Ashes on the Moor by Sarah M. Eden

Author:Sarah M. Eden
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shadow Mountain Publishing
Published: 2018-01-23T20:11:19+00:00

Chapter Twenty-one

Nothing 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.

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