Chapter Seven

L ife had crushed too many of Dermot’s dreams for him to live with any degree of hope. He knew he’d presented his idea to Mr. Barton clearly and convincingly, yet he paced the length of his tiny parlor that evening, racked with uncertainty.

“Why should I place you in charge?” Mr. Barton had asked in tones of sincere questioning.

Dermot didn’t like to think of himself as suspicious, but he’d interacted with enough Englishmen to know that they viewed the Irish as lazy, undependable, and too simpleminded for anything but the most basic manual labor. Had he not proven himself to the man? If all he’d accomplished was not enough to show he was capable of the work he’d proposed, then what in the name of St. Bridget would ever be testament enough?

“Miss Blake smells like flowers.” Ronan spoke so abruptly from his place at the table that Dermot nearly jumped in surprise. “She doesn’t smell like people.”

Dermot pushed his worries aside and took up the new topic. “Perhaps she truly is a flower, but the wee folk transformed her into a lady.”

“Flowers can’t be people.” Ronan, for all his innocence, never had been inclined to imagining fantastical things or otherworldly happenings.

“What is it, do you suppose, that makes her smell of flowers if she isn’t secretly a flower her own self?” Dermot sat near Ronan.

“She didn’t have flowers in her hair,” Ronan said. “And she hadn’t any in her hands.”

What he lacked in imagination he more than made up for in attention to detail.

“I spied not a single flower on her person,” Dermot confirmed.

Ronan’s face twisted in contemplation. Dermot knew that expression well. The lad would ponder the question for a good long while, sorting the possibilities until he arrived at an answer. He was thorough and thoughtful and bright. Saints knew he’d do well in school if he had a capable and patient teacher. Dermot couldn’t say with certainty if Miss Blake could claim either of those qualities.

“What would you think, Ronan, if we were to move to another town?” Dermot hoped their situation wouldn’t require it, but if Mr. Barton rejected his proposal, he’d have to hie them to Bradford and the factory being rebuilt there. He’d do well to be prepared.

“We should stay here,” Ronan said. He was often soft--spoken, just as often silent, but when he was fully decided upon something, he spoke with determination.

The lad always grew anxious or emotional when the possibility of something different or unexpected was proposed. ’Twas something more than merely enjoying familiarity; he seemed genuinely afraid of what he could not predict. Dermot never knew whether ’twas best to tell him of potential changes far ahead of time or if he’d do better to not mention them at all.

“But if we had to?” Dermot kept his tone as unconcerned as he could, not wishing to cause undue alarm. “We’d manage it, don’t you think?”

“We should stay here. Here is where we’re supposed to be.” Ronan held his carved horse in a white-knuckled grip. His wee mouth pulled in a tense line, his brows jutting down in angry slashes. “We’re for staying here.”

Clearly, raising the possibility of change had been the wrong approach this time. Dermot pasted a smile on his face and ruffled Ronan’s sandy-brown hair. “I think we should as well. ’Tis a fine home we’ve made for ourselves.”

But the damage had been done. The boy would be on a knife’s edge for a time. He was not the perpetually lighthearted child so many others seemed to be. Was that the result of some failing on Dermot’s part or simply Ronan’s natural disposition? He didn’t think it a flaw in the boy, but he did worry about Ronan’s happiness and lack of friendships and ... far too many things.

“Miss Blake might keep flowers in her bag.” Ronan had returned to their previous topic, though whether out of interest in it or out of a desire to avoid their more recent discussion, Dermot couldn’t say. “Or her dress might have pockets with flowers inside.”

“Perhaps.” Dermot would let the lad weave his way toward soap and scented water on his own. Ronan enjoyed piecing together mysteries. “A few flowers might liven up her black dresses, don’t you think?”

Both of Miss Blake’s dresses had been unrelenting black. The color didn’t suit her in the least, and it gave her an air of cold forbidding that would most likely cause her students a bit of trepidation. Perhaps she would choose less somber colors for school days.

She can wear whatever colors she wants if only she’ll teach the lad.

“You can sit up a bit longer and ponder the question of Miss Blake’s flowers,” Dermot said, “but it’s nearing time for bed.”

Ronan nodded silently. He set his horse on the tabletop and slowly turned it, eyeing it from all angles. He’d always been content with quiet observation, alone and uninterrupted. In some ways that made things easier for Dermot, but it also made life lonely at times.

