Moira scanned the crowd before bringing her gaze back to his. She stood silent for a moment, trying to rein in her thoughts. Why must his eyes be so enchanting?
He inclined his head, brows raised, clearly awaiting her reply.
“Well, this is certainly not what I had in mind when Sinead invited me to call over tonight. Is the entirety of Ballymann in this bungalow?” A nervous laugh escaped her lips.
“Very nearly,” he replied. “The McGonigles’ Sunday gatherings are the stuff of Donegal legend. I know it’s a bit overwhelming now, but just give it a chance. Ye’re gonna love it, I promise.”
Moira shrugged. “Perhaps. I just can’t help but think everyone here hates me.” She lowered her voice just above a whisper. “I feel like . . . like perhaps Áedach isn’t bluffing. That maybe there is something dark in my past and everyone knows it but me.”
Sean’s expression was a mixture of compassion and comfort. “If yer mother was anything ’tall like you, there can be no substance to Áedach’s—or Buach’s—claims.” He stepped closer. “And even if there were, it would have no bearing on yer own character.”
Moira smiled. “Thank you, Sean. That means a great deal.” Her arms ached to wrap themselves around him, letting him protect her forever. Instead, she twisted her fingers and forced herself not to get lost in his eyes. She was discomfited by the intensity of her feelings, and the swiftness with which they had gone from annoyance to attraction.
Thwap! Thwap! Paddy rapped his shillelagh on the doorpost. The crowd fell silent as bodies lowered onto creepies, chairs, and whatever empty spot on the floor was available, leaving a space no bigger than a two-foot square in the center of the room. Moira found a stool near the edge of the crowd, and Sean slipped to the back with some of the other men.
The host launched into a swift-spoken Gaelic greeting before turning attention to the dour-faced man Moira had noticed before. The gathering erupted into a rousing round of applause, and whoops and hollers filled the small room.
The old man waved a hand, quieting them. He scanned his audience, mischief lighting up his eyes.
Moira relaxed a mite, despite the less-than-warm welcome she had received from him mere moments earlier. Sinead spotted her across the room and headed toward her friend.
When the silence had stretched to his satisfaction, and the crowd seemed sufficiently bated, he began. “An Grianan Aileach.” It sounded like a title.
At once, Sinead’s voice was in Moira’s ear. “He’s telling the story of the Grianan of Aileach. It’s an ancient ring fort half a day’s ride from here.”
Moira nodded. She was completely captivated by the story, though she understood not a word. The crowd, equally drawn in, offered in unison boos and hisses, or alternately cheers and hoorahs. At the tale’s end, the packed room exploded in applause and cheers. The dour-faced man, now bearing the slightest of grins, stood, offered a little bow, and hobbled back to his seat in the corner.
“Anois,” Paddy called. “Ceol! ”
As if from nowhere, all manner of instruments materialized. Moira counted three fiddles, two Irish flutes, a bodhrán, and a set of uilleann pipes. Hands clapped and feet tapped as the musicians played a heart-pumping set of reels and jigs. During a particularly rousing reel, driven by a strong bodhrán undertone, a lone figure hopped into the empty space in the middle of the floor. Moira was stunned to see Colm before her, his eyes closed, feet tapping furiously.
Colm’s arms dangled loosely and a look of sheer bliss rested on his face. His feet shuffled in a blur with an occasional toe tap or heel scrape punctuating a phrase in the music. It had been ages since Moira had seen anyone perform a traditional Sean Nós dance, and she was drawn in heart and soul. The song finished and Colm ended his dance with a flourish, arms raised over his head in triumph. The crowd offered their appreciation for the show, and Moira joined in the applause.
When the hoopla settled once more, Paddy opened the floor for requests.
“We need a song!” a voice called from the back wall.
“Aye.”
“G’on, now.”
“Sing us a song, so.”
The grocer raised both hands in surrender. “Okee, okee. A song youse want, a song ye’ll get.”
The crowd cheered in unison.
“But I doubt youse want a song sung by the likes o’ me?”
“Nae!”
“Laird, help us, no.”
“Who’ll ye have, then?” he asked.
Various names were murmured from the crowd, none of which were familiar to Moira.
