Ashes on the Moor

by Sarah M. Eden

  He took her hand once more, something he was quite fond of doing but which also seemed to give her some comfort. “’Tis a difficult thing being in the position we are, is it not? So much depending on others, having so little power over our own lives.”

  “It is difficult, yes.”

  He kissed her hand. “We’re rather alike, you and I, struggling to make our way in a world where we don’t belong, where we have no one.”

  A degree of sadness entered her expression. “Do you really feel so terribly alone?”

  There was something pleading, something deeper in what she was asking. The question beneath her words was not lost on him. “I’ve not felt as alone these past weeks.”

  “Neither have I,” she said softly.

  They stood a moment, neither one looking away, neither one stepping away. He’d spoken the truth of the situation. He’d been on his own for a long time, depending only on himself, answering to no one but also receiving support from no one. He’d buoyed and cared for Ronan and believed he was cared about in return, but that was not the sort of companionship he’d been unknowingly searching for. Evangeline had come to Smeatley, with her vulnerabilities and determination and loneliness, and by a miracle, he, a poor Irishman in an isolated corner of England, had found a kindred soul.

  “I do need to be going.” She seemed to genuinely regret the idea of parting. “Mrs. Barton will be even more unpleasant if I am late.”

  There was wisdom in that, though he wished she could remain. “I’m wishing you a fine and happy meal with the Bartons and Mr. Farr. I truly hope they’re pleasant to you and that Mr. Farr is as impressed as you deserve for him to be.”

  “I hope so too.” Her gaze moved to Ronan. “You had best hop up. It’s time to be on your way home.”

  Ronan slid from the chair, a figurine in each hand. He crossed to the door, not even slowing as he passed them.

  “The lad’s liable to leave without me,” Dermot chuckled.

  Evangeline set her hand in his. “Then we had better walk quickly.”

  An easy affection existed between them. She knew the difficult details of his life; he knew hers. They shared and they trusted.

  He waited while she locked her door. Ronan sat on the front step. Only a few short weeks ago he’d have rushed straight home, not wanting to stop or change their routine in the least. Evangeline’s home and the time she spent with him had become part of his life—of their life.

  They walked toward the recently trimmed hedge. Ronan’s coat hung open, but at least he had it on. Evangeline secured the buttons on her own, fumbling over the task.

  “All will be grand, you’ll see,” he assured her.

  She nodded. “Grand altogether.”

  “You do realize that is an incredibly Irish turn of phrase.”

  She tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat. “I believe I am English enough to endure an Irish expression or two.”

  “‘Endure’? I believe you mean ‘enjoy.’”

  Evangeline laughed lightly. “Perhaps I should use a few Irish phrases tonight and see if that endears me to the Bartons.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. Most in this country, especially those in a position of power and wealth, are a bit too English to endure the reminder of the existence of the Irish with our odd take on the language and our poverty and our unwillingness to be content with the hand they have dealt us.”

  She didn’t say anything further, but simply walked quietly at his side as they crossed the street. He didn’t regret speaking aloud the frustrations he’d long held with her countrymen. She wasn’t like so many others. The two of them were more the same than different.

  Upon reaching the other side of the street where their paths diverged, they paused.

  “Have a good evening, Ronan.” She offered him a small wave before looking up at Dermot. “Thank you for the encouragement. If the fates are at all kind, this evening will go well, and I’ll be reunited with my sister again soon.”

  Throwing caution to the wind, he kissed her cheek. She blushed but offered no objection. Then she was walking away, leaving him standing there, watching her go. How had he grown so fond of her so quickly, he who’d always guarded himself against personal connections?

  He waited until she turned off Greenamble and disappeared around the corner. If only he’d been invited to the meal as well, at least she’d have someone standing beside her. The Bartons and their ilk never did speak well of anyone not from their walk of life. Despite her origins, Evangeline’s current circumstances placed her decidedly beneath the Bartons’ rung on the social ladder. Mr. Farr seemed less concerned with those boundaries, but he could be a harsh man.

  Ronan made a noise of impatience.

  “My apologies, lad. I’m dragging m’ feet tonight, aren’t I?” He followed his boy up the steep hill. “You’re to be especially good for Miss Blake next time you see her as she’s likely to have a difficult evening tonight. The Bartons, as we know full well, aren’t always welcoming.”

  “Mr. Farr told her they would be,” Ronan said.

  “Mr. Farr said the Bartons would be civil to her?”

  Ronan nodded. “Because he’s her grandfather.”

  Every muscle, every thought, every movement stopped in the wake of those four words. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Mr. Farr said it to Miss Blake.” Ronan wore the anxious expression he always did when his expected routine was being disrupted.

  “He said that?” Mr. Farr wouldn’t lie about such a thing.

  Ronan rocked in place, his eyes darting continuously toward the yellow door only a few feet away.

  Dermot motioned the lad on ahead, following mindlessly. He is her grandfather. Evangeline was family to the most powerful man in all of Smeatley. That made her family to the Bartons as well, who wielded almost as much influence as Mr. Farr. How alike he’d thought they were. What an utter fool he was. She did not merely come from a place of relative ease; she hailed from greater privilege than he could even imagine.

