A Dance in Donegal

by Jennifer Deibel

  So many questions crowded Moira’s mind, she didn’t know which one to give attention to first. She crouched there in the dirt, cold creeping onto her back from the stones behind her, and waited until the door scuffed closed again. Careful not to alert Áedach to her presence, she rose, brushed the dirt from her skirts, and fled.

  Buach’s words reverberated in her mind. We must devastate her. Stick to the plan. Ye know yer task. If not for Áedach’s argument of the woman’s kindness, they could have been talking about anyone. Moira knew, though, she and Peg were the only ones to show any modicum of kindness to the lad. The conspirators meant to devastate one of them, and given Moira’s history with Buach, she could only guess the woman they had been discussing was her.

  Anger burned as she realized that Buach, being the lad’s uncle, likely knew of his condition and had done nothing. How could he allow a member of his own family, a child no less, to live in such poverty?

  Valid questions, Moira Girl, but you have more pressing matters at present.

  A brief thought scuttled across her mind to keep this information to herself, to handle it on her own. She dismissed it just as quickly as it had come, with a shake of her head. God has given you good friends here for a reason. She made her way back to Peg and Colm’s. The place was like a second home to her now, and she felt just as welcome there as at her own mother’s house.

  Peg answered the door and invited her in. “Back so soon? Have a seat by the fire, pet. I’ll fetch the tea.”

  In a moment Peg was back with her trademark tray of tea and brown bread. “Now, tell me what has yer face so clouded with concern.” She took the seat across from Moira.

  Moira told her of the conversation she’d overheard between Áedach and Buach. “I know it was wrong of me to listen in.” She chewed her lip. “But when I heard what they were saying, it was like I was frozen.”

  Peg nodded. “’Tis quite disturbing, what ye’ve heard.” She stirred the milk into her tea. “I’ve no idea what on earth Buach could mean by ‘devastate her.’ But I think it’s safe ta say that ye will go no place alone.”

  Moira sank back into the chair. She hated the thought of troubling someone to chaperone her everywhere she went. But there was no arguing the fact that it was a bad idea for her to walk around Ballymann on her own, not knowing what Buach had in mind—or what Áedach had agreed to do.

  “Colm will see ye home this evenin’, and I’m sure between him and Sean we can work out havin’ someone by yer side in yer comin’ and goin’.”

  “I’m not so sure Mr. McFadden will be so open to the idea.” Moira rose and circled the room. “Ever since the attack, he’s been . . . different.”

  “Can ye blame him, love? He was worried sick over ye for days. It was nearly as traumatic for him to come across ye in such a state as it was fer ye.”

  Moira stopped pacing and looked at her friend. Could that really be what it was? She hadn’t considered that finding her there—bloodied, unconscious, clothes torn asunder—would trouble Sean so. Could it be he wasn’t cross with her at all? She tucked hope down in her heart, afraid to let it take root too deeply. She could not bear to let hope bloom only to have it uprooted once more.

  Footsteps sounded at the door, then it swung open. “Well, hello, Miss Doherty! I didn’t know we were expectin’ ye today.” Colm planted a tender kiss on her cheek. “I’m happy ta see ye.”

  “Colm, dear, would ye be so kind as to see our wee lass home?” Peg filled Colm in on the latest details. Anger clouded his eyes with each word.

  “Miss Doherty, ye have my word. Ye’ll not walk one step alone until we’ve reached the bottom o’ this.”

  Moira smiled, once again overcome with gratitude for such undeserved blessings.

  Chapter 53

  The red door at the teacher’s chalet stared down at Sean once again. It seemed ages ago that he last stood on this doorstep, awaiting Moira’s answer. When the door swung open, Sean was struck by the sadness in her eyes, but her smile at his greeting brightened the dreary day. “Peg’s waitin’ for ye down at the halla.”

  Moira stepped outside. “Thank you, Mr. McFadden. It’s good of you to take time away from your work to accompany me.”

  Weary of the formalities, Sean longed to shake free of them and return to the comfortable banter they’d enjoyed only weeks ago. The pair walked in uncomfortable silence as far as the market. When he could no longer stand it, Sean broke the quiet. “So, how are ya doing?”

  She smiled at him briefly—a tired smile pushed up by the bottom lip, gone as quickly as it appeared. “I’m just fine, thank you.”

  Frustration burned in Sean’s belly. Would she never open up to him? Did she no longer trust him? Perhaps she was now distrusting of all men. After the ordeal she had survived, who could blame her? Refusing to let her endure alone whatever mixture of emotions was sure to be churning within, Sean stopped and placed a hand on her shoulder. He waited until her eyes met his and held them there. He searched her face, struck once again by her beauty—a beauty only enhanced by the grace of her character. “No, really. How are ya doing, Moira?”

