Ashes on the Moor

by Sarah M. Eden

  “I know I likely ought not ask, but would tha consider hiring me back to t’ crew? I’d be willing to fetch or haul. Tha need only name t’ task.”

  Just as he opened his mouth to remind Palmer of the struggle he’d had with him on the crew before, Evangeline’s words of reproach filled his mind. The man was suffering. His family was suffering. But could Dermot risk the success of the project when other families would suffer if it failed?

  “I don’t know that I could do that,” Dermot said. “You caused me no end of trouble before.”

  “I know it. And I’ve no right to ask thee. But I can’t abide t’ factory any longer. I can’t.” Desperation filled the plea.

  Dermot knew perfectly well that he ought not hire back a man who’d shown himself a poor worker, yet he found himself saying, “I’ll think on it.”

  The first inkling of hope entered Palmer’s eyes, small and weak but unmistakable. “Tha are a good man.”

  “I made no promises,” he reminded him.

  A quick, almost frantic nod. “I know it. I’m grateful that tha’re thinking on it.”

  Dermot stayed back as Palmer continued up the street. The other factory parents passed him, similar looks of weariness on their faces. They were, perhaps, not so desperate as Palmer, but they were careworn. The mill meant reliable work and an income they could depend upon, but it came at a price.

  Life in this part of the world always exacted its toll.

  The last of Evangeline’s students, except for Ronan, had been collected. The mill, it seemed, was running slow today. More students had begun coming to school, which made her happy, but it also made her days longer and more exhausting.

  She stepped into her living quarters and offered a quick apology to Mrs. Crossley. “We had no end of interruptions this afternoon.”

  Ronan was engrossed in his wooden figurine, content as a bee in honey.

  Evangeline sat at the table and took up her pen. “We left off with Mary stumbling upon the fairies’ feast.”

  “I feel right bold,” Mrs. Crossley said, “puttin’ my words on paper like they was important.”

  “They are important,” Evangeline insisted. “The children will appreciate them, and the story is a good one. I haven’t heard it before, and I am eager to discover what happens next.”

  Mrs. Crossley laughed. “Any of t’ students can tell thee how t’ story ends.”

  “And now they will be able to read how the story ends.”

  Mrs. Crossley’s eyes danced. “It’s exciting, i’n’it? We’re making a book.”

  This had been their second afternoon spent on the endeavor, and Evangeline grew evermore convinced of the wisdom of this approach. Not only was she compiling materials that would assist the children in their studies, she was also making a friend. Mrs. Crossley was many years her senior and their lives had been drastically different, yet they had found the beginnings of a kinship between them.

  “Once we’ve finished this book, we should find other things to do together,” Mrs. Crossley said. “I’ve enjoyed this.”

  “You might teach me to sew a dress,” Evangeline said with a laugh. “This one is worn nearly to threads.” She had only the one dress that could be donned without help, so she wore it every day, taking time at night now and then to scrub it clean and hang it to dry.

  “That’d be grand.” Indeed, she seemed almost eager. Perhaps she truly was enjoying their interactions as much as Evangeline was.

  “Between you and Mr. McCormick, I might manage to survive here.”

  “Mr. McCormick?”

  “He is teaching me to cook, though I have found he is fond of cabbage.”

  They both laughed, something they did often when together. It was a blessing having a friend to cheer her.

  “I should nip on home,” Mrs. Crossley said. “Us family’ll be right clemmed.”

  Clemmed means hungry. Evangeline had learned that word quickly from her students.

  “Of course. Whenever you have the time again, please come back, and not simply on account of the book. I enjoy your company.”

  “An’ I enjoy thine.”

  She pulled open the door only to find Dermot standing on the front step, apparently lost in thought.

  “Good evening.” Evangeline’s greeting caught his attention.

  He doffed his hat. “I’ve come for Ronan.”

  “I assumed as much.”

  Mrs. Crossley slipped past them both, but did not get far before Dermot stopped her with a question.

  “How is the flock faring?” he asked.

  She took a heavy breath. “Poorly. We’re choosing to be hopeful.”

  “Send word with Thomas if there’s anything I can do,” he said.

  She nodded and slipped into the darkening evening.

  “Is something the matter with their sheep?” Evangeline had not heard a word about it from Mrs. Crossley.

  Dermot nodded as he stepped inside. “Thomas says ’tis a disease of some kind, fatal for the sheep and catching.”

  “Oh, heavens.”

  “Are you ready, then, lad?”

  Dermot was clearly not in a talkative mood. Had something happened, or was he simply tired? A closer look revealed worry in the lines of his face and dark smudges beneath his eyes.

  “You look as though you’ve had a difficult day.”

  “I’ve much on m’ mind, is all. Far too much.”

  “You aren’t the only one who is a ‘dab hand at listening,’” she said.

  He eyed her, hesitant. She set a hand on his arm, the light touch sending a wave of warmth through her. She hadn’t been expecting that. A friendly connection, perhaps. Even a moment’s empathy. But this was something different, something more.

  “You’d truly listen to me complaining?” he asked.

  “I truly would.”

  A hint of a smile touched his eyes, and the warmth inside her burned ever brighter.

