She set her single potato in his hand. The carrot and turnip she kept in her apron pocket. She sat in her seat.
Mr. McCormick dished her a bowl of soup and left her at the fireplace. Ronan kept to the same seat he’d occupied the evening before. He didn’t speak to her nor look directly at her, but neither did he seem truly bothered by her presence. He offered his tiny wave, which she returned in kind.
This evening, however, Mr. McCormick did not keep to the other side of the room, busying himself with tasks. Instead, he returned to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.
“Aside from roasting amongst the coals, you can cut up your vegetables to put in a soup or stew, like you have there.” He tossed her potato in the air no higher than his eye level, catching it in his hand again. “Simply cut it to the sizes you want, drop in a pot of simmering water, toss in a bit of spices—whatever suits you—and let it cook ’til all is tender.”
“Spices?” Oh, dear. This was more complicated than she’d anticipated. “Which spices? And how much? And where would I find them? I don’t suppose they might grow in a kitchen garden?” She shook her head at the thought. “Except there is no kitchen garden at the schoolhouse, only weeds choking out roses that have gone to wood.”
“You know flowers but not herbs, then?”
She sighed. “My parents envisioned a very different life for me than the one I now have. They prepared me for that other future, not this one.”
“Sounds as though you’ll go hungry if I don’t help you.”
How she hated being the constant recipient of such displeased charity. And, yet, she couldn’t blame Mr. McCormick for begrudging her the frequent aid she required. He hadn’t brought her here so ill-prepared, neither had he asked to be given so useless a neighbor. Her position as teacher had not been his idea. He was not the reason her grandfather and Aunt and Uncle Barton had pushed her away, nor why Lucy had been taken from her. And he was not to blame for the loss of her family. There was no one to blame for her circumstances other than cruel fate.
“I can roast the vegetables for the time being,” she assured him. “Someday, when my welcome is not worn quite so thin, I’ll ask for instructions on another method. Better still”—she quickly changed directions—“I will endeavor to make the acquaintance of someone in town who can teach me. The mother of one of my students, perhaps. Or the vicar’s wife.”
“I complain and mutter a great deal,” Mr. McCormick said, “but I’ll not begrudge you the knowledge you need to keep your belly full. No one should ever go hungry, and there’s a far sight too many in this ol’ world who do. You come here in the evenings, and we’ll see to it you learn what you’re needing.”
“Would that not inconvenience you a great deal?”
“Of course it will,” he said. And yet his surliness was not off-putting.
“Why would you help me if it is such a bother?”
An actual smile tipped the corners of his mouth. It was small and subtle but utterly unmistakable. She found herself unexpectedly reciprocating the gesture.
“I know perfectly well I’m a curmudgeon,” he said, “but I can be a decent person now and then.”
“Never you fear,” she said. “I’ll not share your secret with the neighbors.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Quick as could be, his expression turned serious. “I’d further appreciate you helping Ronan with his studies should he need it. He’s not had any schooling before, and I can’t say how he’ll take to it.”
The straight-forward declaration held more than a hint of uncertainty. Evangeline knew little of Ronan, yet she understood Mr. McCormick’s concerns. The boy was quiet and withdrawn. He didn’t speak, didn’t interact other than the occasional wave. There was every possibility that an attempt at schooling would prove futile or overly frustrating. But there was also the possibility that he would flourish, however quietly, however inwardly, and prove a fine student.
“I will help him in whatever way I can.”
“Be as good as your word on that,” Mr. McCormick said, “and you can come knocking on this door as often as you wish.”
She meant to keep her promise, and not merely because she wanted to do right by the students she’d meet tomorrow. She also wanted to forestall causing Mr. McCormick additional inconvenience. But most of all, she wished to help Ronan because she held out hope that he would prove to be like her brother James in more ways than she’d yet seen. James had behaved in much the same way Ronan did, the same quietness, the same insistence on a barrier between himself and others. He had also been a dab hand at a number of school subjects.
More than that, though, he had been, quite possibly, the best soul she’d ever known.
Chapter Nine
Evangeline woke to the sound of tiny voices, dozens of them, right outside her windows. For a moment she feared she’d overslept. But the church bells had not yet announced the arrival of dawn. She never slept through the church bells. Heavens, she hardly breathed through them.
She was not late. Her students were early.
With no time to struggle with her corset, she pulled on her coat, grateful it was long enough to hide nearly all of her nightgown. She quickly smoothed and braided her hair, tying it in a loop with a length of ribbon. Feeling rather like a vagabond, Evangeline hurried out of her rooms and across the entryway to the front door.
The early morning light illuminated the faces of a handful of children. They sat on rocks, in the dirt. Some leaned against the schoolhouse. A few of the younger children rested with their heads in the laps of the older ones. No one seemed to think it odd that they had arrived before the sun.
Had Evangeline misunderstood? Surely school didn’t begin so early. Why, most of these children had likely not even eaten breakfast yet.
