Having had such an affinity for his childhood teacher, he had a right to be protective of the school she had run and felt compelled to ensure her replacement was someone worthy of the position.
The woman before him now looked at the classroom as though it were her own. Tenderness shone on her face, as if she were admiring a work of art rather than an old, musty schoolhouse.
He closed the door behind him, flinching as it latched with a click.
The woman jumped and whipped around to face him. His stomach dropped as he stood face-to-face with the woman from down near the beach. He wasn’t sure what on earth he had done to earn such a vehement response to his help yesterday, but she sure hadn’t hesitated to inform him of her annoyance. It both irked and delighted him.
Unencumbered by fear, her beauty was even greater than he’d remembered. The woman’s eyes grew wide. Sean pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.
“Ya won’t last a second ’round here with nerves like that, now,” he taunted. Nice one, eejit. Although he fancied himself as known about town for his roaring sense of humor, Sean usually saved sarcasm for his better acquaintances. Yet when his eyes had met hers, her simple beauty shook him so deeply, he’d blurted out the first thing that popped into his head.
The woman glared at him. She didn’t seem to appreciate being startled or the way Sean enjoyed her discomfort at his presence.
“Let’s hope these wee ones have a few more manners than to be sneaking up on people.” She planted her fists firmly on her hips and narrowed her eyes.
“Whoa, now.” He held his palms up as though soothing a wild horse. “Why do ya spew venom on me? Is that yer customary response when someone comes to yer aid?”
“It was you that night on the road, wasn’t it?” Her eyes narrowed again, and he suspected if her hands weren’t in fists they would be trembling. “Is it your customary response to hurl sarcasm and insults to a young lady struggling with her rig? Is that how this village welcomes visitors? God help us all if the rest of the village has manners like yours!”
Sean took a step back, shocked by her vehemence but equally charmed by her stance and the way the bridge of her nose crinkled when she scowled at him.
“Really, Miss? You’re speaking to me of manners? Don’t ya know any better than to be gallopin’ full speed ahead in the dark o’ night—in the middle of a gale, no less? Manners, ya say? Humph! If ya don’t know how to handle a cart and pony, don’t drive one.” He crossed his arms over his chest in his best imitation of obstinance. Part of him wanted to smile at her. But as feisty as she was, she’d probably think he was taunting her. Part of him hoped she did.
Sean let a smile tip his mouth. He was who he was, after all, and she was a snippet of a lass from America who couldn’t drive a wagon to save her life. “And I suppose where ye come from, it’s perfectly polite to run off when asked a question?” He jutted a thumb toward the view of the shoreline out the window.
Her face flushed and she chewed her lip. Her gaze fell to the floor, losing a bit of its determined sparkle.
Remorse rushed through Moira from top to toe. Overwhelmed by the desire to swallow her harsh words, she softened her stance and stepped forward with her hand extended—a gesture of peace. No matter how he had treated her, she had no right to respond in kind. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: When someone seems bent on making your life miserable, heap coals of kindness on their head.
“Maybe we could . . . start over?” She cleared her throat. “I’m Moira—Moira Doherty. I’m sorry if I was rude just then. It seems I’m still recovering from the long voyage over and balancing my anxious thoughts about starting my new role here.”
The man extended his hand and shook hers gently, lingering in the hold just a second too long.
“I’m Sean McFadden,” he said. “So, either you’re the new schoolteacher or you’re the oldest student in Donegal.” He chuckled while rubbing the back of his neck absently. Moira wondered if the action served to soothe his nerves.
“Your observational skills are very keen. I am indeed the new teacher. While I’m thankful they’ve given me the week to settle in, I admit I’m anxious to get started. I have so much planned for the wee dotes,” Moira said.
“Ah, yes the ‘wee dotes.’” He imitated her American twang and gave an exaggerated nod. “They’re wee dotes, alright. You just tell ’em that if they give ya any trouble, Muinteoir Sean’ll be after ’em. I’d be derelict in my duties if I let them run off the new girl in town.”
Sean’s eyes locked with hers and he winked. Heat seeped across her cheeks. Why was she so shaken by this man? Until a moment ago, he’d done nothing but give her a hard time. He’d practically insulted her. And now she was blushing?
“Well, it was lovely meeting you, eh, John, was it?” Like a precocious schoolgirl, she pretended not to remember his name. “And thanks for the help yesterday, but I’d best be off.”
Sean blanched and blinked hard. “Well, yes, it was my pleasure.” He removed his hat and swept it in an arc as he bowed low, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “And the name’s Sean.”
Satisfied that her playful blow had hit its mark, Moira headed for the door, her footsteps echoing in her ears. The blast of the fresh breeze stung as it hit her flushed cheeks. The door latched and relief washed over her once she could no longer feel the man’s gaze boring into her back. Life here was certainly going to be more interesting than she had expected.
You’d better steer clear of Mr. Sean McFadden, Moira Girl. The last thing you need is some lad distracting you every time you turn around.
Heading down the main road, she stopped to admire the sea view once again.
You’re a long way from Boston.
