet he paced the length of his tiny parlor that evening, racked with uncertainty.
“Why should I place you in charge?” Mr. Barton had asked in tones of sincere questioning.
Dermot didn’t like to think of himself as suspicious, but he’d interacted with enough Englishmen to know that they viewed the Irish as lazy, undependable, and too simpleminded for anything but the most basic manual labor. Had he not proven himself to the man? If all he’d accomplished was not enough to show he was capable of the work he’d proposed, then what in the name of St. Bridget would ever be testament enough?
“Miss Blake smells like flowers.” Ronan spoke so abruptly from his place at the table that Dermot nearly jumped in surprise. “She doesn’t smell like people.”
Dermot pushed his worries aside and took up the new topic. “Perhaps she truly is a flower, but the wee folk transformed her into a lady.”
“Flowers can’t be people.” Ronan, for all his innocence, never had been inclined to imagining fantastical things or otherworldly happenings.
“What is it, do you suppose, that makes her smell of flowers if she isn’t secretly a flower her own self?” Dermot sat near Ronan.
“She didn’t have flowers in her hair,” Ronan said. “And she hadn’t any in her hands.”
What he lacked in imagination he more than made up for in attention to detail.
“I spied not a single flower on her person,” Dermot confirmed.
Ronan’s face twisted in contemplation. Dermot knew that expression well. The lad would ponder the question for a good long while, sorting the possibilities until he arrived at an answer. He was thorough and thoughtful and bright. Saints knew he’d do well in school if he had a capable and patient teacher. Dermot couldn’t say with certainty if Miss Blake could claim either of those qualities.
“What would you think, Ronan, if we were to move to another town?” Dermot hoped their situation wouldn’t require it, but if Mr. Barton rejected his proposal, he’d have to hie them to Bradford and the factory being rebuilt there. He’d do well to be prepared.
“We should stay here,” Ronan said. He was often soft-spoken, just as often silent, but when he was fully decided upon something, he spoke with determination.
The lad always grew anxious or emotional when the possibility of something different or unexpected was proposed. ’Twas something more than merely enjoying familiarity; he seemed genuinely afraid of what he could not predict. Dermot never knew whether ’twas best to tell him of potential changes far ahead of time or if he’d do better to not mention them at all.
“But if we had to?” Dermot kept his tone as unconcerned as he could, not wishing to cause undue alarm. “We’d manage it, don’t you think?”
“We should stay here. Here is where we’re supposed to be.” Ronan held his carved horse in a white-knuckled grip. His wee mouth pulled in a tense line, his brows jutting down in angry slashes. “We’re for staying here.”
Clearly, raising the possibility of change had been the wrong approach this time. Dermot pasted a smile on his face and ruffled Ronan’s sandy-brown hair. “I think we should as well. ’Tis a fine home we’ve made for ourselves.”
But the damage had been done. The boy would be on a knife’s edge for a time. He was not the perpetually lighthearted child so many others seemed to be. Was that the result of some failing on Dermot’s part or simply Ronan’s natural disposition? He didn’t think it a flaw in the boy, but he did worry about Ronan’s happiness and lack of friendships and . . . far too many things.
“Miss Blake might keep flowers in her bag.” Ronan had returned to their previous topic, though whether out of interest in it or out of a desire to avoid their more recent discussion, Dermot couldn’t say. “Or her dress might have pockets with flowers inside.”
“Perhaps.” Dermot would let the lad weave his way toward soap and scented water on his own. Ronan enjoyed piecing together mysteries. “A few flowers might liven up her black dresses, don’t you think?”
Both of Miss Blake’s dresses had been unrelenting black. The color didn’t suit her in the least, and it gave her an air of cold forbidding that would most likely cause her students a bit of trepidation. Perhaps she would choose less somber colors for school days.
She can wear whatever colors she wants if only she’ll teach the lad.
“You can sit up a bit longer and ponder the question of Miss Blake’s flowers,” Dermot said, “but it’s nearing time for bed.”
Ronan nodded silently. He set his horse on the tabletop and slowly turned it, eyeing it from all angles. He’d always been content with quiet observation, alone and uninterrupted. In some ways that made things easier for Dermot, but it also made life lonely at times.