She caught the eye of a young girl, one approaching eleven or twelve years of age, the same age as Lucy. The reminder of her sister struck deep at her heart, but she rallied. Her first day of teaching was no time to fall to pieces.
“Are you all here for school?” Evangeline asked.
The girl answered with what sounded like a haphazard collection of noises, though Evangeline firmly suspected they were words.
“I beg your pardon?”
The girl repeated herself, though Evangeline still couldn’t make sense of the answer.
“One more time, please,” Evangeline requested. “But slowly. I do not hale from this area of the kingdom, and my ears are not yet accustomed to your manner of speaking.”
The girl’s ginger brows pulled low in consternation. When she spoke again, her words were slow and overly pronounced, as if Evangeline didn’t understand English. “We’re come for skoo-il.”
Skoo-il. School. They had, indeed, arrived for school. The day was proving more difficult than she’d imagined; and she hadn’t even started teaching yet.
“Why are you here so early?” she pressed.
“It i’n’t so early as that.”
She sorted that sentence in her head and hoped she understood it correctly.
“Does school always begin before sunrise?” Evangeline asked.
“Tha are t’ teacher. Tha’ll know better’n I.”
Good heavens. Did the people of Smeatley speak a different language? Tha are t’ teacher. That likely translated to “You are the teacher,” though how, precisely, she couldn’t say.
“Will you be coming this early every day?” Perhaps she would fare better with a simple yes or no answer.
The girl nodded. At last, something Evangeline could understand without effort. The words that followed, though, were still a struggle.
Evangeline recognized the word she felt certain meant “school,” as well as “parents” and “factory.” If she was filling in the remainder correctly, the girl was saying that the children came with their parents, who were headed to work at the factory,
and were left here to await the start of school. How she hoped she’d guessed right.
“I’ll be but a moment,” she said. “Please tell the other children.”
Another indiscernible answer followed. Perhaps, given time, Evangeline would grow accustomed to this West Yorkshire style of speaking, but for the moment, she was lost. How in heaven’s name was she supposed to teach these children if she could not even understand them?
She posed the question aloud once she had returned inside. The empty room did not answer. Her family, ensconced behind glass, did not either. She, herself, hadn’t any solutions.
Her corset fought her as much as ever. Surely women who hadn’t the means of retaining a lady’s maid still wore corsets. How did they manage? Were they more limber than she or simply more practiced? Perhaps they wore more cooperative corsets.
Her hair neatly, if simply, pinned up, her button-front dress donned, and her boots on and tied, Evangeline stepped from her rooms. While she’d been uncertain ever since learning she was to be a teacher, she found herself even more nervous than she’d expected to be.
I can do this. I must do this. Her future as well as Lucy’s depended upon her success.
As if mocking her, the church bells chose that moment to peal out their greeting to the sun. Evangeline’s heart stopped as that now-hated sound filled the otherwise quiet morning. Each clang reverberated inside her, a full-fisted punch delivered directly to her most tender of emotions.
Gone. Gone.
Its unyielding declaration refused to allow her a single day’s escape from her loss.
Gone. Gone.
The intrusion would stop soon enough if only she waited.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
The onslaught ended, though her heart continued to pound. She could breathe. She could think. She could go on. That was how she would survive: one breath, one thought, one moment at a time.
With one more fortifying lungful of air, she resumed her most proper posture. If she could appear confident, her students would never guess she was utterly overwhelmed.
She stopped in the open doorway, overlooking the front garden. The children were more awake than they’d been when last she’d seen them. A few had taken to chasing each other about the unkempt grass. The same girl Evangeline had spoken to earlier sat patiently near the door.
Evangeline resisted the urge to ask her further questions. She likely had already made herself appear incompetent. She didn’t know how students were called in to school, never having attended one herself. Her governess used to simply call out their names.
“Children.” Her first attempt emerged far too quiet and uncertain. She steeled her resolve and, in a more commanding voice, called out, “Children.”
That captured the attention of most of them in the yard. She gave a quick clap, hoping to gain the notice of the rest. “Come inside,” she instructed. “We’ll begin.”
The responses varied considerably. Some were eager, skipping over and inside. Others appeared resigned or nervous or still half asleep. A few could not possibly have given a less enthusiastic performance as they dragged themselves through the tall grass and inside the schoolhouse.
Evangeline offered each of them a “Good morning” as they passed, regardless of their level of enthusiasm, and motioned them toward the schoolroom. When the last student had entered, she climbed the narrow stairs. She left the exterior door ajar for those students who hadn’t arrived in the wee hours.
The chaos of the front garden had recreated itself in the schoolroom. Children sitting, chatting, running about, testing their balance by walking the length of the benches. How had her governess retained control all those years ago? Evangeline hadn’t the slightest idea.
She assumed her authoritative voice and called out, “Children. Please have a seat on any of the benches where you can find space.” She would organize them later either by families or age or academic level. That last approach might not work, though. The chances were good that none of her pupils, regardless of age, had any previous education. They would all be on the same academic level.
