Chapter Eight

E vangeline’s basket of supplies arrived sometime the next day. She couldn’t be certain when, as the items were simply left on her doorstep without so much as a knock. Perhaps that was for the best. She would have asked whichever of the Bartons’ servants had been tasked with the delivery if they had been present when Lucy had departed the day before and if she had seemed afraid or lonely. The answer, no matter what it had been, would not have offered any reassurance. Indeed, the only comfort she’d felt of late had come from Mr. McCormick last evening. It was a sad state of affairs when one’s own family could not muster as much kindness as the town curmudgeon.

She told herself that Lucy knew full well that Evangeline would not rest until they were together again. She imagined that Lucy’s new school was a warm and inviting place, staffed by teachers who were kind and gentle and filled with students who would become her dear friends. Lucy would be well. She would be. Evangeline would believe that no matter her doubts.

Her gnawing hunger alleviated a bit by an apple she found in the basket, Evangeline made the trek upstairs to the schoolroom for the first time since her arrival. Her concerns for Lucy had occupied her every thought, but Lucy was gone, and Evangeline could delay no longer. Her students would begin arriving the next morning.

Evangeline needed to put her time to good use. She needed to prove herself capable enough for even her grandfather’s exacting standards.

The schoolroom door was unlocked. Indeed, it hadn’t even a keyhole. She wondered if the omission was a good sign or not. The hinges protested as she pushed the door open.

She stepped inside the dimly lit room. Dust sat upon every surface. This space was no better than her neglected quarters downstairs. The town was required by law to educate its children, but the evidence pointed at a clear reluctance to do so.

Evangeline had done her best to address the state of things below, but without a broom and only a few rags, she had been hard-pressed to make any progress. Sweeping an entire building with a brush would take a tremendously long time and, once the children began coming, would need to be done every day. It was far from the only job she needed to do. The windows required washing. The room needed arranging for school. She had yet to locate any schoolbooks or slates. Of course, somewhere in the midst of everything else, she needed to determine what in the world she would do come morning. She hadn’t the first idea how to be a teacher.

Dust stirred as Evangeline crossed to the far end of the room. Though she had always preferred soft colors and pale laces, she was grateful in that moment to be dressed in black. The color would hide any smudges and smears of dirt from her cleaning efforts.

Her arms and shoulders ached from the hours she’d already spent cleaning her own space. They protested the prospect of more time spent in the same pursuit. But what option did she have? She could not welcome her students to such a neglected space.

The first order of business was arranging the long benches in a way that made sense for a schoolroom. What that arrangement might be, she couldn’t say. Her schoolroom had been the nursery in her home, with only herself and her siblings learning under the watchful eye of their governess. They’d sat at a single table, surrounded by books and maps, paper and slates. They’d had all they needed and an educational guide who knew what she was about. The children of Smeatley would have neither.

I will simply have to do my best.

She decided on a U-shape for the benches, as that would allow her to see all of the children and all of them to see her. Of course, she was assuming the number of students matched the number of spaces on the benches. What if the numbers were far larger? Heavens, that did seem likely. From all she had heard, the town had grown during the past few months and seemed likely to continue doing so.

The benches proved heavier than she’d expected. Inch by inch, she pulled and pushed them into position. The scraping sound grated on her ears, as if declaring that she was thoroughly unfit for the task she’d been assigned. She could not even set up the schoolroom in a proper and efficient fashion; how could she ever hope to oversee the room when it was filled with children?

She tried to clear her mind of doubts as she worked well into the afternoon. Her empty stomach loudly protested the physical exertion. She might have simply hurried downstairs for a quick bite if not for the fact that she hadn’t the first idea how to prepare any of the items she’d been sent. The basket consisted mainly of vegetables, few of which could be eaten raw. The carrots might have made a quick lunch eaten as they were, but she could not bring herself to face yet another glaring example of her deficiencies.

Mr. McCormick knew how to prepare such things. The stew she’d eaten at his house had included potatoes and turnips and carrots. If he would help her learn how to cook, then she would be ready for Lucy when she returned.

But a lady ought not cause difficulties or inconvenience people. Heaven knew she’d done enough of that already where her neighbor was concerned. Yet, what choice did she have? She would utterly fail without help, and failure meant losing Lucy.

She would simply have to ask for help in a way that did not make her too much of a burden.

She headed downstairs and crossed directly to the photograph on the mantelshelf. “What do I do, Mother? I don’t wish to disappoint you, but I do not know how to navigate these waters.”

She watched that still, silent face, desperate for one moment of reassurance, one single word of guidance.

“I will do my best,” she whispered. “I only hope it will be enough.”

Evangeline returned to the rough-hewn table. She dropped a potato, turnip, and carrot into her upturned apron, then pulled the apron’s hem to her waist. She smoothed her finger over the glass covering her beloved family photograph and offered silent words of love and longing. She straightened Father’s pipe, brushed a bit of dust from the edge of James’s book, and touched the tiny crook held by George’s shepherd figurine. Then, her vegetables held fast in her apron, she hurried out.