Then Colm lifted halfway out of his seat and called, “Sean McFadden, sing ye a song.”
Moira’s gaze flew to Sean, who was leaning up against the wall near the hearth, arms folded across his chest.
He shook his head in protest. But the crowd wouldn’t back down. At last, he acquiesced and made his way to the center. Finding a spot in the midpoint of the floor, he settled himself, hands placed comfortably in his pockets, eyes closed, signaling his readiness to begin. The crowd fell silent.
Sean inhaled, and when the first note released into the air, Moira clutched her heart. His voice was like silk on velvet. Masculine yet without the gravelly quality so many men seemed to possess. The song, sung a cappella entirely in Gaelic, was melancholy and beautiful all at once. Moira ached at the sound of it. And never wanted the song to end.
Sudden pain shot through Moira’s side, and she turned to the source. Sinead’s elbow rammed repeatedly into Moira’s ribs. “What?” she whispered to her friend, unable to keep the irritation from her voice.
“No wonder yer man is singin’ this song.” Her eyes sparkled with delight. “’Tis called ‘Bean Dubh a’ Ghleanna—The Dark Woman of the Glen.’”
“It’s lovely, but—”
“It’s about a dark-haired lass so beautiful,” Sinead said, “it makes a man lament. The man canna eat nor sleep until he sees her again. He watches his flocks in the day, but his thoughts are consumed only by her beauty. And although every lad from Donegal to Dublin tries to win her hand, he purposes to make her his bride.”
Moira knitted her brows in confusion and stared at Sinead.
Sinead rolled her eyes and held up a tendril of Moira’s black hair. “Don’ ya see, Moira? He’s singin’ about ye!”
Moira turned her attention back to Sean. Sinead whispered the English translation of each line in her ear as he sang. Moira’s heart quickened, wondering at her friend’s prediction. Surely he wasn’t singing about her? It was simply a traditional song to which Sean was partial. Wasn’t it?
The warmth of his voice filled the air, and the entire crowd seemed just as enchanted as Moira. Heat rose up her neck and radiated to her face, setting her ears on fire. Inside her, it was as if Colm’s feet were dancing, setting her stomach in a delightful, terrifying whirl.
As Sean sang the last line of the song, he opened his eyes and looked at Moira, long and deep.
Sinead whispered the lyrics’ final meaning: “‘Hoping to win the dark maid’s affection.’”
Chapter 27
When the music and stories paused for tea and cake, Sinead grabbed Moira by the arm and dragged her outside.
The night smelled like moss and ocean-dampened grasses. The chilled evening air filled every inch of her lungs, refreshing her from the stagnant, ale-infused sauna the house had become.
“Ye canna tell me he wasn’t singin’ to ye.” Sinead pulled Moira down to sit on a rock wall.
“Sinead,” Moira chided gently.
“No, really,” Sinead insisted. “I’ve seen the way he looks at ye—and ye at him. Ye canna tell me there’s not a spark there.” She cocked an eyebrow at Moira.
“I won’t deny he’s very handsome. And kind. And incredibly strong. But he’s given me no reason to believe he carries any real feelings for me.”
“Oh, really?” Sinead scoffed. “Ya mean a heartfelt serenade in front o’ the whole village isn’t reason enough?”
> Moira opened her mouth to retort, only to snap it shut again. She shrugged. “You don’t know that he was singing about me, that’s all.”
“Whatever you say.” Sinead slumped, clearly growing tired of arguing about it.
The pair sat in silence for a moment, enjoying the briskness of the night. Inside, men bantered among themselves, women chattered happily between sips of tea and bites of cake. The occasional bleating of a sheep in the distance floated through the air. Moira thought for a moment this place could really be home but then remembered the reception she’d received so far. It should have been a peaceful time, but inside Moira was in turmoil.
Despite the magical evening, the fact remained there was a secret looming over her, threatening her livelihood. After all, if the people of Ballymann couldn’t trust her, how was she to ever earn the right to help shepherd their children? Out here in the quiet of night, away from the bustle of the crowd inside, it seemed the perfect time to broach the subject. She swallowed hard, attempting to bolster enough courage to ask Sinead about her mother.
