Chapter Thirty-five
The fortnight Lucy had been in town was the best Evangeline had known in some time. They often walked along the edge of the moor, singing songs they’d enjoyed at home, remembering happy times with their family. Dermot and Ronan spent the evenings with them, and Dermot was kind and gentle, treating her sister with such tenderness. Ronan was as quiet as expected but had shown no discomfort with Lucy. And Aunt Barton had not come by, which was joyous in and of itself.
Susannah continued working with the newest and youngest students. Lucy found a knack for helping those who were neither new nor quite among the fastest learners. She was encouraging and helpful and patient, a natural-born teacher. With most of her students looked after by the two girls, Evangeline was able to focus on those who were progressing quickly through their studies as well as have the time to give John and Hugo as much attention as possible during their brief half-days at school.
Johanna had not come to school, which broke Evangeline’s heart. She and Lucy, however, walked out to the Crossley home a few times to see Johanna and bring a bit of school to her. While there, Evangeline wrote down more of Mrs. Crossley’s stories. Given time, they would have enough for a book. The children of Smeatley would have story after story in their own language and their own words, and eventually Evangeline would lose her job over it. She hoped, of course, that the children’s progress would prevent her dismissal.
Even if it didn’t, she would not have changed course. She would not place her own employment above the well-being, happiness, and dignity of her students.
Mr. Garvey arrived at the schoolhouse door two weeks after Lucy’s arrival, intent on making his next inspection.
“Have one of your students read from their primer.” He stood at the front of the room, his expression stern and bleak. He had not, it seemed, forgotten their less-than-satisfactory previous encounter.
“The school board has not provided us with primers for all levels of academic ability,” Evangeline told him. “The students have practiced with papers I have written out for them that reflect their current level of knowledge. The alphabet, words, sentences of varying difficulty.”
“Are these papers written to the requirements of the various Standards?”
Evangeline turned the words about in her head but could not make sense of them. “I am not certain what you mean.”
“Ours is not an educational system based on chaos. Learning is divided into six Standards, which students are required to pass. Your work as a teacher depends upon them progressing appropriately through the Standards.”
Yet another thing the school board had not told her. “I was given no information about the Standards, Mr. Garvey.”
“Hmm.” He wrote something on the notepad he held in his hand. “Have one of your pupils read from one of your practice papers. I will do my best to sort out the rest of it.”
Evangeline called on Billy Crossley. He was not her best student, but he was not shy nor easily intimidated. She gave him a sheet with several sentences at his level of learning. “T’ cat sits on t’ mat. It eats a rat. T’ cat is fat.”
“The,” Mr. Garvey said. “The cat. The mat.”
“He said ‘the cat’ and ‘the mat,’” Evangeline assured him. “His accent simply makes it sound different to your ears.” They’d had this conversation before.
Mr. Garvey eyed her with disapproval. “Have you not been working on their speech, Miss Blake?”
“They have learned to read and write, do basic arithmetic, and are learning geography. That is the purpose of a school.”
“The Committee of Council on Education has determined the purpose of this school,” Mr. Garvey said. “Teaching proper language is one of those purposes. How many times do I have to tell you this?”
“They can read,” she repeated, “write, do arithmetic, and read a map. They are receiving an education.”
Mr. Garvey eyed her with tense frustration. “Are they still reading Yorkshire stories?”
She would not lie, but neither would she allow him to make her ashamed of all she had accomplished. “They are. And because of those Yorkshire stories, their skills have improved tenfold.”
“You were given specific instructions.” He slapped his notepad down on the lectern. “Did I not make myself clear?”
Evangeline squared her shoulders. As Lucy had said, she had grown fierce, and she had every bit of the fire Dermot said she did. “My first loyalty is to my students and their families. I have chosen to teach them in the way that best suits them.”
“Give me the stories.” He held his hand out. “I will dispose of them.”
The students watched, wide-eyed and uncertain. Lucy was clearly confused. Evangeline would not be strong-armed or ordered about. Not anymore. “The stories do not belong to you. Neither do these children. Neither do their words.”
Mr. Garvey scoffed. “Your job, however, does.”
Evangeline didn’t flinch. “Before you decide that I am unworthy of my post, will you not allow the students to show you what they have learned?”
“I suppose.” He did not sound at all willing to be convinced.
Still, she would try. “Who else will read for Mr. Garvey?”
Cecilia Haigh stood. Her little hands shook, the paper she held crinkling in her grasp. “I’ll read, Miss Blake.”
She knelt in front of the nervous girl. “Are you certain? You do not have to.” She knew Cecilia’s bashful disposition well enough to realize how terrified she must have been.
“He doesn’t think tha are a good teacher,” she said, her voice quiet and tremulous. “I want him to know tha are.”
Cecilia’s defense of her was touching. “I thank you for doing this, and I am fortunate to have you as one of my students.”
