Ashes on the Moor

by Sarah M. Eden

  “You have within your grasp ample opportunities for bettering your situation through hard work.” The words might have been encouraging, but Mr. Trewe’s thunderous tones and hard stare rendered the sermon almost threatening. “Do not resign yourself to misery by choosing to be indolent, but rather remember, ‘An idle soul shall suffer hunger.’”

  He closed his Bible with a quick, reverberating snap. That was, it seemed, the entirety of his message. Even as the rites moved along in their predictable pattern, Evangeline could not entirely move her thoughts beyond the brief, pointed, and, frankly, disconcerting sermon. Most people in attendance bore all the markings of poverty and want. Was there truly an epidemic of laziness as Mr. Trewe’s words seemed to indicate?

  She, herself, was in need of many things, not all of which were material belongings or comforts. She longed for the love of family, the reassurance that she would find her path in life, the presence of her sister. Were these hopes, these wishes, these hungers truly the result of slothfulness on her part?

  I have worked hard this past week or more. I most certainly have.

  Mr. Trewe’s words of castigation struck her deeply, feeding the doubts she’d been unable to shake. Uncle Barton had warned her that her only hope of being reunited with Lucy lay in proving herself through diligent labor. Perhaps she truly was at fault.

  With a heavy heart, she left the church once Mass had ended, stepping out into the churchyard and the blinding sunlight. Solace, it seemed, was not to be found.

  “Ey up, Miss Blake.”

  A smile pulled at her mouth at the sound of John Crossley’s voice. “A good day to you, John.”

  His mother stepped up alongside him. “Ey up, Miss Blake. How did tha enjoy t’ sermon?”

  Was that a laugh Evangeline detected beneath the question?

  “The vicar’s words were . . . thought provoking.” That seemed the safest way to describe her response.

  “And familiar,” Mrs. Crossley added.

  They walked beside one another down the churchyard path.

  “He has offered this sermon before?”

  Mrs. Crossley glanced back to the vicar standing by the church door. She lowered her voice. “His words are t’ same week after week: work hard or suffer.”

  “That is always his sermon?”

  Mrs. Crossley nodded, amusement in her weary eyes. “He were chosen by her high-and-mighty lordship.”

  “Mrs. Barton?”

  Another nod. “Everyone hereabouts suspects Mr. Farr left the choosing to Mrs. Barton. We shouldn’t be surprised that she chose a vicar who preaches t’ virtues of labor. It keeps t’ factory hands workin’ after all.”

  The words that had felt so directed at her had been nothing more than Mr. Trewe’s usual call to labor? And a message insisted upon by her aunt? That ought to have brought her comfort but didn’t. It was not her place to speak ill of the vicar, and yet she could not approve of what she had just learned.

  A man Evangeline did not know joined them on the path. He set an arm around Mrs. Crossley’s waist. Mr. Crossley, it seemed. “We had best be on our way, love. T’ children are feeling right famished.”

  “Well, if they weren’t so idle they wouldn’t be hungry, would they?”

  The couple laughed wholeheartedly. Evangeline held back her own amusement, though it bubbled near the surface.

  Their steps took them to where the Palmer family stood. Mr. Palmer, a craggy and worn man, held his hat in his hand, and nodded a greeting.

  “Mornin’,” he said, not to the Crossleys, but to Evangeline. “I’m Gaz Palmer. Tha’s us children’s teacher.”

  For a moment, Evangeline was overcome with surprise at having fully understood his heavily inflected words—an introduction of himself and the observation that she was his children’s teacher—without requiring they be repeated.

  “Greet thy teacher, Hugo,” Mr. Palmer said as he pressed his son to the front of their small group.

  Hugo muttered something. He likely didn’t appreciate being in the company of his teacher on a day he was not obligated to attend school.

  To his parents, she said, “Hugo has made progress with his letters. In time, he’ll learn to string them together and form words, to read and to write.”

  An unfamiliar voice entered the conversation. “A right waste o’ time.”

  Evangeline turned to see a man dressed in the rough, plain clothes of the working class, hair neatly combed, and face free of any smudge or stubble.

  “Tha’ll give t’ young ones learning, but what good’ll it do any of them?” His question held no argument or anger. He was perfectly calm but firm.

  “Keep thy little ones in ignorance if tha thinks it best, Husthwayt,” Mr. Crossley said. “My children will learn and grow their minds.”

  “To what end?” Mr. Husthwayt asked. “None of this’ll keep them from t’ factory.”

  “We’re not a factory family.”

  “Not yet,” Mr. Husthwayt said.

  “Not ever,” Mr. Crossley insisted.

  Mr. Husthwayt gave a quick dip of his head. “A good day to thee an’ all.”

  The families dispersed without further discussion, but with more than a few somber glances in one another’s direction. In a matter of moments, Evangeline alone remained. She had wondered why more children didn’t attend school. Perhaps Mr. Husthwayt’s objections were shared by others in town. Perhaps they all thought the education Evangeline offered their children was worthless.

  Her heart dropped and, with it, her gaze. Seeing the rows of grave markers in the churchyard sunk her spirits further. Would anyone bring flowers to her family’s final resting place? Would anyone ever take note of those four names, so beloved to her?

