Chapter Twenty-one

N othing could have prepared Dermot for the sight of Ronan curled up on Evangeline’s lap. The position had seemed so natural, yet Ronan never let anyone but Dermot so close to him.

More confusing still was how his heart clenched when his thoughts turned to her. He’d grown undeniably fond of the confusing and at times frustrating colleen. She was thoughtful and kind, witty and determined—and from an entirely different world than he was.

Though she spoke little of her past, ’twas not difficult to discern her history. Her posture and demeanor and manner of speaking all testified of a higher birth than he could claim. Theirs was an unexpected friendship and would never be anything but. Some things could simply not be overlooked or overcome.

He reminded himself of that any time his traitorous heart thudded out its affection for her. His had been a humble upbringing, and he’d no education to speak of, but he was not so thick as to think he could change the ways of the world. Life had challenges enough without seeking out more.

His crew had made great progress on the row of back-to-back houses. Despite the fierce storm a week earlier, the foundation had held fast. The portion of the walls they had erected had taken a beating from the wind and pelting rain, yet had remained perfectly square.

He surveyed the men’s work, impressed with what he saw. Even young Thomas Crossley, inexperienced as he was, had laid a tidy, straight row.

“You’ve done grand work here, lad.” He leaned a touch closer, eyeing the newly laid bricks. “Well done.”

“Thank thee.” The response lacked the boy’s typical enthusiasm.

“Have you something on your mind?”

Thomas’s jaw worked against the tension in his face and posture. “Father fears t’ sheep are growing ill. Looks to be scrapie.”

“I don’t know a thing about that, I’m afraid.”

“Scrapie is a disease, terrible and swift.” Thomas slid his trowel into the pocket of his heavy work apron. “It can’t be treated or cured. It spreads through flocks, killin’ most all t’ sheep.”

The Crossleys’ livelihood depended on their flock. “What’ll your family do?”

“We’ll try to save enough sheep to get by.” He sounded not the least bit confident in that possibility. “More likely, we’ll not.”

“Your family’ll be ruined.”

Thomas took up his jointer. “We nearly are now, as it is.”

The bright and laughing lad had disappeared entirely, replaced by a careworn and burdened young man. Dermot had seen similar transformations far too often over the years. He was helpless to do anything about it. Even if this project led to the larger one he’d proposed to Mr. Barton, he’d never be a wealthy man able to lift a family out of ruin.

“’Tis right sorry I am.” He meant it.

Dermot had few friends in Smeatley, but he counted George Crossley as one. They’d spoken on a number of occasions, and he was always sociable and welcoming. They were a good family who did not deserve the string of bad fortune they’d endured.

The vicar happened past a moment later. Dermot nodded his acknowledgment, assuming the vicar would continue on his path. Instead, Mr. Trewe veered toward the work site.

“Best not come much closer,” Dermot warned, his voice raised to be heard over the sound of men and bricks and movement behind him. “’Tisn’t safe if you’re not familiar with the dangers and what to watch for.”

Mr. Trewe stopped, then watched him expectantly.

Dermot closed the distance between them. Apparently, there was to be a conversation. “What is it I might be doing for you?”

“I have yet to see you for services on Sundays.”

Ah, this ol’ back-and-forth. “We still make the trek to Green-borough.”

Mr. Trewe laughed as though Dermot had spoken in jest. “Why would you go all the way to Greenborough? Do you not care to worship with your neighbors?”

“I’d not mind it, but what you do in your church each week is not my idea of worship.”

Mr. Trewe looked confused. “Are you Catholic? I know a great many in Ireland are.”

“I am not.”

The confusion on his face only grew. “Then what is your objection?”

“My preference is for a sermon meant to help, written with the needs of the congregation in mind, not one dictated by her high-and-mighty lordship with her own profit in mind.”

“Neither of the Bartons dictate my sermons,” the vicar insisted.

“And yet those sermons don’t veer much from the chosen topic, now, do they?” He had heard his workers speak of the Sunday sermons many times. The entire town had noticed the pattern, the adherence to the subject of work and obedience. They all knew perfectly well where the requirement to focus on the godliness of labor had originated from, and it wasn’t from on high.

“You do not think I care about the people I am here to serve?” Mr. Trewe’s posture straightened to a dignified height. “Rather than only hearing their complaints about my sermons, you would do well to ask the Haighs or the Gardeners or the Palmers—or any number of other families in Smeatley—whether or not they think I care about them.”

Dermot could not doubt Mr. Trewe’s sincerity.

“I know I have little latitude regarding the subject of my weekly discourses. I know I am ridiculed for the grip the Bartons have on my words. If I veer from the topic, as you say, I will lose my position. My acquiescence seems a small price to pay for the ability to quietly assist those in need. My works are not seen by many, excepting those whom I am serving directly. That, to me, is the essence of who a vicar ought to be, one who serves out of love and not for praise.”

“Do you never worry that the impression you give of being more loyal to the Bartons than you are to your congregation will prevent the people from turning to you in times of need or trusting you when you offer your help?”

