Ashes on the Moor

by Sarah M. Eden

  “Let me see your work,” she said.

  He rose with all the languid annoyance of one asked to perform a task decidedly beneath him. Upon reaching her lectern, Hugo held his slate out with minimal effort, its face tipped downward. Evangeline took hold of it and examined his efforts.

  “Your B needs two distinct bumps.” Heavens, that sounded ridiculous. Was there a proper term for the shape of these letters? “And your I and J must be written precisely so as not to look so much alike.”

  “I’n’it good enough?”

  “I’n’it” was “isn’t it” pushed together into a single quick mouthful.

  “Without clearly drawn letters, no one will be able to read what you have written,” she said. “And until you learn the precise shapes of those letters, you will not be able to read what others have written.”

  His grumbled answer was too low, too clumped together, and too fast for her to understand.

  “Again, Hugo.” She held the slate out to him.

  His mouth turned down in a mulish frown. “Neya.”

  She didn’t need to translate Hugo’s refusal to follow her instructions.

  “You will never learn the remainder of your letters if you don’t—”

  “I’ll not.”

  “Quit complaining, Hugo.” His sister was clearly put out with him.

  “Quit jabbering,” he tossed back.

  “Don’t talk to her angry,” another voice insisted loudly.

  “Children,” Evangeline started, but none of them seemed to hear her.

  A shouting match ensued, one covering everything from learning letters to who had traveled furthest onto the moor.

  “Children! Enough!” No matter how Evangeline tried, she could not regain their attention.

  They were nearly all up out of their seats, except Susannah, who appeared annoyed by every last one of them, and little Cecilia Haigh, who was on the verge of tears.

  Into the shouting and pointing and chaos stepped Aunt Barton.

  Evangeline didn’t know who saw her first, but an immediate, tense silence fell over the room.

  Aunt Barton stopped not two feet inside the room. “Well,” she said, eyeing them all with stinging disapproval.

  “Mrs. Barton, you have caught us at a difficult moment.” Evangeline attempted to strike a tone both conciliatory and competent, but feared she sounded more pathetic than anything else.

  “And on your second day of school,” Aunt Barton observed. “That is not encouraging.”

  Evangeline sent a desperate look to her students. They appeared as overwhelmed by her aunt as she was. She would do well to take advantage of the temporary cessation of hostilities.

  “Back to your benches, children,” she instructed firmly. “You will continue copying your letters.”

  The children obeyed without a word or a glance or a moment’s hesitation. All was quiet and still and decidedly uncomfortable.

  Evangeline stole a glance in her aunt’s direction. The look she received in return was one of delighted disappointment.

  If only she had come a moment earlier. The room had been controlled, and the children had been learning.

  “Miss Blake,” Aunt Barton said. “A word, if I may.”

  She would much rather have refused, but civility did not permit her to. Though she was obliged to work for her keep and earn the right to her own family connections, Evangeline would behave as a lady ought.

  She carefully corked the inkwell. “Keep to your letters,” she told the children, her voice commendably steady.

  She crossed the small room more swiftly than she would have liked.

  Aunt Barton watched her every step, her gaze not wandering in the least. “I had come today to construct my initial report to Mr. Farr. Imagine my astonishment.”

  Evangeline suspected her aunt was not the least surprised by what she had seen. “You happened to arrive at a moment when the children’s hunger overcame their manners. They are here for hours, you realize, and I have not been provided with anything to feed them.”

  “I expect decorum, Miss Blake, not excuses.”

  “I am simply stating the situation.”

  “The situation”—Aunt Barton climbed immediately onto her high horse—“is that the school board is not obligated to feed them. Their families should provide food for them at midday if they are hungry.”

  “I suspect many of them cannot afford to do so.” The Palmer children, in particular, were worryingly ragged and thin.

  “Then they likely would not have been eating at home, either.” Aunt Barton looked over the children studiously bent over their slates. “Do you think them capable of learning?”

  The slight against her students, whom she’d known only two days, emboldened her. “Of course I do. Being born poor does not make one”—what was the word John Crossley had used?—“gaumless. And being wealthy does not automatically make one clever.”

  Her aunt’s attention returned on the instant. “‘Gaumless’?”

  “It is a Yorkshire word.”

  “I am well aware of that.” And, it would seem, she did not approve. “You are here to improve their minds, not adopt their ignorance.”

  “I do not see how a different word choice equates to ignorance.”

  Aunt Barton straightened the chains of her chatelaine purse. “I believe I have seen what I came here to see.”

  “You have seen almost nothing.”

  She pierced Evangeline with her harsh, pointed gaze. “Precisely.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Evangeline’s first week of school blurred together. Each day was just like the last. She taught the students letters, telling them the letters’ names and asking them to copy them out. Susannah looked utterly bored. Cecilia spoke now and then, but never loudly and never without encouragement. Hugo blustered and complained and, at least once each day, provoked the other boys—and occasionally a few of the girls—into a shouting match. Thankfully, no fisticuffs erupted, though Evangeline suspected it was merely a matter of time.

