Chapter Four

D ermot had reached out to that blasted woman and offered her a kindness, telling her to come by if she found herself needing any help, and she had returned an expression of disgust. When would he learn to simply leave the English be? Still, he stopped in the middle of the road, debating whether or not to turn back. That room had been bare as bones, not a crumb of food in sight or a blanket or lantern. He’d not even spied a bed. Where was the woman to lay her head? What was she to eat?

You’re turning soft, you are, fretting over someone you don’t even know—one who turned her nose up at you not a moment ago.

Miss Blake hadn’t wanted his help, so there was little point offering it again. That reminder set him on his way home.

Ronan was sitting on the step outside their distinctive yellow door. He’d chosen the bright color to aid his lad in finding their house when they’d first arrived in this unfamiliar hamlet but, long after Ronan had learned the way, Dermot had kept the color as a reminder of the colorful doors of his own beloved Dublin. And because it vexed his very staid neighbors.

He unlocked and opened the door, motioning Ronan in ahead of him.

It was the same routine every day. Dermot wasn’t certain when it had started, only that it didn’t change. Each evening, Ronan rushed inside and carefully placed his carved figurines in a neat line against the wall beneath the front window. The lad then hung up his coat and cap on the nails beside the door. Ronan waited until Dermot was beside him as the boy liked doing that part together.

Then Ronan would join him at the shelves beside the fireplace where the pots and spoons were kept. A chair sat nearby in anticipation of this twice-daily moment when Dermot prepared their meal and Ronan broke his silence.

“Mr. Palmer made the mortar too runny today. Mortar mustn’t be runny.” With that eager introduction, Ronan dove wholeheartedly into the subject of mortar. ’Twas always that way with him. Whatever he chose to speak about, he spoke of it endlessly, digging down to the smallest of details. Imagine if the boy could learn to read. His mind, already eager to learn, would have endless supplies of knowledge on whatever struck his fancy.

While the boy prattled on, Dermot cut thick slices of bread and cheese. He hadn’t the energy to build the fire, so their sandwiches would be cold, as they often were. Ronan never complained so long as the food was familiar.

Ronan stopped talking to begin eating, allowing Dermot a chance to slip in a word or two. “How did you fill up your time today?”

“The windowpanes at Mr. Barton’s house needed counting. I got up as high as one hundred, but I didn’t know the numbers that came next, so I had to stop.”

“At one hundred you’re for starting over again at one, but adding the words ‘one hundred’ to the front. One hundred one. One hundred two. On like that.”

Ronan nodded even as he practiced the new words. “What happens when I’ve reached the end?”

“Then you begin saying ‘two hundred’ before all the numbers. ’Tis a terribly convenient thing, that. You needn’t remember anything new for ages and ages with counting.”

Ronan took another generous bite of his sandwich.

“And did you know,” Dermot continued, “if you learn your ciphering, you needn’t count each windowpane on its own?”

He had his boy’s full attention. “Could I cipher pebbles or bricks or leaves?”

“For sure and certain. Anything at all you’re wanting to count can be ciphered.”

The sandwich hung limp in Ronan’s hands. His wide eyes were fixed on Dermot. “I want to learn that.”

“That’s what school’s for, lad. And we’ve a school in Smeatley, and now a teacher. You can learn all the fine and useful things Miss Blake means to teach you.” He hoped she proved fit for the post. He’d hate to think he was making promises to his boy only to have them broken.

Uncertainty clouded Ronan’s expression. “Miss Blake smells like flowers.”

Dermot had noticed that, himself, but hadn’t dwelled on it overly much. At least not so much as warranted thinking on it again. “You don’t care for flowers?” he asked Ronan.

“Only flowers should smell like flowers. People should smell like people.” Ronan had always been very particular about things. He could be led to accept new ideas and ways of doing things but only with a great deal of patience and explanation, and sometimes not even then.

“Ladies like to smell of flowers,” Dermot said. “I’d imagine because they’re fond of them and fond of smelling sweet.”

Ronan’s brow furrowed more deeply. “People should smell like people.”

“Female people smell like flowers sometimes.” Dermot tried a slightly different approach. “And sometimes they smell like soap, just as you do after you’ve washed up.”

