Love Remains

by Sarah M. Eden

  “I’ll be back before you need to leave for the day,” he told her.

  She simply nodded, not looking away from Finbarr. Could she see him? She was such a mystery, so well adapted to her situation, that a fellow, even an intelligent, observant one, could easily be mistaken in her abilities.

  There seemed nothing else to be done but make good on his word by leaving the two to their hours of stubborn silence. He only hoped Cecily had some plan in mind. If all she meant to do was sit about staring into the silence, the money they’d spent in bringing her to Hope Springs would be wasted.

  His mind was no less at ease by the time he reached his brother’s home. Ian’s oldest, Michael, answered the knock. Tavish offered his nephew an easy and friendly smile. “A fine good afternoon to you, Michael.”

  The boy, as always, had a book tucked under his arm. He owned only two, and had read them cover to cover many times over. The lad was a dab hand with horses and would likely make a fine rancher someday, but he’d never have access to the book learning he craved. ’Twas one of the reasons Thomas, husband to Tavish’s older sister, was contemplating leaving the tiny town of Hope Springs. He had children of his own who dreamed of something more than they could have in the vast emptiness of Wyoming.

  “Now, Michael,” Biddy’s voice echoed forward from somewhere inside. “Don’t leave Tavish standing about at the door like a vagabond.”

  “Yes, Ma.” Michael stepped aside, and Tavish moved past him.

  His sister-in-law greeted him with her usual warmth, though she looked a bit harried. The wee one, born not many months earlier, fussed in his mother’s arms. Their daughter, who’d soon be six years old, sat on the floor, folding laundry from a large basket. Ian was nowhere to be seen.

  “Has my bum of a brother taken to wandering about the fields, then?” Tavish asked, pretending to be gravely concerned.

  Biddy didn’t join in the jest. “He’s having one of his difficult days. He may very well be ‘wandering the fields.’”

  The children were watching him with the same look of fearful pleading he’d seen so often. They worried for their father, and they looked to Tavish for reassurance. As Biddy did. And as Ma and Da did. And everyone else.

  “Are his spirits low, or is it that he’s feeling frustrated?” Tavish had seen Ian pass through long periods of both.

  Biddy switched the baby to her other hip and eyed her two older children in turn before her gaze settled on Tavish once more. “Would you step outside with me a moment?”

  That didn’t bode well.

  He followed her out the door and under the front overhang. He closed the door behind them, then turned to face her. “What’s happened?”

  “Ian’s feeling himself a burden, taking you away from your own work because he can’t manage his own. Wasting days laid up with terrible pains in his head, spending what little we have on powders instead of improvements to the home and land, or books and shoes and clothing for the children.” Biddy brushed a hand over baby Patrick’s peach-fuzz head. She met Tavish’s eyes once more. “How do I convince the stubborn man that he’s loved and wanted, even when he’s struggling? He’s begun saying that I couldn’t possibly love him as I once did.”

  If not for Biddy’s worried tone and expression, Tavish would’ve laughed out loud at the absurdity of such a thought. He knew what it was to lose the love of a woman he cared for. Ian was as cherished as he’d ever been.

  “He’s likely in pain,” Tavish reassured his sister-in-law. “That’d scramble anyone’s mind a bit, make it hard to hope for good and comforting things.”

  “If you can get him through today, perhaps tomorrow will be better,” she said.

  Tavish nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

  For the first time since his arrival, he received a smile from Biddy. Once, she’d been lighthearted, quick to laugh and grin at a fellow. The past year had changed her, as well. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Tavish.”

  “You’d fall clear to pieces, and you know it,” he said, returning to his usual jesting tone.

  The twinkle in Biddy’s eyes muted a bit as she focused on something over his shoulder. “Ian’s coming this way. Saints, I hope his spirits are up since last I saw him. It full breaks my heart to see him so cast down.”

  “You keep loving him the way you do,” Tavish said. “It does a man a world of good to know he loves someone who loves him in return.”

  Biddy set a hand on his arm. “We’ll find you someone, Tavish.”