  “I’ll hold you to that, Evangeline, someday when I’m not too exhausted for conversation.”

  Though she felt a twinge of disappointment, it was tempered by the realization that he felt enough of a kinship with her to welcome future confidences. It seemed Mrs. Crossley was not her only friend in Smeatley.

  Dermot set his hand atop hers, giving it a quick squeeze. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Heat rushed to her face.

  He stepped past her, granting her time to cool her cheeks and settle her thoughts. Had she not just silently declared them friends? This was no way for her to react to a friend.

  Dermot wandered to the mantel. “Is this your family?”

  “It is, yes.” She crossed to the picture and took it from its spot. “This is my mother and father. My brother George. This is my brother James.” She glanced at Ronan, then back at Dermot. “James was so much like Ronan. And this dear girl, here, is my sister, Lucy.”

  “The one in Leeds.”

  He hadn’t forgotten. She appreciated that. It meant someone in this vast and lonely world was listening to her.

  She carefully returned the photograph to the mantel. As she always did when near enough, she brushed her fingers along Father’s pipe, George’s statuette, and James’s book.

  “I thought about what you said about being bold enough to tell my grandfather directly about my work here.” She faced him. “I have not written to him, but I am increasingly tempted to do so.”

  “Are you beginning to see how wise I am after all?”

  She recognized his dry humor. A few weeks earlier, she would have mistaken it for arrogance.

  “I could tell him the good I’m doing and the progress I am seeing. I could tell him not only about the school and the children but also of the other skills I am learning. I can cook, mostly potatoes and cabbage, but I can cook.”

  Dermot’s mo
uth twitched at one corner, causing a small flip in her heart. “Potatoes and cabbage are the most heavenly of foods, lass. Don’t dismiss ’em.”

  “I’ve become quite good at cleaning and mending and laundering. I’ve been prudent with the money I earn from my teaching. There is no reason for him not to allow me to be reunited with my sister.” She took a fortifying breath. The action she had decided to take went against the behavior she had been taught to embrace all her life. But choosing decorous responses to her current situation had accomplished little, especially where her sister was concerned. “I plan to write to my grandfather and ask him to allow Lucy to come here and live with me.”

  Far from the look of approval and words of encouragement she had expected, Dermot seemed taken aback. “You wish to bring her here?”

  “Yes.” Even in the face of his surprise, her determination to follow through with her plan grew. “I wish her to be with me.”

  “In Smeatley?”

  Why was the idea so shocking? “Yes, in Smeatley.”

  He shook his head, repeatedly, firmly, emphatically. “I’d advise against that, Evangeline. As miserable as you say she is at that school of hers, she’ll be more so coming here.”

  Confusion rendered her mute. He had said only a few days earlier that she ought to fight to keep her family together, that she needed to be bold and confront her grandfather about his refusal to let her be with her sister.

  “You have Ronan with you,” she reminded him.

  “’Tisn’t at all the same, lass.”

  “It is the same. She is my family, and she is alone. I won’t resign her to that fate.”

  He took up Ronan’s hand. “You’ll resign her to this one, then.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He turned toward the door. “I’m only saying, before you drag her here, make fully certain she wouldn’t be better off where she’s at.”

  On that confusing and frustrating declaration, he simply left. No words of farewell, no smile of friendship.

  Make fully certain she wouldn’t be better off where she is. It was precisely the argument her aunt had made, and her grandfather in a roundabout way. They all thought Lucy was better cared for by indifferent and unkind teachers at a school far away from the person who loved her more than anyone else in the world.

  When everyone else had doubted her, herself included, Dermot hadn’t dismissed her out of hand. He’d helped her when she’d needed it. He’d listened to her concerns and had expressed confidence in her abilities and encouraged her to champion her own cause. He had been a source of reassurance.

  Now even he doubted her.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Though the schoolroom was nearly full on Friday, Evangeline noted that not one of the Crossley children was in attendance. She worried for them even as she attempted to guide her ever-­growing class through myriad different levels of learning.

  Greenborough school has more students and only one teacher. You can manage this. You must manage this.

  Hugo sat on the end of a bench, ignoring her most of the day. She hadn’t the time nor the energy to argue with him. Ronan, thank the heavens, had kept to his table and found means of occupying himself. Yet, she’d felt guilty leaving him to himself for so long. She usually made certain to slip over to his corner and give him new things to do or comment on his progress, but she could not find the time that day.

  Perhaps she really was as incapable as her aunt reported her to be. Perhaps she truly was as unready for Lucy’s arrival as Dermot had implied she was. The possibility of dictating her own future was a new one. She simply did not know what to think or what to hope for.

  On Saturday morning, she pulled on her thick outer coat and made the now-familiar journey toward the moor. Her mind would not be at ease until she knew the Crossleys were well.

  Cresting the first hill at the edge of town, she could see a plume of smoke in the direction of the Crossleys’ home. She sped up her pace, concern gripping her. The night had been a wet one, and the dirt beneath her feet had turned to mud, yet she moved as quickly as she could manage. The air held a pungent smell, a rancid smokiness that only grew thicker the closer she came.