  For a brief moment, she covered his hand with hers and he reveled in the cool touch of her skin before she removed her hand and clasped it daintily in her other. Her head dropped and she studied her fingers.

  “It is good of you to ask.” She met his gaze once more. “Truth be told, I’m weary. And I worry, though I try not to because the Lord is so very clear how He feels about worry. But I don’t understand why any of this is happening, and I don’t know how to guard myself against an enemy I can barely see.”

  He offered her the crook of his elbow, and after a pause, she accepted it. They fell into step again. Resisting the impulse to envelop her hand in his as they walked, he said, “Ye’ll not face it alone, that I can promise ye.” He looked down at her profile, awed how such strength could be housed in so delicate a vessel. “Seen or unseen, I will always guard against anyone who means you harm.”

  Her hand tightened in the crook of his arm. “Thank you.”

  Peg and Colm were waiting outside the halla as Sean and Moira approached. Peg greeted them both with a warm embrace and a kiss on each cheek.

  “We’ll take it from here, Sean. There’s only a few more things need doin’ afore the big party tomorrow.”

  Sean smiled at Moira and tipped his cap. “Until next time.”

  Moira tipped her head and matched his smile. “Indeed. Thanks again, Mr. McFadden.”

  As he turned to go, he couldn’t help but notice her gaze linger on him longer than he’d seen in weeks.

  The sun rode low on the horizon that evening, and the familiar Donegal chill had returned to the air. The preparations for the celebration complete, Peg and Moira walked in step with one another toward the chalet. Moira tugged her wrap tighter around herself and shivered.

  “Oh, dear,” Peg said, “where’s your scarf?”

  Moira felt about her neck. “Oh, sugar, I draped it on the windowsill at the halla when we were working.”

  “No matter. No one will bother it overnight. Ye can fetch it in the morning.”

  Moira considered it for a moment and nodded.

  “Are ye lookin’ forward to the céilí, pet?”

  “I am.” Moira released a sigh.

  “What is it, then?”

  “I feel terribly shallow, but I’m just a bit disappointed that I’ll have to wear this dress.” She ran her hands over the faded skirt. “I had hoped to have made my other dress by now, but with all that’s gone on, it’s still unfinished. Now with only a day before the party, I’ve no time.”

  Peg nodded, a smile playing on her lips. “Aye, ’tis a shame. But fear not, lass. No gown, no matter how tattered or frayed, could quell your beauty.” She gave Moira’s cheek a motherly pat before taking her leave at the path to Moira’s door.

  Lord, help me be content with that which You’ve already blessed me.

  She opened the door to her chalet
and froze. Her heart raced and the breath caught in her chest. On her table sat a large white box. It was certainly not there when she left. Remembering the eggshells and Buach’s threatening words to Áedach, fear gripped her. In desperation, she called Peg back.

  Peg came, breathless, running up the hill to her door. “What is it, pet? Are ye alright?”

  Moira extended a shaky finger toward the box, unable to form words.

  Peg pushed past Moira and entered the house. She checked every corner and shadow for potential intruders, but Moira noticed a hint of a smile on the woman’s lips.

  “’Tis all safe, my dear.” Peg motioned her into the kitchen and began stoking the fire. “Come see what awaits ye.”

  With timid steps, Moira approached the table and reached out, hands trembling, to lift the lid from its place. Once removed, the lid fell to the floor as Moira clapped both hands over her mouth. Freshly pressed and neatly folded, the blue dress from O’Toole’s Textiles stared up at her. She ran her hands over the bodice, the velvet smooth like butter on a summer’s day. With great care, she lifted the dress out of the box and ran a hand along the sleeve, fingering the delicate peach lace at the cuff.

  “Peg! What have you done?”

  Peg held her hands up, palms out in protest. “Wasna me, peata.” She shrugged and moved closer to join Moira in admiring the gorgeous gown. “It seems someone wants ye to be the belle o’ the ball on Paddy’s Day.” She chuckled and wrapped an arm around Moira’s shoulders.

  Carefully returning the dress to the box, Moira struggled to rein in her emotions. “Oh, Peg.” She retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “It’s too grand a gift. However am I supposed to accept it?”

  Peg lifted her shoulders, her face alight with mischief. “’Twould be a great insult to refuse such a generous gesture. Besides, ya canna return a gift when ye’ve no idea whence it came.” With a flourish, Peg whisked the dress from the box and hung it in the press, leaving the door open to allow it to air.

  Moira stared at the dress in disbelief, her mind reeling with possibilities of who could’ve lavished such a gift upon her. Áedach had spoken of wanting to repay her kindness, but he had no means of purchasing such a gown. Even if he’d managed to scrape the money together, how would he have gotten to Letterkenny and back? No, it couldn’t have been him.