  In all her talk of regaining her sister’s company, of her grandfather who made that decision, never once had she told him who her grandfather was. He’d told her of how Ronan had come to be in his life, something he’d not told another soul. He’d shared his thoughts and worries. He’d reached out to her in genuine, open affection. And she’d not told him even the most basic truths of her own life. There’d been more than ample opportunity to do so.

  Why hadn’t she? And what else was she not telling him?

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Evangeline wished her family could have known Dermot. She felt certain they would have liked him and, she hoped, approved of her growing attachment to him. He was good-hearted the way Father had been. He was kind to those around him in the way Mother had been. And, as she’d discovered recently, he had a dry sense of humor not unlike George’s. They would have adored him.

  If only the few remaining members of her family adored her. She stood in the entrance hall at her aunt and uncle’s home, alone, waiting for the butler to return. He had left her there saying he needed to ask the mistress of the house where she intended to “place” her. Never mind that she had come specifically for the family dinner to which she had been invited. Aunt Barton clearly meant to make certain Evangeline knew how unwelcome she was.

  “Mrs. Barton has instructed that you be shown to the drawing room.” The butler spoke from the bottom of the stairs, not having returned to her side as would be customary for a guest with any claim of importance. No matter. She had not come to impress the butler.

  Evangeline crossed to him, her dignity tucked firmly around her. The butler motioned for her to step through the second set of doors. She did so with chin held high. She might have been about to put herself forward in a most unladylike fashion, but that did not mean she was not a lady at heart.

 
The drawing room was opulent. A chandelier, so heavy with crystals Evangeline half expected the ceiling to sag under its weight, hung over a lush carpet woven around the repeating motif of the letter B. An ornate screen sat before the tall window draped on either side with heavy burgundy velvet. An oil portrait of Aunt Barton, so large it appeared nearly life-size, hung in a place of prominence. Treasures of every imaginable shape, size, and color filled the nooks and crannies of the room.

  She had seen some of the extravagance of her aunt and ­uncle’s home during her brief visit many weeks earlier but found it even more overwhelming now. Perhaps her time spent in her own humble surroundings and among her students and their families had adjusted her view of what constituted plenty and what fell firmly into the realm of excess.

  While she would not have objected to a closer claim on “plenty” within her small living quarters, she found that she did not truly feel the same sense of deprivation she had upon first arriving there. She had the necessities and a bit to spare, which was more than many families hereabout could claim.

  “Ah. There you are.” Aunt Barton’s words took her by surprise. “We had nearly despaired of you arriving.”

  Evangeline had been so distracted by the room she had not taken note of who was standing in it.

  The ormolu clock on the intricately carved mantel indicated she was nearly ten minutes ahead of the appointed time.

  “I am not—” But she stopped. Her aunt would enjoy nothing more than to see Evangeline turn defensive and uncertain. Instead, she took a breath, regained her calm, and stood as an island in a storm.

  “I seem to remember that you do not care for asparagus,” Aunt Barton said.

  “I did not when I was a small girl.”

  For the briefest moment, her aunt’s eyes narrowed. Her lips pressed together. She recovered quickly. “I hope you are not so particular about your meals now.”

  “My culinary tastes have actually expanded since my arrival in Smeatley.” Evangeline summoned a conversational tone, pretending that her aunt had spoken out of sincere concern rather than an attempt to speak ill of her. “I have developed a distinct fondness for cabbage and potatoes and a number of other vegetables. I can prepare them in dozens of ways.”

  Her grandfather spoke from somewhere behind her. “Cabbage?”

  She turned to face him. “I have. A neighbor of mine has a son in school. I have helped the young boy with his schooling in exchange for cooking instructions. That neighbor cooks with a great deal of cabbage.”

  Grandfather eyed her with what she reasonably believed was approval. “Very resourceful of you to trade lessons.”

  “We do not want to delay our meal,” Aunt Barton said, gesturing toward the door.

  “We’ve a few minutes yet,” Grandfather said. He looked toward the far corner. “What have been your impressions of the school?” he asked Uncle Barton.

  Until that moment, Evangeline had not noticed her uncle sitting in the corner.

  He glanced at her before addressing Grandfather. “I have not visited the school often. What I saw a few days ago, however, was reassuring.”

  “Reassuring?” Aunt Barton scoffed. “The school inspector left utterly vexed.”

  That brought Grandfather’s pointed and expectant gaze back to Evangeline.

  She pushed down a lump of apprehension in her throat. The school inspector had far more clout than she did, even with her own family. “The inspector was upset that I had not undertaken aspects of teaching that I had not been informed were required of me. He was further disappointed that I was not eager to undertake all of them.”

  Aunt Barton spoke an overly loud aside to Grandfather. “She has far too much of her father in her.”

  Her aunt usually insisted that Mother’s influence on Evangeline was the most detrimental. However, Grandfather had not cared for her father and had not been shy about saying as much. There were few evaluations her aunt could make that would turn Grandfather’s opinion more quickly.

  “On the contrary,” Uncle Barton said, “I believe her fiery determination is a trait inherited from her mother.”

