Ashes on the Moor

by Sarah M. Eden

  “Go on with your lessons, then,” Mr. McCormick said to Evangeline. “I’ll wait a spell with m’ lad.”

  He meant to stay and watch? Though she doubted his decision had anything to do with her, Evangeline found the prospect unnerving. She was doing little more than stumbling her way through her first day. The last thing she wanted or needed was a parent in the audience. Children were more forgiving. At least she hoped they were.

  She set her gaze on the child nearest the Crossley siblings. “Would you introduce yourself and your family, please?”

  Several times she had to ask the children to repeat themselves. Sometimes that was enough to solve the mystery of their words and odd pronunciations. But more often than not, she simply offered a nod of acknowledgment, having resigned herself to never fully understanding them.

  How had she found herself facing such a difficulty? She was a teacher in a county in England. These were not students from far-off lands who’d recently arrived on British soil. They were speaking English, and she could hardly understand them.

  In the end, she was able to add five new families to her list of pupils.

  The Shaws had two sons and one daughter in attendance. Also attending were the Palmers, who appeared worse off than the others, both in the state of their clothing and the thinness of their bodies. The Sutcliffes were both thin but in better condition than the Palmers. Lastly, little Cecilia Haigh, who’d proven too timid to share anything beyond her name.

  She had expected that all of her students had parents who worked at the factory, but that was not the case. The Crossleys raised sheep, in addition to the eldest son being on Mr. McCormick’s bricklaying crew. Mr. Palmer also worked for Mr. McCormick, with Mrs. Palmer taking in sewing. The Sutcliffes were the only factory family, though the Haighs remained a mystery. Perhaps more students were yet to come who would tip the balance in the other direction.

  “Ronan,” she said, keeping her tone gentle. “Would you care to introduce yourself to the other children?”

  He made no indication of having heard her, though she suspected he had. James had been that way. So much about him had been baffling, but so much had been beautifully endearing. Ronan was still standing, stiff and unmoving. How easily she could picture James doing precisely the same in an uncomfortable situation.

  “Allow me to introduce you to the other children,” she said to Ronan, hoping that would be a satisfactory alternative. His father began to stand, no doubt meaning to object, so Evangeline pressed on before he had the chance. “Ronan’s family name is McCormick. He lives not far from here. His father is a brick mason, and Ronan has accompanied him on many of his jobs and, no doubt, has a vast knowledge of bricks and bricklaying. Ronan also whittles. I have seen a dog he is carving, and I did not need him to tell me that it was a dog because he is doing such a fine job with his whittling that I could tell for myself.”

  Mr. McCormick lowered himself back down, clearly relieved. Ronan’s expression and posture hadn’t changed in the least. Evangeline hoped that in time he might grow more comfortable.

  She addressed the group as a whole. “I look forward to knowing all of you better,” she said. “And I hope there will be more children joining us.” Her hope was not born of eagerness but concern. Why were so few students present if education was required? Were they staying away out of fear of her incompetence? Was there another school of which she was unaware?

  “We don’t know owt about thee,” Susannah said.

  Owt—Evangeline hadn’t sorted that word yet, though it sounded like the girl wished to know a little about Evangeline. That was a fair request.

  She carefully set down her pen. “I was born in a small town called Petersmarch in the county of Cambridgeshire, and I lived there all my life until a few days ago.”

  “Does tha have any family?” Susannah’s question was easy to understand despite her heavy accent.

  Another piece of the linguistic puzzle clicked into place. What sounded like “tha” was actual the word “thou.” It was not a pronoun she’d generally heard used outside of holy writ or sermons. Knowing the pronunciation of it and its usage, she could make more sense of what was being said. Tha. She repeated the word in her head a few times, hoping to make it more familiar. Tha. Thou.

  The look of confusion on every face, including Mr. McCormick’s, told her that she’d allowed her thoughts to wander again.