  Heavens, what if their home was on fire? What if they were hurt or worse?

  In the next moment, however, she spotted a large bonfire in the fields, smoke rising from it.

  Her headlong rush slowed. It was not the family’s home. She let herself breathe again, hoping her heart rate would slow. She looked away from the fire and over the surrounding land. Sheep dotted the field, but not in the way she expected. The entire flock was lying on their sides, unmoving. She looked over the expanse, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

  At one end of the field, two men lifted a sheep from the grass and tossed it onto the back of a cart where several other sheep lay.

  She lifted her skirts and made her way swiftly down the side of the hill, out toward the field. “Hello, there,” she called out.

  Thomas Crossley looked up at her as she approached. Next to him stood Dermot, which she had not been expecting at all.

  She reached the stone wall and spoke to them over it. “What’s happened?”

  Thomas set his hands on his hips and looked out over the field. “Scrapie.”

  Evangeline didn’t know what that meant. She looked to Dermot.

  “They’d an illness, you’ll remember. It spread through the flock like a flood.”

  “Are they all lost?” She dreaded the answer.

  “Everything’s lost,” Thomas said. He nudged a nearby sheep with the toe of his boot. “Everything.”

  Dermot moved to Thomas’s side and set a supportive arm around his shoulders. He spoke to him as they surveyed the gruesome scene. Evangeline couldn’t make out what they said, but hoped he offered the distraught young man more reassurance than he’d offered her only a few days earlier.

  Voices floated on the breeze, pulling Evangeline’s gaze toward the hill behind her. Up the road a bit stood John Crossley and Ronan. She climbed upward, joining them at the top of the slope. John—cheerful, buoyant John—was in tears.

  Evangeline held her arms out to him, and he stepped into her embrace. The poor boy wept against her, his shoulders shaking with emotion. He and Ronan loved the sheep, spending long hours watching them graze. How heartbreaking they must have found the sight of the flock so tragically still.

  Ronan watched, not the fields, but the fires—for there was more than one—in the distance. She followed his gaze.

  Mr. Crossley stood by the flames, his back to the hill. After a moment, Thomas and Dermot arrived with their cart of carcasses. The three men hefted one after another onto the fire. The putridness of the smoke, uncomfortable until that moment, turned instantly nauseating. It was not merely the smell of fire, but of death.

  She stood there for long moments, keeping John close and watching Ronan for any sign of distress. After a time, they sat, not caring that the wild grass was wet and the day cold. Not a word passed among them, yet she knew the boys did not wish to return to the Crossley home nor walk over the moors away from the sight of such loss.

  “Please sit close, Ronan,” she whispered. “You need the warmth.”

  He didn’t object, though he did not come near enough to touch. Again and again the scene played out: the arrival of the cart, the thud of one casualty after another, the rush of flames, and a scattering of ash. Between arrivals, Mr. Crossley built a new fire while the others consumed their burdens. How many would be smoldering by sundown?

  John rested his head against her shoulder. The position set his cap askew, hiding most of his face. She didn’t know if he watched the horrors below.

  After a time, Ronan slid up beside her and leaned against her other side. She laid her arm over his, hoping to give a little warmth. The cold seeped up from the ground through every
layer she was wearing. The boys, who had been outdoors longer than she, must have been positively frozen.

  “Perhaps we should go down to the house,” she suggested. “You will be far warmer, and far drier.”

  She felt John shake his head, though he didn’t speak beyond a sniffle. Ronan kept still and quiet.

  “Then, let us sing a song. That will keep our spirits up on this dismal day.” She rubbed John’s arm. “Do you have any songs you like to sing? Ronan knows many, though they are unfamiliar to me. I know quite a few, but you two might not recognize them.”

  Neither answered for a long, drawn-out moment. On the hill below, the burning continued, the smell of the fire and the trail of ash growing, even as the number of white dots dwindled.

  “I will sing one that Ronan enjoys. The chorus is all numbers, sung backward and skipping every other one. It can grow rather silly as the brain and the tongue trip over each other.” She did not wait for either boy to voice their approval or disapproval of her song choice. This was distraction, not democracy.

  By the time she sang the chorus for the third time, Ronan was mouthing the words along with her, and John had sat more upright, though he had not joined in. When she tripped over the numbers, both boys silently laughed. That small response did her heart a world of good.

  After a time, Mr. Crossley came climbing up the hill toward them, his clothes covered in mud and soot, his expression as grim as she’d ever seen it. He dipped his head to her but offered not a word nor a smile.

  “Come along, John. We’re bahn to home for awhile. Tha’ll be right starved out here.”

  John stood obediently. Though his father’s expression remained bleak, he held out a hand in a gesture of unmistakable kindness. “I thank thee, Miss Blake, for sitting with t’ lad. This has been a difficult day.”

  She nodded, struggling for something wise to say in reply. All she could manage was, “I wish there was more I could do.”

  Her heart broke as she watched them return to the path below, join Thomas, and slowly drag themselves toward home. This family, who had shown her kindness and welcome, who had supported her efforts at educating the children, who had ever been optimistic and cheerful, gave every appearance of being broken.