“I have, but mostly from you.”
He couldn’t hold back a chuckle at that. She’d a fine sense of humor, this woman who’d been so prickly upon their first meeting.
She sat up more fully, facing him more directly. “The two things I have heard about you most since my arrival are that you are jovial and handsome. Considering how grumpy you were with me in the beginning, I find myself inclined not to fully believe either description.”
“Come now, I’ve not been grumpy in weeks.”
She tossed him a look of doubt. “Is this your humble way of telling me that you really are a fine-looking man?”
Heavens, it was nice to see her lighthearted again, even for a moment. Her pain had been so terribly acute. “This room’d be a fine place to test your theory.”
She shifted to a kneeling position. “Will you close your eyes?”
“Why?”
“My spectacles dim the light. I will be able to see you better without them.”
She didn’t want him to see her without her spectacles? “What is it that worries you, Cecee?”
She clasped her hands on her lap. “My eyes are diseased. It has altered their appearance, and not in a pleasant way. I first began wearing darkened spectacles after witnessing the expressions of horror people wore when looking at me. I kept wearing them because the gasps of revulsion and overly loud whispers were equally dreadful.”
“It can’t be as bad as all that.”
“I have quite literally frightened small children, Tavish. It can absolutely be ‘as bad as all that.’”
“Well, now, a chara, let me tell you this.” He slipped his hand around hers, squeezing her fingers reassuringly. “I’ve thought from the first time I saw you the day you arrived that you were near about the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in all m’ days. I’m not likely to change my mind on account of your eyes having an oddness to them.”
Color touched her cheeks. “I’d like to think I’m not a vain person, but I know perfectly well that I’m fragile on this matter.”
“I’ll not argue with you then.” He obediently closed his eyes. An odd scraping noise sounded in the next moment. “What’s that?”
“I’m scooting closer. Honestly, do sighted people pay no attention to the world around them?”
“We’re the worst.”
She gave a quick laugh. No lectures about not being somber enough. No scolding him for jesting during a difficult time. She simply laughed, as he’d hoped she would.
“I will need to get very close to your face,” she warned. “Uncomfortably close.”
He nodded. “’Tis a good thing, then, that my eyes’ll be closed.”
“You will be able to hear me breathe.”
He shrugged. “Fortunately, we sighted people never pay attention to sounds.”
“How attentive are you to smells?” She did sound much closer.
“Is that your way of telling me you haven’t bathed in a while?”
Another laugh. “I thought subtlety was the best approach.”
“I’ll brace m’self.” But the scent that filled the air around him wasn’t unpleasant in the least. ’Twas a light, flowery scent, one he’d vaguely smelled before. It was Cecily. And the increased warmth was her as well.
He could feel her soft breath against his face. She must have been mere inches away, if that. He’d promised to keep his eyes closed, but heavens, he was tempted to look at her.
“What color are your eyes?” she asked.
“’Tis hard to tell with them closed, isn’t it?”
The briefest of pauses followed. “You promised not to press me on this.”
She was right, of course. ’Twas unfair of him.
“My eyes are blue. A very light blue, like m’ grandfather’s were.” Ma had told him time and again that he had her father’s eyes. “What color are yours?”
“They were brown.”
Were. Had her disease changed their color, then? He didn’t ask; he didn’t press. Instead he said, quietly, “I’ve always liked brown eyes.”
“I’ve always liked blue.” Her tone and volume matched his.
’Twas an unexpectedly intimate moment, though they weren’t touching or gazing into each other’s eyes. They exchanged no flirting or banter. Yet his heart tugged even as he fought a grin.
“How do you feel about dark hair?” he asked.
“Hmm.” The feel of her lightly brushing his hair back from his temple very nearly paralyzed his lungs. “I am finding I rather like dark hair.”
A fine answer, that.
“I prefer light hair, personally,” he said.
“Do you?”
Oh how he wished she’d let him open his eyes. He could so easily picture her saucy, challenging look. “I do, in fact. Not long before you came, I told m’ parents I meant to find myself a golden-haired Englishwoman.”
“And were they properly horrified?”
“Indeed.”
The same light scraping he’d heard before sounded again. “You’re scooting,” he said.
“And you’re listening.”
He was, but he couldn’t sort the rest of the noises. Rustling and something else.
“May I open my eyes yet?”
“I suppose,” she said.
When he opened his eyes, she had her spectacles on already. His curiosity was nearly killing him, but he could respect her wish for privacy.
“What’s your verdict? Am I as handsome as everyone says?” He put as much feigned arrogance in his words as he could manage and was rewarded with her smile.
“Even in this light, I couldn’t see much.” Some of her sadness had returned, though she didn’t look as miserable as she had earlier. “But thank you for letting me try.”
He moved closer to her.
“You’re scooting,” she said.
“And you’re listening.” He knelt directly in front of her. He set his hands gently on either side of her face and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Anytime you need to sit in the light, a chara, simply come. No need to ask.”
She laid her hands against his chest and whispered a thank you. His heart threatened to leap through his ribs. He swallowed against the sudden thickness in his throat.
“Tavish.” A whisper.