Good heavens, I am in deep water.
She clasped her hands in front of her and surveyed her group of ragamuffins. In many ways they all looked alike: clothes faded, well-worn, and made of sturdy and simple fabrics, hair combed but generally in need of washing, feet bare and thick with the dust of the road. Some of the children were thin—too thin—with sunken eyes. Others at least appeared to be sufficiently fed, though without the rosy glow so common with more well-to-do families.
That observation brought another thought: was she meant to feed them? The school day would last several hours. The children would, no doubt, grow hungry. She hadn’t food enough, nor any idea how to prepare it.
Focus, Evangeline. You’ll do yourself no good by borrowing trouble when you’ve trouble enough.
“First things first,” she said to her students as much as to herself, “I would like to get to know you a little bit. Would the oldest here from each family take turns introducing yourself and your siblings? If you are the only member of your family here, then you need simply tell me about yourself.”
Had that sounded as pathetic as she feared? How could she ever instill in her students any degree of confidence in her teaching skills if she continually displayed to them her lack of ability?
She brought her thoughts back around and addressed the group. “Who is willing to go first?”
The one girl Evangeline had spoken with rose from her seat, apparently volunteering to begin.
Evangeline spoke quickly. “I am newly arrived from Cambridgeshire, and no doubt you have noticed my odd style of speaking.” Their giggles and nods confirmed what she’d suspected: she sounded as strange to them as they did to her. Their response also told her, however, that they understood her far better than she did them. At least communication was working in one direction. “Until I grow more accustomed to your Yorkshire speech, I will ask that you say your words as clearly as you can and even a touch slower than you might otherwise. Can you do that for me?”
No one objected. She hoped that counted as agreement. Eager for information, she uncorked the inkwell, grateful that necessity had been included in the charity basket along with a bit of paper. She dipped her pen in the ink and held it at the ready.
She turned her gaze to the only child standing. “If you will, please tell me your family name and you and your siblings’ Christian names, as well as a little something about your family. I would like to know you all better.”
Honestly, she would settle for knowing them at all. The room was full of tiny strangers. How could she know the best way to teach them if she knew nothing about them?
The girl’s long ginger braids draped over her shoulder. “We family name is Crossley. We’ve one sister more who’ll be comin’ t’ school, but she’s a’ we ’ouse as she were feeling poorly.”
She jotted down the family name. One sister more . . . feeling poorly. Evangeline felt she’d sorted through the gist of it. She’s a’ we ’ouse, though. That part was indiscernible. The last word was likely “house.”
“I’m Susannah,” the girl continued, poking her chest with her thumb. “This is Billy and John.” She motioned to the two ginger children sitting beside her, each with brighter hair than the last. At least the Crossley family would be easy to spot.
Evangeline added their Christian names to the accounting. “Do you live far from here?”
Susannah shrugged. “Two mile.”
A long walk for so early in the morning. “And do your parents bring you here on their way to the factory?”
“Us aren’t a factory family,” Susannah said. “We live on t’ moor, but we’ve come to town with us brother what works for Mr. McCormick.”
She realized a clue to their manner of speaking, one she hoped would help her understand them more easily. The
y cut out every sound in the word “the” except for the t. Even more surprising than the fact that Evangeline had sorted out a bit of their language was hearing the sound of her neighbor’s name. “Mr. McCormick?”
“That’s m’self.” Indeed, Mr. McCormick stood in the doorway, looking perplexed. “Is there a reason you’re tossing my name about?”
“One of the Crossley children works for you.”
“That he does.” Mr. McCormick eyed Susannah. “Have you been gossipin’ about me?”
“We’s lot are for it now,” she said, tossing her hands upward in defeat. “I’ll be threaped for this, mark tha, though I’d nowt to do with it.”
Merciful heavens. No matter how closely she listened, Susannah’s words were impossible to understand.
Mr. McCormick seemed able to decipher them. “Hush your worries, lass. I’ve no intention of scolding you.”
Scolding. Something Susannah said had indicated an anticipated scolding. Perhaps the “threaped.”
Mr. McCormick nudged Ronan inside the room. The little boy clutched his carved horse as though his life depended upon it. At first glance Evangeline feared he was angry, but his tightly pulled lips quivered and his brows jutted at sharp angles above eyes that bore the telltale shimmer of unshed tears. The poor child was afraid.
“Have you any place in particular where the lad is meant to sit?” Mr. McCormick asked.
Evangeline shook her head. “Everyone is sitting wherever he or she would like for today.”
Mr. McCormick said something to Ronan, then motioned toward the benches. Ronan didn’t budge. His grip on the wooden horse turned white-knuckle, and his expression grew mutinous, even as his legs began to tremble.
The other children were watching him. Ronan stood firm, clearly determined not to take a seat. Mr. McCormick seemed unsurprised. He sat on the bench nearest his son, leaving enough room on the end for Ronan to join him but without forcing his compliance.
Ashes on the Moor Page 8
