Love Remains

by Sarah M. Eden

  She needed but the briefest of moments to identify it. “A cane.”

  “Not just any cane,” he said. “I whittled it for you, but not like the rough job I did on your other one. This here’s a bit of art, if I say it myself.”

  Her fingers ran slowly over the surface, studying it. “So many patterns and details. This must have taken a great deal of work.”

  He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I had a lot of time on m’ hands while I was traveling the territory, delivering my jams and jellies and such.”

  “You must think rather highly of me to spend your free time on this.”

  “‘Think highly’?” He snorted a bit at that very staid turn of phrase. “Is that all you think this is?”

  She set the tips of her right hand fingers softly against his cheek. “No. That is not all I think this is. I would not, however, object to hearing you say as much.”

  He slipped his hand around hers, kissing her lowermost knuckles before setting their entwined hands against his heart.

  “I spent a good many years hiding behind a light word and an easy jest, protecting a heart that seemed as though it’d never stop breaking. You found me there, Cecee. You found me, and you guided me back into the light. ‘This’ is far more than mere fondness, more than friendship, more than affection.” He clutched her hand ever more fervently. “I love you, Cecily Attwater. I love you with every bit of my soul, with the bits that are broken and the bits that have mended.”

  “Are they mended?” Her voice emerged hardly louder than a whisper. “You were so deeply shattered when we met. I feared nothing would make you whole again.”

  He raised her hand to his lips once more. “You helped me find the strength to finally heal, and you’ve taught me how to love again. I only hope that, in time, you can be convinced to stay, to keep walking this path with me.”

  “I do have a reliable cane now,” she said. “That strengthens the argument considerably.”

  How long he had wanted someone to smile with, to laugh with. “My reason for whittling it.”

  “Then I suppose I would be wise to remain, wouldn’t I?”

  He sat in perfect stillness, studying her expression, her posture. Had she just agreed to stay in town after the summer was out? He had to know for sure, yet he was almost afraid to ask.

  “You are either grinning unrepentantly or giving me a look of terrified confusion,” she said.

  “Terrified confusion.”

  She set her cane against the side of the swing then laid her now-free hand against his chest. Though she could not see him, she turned her face up to his. “I told you once that I longed to return home.”

  “I remember.”

  “I have come to realize these past few months that I misunderstood that longing. I wanted not to go back home, but to find home. And I have, Tavish. Here. With you.”

  He took a tight breath. “You have?”

  “I don’t need until the end of the summer to decide. This is home. You are my home, and I want to stay.”

  He let out the breath he’d been holding.

  She laughed. “Unrepentant grin now, I’m guessing.”

  “Entirely unrepentant.”

  “Rumor has it your smile is irresistible.”

  He pulled her to him once more. “I think we had best test that theory.”

  Once more he kissed her, relief and joy and celebration filling the moment, for she was not the only one of them who had, at last, found home.

  Chapter Forty

  Tavish took another bite of bread pudding. “We should’ve started inviting the English to our céilís ages ago.”

  Ma nodded. “Who knew they could cook?”

  He shot her a grin. “’Tis a very good thing she puts up with our teasing, else I’d have no one to dance with tonight.”

  “Speaking of which . . .” Ma motioned toward the musicians. “Cecily looks anxious to be up and twirling again.”

  Tavish gave his mother a swift kiss on the cheek. “Thank you again for being kind to her this summer, for working at learning to love her.”

  She patted his cheek. “I’ve not seen you this happy in . . . I’d wager to say ever. For that, she’ll have a place in my heart ’til the day I die. Now”—she nudged him away—“go make up sweet to her. She’s missed you.”

  He’d not told anyone of his visit to Cecily’s home earlier that day, preferring to keep that tender moment and the decision she’d made. That moment was theirs and theirs alone. The town would know soon enough.

  He set aside his empty plate and crossed to where his Cecee sat. He took the seat beside hers, and, with an ease that spoke of familiarity, dropped his arm around her. “Would you care to dance, my love?”

  “I’ve another task for you first, if you’ve no objections.” She had, over the summer, begun using phrases that leaned more toward the Irish. Did she realize it? Or was it simply a sign of her becoming more comfortable among them?

  “I’d do anything at all for you.”

  She leaned in to him. The position was one they struck every time she sat in the circle of his arms.

  “What’s the task, dear?”

  “This. I wanted you to hold me.”

  He chuckled. “It’ll be a sore trial to me, but I’ll do m’ best to endure.”

  “The two of you ought to finally get married and take all of this nauseating nonsense behind closed doors.” Finbarr, who sat on Cecily’s other side, grumbled, though there was nothing but good-natured jesting behind his words.

  “If your brother keeps talking that way, Tavish, I’ll begin thinking you’re fond of me.”

  “I’m far more than merely fond of you, you troublesome woman.” In fact, he had every intention of marrying her.

  Emma approached, her quiet steps no doubt going unheard by either of Tavish’s companions over the loud music and voices. “Miss Attwater?”

  Cecily didn’t seem startled. “Good evening, Emma.”