  Aunt and Uncle Barton stood near the door of the church, speaking with the vicar. Any moment, they would bid farewell to him and walk down the path leading directly to where she stood. They were nearly the last people with whom she cared to have a conversation. They would scold, perhaps even gloat a little. Her grief was too raw for their company.

  She headed toward the schoolhouse. The town, for once, was not empty. The pulsing, pushing crowds, their voices raised in a cacophony of conversations, moved in and out of the shops. This was the busy town she had envisioned when Aunt Barton had spoken of Smeatley as a fast-growing factory town. But why did it only fit that description on Sunday?

  She caught a few glances as she wove through the crowd but felt generally overlooked. Other than her handful of students and their families, no one knew her or cared that she was among them. At the break in the overgrown hedge, she stopped. Her room at the schoolhouse would be quiet and peaceful, but it would also be terribly lonely. She didn’t think her heart could endure it.

  Evangeline looked up the street to the bright yellow door. The McCormicks would not be expecting her. She and Mr. McCormick had agreed that she’d learned enough about soups and stews to feed herself on the days she didn’t have school. Would Mr. McCormick mind if she used her once-daily knock in search of simple company? She would be happy with a wave from Ronan.

  She felt certain she could manage a visit without being too much of a burden.

  Silently repeating those words of resolve, she crossed the street. Her knock, as usual, was not answered immediately, and, when it was, Mr. McCormick looked more than a touch annoyed that she was there. Also, as usual, she didn’t fully believe his show of frustration. Indeed, his dark eyes betrayed a hint of amusement.

  “We’d not been expecting you, Miss Blake,” he said. “What brings you ’round?”

  “I only wished to bid you a good day—you and Ronan.”

  He motioned her inside. That simple gesture warmed her heart. Perhaps she wasn’t entirely alone in the town, in the world, after all.

  “I didn’t see you at church this morning.” That seemed as easy a
way as any to begin a conversation.

  “I’ve had this argument with plenty enough in town without you takin’ it up, lass.”

  She hadn’t intended to offend him. “I was making no accusations. I simply . . . missed you both.” Heavens, that sounded pathetic.

  “Truly?” He could not have looked more incredulous.

  She hid her embarrassment behind a flippant remark. “Mostly Ronan.”

  Mr. McCormick chuckled. “That is far easier to believe.”

  Ronan sat at the table, but he was not whittling nor playing with his carved figurines. A dinner plate sat on the tabletop filled with what looked like flour. Ronan drew shapes in the powder. Evangeline took a step closer, not wishing to make him uncomfortable. It was enough to give her a clear view of his undertaking.

  “Is he drawing letters?” she whispered to Mr. McCormick.

  “He is. The lad’s taken to the letters like a cat to cream.”

  “But he is only at school for an hour, and he doesn’t participate.”

  Mr. McCormick watched his son with unmistakable fondness. “He listens, though. And he remembers.” He shook his head in amazement. “He remembers everything.”

  Evangeline pressed her hand to her heart. She felt a touch breathless. “He is learning. I have actually taught someone something.”

  “Miracles never cease.” Too much laughter hung in his words for the observation to be an insult.

  She pushed down her answering grin. “Tease all you’d like, Mr. McCormick, but I have wondered.”

  Ronan smoothed the flour, his hand covered in white, and began drawing new letters. She watched them form: R-O-N-A-N.

  “He is writing his name.”

  Mr. McCormick nodded. “He studied that slip of paper you gave him for days and days. He’s committed it to memory.”

  Evangeline pressed her palms together and touched her fingertips to her lips, amazed. Ronan was eager to learn, and she hadn’t failed him. Given time, he could learn to read and would likely find the same joy in it that James had.

  “A right waste o’ time.” She took a deep breath, hoping to shake loose Mr. Husthwayt’s declaration, but it had lodged too firmly in her memory. How was it her doubts seemed to multiply in the face of any accomplishment?

  “Why so pensive?” Mr. McCormick asked.

  “Are you happy that he’s learning?”

  He eyed her sidelong. “’Tis something of an odd question.”

  “I was told today that educating children—educating working children—was a waste of time, that it wouldn’t do them any good.”

  “Ah.” Mr. McCormick nodded.

  “Do you suppose that is why I have so few students?”

  He shrugged. “I’d wager ’tis among the reasons.”

  “There are multiple reasons?” She brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “I don’t understand. How could any parent not want their child to learn to read and write?”

  “Did these complainers give you any reasons?” He pulled a chair back from the table, offering it to her.

  She sat, thankful for a quiet moment and a place to think. “The argument was that their children are bound for the factories one way or the other, that there was no point educating them when it wouldn’t change anything about their futures.”

  “That’s likely true. Most families hereabout work at the mill, or will before long.” Mr. McCormick sat in the chair beside hers. “Life is hard in these parts, and the mill offers stability and wages a poor family can depend on.”

  “But those who spoke of it today didn’t sound happy about the prospect of working there. The Crossleys insisted they never would.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve heard people speak of their days at the factory. ’Tis something of a misery from all I hear.”