  “I had a mother and father, a brother older than I, and a brother younger.” Speaking of them in the past tense would never grow easy. “I also have a younger sister who currently resides in Leeds.” The simple explanation proved more difficult to make than she’d expected. Evangeline swallowed the sudden thick lump in her throat and forced a smile. “This is my first time in Yorkshire, and I fear I know very little about it. So, for today, I will be the pupil and you will be the teachers. I wish for you to teach me about Smeatley and Yorkshire and your lives here.”

  She hoped, by doing so, to find her own place in this all too foreign land.

  Chapter Ten

  Dermot had expected some resistance from Ronan on the matter of school. He’d taken pains to prepare the lad for the change in his routine, but it hadn’t been enough. He’d hoped to spend his morning working with his men on the wall. Finishing it quickly would go far toward convincing Mr. Barton to approve the proposed houses he wanted to build for the workers. Instead, he’d sat in the schoolroom, watching Ronan stand defiant and unwavering. After an hour, he’d offered their excuses to Miss Blake, and he and Ronan had made their way to the job site.

  The instant they’d stepped from the schoolhouse, Ronan’s shoulders dropped from the tautly held position by his ears. His tense frown eased. He’d pushed out a breath so deep and long that Dermot wondered if the lad had breathed at all during the long hour in the schoolroom.

  What was he to do if Ronan never warmed to the idea of school? The question hung heavy on his mind as the workday moved forward.

  “Straighten that row before the mortar hardens,” he barked out.

  Gaz Palmer was a fine bricklayer, when he was watched closely enough. Left to his own governance, he tended to cut corners and rush his work. Dermot hadn’t decided if he meant to keep the man on should Mr. Barton approve the house-building plans. More hands’d be needed than he’d required for this smaller project, but hands that produced poor results would hardly be an asset.

  Dermot surveyed the rest of the crew, checking their work, their mortar, the state of their tools.

  “Your brick there is near to touching the line,” he told Thomas. “Straighten it out. I’ll not have this wall leaning or bowing.”

  The young man still made a number of mistakes common to those new to the trade, but he was learning quickly and he’d come along; Dermot had no doubt of it.

  “I knew it weren’t right, but cursed if I could make out the trouble.” Thomas quickly followed Dermot’s instructions. “My little brothers and sister were right feather-legged this morning. Never seen ’em so tired.”

  “I saw them at school.” Dermot watched Thomas work as they spoke.

  “Were they bawlin’ or making a fuss?”

  “They were well-behaved and seemed happy enough. That sister of yours hasn’t a bashful bone in her body, I’d wager.”

  Thomas grinned. “She’s a right ’un, our Susannah. Holds her head high and don’t abide trouble off anyone.”

  Dermot approved. The poor, women and girls especially, needed to be resilient in this cruel world. A touch of stubbornness and confidence would serve her well.

  “And Ronan, there. Did he enjoy school?” These Yorkshire folks had their own way of saying “school,” with an extra sound tossed into the middle, one Dermot couldn’t precisely explain but knew when he heard it.

  “Ronan’s unsure of schooling. He’d rather come here as he’s used to doing.”

  “He’ll come
around, I know it. Once he sees t’ other children laikin’, he’ll want to join in t’ fun.”

  To laik was to play. ’Twas one of the words Dermot had learned early on.

  Thomas talked more than the rest of the crew combined. But so long as he did all the work required of him, and did it well, Dermot didn’t mind. He’d known a few masons who required near-silence from their crews. ’Twas a miserable way to spend one’s day. He’d not be so hard-nosed.

  “See that you don’t spend your afternoon laikin’. I’ll not have you whiling away the day when you’re meant to be working.”

  Thomas grinned again. “Aye, Mr. McCormick.”

  Dermot continued his perusal of the crew’s work. Despite the many setbacks and myriad interruptions, he meant to finish the job on schedule.

  “McCormick.”

  He turned at the sound of Mr. Barton’s voice. “That’s m’self.”