  “Katie asked me to ask you if you would give Mrs. Smith your recipe for bread pudding. Papa has come early every week to make certain he gets a piece, and Katie is afraid he’ll simply die of disappointment once the summer is over and there are no more céilís.”

  Cecily nodded solemnly. “We cannot allow your father to waste away. I will make certain your housekeeper receives it.”

  “You could write it out in Braille if you’d like,” Emma said hesitantly. “I’m getting much better at reading it. I’ve been studying the key you gave me, and I’ve been practicing.”

  “That key didn’t include numbers,” Cecily said. “They’re tricky. They’re also very important in a recipe.”

  Emma’s expression fell. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said quietly.

  “I know the numbers,” Finbarr jumped in. “I could teach them to you, if you’d like.”

  Emma eyed him with uncertainty. Their once close friendship had not been repaired yet—life had taught Emma to be wary, and grief still pricked sharply at Finbarr.

  “I can learn them on my own,” Emma said.

  “I know you can, but I would like to help.” Finbarr, bless his heart, sounded nervous.

  Emma pressed her lips together a moment, her earnest gaze never leaving Finbarr. At last, she spoke again. “I will think about it.”

  Finbarr accepted her answer with a silent nod.

  Emma kept to the spot, not moving. Her brow pulled deep in thought. What was she debating now? For clearly something was spinning about in her mind.

  “You—” She stopped short, then tried again. “You could sit with us during the storytelling, if you’d like.”

  Finbarr barely held back a look of eagerness. He kept his tone neutral. “I would like that, Miss Emma.”

  She gave a quick nod. “I’ll find you when the time comes. Or Papa will. Probably Papa.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Finbarr had made great progress. He’d begun attending the céilís again, which amounted to something of a mira
cle. He still didn’t dance but generally picked a chair and stayed there for the duration. Tavish hoped that would change. In time, perhaps he’d take up his penny whistle and rejoin the musicians. He prayed the lad would find a way to regain Emma’s trust. Losing her treasured sisterly affection had dealt him a terrible blow.

  A tune began that Tavish recognized, one disparaging of the English. “Not that one, Seamus,” he called out.

  Seamus’s rumbling laughter responded. “Only checking to see if you’re paying us any heed.”

  “I am, and don’t you doubt it. Play us an air so I can dance with this colleen.”

  They obeyed. Thomas Dempsey trilled the opening notes of “Miss McCleod’s Reel.”

  He leaned in and whispered to Cecily. “Dance with me, dear?”

  She didn’t hesitate. He led her in their usual way to the area set aside for dancing. Tavish took her in his arms and slowly spun her around the open area. She fit so perfectly in his arms and in his life. With her, he could smile through his difficulties without the expression being a mask. He was supported in his griefs, strengthened in his trials, joined in his joy. And she was staying. When so many others had left him behind, she was staying.

  He pressed a quick kiss to her lips, earning him a whispered, “Behave.”

  “Not a chance of it,” he replied. “I’ve too much to celebrate tonight.”

  “You’re not hoping I’ve changed my mind, then?” She didn’t sound worried at all that he had.

  “On the contrary, Cecee.”

  When the time came for the storytelling, Joseph fetched Finbarr and guided him to where the Archer family sat. Joseph—not Emma. The tear in the fabric of their friendship didn’t seem likely to mend soon or easily.

  Cecily sat beside Tavish. He slipped his hand in hers as Seamus stood before the gathering.

  “We’ve a treat for you tonight,” Seamus announced. “’Tisn’t myself who’ll be opening up our tales for the night, but a new storyteller who, I’m told, has quite a tale to share. What say you? Shall we hear a new story?”

  The crowd answered with hollered agreement, even a few cheers.

  “I’ll warn you, though,” Seamus added, “her accent is terribly thick and difficult to understand. She hails from an odd, strange, foreign place and uses words with far too many parts.”

  Tavish eyed Cecily sidelong, a suspicion forming in his mind.

  “I think we ought to give her a chance,” Seamus continued. “Let her try her hand.” Over the chuckles of the crowd, Seamus confirmed what Tavish had begun to piece together. “Up you go then, Miss Attwater. Tell us a tale.”

  Cecily was being called on to spin a yarn.

  “You don’t have to,” Tavish assured her.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “I arranged this.”

  She rose and stepped forward, the cane he’d made held firmly in her grasp. The two of them had sat at the very front, so she hadn’t far to go. Seamus stepped aside and sat with his own family.

  Cecily cleared her throat. Heavens, but she was anxious. He hadn’t the slightest idea why she’d chosen to do this. If only he could reach out and hold her hand, reassure her and support her.

  “My tale will likely not be so diverting as those Seamus improves upon every week.”

  Laughter followed. Seamus was known for tales that grew bigger with each telling.

  “I think it is a good story, though,” Cecily continued. “However, I don’t know how it ends. I am hopeful all of you can help me sort out that part.”

  She certainly had their attention.

  “Many years ago, a little girl lived near a stream in a part of the world so green it was as beautiful as Ireland.”

