Love Remains

by Sarah M. Eden

  Did anyone around him see those things? Did they notice anything but the jesting and lighthearted side he showed the world? Did they understand the depth of his strength? She doubted it.

  “How are your eyes?” he asked, still holding her.

  “Excruciating,” she said. “I’ve not yet taken my powders today.”

  “Darling, you must look after yourself. You needn’t suffer.”

  She leaned in to him ever more. “The powders make me sleepy. And Granny needs me awake.”

  “Ma will look after Granny and me.”

  “And I’ll look after myself.” Cecily had been doing precisely that for half her life; she could continue doing the same.

  “No, a mhuirnín. We will look after you.”

  “You don’t call me a chara any longer, but I don’t know what this new word means.”

  “You tell me what smell it is that gives me away, seeing as I’ve my doubts it’s berries and berries alone you’re smelling, and I will tell you what a mhuirnín means.”

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “And why not?” He still hadn’t released her. Perhaps he knew she needed his reassurance. Perhaps she was offering him a bit of it herself.

  “Because I don’t know how to describe it. You simply smell like you.”

  “And is it an unpleasant scent?” He sounded genuinely worried.

  She couldn’t help but laugh, and heavens, it felt good. “Yes, Tavish, you stink. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along, that you are in sore need of a bath.”

  “And that’s why you're hugging me all the time, is it? To get a bit closer to my stench.”

  “Mmm. Delicious.”

  “You’re a gem, you know.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a rabbit’s tail.” He stepped away, across the room.

  “You never translated that term for me,” she called after him.

  “Ask Granny. She knows.”

  “That wasn’t what we agreed on,” she reminded him.

  His footsteps stopped at the doorway. “I’m a terrible person, Cecee. I mean to make you wait.”

  She shook her head at his teasing tone. What a joy it was to have a reprieve from the very real pain of life. “Fetch your mother,” she said. “But be prepared to make good on your promise.”

  “I’ll be quaking with worry all the way there and back.”

  The door scraped as it opened. A gush of bitterly cold air rushed inside, before a snap of the door signaled Tavish’s departure. He would be back; she didn’t doubt that. But her heart missed him already. That, she knew, was a dangerous thing.

  She tried to keep thoughts of him out of her mind as she strained a bowl of hot broth. Carefully, she brought it to Granny’s room and set it on the bureau, not trusting herself to find the bedside table without some instructions.

  “Are you awake?” Cecily whispered.

  “I am,” came the feeble response. Granny did not sound well at all.

  Cecily felt her way to the chair Tavish had occupied. “How are you?”

  “Ill. More than that—I am dying.”

  “Granny, you—”

  “Don’t you be saying I’m not,” Granny warned. “I know I am.”

  Cecily felt it and was nearly certain Tavish did, as well. “Please, don’t speak so bluntly of this to Tavish when he returns. He’s not holding up well of late.”

  “You’ve seen a side of him few—few ever get more than a glimpse of.” Granny ran short of breath. Her sentences emerged in bits. “He feels deeply. Be it love. Or heartache”—a shaking breath—“or joy or pain. He feels it to his very bones.”

  “I know. I think that’s why he turns so often to humor and laughter in the face of tragedy. He must relieve the ache somehow, or it will drown him.”

  After a rattling breath, Granny made a firm declaration. “You love him, don’t you?”

  Cecily had never given voice to the feelings that had been growing over the weeks. She’d hardly allowed herself to examine them. But there was no denying truth, not to this woman who saw so clearly what Cecily thought she’d kept hidden. “I do love him. How could I not?”

  “I think he may love you as well, dear,” Granny said. “’Tis difficult to—to be certain. He guards himself closely.”

  “And his family’s wishes weigh heavily on him,” Cecily acknowledged. “He knows they would never accept anything but friendship between us. They’ve become more civil—even a little friendly—but I’m still an Englishwoman and that is—” How could she explain?

