Mr. Garvey turned to Uncle Barton. “I am ready to begin my evaluation. Are there particular areas of concern?”
Aunt Barton answered. “I have observed the school many times, Mr. Garvey. Though progress has been made, the children are struggling with their reading. And I have not yet observed any attempts at mathematics.”
Concern and embarrassment crossed the children’s faces. Only with effort did Evangeline maintain her aura of calm ladylike civility. How dare these three come in and belittle her students?
“Please be seated, children,” she said, giving them her most reassuring smile.
“First,” Mr. Garvey said, “I will examine your school log.”
Evangeline hadn’t the first idea what that was. “You will forgive me, but I was not told anything about a school log.”
“Have you not kept a daily record?” He sounded both shocked and annoyed.
“I did not know I was supposed to.”
Mr. Garvey shook his head and muttered, “I warned them about untrained teachers.”
“I will begin keeping a record if that is required.”
“It is decidedly required.” His chest puffed out and his tiny chin jutted. “A log of attendance, visitors, and subjects taught each day.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I would like to hear someone read,” Mr. Garvey said. “Choose one of your students, Miss Blake.”
He would be impressed by what he heard; she felt certain he would be.
“Susannah. Would you be willing to read for Mr. Garvey?”
She held Susannah’s gaze for a long moment, hoping to convey that she had faith in her but also that she would not be disappointed if the girl’s efforts were less than perfect.
Susannah rose, her chin high and her posture firm. “What’d tha like us to read, Miss Blake?”
Evangeline pulled a well-worn sheet of paper from her pile on the lectern and handed it to Susannah. She knew the sentences were familiar to her; they had spent much of the previous week studying the words. She stepped back, giving Mr. Garvey ample space to hear and be impressed.
“No,” Aunt Barton said. “Something new.”
Susannah paled. Evangeline likely did as well. The students weren’t as comfortable with their reading as she would have liked. Unfamiliar text would present a challenge.
“If you truly wish to measure their progress, would it not be best to hear what they have learned to read?” Evangeline pressed.
“The ability to read is more than merely repeating memorized words,” Aunt Barton countered. She took up James’s book from where it rested near the window. “The child can read something from this.”
“Mrs. Barton, that is unrealistic. These children have only been learning for a few weeks—”
“Two months,” her aunt interjected.
“Six weeks.” Evangeline couldn’t help the correction, though she knew she would likely be scolded for it. “These children cannot possibly be expected to read a book as advanced as this one.”
The look she received ought to have left her quaking. A few short months earlier, it would have done precisely that. But she would not permit her students to be trampled on simply because her aunt held an inexplicable grudge against her.
“Miss Blake is correct.” Uncle Barton came to her defense. “We will learn nothing of the children’s progress if we ask the impossible of them.”
Aunt Barton set the book down with a thud. “Of course you would defend her,” she muttered.
The cryptic declaration remained unexplained, but it filled her uncle’s face with weariness. The couple neither looked at nor spoke to one another.
“The girl may read the paper you have chosen,” Mr. Garvey said to Evangeline.
She nodded for Susannah to proceed.
With only the slightest wobble in her voice, Susannah read aloud, “T’ cat is fat. It has a hat. T’ cat sat on t’ mat.”
Mr. Garvey spoke before Susannah could read the next set of sentences. “The paper, please.” He held out his hand.
Susannah glanced at Evangeline, who nodded.
Mr. Garvey looked over the sheet, his thick brows knit.
“The sentences are very simple,” Evangeline acknowledged. “We have been working on the letter a, and the most basic words seemed best.”
“I have no objection to the words,” Mr. Garvey said. He gave the paper back to Susannah. “This girl simply was not saying what was written.”
Evangeline had heard enough students practicing those exact words to know quite well that Susannah had, in fact, read each one perfectly. “On the contrary, sir.”
Mr. Garvey turned to face her fully. “You are charged with more than teaching them to piece together letters, Miss Blake. You are required to improve their minds.”
“I believe I am doing precisely that.” She refused to look at her aunt, knowing the disapproval that would be there. Contradicting a man with authority over her actions was seen as undesirable behavior. “When they first began attending, not one of these students could identify a letter, let alone knew what sound it made. They can do that now. Many of them can even read, though perhaps not at the advanced level Mrs. Barton hoped for. They also can do basic mathematics, though we have focused mostly on reading, as I feel that will be the most difficult for them to master.”
Mr. Garvey offered only the slightest acknowledgment. “While I am pleased to hear that, my concern lies with more than the acquisition of a list of skills. This girl may well have read every word on that paper, but I could hardly understand her.”
Was that all? She smiled. “The people of Yorkshire, you must remember, have their own unique way of speaking. Your ears will grow accustomed to it in time.”
“One of the express purposes of this nation’s educational system is to teach children to speak properly,” Mr. Garvey said. “You are charged with that every bit as much as with teaching them academic skills.”