Ronan scrunched up his face in distaste. No eight-year-old boy cared for a wash. He quickly recovered though, and offered an example of his own. “Sometimes people smell like dirt.”

Dermot swallowed a bite of sandwich. “Sometimes they smell like cheese sandwiches.”

“Sometimes they smell like mortar.”

“Are you telling me I smell?” Dermot bit back a smile.

Ronan shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Dermot ruffled the lad’s light brown hair. “Finish your sandwich. We’ll do a bit of whittling tonight.”

’Twas a favorite pastime of theirs, whittling. Dermot had always enjoyed it, and Ronan was showing a knack for it, but neither of them would get far if a lamp wasn’t lit. They hadn’t nearly as many windows in this house as Mr. Barton had in his. Light was in short supply during the day, let alone in the fast--approaching evening.

The schoolhouse had been quite dim. Heavens knew how Miss Blake was getting along.

As soon as she entered his thoughts, he pushed her aside. He had troubles enough of his own.

He took the glass off the oil lantern and turned up the wick, then he opened the tin box in which he kept both the matches and a small bit of peat he’d brought with him when they’d crossed the Irish Sea.

Dermot stole a glance at Ronan. Finding the lad focused on his sandwich, Dermot returned his attentions to the peat. The texture of it was familiar and comforting, a bit of his childhood he’d lost so young.

Dermot lifted the peat to his nose and took a deep breath. The scent took him home in an instant, first back to his years apprenticed to Mr. Donaughy, then even further, all the way to a white-washed cottage tucked against a hillside overlooking the sea and his own once-tiny footprints in the sand. The smell tied him to a place and time of which nearly nothing remained. Dublin smelled of coal on blustery days, but the country had smelled of peat fires. It had smelled of home.

With a sigh to clear his thoughts of those long-ago years, Dermot slipped the peat back inside its box. It didn’t do to go losing himself in memories when he’d work enough in the here and now. With a quick pull of a match, he lit the lantern and placed it on the rough-hewn table near the fireplace.

He pulled down the whittling knives and unfinished work. “Are you still carving a dog?” he asked Ronan.

The boy nodded. “Are you?”

“I am.” He bent over his nearly completed Irish wolfhound. He didn’t think Ronan had ever seen one in person. They weren’t found in Dublin, and he’d not encountered any in England. “Did you see any dogs about today?”

Ronan nodded. “Three, but they hadn’t any spots. Dogs should have spots.”

“I’d a dog with grand spots when I was younger than you are,” Dermot said. “He and I walked along the shore nearly every day.”

“Dogs should have spots.”

Dermot set his knife to shaping one of the hound’s ears. “Would you like to live along the sea, lad? Feel the spray of the ocean in the air and the wetness of the sand beneath your bare toes?”

“We should live here,” Ronan said, his tone both earnest and decided. “This is where we live.”

“And you’re happy here?” Dermot wondered about that often. ’Twas oddly difficult at times to know if Ronan was happy.

A knock interrupted any answer the lad might have given. Ronan’s brow pulled low as he glared at the door. They didn’t often have visitors. Almost never, in fact. He’d received a few unhappy droppers-by early in his time in Smeatley, though there’d not been trouble in months.

Dermot set his knife down and rose from the table. “Take care with your work, there. The knife is sharp.”

“Knives are supposed to be sharp.”

“That they are.”

Another knock, faster and louder than the last, sounded before Dermot reached the door. Someone was anxious, it seemed.

He cautiously pulled open the door, ready to cut off any tirade before Ronan heard too much of it. ’Twasn’t a mob nor a newly unemployed bricklayer come to wage a complaint, but Miss Blake, her eyes wide, strain pulling at the corners of her mouth. She was terribly pale, though he couldn’t say if it was a new development as her bonnet had hidden her face during their earlier walk.

“Miss Blake.” His statement of recognition held a bit of a question.

“I need your help.” The words came out in a rush, brimming with worry rather than inconvenience.

“What’s happened?”

“There’s a man in my house.” She took a quick, quivery breath. “He won’t leave. Please help me.”

