Ashes on the Moor

by Sarah M. Eden

  “Mornings are for school,” Ronan answered, his tone just as hushed but filled with earnest insistence.

  How tempting it was to snatch at the change in Ronan’s opinions, but he knew better than to allow the lad to push himself beyond what he could endure. “An hour more,” he said. “I’ll fetch you then, and you can come to the new work site.”

  Ronan thought on it a moment. He held his carved horse in one hand and his bit of chalk in the other, a fitting show of the debate no doubt waging inside. Traveling to the site was familiar to him, but he’d set his mind to spending the morning in school. Yet, remaining at school meant being left there. It was a great deal to ask of the boy.

  At last he nodded. Dermot nodded in return, both surprised and relieved.

  “An hour more, and I’ll return.” He turned toward Miss Blake.

  She met his eye, a question in her gaze.

  “I’ll return in an hour,” he said. “I believe the lad’ll be grand until then.”

  “He will be perfectly grand.” She spoke in finer tones than nearly anyone he’d ever known, yet there was nothing truly superior in her air or manner.

  Dermot tugged his hat on his head once more and stepped from the schoolroom. Only with great effort did he drag himself down the stairs and out the front door. He’d not been away from Ronan for more than a moment or two in all the years they’d been together. He’d watched over and protected his lad. ’Twas a difficult thing to leave that watching and protecting to another, especially one he struggled so mightily to understand.

  Yet, she’s better with the lad than anyone else. She knows him surprisingly well. He reminded himself of that as he made his way down Greenamble and onto Market Cross and then to the newly named Farr Street. Mrs. Barton had suggested the name for the lane on which the first row of back-to-back houses would be built. Dermot hadn’t argued. Mr. Farr owned the factory, after all, and it was the factory’s profits that were financing the project. If that bit of acknowledgment would sway the owner even a small bit, Dermot’d go along with it.

  He reached the dig site and frustration bubbled immediately. His crew was standing about, shovels in hand.

  “Why’ve you stopped digging? We’ll not get the footing laid if the ground’s left where it is.”

  “Tha weren’t here yet,” Gaz tossed back, leaning on the handle of his shovel.

  Dermot looked at them in disbelief. “You’ve not done any work all morning? I left you ample instructions on what you were to be doing. You haven’t any excuse to be standing about.”

  He set his gaze on Thomas. The boy would give an honest tale of the trouble.

  “We were digging,” Thomas said, “but t’ work halted on account of an argument.”

  Dermot could guess as to who’d started the trouble though he addressed his next words of warning to all of them. “You’ve each of you a job to do. I was quite clear the work expected of you today. You haven’t any excuse to not have done it.”

  Bertie Gardner looked as though he meant to interrupt. Dermot didn’t let him.

  “I’ve brought the lot of you over from our last project in the hope that you’d prove yourself useful on this one. I’ll be sending to Keighley soon, where most of the bricklayers who worked on the mill went in search of jobs. There are others there as well, eager for work. Show yourself worthy of the trust, and I’ll place you in charge of a crew. Interrupt your workday with foolish arguing, and you’ll find yourself looking elsewhere for your day’s pay.”

  He held Gaz Palmer’s gaze a touch longer than the others. It seemed every bit of trouble he encountered on the job started with the man.

  “Back to work,” he barked out. “All of you. I want to hear the ol’ blade slicing into the dirt.”

  The crew set to work immediately, though Gaz paused long enough to send Dermot a hard look. He returned it in full measure. A great deal depended on the success of this endeavor. He’d not allow an ill-tempered grumbler to risk it all.

  With Gaz back to work, Dermot set his attention on Thomas. “A word, lad.”

  He received a wary look in response.

  Dermot slapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You’re not in deep mud, don’t you fret. Neither do I mean to ask you to tell tales on your fellow crewmen.” He offered up the last bit loudly enough for the others to overhear. “I only meant to ask after your family. Your youngest sister wasn’t at school. Is she still ailing?”

  “She’s not well.” Thomas straightened his cap. “Our Johanna’s allas been poorly. She’s frail, she is.”

  ’Twas testament to the lass’s condition that her usually jesting brother spoke so plainly and soberly.

  “And this is no place for the fragile.” Dermot knew that well enough. ’Twas the reason he worried over Ronan so much.

  Thomas’s face lit up all of a sudden. “I mean to ask thee, where’s little Ronan?”

  “He wished to stay at school for a bit.”

  Thomas whistled long and high. “Now i’n’t that a wonder?”

  The wonder repeated itself the next day, and the next. By week’s end, Ronan no longer needed Dermot sitting in during the first hour of the day, nor did he wish to be fetched after another hour. Midway through the next week, Ronan chose to stay for the entire school day.

  Dermot only hoped fate was generous enough to grant him another bit of good fortune. He’d need to organize his newly hired bricklayers and set them to work before the project slid off schedule.

  He’d hired back a number of workers from Keighley along with a few new men, dividing the lot into smaller crews. He’d spent hours going over the building plans in great detail then assigning specific tasks for the day.

  The heads of each crew were doing their best, but not all were suited to the job. He’d have to rethink his assignments if they didn’t ease into their new roles.