She stood and took a position behind Cecilia. She set her hands on the girl’s shoulders, hoping to give her an extra measure of courage.
The entire class fell quiet as their usually silent classmate bravely read from the sheet she had been studying. Even Lucy, who had known Cecilia for so short an amount of time, seemed to understand the enormity of what was happening. When Cecilia finished and dropped immediately back onto the bench, Lucy sat beside her and put her arms around her. Cecilia turned in to the embrace, burying her head against Lucy.
Jimmy Sutcliffe volunteered to read next. Then George Palmer offered to answer a mathematical question, as did Emma Bennett.
Mr. Garvey, though he listened without interruption, showed no sign of being truly impressed. If anything, he grew more noticeably frustrated. He disapproved of her methods—he had made that clear—and he found her children’s Yorkshire manner of speaking to be an indication of her failures. Could nothing convince him otherwise?
“We do not mean to keep you overly long.” Evangeline wished to end their day of lessons in peace.
“You were told of your obligation to address their language,” he said.
She nodded. “I understand. I did what was best for my students.”
“That is not for you to decide.” Mr. Garvey wrote down something else. “We cannot have chaos in our schools.”
“Does this seem chaotic to you?” She motioned to the orderly, quiet classroom.
“They need to be taught to speak properly, to use proper words.”
Evangeline squared her shoulders. “Then I am not the right person for this job.”
The classroom erupted with objections. Mr. Garvey’s gaze narrowed. Evangeline stood firm. She would not bend on this.
“We have goals and rules for a reason, Miss Blake.” Mr. Garvey took up his notepad. “We cannot have teachers flouting them, not without consequences.”
She stood as one at a mark, unable to avoid the blow he dealt. She knew he had the power to dismiss her. He knew she knew that. Though she was afraid, she would not allow that fear to inti
midate her into doing something she knew was wrong.
“Fetch your school log,” Mr. Garvey instructed.
She was prepared for the request, having kept a daily record of the school since his first visit more than a month ago. She pulled the ledger, which Uncle Barton had provided after she’d explained the requirement, from its place beside the lectern. She held it out to Mr. Garvey, but he shook his head.
“It is the duty of the teacher to record the results of an inspection,” he said.
“Truly?”
He nodded sternly. “Every teacher records every inspection.”
She laid the book on the lectern, open to the next blank page. Mr. Garvey set his notepad beside the ledger.
“Copy my report precisely,” he instructed, then looked over the students. “Return to your studies,” he told them.
Her children bent over their slates even as she bent over the lectern. Copy my report precisely. She breathed deeply, took up her pen, and did as she was required.
“Miss Blake has not worked toward the approved Standards for her students. She has no concept of approved teaching methods. Her attitude is off-puttingly self-assured. Though she was told to focus portions of her teaching on the improvement of her students’ speech, she has refused to do so. Inspection has found her incapable, and it is recommended she be removed from her post.”
Heat flooded Evangeline’s face as she copied down the demeaning words. There could be no doubt of her situation now nor of Mr. Garvey’s intention to see her fired.
“I have copied it.” She spoke with as much calm as she could muster.
“Did you sign it?”
Sign it? “Is that required?”
“Yes.”
She did not permit her disappointment or humiliation to show. She simply signed her name in full, set down her pen.
“If that is all you needed, Mr. Garvey, I would prefer to return to our lessons.”
Mr. Garvey took up his notebook and left, his expression one of satisfaction. Perhaps she should have groveled. Perhaps she should have bent to his dictates. Months earlier, when she had first arrived in Smeatley, she likely would have. She could not countenance the idea now.
Dermot’s declaration from days earlier returned to her mind with force: “I have no master.” Though she worked as a teacher under the direction of the town school board and at the discretion of the education committee, she was not their servant nor were they granted such complete power over her. She would not bend to the will of those who refused to see the truth in front of them. She knew what was right, and she would do it no matter the cost.
Lucy was helping Ronan with his studies when Dermot arrived. Evangeline immediately pulled him into the entryway, closing the door to her living quarters so she could speak openly without her sister or his son overhearing.
“What’s happened, my dear? You look overset.”
“The school inspector returned today.”
He nodded, clearly knowing there was more.
“He warned me on his last visit I was not to teach the children using Yorkshire texts, but doing so has helped them so much. I could not deny them the ability to learn simply because it did not meet with his approval.”
Dermot’s gaze didn’t waver, neither did he interrupt.
“And he insisted that I work to change the children’s speech so they sound more—” Weeks earlier, she would have used the word “proper,” but that didn’t feel right any longer. “More like children outside of Yorkshire. More like me, really.”
“And have you?” he asked.
“Of course not. Their words are not mine to take away.”
He nodded slowly. “I’d wager the inspector was none too happy about that.”
“I am going to be let go,” she said on a tense sigh.
“Is it for certain?”
“Yes.” The reality of it was beginning to settle over her.