  She was not failing, but neither was she truly succeeding. Haphazard, accidental progress would not impress her aunt. And if her aunt was not impressed, her grandfather would likely never hear a good word about Evangeline’s accomplishments, such as they were. And without her grandfather’s approval, she would never have Lucy back.

  “Miss Blake.” Mr. McCormick’s indifferent tone was the same each morning. He was more personable in the evenings, but not by much.

  Evangeline nodded to him and offered Ronan one of their customary small waves. “We have only just begun learning the sounds associated with the first few letters of the alphabet,” she told Ronan before returning to her lesson. She could only assume that, beneath his defiant demeanor, he was listening and, she hoped, learning something. He had not responded verbally or otherwise to her attempts to speak of school in the evenings.

  Her eyes settled on Mr. McCormick, occupying his usual seat on the bench beside where Ronan stood. He always remained for an hour, then gave Ronan the choice of staying or leaving. His departure each day brought her a sharp sense of relief. Struggling with her students was difficult enough without anyone witnessing it.

  “Why does t’ letter A have so many sounds?” Hugo’s questions always sounded like complaints.

  “Because it is a vowel,” she said, “and vowels all make many sounds.”

  “Why?” If Hugo spoke any word more often than that one, Evangeline didn’t know what it was.

  Why did vowels make multiple sounds? Was there an answer to that question? Every pair of eyes was on her, watching her with clear expectation.

  “The vowels make many sounds because . . . they are very talkative.”

  Something like a smile touched Mr. McCormick’s somber expression.

  “Very talkative,” she
repeated, her tone lighter. “They chat and gossip and never stop.”

  “Which other letters are vowels?” Susannah asked.

  She had their attention. Taking advantage of the rare moment, Evangeline pushed on, answering the question and talking at greater length about letters and sounds and hoping the children understood what she said.

  By day’s end, she suspected a handful of her students had a firm grasp on some of the letter sounds and another handful were beginning to understand. But at least half seemed lost. A true teacher would have known for certain. A true teacher would have known how to help them—all of them.

  She stood at the outer door of the schoolhouse, bidding farewell to her students and feeling the weight of her own inadequacy. The Crossley and Palmer children were met most afternoons by their mothers. The other children waited for their parents to finish their day at the factory.

  Evangeline waved to Mrs. Crossley. Rather than nodding back and leaving with her children in tow as she usually did, she made her way to the door. They’d never truly spoken, and Evangeline wasn’t sure what to expect.

  “Good afternoon,” she greeted.

  “Ey up,” Mrs. Crossley returned.

  Evangeline had heard that a few times over the past week. As near as she could tell, it was a greeting.

  “Our Johanna’s right sad not to be at school,” Mrs. Crossley said. “She were bawlin’ all night. But she’s not well enough to be here yet.”

  “I hope it is nothing too serious.”

  “She has allus been sickly, but she’ll rally.” Mrs. Crossley cast a quick glance at her children before continuing. “How are us bairns gettin’ on?”

  Evangeline took a moment to sort through all of that. “Allus” was “always.” She was almost sure “bairns” was “children.” And, of course, there was the use of “us” instead of “our.” Only after all that effort did Evangeline realize Mrs. Crossley was asking after her children.

  “They are doing very well. Susannah is bright and learns quickly. John and Billy both work exceptionally hard and are learning as well.”

  Mrs. Crossley nodded. “I’m pleased to hear it. We weren’t certain school were a wise choice, seeing as it takes brass out of t’ family coffers.”

  “You are charged for their schooling?” Evangeline hadn’t heard a word about that.

  “Aye. Though them as can show enough financial hardship, t’ school board will pay for. And them what work at t’ factory”—Mrs. Crossley waved vaguely in the direction of the mill—“Mr. Farr pays for their little ones.”

  That made little sense. She had only three factory families. If their schooling was paid for, why weren’t more children of factory families attending? Evangeline wanted to ask, but she didn’t know Mrs. Crossley very well. Neither did she wish to look incompetent in front of her pupils’ parents.

  “Listen to me, going on about fees when I’ve a matter to speak of.” Mrs. Crossley smiled lightheartedly. “I’ve come to ask tha if we might borrow a slate. Susannah means to show her sister t’ letters she’s learned, but we’ve nowt for her to write on.”

  “Of course you may take home a slate.”

  Mrs. Crossley’s smile grew.

  Evangeline waved Susannah over and instructed her to return upstairs and fetch a slate. Her remaining students were running about, keeping themselves occupied with their play. The respite from her duties was a welcome one. Did all teachers feel that way at the end of the day?

  “Our Johnny tells me that you’ve that swaimish little Ronan McCormick coming to school each day.”

  Evangeline remembered “swaimish” from the children’s use of it several days earlier. “He is quiet, yes. He is also quite welcome at school.”

  Mrs. Crossley’s eyes widened. “I’d not meant to imply that he weren’t. I were right happy to hear it when t’ children told me. The schools would not have bothered with his sort before t’ law said they had to.”

  “And what sort is that?” Evangeline felt more than a little affronted on Ronan’s behalf and, truth be told, on behalf of her dear, departed brother.

