Chapter Eighteen

W hy wasn’t Mr. Palmer working this afternoon?”

Dermot eyed Miss Blake, attempting to sort out her unexpected substitute for a greeting.

“I know he works for you, as does Thomas Crossley. Thomas was not able to leave the work site to walk his brothers and sister home from school, yet Mr. Palmer was at the Crossleys’ house.”

Ah. “Why did you not ask Palmer your own self why he was not working?”

“He did not seem to wish to talk about it,” she answered. “At least not to me.”

The Crossleys, no doubt, had received an earful. “Palmer was let go today.” And that was all Dermot intended to say on the matter. He held his hand out to Ronan. “Come along, lad.”

Miss Blake, however, was not satisfied. “You fired him?”

“I did, and not without cause.”

Far from placated, she appeared more concerned. “Then he does not have a job. His family has no income.”

“It couldn’t be helped.”

Miss Blake’s forehead creased deeply with worry. “What will they do?”

“I’m telling you, lass, it couldn’t be helped.”

She was unimpressed. “He has children to feed.”

“Perhaps that fact ought to have entered his mind each day when he chose to laze about instead of doing his work.”

“His work was lacking?”

Why did that surprise her so much? Did she know Palmer at all?

“His skills were fine enough, but he far preferred to stand about chatting rather than doing the job I was paying him to be doing. The crew is small, barely sufficient for the work we’re undertaking in the time we’ve been given. I could not justify taking any of m’ men from their duties to spend the day hounding Palmer to do his part. I gave him ample warnings and opportunities for changing and doing better, but he heeded not a single one. And why”—exasperation filled his words—“do I feel the need to defend this to you? I did what needed doing, and that ought not to earn your censure.”

“And I am concerned for my students, which ought not to earn yours.”

“Your students?” He folded his arms across his chest. “The Crossleys’ oldest works for me, and his income is crucial to them. The Bennetts, too, depend upon the work Mr. Bennett does for me; their children are new to the school, I believe. The houses we’re building would allow the Haighs to live near enough to the factory to save their wee lass the long and difficult walk to and from town every day, allowing her to sleep a bit more and have a more reliable roof over her head. If this project is a failure, what happens to those students?”

She watched him, silent.

“I’m not heartless. I do worry about the Palmer children. ’Tis the reason I gave their father one chance after another, one warning after another. But too many lives depend on these houses being completed correctly and on schedule. I could not risk all of that any longer.”

“Could you not have found something else for him to do? Adifferent task than the one he had been undertaking?”

He tempered his response, knowing that she meant well, that she spoke not out of condemnation but concern. “He is not a reliable worker. I was as merciful as I could be.”

“But he’ll have to go to the factory.” Her voice hardly raised above a whisper. “I have heard him speak of it as a place of death for the soul.”

Dermot couldn’t fault the man for that view. ’Twas one of the reasons he’d waited so long before finally sending him on his way. “The mill values efficiency above all else. The work is monotonous and miserable at times. And they’ve not enough workers for the load, meaning they’re all doing too much to make up the difference.

“Though I’ve not been inside the building myself since it was completed, I’ve heard others speak of the thickness in the air and the overly warm, overly crowded rooms. They say the machines are deafeningly loud, and that the smell of wool and oil is so strong it lingers on the workers long after they’ve left for the day. A man raised on the moors, as Palmer was, likely sees those confined spaces and lack of fresh air and freedom to be something of a death to the soul.”

“Yet, you would resign him to that?”

Saints, the woman knew how to twist the knife of guilt. “He resigned himself to it.”

“That is rather cold.”

He shook his head. “It is the truth, unvarnished. I did all I could.”

She squared her shoulders, a posture of proud defiance. “And is that enough to appease your conscience, Mr. McCormick?”

“If all my crew lost their positions and incomes, and the factory workers lost their opportunity for better housing, all on account of me ignoring Mr. Palmer’s poor work, would that appease your conscience?”

She held her chin at a dignified angle. “Clearly we are not going to see eye to eye.”

“That would be difficult, seeing as you’re not terribly tall.”

Her eyebrow shot upward at a sharp angle. “You are turning this into a jest?”

He shook his head. “Only wishing to put an end to an argument.” He took up Ronan’s hand. “Have yourself a fine evening, Miss Blake.”

Ronan offered his teacher his customary wave, which she returned as always. Though the lass had shown his boy kindness and patience, she did not always extend that forbearance to Dermot. Perhaps ’twas just as well, being disposed as she was to assume the worst in his intentions.

Why, then, did her words weigh so heavily on him as he went through the routine of supper and seeing Ronan to bed? He knew he’d been as merciful as he could be with Gaz Palmer. He’d kept the man on through the entire wall building project despite the continued problems he’d caused. He’d even brought him along when the back-to-backs began, hoping for the best.

That afternoon had forced the decision. The crew had been working themselves to exhaustion trying to get caught up after fixing an error made that morning. Every man had been pulling his weight, except Palmer. He’d wandered away and set himself to sitting with his back against the tree, just watching the sky.

Dermot had waited to say anything, hoping to see the man rethink his decision and return to work. But a half hour passed with no change. Then another. He could see the frustration in the faces of the other workers as they’d glared at Palmer. A few even muttered to each other about him being paid to laze about when they had to slave away.

Palmer not doing his work was bad enough, but creating resentment in the other workers would bring the entire project to a halt if left unchecked.

He’d had no choice.

Feeling guilty was a particularly Irish talent, having been perfected over centuries, and Dermot was well-acquainted with the experience. This time, though, it felt different.

He could not have done anything but what he’d done—not with so many depending on the success of the project. Yet he knew the Palmer family would suffer for it. In that, Miss Blake had been correct.

There I go, feeling the ol’ guilt.

He pushed back the niggling thought, but it resurfaced again and again. His childhood had been spent learning a trade, far from his family and far from the only home he’d known. He’d suffered the loneliness and the separation because having one less mouth to feed and one less body to clothe had kept his family afloat in the vast ocean of poverty. He’d suffered for the good of others. His life had been turned inside out to save the lives of those around him.

He had been the lamb at the slaughter, and he had just resigned Gaz Palmer to the same role.

The chief difference being that Palmer had been given chance after chance to avoid his fate. Dermot hadn’t even been warned. He’d simply been handed off and told to be a good lad, and he’d never seen nor heard from his family again.

Life was far too often cruel.