Chapter Three

M r. McCormick looked back over his shoulder. His eyes were so dark his pupils were almost undetectable. It was not, however, the color of his eyes but the frustration in them that set Evangeline moving at a faster clip.

This Irishman was not only a touch grumpy but he had also shown himself to be in a tremendous hurry. Perhaps he did not realize that someone new to town would require some time to orient herself and become acquainted with the place. He likely didn’t realize that she had, that very day, not only buried the majority of her family but also bid farewell to her one surviving sister and so understandably struggled to find the energy for a quick-paced jaunt across town. She suspected that even if he had realized as much, he still would not have summoned the patience to wait.

She picked up her pace to reach him. Her apologetic smile did not receive so much as a nod in return. He simply resumed their journey, her trunk in his hands. It wasn’t overly heavy nor large, but he certainly managed the cumbersome load better than she had during the longer--than-expected trek.

The streets were nearly empty. No dogs barked. No voices were raised in conversation. Not even a birdcall filled the air. The quiet hung unnaturally about her, as though a cacophony would burst forth at any moment. This place felt pushed and pulled and pressed upon, and Evangeline was not at all sure what she thought of it.

“Have you lived here long?” she asked her companion.

“A year and a bit.”

That, it seemed, was to be his entire answer. She’d always understood the Irish to be quite talkative people. Perhaps a different question would help, one without such a quick answer. She needed the distraction of a conversation.

“What is it that you do here?” she asked.

“I carry trunks for chatty women.”

So that was to be his attitude. She could match him dry retort for dry retort if he wished to tread that conversational path. A series of quick steps brought her to his side.

“Do you charge extra for your cheerful conversation?” she asked.

“Naturally. A man’s got to make a living, you know.”

Just how far did he mean to take this tongue-in-cheek conversation? “Trunk carrying is a noble profession, I will grant you that. How do you endure the crushing weight of the ceaseless praise you must receive?”

He eyed her sidelong, his mouth an unreadable slash in his otherwise blank expression. Evangeline did not believe that he was truly as emotionless as he appeared. She’d known a tenant of Lord Bentley’s in Petersmarch who walked about stone-faced and severe. As a child, she’d found him intimidating, but as she’d grown, she’d sensed something more beneath the facade, and the glare began to feel like a mask he wore.

The reminder of the home she’d not wanted to leave brought to mind the sister who’d watched, with tears streaming down her face, as Evangeline had followed Aunt Barton to the back terrace. Lucy had begged her not to go.

She had disappointed her sister; she knew she had.

Evangeline took in as much air as her tight lungs would allow. She would soon be alone in the schoolhouse that was to be her home. In private, she could allow her emotions to surface, giving way to the tears she’d kept tucked away. By the time she and Lucy were reunited in the morning, their new home would be in order, Evangeline would be the master of her grief, and they could begin this new, if unwanted, chapter in their lives. They would find their happiness again.

“You’re to take this lane,” Mr. McCormick said. “Greenamble Street.”

She stepped around him enough to look up the road. And look up she did. This end of town sat directly against the side of a small but steep hill. Who had decided to place the schoolhouse here ? The children would be exhausted before they even arrived for lessons.

“Is it as steep as it seems?” She hoped the answer was no.

“No.”

At last, a bit of good luck.

Then he added, “It’s steeper.”

Of course it was. There was nothing for it, though, but to make the climb. She squared her shoulders.

“We can go slowly if you’re needing to,” Mr. McCormick said.

“I love sharply angled streets,” she tossed back. “In fact, I believe I love them more than you do and that you will be the one struggling to keep up with me.”

His mouth didn’t so much as twitch. Perhaps he’d not been blessed with a sense of humor. Or, more likely, he had one but was too stubborn and surly to allow it even a moment’s free rein.

His son, so quiet at his side, kept his eyes fixed on the toys he held in his hands. Yet there was something in the set of his posture, his shoulders turned slightly toward them, that told Evangeline he was listening more than he appeared to be. Her brother James had often held himself in just that way.

In a single heartbeat, her posturing and frustration with Mr. McCormick dissolved in a rush of grief.

James. Her beloved James. He was gone, just like the others.

Gone. The remembered church bells echoed inside her. Gone.

“Were you meaning to stand here all the day long?” Mr. McCormick said dryly. “Or might we jaunt on up?”

“Why are you so sour?” The question flew from her lips before she could stop it.

“Because, unlike you, I don’t love steep streets—not when I’m carrying a heavy trunk for a dithering lass who can’t make up her mind which way she’s going or when.”

She raised her chin. “You are not very amiable.”

“What I’m not is patient.” He twitched his head toward the street.

Evangeline’s ongoing feud with fate certainly hadn’t abated. Tears clung to her throat. For hours she’d worked for every steady breath, for every dry blink of her eyes, and this man was quickly pushing her to the limit of her emotional strength.

Mr. McCormick set down her trunk and squatted, facing his son. His expression and posture surprised Evangeline. There was concern and tenderness and—despite his insistence that he did not possess this particular virtue—patience.

He said something to the boy, then pointed up the street and gave a quick nod. His son ran ahead, not looking at his father nor at her. Evangeline watched him go, her thoughts and heart in Cambridgeshire. James was— No. James had been six years younger than she.

As quickly as that, her grief pierced her. She had spent the past days, even more so the past hours, either feeling everything or nothing. She had little choice but to cling to the latter, at least while she was in Mr. McCormick’s company.

He stood up again, her trunk slung over his back.

She made a final attempt at conversation. “Your son seemed in a hurry.”