  “Like a cat falling in love with a dog.” Granny stopped for a tight breath. “Even if they got along”—another breath—“the cat’s family could never be at ease.”

  A rather cruel comparison, but also the truth.

  “I cannot do that to him or to his family. And he’d never really be happy if he made them unhappy.”

  Granny began coughing once more. Cecily helped her sit up a bit, though the effort only barely eased the horrible rattling. After a time, the attack died down, and Granny could lie back again.

  “I wish I could say you’re wrong,” Granny said. “But you would be a wedge in the O’Connor family—not one put there purposely—but real all the same. Centuries of animosity cannot be erased in a moment.”

  “It will be for the best when I leave in the spring.” She was telling herself as much as Granny.

  “Another student?”

  “No. I’ll be returning to the school in Missouri. I haven’t enough sight left to continue traveling.”

  “You don’t sound happy—at the prospect.”

  She wasn’t. “It is not what I would have chosen for myself,” Cecily admitted. She pressed her palms against her burning eyes to relieve some of the pain. The pressure didn’t help much this time. “But it will be fine. I will make the best of my circumstances.”

  “What would you have chosen for yourself?” Granny’s question emerged weaker than her previous words. She was growing more tired, and that worried Cecily a great deal. What if Tavish didn’t return quickly? What if his mother didn’t know how to ease Granny’s misery?

  “I would have chosen to keep my sight long enough to see the things I’ve wished to see.” Everyone had impossible dreams, didn’t they? “Barring that, I would choose to belong somewhere, and for my life to have mattered.”

  “And you want to have a choice.” Granny seemed determined to continue their discussion despite her obvious exhaustion. “You don’t like having your hand forced.”

  “I have always been stubbornly independent.”

  Another coughing fit stole Granny’s breath. Cecily comforted her the best she knew how, but she could do so little.

  “My husband thought independent women were the best sort.” Each breath sounded more labored than the last. “He said ’twas his favorite thing about me, though I’ve my doubts. My hardheadedness certainly made his life more difficult.”

  “But he loved you,” Cecily said. “No matter the difficulties, life with someone you love is better than a life without them, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Granny kept her eyes closed for a drawn-out moment. “I’ve been without him six years now.”

  Cecily could think of no helpful or comforting words. Everything felt trite, insignificant.

  “But we won’t be apart, he and I. Not much longer.”

  Oh, how she hoped Granny didn’t speak this way when Tavish returned. Cecily wasn’t at all certain he was equal to hearing it.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Word of Granny Claire’s illness spread quickly through Hope Springs. The next two days were filled with townspeople checking on her. Though no one said as much to him directly, Tavish knew they came to say their goodbyes.

  He greeted them, asked after their families, and generally managed lighthearted quips and smiles. Seeing their burdens lifted even the smallest bit by his words helped him forget about his own burden, if briefly. But the pain never went awa
y completely. It gnawed at him, tearing at his heart. He was losing Granny, and he could do nothing to stop it.

  As the second afternoon marched on, the number of visitors trailed off. Most everyone had paid their respects, and Granny no longer had the strength for visits. Tavish didn’t either. Keeping his spirits up was exhausting. He could feel every gap in his armor, and he had no desire to fall to pieces.

  As Da slipped from the house near about dinner time, giving Tavish a quick, silent nod on his way out, Ma remained in Granny’s room. In the parlor, Tavish forced himself to breathe. He rested his arm against the fireplace mantel and set his gaze on the flickering flames.

  He heard Cecily approach. Ever since she’d told him that people’s footsteps were different from one another, he’d been listening to hers. He could generally pick them out: slow but confident, small strides without being timid.

  “How are you, Tavish?”

  “Warm, thanks to this fire. Must’ve been built by someone very skilled.” He’d started the fire himself, of course.

  “I don’t know about that,” Cecily drawled. “I’ve seen better.”

  “Have you now?” He looked over at her. “An expert on fires, are you?”

  She shrugged lightly. “It’s a hobby.”

  “You English have odd ways of passing the time.”

