Love Remains

by Sarah M. Eden

  “Good morning to you,” he greeted.

  “Why is it that none of you say, ‘Top of the morning to you’?” she asked as she stepped inside. As always, his home smelled vaguely of berries and a scent she suspected was his shaving soap. “I thought that was the quintessential Irish greeting.”

  “’Tis not nearly so common as some think. ‘Good morrow to you,’ is a frequently heard one. ‘You’re lookin’ fine as rain,’ would be another. But if you’d prefer I toss out something you feel is more Irish, I’m happy to oblige.”

  “Do you know your accent grows thicker when you’re teasing?” She crossed further into the room.

  “I don’t have an accent, lass. But you do, sure enough.”

  “Perhaps we could ask the Americans in town which of us they feel has the accent,” Cecily said. “Then again, we may not be able to understand their answer, seeing as they have—”

  “—the thickest accents of all,” Tavish finished, with the very train of thought she’d been chasing.

  How she hoped his light banter meant Finbarr was doing better. She looked about, but didn’t spy her pupil’s outline. He might very well simply be out of range of her limited vision.

  “Is Finbarr up and about yet?”

  If he hadn’t dragged himself down, that didn’t bode well.

  “He is awake, in fact. Up in the loft at the moment, but I’d wager he’ll be down shortly.”

  She clutched her cane more tightly. “How is he today?”

  “I’ll let you decide that for your own self,” Tavish said. “He’s climbing down just now.”

  Turning in the direction of the loft ladder, she made out the blurry colors of Finbarr making his descent. If she wasn’t mistaken, he held something in one of his hands.

  “Miss Attwater’s come,” Tavish said. “She’s but a few paces behind you.”

  “I heard her voice,” Finbarr said. He crossed to her. “Miss Attwater, I owe you an apology.”

  He might have knocked her over with a feather. Angry, defiant Finbarr intended to apologize?

  “I’ve been hurting people, you included.” Though she could tell this was a rehearsed speech, she didn’t for a moment doubt his sincerity. “I never gave you a chance, but I’m hoping you’ll give me another one. I can’t promise to be a perfect pupil, or even a good one, but I want to try.”

  “We have not yet reached any difficult skills,” she warned him.

  His shape moved and changed, and whatever he had in his hand, he now held out to her.

  She reached for the dark blob. A pair of boots. She cradled them against her enough to free her hand, then ran her fingers along the front. Laced and tied.

  “You finished your first task.”

  “I did it wrong over and over, but I finally figured it out last night. I just needed to pay more attention and be patient with myself.”

  Relief washed over her in waves. Patience was the first lesson she’d been trying to teach him. “That is the same way you should approach everything you are relearning. Be patient. Take your time. Use your other senses.”

  “I dressed myself this morning, as well,” he said. “Tavish said I did a fine job of it, but I realized afterward that I’d misbuttoned.”

  “And did you redo it?”

  “I did.”

  Mercy, but this was a change. “What about the fire in the stove?”

  “I haven’t tried that yet. Tavish suggested I wait for you since he’s never tried lighting one with his eyes closed.”

  Even Tavish was being cooperative. “I think I might have stumbled into the wrong house by accident. I don’t recognize either of you.”

  “I told you myself we were fine fellows,” Tavish said. “We’ve just been hiding it well.”

  “Ridiculously well.” She tried to summon her next thought despite her shock. “Is there wood inside ready to be used?”

  “Not yet,” Tavish answered. “I thought maybe you’d want him to haul it in as well.”

  She was nearly speechless. She’d seen students make abrupt turnarounds, but this was astounding. “Take him outside and talk him through selecting logs that won’t topple your wood pile. He’ll have to learn to recognize that by touch, so think it through and give advice.”

  “I can do that,” Tavish said.

  “But under no circumstances is he to fetch it on his own until he is completely confident doing so, and until you are convinced he won’t bring the pile down on himself,” she quickly added.

  “I’ll not let the lad kill himself,” Tavish promised. “Come on, then, Finbarr. Let’s fetch some wood, and see if we can’t get this lass swoonin’ with how very manly we are.”

  The two brothers moved toward the door. Cecily stood, rooted to the spot, her emotions bubbling up unexpectedly. She wasn’t one who cried often or easily, and there weren’t actual tears surfacing now, but her emotions were real and potent.

  She pressed her fingers to her lips and took deliberate breaths, willing her mind to slow and calm. Finbarr was ready to learn. He was ready.

  Pacing seemed her best option as she thought through what needed to come next. The remainder of the week likely ought to be spent refining the skills he had begun working on. He would grow more confident as he mastered them.

  Though most seventeen-year-old boys were not keen on tidiness, Finbarr needed to gain that skill. Keeping his belongings in specific places, and being careful to always return them there, would make his life far easier.

  She crossed to the ladder and climbed up. Enough light spilled in through the single window to dimly illuminate the space. The place was a shambles. The air smelled of dust and unwashed clothes. This would definitely be her next task: teaching him to organize and clean his space.

  She carefully made her way to the window, stepping over and around the things Finbarr had left strewn about. The dimness of the light spilling in spoke of glass in need of cleaning. Cecily ran a finger down the window pane and rubbed her thumb and finger together. The unmistakable feel of grime. Finbarr would quickly gain an appreciation for the extra light provided by a clean window.

  Cecily raised her hand to eye level and rubbed a small bit of the window clean, letting a few extra rays of sunlight inside. She couldn’t see any details beyond the glass except for those things nearest the window and a vague outline of mountains on the horizon.

  Though she was in Wyoming, where she’d heard the land was oft’ times sparse and unyielding, with dots of precious green overwhelmed by the browns of the desert, her mind simply refused to fill in the empty spaces of her vision with anything other than the lush fields and tall trees of home.

  When she was growing up, a stream had run through the fields not far from her bedchamber window. She’d often sat on the window seat, watching the water trip over stones and around bends, pleased at the picture it painted but never fully treasuring it as she ought. What a shame she’d never taken the time to learn the sound of her stream and the wind rustling the branches of the trees that lined its bank.

  She’d been caught so unaware by the disease that was stealing the world around her. And she’d been so young.

  “You will find a way to build a life,” Father had assured her when he’d come to visit during her last year at the Missouri School for the Blind. She’d told him how worried she was about her schooling ending and not having the slightest idea what would come afterward. “You could stay here and teach.”

  “I couldn't bear that, not going anywhere, not experiencing the world while I still can.” Seven years later, she could still feel the panic that had bubbled. “I want to see the ocean again and see the Rocky Mountains—I’m told they are large enough and tall enough that, provided I don’t wait until my vision has deteriorated terribly, even I would be able to see at least their outline. And I cannot countenance the thought of spending the remaining decades of my life as a spinster teacher in a school, where my only companions are my students, and my only true company is that of the other teac
hers.”

  Her instructors hadn’t been unhappy necessarily, but she had always imagined herself after her schooling living with Father again, finding some means of supporting herself. That had been her dream: being part of a family again and seeing the country with him. But her father had died mere weeks before she graduated.

  She’d begun traveling, reaching out to those souls too far distant to attend a school. She’d seen the country, as she’d told her father she’d wanted to. Wyoming brought her closer to the Rocky Mountains. Perhaps after Finbarr had learned all she could teach him, she would search out a position in California or Oregon, somewhere near the coast. She would pass through the Rockies on her way. She still had vision enough to see waves crashing against sand on a bright, sunny day. She could stand on the beach and memorize the sight and sounds of the sea.

  The door opened below, and Tavish’s lyrical voice floated up to her. The Irish were known for the musical quality of their speech, but somehow Tavish’s voice had it in extra measure. She’d heard any number of whispers during her brief moments at the céilí amongst the younger women, those too young for anything to come of their observations, that Tavish was breathtakingly handsome. And though she and he had undertaken their share of disagreements, she couldn’t deny that he was witty and personable and likely could charm the socks off a snake when he wished to.

  Why, then, was he still unattached? A handsome, charming man with a quick wit, who loved his family and worked hard ought to have been snatched up long ago.

  That was a far more personal bit of pondering than she’d ever intended to entertain about Tavish O’Connor. She shook off the distraction and, with her hand on the railing, made her way back to the ladder. She quickly but carefully descended and followed the voices to the kitchen side of the room.

  “Were you explorin’, then?” Tavish asked.

  He’d obviously seen her climb down from the loft. “I was deciding on Finbarr’s tasks for the week.” She stopped near the table, concentrating on placing Tavish and Finbarr within the dim room. “He’ll focus on dressing himself, becoming more adept and swift at the task. He’ll practice safely lighting a fire, though mastering that will take longer than a week. And the rest of his time will be spent organizing and cleaning the loft.”

  “You’re planning to convince a lad his age to tidy his space?”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are you impressed?”

  Tavish’s low rumbling laugh brought her smile out a bit. “Manage that, Cecee, and my ma might stop dislikin’ you.”

  That declaration hit her like a slap of cold wind. She knew that the Irish families, including the O’Connors, disliked her, but hearing the truth of the matter spoken so directly pinched her already raw emotions.

  Cecily turned her attention to the stove. She didn’t care to think too closely on everyone’s poor opinion of her. Nor did she wish to examine why their dislike hurt so much. “Shall we light a fire?”

  The men accepted the abrupt change of topic. Cecily, on the other hand, knew her continued rejection by the town would prick at the back of her mind for days on end.

  Cecily sat at the small desk she’d placed under one of Mrs. Claire’s front windows, with her lantern lit, and attempted to focus on the book laid open in front of her. She didn’t usually struggle to concentrate, but the sounds of the O’Connor women, Katie, and Mrs. Claire, in conversation behind her, repeatedly pulled her attention.

  “You must bring your berry tart again, Katie,” Mrs. O’Connor said. “No one bakes a tart as well as you do.”

  “Having access to the best berries in the West certainly doesn’t hurt,” Katie said.

  “Don’t tell Tavish that. His head’ll swell big, and we’ll never hear the end of it.” Precisely the type of comment one would expect from a man’s older sister.

  Cecily shook off this most recent moment of distraction. She focused once more on her book. With both the lantern and the sunlight from the window, she could make out the words, but only just: The king tried to have patience, but he succeeded very badly.

  She read the passage silently twice over, making certain she was not misreading any of the words.

  Her familiar wood frame with attached metal stencil sat at the ready. She took up the metal stylus and began pressing dot after dot, forming in Braille the letters and words she’d just read. She read and transcribed another sentence. Then another.

  The Light Princess was the seventeenth book she would transcribe into Braille in the last seven years, and the fifth for children. So few Braille books existed in English, and few of those available in the United States. Those that were could be obtained only at significant cost or borrowed locally from those who owned them. Her books were being sent throughout the West. She’d made the arrangements years earlier, running a lending library with the help of her former school.

  Her heart soared at the thought of her students—who would otherwise have been unable to—reading. Even miles and years apart, she was still helping them. And these books would continue bringing joy to new generations of the blind and severely poor-sighted. They would feel a little less lost and a little less alone.

  “Thomas must’ve been pleased with the crop this year,” Mrs. O’Connor said. “We’ve not brought in such a yield in some time. And the men received top price for it. We’ve a bit more breathing room than usual.”

  Mary’s husband was Thomas, whom Cecily had not formally met. “’Tisn’t the money turning his thoughts eastward, but the opportunities.”

  “And what ‘opportunities’ did we have in New York?” Biddy asked. “Perhaps Thomas doesn’t remember the misery we endured there. The Irish are as unwelcome in the Eastern cities as ever we have been here. More so, in many ways.”

  “The children don’t sound as Irish as we do,” Mary said. “They’d not have so difficult a time of it as we did.”

  “But they’d be away from their family,” Mrs. O’Connor said. “You all would be. Surely Thomas doesn’t wish for that.”

  Cecily hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but the conversation was loud, and her hearing was acute. Besides, they were discussing a topic far too relatable for her to not take notice of it. Her father had uprooted their family for the sake of giving her opportunities. She knew the worry associated with such an endeavor as well as the sacrifices.

  Perhaps she could share her thoughts and experiences on the matter. She might be of some use to them, and they might appreciate her insights. They might even find between them all the beginnings of a friendship.

  “Will we be seeing Ian at church tomorrow?” Mrs. Claire asked.

  “I can’t say,” was Biddy’s quiet response. “His head’s been aching terribly, and he’s having more of his spells.”

  “Has he?” Mrs. O’Connor whispered. “I hadn’t heard he’d grown worse.”

  “Tavish finished his own work this morning and is with him now,” Biddy said. “The children are spending the day with the McCanns. I needed a little time away.”

  “But who is with Finbarr?” Mrs. O’Connor’s tone of worry only grew. “Ought he to be left alone?”

  “He’s been alone before.” Mrs. Claire voiced Cecily’s exact thought. Here was the “babying” Finbarr had complained of on her first day.

  “I’ve heard,” one of the sisters said, her voice low and filled with warning, “he’s been building fires. He certainly shouldn’t be doing that all by his lonesome.”

  Mrs. O’Connor adamantly agreed.

  “He is not building fires by himself,” Cecily said.

  The women grew instantly quiet. She’d interrupted, inserting herself into the conversation.

  “How is it you know what the lad’s doing when he’s alone?” Challenge. Distrust. Contempt. Mrs. O’Connor managed to fit all three into a single sentence. “Do you know him so well, then?”

  “Him, personally? No. But I have been where he is, in the darkness, afraid and uncertain. He is inching his way out, not running.”

>   A moment’s silence followed, broken only by the pop of needles through the tightly pulled fabric of the quilt they were tying. Did their lack of response mean they were satisfied with her explanation, or more doubtful?

  “I specifically told him not to build fires unless Tavish or I am there to instruct him. I believe he accepts my authority,” Cecily assured them. “He knows that I know best.”

  Rustling fabric and scraping chair legs. Someone had stood. “I need to be on my way.” Biddy.

  “But we’ve not yet had our tea,” Mrs. Claire said.

  “I’ve tea at home,” Biddy said. “I’ll not go wanting.”

  “You’ll be wanting for company,” Katie said. “Stay a spell. Tavish’ll look after Ian.”

  The others erupted with words of agreement and pleas for her to remain. But Biddy was undeterred. She crossed to the door, bid them a quiet farewell, and left.

  “I’ve never known her not to stay for a bee,” Mrs. O’Connor said. “Do you suppose Ian is in poorer health than she let on?”

  Mary offered her own explanation. “I’ll wager it isn’t concern at home that’s sent her fleeing but”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“discomfort here.”

  They all responded with aahs and mm-hmms and general sounds of agreement. Biddy left to avoid being in company with one particular person: Cecily.

  She set her foggy gaze on her book once more but couldn’t concentrate. She was unwelcome. Unwanted. And so very, very lonely.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A month had passed since Cecily had arrived in Hope Springs. Though she was grateful Finbarr had finally begun making progress, she couldn’t deny that he was often disheartened by how slowly he learned new skills. He regularly returned to his sulking and muttering, which made their days together long and wearying.

  Worn down, tired, and a full hour past her usual departure time, Cecily pulled her coat off its hook near the door and hung it over her arm, taking her cane in the other hand. Tavish was near the stove with Finbarr, working on their dinner. Finbarr had been more frustrated than usual this afternoon but was finally focusing again. She didn’t want to disrupt simply to offer a farewell.