Chapter Twenty

A fter debating long into the night, Evangeline decided not to write to her grandfather. His few visits to Petersmarch while she was growing up had always included praise for her mother’s poise and dignity. Showing herself to be in possession of those same qualities would help her cause. She was certain of it.

Then, when he eventually made a visit of his own, he would see for himself that she was everything her mother had been, as well as a good teacher. The contradiction of her aunt’s words would be evident, and Evangeline would not need to make the argument herself. She would focus, instead, on seeing that her children began to truly read.

Without money or a sympathetic school board, she felt certain she would not be able to search out Yorkshire texts as she’d hoped to. Her uncle had, however, provided a quantity of paper, which had mostly gone unused as her students used slates for nearly everything. That pile of parchment sparked an idea. Once her students had left for the day, excepting Ronan, who was again remaining with her after school, she planned to trek out onto the moor and speak to Mrs. Crossley.

Mr. Palmer arrived at the same late hour as the Haighs to collect his children. He had taken work at the factory, and the change in him was striking. Though he’d shown signs of strain and worry during the brief moments she’d spoken with him at the Crossleys’ home, his appearance had grown haggard and careworn. He was no longer simply concerned; he was falling to pieces.

“A good evening to you, Mr. Palmer.” Her greeting was met with a silent nod. “The children did well today. Hugo is making great progress, as are the others.” In truth, the Palmer children were more withdrawn during class, and Hugo was more defiant.

“Fine, fine.” He shooed his children along. Unhappiness sat heavy on the entire family. Their financial difficulties would have been lightened by his employment with the factory, but that seemed little comfort to them.

She understood Dermot’s arguments for dismissing him, yet her heart broke for their misery. If only Mr. Palmer had been permitted to keep his position, to remain out of the factory, and on a job that did not tear away at his soul.

She stepped beside Ronan sitting on the front step of the schoolhouse, writing his name again and again on the slate. “I need to visit the Crossleys. Would you like to visit with John and look at his sheep?”

Though Ronan did not answer, verbally or otherwise, he did set aside his slate and stand.

She began walking and he joined her. How grateful she was that he had learned to be comfortable with her. James had struggled to warm to strangers, at times refusing to try altogether. She knew that Ronan’s acceptance of her was a gift, and she did not mean to take it lightly.

“How do you like school?” she asked him as they made their way down the narrow road that led west of town. “Do you like it as much as being on the building site?”

“We build with bricks,” Ronan said. “Bricks are for building, but the mortar must be right, else the bricks don’t stay. It cannot be too wet or too dry. It needs to be right. When ’tis raining and misty out, the mortar’s needing to be made more dry because the rain’ll wetten it. But if the day’s a hot one, the mortar’ll be made more wet on account of the heat’ll dry it out. It has to be right. ’Tis the rule. It has to be right.”

“That sounds like a good rule.” Evangeline tucked a comment into the conversation as soon as Ronan paused long enough to allow it. “What other rules do you know?”

“Dogs should have spots,” he said. “They don’t all, but I like the ones what have spots.”

Every now and then, the little Irish boy said something that rang with the Yorkshire manner of speaking. He did not interact with the other children much, and he almost never spoke to any of them, but it seemed he was listening and absorbing what he heard.

“People don’t have spots. And people smell like different things than people. That’s a new rule. People can smell like dirt or flowers or like the factory. ’Tisn’t wrong for them to. That’s a rule.”

Having engaged in similar conversations with her brother, she could easily imagine Dermot having to explain the “rule” about odors that clung to people. It had likely baffled Ronan until then.

“What about sheep?” she pressed.

“Sheep smell like sheep. They sound like sheep. There are black sheep, not just white ones, but there’re not as many. That’s a rule as well.”

“Did John tell you that rule?”

Ronan shook his head. “I sorted it on my own. I’ve seen the sheep. There’re always more white sheep than black.”

The boy was clever, there was no denying that.

By the time they reached the Crossleys’ home, the topic had moved to music and the songs he sang most often at home. Though Ronan had been silent during the first weeks of their acquaintance, when they were alone of late he did not stop talking. Her heart never failed to be warmed by it.

Evangeline knocked at the door.

“Miss Blake,” Mrs. Crossley said. “What brings thee ’round?”

“I have come to ask a favor, actually.” Hearing the words aloud drove home how presumptuous they truly were. “I will, of course, understand if what I ask is inconvenient or unappealing to you.”

Mrs. Crossley nodded and watched her closely. Ronan’s attention had wandered to the sheep grazing in a distant field, no doubt searching for the rare black dot among the white.

“The children at school are struggling with their reading, in part because the materials I have for them to read are not written in the language with which they are most familiar.”

Mrs. Crossley’s attention hadn’t wavered.

“I would like for them to have stories to read that are written in Yorkshire English, but I do not know how or where to find such a thing. That is what I am hoping you can help me with.”

“I’ve not owned a book in all us life,” she said. “I’d not have t’ first idea where to find one.”

She had not been as clear she’d thought. “I meant that I had hoped you knew of some stories or tales that the children would find familiar that you would be willing to tell me, in your own words. I would write those stories down exactly as you told them to me with the same words and phrases. The children could then practice reading what I had written out. The language would be their language, and their frustration at the unfamiliar words and sounds they have been attempting to read would be lessened.”

“They’d be reading t’ words I say?”

Evangeline nodded. “They would eventually have to learn to read words as they are spoken and written in other parts of the country, but building their confidence by giving them something familiar will help, I think. I hope, at least.”

Mrs. Crossley’s expression turned thoughtful. “Tha’re an odd sort of southerner, miss. They usually turn their noses up at us way of speaking. Allus have done.”