  Mr. Barton’s brows drew down in bewilderment as they always did when Dermot answered his name with that particular response. ’Twas a bit confusing to the English. Truth be told, Dermot would have used it less if not for the amusement it offered him.

  “A minute of your time,” Mr. Barton said, though it was not truly a request.

  “I could spare a minute or so,” Dermot said, “but not much more than that. We’re near to finishing this wall, and I mean to do so in the time I promised.”

  Mr. Barton nodded. “I will not keep you long.” The man had employed a very different tone when Dermot had first come to work for him, always demanding things and dismissing any argument to the contrary. But Dermot had stood firm, maintained a respectful tone, and allowed the quality of his craftsmanship to do the rest. He was not viewed as an equal by any means, but he was no longer treated like an underling.

  Dermot turned to Thomas. “Keep an eye on this lot for me.”

  Before the lad could answer, Gaz did. “Tha’d set a boy in charge of a crew of men?”

  “I wouldn’t, but I’d set him in charge of you.”

  The rest of the crew chuckled and tossed good-natured jests Gaz’s way.

  “He’ll not be in charge in the full sense of the word,” Dermot clarified for all their sakes. “Merely be a watchful eye to let me know if anything’s needing my attention.”

  “A snitch, then?” Gaz sneered.

  “If you’re not giving him reason to snitch then you’ve no reason to worry, do you?” Dermot tossed back. “And straighten that row while you can. If the mortar hardens on you, you’ll be knocking those bricks out and fixin’ them on your own time.”

  Gaz muttered something which Dermot didn’t try overly hard to hear. As he stepped aside with Mr. Barton, Dermot glanced at Ronan. The boy was under his tree again, lining up his figurines as always. This was not how Dermot had imagined the boy living out his life.

  At least he’s not slaving away for some unfeeling taskmaster, learning a trade before he’s old enough to even know what that means. Most children from poor families had no other choice. He’d not had one himself.

  “I’ve given some thought to your proposal,” Mr. Barton said.

  Though his and Ronan’s future would be determined almost entirely by Mr. Barton’s next words, Dermot didn’t allow his anxiety to show. He simply maintained an air of calm expectancy.

  “I can see the reasoning behind your idea.” Mr. Barton’s hesitancy hadn’t diminished.

  “Sounds to me as though you can’t see enough reasoning behind it.”

  Mr. Barton’s bony fingers smoothed his thick mustache even as his forehead creased deeper. “It simply seems a great deal of money to spend on workers.”

  A grand house stood directly behind Mr. Barton. With its ornate stonework and many smoking chimneys, manicured shrubs and grass, and dozens of servants, that seemed a great deal of money to spend on only two people.

  “Do as you see fit.” Dermot covered his disappointment with an unconcerned tone. “I’ll be passing through Leeds on m’ way to that job in Bradford, after all, it seems. I’ll be certain to drop in on Mr. Farr and let him know that if he’s expecting all the positions in his fine new factory to be filled, he’d do well to set his hopes elsewhere, seeing as how there’s nowhere in all of Smeatley for any new workers to be living, and therefore no reason for potential workers to not move on to a town with accommodations.”

  Dermot straightened his cuffs and made to turn back to the wall and his crew, but not before tossing back one last observation. “I’m certain he’ll believe it so grand that you saved a bit of blunt that he’ll not care in the least that he has a factory that’s bleeding profits for want of the very workers you’re not wanting to invest in.”

  “Now, see here, McCormick.” Mr. Barton could be difficult when his pride was pricked. “I may have placed you at the head of this crew, but that does not give you leave to address me in such a surly manner.”

  “’Tweren’t anything surly about it.” Dermot slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and spared a glance for Mr. Barton and his chastisement. “I’m plainspoken, and that can send some people into high dudgeon. But it is what it is.”

  “You would truly speak with Mr. Farr?” Mr. Barton’s tone was both defiant and uncertain.

  “I would. He’s spoken with me on a number of occasions when he’s been here in town. He respects my opinions—said so his ownself. And he further said that he values m’ willingness to be honest with him.” Dermot didn’t look back but allowed his words to sink deep into Mr. Barton’s thoughts.

