Ashes on the Moor

by Sarah M. Eden

  As if brought by fate itself, Mr. Crossley stepped inside. He tossed his weather-beaten hat onto an obliging nail and worked at the buttons of his mud-stained coat. “Right parky out today, i’n’it?”

  “Don’t bother those boys none. They’re bahn to t’ west field,” Mrs. Crossley replied.

  “They’re meaning to spot t’ black sheep. Full fascinated, they are. We’ve t’ makings of two shepherds in them, we do.” Mr. Crossley kissed his wife, not the quick greeting Evangeline was accustomed to seeing among her parents’ friends, but an unmistakably affectionate kiss directly on the mouth accompanied by a full-armed and lingering embrace. “Have tha missed me, then?”

  Mrs. Crossley smiled up at him. “I’ve not missed t’ mud tha brings in with thee.”

  Mr. Crossley chuckled and kissed her again, quickly this time. “Palmer’s come for a chat. Said to ask thee first if tha minds.”

  Concern filled Mrs. Crossley’s face. “At this time of day? Why’s he not workin’?”

  Mr. Crossley lowered his voice, though Evangeline could still hear him. “I’d wager that’s what he means to talk about.”

  Why was Mr. Palmer not at the building site like Thomas Crossley? They both worked for Mr. McCormick, but Susannah had said that the workday was too long and too rigid for her brother to slip away long enough to walk his siblings home.

  “I’ll set Mr. Palmer’s mind at ease,” Mrs. Crossley said. “Hear what news Miss Blake has come with.”

  Mr. Crossley dipped his head in her direction. “Ey up, Miss Blake.”

  “Good day to you, as well. I came to tell you that Susannah has been appointed an assistant teacher at the school.”

  He turned to Susannah. “My girl! Assistant teacher. That’s a fine thing, i’n’it?”

  Susannah nodded. “I’ll be learning to teach, just as we’d hoped.”

  Just as they’d hoped? Had the family discussed it before?

  Mr. Crossley’s next question was addressed to Evangeline. “Does tha think, with t’ practice she’d get, she might one day be a teacher hersen?”

  Hersen. Herself. “I do not see why not. Having experience could only help her chances.”

  “A teacher.” Mr. Crossley gently took his daughter’s face in his hands. “Tha’d not have to go to t’ factory.”

  “I know it.”

  “You’d live your life baht that misery,” he added.

  “Baht” is “without.” When the word continued to sit odd on her ears, she repeated the translation.“Baht” is “without.”

  “Oh, girl.” Mr. Crossley pulled Susannah into an embrace.

  Hoping she would not give offense, Evangeline asked the question weighing heavy on her mind. “Why is it you dislike the factory so much?”

  It was Mr. Palmer, who had only just stepped inside, who answered. “It’s a place of misery and death,” he said. “Those what get through t’ day baht injuries only grow more unhappy, their souls dying by inches.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Why wasn’t Mr. Palmer working this afternoon?”

  Dermot eyed Miss Blake, attempting to sort out her unexpected substitute for a greeting.

  “I know he works for you, as does Thomas Crossley. Thomas was not able to leave the work site to walk his brothers and sister home from school, yet Mr. Palmer was at the Crossleys’ house.”

  Ah. “Why did you not ask Palmer your own self why he was not working?”

  “He did not seem to wish to talk about it,” she answered. “At least not to me.”

  The Crossleys, no doubt, had received an earful. “Palmer was let go today.” And that was all Dermot intended to say on the matter. He held his hand out to Ronan. “Come along, lad.”

  Miss Blake, however, was not satisfied. “You fired him?”

  “I did, and not without cause.”

  Far from placated, she appeared more concerned. “Then he does not have a job. His family has no income.”

  “It couldn’t be helped.”

  Miss Blake’s forehead creased deeply with worry. “What will they do?”

  “I’m telling you, lass, it couldn’t be helped.”

  She was unimpressed. “He has children to feed.”

  “Perhaps that fact ought to have entered his mind each day when he chose to laze about instead of doing his work.”

  “His work was lacking?”

  Why did that surprise her so much? Did she know Palmer at all?

  “His skills were fine enough, but he far preferred to stand about chatting rather than doing the job I was paying him to be doing. The crew is small, barely sufficient for the work we’re undertaking in the time we’ve been given. I could not justify taking any of m’ men from their duties to spend the day hounding Palmer to do his part. I gave him ample warnings and opportunities for changing and doing better, but he heeded not a single one. And why”—exasperation filled his words—“do I feel the need to defend this to you? I did what needed doing, and that ought not to earn your censure.”

  “And I am concerned for my students, which ought not to earn yours.”

  “Your students?” He folded his arms across his chest. “The Crossleys’ oldest works for me, and his income is crucial to them. The Bennetts, too, depend upon the work Mr. Bennett does for me; their children are new to the school, I believe. The houses we’re building would allow the Haighs to live near enough to the factory to save their wee lass the long and difficult walk to and from town every day, allowing her to sleep a bit more and have a more reliable roof over her head. If this project is a failure, what happens to those students?”

