“It’s absolutely beautiful.” Moira took a deep breath of fresh air. “It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”
Mr. McGonigle turned, pride plastered across his face as though he himself was responsible for the scene. “’Tis the crowning glory in all of Donegal.” He beamed. “There’s no place in the whole wairld like our Poisoned Glen. There’s not the likes of it to be found anywhere.”
Moira frowned. “I can’t imagine why on earth anyone would call this stunning place ‘poisoned.’”
Boisterous laughter erupted from the McGonigle clan.
“No, no,” Mr. McGonigle explained. “’Tisn’t because the place is poisoned. It comes from the auld Irish.”
“Oh?”
“You see, the Irish name for this place means ‘the heavenly glen.’ But the words for ‘heaven’ and ‘poison’ sound very similar. So when the Brits came”—Mr. McGonigle and Sinead hocked and spit over the side of the wagon—“they muddled the whole t’ing and thought we’d called this place ‘Poison.’” Mr. McGonigle nodded. Apparently deciding he had explained sufficiently, he turned his back.
Sean and Moira exchanged a glance. He leaned nearer and whispered, “Clear as mud?”
Moira covered a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.
Sinead popped up from the back and added, “Doncha be encouragin’ me auld man to tell his historical tales. He fancies himself a seanchaí. Once ye get him goin’, ye’ll never get him to stop.”
The three younger ones laughed freely before the sights beckoned them once more.
Sean scooted just a bit closer to Moira and pointed out each of the mountains that made up the Seven Sisters of the Poisoned Glen. “That’s Errigal”—he gestured to the nearest peak—“and there’s Mackoght, Aghla More, Aghla Beag, Crocknalaragagh, Muckish, and that one over there?” He pointed and took a deep breath. “That one is Ardloughnabrackbaddy.”
Moira blinked hard and shook her head. “Well done, sir. That was quite a mouthful.”
“Tá, cinnte!” Mr. McGonigle chimed. “Indeed!”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to pronounce those names, let alone remember all of them.” What a rich and fascinating language Irish was turning out be.
Though they sounded less like monikers and more like the ramblings of her uncle when he’d had one too many pints down at the tavern back in Boston, the names weren’t what mattered to Moira anyway. It was these people. This place. The beauty of the sweeping valley with its far green slopes and glistening slate mountaintops.
The group rode on in silence, enchanted by the allure of the Irish valley. As they rumbled on to the east, Sinead popped up once again and pointed out a narrow road that split off to the south before disappearing into a grove of trees.
“That there’s the entrance to Glenveagh Castle.” She wagged her finger in the air. “I suppose ye could educate us on that place better than we could you, Moira.”
Confusion clouded Moira’s mind and she pressed her brows together. “Why do you say that? I’ve never even heard of that place.”
In the front seat, Mrs. McGonigle spun around and shot a fiery glance at her daughter. Moira turned to Sinead, who looked both caught and hurt. The mother and daughter stared at one another before Sinead acquiesced.
“Never mind, I must be mistaken.” She huffed and flopped down to her seat in the back.
Moira looked at Sean, wondering if he had any idea as to what had just happened.
He was silent, bewilderment clouding his face. His eyes were fixed on his boots, but his gaze was a million miles away as he chewed his lip.
Moira stared at the grove of trees as they rolled by, wondering what secrets lay beyond. Donegal held more intrigue than she had bargained for. And certainly more than she welcomed.
Chapter 22
The wagon rumbled over the crest of the last knoll on the edge of Letterkenny town. This vantage point rewarded travelers with sweeping views of the hill-kissed terrain of northwest Donegal. To the southwest, the spire from the cathedral jutted high into the air, bidding all who would to come.
Mr. McGonigle urged the horses away from the Port Road that would carry them to Derry and beyond. He steered them, instead, to follow the main road as it wound in a gentle curve toward the city center.