“You wish me to change the way they speak?” Her shock rendered the question a bit broken.
“There’s nowt wrong with t’ way we speak,” Hugo loudly declared.
Evangeline looked over her shoulder at him. “Please, Hugo. Not now.”
“But there i’n’t.” He was on his feet, every inch of him exuding defiance. It was the first bit of life she’d seen in him all day. “Happen we speak different from thee in t’ south. Don’t mean we talk wrong.”
“I agree,” she said. “There is something lovely in the Yorkshire voice. I did not appreciate it when I first arrived, but the sound has become beautiful to me.”
“Miss Blake,” Mr. Garvey said. “Language usage is a directive for all schools in the kingdom. This one is no exception.”
“I will not take away their language,” she said.
Mr. Garvey looked anything but pleased. “I wish to speak with you. Alone.” He walked to the door. If the school inspector insisted on speaking to her, she was required to listen.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs but did not step outside. She descended at a dignified pace, not the least encouraged by his tense posture and firmly set jaw. His fingers tapped against his leg with ever-increasing speed.
Upon reaching the landing below, Evangeline summoned her calmest voice. “What is it you wished to discuss, sir?”
“You seem to be under the impression that yours is a position of some privilege.”
“Not at all, sir.”
He either didn’t hear her words or chose to ignore them. “I have been appointed Her Majesty’s Inspector for all the schools in this area. You are not here to put forth your own ideas of education and schooling. You are not here to bandy about your opinions on what these children ought to be taught. You are here to do as you are told.” His words snapped and echoed off the narrow walls of the entryway, reverberating against her with growing f
orce. “I have been trained in the intricacies of education. I have authority from the Committee of Council on Education. You, Miss Blake, are simply one of hundreds of replaceable cogs in this machine.”
Though she attempted to hide the pain his words inflicted, she suspected her effort was not wholly successful. His description stabbed and twisted inside her, adding an edge of agony to her uncertainties.
“Fortunately for you, this visit was not a formal inspection. I will return at a later time to undertake that assessment, and I will expect to hear your students reading, doing their mathematics, and speaking properly.” He emphasized the last two words. “If I discover otherwise, you will find yourself unemployed.” His unforgiving eyes bored into her. “Am I understood?”
In a voice quieter than she would have liked but as loud as she could manage, she answered, “You are asking me to trade their language, their identity, and their dignity for my economic peace of mind.”
“I would advise you to choose wisely.” He left on that declaration.
Aunt Barton made her way downstairs, her air one of triumph. She slowed as she approached Evangeline. In a pitying voice, one hardly above a whisper, she said, “You are not the beloved daughter of a fine house any longer. It is time to stop acting as though you are.”
She swept past as regally as a queen. The effect was fitting; Evangeline felt rather like a peasant.
Uncle Barton reached her side. Evangeline hazarded a glance, not daring to hope that she would see even a hint of the same approval she thought she had spied earlier. He looked at her with confusion and concern, though without any earnestness.
“I—” Whatever else he meant to say was cut off by Aunt Barton calling to him.
He looked at Evangeline for one brief moment, then set his hat atop his head and slipped out.
She remained alone, the words spinning in her mind. “Do as you are told. You are not the beloved daughter of a fine house any longer.”
For weeks she had managed to push aside her loneliness and the ever-present feeling of being adrift. All her doubts, all her uncertainties rose to the surface. She had no formal training as a teacher. She had never even been to a school herself.
But I know these children. I know the lives they live. Surely that gave her some degree of expertise. Surely.
A small cough from above pulled her attention upward. At the top of the stairs, several of the students stood, watching, their faces pulled with worry. The sight proved both encouraging and heartbreaking. In the few short weeks she had been their teacher, these little ones had found a permanent place in her heart. What if she truly was providing them with a second-rate education, one marred by her own inexperience? What if she was forced to leave?
“Is he gone?” Cecilia Haigh spoke before anyone else. Quiet, bashful little Cecilia. And her words, so rare and precious, were filled with distress.
“Yes. He is gone.” She moved swiftly up the stairs, offering quick embraces and reassuring words.
The children retook their seats, but their eyes retained the wariness that had entered them when Mr. Garvey and the Bartons had arrived.
“I am sorry for the interruption,” she said. “We were having such a lovely afternoon. And I am sorry that our visitors did not recognize how well you all are doing and how much you are learning. I could not possibly be more proud of each of you.”
She heard the break of emotion in her voice and quickly pulled herself together. Her students needed steadiness. She was determined to give them that in full measure.
Mr. Garvey had been quite clear on what he expected of her. She knew her directive to do as she was told, and she further knew that not doing so would likely cost her this job and her time with these children.
She eventually had to make a choice.
Her income or their language. Her job or their identity.
Her future or theirs.
Chapter Twenty-five
Dermot reached the overgrown hedge of the schoolhouse chilled to the bone. Rain had fallen off and on all day, leaving the air painfully frigid. ’Twas miserable weather to be working in.