  She watched him, silent.

  “I’m not heartless. I do worry about the Palmer children. ’Tis the reason I gave their father one chance after another, one warning after another. But too many lives depend on these houses being completed correctly and on schedule. I could not risk all of that any longer.”

  “Could you not have found something else for him to do? A different task than the one he had been undertaking?”

  He tempered his response, knowing that she meant well, that she spoke not out of condemnation but concern. “He is not a reliable worker. I was as merciful as I could be.”

  “But he’ll have to go to the factory.” Her voice hardly raised above a whisper. “I have heard him speak of it as a place of death for the soul.”

  Dermot couldn’t fault the man for that view. ’Twas one of the reasons he’d waited so long before finally sending him on his way. “The mill values efficiency above all else. The work is monotonous and miserable at times. And they’ve not enough workers for the load, meaning they’re all doing too much to make up the difference.

  “Though I’ve not been inside the building myself since it was completed, I’ve heard others speak of the thickness in the air and the overly warm, overly crowded rooms. They say the machines are deafeningly loud, and that the smell of wool and oil is so strong it lingers on the workers long after they’ve left for the day. A man raised on the moors, as Palmer was, likely sees those confined spaces and lack of fresh air and freedom to be something of a death to the soul.”

  “Yet, you would resign him to that?”

  Saints, the woman knew how to twist the knife of guilt. “He resigned himself to it.”

  “That is rather cold.”

  He shook his head. “It is the truth, unvarnished. I did all I could.”

  She squared her shoulders, a posture of proud defiance. “And is that enough to appease your conscience, Mr. McCormick?”

  “If all my crew lost their positions and incomes, and the factory workers lost their opportunity for better housing, all on account of me ignoring Mr. Palmer’s poor work, would that appease your conscience?”

  She held her chin at a dignified angle. “Clearly we are not going to see eye to eye.”

  �
�That would be difficult, seeing as you’re not terribly tall.”

  Her eyebrow shot upward at a sharp angle. “You are turning this into a jest?”

  He shook his head. “Only wishing to put an end to an argument.” He took up Ronan’s hand. “Have yourself a fine evening, Miss Blake.”

  Ronan offered his teacher his customary wave, which she returned as always. Though the lass had shown his boy kindness and patience, she did not always extend that forbearance to Dermot. Perhaps ’twas just as well, being disposed as she was to assume the worst in his intentions.

  Why, then, did her words weigh so heavily on him as he went through the routine of supper and seeing Ronan to bed? He knew he’d been as merciful as he could be with Gaz Palmer. He’d kept the man on through the entire wall building project despite the continued problems he’d caused. He’d even brought him along when the back-to-backs began, hoping for the best.

  That afternoon had forced the decision. The crew had been working themselves to exhaustion trying to get caught up after fixing an error made that morning. Every man had been pulling his weight, except Palmer. He’d wandered away and set himself to sitting with his back against the tree, just watching the sky.

  Dermot had waited to say anything, hoping to see the man rethink his decision and return to work. But a half hour passed with no change. Then another. He could see the frustration in the faces of the other workers as they’d glared at Palmer. A few even muttered to each other about him being paid to laze about when they had to slave away.

  Palmer not doing his work was bad enough, but creating resentment in the other workers would bring the entire project to a halt if left unchecked.

  He’d had no choice.

  Feeling guilty was a particularly Irish talent, having been perfected over centuries, and Dermot was well-acquainted with the experience. This time, though, it felt different.

  He could not have done anything but what he’d done—not with so many depending on the success of the project. Yet he knew the Palmer family would suffer for it. In that, Miss Blake had been correct.

  There I go, feeling the ol’ guilt.

  He pushed back the niggling thought, but it resurfaced again and again. His childhood had been spent learning a trade, far from his family and far from the only home he’d known. He’d suffered the loneliness and the separation because having one less mouth to feed and one less body to clothe had kept his family afloat in the vast ocean of poverty. He’d suffered for the good of others. His life had been turned inside out to save the lives of those around him.

  He had been the lamb at the slaughter, and he had just resigned Gaz Palmer to the same role.

  The chief difference being that Palmer had been given chance after chance to avoid his fate. Dermot hadn’t even been warned. He’d simply been handed off and told to be a good lad, and he’d never seen nor heard from his family again.

  Life was far too often cruel.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Evangeline’s day had not been going well. That morning, Mr. McCormick had informed her, in chilled tones, that Ronan would be walking home with the Crossley children rather than remaining with her after school, no doubt the result of her disapproval of his firing of Mr. Palmer. The children were increasingly frustrated with their attempts at piecing together words, something which likely would have been alleviated had they the advantage of a teacher who actually knew how to teach. Her newest students were progressing, but slowly and with obvious concern that they were falling behind their friends who had been attending school longer. To top all of it off, Hugo Palmer was worse than usual.

  He questioned everything, spoke sharply and at times unkindly to his fellow students, and refused to do many of the things she asked of him. Knowing the strain that existed in his home, Evangeline tried to be patient and understanding, but his behavior was both discouraging and disruptive.