  “Could not an education save them from that fate?”

  He shook his head. “Likely not. Poverty is too tenacious to be dislodged so easily. Her grip is reinforced by disdain and indifference and by the devastatingly vital role she plays in the current balance of things. Too many who are wealthy are only wealthy because so many others are poor. Such a deeply rooted truth cannot be dug up merely by offering a meager bit of learning to a handful of children.”

  That was not the answer she’d hoped for. “Then I truly am wasting everyone’s time.”

  “I never said ’twas a waste.”

  She felt certain he had, or at least something near it. “You told me it would not make a difference.”

  “I didn’t say that either.” He sat straighter with an air of earnestness about him. “’Tis a frustrating thing not being able to read the day’s events in a newspaper, to not know what’s happening in the world. A man in search of employment who can’t read advertisements nor write out inquiries will likely never find work beyond what he can see directly before him. Most of your students will go to the mill and live out their lives here in Smeatley. Reading and writing and such may not change the path they walk, but it might give them more joy than they’d otherwise have.”

  “The majority of children in town aren’t coming to school as it is.” She sighed. “Any difference I make will be miniscule.”

  “Seems to me you’re needing to decide if a small difference is a difference worth making, if changing just one life for the better or changing a mere dozen would be a waste of your time.”

  She had thought of her role as a teacher only in terms of proving herself to her aunt and grandfather. Lucy’s future depended on her success. But, she realized with a sudden weight, so did the futures of her students.

  Ronan had written his name in his plate of flour, showing himself capable of learning if permitted to do so at his own pace and in his own way. James had found solace in reading. Through words, he had explored a world that, due to his unique challenges, would not otherwise have been open to him.

  Susannah Crossley was teaching her sister the alphabet and would likely in time teach her to read. Someday she could teach her own children, and they theirs. Perhaps Susannah would one day be a teacher herself.

  Even Hugo, who could be quite contrary, was learning. His family had greeted her warmly and had seemed relieved to hear that he was progressing. Education meant a great deal to his family, whose circumstances were even more strained than she had suspected.

  How many of her students stood on the brink of changing their lives? They might work in the factory when all was said and done, but if her efforts brought them something of value, how could she do less than her best for all of them? Were they not worth her time and efforts?

  With a surge of resolve bolstering her confidence, she met Mr. McCormick’s eye. “If Ronan would like to borrow a slate to practice his writing, he is welcome to. The Crossleys borrow one every night.”

  “We’ll gladly accept your offer, Miss Blake. The flour gets a bit messy.”

  Evangeline turned to Ronan. “When you come to school in the morning, I will have a slate ready for you at the small table just to the side of the benches. You can sit there and write for as long as you’d like.”

  Ronan, to her surprise, nodded his understanding.

  “Begor, Miss Blake,” Mr. McCormick whispered, his eyes wide with amazement. “It’s not a small difference you’re making at all.”

  His praise warmed her heart and reaffirmed her resolve. “Well, as someone once said, ‘Miracles never cease.’”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Miss Blake was as good as her word. When Dermot brought Ronan to school the next morning, he’d a small table all to himself a bit away from the other students. She claimed not to know a thing about teaching, yet she understood exactly what his boy needed to be at ease and to learn. The woman was a mystery in so many ways.

  Ronan stood in his usual spot, but only long enough to offer one of his finger-curling waves to Miss Blake and
receive one in return. Then the lad set himself down and took up his bit of chalk.

  “Why does he get his own table?” the Palmer boy demanded.

  “Because he has learned his letters without complaining.” Miss Blake turned to address the rest of the class, but was interrupted by the same demanding boy.

  “He’s learned his letters? He doesn’t even talk.”

  Miss Blake kept her composure; Dermot was struggling with his.

  “Here you have proof, Hugo, that a student need not constantly be speaking in order to do well in school,” she said. “Simply because a person does not speak to you does not mean that person does not speak at all. And just because he doesn’t speak doesn’t mean he is simple. We mustn’t judge people based on our limited experience with them.”

  That was not at all a sentiment Dermot had expected to hear from a lady born to ease and comfort. Judgment seemed near about the only thing the lower classes received from the upper, yet she’d cautioned against it.

  A mystery, and no denying.

  Dermot kept to his usual place on the bench while Miss Blake taught her students. He kept one eye on the papers on which she’d written the letters from her lesson and kept the other eye on Ronan. He didn’t know how much his lad was hearing, and he wanted to be able to remind him later on. He, himself, didn’t read. Like most poor Irish, he’d had no opportunity to learn. And since the recently passed law requiring towns to offer an education to any student no matter how poor or unlikely to learn did not extend to the children in the Emerald Isle, that ignorance wasn’t likely to be relieved any time soon.

  He did his best to commit the instructions to memory, though he was glad to know Miss Blake could provide extra help during her tutoring session with Ronan.’Twas their agreement.

  The customary hour passed. Dermot rose and crossed to Ronan’s small table. The lad was no longer drawing an endless stream of letters, but sat quietly, not looking at anyone or anything, not showing that he was listening, though Dermot suspected he was.

  “Are you wanting to stay a bit longer?” Dermot asked quietly.