Dermot needed no more than that; he’d not ignore a woman in distress. “Ronan.” The boy had stopped his whittling, clearly aware of the exchange at the door but not joining in. “We’ve a task, lad. Blow out the lantern and come along.”

Dermot reached behind the door and snatched his shillelagh from its spot. He held the door while Ronan stepped out, then snapped it shut behind them all. The lad clung to his side, upended by the change in their usual evening pursuits. Dermot gave the boy’s shoulder a quick squeeze, having learned early on that a kind touch—if offered by him —often soothed Ronan’s worries over new things and people and places.

He eyed Miss Blake as they made the quick walk to the schoolhouse. She was pale to the point of being worrisome, with dark circles under her eyes. If he had to guess, he’d say she’d been crying.

“Did this man in your house hurt you, Miss Blake?”

She shook her head.

“You’re full certain of that?”

Tension filled every inch of her stiff posture, but exhaustion dominated her expression. “I’m certain.”

They passed through the overgrown break in the hedge and into the front gardens of the schoolhouse. Only the smallest bit of light illuminated the windows—a single lantern, he guessed. Perhaps a candle or two.

“Keep to Miss Blake’s side,” Dermot told Ronan. “I’ll step inside first.”

Ronan responded by gripping Dermot’s coat and shaking his head frantically. He made a noise of distress and frustration. Being left with a stranger in an unfamiliar place would be overwhelming for the boy, but what could Dermot do? Until he knew who was inside, he didn’t dare bring Ronan along.

“If Miss Blake stays out here, could you sit on the stairs just inside?” he suggested. “I’ll only be on the other side of the next door.”

Ronan frowned as he thought. After a moment, he gave a small nod, though he didn’t relinquish his hold on Dermot.

“We’ll do that then.” He only hoped the arrangement truly did work.

The front door wasn’t locked. Either Miss Blake hadn’t felt the need or she’d left in great haste. Dermot stepped across the entryway and to the stairs.

“Set yourself down just there,” he told Ronan. “I’ll be through this door.” He motioned to the one that led to Miss Blake’s rooms. “And I’ll leave the door open, so you’ll be sure to know when I come back out.”

Ronan agreed, though reluctantly. He sat, his posture tense.

“I’ll be but a moment,” he reassured his boy.

He took a single step inside Miss Blake’s living quarters. Only a few candles lit the nearly empty room. Dermot could make out a silhouette. A large, broad silhouette. ’Twas little wonder Miss Blake had been worried.

“Make yourself known,” he called.

“McCormick? That you?”

“I’ll have your name.” Dermot spoke sternly. Until he knew who was in the room, he’d proceed with care.

“Owd Bob,” the man answered with a laugh.

Dermot lowered his cudgel. Saints above. Miss Blake had sent him over here, fighting stick in hand, on account of Ol’ Bob?

“What brings you to the schoolhouse?” he asked.

Ol’ Bob stepped near enough to be lit by the candlelight. “I were just deliverin’ for the new schoolmistress.”

“You can’t come stomping in here without warning. You have her jumpy as a mouse in a room full of tabbies.” He pointed a finger at Ol’ Bob’s silhouette. “And if you tell her I compared her to a rodent again, I’ll have your neck. She’s sore at me over that as it is.”

“Is she a friend to thee?”

“I’d not call us friends.” Dermot shook his head. “Our acquaintance is only as long as the walk from Hillside House to here. I brought her from there to here, is all. On Mrs. Barton’s orders.”

Ol’ Bob doffed his hat and held it dutifully to his heart. “Ah, her high-and-mighty lordship.”

Most of Smeatley called Mrs. Barton that, though never in her presence.

“You’ll have to knock if you’re coming ’round here, man,” Dermot said. “You can’t be walking in on a lady unannounced.”

“I didn’t know she were here.” Ol’ Bob popped his hat atop his head.

Having sorted the mystery, Dermot returned to the entryway where Ronan sat anxiously. “Come along, then. ’Tis only Ol’ Bob.”

Ronan obediently rose and grabbed hold of Dermot’s coat, following him onto the outer step. Miss Blake watched Dermot expectantly.

“’Tis only Ol’ Bob delivering something,” he said.

“Who is he?”