She loved the city life, to be sure. With a skyline like no other, the buildings of her hometown mingled together to make an impressive work of art. However, the streets around the city were muddled and so terribly crowded with people, carts, and traffic.
The seaside here was secluded, quiet, grand. The view stretched for endless miles, making Moira feel very small. The magnitude of it all stirred her soul to life. And humbled her.
She turned right onto the main road and continued north, taking in what appeared to be the center of Ballymann. She passed the pub she had seen on her way into town. That night in the storm and wind, it had appeared inviting and alive. In the quiet light of morning, however, the run-down building looked every bit as aged and hunched as the figures in the window had.
Just beyond the pub stood the market—a small, square building with whitewashed walls and double doors at the main entrance. Fruit and vegetable stands were being rolled out into the sunshine. The aroma of fresh delicacies from the bakery wafted on the gentle morning breeze.
A few people were beginning to mill about the town now. Moira was keenly aware all eyes were on her. Even the buildings seemed to have eyes and ears straining to see the newcomer and hear if any gossip had yet begun to circulate as to her identity.
You’re being paranoid, Moira Girl. I’m sure they all have better things to worry about than your life history. She plastered a shaky smile on her face and continued on her self-guided tour.
The road carried her past the market, up the line of the coast, and around two S-shaped curves. The rolling hills, the churning sea, and the endless fields dotted with white sheep presented a feast for her eyes. Moira struggled to pay heed to the path upon which she was walking rather than gazing at the immense, ever-changing view.
A sharp rise loomed before her. She took a deep breath. Body still sore and joints aching from weeks of travel, trudging up the hill proved quite difficult.
She finally reached the crest and was rewarded with yet another spectacular view.
To the west, the land gradually sloped and ambled down to the tumultuous waves of the Atlantic, framed in wispy, rustling sea grasses. Ahead of her lay the rolling hills atop which sat her viewpoint from the night she’d arrived in town.
&
nbsp; Scanning the scene, Moira pictured all the details from her mother’s stories aligning with the shapes on the maps she had studied in preparation for her journey, and she immediately recognized the unique landscapes greeting her. The red beaches of the Bloody Foreland loomed in the distance. Toward the east rose the pinnacle of Mount Errigal peeking over the top of the quaint valley where sporadic houses, hemmed in by farmland and sheep pastures, nestled among rock walls and gorse bushes. The smoke from turf fires hung close to the hills and blanketed the valley in a sweet, earthy-smelling fog.
It was clear she’d reached the end of the town center. Continuing on would take her farther into the remote edges of the community.
“Where’s the village hall?” she asked the wind. Moira’s favorite stories were the ones her mother would tell about the old village hall; how everyone in town would gather on cold nights and heat up the thatched building with their dancing, laughter, and craic—better known to those in the States as fellowship.
For twenty-three years, Moira had heard her mother’s tales, and dreamed of seeing the place with her own eyes. But for all her wanderings that day, she hadn’t found it. Its absence left a story-shaped hole in her heart. While the road beckoned her ever onward, sensibility won the argument for the time being. “You’d best not get lost today, there’s much work to be done yet. Back to the schoolhouse with you now,” she told herself.
As she started down the hill, grateful for the ease of walking in agreement with gravity rather than against it, her thoughts were both nowhere and everywhere. Ideas, questions, and uncertainties pirouetted in dizzying circles.
What if this is a horrible mistake? What was I thinking, coming all this way, alone? Who am I to think I can take over an entire school’s instruction? What if . . . ?
From somewhere deep within, a quiet voice echoed, For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.
Once again, the words allowed a sense of peace to settle over Moira’s heart. She might not know what the future held, but she knew the One who did, and she knew of His love for her. Lifting her chin and walking confidently back toward the center of town, she offered a prayer of thanksgiving.
At the sound of a twig snapping behind her, she whipped around and searched for the source. The breeze through the trees seemed to whisper her name. But no matter where she looked, no culprit could be seen. The hairs on her neck crept upward, and she had the inescapable feeling she was being watched. Willing a neutral look back on her face, she turned and hastened to the schoolhouse.
Chapter 7
“Whar’s yer head, lad? You’ve been thatchin’ that same strand of straw for nigh half an hour!”
Colm Sweeny’s voice sliced through Sean’s thoughts like a hot knife through butter. Sean flinched at his superior’s tone and chided himself.
Aw, japers! That woman had gotten into his head and was going to be the death of him. Fancy a woman like that drifting into town with the lofty idea she could teach the children. She had not an idea what it was to live here. Her and her American ways. “Eh, sorry, Colm. I was . . . thinkin’ ’bout the best way to carry the thatch ’round the corner of the eaves on the gable end.”
Liar.
There was no point letting Colm in on the truth that a wee gal from a far-off land had piqued his curiosity. Sean knew Colm already fancied him a flirtatious lad, so there was no point in trying to explain that for some reason it felt different this time.
“The gable end, ya say? Mmm.” Colm’s gray head bobbed and he returned to his work, though not before Sean caught a hint of a gleam in the chap’s eye.
