Chapter Two

Smeatley, Yorkshire

E ngland was no place for an Irishman. Dermot McCormick knew that well enough. His English neighbors knew it, too. But as they all were quite stuck with each other, Dermot chose to find -humor—however dark—in the situation. ’Twas a challenge finding reason to be amused by the unkindness of others.

He’d worked hard and done well for himself. A skilled brick mason was valuable in a town growing as fast as this one. Dermot had helped build the recently opened grand mill. He’d worked the long hours expected of him, never allowing himself to rest on the job.

Mr. Barton, the mill manager, had taken note and placed Dermot at the head of the crew of bricklayers finishing the renovation of his personal home. Though the English work crew had first met Dermot’s authority with resentment, they’d soon learned to listen and do their work, else they found themselves off the job.

Thomas Crossley, a local lad new to bricklaying but eager to learn, rushed across the back lawn to where the crew was near to finishing their day’s work. At fifteen, he was considered old to be learning the trade, but it seemed to Dermot a far sight better that children be children, and trades and work and professions be delayed a bit. Circumstances didn’t always allow for that luxury, as he knew all too well.

“Mistress is back,” Thomas called. “She were comin’ up t’ drive in that fine carriage of hers but a moment ago.”

Saints preserve us all. Mrs. Barton’s absence the past week was the only reason they’d managed any work at all. The woman was forever changing her wishes, then pitching a very sophisticated fit when inconvenienced by her own fickleness. How any person could be equally stubborn and changeable, he still couldn’t say. The woman was an oddity worthy of a traveling circus.

Dermot made quick work of cleaning the trowel he’d been using before setting it in his bucket with his other tools. “I’ll face down the she-devil.”

Thomas slipped off his cap and held it to his heart, his expression theatrically solemn. “Tha were a good man, Mr. McCormick, and tha’ll be sorely missed.”

“You think she’ll best me as easily as that?”

The look of mourning still firmly on his features, Thomas shook his head. “I never said it’d be easy. But, mark thee, death’ll seem right welcome by t’ end, as it allus is to those what face down—”

“Enough, lad.” Dermot knew from experience that Thomas’d go on for ages if allowed to. “You’ve my full confidence should the need to eulogize me arise. In the meantime, set your mind to your work or it’s your own funeral we’ll all be planning.”

Thomas smiled as Dermot had known full well he would. The lad gathered the empty water buckets. He was charged with seeing that the crew had water enough for their work throughout the day, and he took his job seriously.

Dermot turned to his other men. “You’ve a full hour left of working today. You’ll not shortchange the master.”

They indicated their understanding, some with nods, some with grunts.

He crossed the lawn to the back of the house and stopped at the edge of the terrace where the Bartons always met for their consultations. He crossed himself for good measure and said a preemptive prayer for forgiveness, knowing he’d be thinking uncharitable thoughts in no time. A mere moment passed before Mrs. Barton joined him on the grass.

“How is the work coming along?” she asked.

“All will be in order by Friday week, provided nothing’s changed in your expectations.”

Mrs. Barton eyed him through narrowed lids. “I still expect what I’ve always expected, McCormick: work worthy of the generous amount we are paying you.”

When he took into account the misery Mrs. Barton had caused him and his crew, that “generous” payment felt far more like a pittance.

“I have a task for you this evening,” she said.

“I’ve a task for my own self,” he said. “Working on that wall of yours, in fact. Unless, of course, you’re not wanting it to be finished on schedule.”

Mrs. Barton ignored him, as she always did. “Mr. Farr has secured the town a teacher.”

Mr. Farr, who happened to be Mrs. Barton’s father, owned the mill. Though he did not live in Smeatley, the well-to-do man held sway over anything and everything that happened in the tiny town. While Dermot was glad to hear Mr. Farr had found a teacher at last—he’d a boy of his own in need of schooling—he hadn’t full confidence in the people Mr. Farr had selected to fill other important positions in the town.

He’d chosen his son-in-law as the mill manager, and Mr. Barton, though not so changeable and frustrating as his wife, was so tightfisted in the running of the mill that corners were often cut and expenses avoided that could be beneficial to them all.

And the vicar he had brought in—though many in town argued that Mrs. Barton had been the one behind the selection—was a toady of a man, who, according to the gossip of Dermot’s workers, spent his sermons reminding churchgoers to work hard in the factory and live lives free of complaints.