  “We’ll take leave to disagree with you there, lass,” Seamus called out good-naturedly, earning a great deal of laughter.

  Cecily smiled in acknowledgement. “Very nearly,” she amended. “And this little girl had a great many dreams for her life. But they slipped away, one by one, even as the world around her did as well.

  “The darkness tiptoed closer, stealing away the things most dear to her. She traveled the land, searching. She knew that somewhere in the vastness of the quickly dimming world, a spark of light was waiting, and in that spark were the wishes she’d never stopped hoping would still come true.

  “After years and years, in a tiny town, far away from her childhood home, she found what she’d been searching for. She found . . . him.”

  Tavish didn’t think he’d breathed for long, drawn-out minutes.

  “She found someone who learned to love her despite her struggles, who saw the person she kept hidden out of fear and worry. He saw the dreams she hadn’t dared let free again.” Cecily clutched her hands together, a tension in her posture that spoke of hope and uncertainty all at once. “But she feared she couldn’t stay.”

  Though his heart halted for a moment, it resumed its natural rhythm in the next. Despite the ending she’d chosen for that sentence, she’d already told him she meant to stay, and he trusted her.

  “She wanted—she wants to stay.” A quick breath. A tightening of her already white knuckles. “This man, this incredible, dear, beloved man wants her to stay, wishes for her to, but she needs to know if the tiny town will let her. She must be certain that her presence among them will not cause pain to the person she loves most in the world.” The entire gathering must have heard her thick, nervous swallow. “That’s the ending I haven’t sorted through yet. Is there room for her—for me—among you?”

  Not a soul said a word. Tavish couldn’t say if they appeared more shocked or hopeful or touched, because he wasn’t looking at anyone but her.

  He rose from his seat and took the few steps to where she stood. He wrapped one arm around her and faced the crowd.

  “How’s the tale to end?” He met his ma’s eye, then Da’s. Ian’s. Biddy’s. Each family member’s in turn. “Have you room enough?”

  Ma stood and moved toward them. She, who only a year earlier had recoiled at the idea of a golden-haired Englishwoman, pulled Cecily into a motherly embrace. “There is room and plenty.”

  An instant later, Da had joined the embrace, followed by the remainder of Tavish’s family. Even Finbarr found his way to them, having grown adept at navigating with his cane. They stood in a bundle of family.

  All around them, the town cheered. Seamus loudly declared that Cecily wasn’t a bad sort, for an Englishwoman. Anne Scott offered a welcome in Irish, something Tavish would need to teach Cecily to recognize. Katie pushed her way through the gathering to join the O’Connors’ embrace.

  “You’re one of us now,” Tavish told Cecily. “You’ll never be rid of us.”

  “Perfect,” she said.

  Some hours later, as the céilí wound to a close, he stood beside the dwindling fire, Cecily still in his arms. Life had been difficult, heart breaking, at times even miserable. But that moment, all was right in the world.

  “A mhuirnín,” he sighed, content.

  She slid her hands up his chest. “I do like when you call me that.”

  He leaned in and whispered against her lips. “A mhuirnín.’”

  He kissed her with every ounce of feeling he had for her, no longer afraid to love fully and vulnerably. He had found in her a safe haven and a place of hope and healing.

  He kissed her again with all the tenderness and adoration he felt, with every ounce of happiness she’d brought him, and with the hope he now had for the future.

  “I love you,” he whispered in her ear.

  “I love you, my dearest, most wonderful, Tavish. I’ll love you forever.”

  He held her close as the stars peeked through the thin layer of clouds and the breeze whipped through the trees. The voices of family and friends filled the night. His family was whole. The woman he loved was in his arms, in his life.

  “Forever,” he repeated. “Forever and ever.”

  Acknowledgments

  With sincerest gratitude to:

  Annette L
yon, whose careful and expert hand was invaluable in making this story far better than I could ever have made it on my own.

  Heather Moore, who saw value in this story when others did not and helped make it a possibility. Thank you for your confidence, encouragement, and expertise.

  Pam Victorio, who picks me up and dusts me off when the path I'm walking trips me up and knocks me down.

  Karen Adair, who nudges me forward when I want nothing more than to throw in the towel.

  My family, who endures cold dinners and a dirty house when I’m under deadline, and sudden bouts of deep cleaning and experimental recipes when I'm supposed to be writing.

  About the Author

  Sarah M. Eden is the USA Today bestselling author of multiple historical romances, including Foreword Review’s 2013 “IndieFab Book of the Year” gold medal winner for Best Romance, Longing for Home, and two-time Whitney Award Winner Longing for Home: Hope Springs. Combining her obsession with history and affinity for tender love stories, Sarah loves crafting witty characters and heartfelt romances. She has thrice served as the Master of Ceremonies for the Storymakers Writers Conference and acted as the Writer in Residence at the Northwest Writers Retreat. Sarah is represented by Pam Victorio at D4EO Literary Agency.

  Visit Sarah at www.sarahmeden.com