A rap sounded at the door. Dermot might’ve been lonely now and then, but he certainly didn’t wish for company, especially not the sort who usually visited him. All too often they came around to wonder aloud when he meant to “return home,” as if they weren’t talking to him on the doorstep of his own home.
Of all the families he’d interacted with, only the Crossleys, whose oldest son, Thomas, worked for him, had ever seemed truly comfortable with his residence there.
He opened the door, preparing for the worst, only to experience the strongest feeling of reliving a moment. Miss Blake stood on his front step just as she had the night before. He couldn’t seem to go anywhere without running into the woman.
“Before you bellow at me,” she said, “I remembered your rule about only one knock per day and have waited the required twenty-four hours.”
That was quite the “good evening.”
“And,” she continued, “I would not have come at all except I find myself in a difficult situation, and you are the only person I know. Further, you did promise that I could ask you for assistance, provided I didn’t come more than once each day.”
“I give you full credit for your keen memory.” He eyed her warily. “I’d give you more points if you’d tell me your purpose.”
She made a sound that fell somewhere near a growl. “Why are you always so sour?”
“Why? Because, Miss Blake, I am tired.” He was tired of unwelcoming neighbors, of not knowing how to get through to his boy, of facing an uncertain future.
“Then I will be brief.” She took a nervous breath. “I—” She stopped, her gaze settling on something behind him. He followed her eye line all the way back to Ronan.
The lad glanced more than once in the direction of the door, but made no move to join them. He’d have to explain to Miss Blake that Ronan wasn’t likely to even acknowledge that she was there. Those neighbors who had taken enough notice of the lad to realize his odd quirks had seemed more than a little put off by them.
She would have to know eventually. If she were to have any success schooling Ronan, she’d need to understand him.
Dermot squared his shoulders, determined to broach the subject without eliciting either pity or revulsion toward the lad. But his words died in his throat when Ronan raised the fingers of one hand and bent them once in an almost unnoticeable wave.
He’d waved. He’d acknowledged another person, one only slightly known to him. That never happened. Even the men on his crew hadn’t been granted his notice until after weeks and weeks of daily encounters. He’d seen them at work. He’d listened to their conversations and repeated them at night over supper. But Ronan hadn’t looked at them or spoken to them. He certainly hadn’t waved.
Dermot turned
toward Miss Blake. Had she noticed the gesture? Did she have any concept of how exceptional it was?
She stood just where she’d been, not a hair in a different place. But the corners of her mouth had pulled upward and something like excitement shone deep in her eyes. She raised her right hand mere inches and bent her fingers just as Ronan had.
Nothing more passed between his lad and this frustrating new neighbor, but the moment rendered Dermot too shocked for words, almost for thoughts. Ronan had reached out to someone, and that someone had reached back.
“I will come to my point quickly.” Miss Blake didn’t dwell on the astonishing exchange. “I’ve come to ask if I might borrow a blanket.”
This grew odder by the moment. “A blanket?”
She nodded. “I will bring it back tomorrow. I won’t even knock; I will simply leave it on the doorstep.”
“Why are you needing a blanket?”
“There is not one at the schoolhouse.” Her air of confidence was undermined by the way she held her hands tightly together. “Mr. Barton declared that was an oversight on the part of the school board, but the basket of items he said would be sent has not yet arrived. I only wish to borrow a blanket. I am certain the basket will arrive tomorrow.”
“He’s sending you a basket of items? How many things are you in need of?”
She hesitated. “A number.”
“Anything else you’re needing to borrow?”
“One does not ‘borrow’ food, does one?” A fleeting smile accompanied the comment, as if she’d been attempting a jest that she knew would fall short of the mark.
“You haven’t any food?”
Her gaze dropped. “I am certain they will send the basket tomorrow.”
If she had no food at her house, then she likely hadn’t eaten since before her arrival the evening before.
“Ah, begor,” he muttered. She was full starving, he’d wager. How in the name of all that was fair in the world had he been appointed her keeper? He’d worries enough of his own. “Step inside. I’ll fetch you a blanket.”
Ashes on the Moor Page 6