  A long moment passed. Dermot watched Ronan sitting in the shade. What if Mr. Barton didn’t yield? Dermot could take the job in Bradford, but that’d mean uprooting Ronan again, something the lad didn’t endure well. He’d need time to adjust to a new place, new people, new surroundings. There’d be no chance of getting him to school for a long while after that. For both their sakes, Dermot didn’t want to leave Smeatley.

  “I’ll strike a bargain with you, McCormick.”

  Dermot turned enough to see his employer out of the corner of his eye.

  “I will approve building one set of these back-to-back houses, as a trial. Should they be completed in a timely and economical manner, then we will discuss building more.”

  “You’ll not learn the whole truth if this first set isn’t built the way you mean to build the others. I’d be needing a full crew, access to quality materials, fair pay, and full control over the project.”

  “Full control?” Mr. Barton scoffed.

  Dermot nodded. “You’d approve the plans, and I’d build to them. But neither you nor your missus could come ’round insisting on changes.”

  ’Twas a testament to Mr. Barton’s understanding of his wife’s nature that he didn’t immediately deny that she’d do precisely that. Instead, he gave a regal but firm nod of his own. “Agreed.”

  Dermot tucked his relief and excitement away. “This wall will be done by week’s end, you’ve my word on that. I’ll have a full set of detailed plans for the houses to you by then for your approval. We’ll begin as soon as that’s finalized.”

  He held out his hand. Though Mr. Barton had objected to Dermot’s addressing him in a manner that didn’t befit an employee nor a person of the lower class, they shook hands as equal partners. Dermot knew he wasn’t truly viewed that way, but he found in that moment a reason to believe he might be someday. Perhaps, beyond Ronan’s education and his own job security, Dermot might have something of a future in this odd and all-too-often unwelcoming town.

  Once he’d enough for the undertaking, he’d build them a fine new home—one without neighbors to either side, complaining of every noise, every Irish dish he prepared, the color of the door, and anything else they could think of. They’d have a measure of peace and a degree of comfort.

  “McCormick.” It seemed Mr. Barton didn’t mean for Dermot to have that peace
today.

  Dermot met his gaze.

  “Your son is not in school,” Mr. Barton said. “Why is that?”

  “The lad went this morning,” Dermot said. “He’ll be needing a bit more time to feel enough at ease there to remain for the entire day.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Barton nodded. “I was afraid something had gone wrong or that Miss Blake had not begun teaching today as expected.”

  “Nothing was wrong, but the lass didn’t begin teaching, not truly.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Dermot hadn’t intended to talk about Miss Blake, but it seemed he couldn’t avoid the discussion. “She spent the morning asking questions of the wee ones: what were their names, where’d they live, what sort of work did their parents undertake, those sort of things. ’Twasn’t really teaching is all I meant to say.”

  Mr. Barton made a noise of contemplation, and not of the “surprisingly impressed” variety.

  “The children were well-behaved, and Miss Blake kept charge of the schoolroom,” Dermot added. “The floor had been swept and the windows washed. While ’tis true no one was learning reading or writing, I’d not see that as a sign that anything was amiss.”

  Mr. Barton sighed again. Something about the situation apparently weighed heavier on him than Dermot would’ve guessed. The man was acting as head of the school board. That likely accounted for his deep interest.

  “If you’re not needing to discuss anything further, I’ve a crew to oversee and a wall to complete,” Dermot reminded him.

  “Yes. Of course.” And with that, Mr. Barton left, his steps carrying him back to his grand house with its rows and rows of windows.

  Ronan never seemed to tire of counting the panes of glass. When Dermot built their home, he fully intended to include windows enough for the boy to number. And a garden large enough for Ronan to run and play—something he seldom did in their poky space. And he meant to plant a tree for the lad to sit under. They would be happy, the two of them, and all the toil and heartache of the past years would finally be worth it.