Moira broke the silence and cleared her throat. “So, back in the Poisoned Glen, you said I should know more about Glenveagh. What did you mean?”
“Oh, nothing, really.” Sinead’s voice was light and breezy. “Just that I figured since yer mam had worked there all those years, you knew everythin’.” She turned her gaze away, as if realizing she had said too much.
“Well, Mother never really talked about that part of her life. I vaguely recall her saying she had been a member of a household staff. But she never told me where, or what exactly she did.” Moira hoped this would encourage Sinead to open up further about what she knew, but the girl simply sat staring blankly into the darkness. Moira continued. “I’d love to hear more about it though. Glenveagh Castle? It sounds utterly enchanting!”
Unable to contain herself, Sinead bubbled over with excitement. “Oh, ’tis grand, you can believe tha’. The gardens are so expansive, full of every color of flower you could imagine. And, wait ’til I tell ya, it’s got a pool! That’s right. It’s right down there on the level with Loch Veagh, so you can sit in the pool and reach out and stick yer hands right in the lake.”
“Oh, that does sound enchanting! So, my mother was on the household staff there?”
“Oh yes, she was one of their best. Second only to the headmistress. At least, according to Mammy, anyway.” Sinead’s eyes rolled upward, as though playing back a conversation in her mind, and then she nodded as if to reassure herself she had remembered correctly. “In her final months at Glenveagh, she’d been promoted to head chambermaid. She was responsible for makin’ sure wha’ever the visiting bigwigs needed in their rooms was provided quickly and efficiently.”
Rather than being satiated, Moira’s appetite for information was only further roused by Sinead’s account. Why would Mother hide such things from her? Did she truly hide them, or simply fail to mention them? And how did Sinead know all of this? “Well, that’s delightful. I’m so proud to hear she was so well respected. Here I was worried there might be something more sinister to the tale.”
Sinead slid from the wall and paced back and forth in front of Moira, her hands bobbing up and down. She chewed her lip with such vigor Moira feared the girl might draw blood.
Sinead’s nervous behavior confirmed Moira’s suspicions, and fueled her to press further. “What is it, Sinead?”
The girl gave a quick but violent shake of her head.
“Please,” Moira implored. “You know you can tell me anything. I promise not to be cross with you.”
Sinead’s eyes tracked to the open door of her bungalow. Inside, Mrs. McGonigle bustled about clearing teacups and plates of half-eaten cake. “Is it your mother? Are you worried she’ll be upset if you tell me?”
Sinead’s eyes fell to hers. They were glassy and wet, and her bottom lip trembled. She nodded ever so slightly.
Moira rose and clasped her friend’s hands in her own. “Dear, sweet Sinead. I would never wish you trouble at home.” She paused and wiped a tear from the girl’s fleshy cheek. “But . . . I need to know what happened. Why is the whole of Ballymann treating me as if I’m unclean?” Moira’s lip quivered now, and she searched Sinead’s eyes through fresh tears of her own.
At Sinead’s bidding, the pair increased their distance from the open door—and away from Mrs. McGonigle’s ever-listening ears. Sinead wiped her cheeks with her apron, steadied herself with a breath, and began. “Moira, ye’re not gonna like this. But, word ’round the parish is that yer mam—” Sinead looked past Moira into the darkness.
Moira squeezed her hand, willing her to continue.
“You see, folk say she had a . . . a moment of indiscretion with John Adair. He’s the son of the family who owns Glenveagh.”
Moira recoiled. “‘Indiscretion’?”
Sinead nodded. “Someone discovered her in his chambers. With him.”
Moira leaned against a rock wall and dropped her elbows to her knees. A thick, warm hand lay on her back and rubbed, but it imparted not even a modicum of comfort. “It can’t be,” Moira whispered. “It can’t.” She lifted her head and searched Sinead’s eyes. She found no lie or embellishment. Sinead spoke truth.
“I’m sorry, Moira.” Sinead pulled her into a tight hug. “But, ehm, there’s more.”