  He did his best to laugh off the comment. “I wasn’t ruing my lonely state, you meddlesome woman. I was speaking of your stubborn husband.”

  Biddy, true to character, was not deterred. Between his sisters, sister-in-law, and ma, he’d never fully escape these moments of pity and promise. “We will find someone.”

  “For my part,” he tossed back, “the someone I’ve come to find is nearly at the door.” He tipped his hat to her and turned to face his brother in the moment he reached them. “What have you for me to do, Ian? Your wife’ll never stop speculating on the state of m’ heart if I don’t make a hasty retreat.”

  The exaggerated retelling earned him a look of amusement from both of them, precisely as he’d hoped.

  “I’m meaning to mend the broken stall door in the barn today,” Ian said. “If you run fast, my Biddy here will not be able to catch you.”

  Tavish clasped his hands together in front of him as if offering a prayer of gratitude. “Thank you, brother. It’s my life you’ve saved.” Then, in tones more serious but careful not to sound worried, he added, “Take a moment, though, before you follow, and give your wife a bit of sweetness, will you? She seems in need of it.”

  Ian turned immediately to his wife. “Are you unwell, love?”

  She smiled gently and shook her head. “Only missing you, my dear. You’ve been far away today.”

  “I was merely out in the fields,” Ian said.

  She reached up her free hand and gently touched his cheek. “It felt farther.”

  Ian set his arms around Biddy and pulled her and the baby into his embrace. Tavish left them in that loving arrangement. He couldn’t make all their problems disappear like chaff on the wind; he only hoped to ease them where he could.

  Chapter Nine

  Having arrived on a Wednesday, Cecily’s first week working with Finbarr was a short one. Even so, by the time Saturday arrived, she was exhausted. The boy was fighting her far more than she’d expected. Theirs was not a physical struggle, but one of wills. He consistently refused to do anything she asked, choosing instead to sit stoically, repeating that he didn’t want or need her there.

  Students who started out this way always left an ache in her heart. A few never cooperated, ones on whom she had no choice but to give up. She couldn’t teach if they weren’t willing to learn. And those who did eventually allow her to help did so only after the weight they carried had crushed and broken them.

  She didn’t want Finbarr to go through that. Underneath his stubborn refusal to hear her was a frightened and scarred young man. When he knew she’d accomplished something he thought impossible for someone with limited vision, she had seen tiny, minuscule glimpses of hope in him. If only she could convince him to try his hand at a few of those things. She hadn’t yet hit upon a means of convincing him. At least he’d accepted the move to the loft.

  She herself had spent the last few days struggling with the challenge, both physical and emotional, of having a dimly lit bedchamber. She knew how to function in complete darkness, but she craved the light. Her small window couldn’t illuminate much of anything. She’d intended to spend her Saturday working in her bedchamber, out of Mrs. Claire’s way, but the light was insufficient. She would need to find a brighter spot out in the sitting room. As she felt about in her trunk, entirely dependent on touch to identify the contents, she thought longingly on Tavish’s sunlit room.

  Would he let her see it again? He’d been firm when he’d tossed h
er out of it a few days earlier. She didn’t dare ask for permission; they’d butted heads enough the past few days without introducing a topic she knew would upset him.

  She would simply make do with what light she had.

  Her fingers knew well the feel of the items she needed. She quickly found the crisp plane and thin edges of a stack of stiff parchment. A wide wood frame, metal insert, and moveable, attached metal stencil sat at the bottom of her trunk, all easy enough to locate. Finding the specific book she needed proved more difficult.

  Two of her five books were too thick to be the one she wished for; they were returned to the trunk. She tucked the remaining three under her arm, then rose, crossing to the window. She held the first book up to the light filtering in then leaned in close. The cover was red. She set it aside. The second two were close enough in color to be almost indistinguishable. She could see just enough of each cover to make out the golden swirls decorating the front of the book she wanted. The others went back into the trunk. Always returning things to their assigned spots was crucial to locating them again—often the hardest habit for her older students to develop.