  “You can’t scrimp on the footings, men,” he called out. “The width on either side has to be at least one-half the thickness of the wall, and the depth at least two-thirds. Shoddy work’ll see you off the crew, don’t you doubt it.”

  Dermot climbed into the trenches dug for the footings and counted bricks for his own self. He’d not build his future, figurative or otherwise, on a shabby foundation.

  “Mortar’s too runny,” he called out. “This’ll have to be remixed.”

  “I’ve made it this runny before,” Gaz said. “Tha never made me remix it.”

  Dermot scooped up a handful of the mortar, roughly the consistency of undercooked porridge. He might’ve known Gaz was the culprit. “On dry, hot days, you’re able to make your mortar wetter and not have it fall apart. We’ve had rain for three days and are likely due for more tonight and tomorrow.” A fellow didn’t learn bricklaying in Ireland and not pick up a thing or two about working in wet weather. “Remix it and rebuild.”

  “That’ll take hours.”

  “It will.”

  The others on the same crew as Gaz, the one Bertie Gardner oversaw, watched with looks of frustration and the first hints of anger. ’Twouldn’t do to have a revolt on his hands so early.

  “I’ll work alongside you,” he told them. “We’ll have this fixed quickly enough.”

  He kept close watch on Gaz mixing the mortar, making certain he did it right. The sidelong glares he received from the man told him that the scrutiny was not appreciated. The rest of the crew, though, set to work without much complaint. Those men he’d not worked with before even commented on the rarity of the overseer laboring alongside his workers. They’d find he did things his own way.

  He knew the new arrivals all by name by the time the footing was relaid, and they looked to him with a bit less suspicion. He’d need time to build trust with them, he being both unknown and Irish.

  “I want you here at first light,” he told them as they finished cleaning their tools. “The soon
er we start each day, the sooner we’re done.”

  That earned him a few approving nods. Those who’d worked with him before trusted him. He’d gain the loyalty of the new men in the end, he felt certain of it. He’d managed it before; he’d do so again. He did not, however, know if Ronan would forgive him for being late.

  He lugged his bucketful of tools up Greenamble. If all went well in Smeatley, he meant to build a new house for himself and Ronan. He would choose a site on a street with a more gradual slope, that much was certain.

  The hedge outside the schoolhouse still hadn’t been cut back. The children might pass through the narrow opening with little trouble, but a man grown and carrying a heavy bucket didn’t navigate so easily. If Miss Blake was particularly miffed by his tardiness, perhaps he could offer to trim the hedge as penance.

  A little girl with dark curls sat on an enormous rock not far from the schoolhouse. She turned brown eyes on him as he stepped forward. He knew her from his mornings spent in the schoolroom: Cecilia Haigh. Hers was a factory family, though they’d only recently become one.

  “A fine good evening to you, lass,” he said, eyeing her for signs of distress. “Why’re you standing about the schoolhouse? Have you forgotten your way home?”

  She shook her head.

  “Were you afraid to walk alone?”

  Another head shake.

  He set his bucket down and crouched in front of her. “What’s kept you here so late, then?”

  She turned red but didn’t answer. Hers was a different kind of quiet than Ronan’s, one born of pure timidity and shyness.

  Dermot folded his hands in front of him, assuming his most unthreatening posture. “Are you waiting for someone? Your folks, perhaps?”

  She nodded. Her gaze slid in the direction of the factory.

  “They’ve not come to fetch you?”

  A head shake.

  “Does Miss Blake know you’re still here, sweetheart?”

  Her eyes dropped to her wringing hands. That, he guessed, meant “No.”

  Dermot held a hand out to her. “’Tis more than a touch chilly tonight. I think we’d best go inside and wait for your da and ma where you’ll be warm.”

  She set her hand in his, but still looked uncertain.

  He offered a reassuring smile. “Only as far as the schoolhouse,” he promised.

  They walked up the front steps and through the unlocked door. The door to Miss Blake’s living quarters was open. Either she’d made her peace with Ol’ Bob or she’d left it open in anticipation of Dermot’s arrival.

  He stepped across the threshold, the girl’s small, trembling hand still in his. Miss Blake sat at her table and looked up as he approached.

  “I found a wee angel sitting outside,” he said.

  “Cecilia.” Miss Blake leaped to her feet. “Have you been outside all this time?”

  The little girl sniffled, but didn’t release her hold on his hand. Dermot slipped free of her grasp and nudged her forward.

  Miss Blake knelt in front of Cecilia and took her hands. “Sweetie, why did you not come inside? The weather is cold today.”

  “My parents wouldn’t know where to find me,” Cecilia whispered.

  “They would have, I assure you.” Miss Blake rose and led her charge toward the low-burning fire. “Sit here on this stool. You’ll be warm in no time.”

  ’Twas then Dermot spotted Ronan, curled up in a rocking chair near the fire, asleep. For the lad to be so at ease in Miss Blake’s company to have been lulled to sleep boded well for his future at the school. Dermot needed the building project to be a success; he’d be hard-pressed to find another school Ronan would take to so quickly.

