“That sounds like a good rule.” Evangeline tucked a comment into the conversation as soon as Ronan paused long enough to allow it. “What other rules do you know?”
“Dogs should have spots,” he said. “They don’t all, but I like the ones what have spots.”
Every now and then, the little Irish boy said something that rang with the Yorkshire manner of speaking. He did not interact with the other children much, and he almost never spoke to any of them, but it seemed he was listening and absorbing what he heard.
“People don’t have spots. And people smell like different things than people. That’s a new rule. People can smell like dirt or flowers or like the factory. ’Tisn’t wrong for them to. That’s a rule.”
Having engaged in similar conversations with her brother, she could easily imagine Dermot having to explain the “rule” about odors that clung to people. It had likely baffled Ronan until then.
“What about sheep?” she pressed.
“Sheep smell like sheep. They sound like sheep. There are black sheep, not just white ones, but there’re not as many. That’s a rule as well.”
“Did John tell you that rule?”
Ronan shook his head. “I sorted it on my own. I’ve seen the sheep. There’re always more white sheep than black.”
The boy was clever, there was no denying that.
By the time they reached the Crossleys’ home, the topic had moved to music and the songs he sang most often at home. Though Ronan had been silent during the first weeks of their acquaintance, when they were alone of late he did not stop talking. Her heart never failed to be warmed by it.
Evangeline knocked at the door.
“Miss Blake,” Mrs. Crossley said. “What brings thee ’round?”
“I have come to ask a favor, actually.” Hearing the words aloud drove home how presumptuous they truly were. “I will, of course, understand if what I ask is inconvenient or unappealing to you.”
Mrs. Crossley nodded and watched her closely. Ronan’s attention had wandered to the sheep grazing in a distant field, no doubt searching for the rare black dot among the white.
“The children at school are struggling with their reading, in part because the materials I have for them to read are not written in the language with which they are most familiar.”
Mrs. Crossley’s attention hadn’t wavered.
“I would like for them to have stories to read that are written in Yorkshire English, but I do not know how or where to find such a thing. That is what I am hoping you can help me with.”
“I’ve not owned a book in all us life,” she said. “I’d not have t’ first idea where to find one.”
She had not been as clear she’d thought. “I meant that I had hoped you knew of some stories or tales that the children would find familiar that you would be willing to tell me, in your own words. I would write those stories down exactly as you told them to me with the same words and phrases. The children could then practice reading what I had written out. The language would be their language, and their frustration at the unfamiliar words and sounds they have been attempting to read would be lessened.”
“They’d be reading t’ words I say?”
Evangeline nodded. “They would eventually have to learn to read words as they are spoken and written in other parts of the country, but building their confidence by giving them something familiar will help, I think. I hope, at least.”
Mrs. Crossley’s expression turned thoughtful. “Tha’re an odd sort of southerner, miss. They usually turn their noses up at us way of speaking. Allus have done.”
“I wish to help the children more than anything,” Evangeline said. “And this, I firmly believe, will help.”
Mrs. Crossley nodded. “I’ll help thee, though I can’t this day.”
“Of course. Whenever you are able, simply tell me when or where, and we can begin.”
She nodded. “It’s a grand thing tha’re doing. Any other southern teacher wouldn’t’ve cared owt for t’ children’s comfort.”
The idea of a teacher neglecting her dear children hurt her heart. “I would hope that any teacher would care deeply for her students.”
Mrs. Crossley offered an empathetic smile. “Tha has a good heart, so tha can’t imagine being so cold. We need only look to her high-and-mighty lordship to know how most southern folk feel.”
“Mrs. Barton is not always as kind as she ought to be,” Evangeline acknowledged. “I am pleased to know that I have shown myself to be preferable to her.”
An immediate sense of disloyalty grabbed her. Despite her own difficulties with her aunt, they were family. Yet, having been subjected to Aunt Barton’s unkindness, she could feel nothing but relief at knowing she was not guilty of the same transgression.
“Tha and Ronan had best hurry back to town. There’s a storm brewing overhead.”
The sky had, indeed, turned an ominous shade of gray, and a cold breeze had begun to blow.
“Thank you, Mrs. Crossley. I appreciate your willingness to help.”
She urged Ronan onward, and they moved quickly back to the schoolhouse, not slowing to look at anything nor to have a leisurely discussion on whatever struck his fancy.
She had the fire burning low and Ronan deposited in front of it by the time the first flash of lightning lit the dark sky. The day had not grown overly late, but almost no light penetrated the thick clouds. It felt as if night had come far too early.
A low rumble of thunder shook the windows. Wind whistled through unseen gaps in the walls.
Ronan pulled himself tightly into a ball, cringing with each crash of thunder.
Evangeline knelt before the rocking chair where he sat. “You do not care for the storm, do you?”
He sat in tense, shaking silence.
“What is it you do at home during a storm?” she asked.
“Sing,” he whispered.
“We can sing now if you’d like.”