A rap sounded at the door. Dermot might’ve been lonely now and then, but he certainly didn’t wish for company, especially not the sort who usually visited him. All too often they came around to wonder aloud when he meant to “return home,” as if they weren’t talking to him on the doorstep of his own home.

Of all the families he’d interacted with, only the Crossleys, whose oldest son, Thomas, worked for him, had ever seemed truly comfortable with his residence there.

He opened the door, preparing for the worst, only to experience the strongest feeling of reliving a moment. Miss Blake stood on his front step just as she had the night before. He couldn’t seem to go anywhere without running into the woman.

“Before you bellow at me,” she said, “I remembered your rule about only one knock per day and have waited the required twenty--four hours.”

That was quite the “good evening.”

“And,” she continued, “I would not have come at all except I find myself in a difficult situation, and you are the only person I know. Further, you did promise that I could ask you for assistance, provided I didn’t come more than once each day.”

“I give you full credit for your keen memory.” He eyed her warily. “I’d give you more points if you’d tell me your purpose.”

She made a sound that fell somewhere near a growl. “Why are you always so sour?”

“Why? Because, Miss Blake, I am tired.” He was tired of unwelcoming neighbors, of not knowing how to get through to his boy, of facing an uncertain future.

“Then I will be brief.” She took a nervous breath. “I—” She stopped, her gaze settling on something behind him. He followed her eye line all the way back to Ronan.

The lad glanced more than once in the direction of the door, but made no move to join them. He’d have to explain to Miss Blake that Ronan wasn’t likely to even acknowledge that she was there. Those neighbors who had taken enough notice of the lad to realize his odd quirks had seemed more than a little put off by them.

She would have to know eventually. If she were to have any success schooling Ronan, she’d need to understand him.

Dermot squared his shoulders, determined to broach the subject without eliciting either pity or revulsion toward the lad. But his words died in his throat when Ronan raised the fingers of one hand and bent them once in an almost unnoticeable wave.

He’d waved. He’d acknowledged another person, one only slightly known to him. That never happened. Even the men on his crew hadn’t been granted his notice until after weeks and weeks of daily encounters. He’d seen them at work. He’d listened to their conversations and repeated them at night over supper. But Ronan hadn’t looked at them or spoken to them. He certainly hadn’t waved.

Dermot turned toward Miss Blake. Had she noticed the gesture? Did she have any concept of how exceptional it was?

She stood just where she’d been, not a hair in a different place. But the corners of her mouth had pulled upward and something like excitement shone deep in her eyes. She raised her right hand mere inches and bent her fingers just as Ronan had.

Nothing more passed between his lad and this frustrating new neighbor, but the moment rendered Dermot too shocked for words, almost for thoughts. Ronan had reached out to someone, and that someone had reached back.

“I will come to my point quickly.” Miss Blake didn’t dwell on the astonishing exchange. “I’ve come to ask if I might borrow a blanket.”

This grew odder by the moment. “A blanket?”

She nodded. “I will bring it back tomorrow. I won’t even knock; I will simply leave it on the doorstep.”

“Why are you needing a blanket?”

“There is not one at the schoolhouse.” Her air of confidence was undermined by the way she held her hands tightly together. “Mr. Barton declared that was an oversight on the part of the school board, but the basket of items he said would be sent has not yet arrived. I only wish to borrow a blanket. I am certain the basket will arrive tomorrow.”

“He’s sending you a basket of items? How many things are you in need of?”

She hesitated. “A number.”

“Anything else you’re needing to borrow?”

“One does not ‘borrow’ food, does one?” A fleeting smile accompanied the comment, as if she’d been attempting a jest that she knew would fall short of the mark.

“You haven’t any food?”

Her gaze dropped. “I am certain they will send the basket tomorrow.”

If she had no food at her house, then she likely hadn’t eaten since before her arrival the evening before.

“Ah, begor,” he muttered. She was full starving, he’d wager. How in the name of all that was fair in the world had he been appointed her keeper? He’d worries enough of his own. “Step inside. I’ll fetch you a blanket.”

She didn’t move. “Do you have a one-per-day limit on entering your house?”

“The cheek on ya, woman,” he grumbled. “I’ve told you before that I’m not patient, but I’m no ogre either. Come in and get your blanket.”