  “What could be keeping her parents, do you suppose?” Miss Blake had stepped closer to where Dermot stood. “Their schedule is usually so predictable.”

  “They’re a factory family.”

  She nodded. “One of three in the school.”

  “Do the other factory family children usually wait for their parents?” ’Twas odd this girl was the only one remaining.

  “Usually,” Miss Blake said. “Though they are older than she, and not the only children in their family. They have ventured home on their own before.”

  “Factory time must be running slow today,” he said.

  “Is factory time not the same as everyone else’s time?”

  She clearly had spent little time in a factory town. “The machines in the mill run the clocks in the mill. If the machines run slow, the clocks run slow, and the clocks rule all.”

  “Were the bricklaying clocks running slow today as well?”

  He crossed to Ronan, checking on the boy. “We had to relay a bit of the footing. The task couldn’t be left for mornin’.” Ronan didn’t feel overly warm or cold. He was sleeping deeply, that was for certain. “How’d m’ lad do today?”

  “He was as good as gold,” she said. “I hope he will stay throughout the day from now on.”

  “So do I.”

  Little Cecilia was watching him. Dermot tossed her a bit of a smile. She didn’t smile back, but did look less apprehensive. What was it about him that had her so unsure? His manner of speaking, perhaps. Many in Smeatley disliked that he was a foreigner. Even the children weren’t immune to that preference.

  Dermot scooped up Ronan and turned to Miss Blake. “I’ll endeavor not to be late tomorrow. I’m not meaning to make more work for you.”

  Her gaze, soft and tender, fell on Ronan’s sleeping form. “He can stay as long as he needs to, whenever he needs to. He will always be welcome here.”

  That was surprising. “I’ve not met anyone so comfortable with him and his oddities.”

  She met Dermot’s eyes. Sadness crept into her expression. “He is very much like my brother. Having him near is like having my James with me again.”

  “You’re away from your family?”

  She took a quick breath before answering. “Yes. All of them.”

  “I’d not have believed it when we first met, but it seems we’ve a vast deal in common, you and I.”

  A little smile appeared. “Enough that I can knock on your door more than once a day?”

  “You’d best not count on it.”

  Her brow drew down and a flash of hurt passed through her eyes.

  “Eventually, lass, you’ll learn when I’m teasing you.”

  Her expression turned to frustration. “Do you realize how nearly impossible it is to tell when you’re jesting?”

  He adjusted his hold on Ronan. “I know it.”

  She shook her head and motioned him toward the door. “I’ll see you both in the morning.”

  Dermot stopped in the doorway and tossed back over his shoulder, “Keep your chin up, Miss Cecilia. Your folks’ll be by directly. You’ll see.”

  Miss Blake smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded. Only when he’d reached home and had laid Ronan in his bed did he realize how remarkable his visit had been. He’d received trust from a child of the town and kindness from a lady of refinement, he’d broken an established routine without Ronan falling clear to pieces, and he was overseeing a project of his own design.

  For a man who’d begun life near starving with little hope of better times to come, the future was looking surprisingly bright. Like any true Irishman, though, he couldn’t help wondering how it would inevitably fall apart. History taught all his countrymen that good fortune always ran out. Always.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Two additional families sent their children to school the next week. While Evangeline felt this was a success, she also found herself faced with a predicament. These new students had yet to learn their letters, while the rest of the class had passed that portion of their education and were, at varying speeds, learning their letter sounds. How could she teach her
new students when her existing students still needed so much guidance?

  After struggling with the dilemma for a few days, she was struck with an idea she hoped would prove the right solution.

  One morning, she approached Susannah Crossley before school began. “May I speak with you?”

  The girl nodded and stepped inside the entryway with Evangeline. She watched, wary and curious.

  “We have several new students,” Evangeline began. “They are behind all of the other children and need help learning what you have already been taught. Knowing that you have been helping your sister learn what she has missed at school, I wondered if perhaps you would be willing to take part of your day at school to help teach the new students so that I can continue working with those who need my help.”

  Susannah, who generally maintained a calm and serene exterior, grew eager and excited. “Tha aren’t hoodwinking me, are thee?”

  “I am entirely in earnest.”

  A cloud of uncertainty touched Susannah’s expression. “I don’t know how to be a teacher.”

  Oh, how tempted Evangeline was to admit that she didn’t either, but she dared not risk her students’ confidence in her.

  “I would not have asked you if I did not think you fully capable,” she assured Susannah. “Now, do not worry that this will interfere with your own learning. I have seen how quickly you grasp new concepts and how readily your mind opens to new information. I believe you can learn all you need to even with a bit less time devoted to your own schooling. Should this arrangement cause you difficulties, though, we will revisit it and make whatever changes are necessary.”

  A smile as full of relief as it was of excitement appeared on her usually weary face. “I think I’d like to be a teacher.”

  “Here is your opportunity to discover whether or not you will truly enjoy it, whether or not you have an aptitude for it.” This experiment would also prove whether or not Evangeline had stumbled upon the solution to her problem or simply added more difficulty to what she was attempting to accomplish.

  “May I ask a favor of thee?” Susannah asked, nervous.