His lungs strained with every breath. He slid his hands from her face and down her neck, along her shoulders, pulling her so close that warmth and the fragrance of flowers filled the air once more.
“Cecee.” Her name emerged a bit strangled and broken. “I—I—”
“Merciful heavens!” An alarmingly familiar voice interrupted. “What in the name of Saints Bridget and Michael is happening in here?”
Though neither he nor Cecily had heard the new arrival come in, Tavish knew exactly who it was, and further knew he’d just landed himself in a world of trouble. Few people could guilt a soul as quickly and thoroughly as an Irish mother.
Chapter Twenty-six
Cecily sat on the porch, bundled against the cold, waiting for Finbarr to return, whilst Tavish was inside, silently enduring a tongue lashing the likes of which she’d not heard before. All of Hope Springs was likely privy to the lecture. Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor were certainly not holding back.
“We’d never have approved of Finbarr’s returning to Joseph’s home if we’d had the least suspicion of you and that woman being up to mischief in his absence.”
That woman. Mrs. O’Connor had yet to refer to Cecily by her name.
“’Twasn’t any mischief, Ma. She was upset. I was attempting to console her.”
“In your bedchamber?” Mr. O’Connor sounded as unconvinced as his wife.
“She’d stepped inside to take advantage of the light from the windows. Like Finbarr, she needs a great deal to see. I happened to find her there, upset and sorrowful. Would you have had me turn my back on a crying woman?”
Had his gesture been nothing, then, but kindness and civility? She’d thought there’d been something more
personal in it.
“Do not twist this into a scold for being kind.” His father’s usually calm and casual tone had taken on an edge that set Cecily on alert. “You are playing with fire, and you know it. She is sharp and pretty, with a quick wit—a combination for which you’ve always had a particular weakness. And you, son, are lonely.”
Mr. O’Connor’s declaration contained a painful degree of truth. She’d sensed Tavish’s loneliness and heavy heart early on, had recognized it by its familiarity. She herself felt very much alone in this world.
“I don’t want to see you entrapped,” Mr. O’Connor continued, “forced into a situation that’d only make both of you miserable.”
His family not only thought her a woman bent on leading their son down a honeyed path, but one so mismatched that he would rue the very day he met her. She wasn’t looking to marry or fall top over tail in love, but she didn’t think herself such a bad choice as all that. And, heaven help her, she’d grown terribly fond of Tavish. Her heart rather liked the idea of him returning her regard in some degree.
“I think it’d be best if she doesn’t return here again.” Mrs. O’Connor likely couldn’t have sounded more resolved.
“I am not a child, Ma. You can’t order me about, nor say who I’m to spend m’ days with.”
“No, but Finbarr is not yet a grown man. She was brought here to tutor him, and we’ve the right to determine when her services are no longer necessary.”
They would deny one son his lessons to prevent the other from growing attached to her? Could they possibly object to her that much? She rubbed at her temples and tried desperately to ignore the growing pain in her eyes.
“What of Finbarr?” Tavish asked. “He has not yet learned all he needs to.”
“He can find Miss Attwater at Granny’s,” Mr. O’Connor said. “She can answer any questions he may have until spring when the roads are open.”
“You’re making mountains out of mole—”
“I agree with your mother on this, lad. ’Twould be best for everyone if she doesn’t spend her days at your home any longer.”
If not for the thick layer of snow blanketing the valley, the O’Connors would be sending her away now. But she still had so much to teach Finbarr. If fate proved kind, the spring thaw would arrive late, granting her more time to teach the young man what he needed to learn.
“After all she’s done for the lad, you’d toss her aside because you’d rather your son not grow overly friendly with an Englishwoman?” Tavish, bless him, defended her presence even in the face of his parents’ unyielding disapproval.
“Whether or not ’tis the least bit fair, she represents centuries of suffering and loss. That’s something none of your neighbors can entirely overlook.” Mr. O’Connor sounded a little worried. “’Twould be best for everyone if she finished her time here quietly rather than summoning up old hurts and losses. Ian, in particular, would appreciate it.”
“Ian? What has he to do with Cecily?”
Cecily lowered her head, for once letting herself focus on the pain. That might be enough to distract her from their words.
“Have you not noticed, son,” Tavish’s mother said, “that Biddy, though she is generally friendly and welcoming, has never warmed to Miss Attwater?”
Cecily had most certainly noticed, but she’d tried not to dwell on it. Katie had become her friend, and she’d hoped that Biddy, Katie’s dearest friend, would come to like her as well. Instead, Biddy went to great lengths to avoid her.
“During the Hunger, Biddy’s grandfather was beaten to death by their English landlord for the crime of making off with a bit of wheat to feed his family,” his mother said.
Oh, dear heavens.
She wasn’t finished. “Biddy’s uncles were imprisoned for the same crime and sentenced to transportation,” Mrs. O’Connor continued. “Only two survived the squalid conditions of the prison long enough to board the prison ship for Botany Bay. Though we’re not completely certain of it—her mother was never able to speak of the matter, and Biddy herself has seldom spoken of it—there’s every evidence her father suffered the same fate. She and her mother were left alone in the world; they never saw her father again.”