He nodded, quickly, anxiously.
“What song would you like to sing?”
He hesitated, then, in quiet tones, began to sing. It was not a song she knew nor had ever before heard. In fact, the song was not even in English. After a moment, he stopped, looking at her in confusion, no doubt having expected her to join in.
“I do not know that song,” she confessed.
He tried another, also in what she suspected was Irish, and it ended in the same look of disappointment.
“What if I taught you a song that I used to sing when I was your age?” she suggested. “It was a favorite of my brother’s. His name was James, and you remind me a great deal of him. I think you would like this song as well.”
He looked curious enough to convince her to move ahead with her plan.
“This song involves a great many numbers,” she told him. “I suspect you are fond of numbers and counting.”
His curiosity increased on the instant.
“I will sing the verses, and you can join on the chorus. It is numbers, but listed in reverse order and skipping over some. It can grow tricky, which only makes it more fun to sing. When I sang it with my brother, tripping over the numbers would make us laugh and laugh until we had to start again.” She smiled both at the memory and at Ronan’s unwavering interest. “Would you like to try?”
Lightning lit the room, followed closely by thunder. Ronan’s gaze flew to the ceiling, and he tensed.
James had often grown clingy when he was afraid, though at other times he refused any contact. Predicting which he would prefer had proven difficult. Ronan was likely equally indiscernible. Evangeline took a guess.
“What if I were to sit in the rocking chair and we were to wrap you up in a warm blanket? You could sit close to me and need not worry over the storm or the cold.” Pulling a blanket tight around himself had often been a source of calm for James.
Ronan’s ready agreement told her he too was comforted by it. In a moment’s time they were settled, and she began teaching him “As I Walked through London City.” As she had hoped, the complexity of counting backward using only every other number kept his mind occupied enough to lessen the impact of the storm. Each time they stumbled over a number, they would laugh too much to continue, and he would eagerly ask to begin again.
She did not know precisely how long they worked at the amusing song, but slowly his tension ebbed away and he grew more comfortable. Evangeline found her gaze returning again and again to James’s image on the mantel. He and Ronan would likely have appreciated one another, though she knew James had not been particularly adept at making friends. She was not well-acquainted enough with Ronan to know if he had difficulties in that area. He had never made the attempt at school, and, though he did not object when John Crossley invited him to look at the sheep, he was never the one to suggest it nor did he seek out John’s company.
Dermot stepped inside before they managed to master the song. He was soaked to his skin, yet stood rooted to the spot the moment his gaze fell on them. Shock filled every line of his face.
“The lad’s sitting on your lap.”
Evangeline nodded. “We have been learning a song.”
“’Tis about numbers,” Ronan added.
Dermot’s eyes pulled wide. “He’s talking to you now?”
“We have become good friends.” Though she knew that would not appear true to most observers, Ronan’s willingness to talk and sit with her and trust her was, for him, an act of real friendship.
Dermot said something in Irish, though with a tone of amazement. “Go on with your song, then,” he instructed. “I’ll put supper on.”
“You’ll catch your death if you don’t return home and change out of your sodden clothes,” she warned.
“I’ll hang the wettest of it up near the fire. The rest’ll dry out as I work.”
“You’re certain?”
“You’ve worked a bit of a miracle here, Evangeline. I’ll not interfere with that for all the dry clothes in the world.”
A different kind of warmth filled her. She had devised a plan for bringing Yorkshire words to her students, had seen Ronan through a storm, and had built a bond with him in the process. Perhaps she was not such a failure after all.
Chapter Twenty-one
Nothing could have prepared Dermot for the sight of Ronan curled up on Evangeline’s lap. The position had seemed so natural, yet Ronan never let anyone but Dermot so close to him.
More confusing still was how his heart clenched when his thoughts turned to her. He’d grown undeniably fond of the confusing and at times frustrating colleen. She was thoughtful and kind, witty and determined—and from an entirely different world than he was.
Though she spoke little of her past, ’twas not difficult to discern her history. Her posture and demeanor and manner of speaking all testified of a higher birth than he could claim. Theirs was an unexpected friendship and would never be anything but. Some things could simply not be overlooked or overcome.
He reminded himself of that any time his traitorous heart thudded out its affection for her. His had been a humble upbringing, and he’d no education to speak of, but he was not so thick as to think he could change the ways of the world. Life had challenges enough without seeking out more.
His crew had made great progress on the row of back-to-back houses. Despite the fierce storm a week earlier, the foundation had held fast. The portion of the walls they had erected had taken a beating from the wind and pelting rain, yet had remained perfectly square.
He surveyed the men’s work, impressed with what he saw. Even young Thomas Crossley, inexperienced as he was, had laid a tidy, straight row.
“You’ve done grand work here, lad.” He leaned a touch closer, eyeing the newly laid bricks. “Well done.”
“Thank thee.” The response lacked the boy’s typical enthusiasm.
“Have you something on your mind?”
