“I have not had a letter from Lucy in over a week,” she said to her grandfather. “As her previous missives have been filled with expressions of unhappiness, I am concerned. How is she faring?”
“She is receiving a first-rate education.” Grandfather popped a piece of boiled potato into his mouth.
“One thing I have learned these past months,” Evangeline said, “is that a child who is experiencing misery in her life is unlikely to learn anything, no matter how expertly taught.”
“What experience could you possibly have had these past months with ‘expert’ teaching?” Aunt Barton’s tone of derision could not be mistaken.
Evangeline chose to ignore her. “When will I be able to see my sister? We have been apart ever since our family’s funeral, though I have met every requirement given me to be permitted her company.”
Grandfather’s expression remained impassive. “I have not yet decided what to do about the matter of you and your sister.”
“I can feed and clothe her, give her a clean and safe home, and I can provide her with an education.” Evangeline did not flinch though she could feel her aunt’s glare. “I hope you will bear that in mind while weighing the possibilities.”
Her aunt jumped into the discussion unbidden. “And also bear in mind that you would be sending Lucy to a home where an unmarried man spends a questionable amount of time.”
Evangeline maintained her calm, though tension tightened her jaw. “I have already explained that situation, and its propriety has been established. Only a mind with a tendency to see the tawdry where there is none could possibly find reason to condemn me for it.”
“The ‘tawdry’?” The question might as well have had an exclamation point at the end. Fire filled her aunt’s glare. “How dare you sit at my table and question the cleanliness of my thoughts.”
Evangeline did not quiver nor cower from the anger thrown at her. “And how dare you invite me to be a guest in your home and then question my virtue. You have been nothing but unkind and dismissive from the moment you arrived in Petersmarch. While watching my family die, I was subjected to your cruelty again and again, as was Lucy. And now, here, in this place where I am making my new home, you continue to toss your unfounded judgments at my head and then blame me for them.” She slid her napkin from her lap and set it on the table as she stood. “You are my mother’s sister, and for her sake, I will not say all that is in my mind at the moment, but will rather offer my excuses and depart.”
Evangeline turned to her uncle, who, along with Grandfather, had stood when she did as decorum dictated. “You have never been unkind since my arrival, and I thank you for that. I hope that the school board will make its own inspections moving forward rather than leave the undertaking to the tainted view of Mrs. Barton, and that their evaluation will be done with fairness.” She faced her grandfather. “I hope that you will come to visit me before you leave. My living quarters may not be as fine and richly furnished as this house, but you will find a civil welcome there and a hostess who will not mistreat you.”
She stepped away from the table. Head held high, she walked out of the dining room with deliberate step, not adding any haste to her departure lest her leaving be seen as cowardice. She felt certain she gave every indication of being calm and in control; inside, however, she was anything but.
She had arrived at Hillside House prepared to defend her work and progress if need be. The unexpected need to defend her morals had left her drained, mentally and emotionally. By the time she climbed up Greenamble, her exhaustion had become physical as well.
Her feet took her not to her own home but directly to Dermot’s familiar yellow door. She needed his reassurance and his unfailingly logical insights, his tender kindness. She needed . . . him.
Ronan might be asleep, so she knocked lightly, not wishing to wake him. There was no answer. Perhaps Dermot hadn’t heard. She knocked again, a little louder. The moments dragged by. He didn’t answer.
Evangeline set her open palm against the door, resting her forehead beside it. “Please, Dermot,” she whispered. “I need you.”
Standing there alone, facing his closed door, the tears she had been holding back began to fall. Her aunt’s insults, her uncle’s silence, her grandfather’s utterly unfair behavior had hurt, but Dermot’s unexpected absence fractured her composure.
All her life she’d clung to the safe familiarity of behaving as a lady, of doing as she was told. She no longer had that firm foundation to stand upon.
“You’ve fire enough for this,” Dermot had told her. He saw strength in her when she struggled to see it in herself.