“He’d not offer you a second chance?”
“This was my second chance.” She dropped onto the stairs, resting her elbows on her legs.
Dermot sat beside her. “Did using those Yorkshire stories help your wee ones?”
“They began reading so much faster,” she said. “Having words they knew made understanding them so much easier. And they were excited to read something familiar, to be able to recognize on paper the stories their own mothers had told them. It made all the difference in the world.”
Dermot’s arm settled around her. She inched closer to him and leaned her head on his shoulder.
“Teaching them in their own language was the right thing,” she said. “What if it wasn’t worth it, though? Their new teacher might care more for rules and regulations than for the children. Perhaps I should have simply done as I was told.”
“You could have.” He rubbed her arm, keeping her close by. “But that is not who you are.”
It used to be.
“You do what you know to be right,” he continued, “even when it is difficult. Being less than yourself would not make you a better teacher, and you would be miserable.”
“I am going to lose my job.”
“I know, my dear.”
“And I’ll lose my home.”
“I know.”
“And my children.”
He leaned his head on hers. “I know.”
Someone knocked at the door. Evangeline’s heart dropped. Had Mr. Garvey returned, her dismissal papers in hand?
“Bide here, dear,” Dermot said, slipping away and standing. “I’ll see who’s come.”
She straightened her posture and attempted to regain her composure. She would end her time here with dignity.
It was not Mr. Garvey who stood at the door, but Uncle Barton. He and Dermot exchanged uncomfortable greetings.
Uncle Barton spotted Evangeline sitting on the stairs. “May we talk a moment?”
She rose on shaky legs, but didn’t shy away from his gaze. The hint of an apology she saw in his eyes did not set her mind at ease. While she was grateful he seemed to regret his business there, he clearly intended to go forward with it.
He stepped inside and took his hat in his hands.
“I suspect Mr. Garvey paid you a visit,” she said.
“He did.” Her uncle fiddled with the brim of his hat. “The town school board answers to Mr. Garvey because he speaks for the Committee of Council on Education. Their authority on this matter is far greater than ours.”
“I understand.” For the briefest of moments, she looked to Dermot. He stood by the door, watching her with precisely the mixture of support and concern that she needed. “I know what his report told you—he required that I copy it into my school log—but I feel you should know what he left off. The children have improved tremendously in their reading and writing since last he was here. They are enthusiastic about their studies. Even those children who are only able to be at school for a portion of the day are progressing. My dismissal is the result of him ignoring the actual success of this school simply because he does not approve of the Yorkshire manner of speaking and that, Uncle Barton, is a tragedy. He would sacrifice their education in the name of conformity.”
“Heavens, you are just like your mother.” The observation was clearly not meant as an insult. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“You seem to think better of her than my aunt does.”
He took a step closer, his expression pleading. “I am sorry for the way she has treated you. The grudge she holds is not your doing, neither was it your mother’s, yet your aunt cannot seem to let it go.”
“What happened between them?”
Her uncle shook his head. “It was a long time ago.”
“I am being made to suffer for it, as is Lucy. That makes it a difficulty now.”
He watched her for a moment. His expression, however,
did not change. “I can’t,” he said. “I am still suffering for it as well. Talking about it only adds to the misery.”
How horribly appropriate. She was made to suffer, but not told why. She was being unfairly dismissed. Life often dealt blows she was unprepared for.
“How soon am I expected to relinquish my home and position?” she asked.
“Not until we find a new teacher, which will take a couple of weeks at least.”
She nodded. “I will begin making plans.”
Dermot pulled the door open.
The silent instruction was not missed by Uncle Barton. He set his hat on his head. “I truly am sorry. About a great many things.”
“So am I.” She didn’t wait to watch her uncle’s departure but turned and took the stairs up to the schoolroom. She hadn’t taken the time to straighten up after her students left. Her mind had been in too much turmoil.
She picked up the slates scattered about the room. The impact of Mr. Garvey’s visit had been felt by all of her students. They knew her time as their teacher was being cut short. The next couple of weeks would be heartbreaking.
Dermot’s steps sounded on the staircase before he arrived in the schoolroom.
“The children left a bit of a mess,” she said without looking up. “It was a difficult afternoon. I’ll have to make certain they are in the habit of tidying up before I . . . before—” The words wouldn’t come.
“Before you go to Leeds.” He spoke with certainty though she had not told him her intentions.
She clutched the pile of slates to her chest. “I tried forcing a third option, Dermot. It didn’t work. I have no job. I will soon have no home. My sister will be taken away from me. I have to go. There is no other choice.”
“But you don’t want to.”
She turned toward him. “Of course I don’t want to. My entire life is here. Everything and everyone I care about most is here in Smeatley. I am being forced to leave that behind, and it is breaking my heart.”
He stepped closer. “Lucy would be in Leeds. You’d not be leaving her behind.”
Ashes on the Moor Page 30