She barely managed to pull the heavy door closed with a thud. The key fought her, but she forced it to turn. Mr. McCormick had advised her to lock up; she hadn’t neglected to do so since. He knew this town and its inhabitants better than she did. He also had far more experience of the world than she could claim.

Reaching the McCormick home would be easier and faster if not for the steepness of the street. She felt like she was navigating stairs rather than taking a quick jaunt.

Her knocks generally went unanswered for a moment or two. Whether the hesitation was common for him—he did not, after all, seem the type for eagerly welcoming visitors—or he took his time answering her knocks in particular, she could not say. Her father had often praised her for her patience, so she stood on the McCormicks’ front step, her apron clutched tight, and waited.

When Mr. McCormick opened the door, his brows pulled low in the middle while remaining still at the ends, forming the opposite of his frown. The effect was likely meant to be intimidating, emphasizing his grumpy demeanor, but for reasons Evangeline couldn’t explain, it inspired an inarguable desire to smile, not with amusement, but something far closer to relief.

“Ah, is it yourself, Miss Blake?” His usual tone of irritable exhaustion had changed to dry acceptance. “What is it brings you ’round claiming your daily knock?”

She knew she was pushing the bounds of polite hospitality, but she did not know anyone else; at least, no one who would help her.

She revealed the three pathetic bits of vegetable tucked inside her apron. “Do you know how to cook these?”

He eyed her collection, then looked up at her, his pulled-brow frown still in place. “You’ve come begging cooking lessons?”

“A few words of instruction would suffice.” That should allow her to learn a necessary skill without proving truly burdensome. It was as good a balance as she was likely to strike. “The stew you so kindly shared with me last evening contained all three of these, so I know you know what to do with them. A bit of guidance, however small, would be most welcome.”

“Have you never cooked a vegetable or made a soup?”

Not a week past, that lack hadn’t been the point of derision it apparently was now. Evangeline kept her expression of friendly determination firmly in place. “I have not.”

He tipped his head slightly to the side, eyeing her sidelong. His eyelids narrowed to slits. “And what of being a schoolteacher? Have you ever done that before?”

“I have not.” Uttering those three words damaged her pride more than she could have predicted. She had never professed to be a teacher, nor had she chosen to be one.

He muttered something that did not sound at all like English. Irish, if she had to guess, and, she would further wager it was not an age-old expression of confidence. Mr. McCormick turned away from the door. No doubt he meant to leave her in her ignorance and uncertainty.

“Please, sir,” she said, softly. “I have been forced into a situation for which I neither asked nor wished, but I am doing the best I can.”

He stopped but did not look back at her.

“I know my best is not good enough,” she continued. “Not yet. I need a little help while I am finding my footing. Surely you can feel some degree of compassion for someone in such a situation. I am in dire enough straits to accept pity if need be. I am hungry, sir. I am hungry, and I cannot cook these things without some help. And worse still, I am without my family, and proving myself capable and competent is my sole means of being reunited with the only kin I have left in this world. Please, help me.”

Mr. McCormick looked at her at last. His mouth still formed a sharp frown. His brows had not returned to a position of ease or pleasure. Yet his countenance seemed softer.

He stepped aside and waved at her to come inside.

He meant to help her? As easy as that? She’d had to work hard to convince her aunt and uncle to aid her situation, yet a simple appeal seemed enough for her gruff neighbor.

“Either you’re not hungry or you’re not in a great hurry,” he said.

She pulled her wandering thoughts back in order. “Forgive me. I am unaccustomed to receiving help when I need it. I’ve known so little of that these past days.”

“Odd. I seem to recall you receiving ample help here the last few nights. Every night, in fact. At about this hour.”

Despite his gruff tone, she found herself nearly smiling at him. She ought to have felt unwelcome or at least unsure of herself, but somehow his grumbling eased her uncertainties.

“You did give me permission for one knock each day,” she reminded him.

“Ought to have made it one each fortnight.” He waved her inside again. “How is it you’re wanting to prepare your vegetables?”

“Any way at all, really. I haven’t the first idea how to go about any of it.”

“Easiest is roasting them. You poke ’em a time or two with a fork, then set them amongst the coals. That’ll take a bit of time, though.”

She nodded, committing the simple instructions to memory. “What if I don’t have a great deal of time?”

“Meaning, what if you put off your meal preparation until supper time and have nothing to eat though you’re hungry enough to have a go at the vegetables raw?”

She shrugged a single shoulder. “I suppose that is one possible scenario.”

“Then there’s but one thing to do.”

She was intrigued. “What is that?”

He motioned with his chin toward the chair near his fire. “Same thing you did last night.”

“I can’t take more food off your table, Mr. McCormick.”

“Fair enough.” He held out his hand. “You can trade me your potato for a bowl of soup.”