He parked the rig at the entrance to Upper Main Street, and the group disembarked. Each released groans as they raised their weary bodies from the hard wooden seats. A symphony of cracks and pops rang out from Mr. McGonigle’s joints, followed by a look of sheer bliss. Though only a distance of thirty miles from Ballymann to Letterkenny, the journey had taken nearly three hours. The entire party was road weary yet excited for a day in town.
The men discussed their plans for the day’s business, and the women calculated their route among the few fabric and dressmaking shops along the thoroughfare. The party agreed to reconvene at one o’clock for the midday meal.
“Ma must see to some barters for the shop. She’s givin’ spuds in exchange fer other t’ings we can’t get back home,” Sinead said, linking her elbow in Moira’s. “That means you an’ me have some time ta take in the sights.”
After setting a time to meet Mrs. McGonigle at O’Toole’s Textiles, the two girls set off for a stroll along the cobbled main street.
A potpourri of baked goods and fresh meats and the pungent, unmistakable odor of coal spouting from nearly every chimney in the city center mingled in the brisk air. People milled about, wearing everything from the rags of poor farming families to the finest fashions this side of Dublin. The city was teeming with life and energy.
Moira breathed a wistful sigh. “I forgot how energizing a city can be.” She scanned the skyline, enjoying the sharp, geometric silhouettes of buildings against a hazy, smoky sky.
“Isn’t it simply splendid, like?” Sinead agreed. “I love comin’ to Letterkenny. There’s just so much to see and do. And eat!” She pulled Moira toward a confectionery shop window. The two girls oohed and aahed over the decadent treats displayed on dainty trays and tiered towers, agreeing to return following the meal for some tasty afters.
As they continued strolling along the direction of Lower Main Street, enjoying the sights each window offered, Moira gasped and ran to the main display window at O’Toole’s Textiles. Amid the bolts of vibrantly colored fabrics stood the most exquisite gown Moira had ever seen. The velvet bodice, a stunning shade of sea blue, hugged the form of the tailor’s dummy down to a dropped waistline. From there the skirt flowed in a simple A-line that just brushed the floor. A ring of delicate lace in the softest shade of peach adorned the ends of the sleeves. A fine cream-colored cotton apron with peach rosettes completed the ensemble.
Moira grabbed Sinead’s hand and gasped again. “Oh, Sinead, isn’t it lovely?” She clasped her other hand to her own chest, attempting to steady her heartbeat.
Sinead pressed a hand to her forehead. “Great Mary, is it grand!” She turned to face Moira and jerked her arm until their eyes met. “Ya hafta try it on, so. Oh, you’d be such a sight in it.”
Moira shook her head. “I’d love to, but there’s no way I could justify the money for a premade gown such as this.” She gazed at the dress with longing.
“I didna say ya had to buy it, like. I only said ta try it on!” She grabbed Moira’s hand and dragged her into the shop.
The woman behind the counter greeted them. “Good morning to ye, ladies.”
“Hiya. My friend here would like ta try on that lovely blue frock in the window.” Sinead grinned and shoved Moira front and center.
Moira offered a chagrined smile accompanied by a soft laugh.
“Oh, that’s a lovely choice, so it is. I admire it myself. It’s only gone up yesterday. And with your eyes, it should really be stunning on ye.” The shopkeep rambled on as she removed the dress from the dummy and led Moira to the changing stall. She hung the dress on a hook and slid the curtain closed with a deft flick of her wrist.
Moira ran her fingers
along the sleeve, reveling in the luxurious softness of the velvet. She had never owned a gown as lovely as this, and her heart ached at the sight of it. Taking care not to soil or tear the rich fabric, she dressed and tied the apron around her waist. Even without a looking glass, she already felt like royalty.
“C’mon now, are ye gonna show me or make me wait till I’m as old as me ma?”
Moira laughed and slid the curtain aside.
Sinead’s mouth fell open, and her dimpled hands flew to her cheeks. “Great Mary, ya look like the mistress of the castle!”
Moira’s cheeks warmed, and she smoothed the flat of her hands over the apron again and again.
The shopkeep guided Moira to a tall mirror in the center of the store. She blinked at her reflection. Never had she felt so beautiful.