He had become an integral part of her life. She felt stronger with him nearby—braver, happier.
“I love him,” she whispered in amazement to the closed door. “I love him.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Throughout the next day, Dermot struggled to wrap his mind around Evangeline’s previously unknown station in life. Mr. Farr was her grandfather. Though he was a man of business and not truly of the most exalted station in English society, he was wealthy as Midas and far above Dermot’s touch.
And she is his granddaughter. The time he’d spent thinking on how alike they were, how much they understood one another’s struggles and circumstances, seemed rather ridiculous now. They were no more alike than the sun and moon. She was English upper crust, while he was the Irish crumbs.
What bothered him the most, though, was that she hadn’t told him. After all the things they’d shared, she hadn’t told him, though there’d been ample opportunity. As they’d spoken of the dinner party, she might have mentioned it. As he’d held her near, she could have told him. She might have even said something in passing as she’d walked down Greenamble on her way to the evening’s engagement.
But she hadn’t.
Did she not trust him? Did she not feel the same closeness he did?
When a visitor knocked at the door, he hesitated. It might well be her, though he wasn’t at all certain he was ready to see her, not when he had so many questions. Still, he was no coward.
’Twasn’t Evangeline who stood on the other side of the door, but Mr. Trewe, the vicar.
“Good afternoon to you,” Dermot greeted. “Have you come to complain about m’ church attendance?” He let the jest show in his words and received a light laugh in reply.
“Not at all,” Mr. Trewe said. “I’ve come with a young boy who wishes to ask a favor but finds himself a bit nervous.”
That was certainly unexpected. “What lad? And what favor?”
Mr. Trewe tugged Hugo Palmer into the doorway.
“This is Hugo,” Mr. Trewe said. “His family has fallen on difficult times, and he is supposed to begin at the factory tomorrow. He—”
“Hold that thought a moment,” Dermot said. He turned to Hugo. “I suspect I know what it is you’re wanting to ask, lad, but I’ll need to hear it from you.”
“McCormick,” Mr. Trewe objected immediately.
Dermot was unmoved. If young Hugo had indeed come to ask for a job, the boy had best demonstrate a bit of backbone. “I’m not trying to be unkind, I’m simply needing to know that he can speak for himself and stand firm on his own behalf. That’s crucial if he’s to survive on any kind of work crew.”
Mr. Trewe nudged the boy forward. Hugo looked up at Dermot. Though there was nervousness in his eyes, he’d also a fair bit of fire as well.
“Us family is in need of brass,” the lad said. “Father can’t keep working at t’ mill, so I’m to go instead.
“Your father’s stopped working at the mill?” Dermot hadn’t heard that bit of news.
“It’s too great a misery for him,” Hugo said.
“’Tis too great a misery for your da, so you’re to go in his place?” Dermot frowned.
“I need to work so us family’ll have money.” Hugo h
ad clearly accepted the necessity despite the unfairness of it. Poverty taught children cruel lessons. “I’d rather be outside, making things. I’d like to learn to lay bricks.”
“You’re young yet,” Dermot said. “You ought to be in school.”
Hugo scuffed the toe of his left shoe against the flagstone step. “Us can’t bide it. Money’s too short.”
An all too common problem. “Tell me truthfully, now. Are you wanting to learn the bricklaying trade because you’re fair dying to follow that path, or are you simply wanting a way out of the factory?”
The boy held himself proudly, a reassuring sign. “It’d not be my first choice. But my father were a bricklayer.”
“I know it,” Dermot said. “He worked for me.”
“I know it,” Hugo said.
“Why’d your da not come asking after work, then?”
The smallest touch of embarrassed color spread over Hugo’s face, though he didn’t flinch or slump or hang his head. “He did, sir. But tha’ve not taken him back. He says tha can’t be blamed, as he weren’t a good worker.”
“Are you a good worker, Hugo?”
Mr. Trewe stepped into the conversation. “Let us not punish the children for the sins of their fathers.”