I will never win Biddy over, not with that history between our people.
“None of that is Cecily’s fault,” Tavish said. “She wasn’t the one who—”
“It isn’t fair,” Mr. O’Connor said, interrupting. “But it is what it is.”
“I’ll confess I ought not to have been in such a . . . private situation with her,” Tavish said after a moment. “But you’re taking things all out of proportion. I’m not in love with her, and I’ve no plans to be. She’s a friend, nothing more.”
No matter that she’d not sought his affection nor expected it, Tavish’s declaration registered as pain in her heart. Just a friend. Nothing more.
“Are you certain of that?” Mrs. O’Connor asked.
Cecily held her breath, waiting for his answer. For though he seemed certain, she was far from it. Her mind insisted that he had offered an accurate assessment of his feelings, but her heart was not at all convinced.
“I’m certain,” Tavish said. “And don’t fret. From now on, I’ll send Finbarr to Granny’s if he has questions or needs instruction. The house’ll be free of English.”
Free of English. That’s all she was to him now, an English-woman and a problem. This man, who’d held her as no one else had, who’d comforted her in her time of anguish, who had, she was certain, very nearly kissed her, dismissed her with hardly a thought.
This was what came of letting herself care too deeply—being sent away and forgotten, but leaving a bit of herself behind.
With a deep breath of frigid air, she rose from her seat. Dusk was fast approaching, and she could barely see as it was.
She folded the quilt and set it on the chair. Carefully, slowly, she made her way off the porch. She set her sights, dim as they were, on the shrub that marked her destination across and down the street. Soon enough, she wouldn’t be able to see that either. Perhaps it was for the best for her to be confined to Granny’s house now that the days were darker and shorter.
Granny Claire spent most of her days at the O’Connors’ home. Finbarr had begun spending at least a couple of days a week at the Archers’. Cecily would be alone most of the time, without even transcription to bring her some joy. She’d be spending her days alone in the dark.
Cecily opened the front door and stepped inside Granny’s dark house. Her hostess was not home, which was not unusual. Cecily didn’t bother lighting the lantern. She needed to adjust to the deterioration of her vision, and spending time in the dark seemed the best way to do that.
She found the way to her bedroom and lay down on her bed. Somehow she needed to find a way to make her remaining time in Hope Springs productive and helpful for Finbarr. Sitting alone in this room, waiting out the end of winter, would be a waste of her time and would ruin Finbarr’s chance at a future.
“But how can I help him if the O’Connors won’t let me?” They’d made their feelings clear. They’d rather send her away than allow her to help their son or belong to the town.
She wouldn’t try to force them to accept her. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have work left to do.
“Is that you, Cecily?”
Why was Granny home?
Cecily sat up on her bed. “I’m in here.”
Shuffling footsteps grew louder. Soon she could hear the rustling of a dress. “I didn’t expect you so soon,” Granny said.
“I could say the same to you.”
The bed shifted with Granny’s weight as she sat. The very faint aroma of smoke and wax told Cecily that Granny had brought a candle with her. She could not make out its flame. The realization swelled as tears in her throat, which she forced back angrily. Why did this have to happen so soon?
“I’m feeling quite done in this evening,” Granny said. “I had to cut my visit short.” Whic
h explained why Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor had arrived at Tavish’s when they had. “What brings you back so soon, lass?”
“My eyes hurt.” It was true, just not the entire truth.
“I know the look of one whose heart is hurting, dear. You’re wearing it now.”
Was she so transparent? Cecily released a tense and overwhelmed breath. “The O’Connors have decided they no longer want an Englishwoman in their midst. I am to stay here at all times.”
“You’ve been banished?”
Cecily nodded. “Finbarr will come here when he needs instruction. I would not be surprised if they soon disallow that, as well.”
“Is Finbarr ready to end his lessons?”
Cecily pulled her legs up beside her. “No. But their distaste for my countrymen is, it seems, too great an obstacle. I don’t know how to convince them otherwise.”
“This town made its peace at the céilís,” Granny said.
“They aren’t held in the winter.” Tavish had told her as much. “And I wasn’t welcome at the one I attended.”
“We can be a terribly stubborn people, I’m afraid.” Granny spoke dramatically. “But we are very fond of parties.”
Cecily could almost smile at Granny’s exaggerated tone. “Then I suppose I simply need to hold a party of my own if I am to win them over.”
“Only if there is a great deal of food.”
A party of my own.
The idea felt suddenly less of a jest. “Would it help, though?” she asked.
“Would what help?”
“If I invited the O’Connors over for a little party, a bit of food and socializing. Would that help soften them at all?” The more she talked about it, the more the idea appealed. “They may find that they enjoy my company, or at least that they don’t have reason to hate me.”
Granny didn’t immediately answer.
“Does their fondness for parties not extend that far?” What hope did she have of making peace with the O’Connors if even the promise of a winter-time céilí wouldn’t convince them to endure her presence?
“I believe they would come,” Granny said carefully. “They’re wary and unsure, but they’re not unkind. Not truly.”
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