The teacher might prove just as much of a disappointment.

“As you live near the schoolhouse,” Mrs. Barton continued, “you’re to accompany her there and see she arrives in the right place, well and sound.”

Delivering women to their homes was an odd job for a brick mason, to be sure, and one that’d prevent him from seeing that his crew finished their work for the day. “Could not a servant be tasked with carting the teacher about?”

Mrs. Barton gave him one of her characteristic icy stares. “Perhaps. That would allow me time to discuss with you some of the thoughts I’ve had about the wall.”

“I’ll see to the teacher.”

Oh, how he loathed that smug look she’d so perfected. The woman thought herself right about anything and everything under the sun.

Dermot turned toward the small copse of trees where his boy, Ronan, spent his days. The lad didn’t always respond when his name was called, so placing two fingers in his mouth, Dermot let out a shrill whistle. That never failed to capture the lad’s attention. Ronan looked up from his neat rows of rough-carved wooden figures. Dermot waved him over. Obedient as ever, the lad began gathering his toys.

When Dermot returned his attention to Mrs. Barton, she was no longer standing alone.

“This is Miss Blake,” Mrs. Barton said, “our new teacher.”

The lass beside her wore a black dress, one far finer than any he’d seen in Smeatley, with gloves that didn’t appear to have been mended again and again. She stood with perfect, prim posture.

“You have a very peaceful back garden.” Miss Blake’s wide-brimmed bonnet kept much of her face hidden. “Très charmant.”

Unmended gloves. Fashionable dress. And a bit of French tossed in amongst her fine English words. This was no destitute woman looking for whatever work she could find, grateful for any position even if it meant wandering off to a tiny speck on the map like Smeatley.

Mrs. Barton finished the introductions. “Miss Blake, this is Dermot McCormick. He’ll be showing you the way to the schoolhouse.”

Dermot thrust out his hand to shake Miss Blake’s. She didn’t take up his offer, but simply eyed his hand.

“You’re meant to snatch it up,” he told her. “Give it a good shake. ’Tis a way of saying ‘It’s pleased I am to meet you.’”

“I’ve never shaken hands with anyone before.”

Oh, blessed fields of clover. She was even too high in the instep for hand shaking. “I’ll not overtax you, Miss Blake. We’d best trek on. I’ve supper to put on after we’ve seen you delivered.”

“You speak of me as though I were a parcel.” Her muttered words carried a hint of amusement.

He set his hand against Ronan’s back and gave him the lightest of nudges, setting him moving forward. Dermot led the way, his lad keeping close to his side. Around the side of the house they went, up the garden path, and through a gate leading to the street out front. Ronan kept pace with Dermot’s longer strides. Miss Blake, however, did not.

She dragged a trunk behind her, something he’d not taken notice of at first. She might manage it on the lower streets of Smeatley, but the schoolhouse sat on Greenamble, the steepest of all the lanes and streets and alleyways in town. At the pace things were going, she’d never reach the top.

“Bide here a moment,” he told Ronan. “Miss Blake’s taken on a load greater than she ought.” Heavens, he hoped that was only true in reference to her traveling trunk. Smeatley needed a capable teacher. Ronan needed a capable teacher.

Miss Blake had only just reached the iron gate when Dermot reached her. She pulled her trunk with both hands, her progress laborious.

“Were you wanting to be left behind, then?” Dermot asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Again a quiet mumble, completely lacking the traditional English irritation.

“Seems you ought to have packed a bit lighter,” he said.

She allowed her trunk to drop flat. Her shoulders drooped. “If I’d known I’d be pulling it across town, I would have.” She nodded toward the street ahead. “How much farther?”

“Never fear, you’ve plenty more of this bleak ol’ town to see before setting your trunk down for good.”

“You don’t seem to care for Smeatley.” She was likely eyeing him from under her black bonnet. “Is it because you aren’t from here?”

“Now why would you be thinking I’m not Smeatley born and raised?” His tone held all the dryness of a vast African desert.

“Certainly I am not the first person to piece together your origins.”

“I assure you, Miss Blake, this entire town has sorted that out and decided precisely how they feel about it.” He took hold of the handle of her trunk. “Come on, then. You’ve a bit of a climb ahead of you.”