Ashes on the Moor

by Sarah M. Eden

  Chapter Eleven

  Dermot hummed as he prepared supper that evening. He’d passed a fine day despite the uncertain beginning. For once, the future was looking promising. He’d been given a chance to prove himself and to step onto a path that might lead to prosperity at the end. A bit of the music of home seemed a fitting celebration.

  Ronan picked up the tune, singing the chorus when Dermot reached it. “Trasna na dtonnta, dul siar, dul siar, Slán leis an uaigneas ‘is slán leis an gcian.”

  ’Twas good to hear the lad wrapping his tongue around the unique sounds of the Irish language. Too many Irishmen had lost that; Dermot meant to see to it that Ronan knew at least a few songs. He didn’t know enough to truly speak Irish, merely a few words sprinkled here and there, but, having been apprenticed to a man who had passed the time singing as he’d worked, he knew a great number of songs in that ancient language.

  Dermot also had vague recollections of his parents having spoken Irish, something more common in the country than in Dublin. Had he remained at home, he’d’ve had the language, and he mourned that loss. But, had he remained at home, he wouldn’t have Ronan, and that didn’t bear thinking on.

  “An Maidrín Rua!” Ronan loudly requested. He was a quiet and placid child, but when he grew excited about something, he could hardly contain himself.

  “We’ve not finished this song yet.” Dermot wasn’t certain how to teach his lad patience without damping his enthusiasm.

  “I’m wanting to sing about the fox.” Ronan looked up from his whittling, abandoning what was his usual evening activity. “And the dogs. I like dogs with spots.”

  “The song doesn’t say the dogs have spots,” Dermot pointed out.

  “But they should. Dogs should have spots.”

  Dogs should have spots, and people shouldn’t smell like flowers. Never let it be said that Ronan didn’t have very particular ideas.

  “Did you enjoy school today?” he asked.

  Quick as that, Ronan’s eyes were on his carving again, and his talkativeness disappeared.

  “You’ll be going back in the morning,” Dermot warned him. “’Tis a fine thing to have some learning. Not every lad gets that. I didn’t, though I wish I had.”

  Ronan didn’t look up at him. Early on, Dermot had assumed his long moments of silence or his lack of acknowledging him when he spoke were signs of obstinacy. He’d learned differently over time. He truly believed that Ronan grew overwhelmed, whether with fear or uncertainty or some other difficult emotion, and found himself unable to respond. He didn’t know how to reassure the boy enough to stop it from happening. So much about Ronan confused him.

  A moment later, the knock that Dermot had been listening for ever since returning home sounded at the door. Miss Blake was meant to join them for their evening meal and a bit of learning herself in return for offering Ronan some extra tutoring.

  “That’ll be Miss Blake.” He hoped Ronan heard the warning. Unexpected arrivals upset him sometimes.

  “School is in the mornings,” Ronan said. “School isn’t at night.”

  School is in the mornings. If ever five words brought a man relief, those did. Ronan might not’ve been entirely accepting of going to school, but he had it in his mind that school had a place in the day. That was a step in the right direction.

  “She’s come for supper,” Dermot explained.

  Ronan nodded, eyes on his work. “Supper is at night. Not school.”

  “Right you are, lad.”

  Dermot reached for the door, finding himself unexpectedly pleased. The day had been a good one, and he was in a fine mood.

  He pulled open the door. “Good evening to you, Miss—”

  Her glare, which could easily have felled a weaker man, stopped his words. He couldn’t be entirely certain it hadn’t temporarily stopped his heart. ’Twas a good thing the woman wasn’t armed.

  “I’ve come from Hillside House.” That, it seemed, was both a greeting and an explanation.

  “Have you, now?” What had he done to earn her ire? They’d not talked since that morning. “And had you a fine visit with the Bartons?”

  “It was illuminating.” Her terse tone and glare told its own story.

  Yes, she most definitely was put out with him. “Would you care to tell me the how and why of your ire, or am I to begin guessing?”

  Her lips and jaw tensed with her next breath, and he sensed an outpouring of complaints was about to follow. While he was interested in her grievances, he’d rather not have them listed on his front step for all the neighbors to hear.

  “Come inside, then.” He stepped aside to clear the threshold. “I’ll set myself at a mark so you can fire at will.”

  “Do not tempt me,” she muttered as she stormed past him.

  The devil mend it, she truly was vexed.

  She took a few steps, then spun about to face him, her hands set on her hips.

  Dermot kept himself at a distance—far enough to be safe, but near enough to show he wasn’t cowed by her flare of temper. “State your grievances, lass. I’ve courage enough.”

  “State my grievances? I believe lodging complaints is more your strength than mine.”

  What complaint he had made? What had that to do with her visit to the Bartons? “I’ll be needing more specifics, there.”

  “I called on Mr. Barton this afternoon, as instructed, to make my report of my first day as teacher. Imagine my surprise when he already knew all he felt he needed to.” Her eyes narrowed, her gaze skewering him like an arrow. “Someone—the only someone over the age of twelve to have been present for any portion of my lessons today—had informed him that I was a failure, not teaching anything and wasting my students’ time with questions.”