“Are you preachin’ at me, now?” Dermot found he could almost smile at the idea. “You’ve given up getting me to attend your sermons, so you mean to bring them to m’ door instead?”
“I’ll have my message heard one way or another.” Mr. Trewe chuckled.
Dermot would not have thought it possible, truth be told. The vicar had always seemed a rather sour man.
Dermot returned his gaze to Hugo. The lad had come, brave and uncertain, asking to be apprenticed, which Dermot generally objected to for boys of such a young age, especially in a town where Hugo had every opportunity for an education. Yet, if his family needed him working, the boy’s only other option seemed to be the mill, which took a toll. Were that not enough of a quandary, the lad was Gaz Palmer’s, and Palmer had been something of a disastrous worker.
Evangeline would know more of the boy, having had him in class all these months, and would have some idea how likely he was to cause difficulty.
“Let’s gab a piece with Miss Blake, then. She can tell me a bit more about you.”
Hugo swallowed audibly, his brow creasing, but he offered no objection. Dermot leaned back inside and called to Ronan to fetch both their coats. When he received a look of rebellion in response, he explained, “We’re for Miss Blake’s house. You’ll get to visit with her,” which put an end to any objections.
How quickly she’d become an easy and welcome part of their lives, yet how little they seemed to know of her.
The four of them crossed the street and made their way to the hedge-covered archway that led to the schoolyard. Mr. Trewe, however, did not follow them through it. “I believe Hugo is equal to the remainder of this task, so I will leave him to sort it out. Do, however, let me know what is decided. I’d like to know the family’s situation.”
Dermot had misjudged the vicar, having accused him not many weeks earlier of caring little for his congregants. The man might not have been what Dermot hoped for in a preacher, but he was a good man.
Hugo dragged his feet, though he didn’t slow their progress toward the school. What report was he expecting? Perhaps he wasn’t confident that his teacher would say good things of him. That didn’t bode well.
The outer door was unlocked, and when they stepped into the entryway, they were greeted immediately by the aroma of potato and leek soup. How was it this very English home could smell so much like Ireland?
A man’s coat and hat hung beside the closed door to Evangeline’s living quarters. In that moment, Dermot knew a surge of pure jealousy, one he clamped down immediately. She had found a place in his heart, that much he couldn’t deny, but he’d not lose his mind over her.
Ronan reached for the handle, but Dermot stopped him. “You remember the rule, lad?”
He let his arm fall to his side. “If it’s not m’door, I have to knock.”
“Do it, then.”
Ronan rapped firmly against the wood.
Dermot felt Hugo’s eyes on him and looked down at him. “Have you a question?”
Hugo shook his head. “He sounds like thee.”
“You mean Irish?”
“Aye.”
Dermot watched him more closely. “Have you a problem with Irish?”
“No, sir. I’ve just never heard him talk before.”
That was surprising, though not overly so. “Does he not talk at school?”
“No, sir.”
The weight on Dermot’s mind increased. He worried for Ronan. What kind of future did he have? If something were to happen to him, would Ronan be entirely alone?
The door opened before more questions could form in Dermot’s overburdened mind. All the doubts he’d harbored seemed to melt away at the sight of Evangeline. He needed to sort all of this out, for his own piece of mind and tranquility of heart.
“Good afternoon.” Her greeting encompassed all of them at once. Her gaze, however, focused on Hugo. “Have you been visiting with the McCormicks?”
“No, Miss Blake. Er . . . Yes.” The lad shrugged and let both answers stand.
Evangeline met Dermot’s eyes, her unspoken question crystal clear.
“We’ve come with a question for you, if you’ve a minute or two to spare,” he said.
“Of course.” She stepped back and motioned them inside. “It seems I am quite popular today.”
As Dermot entered the room, he saw Mr. Farr at Evangeline’s table, bent over a bowl of soup. Mr. Farr. Her grandfather. Would she admit to the connection now?