Thomas’s jaw worked against the tension in his face and posture. “Father fears t’ sheep are growing ill. Looks to be scrapie.”
“I don’t know a thing about that, I’m afraid.”
“Scrapie is a disease, terrible and swift.” Thomas slid his trowel into the pocket of his heavy work apron. “It can’t be treated or cured. It spreads through flocks, killin’ most all t’ sheep.”
The Crossleys’ livelihood depended on their flock. “What’ll your family do?”
“We’ll try to save enough sheep to get by.” He sounded not the least bit confident in that possibility. “More likely, we’ll not.”
“Your family’ll be ruined.”
Thomas took up his jointer. “We nearly are now, as it is.”
The bright and laughing lad had disappeared entirely, replaced by a careworn and burdened young man. Dermot had seen similar transformations far too often over the years. He was helpless to do anything about it. Even if this project led to the larger one he’d proposed to Mr. Barton, he’d never be a wealthy man able to lift a family out of ruin.
“’Tis right sorry I am.” He meant it.
Dermot had few friends in Smeatley, but he counted George Crossley as one. They’d spoken on a number of occasions, and he was always sociable and welcoming. They were a good family who did not deserve the string of bad fortune they’d endured.
The vicar happened past a moment later. Dermot nodded his acknowledgment, assuming the vicar would continue on his path. Instead, Mr. Trewe veered toward the work site.
“Best not come much closer,” Dermot warned, his voice raised to be heard over the sound of men and bricks and movement behind him. “’Tisn’t safe if you’re not familiar with the dangers and what to watch for.”
Mr. Trewe stopped, then watched him expectantly.
Dermot closed the distance between them. Apparently, there was to be a conversation. “What is it I might be doing for you?”
“I have yet to see you for services on Sundays.”
Ah, this ol’ back-and-forth. “We still make the trek to Greenborough.”
Mr. Trewe laughed as though Dermot had spoken in jest. “Why would you go all the way to Greenborough? Do you not care to worship with your neighbors?”
“I’d not mind it, but what you do in your church each week is not my idea of worship.”
Mr. Trewe looked confused. “Are you Catholic? I know a great many in Ireland are.”
“I am not.”
The confusion on his face only grew. “Then what is your objection?”
“My preference is for a sermon meant to help, written with the needs of the congregation in mind, not one dictated by her high-and-mighty lordship with her own profit in mind.”
“Neither of the Bartons dictate my sermons,” the vicar insisted.
“And yet those sermons don’t veer much from the chosen topic, now, do they?” He had heard his workers speak of the Sunday sermons many times. The entire town had noticed the pattern, the adherence to the subject of work and obedience. They all knew perfectly well where the requirement to focus on the godliness of labor had originated from, and it wasn’t from on high.
“You do not think I care about the people I am here to serve?” Mr. Trewe’s posture straightened to a dignified height. “Rather than only hearing their complaints about my sermons, you would do well to ask the Haighs or the Gardeners or the Palmers—or any number of other families in Smeatley—whether or not they think I care about them.”
Dermot could not doubt Mr. Trewe’s sincerity.
“I know I have little latitude regarding the subject of my weekly discourses. I know I am ridiculed for the grip the Bartons have on my words. If I veer from the topic, as you say, I will lose my position. My acquiescence seems a small price to pay for the ability to quietly assist th
ose in need. My works are not seen by many, excepting those whom I am serving directly. That, to me, is the essence of who a vicar ought to be, one who serves out of love and not for praise.”
“Do you never worry that the impression you give of being more loyal to the Bartons than you are to your congregation will prevent the people from turning to you in times of need or trusting you when you offer your help?”
Mr. Trewe’s expression turned rueful. “In the words of the immortal William Shakespeare, ‘Ay, there’s the rub.’”
Much to Dermot’s surprise, he felt a kinship for the man. “Life’s never simple, is it?”
“Not ever.” Mr. Trewe recollected himself and resumed his posture of confidence and his expression of benevolence. “If you ever decide that Greenborough is too far a distance, know that there’s always a place for you here.”
Dermot nodded, then watched as the vicar made his way up the street. Even for the seemingly unapproachable Mr. Trewe, life was a messy and difficult business. It seemed it was for everyone, particularly here.
That somber reflection remained with him throughout the day and was still weighing heavily on his mind as he climbed Greenamble Street toward the schoolhouse.
“McCormick,” a voice called out from behind him.
He spun around to see Gaz Palmer hurrying up the hill toward him. He had been walking alongside a few other factory workers, no doubt on their way to fetch their children. The school had gained several new students of late, most of whom had a parent or two working at the mill.
“Palmer,” Dermot said once the man had caught up to him. “Is factory time running slow today?”
“Aye.” He took a moment to catch his breath, giving Dermot a chance to study him.
The man was gaunt, his features drawn and pulled, the lines in his face deeper than they’d been. His eyes were wide, not in anxiousness or surprise, but in clear worry. He did not look well at all.
Ashes on the Moor Page 17