  “That someone would be myself, would it?”

  “Did you notice any other grown men in my schoolhouse?” she asked dryly.

  “I didn’t tattle on you, woman. I—” But then he remembered. “Mr. Barton did ask me about school.”

  “And you told him I was miserable at it.”

  He might have taken exception to her accusations had there not been a hint of truth to them and had there not been more than a touch of pain beneath her unusually fiery demeanor. She’d had a difficult day, he’d wager.

  “I said nothing about you being miserable at teaching. I only told him that you didn’t teach a lesson while I was there. And before you go tearing my head off for that, ’twas nothing less than the truth.”

  “It was nothing more than the truth.”

  “You’d have preferred I lied in your favor, then?”

  “I’d have preferred—” She pressed her lips closed and shook her head.

  He motioned for her to finish her thought. He wasn’t afraid of what she meant to say.

  “I would have preferred you not talk to him about my morning in the first place.” She’d a bit less wind in her sails, though clearly the storm had not entirely blown by. “He had already formed his opinion before I had a chance to present my position. It was unfair.”

  “I hate to put too fine a point on it, lass, but you charging in here accusing me of speaking ill of you without giving me the chance to present my position is a bit unfair as well.”

  She held his gaze. The defiance slowly melted from her posture and with it much of the fire in her eyes. Quick as anything, she resumed the expression and posture of a lady of refinement, that impersonal air they all seemed to have perfected.

  ’Twas a shame, really. While he didn’t care to be on the receiving end of unfounded complaints, he’d seen more life in her these past minutes than in all their previous encounters.

  “We’re for making soup tonight,” he told her, crossing to the table and the basket of vegetables waiting there. “’Tis a simple enough thing. You’ll have it mastered in no time.”

  She nodded s
ilently, following slowly in his wake. She was regal Miss Blake, thoroughly and completely. A shame.

  “Come along, then. I’ll not bite no matter that you came here with your own teeth bared.”

  She stood still and impassive, her expression nearly empty. “I appreciate your forbearance.” Good heavens. She’d turned as bland as boiled cabbage.

  “Are you feeling unwell, Miss Blake?”

  “I am perfectly well, thank you. Please, proceed.”

  He preferred his own personal concerns remain personal, so he’d not press himself into hers. “Take up a knife. You’ll be chopping the carrots.”

  “Is there any particular trick to it?”

  “Only one.” He pushed the pile of carrots closer to her. “Aim for the vegetables, not your fingers.”

  The cooking lesson was uneventful. Miss Blake listened closely, followed his instructions, and spoke little. A heaviness hung about her, not unlike what he’d been plagued with his first few weeks in this unwelcoming place. He was far from the only new arrival this past year, yet none of the others seemed as unwanted as he.

  The Bartons hadn’t been kind to her during the brief encounter he’d overheard not three days ago. Mrs. Barton, in particular, had been scathing.

  “Did you speak with Mrs. Barton today as well?” he asked as he hung the pot over the fire and stirred the soup.

  “I did.” She seemed surprised that he’d guessed that bit.

  “She’s a difficult one to endure,” he said. “I thought that might be why your spirits seem so low.”

  Miss Blake lowered herself into her usual chair. “I have had a difficult few days.”

  “Aye, you’ve said that once before.”

  She rubbed at her forehead with her fingers. “My days have not grown easier. I fear I haven’t the strength to endure much more without some kind of hope.”

  How well he knew that feeling. “’Tis the hunger talking. Life always looks bleak when the belly’s empty.”

  “I am hungry,” she confessed.

  “And likely tired as well.”

  “Exhausted.” How she managed to fill that single word with such desperation, he couldn’t say, but it told quite a story.

  “Sleep and food. That’s just the thing, you’ll see.”

  She sighed and looked up at him. “I will tell myself that. Perhaps it will help.”

  “I’d wager it will.”

  When the soup was ready, she ate, but not with the sunny disposition of one whose optimism had been restored. She thanked him dutifully for the meal and the cooking instructions, then she turned her attention to Ronan.

  She sat near him at the table but not so close that the lad would be uncomfortable. “I am quite certain you had more than your fill of schooling this morning. I know you will need time to grow accustomed to this change, so I will not press you tonight with lessons.”

  Dermot kept an eye on Ronan, unsure how he would react. ’Twas difficult to predict at the best of times.

  “I have brought you something.” Miss Blake pulled a folded paper from a well-hidden pocket in her dress. She laid it flat and slid it toward the boy. “These shapes are letters, and these letters spell your name. You needn’t learn them or memorize them. I simply thought you would enjoy seeing what your name looks like.”

  Ronan’s gaze took a rare departure from his carved horse and settled firmly on Miss Blake’s paper.

  “Tomorrow when I come, I would very much like for you to tell me what other word or name you’d like to see written out. I will write it for you. Then, when you are ready to stay at school longer during the day and we begin practicing the letters, they will be familiar to you.”

  Familiarity. Ronan desperately clung to what he knew and what he understood. Miss Blake had offered the lad a chance to be familiar with something as unknown as school.

  True to her word, she didn’t press Ronan for anything else. She simply told him that she hoped to see him in school the next day, then rose from her seat, and left, pausing briefly to thank Dermot again for his hospitality.