“G’on, now. Give us a twirl.” Sinead pirouetted with a flourish.
With slow, marked steps, Moira spun. Keeping her eyes on the looking glass as long as possible, she admired how the dress hugged her form and flowed effortlessly as she moved. It was as if it had been custom-made for her. Movement in the street caught her eye. A figure was heading toward the shop.
Sean set a brisk pace to the textile shop. He was tasked with keeping the ladies abreast of the plan, and he didn’t want to lose the table he’d booked for lunch in the process. Thankfully, he’d reached O’Toole’s in record time. He could see the silhouettes of Sinead and Moira through the lace-curtained window before he stepped inside.
“Hello, ladies. I wanted to let you know—” The words caught in his throat as Moira spun to face him. All thoughts of business and timetables evaporated.
A captivating vision stood before him in a blue dress. Though it wasn’t the dress that caught his attention. It was her eyes. He didn’t know if it was because of the shade of blue she wore, or joy he hadn’t seen in them before, but her eyes glowed like jade in sunlight. Why had he come here? What was he intending to tell them? All that existed in the world at that moment was Moira, standing there, looking at him, a beguiling smile gracing her porcelain face.
“Moira,” he said at last, taking a step toward her. “You look . . . you look brilliant.”
Moira dipped her head and looked up at him through dark lashes. “Thank you.” Her voice was barely audible, and color kissed her cheeks. The two stood looking at one another, Sean grinning like a fool but unable to will his eyes to turn away.
Sinead’s face popped up in front of his. He blanched.
“Yeah, she’s a sight, isn’t she? So, what’re ya doin’ in a shop for women, like?”
Sean stared at the grocer’s daughter, stunned.
She stared back at him, an eyebrow cocked and foot tapping impatiently.
“Right. I’ve booked us a table at The Central Bar—but if we’re to keep it, we must make haste. It’s a bit earlier than we’d planned, but it’s all they had.” He cleared his throat, tipped his hat, and burst from the shop like a spring lamb, the cool air a welcome shock to his heated face. Grateful to be out of that shop, and out from under Moira’s mesmerizing gaze.
Chapter 23
Located near the top of Upper Main Street not far from where the wagon was hitched, The Central Bar buzzed with patrons. Moira stared at the whitewashed building. The two-story inn and pub loomed strong and menacing with its black-trimmed windows. She wasn’t entirely comfortable setting foot inside a public house—her mother’s warnings about women and pubs echoing loudly in her mind. Yet other women came and went unbothered. And Mrs. McGonigle certainly didn’t seem to mind. She had gone barreling into the place like it was the last ship to America during the Great Famine.
Moira stepped inside, squinting against the hazy darkness. The walls were paneled with dark wood, and a high counter, flanked on all corners with tall posts, stood in the center of the room. Mirrors lined the wall behind the counter, so the countless bottles of amber liquid appeared never-ending. A few figures sat at the bar in seeming world-changing conversations with the pints before them. A crackling fire in the hearth completed the cozy ambiance.
At the far end of the room, Sean motioned for the group to join him. They all took their places at the table. Within minutes, each was served a steaming bowl of soup. Moira inspected the creamy broth, filled with potatoes and leeks, before tearing off a chunk of the crusty brown bread that had been served with it. She dunked the bread into the hot ambrosia and delighted as the liquid soaked it. She lifted the bread to her mouth and closed her eyes to better savor the experience. Salty and creamy, the hearty soup satisfied her down to her toes—exactly what she needed after the long morning of travel and shopping.
The group enjoyed their meal and lively conversation as seconds of soup and bread were offered. Mr. McGonigle regaled them all with the tale of his excellent bartering skills, and Sinead recounted with great fervor the finding of the dress—and with great disappointment, Moira’s refusal to purchase it.
From her seat at the end of the table, Moira was able to engage each of her new friends in conversation with ease, as well as take in the entirety of the room. Sean sat to her right, Sinead to her left, with the elder McGonigles beyond.