Mr. Trewe’s expression turned rueful. “In the words of the immortal William Shakespeare, ‘Ay, there’s the rub.’”

Much to Dermot’s surprise, he felt a kinship for the man. “Life’s never simple, is it?”

“Not ever.” Mr. Trewe recollected himself and resumed his posture of confidence and his expression of benevolence. “If you ever decide that Greenborough is too far a distance, know that there’s always a place for you here.”

Dermot nodded, then watched as the vicar made his way up the street. Even for the seemingly unapproachable Mr. Trewe, life was a messy and difficult business. It seemed it was for everyone, particularly here.

That somber reflection remained with him throughout the day and was still weighing heavily on his mind as he climbed Greenamble Street toward the schoolhouse.

“McCormick,” a voice called out from behind him.

He spun around to see Gaz Palmer hurrying up the hill toward him. He had been walking alongside a few other factory workers, no doubt on their way to fetch their children. The school had gained several new students of late, most of whom had a parent or two working at the mill.

“Palmer,” Dermot said once the man had caught up to him. “Is factory time running slow today?”

“Aye.” He took a moment to catch his breath, giving Dermot a chance to study him.

The man was gaunt, his features drawn and pulled, the lines in his face deeper than they’d been. His eyes were wide, not in anxiousness or surprise, but in clear worry. He did not look well at all.

“I know I likely ought not ask, but would tha consider hiring me back to t’ crew? I’d be willing to fetch or haul. Tha need only name t’ task.”

Just as he opened his mouth to remind Palmer of the struggle he’d had with him on the crew before, Evangeline’s words of reproach filled his mind. The man was suffering. His family was suffering. But could Dermot risk the success of the project when other families would suffer if it failed?

“I don’t know that I could do that,” Dermot said. “You caused me no end of trouble before.”

“I know it. And I’ve no right to ask thee. But I can’t abide t’ factory any longer. I can’t.” Desperation filled the plea.

Dermot knew perfectly well that he ought not hire back a man who’d shown himself a poor worker, yet he found himself saying, “I’ll think on it.”

The first inkling of hope entered Palmer’s eyes, small and weak but unmistakable. “Tha are a good man.”

“I made no promises,” he reminded him.

A quick, almost frantic nod. “I know it. I’m grateful that tha’re thinking on it.”

Dermot stayed back as Palmer continued up the street. The other factory parents passed him, similar looks of weariness on their faces. They were, perhaps, not so desperate as Palmer, but they were careworn. The mill meant reliable work and an income they could depend upon, but it came at a price.

Life in this part of the world always exacted its toll.

The last of Evangeline’s students, except for Ronan, had been collected. The mill, it seemed, was running slow today. More students had begun coming to school, which made her happy, but it also made her days longer and more exhausting.

She stepped into her living quarters and offered a quick apology to Mrs. Crossley. “We had no end of interruptions this afternoon.”

Ronan was engrossed in his wooden figurine, content as a bee in honey.

Evangeline sat at the table and took up her pen. “We left off with Mary stumbling upon the fairies’ feast.”

“I feel right bold,” Mrs. Crossley said, “puttin’ my words on paper like they was important.”

“They are important,” Evangeline insisted. “The children will appreciate them, and the story is a good one. I haven’t heard it before, and I am eager to discover what happens next.”

Mrs. Crossley laughed. “Any of t’ students can tell thee how t’ story ends.”

“And now they will be able to read how the story ends.”

Mrs. Crossley’s eyes danced. “It’s exciting, i’n’it? We’re making a book.”

This had been their second afternoon spent on the endeavor, and Evangeline grew evermore convinced of the wisdom of this approach. Not only was she compiling materials that would assist the children in their studies, she was also making a friend. Mrs. Crossley was many years her senior and their lives had been drastically different, yet they had found the beginnings of a kinship between them.

“Once we’ve finished this book, we should find other things to do together,” Mrs. Crossley said. “I’ve enjoyed this.”

“You might teach me to sew a dress,” Evangeline said with a laugh. “This one is worn nearly to threads.” She had only the one dress that could be donned without help, so she wore it every day, taking time at night now and then to scrub it clean and hang it to dry.

“That’d be grand.” Indeed, she seemed almost eager. Perhaps she truly was enjoying their interactions as much as Evangeline was.

“Between you and Mr. McCormick, I might manage to survive here.”

“Mr. McCormick?”

“He is teaching me to cook, though I have found he is fond of cabbage.”

They both laughed, something they did often when together. It was a blessing having a friend to cheer her.

“I should nip on home,” Mrs. Crossley said. “Us family’ll be right clemmed.”

Clemmed means hungry. Evangeline had learned that word quickly from her students.

“Of course. Whenever you have the time again, please come back, and not simply on account of the book. I enjoy your company.”

“An’ I enjoy thine.”

She pulled open the door only to find Dermot standing on the front step, apparently lost in thought.

“Good evening.” Evangeline’s greeting caught his attention.

He doffed his hat. “I’ve come for Ronan.”