  “If you stop trying,” she told him for perhaps the hundredth time, “then you will never learn.”

  “What’s the point of learning owt? We’ll all end in t’ factory no matter what we do.”

  It was exactly the argument she had attempted to counter in the churchyard, that education was pointless when set against the inevitability of the mill. “Wouldn’t you like to learn to read?”

  His shoulders slumped. “What would I read?”

  She attempted to maintain an encouraging tone despite having nearly expended the last of her patience. “Books and stories.”

  Hugo harrumphed. “They’re all written for south folk.”

  “I am looking for books written for Yorkshiremen,” she told him. “I simply do not know yet where to find them or whom to ask.”

  Hugo folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. “I’ll read those stories if tha finds them.”

  “You will refuse until I find something I don’t even know for certain exists?”

  “Aye.” His expression and posture spoke of such stubbornness that she could not doubt he was fully in earnest.

  She pushed out a long, deep breath. Remaining calm was as much the mark of a proper upbringing as was serenity of countenance and precision of posture. “Oh, Hugo. What am I to do with you?”

  Footsteps sounded in the entryway, pulling all eyes in that direction. They never had visitors. Evangeline watched with as much confusion as curiosity. Perhaps one of the children was being called home early. Perhaps another student would be joining them.

  The footsteps reached the top of the stairs.

  The new arrival wasn’t a student or a parent. Aunt Barton had arrived without warning or welcome.

  Worry and discouragement filled the children’s faces. For Evangeline, the arrival brought a feeling of dread.

  She gave a quick signal to her students, having practiced the appropriate action for this scenario. They all rose quickly to their feet—all except Hugo, who maintained his contrary air.

  “Class,” she cued them.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Barton,” they all said, nearly in unison.

  In what amounted to something akin to a miracle, Aunt Barton actually looked impressed. Perhaps this visit would not end with the same disappointment as the others had. Evangeline had not been privy to the reports her aunt had sent to her grandfather, but she had no difficulty imagining what they had said.

  “Continue with your work,” Aunt Barton instructed the class.

  Evangeline gave a smile and nod of encouragement to her students. “You may be seated.”

  With a fervor that she hoped her aunt would interpret as an eagerness to learn rather than the fear Evangeline knew it to be, the children bent over their slates.

  “They are very studious,” Aunt Barton acknowledged, eyeing the children the way one would an unwanted annoyance or a difficulty that is beneath one’s dignity to address.

  “They wish very much to learn. It is an admirable trait.” Somehow she kept the response serene.

  Aunt Barton merely nodded.

  Pushing back her nervousness, Evangeline gestured to the left side of the schoolroom. “These are our students who are learning fastest. Many are beginning to read basic words. Beside them”—she indicated the middle benches—“are our students who are making progress toward the goal of reading. And this group here”—she motioned to the cluster of students gathered around Susannah—“are children who have only joined us in the past few days and are, therefore, beginning their studies.”

  Aunt Barton indicated Susannah. “This girl was here last time. She is not new.”

  “No. Susannah Crossley is our most advanced student and quite bright. She is assisting the newer students.”

  “Assisting students is your job, Miss Blake.” Aunt Barton turned a piercingly disapproving gaze on Evangeline. “Are you so incapable of it?”

  “Providing more direct instruction will allow them to progress more quickly an
d catch up to the other children. It is not a matter of being capable or not.”

  “Odd that.” Aunt Barton lifted her chin a fraction. “I understand the school in Greenborough has far more students and only one teacher, and there are no reports of any difficulty keeping the students progressing.”

  Evangeline clasped her hands together, maintaining a calm demeanor. “I am doing what is best for my students. Surely that is what a teacher ought to do.”

  Aunt Barton’s disapproval did not ease. “My purpose in visiting is to determine whether or not you are, in fact, doing what is best for the children of Smeatley. Your defensiveness gives me reason to doubt it.”

  Defensiveness? Evangeline had been reasonable, offering answers to Aunt Barton’s questions without accusation or undue emotion. She had acted precisely as she ought, yet she was being criticized. Had she stepped out of line? She didn’t think so. Maybe Aunt Barton simply needed to see for herself that all was well in the classroom.

  “Perhaps you would care to see what the children have learned, to measure their progress by witnessing a demonstration of it.”

  The corners of Aunt Barton’s mouth tipped ever-so-slightly upward, but her expression was far from warm or kind. “I believe your attitude tells me all I need to know—and all Mr. Farr requires.”

  With that, she turned and swept from the room with a regal posture and without a single glance in the direction of the children in whose interest she claimed to be acting. That was to be it? On one brief visit, not one moment of which was spent actually observing anything, Aunt Barton meant to denounce her efforts to her grandfather?

  It was unfair. Surely Aunt Barton could be made to see that.

  Evangeline followed in her wake, tossing instructions to her students to continue with their studies and the assurance that she would return quickly.

  “Mrs. Barton.” She caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs.