Love Remains

by Sarah M. Eden

  She turned her head the tiniest bit in his direction. Where were her spectacles? He’d never seen her without them. He’d wondered at their purpose, but seeing how she kept her eyes closed now, he guessed they protected her eyes in some way.

  “I suppose I’m a little sensitive,” she said. “My reception here has not been entirely warm.”

  He slipped his hand around hers, intending to apologize for the treatment she’d endured. But the frigidity of her fingers forced a change of subject. “Come over to the hearth. I’ll build the fire up again.”

  She was either tired or in complete agreement; she made not the slightest resistance. He fetched her blanket from the alcove, then brought it back, laying it over her lap.

  “Thank you.” She pulled it up all the way to her neck. “I hadn’t expected to be hit with snow while under the porch overhang.”

  “That’s a Wyoming storm for you.” He took the fire poker to the embers, stirring air into them so they’d burn a bit hotter. “The wind here never stops; it simply shifts between somewhat gentle and trying to knock your house over.” He carefully laid some kindling, then blew on it a bit to help the fire catch and grow.

  “How long will the storm last?”

  “Could taper off by morning. Or it might be a day or two. ’Tis a hard thing to know.” He shifted back on his feet and watched the fire. “This is our eleventh winter here, so we’ve learned to prepare for the worst. We’ve a great deal of firewood at every house, a stock of food as well. Once this storm blows past, we’ll hitch up a sleigh or two and head out to chop more wood to replenish our supplies.”

  “Is that how long ago you left Ireland? Eleven years?”

  “Heavens, no. We left when I was but a lad. Finbarr was born in this country.” He set a log on the fire, watching to make certain it caught.

  “But you all still sound so Irish.”

  He chuckled to himself. “You left England a good while ago, and you still sound very English.”

  A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Point taken.”

  Her eyes were still closed. His curiosity was full eating at him, but he felt instinctively that asking about her eyes would not be a welcome intrusion.

  “Do you miss Ireland?” she asked.

  “Ireland is my mother, the place of my birth. ’Tis where my grandparents are now buried, and all my family before them. Who I am, who my family is, was shaped by Ireland. She’s in our blood.”

  “I feel the same about England.” Her expression turned more contemplative. “And yet, America has begun to feel like home.”

  “Aye. She has a way of doing that to a person.” He pulled a chair up beside hers. “Those who’ve lived here all their lives struggle to understand how we can feel a loyalty to both places at once, how we can feel the pull of our homeland while still thinking of this land as home.”

  She tucked her legs up beside her, turning a bit so she faced him a little more. “What do you remember most about Ireland?”

  “Green,” he answered fondly. “A rather generic answer, considering she’s known far and wide as The Emerald Isle, but that is truly what I think of. So many shades of green everywhere. For a land so devastated by battles and wars and famines and death, Ireland is somehow still the very picture of life and vibrancy. I’ve never seen her equal. M’ grandfather used to say, ‘There are as many shades of green as there are types of people in this world, and though they look different, they’re all beautiful and worth takin’ note of.’”

  “I miss green, too.”

  He nodded slowly. “I’ve heard England is near about as green as Ireland.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t mean that green is what I miss about England. I miss green in general. I can hardly see it now. I only see very muddied and murky versions of the color.” Her mouth turned downward. “I miss it.”

  He hadn’t thought of that. Could Finbarr still see colors? The lad had never said. And what else did Finbarr miss with the same sadness now in Cecily’s voice?

  What would it take to transform that heavy tone to a jesting one once more? Or a happier one at the very least?

  “What was one of your favorite things about England?” He’d hoped speaking of her homeland would bring her some measure of enjoyment.

  Her solemn countenance remained. “You’ll only laugh.”

  “I do laugh a great deal,” he acknowledged, “but never at people.”

  She took what appeared to be a fortifying breath. Something about sharing her memories with him was, apparently, nerve-racking. “I grew up in the north of England, where it snowed in the wintertime. I used to love sitting at the window of my bedchamber and watching the snow fall. Sometimes it fluttered and danced to the earth. Other times, it came down driven and harsh. I used to imagine that the snow matched Mother Nature’s mood. When she was happy, the snow fell soft and gentle. When she was angry, the snow was punishing. But no matter her feelings as it fell, the result was always beautiful: a world blanketed in white. I loved that. Snow is amongst my clearest, most comforting memories of home.”

  And yet, the memory seemed clouded in sadness.

  “Is that why you went out just now? To watch the snow?”

  Her shoulders drooped. “I know full well my vision is too far gone for that; there is simply not enough light. But my heart seems unable to accept that. I convinced myself once again that I’d be able to see what I no longer can, so I pulled myself out of a warm bed on a fool’s errand.” Such heartache hung in her words.

  “And could you see it?”

  “Of course not.” She turned away from him again. “That is what comes of letting emotions and memories get the best of one’s judgement.”

  If ever a woman needed cheering, this one did. “I will strike a deal with you, Cecee. Come morning, when the animals need tending, no matter Mother Nature’s mood, I’ll allow you to make the trek to the barn in my place. That way, even though you cannot see the snow, you’ll be able to experience it. I’d make that great sacrifice for you.”

  “Oh, would you? How very generous of you.”

  Thank heavens she’d recognized his teasing. Katie had often misunderstood his attempts to cheer her with jests. “I am a very generous fellow, really.”

  “It is rather silly of me, I know, wanting so badly to see the snow.”

  “There’s not a thing silly about missing something that means so much to you.” He mourned many things and people who had been taken from him.

  “But I tell my students not to dwell on what they’ve lost. It tears a person to pieces.” Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep, pained breath. “I’m a hypocrite.”

  Tavish slipped his hand around hers once more. “No. You don’t dwell on what you’ve lost, Cecee. You have moments when missing it is a hard thing, and no one would fault you for that. During the in-between times, though, you live your life just as you’ve told Finbarr to do. You need not be so harsh with yourself.”

  “Will you remind me of that now and then?”

  He squeezed her fingers. “If you promise to laugh with me now and then. That’s how I manage to not dwell on the things life has taken from me.”

  “Gladly.” She spoke with palpable relief. “I dearly love to laugh. The family I worked for last was quite somber and disinclined to tease or jest. I had a very difficult time with them.”

  “It seems we see eye to eye on something,” he said.

  “I promise not to tell anyone if you won’t.” She offered him a conspiratorial look, but with her eyes still closed.

  “Agreed.”

  And, quick as that, he’d formed an alliance with a woman he hadn’t even liked in the beginning. If that wasn’t the very recipe for disaster, he wasn’t sure what was.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cecily wasn’t usually one for making personal confessions. Yet the night before, she’d told Tavish O’Connor her deepest worries and secrets. The man knew how much she missed watching the snow, something she’d never confess
ed to anyone. She hadn’t been wearing her spectacles, a risk she didn’t generally take. In her sleepiness, she might very well have opened her eyes and laid bare just how hideous a sight they were now that the milkiness had grown nearly opaque and all-consuming.

  “How do I know if the eggs are ready to flip over?” Finbarr asked, pulling Cecily’s thoughts back to the moment.

  She’d been up and about for more than an hour, but her mind continually returned to those uncharacteristic moments the night before.

  “Memorize how long, approximately, each preparation method requires and time it,” she told him. “In cases where you’ve lost track of the time, listen to the sizzle and pay attention to the smell.” She was beyond pleased that Finbarr was finally so willing to learn. “Of course, if you smell charring, you’ve waited too long.”

  He laughed softly. “I figured that much on my own. What do you think? Is it time to flip them?”

  She listened and took in the scent. “Yes, I think so. You won’t have to cook as long on the other side.”

  “I’ll probably break the yokes,” Finbarr warned.

  “For the most part, you’ll be cooking for yourself, so appearance will be of absolutely no concern. Anyone else you cook for will simply need to learn to be grateful for the food and not worry over the presentation.”

  “I need to develop a thick skin, is what you’re saying?”

  She could hear his wooden spoon scraping the inside of the pan. Once he set his mind to something, he stuck to it. That trait would serve him well. “A thick skin, yes, but also a sense of accomplishment that doesn’t depend on others’ approval.”

  “Will people be harder on me, or easier, do you think?” An intelligent question. He seemed to understand his unique situation better than she might have expected of one who’d only recently been forced into it.

  “Both,” she answered. “Some people will dismiss what you do because they don’t think it’s good enough. Others will see your blindness as a reason to think of you in the same terms as a child. When you find someone who treats you like a whole person, keep them in your life. They’re gold.”

  “I wondered why you were so tough when you first came. You didn’t accept any excuses, and you pushed and pushed me. But you were just showing me that I could do more than I was doing.”

  She felt like shouting for joy. He understood. He recognized what she had been working toward.

  “The eggs smell done,” he said. “I think.” In time, he would grow more confident.

  “I think so, too. Move the pan to the other side of the stove, then pull down some plates. Bear in mind, when you return, you’ll need to take a moment to remind yourself which side of the stove is hot so you don’t get burned.”

  She left him to his task, which he’d taken to quickly. Against the din of clanking plates and pans, her thoughts drifted back to Tavish. He’d gone out earlier to tend to his animals, insisting he’d be back in an hour. She knew more time had passed than that. Logic told her he had likely come across more work than he’d anticipated: frozen water troughs, perhaps a leak in the roof somewhere.

  “How long does Tavish usually spend in the barn in the mornings?” she asked Finbarr.

  “An hour before breakfast,” he said. “Then he goes back out afterward to finish up.”

  Tavish ought to have been back by now. The snow hadn’t let up, so he’d tied a rope between the house and the barn. She could hold and follow that if need be. But if he was simply working, what good would her checking do? She’d end up turning around and coming directly back to the house after making a fool of herself.

  What if he hadn’t merely fallen behind his time? What if he was hurt or in need of help?

  Finbarr knows far more about tending animals than I do. But he didn’t yet know how to be truly useful in his sightless state.

  She told herself to wait another quarter-hour. If Tavish wasn’t back by then, she’d be fully justified in checking on him.

  Finbarr’s careful footsteps took him from the stove to the table. The clank of the serving plate on the wooden tabletop signaled the setting out of breakfast. “I don’t know if I can pour milk into everyone’s glasses without making a mess,” he confessed uneasily. “Maybe if I had a little more time to practice . . .”

  “Everyone can pour their own. I’m certain your brother would be willing to fill your glass for you, if you’d like. You’ve done quite a lot already today. There’s no need to push yourself harder than you can go.”

  “I feel ridiculous, though. These are all things I used to do without thinking about them.”

  She set a reassuring hand on his arm. “Few things will be as easy as they once were. But they will get easier.”

  Still no sign of Tavish.

  “Do you think we ought to eat without your brother? I don’t want your breakfast to get cold—mine, either, for that matter. But I’d hate to start without him.”

  “He’ll be back soon; I’m sure of it.” Finbarr pulled a chair out. Rustling fabric told her he sat down in it. A hungry, growing boy wasn’t likely to wait on a latecomer.

  “Maybe I’ll go check to see how much longer he’ll be.” She moved to the door and the hook on which her coat hung. “You eat. We’ll neither of us begrudge you a meal that you worked so hard to make.”

  But the door opened before she reached it, a blast of frigid air immediately filling the space, snow coming in with it and reaching her still a good few feet inside.

  “’Tis coming down something fierce out there.” His broad silhouette crossed directly to the kitchen stove. “I had to give the animals extra bedding to help keep them warm.”

  “Sit down and have your breakfast,” Cecily instructed. “That’ll warm you.”

  “I never turn down a hot meal,” he said.

  From the far side of the table, Finbarr offered a caveat. “Even if that hot meal was prepared by a blind man?”

  The young man was forever fluctuating between determined, doubtful, and despondent. Cecily didn’t yet understand him well enough to know how to help him find and keep his confidence.

  “Begor, Finbarr.” Tavish whistled low. “You made the meal this morning? You truly did?”

  “It’s only eggs,” Finbarr said.

  “But eggs you made your own self, lad. You know what this means, don’t you?”

  Please, Tavish. Don’t make him feel condescended to.

  “That I’m no longer a baby,” Finbarr muttered.

  “You’ve not been a baby for years and years. What this means is I can start on my sinister plan to make you my oppressed and under-appreciated manservant. At last!”

  Finbarr laughed deep from the belly. The sound was devoid of the worry and defeat so often present in him. Thank the heavens for Tavish and his teasing.

  “You do realize, Tavish,” Finbarr said, “the Irish don’t respond peaceably to oppression.”

  “They also don’t respond well to early mornings. I’ll simply agree to meet you on the field of rebellion at an unholy hour and win by default.”

  “But you’re Irish as well,” Finbarr reminded him. “No one can win if neither of us is awake.”

  “Then we’ll set our skirmish for noon, and I’ll still be the victor.”

  “You wouldn’t stand a chance, old man.”

  Tavish stepped closer. “‘Old man,’ is it?”

  Their silhouettes immediately undertook a jovial tussle, despite Finbarr being seated and Tavish yet standing. They tossed back and forth increasingly ridiculous insults and challenges, punctuated by laughter. Cecily leaned against the wall not far from the stove. She pressed a hand to her heart as an unexpected surge of emotion stole over her. Both men seemed happier in that moment than she could remember them being. They were interacting without the frustration of earlier weeks and without the cloud of worry that hung over the entire O’Connor family.

  “Call me old again, lad. I’m daring you to.”

  She could just see enough of them t
o know that Tavish held his brother bent low, one arm pinning his head against Tavish’s side. Finbarr didn’t appear to be fighting the position. Indeed, he hadn’t stopped laughing.

  “For someone so ancient, you’re surprisingly strong,” Finbarr said.

  Tavish didn’t release his brother. “Are you hearing this, Cecee? Are you hearing the abuse this lad is heapin’ on his innocent brother?”

  “It seems you have a truly Irish uprising on your hands,” she said.

  “I’m staging an Irish uprising?” Finbarr sounded rather theatrically horrified. “I’m going to die!”

  Tavish’s laughter returned, deeper and louder than before. He pushed his brother away. “‘I’m going to die,’ he says.” He sat at the table. “Saints, the blasphemy pouring out of this boy’s mouth. His Irish ancestors are likely to come haunt him for what he’s said about them.”

  “That they’re all dead?” Finbarr tossed back from the far end of the table. “I doubt my observation took them by surprise.”

  Tavish chuckled once more. Finbarr joined in.

  They were laughing, enjoying each other’s company in a way that fit them far better than their usual tense discomfort. Her throat turned thick as her eyes began to burn. She tried to blink the tears away, but her heart was overflowing.

  She’d been so certain a mere week earlier that Finbarr was a lost cause. She’d braced herself to lose another student. But there was hope now.

  The brothers’ tussle ended rather abruptly, silence settling over the room.

  “Cecee?” Tavish’s joviality had been quickly replaced with concern.

  Her emotions must have been showing on her face. She tried to wave his comment off, but found she couldn’t. She always did this—she let herself care so deeply that her students’ suffering and fears, joys and triumphs, affected her on a very personal level.

  “Excuse me a moment.” She spoke quickly and moved away.

  She bumped hard into something. Her hand shot out and struck a kitchen chair. She’d misjudged her distance from the table. The sooner she replaced her cane, the better. With measured steps, she moved toward the fireplace. The slow progress was embarrassing, but continuing to wear her emotions on her sleeve would be more embarrassing. She needed a moment to get herself firmly under control.