Chapter Seventeen

T he children worked well the rest of the day, though frustration was rampant. They were attempting to learn a difficult skill, made harder by the mismatch of language. The topic of Yorkshire-specific reading materials did not resurface during school hours but was the first subject Susannah broached during their walk toward the moors that afternoon.

“Does tha truly think tha’ll find books written for us?”

“I do not know.”

Susannah’s mouth dipped on the ends, her brows furrowed in thought. “Why would there not be any?”

Evangeline wished she had a definitive answer, or at least some words of encouragement. Truth be told, it was most likely that the Yorkshire manner of speaking was not considered “proper,” and books meant for schooling were unfailingly proper.

“It’s because they think of us as nowt but clapt heads.”

“What is a clapt head?” Evangeline asked.

“Someone what’s not very clever or smart. Someone what can’t learn.”

“Who has been speaking so unkindly of you?” She couldn’t imagine Susannah had ever left Smeatley, but who in town would say such things to a child?

“Many local girls work as maids for Mrs. Barton. She scolds them for being ignorant and not speaking proper.”

Embarrassment heated Evangeline’s cheeks not only at the realization that her aunt would be so cruel but also that Susannah’s revelation was not the least surprising. “Mrs. Barton ought not to treat them poorly.”

Susannah shrugged. “She’s south folk.”

“I am also from the south.” Evangeline hazarded a glance at the girl and immediately regretted it; there was no hint of reassurance in Susannah’s expression. “Do you believe I look on you with disdain?”

There was no response, which was answer enough. The silence stung Evangeline’s heart.

John and Billy walked a few paces ahead of their sister. The two, while always respectful during class, seldom spoke to Evangeline directly. Most of her students were the same way. While she had assumed that it was the inevitable result of concentration on their studies, a different explanation now arose in her mind. They were not comfortable with her. They felt and responded to a distance they believed existed between her and them.

She had come to care about her students, but they viewed her with suspicion. How could she overcome that? How could she prove her worth to them?

She was so distracted she’d hardly noted the distance they had traveled. Upon looking around, truly looking around, she was struck by the change in her surroundings. They had alighted over the hill to the east of Smeatley and stepped out onto the vast expanse of the moor.

She had heard tales of moorland, of its barren and desolate character. The sight that met her eyes, however, did not match the picture she had formed in her mind. True, there were few trees or bushes, but the endless sea of hills was covered in tall grasses waving in the wind, and dotting the landscape were patches of deepest purple. It was an untamed beauty unlike anything she had seen before. She could not look away.

Susannah moved ahead, joining her brothers. Evangeline adjusted her pace until she came even with Ronan, who had been walking between the two groups.

“Have you been on the moor before?” she asked him. “I have not, but it is beautiful.”

“Moors do not have many trees,” he said. “They’ve a few, but not many. They have grass, but the grass is not always green. They’ve shrubs sometimes. Sometimes trees. But always grass, and always hills.”

Evangeline had known Ronan for weeks, but this was the first time he had ever spoken to her. She had not been entirely certain he could speak. He continued delineating the nature of the moors and their particular assortment of flora. He did not once veer from the subject matter, neither did he pause for her to join the conversation.

As he waxed long, memories of James flooded her heart, and a lump formed in her throat. The two boys shared the same quietness, the same earnest concentration, and, now, the same infatuation with facts and information.

She managed to interject only one word in the midst of Ronan’s litany: sheep.

That sent the boy on another soliloquy. Sheep, he told her, grazed on the moor, and sheep farmers raised and looked after them. The sheep gave wool and meat and lambed in the spring. His was clearly a curious mind. If he could be taught to read, he could learn anything his heart desired. Books had been James’s haven and his greatest joy.

“This is us house, Miss Blake,” Susannah called back, drawing Evangeline’s attention to a humble stone home tucked into the small dip created by the gentle slope of two adjacent hills.

Small outbuildings dotted the land, and stone walls cordoned off fields. The sheep she had seen as they’d approached likely belonged to the Crossleys. The fields must have been for grazing, as nothing appeared to be growing in the vast stretch surrounding the home. Could crops be grown on the moor? Had the family any source of income beyond their flock and Thomas’s bricklaying money?