His discussion with Thomas Crossley had been sobering. The family’d been on the verge of disaster for some time. The factory was not paying as much for wool as it once had, preferring the lower cost of buying from larger providers than from local farmers. This area of the country had been chosen specifically for woolen mills on account of the abundance of sheep. Yet, the mills were driving to ruin those who’d raised the sheep for generations and forcing them into the factories. The seeming inevitability of it was heart-wrenching.
The path leading across the school yard was riddled with puddles, some too large for hopping across.
None of the factory children sat on the interior stairs as they often did when waiting for their parents on rainy days. Dermot was later than he’d realized.
He hung his hat and coat on the hooks near Evangeline’s door. He gave a quick knock, then pushed the door open. That had become their agreed-upon entrance. How he’d come to be on such familiar footing with her, he couldn’t rightly say.
Evangeline stood near the fireplace, her gaze on the flames, her back turned almost entirely to him. Ronan sat in the rocking chair nearby.
“Good evening to you both.” Dermot summoned something of a sunny tone, not wishing to burden them with his own heavy thoughts.
He received a small, indiscernible reply from Evangeline, one not accompanied by even a brief glance in his direction. What had happened?
He moved to Ronan’s chair and patted him on the head, a gesture usually permitted without objection, but also without comment. This time, however, Ronan spoke.
“A man came and shouted at Miss Blake.”
What was this? “Someone shouted at you?” he asked her.
She made a small gesture of dismissal, still not looking at him.
“Who was it?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She turned away, clearly intent on moving further from him.
“She’s been crying,” Ronan said.
“Evangeline.” Dermot followed her to the window. “If someone’s made you cry, it most certainly does matter.”
She brushed back a strand of her hair, her eyes fixed on the darkness outside. “Did you know there are school inspectors whose job it is to go about deciding if teachers are worthy of their posts?”
“And this inspector was here today?”
She nodded.
“And he shouted at you?”
What began as a shrug, turned into a waving of her hands as if batting away the experience. Then she clutched her hands together and pressed them to her lips. Her next breath trembled with emotion.
The unnamed man had indeed made her cry. “You tell me who the inspector is, lass, and I’ll introduce him to the Irish way of expressing disapproval.”
His bluster died when a sob escaped her.
“You know how I hate when you cry.” He ran his hand along her arm, unsure how to offer comfort.
She brushed a tear away. “I hate when I cry. I’ve managed not to for weeks and weeks, then one discouraging conversation, and I’m falling to bits.”
Dermot slid his hand around hers and held it gently. “What did this inspector say to you?”
“Nothing that wasn’t true,” she said quietly. “That I don’t know how to be a teacher. That I have no chance of keeping my position if he disapproves of me. That I am merely stumbling about doing a poor job.”
“And he shouted all of this?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t shout, but he spoke forcefully.”
“Within hearing of your students?”
She turned away, though she did not pull her hand free of his. “I told myself I would not take his criticisms so much to heart, but what if I lose my position?”
“Did he give you any ind
ication of what it is he expected you to be doing differently?”
She nodded solemnly.
“And is it something you’re able to do?”
“I could do it, yes, but I’m not—” Whatever she meant to say died unspoken.
He lowered his head to look her fully in the face. Worry and exhaustion filled the lines around her eyes and mouth. She had nearly reached the end of her endurance for the day.
“Troubles only multiply when one is worn to a thread,” he said gently. “Come sit by the fire. I’ll fix us something to eat.”
He made to guide her back to the warmth of the hearth, but she held her ground. Hers wasn’t a posture of defiance or protest, but rather one of determination.
“What did you learn from Thomas Crossley?” she asked.
Saints knew the last thing she needed was further bad news. “That can wait ’til after you’ve eaten, don’t you think?”
She shook her head. “I’ve worried for John all day. Knowing would be far better than continuing to wonder.”
He could appreciate that. “I’ll tell you all I’ve learned while you warm yourself. Can we strike that deal, then?”
The smallest hint of a smile touched her lips. “You have quite a knack for negotiation, Dermot McCormick.”
He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a light kiss there, something he instantly discovered he enjoyed doing far more than he likely ought. This woman, who hailed from a place far above his station, who at first had seemed such a sour sort of person, who likely looked down on him and his situation in life, had somehow found for herself a tender and welcome place in his affections.
He motioned her toward the bench near the fireplace. She went without protest or hesitation. Either she was more chilled than she’d admitted or she did not feel the same urge to remain near him as he felt toward her.
He distracted himself from that unwelcome thought by kneeling in front of Ronan. “Other than the shouting man, did you have a grand day?”
“John was gone.” With that, Ronan’s attention returned fully to his slate.
Dermot knew him well enough to realize there’d be no further conversation. He returned instead to his discussion with Evangeline.
Ashes on the Moor Page 20