She took a single step inside and stopped, folding her arms in a posture of defiance. Stubborn colleen.

“Have a seat, then.” He motioned to the spindle-backed chair near the low-burning fire. “And don’t you go jutting your chin out at me over the invitation. The night’s a chilly one, and the warmth’ll do you good.”

For a moment she looked as though she meant to object, but her gaze slid to the glowing embers and the bravado left her stance. In a voice quieter and far more subdued than he’d yet heard from her, she said “Thank you” and crossed to the fireplace.

I’m playing nursemaid to a fine lady—one who resents the effort. How did fate and I come to have such a falling-out?

He pulled a bowl from its shelf, snatching up a spoon at the same time. The ladle was yet in the pot hanging over the fire. Without a word, he filled the bowl with stew and held it out to her.

She eyed it and him with obvious misgivings. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s food. You eat it.”

Her eyes were snapping. He suspected she had little enough experience with life to have encountered difficulties of this nature. The fine and fancy were treated quite differently than those living hand-to-mouth. He shouldn’t delight in watching her grapple with her change in situation, but the way her frustration lit her eyes was oddly fascinating, as was the fierceness she used to keep that dissatisfaction in check.

“I came only for a blanket.” She began to stand up, still not having accepted the stew. “I know better than to depend too heavily on your benevolence.”

“Starving yourself to make a point will do no one any good, least of all yourself.” He set the bowl in her hands. “Take the food, and stop being stubborn.”

“ You stop being overbearing.”

He groaned as he stepped away. “Serves me right for opening the blasted door.”

Truth be told, he was grateful she’d come by. Though they weren’t friends, he’d no wish for her to be cold and hungry with no one to turn to.

He pulled a heavy woolen blanket from the chest in the corner and set it, still folded, on the floor beside her. “Once you’re done with your supper.”

“I won’t inconvenience—”

“I swear to you, Miss Blake, if you can’t find a means of graciously accepting what I’m generously offering you, I’ll dump that bowl of stew right over your head. And what’s more, I will enjoy it.”

Instead of returning his quip with one of her own, Miss Blake pressed her lips together. The slightest of quivers shook her chin. Her gaze dropped to her untouched bowl.

Sweet mercy. “Don’t cry, now. Not over something a quarrelsome ol’ dog like me said to you.”

“I do appreciate your generosity.” Her words were thick, a clear indication she was indeed close to tears. “I’m simply overwhelmed, and tired, and hungry, and ... I have had a terrible few days.”

Those terrible days, no doubt, had something to do with the Lucy she’d mentioned at the Bartons’ home, the one who was in Leeds. Dermot hadn’t sorted that mystery entirely, but ’twas plain as the nose on his face that this Lucy meant a great deal to Miss Blake and that her absence was a point of great concern.

“I’m not bothered by you being here,” he assured her, “and Ronan won’t be either.” He’d have thought otherwise if not for the boy’s unexpected wave. “I know what it is to have terrible days, Miss Blake. I’m sorry you’ve had a few of your own lately.”

She turned her haunting blue eyes on him. “How did you get through your terrible days?”

“I ate a great deal of stew.” He nudged the folded blanket closer to her. “And I got a good night’s sleep.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t one for conversations, are you?”

“Not with the English.” He walked back to the table where Ronan sat, working at his whittling.

Miss Blake was not done discussing the matter at hand. “That decision must have rendered your life rather quiet.”

“‘That decision,’ Miss Blake, was not mine.”

She turned in her chair to look at him. “Your neighbors don’t talk to you?”

“Not a soul—except for one ,” he said dryly.

He swore he saw amusement flash in her eyes. “Perhaps that’s because you’re a quarrelsome old dog.”

“I would say that’s exactly why.” He took up his knife and a block of uncut wood. “Ronan, I’ll wager you a tuppence that Miss Blake’ll not finish her stew but rather will spend the evening flapping her gums like she’s been doing.”

“Quarrelsome dog.”

Miss Blake had a sense of humor after all, it would seem.

“Eat your stew, woman.”

A fleeting smile crossed her features as she faced the fireplace and tucked into her stew. She’d jested with him. Had tossed him a smile. The woman was being friendly.

Dermot wasn’t at all accustomed to that.