  Far from scolding him for jesting during a difficult moment, she seemed to appreciate the diversion. She stepped closer and took his hand. He clung to it, needing to feel that connection.

  “Now,” she said, “how are you really?”

  He couldn’t answer. Instead, he pushed out a breath, one heavy with regret and worry and pain. She set her other hand around their entwined ones, cupping his between both of hers.

  “I’m not ready to let her go,” Tavish admitted.

  “I don’t know if anyone is truly ready for that.” She held tightly to him. “At least no one who is left behind.”

  That brought a fresh surge of regret. He’d had to face a difficult truth these past two days. “I suspect she’s held on the past years out of worry for me. She felt responsible for the pain I couldn’t escape. I’m afraid she’s enduring this pain longer than she needs to because—” He took a difficult breath. “Because she doesn’t want to hurt me.”

  “She loves you,” Cecily said. “And she wants what’s best for you. I am entirely certain you feel the same way about her.”

  “She is the dearest woman in all the world. I couldn’t care more for her if she were my real grandmother. In my heart, she is.” He could hardly breathe for the pain in his chest.

  “Tavish.” Cecily’s voice had dropped to little more than a whisper. She stepped closer and set her free hand on his other arm. “You must let her go so she can be at peace, so she can rest her weary bones. She needs to know she’s free to go.”

  He tilted his head upward, his gaze on the rough-hewn planks that made up the roof of Granny’s house. He didn’t think he was strong enough, but there was no denying the truth of Cecily’s words.

  “At the graveyard, you said you wouldn’t leave me,” he reminded her. “Does that promise still stand?”

  “Of course it does.”

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. Once. Twice. The third time, he found some relief in the tenderness of her touch. She’d let him laugh when he’d needed to. She’d given direction when he’d felt lost. How could he have helped but be drawn to her?

  “What would I do without you, Cecily Attwater?”

  “If I had a penny for every time someone had said that to me, I’d be a wealthy woman.” She had an innate sense for knowing when he needed a bit of levity.

  Tavish breathed now—truly breathed—a near miracle, considering how difficult he’d found that basic act the last two days. “You make me feel rather ashamed for having called you ‘Your Majesty.’”

  “For all I know, the new term you’ve fashioned is every bit as bad. You still haven’t told me what it means, you know.”

  Keeping her hand in his, he led her to the bench alongside the fireplace. “Haven’t I?”

  “You know you haven’t,” she answered.

  He took a seat and gently nudged her to do the same. “It means ‘my darling.’”

  “Ah.” Her look of understanding was too exaggerated to be anything but teasing. “It is sarcastic, then.”

  He laughed. ’Twas a quiet laugh and a brief one, but a laugh all the same. “You are a great deal of trouble, you know that?”

  “I do.”

  He leaned in close and whispered, “I find I rather like trouble.”

  A clearing throat captured his attention. He turned in the direction of the corridor. Ma stood a single step from its edge. “Son, Granny is asking for you.”

  Tavish’s heart dropped. He took a fortifying breath and stood, keeping Cecily’s hand in his.

  “She didn’t ask for Miss Attwater,” Ma said, though there was no real malice in the declaration.

  “Perhaps not,” Tavish said. “But I need her with me.”

  Ma didn’t argue. She simply nodded and stepped aside.

  The fifteen feet or so separating him from Granny’s door felt like hundreds. With each step, the short walk stretched out before him. She needs to know she’s free to go. But did he have the strength to endure losing her?

  The instant he stepped inside, he knew Granny hadn’t much time left. A grayish hue had taken hold of her pallor. Though her mouth still pulled in a tight line of pain, something of a softening had come to her face, as if she was no longer as aware of her suffering.

  Tavish crossed to the chair at her bedside and lowered himself into it. Cecily walked beside him, her fingers laced through his. “Well, Granny. It’s come to this, has it?”

  “It always comes to ‘this,’ lad. ’Tis the way of life.” Her voice had never been so quiet and fragile.