  She carried her wooden frame and stencil, parchment, and book, heading toward Mrs. Claire’s table. The outer room smelled of soap. Was Mrs. Claire cleaning? Cecily was met by the familiar sound of rocker runners squeaking against the floor.

  “Good morning,” Cecily greeted as she counted the steps to the table.

  Movement on the other side of the room told her someone was present in addition to Mrs. Claire. The squeak of a floorboard in the other direction indicated yet a third person.

  “You have visitors,” Cecily said, setting her items on the table.

  “How did you know?” The voice from the opposite side of the room was Mrs. Archer’s; Cecily was nearly certain of it. “I didn’t think we’d made any noise.”

  “You made very little,” Cecily admitted. “I have simply learned to listen very closely.”

  “And are you able to teach Finbarr to do that?” Mrs. Archer’s footsteps were sure and even as she came closer. “He’s forever startling anytime someone speaks who he’d not realized was nearby.”

  Cecily gave a single inclination of her head. “I can teach him anything he’s willing to learn.”

  “You’ve set yourself up against Irish stubbornness,” Mrs. Claire said, entering the conversation. “No matter that the boy sounds American, it’s Irish blood in those veins. It’ll sooner boil than act sensibly.”

  “Stubbornness is not an exclusively Irish trait.” Cecily spoke from experience.

  A quick succession of footsteps preceded a quietly spoken, “Pardon me. I’ll be going home now.”

  Cecily couldn’t identify the voice, only that the speaker was female and Irish.

  “Do stay, Biddy,” Mrs. Archer pleaded. “We’ve not had a chance for much gabbing yet.”

  Biddy O’Connor, likely. Finbarr and Tavish’s sister-in-law. Cecily had spent time learning the connections within Finbarr’s family. The more she knew of his life, the more likely she was to help him reclaim it.

  “I’ll come by for a gab later,” Biddy said, just as rushed, just as quiet.

  “I hadn’t meant to disrupt,” Cecily said. “You needn’t mind me. I’ll simply be doing some work here at the table.”

  “You see there, Biddy?” Mrs. Claire said. “You needn’t run off.”

  The door opened, letting in enough light to illuminate the silhouette of the woman about to step outside.

  “I—I’ll come back later, when the house is . . .” She stepped out. “I’ll come back later.”

  The door closed, dimming and silencing the room. Though Biddy hadn’t said as much, Cecily firmly suspected she was the reason for Biddy’s sudden departure. But why? They’d never met.

  “Have I done something to upset her?” she asked. Except upset wasn’t the right word for the tone Biddy had used. “Or to make her uncomfortable?” she amended.

  “She is—” Mrs. Archer hesitated. “She’s a bit shy of strangers.”

  A plausible enough explanation, yet something told Cecily that it wasn’t entirely accurate. What, then, was the real reason?

  “What else can you teach our Finbarr?” Mrs. Claire managed to turn the topic away from Biddy’s swift departure. “Other than to listen, of course.”

  Mrs. Archer laughed. “Can anyone truly teach a seventeen-year-old boy to listen?”

  “We’ll work on making sense of what little he can see,” Cecily said, “and on interpreting sounds, paying attention to the feel of things, making his memory as sharp as possible. Once he’s mastered those things—”

  “There’d be more than that?” Mrs. Archer sounded both surprised and impressed. “Just how long do you expect to be here?” Mrs. Archer was sweeping the floor now. Cecily could hear it.

  “The length of my stay depends entirely on young Finbarr.”

  “Meaning, the longer he takes to cooperate, the longer you’ll need to be staying.” Mrs. Claire yet rocked. The prospect of Cecily staying didn’t seem to appeal to her.

  “Not necessarily. If he doesn’t begin cooperating in the first few weeks, there will be no point in staying.” Cecily had been forced to resign her post when a student refused to learn. The regret of those failures never fully left her. “I understand that by December, travel out of this valley isn’t consistently possible. So I can only give him that long.”

  “Six weeks?” Shock tinged Mrs. Archer’s voice. “Can he learn all he needs to in six weeks?”

  Cecily shook her head. “He doesn’t have to be finished learning by then; he simply has to be willing by then.”