Ronan didn’t hesitate or even seem to notice the exalted visitor, but crossed directly to his rocking chair and sat. Dermot would have to explain the rule about finishing up greetings and waiting to be invited before making oneself at home.
“What can I help you with?” Evangeline clearly didn’t know to whom she ought to address the question.
“Might we talk a bit more privately, you and I?” Dermot asked.
Evangeline eyed him sidelong. She addressed Hugo next. “Are you hungry?”
An almost desperate plea entered the boy’s expression. “Aye.”
“I have soup in the pot at the fire. There is a clean bowl and spoon on the sideboard. Ladle yourself a helping, then sit at the table while Mr. McCormick and I talk.”
“I thank thee, miss.” The boy was off like an arrow.
Evangeline watched him with obvious concern. “He has been devouring our small teatime refreshments these past few days. I fear his family may be struggling to keep food on the table.”
“I’m certain you’re right.”
She sighed, though the sound was quiet. “I worry for so many of them.”
“I’m afraid I’ve not come with any news that’ll settle your mind on that score.” Dermot set his hand lightly on her elbow and led her to the far side of the room. “Tell me a little of Hugo. What kind of student is he?”
Evangeline glanced in the boy’s direction then, lowering her voice, answered, “He is quite possibly the brightest student I have, along with Susannah Crossley. He is exceptionally smart.”
That both argued in favor of hiring the boy and counted as a tragedy if he were pulled from school.
“Is he difficult?”
“He is stubborn, but he is also determined. When he puts his mind to accomplishing a task, he does it.”
Reminders of Gaz Palmer tugged at Dermot’s mind. “Is he lazy? ’Tis crucial that you be honest with me on this. Does he require a lot of pushing and reminding to do the work asked of him?”
She paused, her lips pressed together and her brow drawn in thought. “No, even early on, when he was unc
onvinced of the value of what we were doing, he didn’t require hounding. He always wanted to know the why of everything. Why we had school. Why letters were called what they were. Why they made the sounds they made. Always ‘why’? And, while that was a little frustrating for a teacher attempting to direct the efforts of dozens of children, I do not think it was indicative of him not wishing to work. To be truthful, I think he was afraid.”
He’d not been expecting that. “Afraid of what?”
“Of not being good enough. School was new and different and challenging. If he could undermine its legitimacy, then failing at it would not be a bad reflection upon him.”
“Do you think he’d approach any new task that way?” Bricklaying, for example.
Evangeline’s focus shifted to Hugo. She motioned toward him. “He doesn’t seem particularly intimidated just now.”
Hugo Palmer, whose station in life was nearly as humble as it could possibly be, had struck up a conversation with King Midas himself.
“Why don’t you want to work at the mill?” Mr. Farr asked him.
“The mill?” Evangeline whispered to Dermot.
“I’ll explain in a bit.” He wanted to hear if Hugo had the courage to be truthful with a man so much connected to the factory.
“I’ve heard too much about it,” Hugo said. “I’d guess no one wants to work there—not really.”
Mr. Farr pushed aside his bowl and gave the lad his full attention. “What have you heard?”
“Those what’ve been working there from t’ first are starting to have troubles with their breathing. They say t’ air inside is thick like it is in t’ cotton mills in Manchester.”
Mr. Farr’s eyes narrowed. “The mill manager is supposed to employ scavengers to gather up stray bits of wool and fluff.”
“T’ scavengers are children.” A fire entered Hugo’s words and posture. This desperate, hungry, poor little boy suddenly had the bearing of a warrior. “They’re charged with lying flat and crawling beneath great moving machines, picking up bits of fluff. Mark my words, one of them will pay with a finger or a hand, and t’ air’ll be no cleaner for it, not when t’ overseer won’t allow a single window to be opened to let in fresh air. Tha’ve set them to an impossible task, and they’re punished for not managing it.”
Ashes on the Moor Page 24