“The lad’s anxious to be home.” Mr. McCormick’s tone hadn’t softened. Why was the man so put out with her?

“Home is a comforting place.” She walked alongside him as they headed up the street.

“It is that,” he said.

Evangeline eyed him. “Did we just agree on something?”

Mr. McCormick glanced up with a look of overdone pondering. “Sky’s not falling.” He trudged onward.

He was not one for prattling on. It was just as well. Evangeline had lost whatever earlier desire she’d had for lighthearted conversation, however distracting it might have been.

“This’ll be you,” Mr. McCormick said, jutting his chin at the thick hedge directly to the side of the road. It was too tall to see over.

The hedge ? He must be mistaken. She glanced behind them, then up ahead.

“’Tis a bit overgrown.” Mr. McCormick motioned to the hedge again. “You’ll simply have to press your way through like a water vole squeezing in and out of her den.”

“Did you just compare me to a rodent?”

“I’d not dare, miss,” he said. “Rodents are far quieter.”

If pushing her way through a hedge meant being free of Mr. McCormick’s company, she’d gladly do her best impression of a water vole or badger or whatever other animal he meant to compare her to.

Evangeline stepped up beside him and found a small gap in the hedge. She pushed the overhanging branches back, slowly, carefully passing through to the other side.

Tall, wild grasses filled a small front garden. Overgrown trees dotted the area, several with their branches resting atop the roof of an L-shaped building, one hardly bigger than the small tenant cottages of Petersmarch. Even taking into account the upper story, the schoolhouse was tiny indeed.

Narrow windows checkered the building, sitting in uneven intervals. At least one of them appeared to be missing its glass. The house bore all the hallmarks of disuse and neglect.

Evangeline’s heart dropped to her toes. Aunt Barton had scolded her for believing her new house had been appropriate for Lucy. That, it turned out, had not been an entirely inaccurate assessment. Perhaps the situation was better inside.

“Have you a key?” Mr. McCormick asked.

Her mind refused to work through the mystery of that simple question. But then she fished through her wrist bag and found the key Aunt Barton had given her during their long train ride. She pulled it from her bag just as they reached the two stone steps in front of the door. The key slid in the hole easily, but turning it required the use of both her arms. How long had this door been locked, unused and unopened?

The hinges squeaked loudly as she pushed open the door. Dust particles hung in the air, dancing in the sunshine spilling in from behind her. Directly in front of her was a staircase and, just to the right of it, another door with another keyhole.

“I was only given one key,” she said, thinking out loud.

“Perhaps you’re meant to burrow in,” Mr. McCormick suggested.

“Like a rodent?” she tossed back dryly.

“Except louder.”

She chose to ignore that observation. She hadn’t another key; the one that had unlocked the front door did not fit in this interior one. With a tiny, unspoken prayer, she decided to test the knob. Fate chose to be kind in this small thing; the door opened easily.

The room beyond was dim. The air tasted stale and smelled of must.

“Is this the schoolroom?”

“I’ve not the slightest idea.” Mr. McCormick moved past her and set her trunk on the floor.

Fully expecting him to walk away, she turned to thank him for his help. But he simply leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest as if waiting for something.

“You needn’t stay if you’d rather be on your way,” she said.

“I would rather be on my way, but you’ve not the slightest notion yet if your quarters are here or up the stairs.”

What did that have to do with him remaining?

Her confusion must have shown because he answered the question she hadn’t voiced. “’Tis a bit of a heavy trunk, miss. I’ll carry it if you’re needing it up there.”

He was irritable, there was no denying that, but he was showing himself to be thoughtful. Still, she didn’t intend to try his patience.

Evangeline made her way through the dimness toward a sliver of light peeking through a covered window. Her fingers found the stiff curtains, which she pulled back. More light came in through the dingy glass, illuminating the space enough for her to see a table and a spindle--backed chair near a small fireplace and a bench under another covered window.

She spotted another door, this one on an exterior wall. An old iron key, like the one in her hand, sat in the lock, ready and waiting. With effort, she turned it and pulled the door open, filling the space with sunlight. In the corner, barely lit enough to be seen, hung a few pots and cooking implements. She had found her living quarters. Her dingy, dust-covered, sparse, dark living quarters.

“I believe the trunk stays here.” Mr. McCormick tapped it with his foot. “We’re up the street a few paces—the only house with a yellow door. Should you need anything, give us a knock.”

For a moment, she could do nothing but stare in mute shock at his offer. The day had been terrible and sorrowful. He, of all people, had offered a kind word, a moment of compassion. She hardly knew how to respond.

“But we’ve a limit of one knock per day, so don’t go abusing the invitation.” There was the Mr. McCormick she’d come to expect.

“I will set a goal of one knock per lifetime,” she said.

He nodded firmly. “Then we’ll get on just fine, Miss Blake. Just fine, indeed.” With that, Mr. McCormick left.

And she was alone.

Evangeline lowered herself onto her traveling trunk, sitting on the edge just as she had that morning in her family’s parlor. She had left a warm and inviting home, a place where she’d felt welcome and loved and treasured, to live in a disused and neglected building in a cantankerous and inhospitable town.

How can I possibly bring Lucy here?

Dust sat so thick on the floor she could see her footprints. The window had likely not been cleaned in years. The floor around the fireplace was darkened with soot and ash. She had but one chair and, as near as she could tell, no bed. Or any food. Or a blanket.

A lady quietly performed those tasks expected of her. But what was she to do when those tasks and expectations bordered on the impossible?