  “I’ve talked myself into trouble again, haven’t I?” Mrs. Crossley’s smile only grew. “My husband tells me I speak my mind a bit too freely. I make my words misunderstood.” She looked genuinely apologetic. “I only meant that he’s quiet and doesn’t seem to know quite what to do around other folk. That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t have learning like t’ others, only that, before this law, he’d likely have been turned away.”

  “I would not have turned him away.”

  “I believe thee. I’ve a sense about people. Tha’s a right good one, I’m certain of it.” Mrs. Crossley gave her the first look of approval she’d had in Smeatley. Oh, how she needed it!

  Evangeline tucked her sudden rush of embarrassment behind a jesting comment. “Would you mind telling Mrs. Barton that? She is convinced I’m a rather sorry sort.”

  “Ah, her high-and-mighty lordship.”

  A laugh pulled loose. “What is this?”

  “Mrs. Barton doesn’t approve of any of us. T’ whole town knows it.” Mrs. Crossley’s smile was reassuring. “Our opinion of thee will not be tainted by her.”

  “That is more of a relief than you know.” If only Grandfather was as immune.

  Mrs. Crossley glanced past Evangeline. “On with thee, Susannah. Nip on home. Johanna’ll be fair itching to see thee.”

  Susannah hurried past, calling to her brothers to follow. Mrs. Crossley smiled at Evangeline. “Thank thee again for t’ slate.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And for teaching t’ children—mine and t’ others. I know t’ Palmer lad is a difficult one, but they’re a good family who’ve fallen on difficulties just now. Their children getting a touch of schooling has given them all a bit of needed hope. And Mr. McCormick gave up his homeland for his boy’s chance at learning. What tha does here is important to a lot of people.” Mrs. Crossley nodded and followed in her children’s path.

  Though Evangeline was filled with questions, she had no opportunity to ask a single one. She watched the Shaw and Sutcliffe children playing happily in the school yard. Cecilia Haigh seemed perfectly content by herself, making a woven chain from long stems of grass. The children would be fine if she stepped inside for a rare moment to herself.

  Evangeline walked back into her rooms, her mind whirling. She wasn’t certain she could think of Hugo’s attempts at learning as anything other than frustrating. Yet, Mrs. Crossley had spoken of it as a source of hope. What did that mean? If education was so important to the Palmer family, why did the boy continually make the task so difficult? Her most troublesome student had unexpectedly become . . . complicated.

  She lowered herself into the spindle-backed rocking chair beside the empty fireplace. This was the moment each afternoon when she closed her eyes and breathed out the tension that had built over the day. She couldn’t manage it just then.

  Her students’ families were paying for their schooling, families who appeared ill-equipped to do so. And Mr. McCormick had left Ireland specifically to secure Ronan an education. Was she providing her students with anything worthy of those sacrifices?

  She finally pushed out a long, slow breath. It didn’t help. Her eyes settled on the photograph of her family.

  I am in sore need of one of your hugs, Mother. And a few words of advice from you, Father.

  Lucy’s treasures sat on the mantel beside the frame, reminding her dozens of times every single day that not only had she broken her promise to her sister but that she was powerless to rectify it.

  She took James’s book from the fireside bench. She knew Lucy had chosen it as one of her treasures because it had been a favorite of the entire family. James had insisted that someone read from it every evening. They all had its passages nearly memorized.

  With tremendous c
are she opened the book, turning page after page. The process brought fresh pain and grief, yet she did not stop. There was something in her suffering that was healing and comforting, as if allowing herself to ache instead of ignoring it served as a much needed acknowledgment that her pain was real.

  In that moment, alone with nothing but the inanimate reminders of all she held dear, Evangeline gave herself permission to feel the weight on her heart. Even if no one else saw her grief, she would feel it, and in time she would heal.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “‘An idle soul shall suffer hunger.’” The vicar’s pronouncement echoed through the nave. He pressed his finger against the open page of his Bible as his gaze fell over the gathered worshipers. “What do you hunger for?”

  Evangeline had not yet attended services in Smeatley, having been too grief-stricken on her first Sunday in Yorkshire to bring herself to traverse the churchyard. She had come today in search of some solace. Mr. Trewe, however, was anything but comforting. His tone rang with accusation, and his glare seemed to pierce every person in turn.

  “Do you hunger for friends, for material comforts, for direction in your life?” His bushy brows shot upward, as if the intensity of his question had pulled his eyes as wide as possible. “Are you without the things you need? Are you hungering?”

  Across the way sat the Palmer family; Evangeline recognized their children. Mr. and Mrs. Palmer listened raptly to the sermon, their expressions both concerned and earnest. Mrs. Crossley had said that this family was facing hardships. Of the children attending school, they were, by far, the most obviously “hungering” for a great many things.

  “You have your answer here.” Mr. Trewe thumped his Bible. “The idle hunger, and they hunger because they are idle. Take up your work with determination and gratitude before wallowing in complaints.”

  Did he truly mean that only the idle hungered, only the slothful found themselves in need of things they did not have? Surely not, for that did not ring true.