Mrs. Crossley stepped out of the front doorway as they approached. Her gaze slid over her children before resting, wide and worried, on Evangeline. “Miss Blake. We weren’t expecting thee.”

“I have come with good news,” she reassured her. “I wished to tell you in person.”

That relieved the worry in Mrs. Crossley’s expression though none of the discomfort. “Come inside.”

Evangeline followed the children, but Ronan stopped short at the doorway. She recognized the anxiety in his face. This was an unfamiliar place and situation. Few things had upended James more quickly or more thoroughly than the unknown.

“You know the Crossleys,” she reminded him. “There is nothing to fear here.”

But he only shook his head and kept his feet firmly planted. This was a complication she should have foreseen. Mother had always been able to soothe James, though Evangeline suspected it was as much a matter of her familiar presence as it was the influence of something she had said. Ronan was not familiar enough with Evangeline for her to have offered that same comfort.

“He doesn’t have to come in.” John stepped back out, joining Ronan on the pathway. “We’ll have a look at t’ sheep. He allus likes watching ’em.”

It seemed Ronan had visited the Crossleys before. Something must have been different this time for him to refuse to enter the house. A different person present or someone missing who was always there. In an instant, the obvious answer occurred to her. His father was not here. That would be plenty enough to disconcert him.

John urged Ronan to follow him. After a moment, he complied. The two boys walked toward the nearest stone wall, neither of them speaking yet seeming comfortable with the silence.

Evangeline watched a moment. Whether it was a lingering sense of the protectiveness she’d always felt for James or her growing fondness for Ronan, she could not say, but she found herself fighting the urge to call him back. John had shown himself a dependable child and in possession of a good heart. He would look after Ronan.

“It’s right parky out,” Mrs. Crossley said. “Come in and warm up.”

“Parky” must have meant “cold” or “bad weather.” Heavens, she hoped the language would eventually become easier to understand.

The interior of the Crossley home reminded her of the many tenant cottages dotting Petersmarch. It also reminded her strongly of her own residence in Smeatley. A few short weeks earlier she might have found such a place cramped or dreary, being accustomed to the bright and open spaces of her childhood. This new life, however, had taught her a different view of things.

What she had once thought of as mere accommodations had begun to feel like a home to her. Her small space was cozy and warm even on a “parky” day like this one. Having set the space to rights herself and invested her own toil and effort in keeping it clean and well--maintained, she felt a sense of ownership she’d never had before. Her small corner of the schoolhouse was not large or impressive, but it was hers.

She saw that same pride in Mrs. Crossley’s face as she offered Evangeline a seat at their rough-hewn table.

“Might I meet Johanna first?” she asked. “I have long wished to make her acquaintance.”

“Aye.” Mrs. Crossley turned to Billy and said something that sounded distinctly like “Put wood in the oil.” Billy immediately crossed to the front door and closed it.

How did “put wood in the oil” indicate closing the door? She could think of absolutely no explanation.

“T’ little one is just in here.” Mrs. Crossley led Evangeline past the table and the wood box, toward an interior doorway set in the same wall as the fireplace. “It’s a warmer room.”

The small bedchamber held nothing beyond a bed pressed against the opposite wall, a small chest at the foot of the bed, and a rocking chair on which sat a small girl—tiny, truth be told—wrapped in a faded quilt. The fireplace opened into the room, adding much needed warmth.

Brown eyes looked up at her from within a pale and weary face.

“You must be Johanna.” Evangeline kept her tone as light as she could despite her growing concern for the little girl’s health. “I am Miss Blake, and I am so pleased to be meeting you at last.”

Johanna sat up a little straighter. “I’ve been practicing us letters.” Her voice held more air than it did strength. “On t’ slate.”

“I know. Your sister has told me how well you are doing.”

A smile, strained with effort, made a brief but sincere appearance. “Susannah means to read to us once she learns how. Stories and such.”

“Do you like stories?”

Johanna nodded, though the gesture required greater effort than it ought.

“I will see if I can find some stories for her to learn to read.” Even as she made the promise, Evangeline’s mind worried over the difficulty of teaching the children to read using books written in English as it was spoken in the south counties. Could these Yorkshire children learn to decipher it? Or would they simply be frustrated at the unfamiliar words and turns of phrase?