  “Well, Granny,” Mrs. Archer said, “it seems we’ve a challenge laid before us.”

  “Have we?”

  “We’ve a lad in sore need of tutoring, and a tutor he won’t give the time of day,” Mrs. Archer said.

  “Hmm.” Not enthusiastic volunteering from Mrs. Claire. “I don’t know that we can do much. The lad is, as you’ve said, stubborn.”

  “You don’t believe we could convince him?” Mrs. Archer’s question might have been directed at either of them.

  “We’ve not convinced him to let your Emma visit,” Mrs. Claire said. “They were thick as thieves before. He filled the role of protective older brother, and she his adoring little sister. If he’ll not accept her, I can’t imagine he’ll . . .” The sentence dangled un-finished.

  “You can’t imagine he will accept me,” Cecily finished for her. “That may very well be true. In the end, Finbarr will be the one who decides he is ready to learn and heal.”

  “And it’s in the next few weeks that he’s needing to decide this?” Mrs. Claire asked.

  “Yes.” Cecily herself felt the same uncertainty she heard in the older woman’s voice. If only she had some strategy, more information to help her.

  “Why is it the family chose to place Finbarr with Tavish? Not to speak ill of your grandson, Mrs. Claire, but Tavish O’Connor is

  . . . well, exasperating.”

  “Exasperating? Tavish?” She clearly disliked the description.

  Mrs. Archer simply laughed.

  Cecily wasn’t sure what was so funny. Was it a commiserating laugh of agreement, or was the general opinion of Tavish far different from hers? The latter seemed unlikely. His can-tankerousness was the first thing she’d noticed.

  “Tavish is such a jovial and friendly sort of person.” Mrs. Archer’s voice grew louder as she came closer. “’Tis an odd thing to hear that he’s regarded as peevish.”

  Jovial? Friendly? Cecily had seen moments of humor from him, but jovial and friendly would not have been at the top of her list when describing the man. “And everyone feels this way? Not merely his family?”

  “He’s charming, that one.” Mrs. Claire spoke with such fondness. “He could convince Queen Victoria to give him her throne with a few honeyed words.”

  “Or simply toss her one of his heart-melting smiles,” Mrs.
Archer said. “No one can resist one of those.”

  “I can,” Cecily said, taking the seat she’d stood next to since coming into the room.

  “Are you so very sure of that?” Mrs. Claire spoke with more than a hint of a laugh. Clearly she doubted Cecily’s endurance of her grandson’s handsomeness.

  “A breathtaking smile has little effect on one who cannot see it,” she reminded them.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Mrs. Archer said. “Tavish mustn’t know quite what to do with you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Heavens, but you speak with such a formal air.” Mrs. Claire didn’t sound overly put-out over the matter. “’Tis something we don’t hear often in these parts.”

  “Why would Tavish be so turned about by me?” With Finbarr living at Tavish’s home, Cecily needed to win over both of them.

  “You can’t see him,” Mrs. Archer said simply. “Without making him sound vain—he’s certainly not—Tavish has always won people over with his twinkling eyes and breath-snatching smile.” Mrs. Archer sat in a chair across from Cecily. “Even I, who wasn’t at all sure what to think of him when we first met, found m’self smiling when he did, and, soon enough, being charmed by him.”

  “He’s frustrated with me because I don’t realize he’s handsome?” No matter that Mrs. Archer hadn’t meant to make Tavish sound arrogant, she’d managed precisely that.

  “I’m making a shambles of this,” Mrs. Archer said. “Granny, help me explain.”

  The rocker stopped squeaking. Was that a good sign or a bad one? A moment later, shuffling footsteps approached the table. Mrs. Claire moved about on her own, but slowly. She sat next to Mrs. Archer.

  “Will knowing Tavish better help you teach Finbarr?”

  “Yes,” Cecily said. “His support will allow Finbarr to feel safe proceeding.”

  That seemed to convince the older woman. “We can give you some ideas. I’ve known him forever and a day.”

  “And you, Mrs. Archer? Might you have some insights for me?”