“I assumed as much.”

Mrs. Crossley slipped past them both, but did not get far before Dermot stopped her with a question.

“How is the flock faring?” he asked.

She took a heavy breath. “Poorly. We’re choosing to be hopeful.”

“Send word with Thomas if there’s anything I can do,” he said.

She nodded and slipped into the darkening evening.

“Is something the matter with their sheep?” Evangeline had not heard a word about it from Mrs. Crossley.

Dermot nodded as he stepped inside. “Thomas says ’tis a disease of some kind, fatal for the sheep and catching.”

“Oh, heavens.”

“Are you ready, then, lad?”

Dermot was clearly not in a talkative mood. Had something happened, or was he simply tired? A closer look revealed worry in the lines of his face and dark smudges beneath his eyes.

“You look as though you’ve had a difficult day.”

“I’ve much on m’ mind, is all. Far too much.”

“You aren’t the only one who is a ‘dab hand at listening,’” she said.

He eyed her, hesitant. She set a hand on his arm, the light touch sending a wave of warmth through her. She hadn’t been expecting that. A friendly connection, perhaps. Even a moment’s empathy. But this was something different, something more.

“You’d truly listen to me complaining?” he asked.

“I truly would.”

A hint of a smile touched his eyes, and the warmth inside her burned ever brighter.

“I’ll hold you to that, Evangeline, someday when I’m not too exhausted for conversation.”

Though she felt a twinge of disappointment, it was tempered by the realization that he felt enough of a kinship with her to welcome future confidences. It seemed Mrs. Crossley was not her only friend in Smeatley.

Dermot set his hand atop hers, giving it a quick squeeze. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Heat rushed to her face.

He stepped past her, granting her time to cool her cheeks and settle her thoughts. Had she not just silently declared them friends? This was no way for her to react to a friend.

Dermot wandered to the mantel. “Is this your family?”

“It is, yes.” She crossed to the picture and took it from its spot. “This is my mother and father. My brother George. This is my brother James.” She glanced at Ronan, then back at Dermot. “James was so much like Ronan. And this dear girl, here, is my sister, Lucy.”

“The one in Leeds.”

He hadn’t forgotten. She appreciated that. It meant someone in this vast and lonely world was listening to her.

She carefully returned the photograph to the mantel. As she always did when near enough, she brushed her fingers along Father’s pipe, George’s statuette, and James’s book.

“I thought about what you said about being bold enough to tell my grandfather directly about my work here.” She faced him. “I have not written to him, but I am increasingly tempted to do so.”

“Are you beginning to see how wise I am after all?”

She recognized his dry humor. A few weeks earlier, she would have mistaken it for arrogance.

“I could tell him the good I’m doing and the progress I am seeing. I could tell him not only about the school and the children but also of the other skills I am learning. I can cook, mostly potatoes and cabbage, but I can cook.”

Dermot’s mouth twitched at one corner, causing a small flip in her heart. “Potatoes and cabbage are the most heavenly of foods, lass. Don’t dismiss ’em.”

“I’ve become quite good at cleaning and mending and laundering. I’ve been prudent with the money I earn from my teaching. There is no reason for him not to allow me to be reunited with my sister.” She took a fortifying breath. The action she had decided to take went against the behavior she had been taught to embrace all her life. But choosing decorous responses to her current situation had accomplished little, especially where her sister was concerned. “I plan to write to my grandfather and ask him to allow Lucy to come here and live with me.”

Far from the look of approval and words of encouragement she had expected, Dermot seemed taken aback. “You wish to bring her here?”

“Yes.” Even in the face of his surprise, her determination to follow through with her plan grew. “I wish her to be with me.”

“In Smeatley?”

Why was the idea so shocking? “Yes, in Smeatley.”

He shook his head, repeatedly, firmly, emphatically. “I’d advise against that, Evangeline. As miserable as you say she is at that school of hers, she’ll be more so coming here.”

Confusion rendered her mute. He had said only a few days earlier that she ought to fight to keep her family together, that she needed to be bold and confront her grandfather about his refusal to let her be with her sister.

“You have Ronan with you,” she reminded him.

“’Tisn’t at all the same, lass.”

“It is the same. She is my family, and she is alone. I won’t resign her to that fate.”

He took up Ronan’s hand. “You’ll resign her to this one, then.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He turned toward the door. “I’m only saying, before you drag her here, make fully certain she wouldn’t be better off where she’sat.”

On that confusing and frustrating declaration, he simply left. No words of farewell, no smile of friendship.

Make fully certain she wouldn’t be better off where she is. It was precisely the argument her aunt had made, and her grandfather in a roundabout way. They all thought Lucy was better cared for by indifferent and unkind teachers at a school far away from the person who loved her more than anyone else in the world.

When everyone else had doubted her, herself included, Dermot hadn’t dismissed her out of hand. He’d helped her when she’d needed it. He’d listened to her concerns and had expressed confidence in her abilities and encouraged her to champion her own cause. He had been a source of reassurance.

Now even he doubted her.