  Evangeline could hardly have been more shocked. She had not, since arriving in Smeatley, heard a kind word of her family. She’d had almost no words at all from her uncle. But these words, these unlooked-for words, had been offered with a degree of fondness.

  “Dinner,” Aunt Barton snapped, crossing through the open doorway without a backward glance or a moment’s hesitation. A single step beyond the threshold, she added, “Now.”

  If Uncle Barton could see something of her mother in her and approved, Evangeline would most certainly call upon that resemblance. With a serene countenance, she addressed her grandfather. “Perhaps we had best follow her. There is little to be gained from provoking our hostess.”

  “True.” Grandfather all but grunted the word. “She’s a misery when she’s on her dignity like this.” He glance over at Uncle Barton. “You’re likely to have a difficult night.”

  Uncle smiled with weary acceptance. “It will not be my first.”

  “I did warn you,” Grandfather said.

  “I know.”

  The odd conversation was not further explained. Grandfather offered Evangeline his arm and walked with her to the dining room, Uncle Barton following behind. The aura of unwelcome Evangeline had felt during her previous visit to the Bartons’ home had increased. The tension, however, felt more complicated than her aunt’s apparent dislike of her. It had expanded to include both her and her aunt and uncle and, in a smaller but just as real way, her grandfather.

  They were seated and the meal began. Aunt Barton directed the servants with nothing more than a raised eyebrow or the tiniest movement of her head. Evangeline knew perfectly well what the servants thought of their mistress. Most of the staff came from local families. All of Smeatley knew of Aunt Barton’s disapproval of their Yorkshire mannerisms and way of speaking.

  When a servant Evangeline knew to be a cousin of Hugo’s set a dish before her, she offered a genuine smile of gratitude. He did not return it—his training was clearly too extensive for that—but she felt certain he held himself with more confidence and fewer worried glances in Aunt Barton’s direction.

  The moment the servants left the dining room, excepting the butler who remained on hand should anything be required of the staff, Aunt Barton broke her frigid silence. “Your time among the people of this town seems to have undermined your memory of how a lady is to behave.”

  That was unfair. Evangeline had behaved with complete decorum.

  “One does not grow overly familiar with the servants,” her aunt censured.

  “My education in proper behavior included a great deal about how a lady should treat everyone with respect, no matter their station. Acknowledging a servant who has performed his duties well is, in fact, a mark of gentility.”

  Aunt Barton buttered a roll with greater force than was necessary. “The look you gave him seemed more than mere acknowledgment of a job well done.”

  Evangeline did not bat an eye. “He is cousin to a student of mine, a student whose father works at the factory, actually.” She looked to her uncle. “Mr. Palmer.”

  Uncle Barton wiped a bit of food from the edge of his mustache with his napkin. “I do not know all of the workers. The mill overseer interacts with them more than I do.”

  “He has only been working there for a few weeks. He had been part of Mr. McCormick’s crew that worked on your home and wall.”

  “I might recognize him if I saw him,” Uncle Barton said, “but I cannot recall him just now.”

  “McCormick’s crew?” Grandfather’s brow pulled low in contemplation. “A good man, McCormick. Good head on his shoulders.”

  “And, apparently, a very friendly neighbor,” Aunt Barton said a touch too innocently. “All the town knows he spends an inordinat
e amount of time with the schoolteacher.”

  That brought the gentlemen’s eyes to Evangeline.

  She maintained her ladylike bearing and folded her hands in her lap. Without a hint of shame or uncertainty, she said, “Mr. McCormick is the neighbor I spoke of earlier who has a son in the school. His son remains after the other children have left and I help him with his studies. When Mr. McCormick is finished with his work of the day, he fetches his son home. One evening a week, he remains long enough to teach me to prepare a meal. There is nothing untoward about our neighborly interactions.”

  Aunt Barton’s features twisted in smug victory. “An unmarried young lady spending the evening alone with an unmarried man? And one of the working class? One who has, as far as anyone knows, never been married yet has a son?”

  Heat rushed over Evangeline’s face, not in embarrassment but anger. She would not reveal the personal information Dermot had shared with her about his and Ronan’s connection, but neither would she allow these aspersions to go unanswered. “Mr. McCormick may not hail from exalted circles, but he has shown himself to be a man of impeccable propriety. I think I need not remind anyone in this family that one’s birth does not determine one’s worth.”

  Grandfather was a self-made man. His voice no longer held more than a hint of his lower-class origins. He had worked hard over the years to refine his speech and manners, finding that many with whom he did business were more receptive if he sounded more polished, yet he maintained his adherence to work as the mark of a man.

  Before her aunt could say anything further, Evangeline turned the topic of conversation. A lady not acting in the role of hostess was not meant to force topics upon dinner guests. She did not care; she had come to make strides toward reclaiming her sister, and she would do just that.

  Her governess would not have approved. Mother might not have either. But they had not prepared her for the situation in which she now found herself. Months of demure, serene obedience had accomplished nothing. She had to be firm; she could no longer simply do as she was told while her life and Lucy’s were torn to pieces.