Not much slipped past Colm. He was older than Sean by a score and seemed wiser even beyond that. His weathered skin, barely shielded by his flat cap, was thick as leather and as brown as milky tea. He held more respect from the community than was due his station.
Sean set about working on the next section that needed securing. It was a brilliant day for thatching. Although the calendar showed Feabhra, the sun was shining like the middle of July, and the breeze gently led the tattered ends of the bales of straw in a jig as they waited to be thatched. Sean took a deep breath, energized by the chill that filled his lungs, and glanced up at the top of the roof.
He grimaced. Over the straw he could see a lithe figure walking down the hill toward the market, skirts bouncing blithely in the breeze.
Miss Moira Doherty. Sean, feeling every bit the schoolboy, ducked his head, lest he be seen. Why are you hiding, man? Had he offended her with his good-natured ribbing? He hoped it hadn’t ruined his chances at friendship with the girl.
Aye, friendship . . . or more.
“Tsk! Don’t be such an amadán,” he muttered under his breath as he returned to his thatching, trying not to wonder where she was going.
Moira would not let her run-in with a silly lad like Sean McFadden further deter her from completing her tasks for the day. There was plenty of work to be done to ready the schoolroom for classes on Monday, and it was already midmorning. If she had any hope of starting instruction ahead of the curve, she had no choice but to venture back, whether Sean McFadden was there or not. She set a determined pace to the schoolhouse, but as she neared, her confidence began to wane.
She scanned the area before entering the schoolhouse. The strange noises meeting her ears had to be merely the wind in the bare branches of the birch trees. The heavy door groaned in protest as Moira tentatively opened it, listening for anyone inside. A quick glance around the room answered her question.
Ah, alone indeed. Thank God.
She cautiously closed the door, and then laughed at herself for being so childish. Taking a deep breath, Moira once again surveyed her surroundings. At the front of the room near her desk stood a fireplace—the room’s only source of heat. Next to it sat a basket of turf and a small shovel for removing the ashes.
Having grown up in the city, she had never laid eyes on a brick of peat before but had heard her mother describe them. Walking about town that morning, she had smelled peat’s uniquely sweet and earthy aroma and couldn’t help but bend down now to take a closer look.
Roughly cut briquettes lay neatly stacked in the basket. She lifted one out for further inspection, running her hand over the packed dirt. Handfuls of dry grass, twigs, and moss jutted in all directions, poking her soft skin.
Although the morning held plenty of chill, she’d not waste the fuel today. Better to save it for school days. Returning the peat to its place, she brushed the dirt from her hands and stood to face the pupils’ desks.
The imagined faces of her students, round and ready to learn, floated across her mind. Running her fingers over the top of each desk, she slowly walked up and down the rows while whispering a prayer over each child.
Bless him with health. Let her find joy in this room. While the students’ names were still unknown to her, she dearly loved each one. Her mother would have said that to be the sign of a true teacher. Was she?
Her attention turned to her own desk, and she crossed the room to take her seat. Her posture more that of a queen than a teacher unsure of herself, she sat tall, as if the mantle of responsibility had been freshly placed on her shoulders. The desk before her wasn’t the shined oak or mahogany of a barrister or wealthy landlord but the rough-hewn desk of generations of teachers before her. She’d prayed over her students. Now she whispered a desperate plea of her own.
The rest of the morning passed quickly as she arranged books, removed outdated projects and materials from walls and shelves, and organized what few teaching materials were provided in the room. Tomorrow she would return with her own effects to finish getting ready for the first day of school. Sunday would be spent resting, reflecting on Scripture, and praying, as she had done every week in Boston with Mother. This time she would be alone. As if on cue, the church bells tolled in the distance.
The morning had flown. Bríd would be waiting, as would lunch. Moira was g
rateful the guesthouse was not far, and she prayed the Martins had not waited to partake of their own lunch until her arrival. Moira grabbed her skirts and flew home.
Her gait slowed to a measured walk as she approached the house, fighting the urge to burst through the door with deepest apologies for her tardiness. On the doorstep she noticed a small bunch of white flowers.
“How lovely!” She stooped to pick them up, raising them to inhale the sweet scent before entering the house. Her hostess rounded the corner as if she had been perched there the entire time Moira had been gone.
“Well, hello, peata. Ye’re just in time for a bit of lunch. I’m only after finishing the bacon.”
Moira loved the way the last word rolled off of the old woman’s tongue. Bee-con. The strong Donegal accent was quite different from the ones she had heard from immigrants in Boston, watered down and thinned out over time and life in a melting pot of cultures and languages.
“Good afternoon, Bríd. Are you sure—”
Before Moira could finish, Bríd’s eyes widened. She snatched the flowers from Moira’s hand, spit on them, and threw them out the door. “Where on earth did ya get those? Ya didn’t pick them yerself, did ya? Don’t ya know if ya pick white flowers from a thornbush and bring them home, ye’ll die?” Desperation swam in Bríd’s expression.
“I—” Confusion swirled in Moira’s mind. “I found them on the doorstep. They’re such lovely flowers, I thought I’d bring them inside.”
A Dance in Donegal Page 4