Mrs. Crossley slipped past Evangeline and moved to the chair. “Best lay down for a time, babbie. Tha looks terribly pulled.”

There was no objection. Mrs. Crossley slid a trundle from beneath the bed, and Johanna settled on it, her blanket tucked around her.

Silently, and with a smile of apology, Mrs. Crossley indicated that they ought to step out.

“Poor girl. She’s allus jiggered and needs rest.”

Jiggered . Yet another word she had no experience with. “Tired” or “worn” was her best guess.

“Tell me t’ news tha’ve come with,” Mrs. Crossley said as they returned to the main room of the house.

Susannah stood nearby, watching Evangeline with anticipation.

Evangeline assumed a bright and cheerful expression. “I asked Susannah today if she would consider assisting me in teaching the children at the school.”

Mrs. Crossley looked to her daughter and received a broad smile in response.

Evangeline pressed on, encouraged. “Knowing that Susannah has been teaching her sister and, seeing how quickly she, herself, is learning, I feel confident that she will be a tremendous help to those students who are struggling.”

“Ah, dear girl.” Mrs. Crossley pulled her daughter into an embrace. Though Susannah was likely not twelve years old yet, she was nearly of a height with her mother. “We must tell thy father. He’ll be right chuffed, he will.”

As if brought by fate itself, Mr. Crossley stepped inside. He tossed his weather-beaten hat onto an obliging nail and worked at the buttons of his mud-stained coat. “Right parky out today, i’n’it?”

“Don’t bother those boys none. They’re bahn to t’ west field,” Mrs. Crossley replied.

“They’re meaning to spot t’ black sheep. Full fascinated, they are. We’ve t’ makings of two shepherds in them, we do.” Mr. Crossley kissed his wife, not the quick greeting Evangeline was accustomed to seeing among her parents’ friends, but an unmistakably affectionate kiss directly on the mouth accompanied by a full-armed and lingering embrace. “Have tha missed me, then?”

Mrs. Crossley smiled up at him. “I’ve not missed t’ mud tha brings in with thee.”

Mr. Crossley chuckled and kissed her again, quickly this time. “Palmer’s come for a chat. Said to ask thee first if tha minds.”

Concern filled Mrs. Crossley’s face. “At this time of day? Why’s he not workin’?”

Mr. Crossley lowered his voice, though Evangeline could still hear him. “I’d wager that’s what he means to talk about.”

Why was Mr. Palmer not at the building site like Thomas Crossley? They both worked for Mr. McCormick, but Susannah had said that the workday was too long and too rigid for her brother to slip away long enough to walk his siblings home.

“I’ll set Mr. Palmer’s mind at ease,” Mrs. Crossley said. “Hear what news Miss Blake has come with.”

Mr. Crossley dipped his head in her direction. “Ey up, Miss Blake.”

“Good day to you, as well. I came to tell you that Susannah has been appointed an assistant teacher at the school.”

He turned to Susannah. “My girl! Assistant teacher. That’s a fine thing, i’n’it?”

Susannah nodded. “I’ll be learning to teach, just as we’d hoped.”

Just as they’d hoped? Had the family discussed it before?

Mr. Crossley’s next question was addressed to Evangeline. “Does tha think, with t’ practice she’d get, she might one day be a teacher hersen?”

Hersen. Herself. “I do not see why not. Having experience could only help her chances.”

“A teacher.” Mr. Crossley gently took his daughter’s face in his hands. “Tha’d not have to go to t’ factory.”

“I know it.”

“You’d live your life baht that misery,” he added.

“Baht” is “without.” When the word continued to sit odd on her ears, she repeated the translation. “Baht” is “without.”

“Oh, girl.” Mr. Crossley pulled Susannah into an embrace.

Hoping she would not give offense, Evangeline asked the question weighing heavy on her mind. “Why is it you dislike the factory so much?”

It was Mr. Palmer, who had only just stepped inside, who answered. “It’s a place of misery and death,” he said. “Those what get through t’ day baht injuries only grow more unhappy, their souls dying by inches.”