Dermot hadn’t intended to play nursemaid, but it seemed that was the job handed to him. “He’s a man for hire. Carrying, delivering, moving things about.”

“Entering houses without knocking,” Miss Blake added.

“A talent of his. I’d suggest you lock your doors if you’re not wanting visitors.” Dermot couldn’t stand about chatting all the night long. He’d a lad to see to and care for and to get to bed on time. And he’d a business proposal to prepare for Mr. Barton, one that meant the difference between a fine, steady future and uprooting the two of them again in search of one.

“Old Bob is not dangerous, is he?” Her tone was quiet, uncertain.

Dermot shook his head. “He’s harmless enough.”

“Then I am simply to wait until he leaves?”

“ We’ll wait until he leaves.”

That brought her worry-filled eyes back to him. “You said he wasn’t dangerous.”

“So he isn’t. Still, you’re living here on your own and you’ve a man you don’t know in your house. We’ll wait until he’s gone.”

“And until I’ve locked the doors.”

He nodded. “I’d recommend it.”

Miss Blake sat on the top step. “I have a feeling Smeatley will require some getting used to.”

“It will at that.”

She turned enough to look up at him standing in the doorway. “How long did you live here before you stopped feeling out of place?”

He tapped his chin. “I’d wager another ten years or so. Twenty if all goes as it is now.”

She sighed deeply, her shoulders drooping. “That is not very encouraging.”

“I’m not tasked with relieving your uncertainties, Miss Blake.”

“Apparently what you are tasked with is being offended by every word I say no matter how innocuous.” She sounded truly irritated. “I said it earlier and my sentiments have not changed: you are not very friendly.”

“We are neighbors, miss. Neighbors needn’t be friends.” ’Twas the philosophy that’d pulled him through the past year. No one truly wanted him here, and that was fine with him. He didn’t need friends. He only needed money enough to see to his and Ronan’s care. That was all.

She raised her chin and skewered him with a dagger-sharp glare from her blue eyes. “I am sorry to have bothered you this evening, Mr. McCormick. I assure you I will not knock on your door again this night.”

“You’ve reached your knocking limit as it is,” he reminded her.

Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you were jesting about that.”

“If you’re feeling particularly daring, you can test your theory.” Truth be told, he’d not turn her away if she found herself in dire straits, or even in uncomfortable straits if it came to that. He simply preferred peace and quiet and being left alone.

Ol’ Bob stepped out and doffed his hat. “I’m bahn ter home.” He dipped his head to them. “Good night to thee an’ all.” He walked down the path and disappeared through the thick hedge.

Bahn ter. Dermot had lived in Smeatley for months before he’d made sense of that turn of phrase. ’Twas the Smeatley way of saying one was going somewhere. The locals had any number of such oddities. “Tha” rather than “thou.” They said “nowt” when meaning “nothing” and “owt” when meaning “anything.” “Allus” took the place of “always,” and “summat” was the Yorkshire way of saying “something.” The list had only grown the longer he lived in this particular corner of the world.

Dermot motioned Ronan toward home. Before stepping away, he paused, intending to remind Miss Blake to lock her door.

The church bell rang out, and Miss Blake jumped, turning with jerking movement toward the sound. She pressed an open hand to her heart. “Why are the bells ringing?”

“It’s dusk,” Dermot told her.

“They ring at dusk?” Though he’d not have thought it possible, the lass had grown paler.

“And every morning at dawn,” he said.

“Oh, merciful heavens.” Her voice rasped out. “They ring twice every day?”

“That they do.”

She wore a look of absolute horror. “How do I make them stop?”

“Well”—Dermot assumed his most serious expression—“you either marry the vicar and use your wifely influence to convince him to stop ringing them, or you burn the church down. Truth be told, I’m not sure which method I’d consider the more drastic of the two.”

“They ring every day.” She spoke the four words as a dismayed realization rather than a question. “What kind of purgatory is this?” she whispered.

She spun around and rushed up the steps. The door slammed closed with a loud, reverberating blow.

Purgatory? All on account of pealing church bells? The lass was an odd one, to be sure. And, he feared, a touch too fragile for life in a rough-and-tumble factory town. If she was unequal to the job of teaching here, then Dermot was in a fine pickle, indeed.