“I wish to help the children more than anything,” Evangeline said. “And this, I firmly believe, will help.”

Mrs. Crossley nodded. “I’ll help thee, though I can’t this day.”

“Of course. Whenever you are able, simply tell me when or where, and we can begin.”

She nodded. “It’s a grand thing tha’re doing. Any other southern teacher wouldn’t’ve cared owt for t’ children’s comfort.”

The idea of a teacher neglecting her dear children hurt her heart. “I would hope that any teacher would care deeply for her students.”

Mrs. Crossley offered an empathetic smile. “Tha has a good heart, so tha can’t imagine being so cold. We need only look to her high-and-mighty lordship to know how most southern folk feel.”

“Mrs. Barton is not always as kind as she ought to be,” Evangeline acknowledged. “I am pleased to know that I have shown myself to be preferable to her.”

An immediate sense of disloyalty grabbed her. Despite her own difficulties with her aunt, they were family. Yet, having been subjected to Aunt Barton’s unkindness, she could feel nothing but relief at knowing she was not guilty of the same transgression.

“Tha and Ronan had best hurry back to town. There’s a storm brewing overhead.”

The sky had, indeed, turned an ominous shade of gray, and a cold breeze had begun to blow.

“Thank you, Mrs. Crossley. I appreciate your willingness to help.”

She urged Ronan onward, and they moved quickly back to the schoolhouse, not slowing to look at anything nor to have a leisurely discussion on whatever struck his fancy.

She had the fire burning low and Ronan deposited in front of it by the time the first flash of lightning lit the dark sky. The day had not grown overly late, but almost no light penetrated the thick clouds. It felt as if night had come far too early.

A low rumble of thunder shook the windows. Wind whistled through unseen gaps in the walls.

Ronan pulled himself tightly into a ball, cringing with each crash of thunder.

Evangeline knelt before the rocking chair where he sat. “You do not care for the storm, do you?”

He sat in tense, shaking silence.

“What is it you do at home during a storm?” she asked.

“Sing,” he whispered.

“We can sing now if you’d like.”

He nodded, quickly, anxiously.

“What song would you like to sing?”

He hesitated, then, in quiet tones, began to sing. It was not a song she knew nor had ever before heard. In fact, the song was not even in English. After a moment, he stopped, looking at her in confusion, no doubt having expected her to join in.

“I do not know that song,” she confessed.

He tried another, also in what she suspected was Irish, and it ended in the same look of disappointment.

“What if I taught you a song that I used to sing when I was your age?” she suggested. “It was a favorite of my brother’s. His name was James, and you remind me a great deal of him. I think you would like this song as well.”

He looked curious enough to convince her to move ahead with her plan.

“This song involves a great many numbers,” she told him. “Isuspect you are fond of numbers and counting.”

His curiosity increased on the instant.

“I will sing the verses, and you can join on the chorus. It is numbers, but listed in reverse order and skipping over some. It can grow tricky, which only makes it more fun to sing. When I sang it with my brother, tripping over the numbers would make us laugh and laugh until we had to start again.” She smiled both at the memory and at Ronan’s unwavering interest. “Would you like to try?”

Lightning lit the room, followed closely by thunder. Ronan’s gaze flew to the ceiling, and he tensed.

James had often grown clingy when he was afraid, though at other times he refused any contact. Predicting which he would prefer had proven difficult. Ronan was likely equally indiscernible. Evangeline took a guess.

“What if I were to sit in the rocking chair and we were to wrap you up in a warm blanket? You could sit close to me and need not worry over the storm or the cold.” Pulling a blanket tight around himself had often been a source of calm for James.

Ronan’s ready agreement told her he too was comforted by it. In a moment’s time they were settled, and she began teaching him “As I Walked through London City.” As she had hoped, the complexity of counting backward using only every other number kept his mind occupied enough to lessen the impact of the storm. Each time they stumbled over a number, they would laugh too much to continue, and he would eagerly ask to begin again.

She did not know precisely how long they worked at the amusing song, but slowly his tension ebbed away and he grew more comfortable. Evangeline found her gaze returning again and again to James’s image on the mantel. He and Ronan would likely have appreciated one another, though she knew James had not been particularly adept at making friends. She was not well--acquainted enough with Ronan to know if he had difficulties in that area. He had never made the attempt at school, and, though he did not object when John Crossley invited him to look at the sheep, he was never the one to suggest it nor did he seek out John’s company.

Dermot stepped inside before they managed to master the song. He was soaked to his skin, yet stood rooted to the spot the moment his gaze fell on them. Shock filled every line of his face.

“The lad’s sitting on your lap.”

Evangeline nodded. “We have been learning a song.”

“’Tis about numbers,” Ronan added.

Dermot’s eyes pulled wide. “He’s talking to you now?”

“We have become good friends.” Though she knew that would not appear true to most observers, Ronan’s willingness to talk and sit with her and trust her was, for him, an act of real friendship.

Dermot said something in Irish, though with a tone of amazement. “Go on with your song, then,” he instructed. “I’ll put supper on.”

“You’ll catch your death if you don’t return home and change out of your sodden clothes,” she warned.

“I’ll hang the wettest of it up near the fire. The rest’ll dry out as I work.”

“You’re certain?”

“You’ve worked a bit of a miracle here, Evangeline. I’ll not interfere with that for all the dry clothes in the world.”

A different kind of warmth filled her. She had devised a plan for bringing Yorkshire words to her students, had seen Ronan through a storm, and had built a bond with him in the process. Perhaps she was not such a failure after all.