It still felt as though she was taking advantage of his reluctant generosity. A single potato would hardly replace a bowl’s worth of soup.

“I can see you intend to argue with me,” he said. “I’d advise against it.”

“Because you fear I will best you in a battle of wills?”

He shrugged a single shoulder in a rather impressive imitation of her own earlier gesture. “I suppose that is one possible scenario.” He even managed to re-create her Cambridgeshire accent. Quick as lightning, he resumed his usual tone and demeanor. “Mostly I’m too weary for arguing civilly, and I’ve no desire to curse at a woman.”

“I thank you for that. And, in deference to your forbearance, I will skip over my planned arguments and simply take my place near the fire.”

“Thank you.” Those two words were filled with conflicting emotions: annoyance, relief, amusement, weariness. For a man who put forth nothing but grumpy standoffishness, he certainly could pour a lot into only a few syllables.

She set her single potato in his hand. The carrot and turnip she kept in her apron pocket. She sat in her seat.

Mr. McCormick dished her a bowl of soup and left her at the fireplace. Ronan kept to the same seat he’d occupied the evening before. He didn’t speak to her nor look directly at her, but neither did he seem truly bothered by her presence. He offered his tiny wave, which she returned in kind.

This evening, however, Mr. McCormick did not keep to the other side of the room, busying himself with tasks. Instead, he returned to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.

“Aside from roasting amongst the coals, you can cut up your vegetables to put in a soup or stew, like you have there.” He tossed her potato in the air no higher than his eye level, catching it in his hand again. “Simply cut it to the sizes you want, drop in a pot of simmering water, toss in a bit of spices—whatever suits you—and let it cook ’til all is tender.”

“Spices?” Oh, dear. This was more complicated than she’d anticipated. “Which spices? And how much? And where would I find them? I don’t suppose they might grow in a kitchen garden?” She shook her head at the thought. “Except there is no kitchen garden at the schoolhouse, only weeds choking out roses that have gone to wood.”

“You know flowers but not herbs, then?”

She sighed. “My parents envisioned a very different life for me than the one I now have. They prepared me for that other future, not this one.”

“Sounds as though you’ll go hungry if I don’t help you.”

How she hated being the constant recipient of such displeased charity. And, yet, she couldn’t blame Mr. McCormick for begrudging her the frequent aid she required. He hadn’t brought her here so ill-prepared, neither had he asked to be given so useless a neighbor. Her position as teacher had not been his idea. He was not the reason her grandfather and Aunt and Uncle Barton had pushed her away, nor why Lucy had been taken from her. And he was not to blame for the loss of her family. There was no one to blame for her circumstances other than cruel fate.

“I can roast the vegetables for the time being,” she assured him. “Someday, when my welcome is not worn quite so thin, I’ll ask for instructions on another method. Better still”—she quickly changed directions—“I will endeavor to make the acquaintance of someone in town who can teach me. The mother of one of my students, perhaps. Or the vicar’s wife.”

“I complain and mutter a great deal,” Mr. McCormick said, “but I’ll not begrudge you the knowledge you need to keep your belly full. No one should ever go hungry, and there’s a far sight too many in this ol’ world who do. You come here in the evenings, and we’ll see to it you learn what you’re needing.”

“Would that not inconvenience you a great deal?”

“Of course it will,” he said. And yet his surliness was not off--putting.

“Why would you help me if it is such a bother?”

An actual smile tipped the corners of his mouth. It was small and subtle but utterly unmistakable. She found herself unexpectedly reciprocating the gesture.

“I know perfectly well I’m a curmudgeon,” he said, “but I can be a decent person now and then.”

“Never you fear,” she said. “I’ll not share your secret with the neighbors.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Quick as could be, his expression turned serious. “I’d further appreciate you helping Ronan with his studies should he need it. He’s not had any schooling before, and I can’t say how he’ll take to it.”

The straightforward declaration held more than a hint of uncertainty. Evangeline knew little of Ronan, yet she understood Mr. McCormick’s concerns. The boy was quiet and withdrawn. He didn’t speak, didn’t interact other than the occasional wave. There was every possibility that an attempt at schooling would prove futile or overly frustrating. But there was also the possibility that he would flourish, however quietly, however inwardly, and prove a fine student.

“I will help him in whatever way I can.”

“Be as good as your word on that,” Mr. McCormick said, “and you can come knocking on this door as often as you wish.”

She meant to keep her promise, and not merely because she wanted to do right by the students she’d meet tomorrow. She also wanted to forestall causing Mr. McCormick additional inconvenience. But most of all, she wished to help Ronan because she held out hope that he would prove to be like her brother James in more ways than she’d yet seen. James had behaved in much the same way Ronan did, the same quietness, the same insistence on a barrier between himself and others. He had also been a dab hand at a number of school subjects.

More than that, though, he had been, quite possibly, the best soul she’d ever known.