  He released Cecily’s hand, trusting she’d be true to her word by staying with him. He took Granny’s chilled hand in his. Her skin was paper thin, spotted with years and pulled by joints distorted with age. Yet they still carried a gentle strength that he’d depended on many times. This was his turn to be her strength.

  Granny took a shallow breath. “You’ve been good to me over the years,” she said. “I don’t know that I’ve ever told you how much you mean to me, lad.”

  “We’ve been good to each other.” He couldn’t keep the pain from his voice any longer—wasn’t sure there was any point in trying.

  “I’ve seen a change in you lately,” Granny went on. “You’re happier, and that has lifted a burden from my heart.” Her breaths grew more labored with each passing moment, and an earnestness entered her feeble features. “You were meant to be joyful, Tavish O’Connor. Remember that. Live your life with joy.”

  “I am beginning to.”

  “I know it. And when I see her, I mean to tell Bridget that you are going to be happy again. That you’ve learned to remember her with happiness instead of sorrow.”

  With his free hand, he brushed at one of the tears trailing down his cheek. “I hope you will also tell her that she is missed.”

  “I suspect she knows, lad.”

  Ma sniffled quietly behind him. Cecily yet stood directly at his side, strong and supportive, though her stalwartness spoke of strength rather than indifference. Tavish looked up at her. She pressed her lips so tightly together they’d begun to lose their color. Each swallow travelled the length of her throat slowly, as if fighting its way past a physical barrier of grief. Yet, there she stood, unmoving, unbroken, unyielding. She would not leave him. He wished he could meet her eye and offer a silent thank you.

  “I mean to see your brothers who’ve gone on,” Granny said. “And my children. And my husband. They had all best be there to greet me, or I’ll be very cross.”

  At her lighter tone, he allowed himself a moment’s release. “Heaven itself would quake at the thought of earning your wrath, Granny.”

  “Hol
d my hand, Tavish,” she said weakly. “It won’t be long.”

  Ma stepped up beside him, opposite Cecily. “Your father’s gone for the preacher,” she whispered.

  He nodded silently and waited.

  The moments pulled longer. Granny didn’t speak. Her eyes fluttered, sometimes remaining open, other times drifting closed. Each breath seemed slower than the last.

  Reverend Ford arrived after a time. “Mrs. Claire,” he said, in his gentle way. “I am grateful you’ve sent for me. I am certain you would prefer a priest, but I will do all I can for you.”

  The nearest Catholic church was thousands of miles away. There would be no official rites. Yet the reverend’s presence, Tavish felt certain, would still bring Granny a measure of comfort.

  Da slipped inside, taking his place beside Ma.

  “You’d best . . . begin . . . Reverend.” Granny was nearly spent.

  Tavish kept her hand in his, as she’d asked him to, while Reverend Ford read from the Bible a few verses of comfort and spoke to Granny of the rest promised to the faithful. Ma cried quietly, Da’s arm wrapped around her.

  Granny’s hand shook with the effort to keep a tight hold of Tavish’s. Her eyes struggled to focus on his face.

  She needs to know she is free to go, Tavish thought again.

  He leaned in close to Granny’s ear and whispered, “’Tis time you were on your way, my dear. You’ve a great many people eager to see you again.”

  A small smile tugged at her lips as the tension slipped away. A final breath shuddered through her. A final movement. A final sound. Then all was still. So very still.

  And though his tears fell like rain in the spring, he found a degree of solace looking on her beloved face.

  She was at peace.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Cecily had never known the Irish’s equal for finding happiness and joy amidst sorrow. She felt the strength inherent in that ability as she sat in Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor’s house only a few days after Granny’s funeral.

  The family was celebrating Finbarr’s birthday. The aroma of cakes and pies, as well as potatoes and soups, filled the air. Laughter bounced off the walls. She knew they were still mourning their loss, but they allowed themselves joy as well. They faced their difficulties as they had since Granny’s passing: together. The family had turned to one another in love and support.