Sinead and her mother excused themselves to the loo while Mr. McGonigle—who now insisted Moira call him Paddy—made his way to the bar in search of a pint. Moira, intent on sopping up the last of her soup with the delicious bread, stopped mid-dip. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and her stomach sank with the sense that someone was watching her. She looked up from her dish and scanned the room. In the far corner, a lone figure sat in the shadows. Moira squinted to see through the darkness. The silhouette leaned forward, bringing his face into the light. Hard eyes glared at her, while aged lips nursed dark port from a glass.
Buach. Without thinking, Moira placed her hand on Sean’s forearm.
Sean looked at her hand on his arm, and then to her face. He must’ve seen in her eyes the fear that was coursing through her, pushing her lunch to the back of her throat. “What it is, Moira? Are ya alright?”
Moira swallowed the bile in her throat and shook her head. “That man in the corner there.”
Sean’s gaze followed hers and landed on Buach, who was shuffling to his feet and heading in their direction.
“I see looks aren’t the only t’ing ye have in common with yer mother.” Buach’s voice was thick with intrigue and drink. His steely eyes dropped to her hand on Sean’s arm, and a crooked smile formed on the old man’s lips.
Moira dropped her hand to her lap, bemoaning the brazen appearance of her innocent gesture. “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean by that remark.”
Buach sucked on his wayward tooth. The tsk, tsk, tsk of it churned Moira’s stomach.
Sean pressed his palms to the table and rose to his full height. “Ye’ve had too much to drink, auld man.” His voice was calm, but anger flickered behind his eyes. “G’on now and find a place to sleep it off afore ya say something you’ll regret.”
Buach and Sean stared at one another. Neither man moved. Seconds seemed hours. Moira heard nothing but her heart pounding in her ears. By the rise and fall of Sean’s shoulders, he was straining to control his anger. She looked from his shoulders to his face. His jaw worked back and forth, then he leaned forward until he was inches from Buach’s face.
“I said get.” He gave a slight motion to the door with his head. “And ye’ll leave Miss Doherty alone. Or ye’ll have me ta answer to.”
Buach turned his full gaze to Moira, annoyance and fear spiraling in his eyes. “Yer mother’s tale will come ta light sooner or later, peata. Then the whole of Ballymann’ll know the truth about ye. I’ll tell ye the same thing I did that day by the beach: keep yer eyes wide open.” With a final tsk at his tooth, and a slight flinch when Sean crossed his arms over his chest, Buach turned and shuffled out the door.
Sean lowered himself to his seat and turned his attention to Moira. His eyes probed hers, his hand working the back of his neck just as she’d seen him do in her
chalet. “Moira, I dunno what is going on here. And I want to ask ya, but I don’t want you to think my asking means I doubt ya.”
Moira nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Do ye have any idea ’tall what everyone is talkin’ about? Too many people have brought up this idea of a saicrit for it to be a complete bunch a malarkey. I just wonder if there might be a wee bit o’ truth to it? Even a half truth?”
Tears pooled in Moira’s eyes, and she willed them not to fall. “As true as the day is long, I have no idea what is going on.” She rested her chin on her hand and allowed her mind to retrace the weeks since she’d come to Ballymann. “Buach mentioned my mother when he found me on the beach the first Sunday I was here.”
“I remember that day well,” Sean said.
“Then Áedach threatened to reveal my ‘secret.’ And I didn’t like the look exchanged between Sinead and her mother when we passed by Glenveagh.”
“I noticed that too.”
“I came to Ballymann because Mother wanted me to be the teacher after Mrs. McGinley passed away. She had told me of her wonderful céilí dances in the village hall and the beauty of this land, but outside of that, she never talked about life in Ballymann. I don’t even know what she did for work before coming to America.”
The two sat in silence, chewing over the information. Finally, Sean cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. When he spoke, his voice was soft and kind, and Moira saw a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Do you think it’s at all possible that . . .” He shifted again and ran his hand through his hair. “Is it possible that this, this saicrit, has anything to do with yer mother doin’ something wicked?”
A Dance in Donegal Page 10