Moira pushed out of her embrace, shaking her head. “How can there be more ?” As she heard the words coming from her mouth, a sickening feeling wormed into the depths of her heart. She pressed a hand to her belly, the realization of what Sinead would say dawning.
“When ye showed up here, Moira . . . ye’re of the right age. And folk began to piece it together.” She nibbled her fingernail. “Ya see, yer mam left Donegal in such a rush, and it was about that time it came to light of her . . . of what happened. The rumor mill was flyin’ anyway. But when they saw yer face arrive in town, they knew it must be true.”
Moira pressed her palms onto the top of the rock wall. Cold seeped up her skin, and the moss pressing against her skirt soaked it with dew. But she didn’t care. Images flooded her mind of all the times she’d seen her mother in the wingback chair in their sitting room in Boston, Bible open across her lap—with the pages tattered and dog-eared from decades of use.
This can’t be true. Bile rose to the back of her throat. She swallowed it down, the vile burn trailing all the way.
“I’m sorry, Moira. I wish it weren’t true.” Sinead’s voice was thick with sorrow. “An’ I’m sorry ya had to hear it from me.” She offered a soft pat on Moira’s shoulder, but when Moira gave no response, she walked away in silence, head and shoulders slumped low.
“I wish I’d never asked,” Moira whispered to the night between soft, silent sobs.
Chapter 28
On Monday evening, Moira’s head pounded as she trudged along the narrow side street leading away from the village center. If the main road had seemed little more than a back alley when she had arrived in Ballymann, this road—if it could even be called that—was naught more than a widened footpath.
The news from the previous night, still raw in her heart and mind, weighed her down in heavy shackles of dread and doubt. Surely Mother wouldn’t be party to such a scandal?
Moira stooped and plucked a lone shamrock from the middle of the path, twirling it absently between her fingers. Studying its delicate leaves, she marveled at the tiny thing’s tenacity and sturdiness, how it managed to grow in the last place it seemed to belong.
I know how you feel, wee thing.
As she rose again, the weight of her mother’s history threatened to pull her down again. Much as it pained her to admit, the timing did seem to fit. And it would certainly explain why Mother had shared so little of her life here with Moira. And what about her dear father? She’d doted on him so—and he on her—before sickness had taken him from them far too soon. Was he even her real father? She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts before they could take root.
&n
bsp; “I refuse to believe it,” she told the patchwork of fields surrounding her. She straightened her apron and forced her mind to focus on her errand.
It shouldn’t be too much farther now. Little Aoife had given Moira the directions to Áedach’s house. The lad had been away from school for a whole week now. Despite the glorious peace his absence provided, as his teacher it was Moira’s responsibility to ensure her students were well educated. It was hard to educate them when they failed to show. Besides, getting a glimpse into his family life might provide some insight into how to handle his disruptive behavior.
Disruptive? Ha! Moira had long since realized his behavior had moved well beyond disruptive and bordered on violent.
She crested a hill. To her right towered the large oak tree Aoife had described. Standing a few feet from the side of the road, its roots poked up from underneath the rock wall that shared its space. This had to be the place.
Moira halted her steps and stared in disbelief. Surely this was not the boy’s home?
The hovel of rocks stacked into a ramshackle structure stood—just barely—at the base of the tree. Shocks of thatch—probably taken from Sean and Colm’s supply when their backs were turned—were stuffed, helter-skelter, between rocks and laid over the top for a makeshift roof. The foliage from the lofty oak no doubt provided even more coverage—in late spring and summer months, anyway. Today, though, the tree was bare.
Moira pressed the flat of her hand against her stomach. If this was his home, it was no wonder he looked and dressed the way he did. With careful steps she crossed the road, the shamrock in her fingers now forgotten and abandoned to the ground.
“Áedach?” Her voice quavered before threatening to disappear altogether. She didn’t know if she wished he would answer or not. As she neared the wall, the stench of urine, smoke, and drink assaulted her. Reaching into the cuff of her sleeve, she retrieved her handkerchief. She didn’t take time to admire the dainty needlepoint flowers her mother had embroidered on the corner, along with Moira’s initials. Rather, she stuffed the cloth under her nose and climbed over the wall, taking care not to topple the stones that had surely withstood centuries of gales.
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