  For his part, Dermot was too shocked for much beyond a nod. Miss Blake was not the least suited for a life of poverty spent teaching the children of this hardened and difficult area of the kingdom. Yet, for that brief moment at the table, she had been very nearly perfect for Ronan.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Could you please repeat that again?” Evangeline was at her wit’s end. They’d nearly completed their school day, but had accomplished little, mostly because she struggled to simply understand what her students said to her.

  Hugo Palmer growled out his own frustration. But when he spoke again, he did so more slowly. “Why do we have to know t’ letters’ names if their names have nowt to do with their sounds and t’ sounds are how we use them?”

  She’d heard the word “nowt” enough to decided it meant “nothing,” and she was nearly accustomed to their odd way of saying “the” with nothing more than a t.

  “Why are the letters’ names important? That is your question?”

  “Aye.” That word she knew perfectly well, having heard it from Scotsmen occasionally over the years and even from Mr. McCormick.

  “When you are told how to spell something, you will be told using the names of the letters. Knowing their names will be important.”

  He rushed out a response but stopped partway and began again, more slowly. “But their names aren’t their sounds.”

  “That is true.”

  “Seems a lot o’ bother to me.” During the course of the day, Hugo had proven himself to be “a lot of bother.” She had never met a more obstinate child. At ten years of age, he was more of a handful than those smaller than he.

  “You have been given the task of learning to read and write and do arithmetic.” She addressed all of her students. “This is no small feat. You will have to work hard. If you do not work hard, you cannot possibly hope to succeed.”

  “Us father doesn’t read. He doesn’t need to, and neither do I.”

  Though the frequent but inconsistent changeability of “we” and “us” and “our” still settled oddly on Evangeline’s ears, she’d grown accustomed to it, not having to switch the words back in her mind.

  “Hush, Hugo.” May, the littlest of the Palmers, glared her brother down. She had thick, dark hair and a fiery tenacity that belied her tiny frame. “Father’d not be sending the lot o’ us to school if he didn’t want us to learn.”

  May had spoken slowly without needing to be reminded. That, Evangeline felt, was a sign of progress.

  “Even that Irish lad comes, and no one expects him to learn owt.”

  She mentally translated “owt” as “anything.”

  “‘That Irish lad’ is Ronan,” Evangeline corrected. “And I fully expect he will learn plenty.”

  John Crossley, a thin boy and near in age to Hugo, entered the fray. “He’s a bit swaimish, aye, but being quiet is not t’ same as being gaumless.”

  Swaimish? Gaumless? Every time she thought she could understand the people of Smeatley, she encountered new, indecipherable words.

  “And being loud is not t’ same as being smart,” May tossed back, pulling laughter from the other students and a glower from her brother.

  If “swaimish” meant quiet, then “gaumless” might mean simple or unintelligent. Her heart sank for the absent Ronan. She had every confidence that he was a bright boy, but his oddities and his reserve would leave him open to the ridicule and teasing of his classmates. What could she do to prevent that, to protect him? It was little wonder that Mr. McCormick did not leave Ronan at school for long. He must have anticipated this difficulty.

  Had James been likewise needled when he’d been away from home? She hoped not. The thought of him unhappy only added to her grief.

  “Let us review the letter names again,�
�� she said.

  As she held up the papers on which she’d written in large, block lettering the first portion of the alphabet, the children dutifully repeated the letter names. She tried to determine which children had learned them and which were simply copying the others. She felt certain they would not all learn at the same pace. The older students would likely learn faster, provided they were willing to try. She did not wish to discourage anyone by moving too quickly or too slowly, but not one of the children knew the entire alphabet nor how to write or recognize numbers. The entire class was starting at the very beginning.

  They’d spent the day focusing on only ten letters. By the third time through, Susannah Crossley had the letters memorized. She would need something more challenging, but how could Evangeline do that while trying to help all of the others? She needed to think of something.

  “Susannah, will you come up here, please?”

  Far from cowed by the summons, Susannah made the short walk with confidence. What must that be like? Evangeline had always struggled to feel anything but anxious when faced with uncertainty. She had learned to put on a brave face, but beneath it all she quaked like an aspen leaf.

  Summoning her acting skills, Evangeline addressed her oldest pupil. “I noticed you have mastered these first letters rather quickly.”

  “Aye, miss.”

  That morning, Evangeline had inscribed the entire alphabet on a sheet of paper, unsure how far her students would progress in one day. She had, as it turned out, been overly optimistic. She handed the paper to Susannah.

  “I need to help the other students learn the letters we are working on, but I thought you might appreciate learning the remainder of them. When I have the chance, I will tell you their names, but for now you can practice writing them.”

  “Aye, miss.” Susannah took the paper and returned to her seat with little enthusiasm.

  Was that to be the way of it? Drudgery and acceptance in her best students, rebellion and complaints in her most challenging?

  “I’m finished,” Hugo said.

  She needed to find a means of ridding him of his tendency to simply shout whatever he wished to say whenever he meant to say it. Though this particular instance was not a true interruption, many of his other outbursts had been.