  Peg had already denied it, and with how she and Colm hadn’t shied away from claiming responsibility for Áedach’s new clothes, Moira had no reason not to believe her. Perhaps Peg had mentioned to Bríd how much Moira had gone on about the gown in weeks past? The only other people who knew about it were the McGonigles—highly unlikely given Moira’s latest encounter with her once-close friend. Other than the McGonigles, the only other person . . .

  Moira’s breath caught as the realization hit her.

  Sean.

  Chapter 54

  Sleep eluded Moira. She rolled from her box bed and opened the door to her press. There hung the blue velvet dress, its fibers shimmering in the moonlight from the window. Recalling how beautiful she’d felt when she tried it on at the shop, how perfectly it had hugged her body, and the look in Sean’s eyes when he saw her wearing it, her stomach fluttered. Heat pricked her cheeks as she allowed her mind to ponder how he might react.

  Imagining him requesting the honor of a dance, Moira lowered into a deep curtsy. Never mind she was barefoot in her nightdress, she twirled and swayed a waltz with her imaginary hero right there in her bedchamber, while images of the halla aglow in firelight and the company of good folk danced in her mind’s eye.

  Her reverie was cut short when the church bells began to toll. Judging by the depth of darkness and the height of the moon, it couldn’t have been any later than ten o’clock. Shouts arose on the street outside her door, and the sound of feet slapping the road in haste beckoned her to the window. Men of all ages fled hither and yon, some carrying buckets, others shouting orders in Irish. Moira grabbed her robe, tied the belt hastily around her waist, and hurried outside.

  An orange glow lit the horizon while the activity in the streets reached a frenetic pace. Moira hastened to join a group of women gathered on the footpath. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  The women stared ahead at the growing glow, not looking to see who had asked the questions. One woman who bounced a sleeping baby on her hip mumbled something in Irish. Crackling and popping sounds floated on the air, while another woman translated. “’Tis a fire. I’ve not gone down to see, but only one t’ing could burn like that.”

  “The halla,” the other women replied in unison.

  Moira gasped. “The halla?” She grabbed a handful of her robe skirts and sprinted down the road, paying no mind to her instructions to go nowhere alone. Buach would have to be daft—daft and very bold, indeed—to try anything with so many people about.

  Horses, carts, and people littered the street. Moira darted as carefully as she could among them, desperate to reach the halla. She had to see for herself.

  Please, God, not the halla.

  The glow on the horizon grew as she neared. Watching for any sign of the fire dying, Moira’s focus stayed on the halla and not on the street in front of her. Her shoulder ached. She’d knocked over someone else in the crowd.

  Mortified, Moira uttered an apology and reached down to help the woman. When she was on her feet again, the woman cleared the hair from her face. It was Sinead.

  “Oh, friend, I’m terribly sorry. Isn’t it awful? What shall we do?”

  Sinead glared at Moira. “Ye shall not do a t’ing. That halla belongs to Ballymann and her people. Not transients of low moral character.” Sinead turned on her heel and ran toward the market.

  As much as she’d like to make amends, Moira couldn’t force Sinead to believe her any more than she could force the sun to shine. More pressing matters demanded her attention anyhow. Gathering her thoughts, and her skirts, she hurried to the halla. Men were scattered about, shouting orders and gathering myriad supplies. A chain of farmers, weavers, shepherds, and others stretched from the halla down to the sea, passing buckets back and forth, the first man in the line tossing water onto the building before sending the empty bucket back again.

  Moira sank onto a boulder at the corner of the road to Peg’s house. Flames licked the sky and poured from the windows. The valiant efforts of the townsmen seemed futile against such a blaze. Through her tears, Moira made out Sean’s silhouette at the front of the line of men. Of course he would be first in line to help.

  She hadn’t meant to distract him, but when he caught sight of her through the hazy glow, Sean handed his bucket to the man behind him and made his way over to her.

  “Ya shouldn’t be here. ’Tisn’t safe.”

  Moira looked at his face. Fatigue and heartbreak were written all over it. Soot streaked across his forehead and down one cheek. She fought the urge to smooth it away with her hand. “I had to see.” She eyed the flames once more. “How can I help?”

  Sean looked back at the building and shook his head. “’Tis done now, lass. Naught more we can do but try and douse the flames. That thatch on the roof is so dry, it won’t go out in a hurry. And you’ve seen the bales inside lining the walls. They make fine seats for tired dancers on a cold night, but unfortunately they also make great kindling.”

  “What a shame.” Moira laid a hand on his arm. “I never would have dreamed a stone building could burn so.”

  “Aye,” Sean said. He looked at Moira, and it seemed as if he wanted to say something more, but Peg’s voice ripped through the night air.

  “Colm!” She screamed. “Colm!” She lunged toward the building, but Sean caught her in his arms.

  “No, no one’s inside.” He turned and squinted at the windows. The roof groaned and a loud crack split the sky.

  “He said . . . he said he was going to check one more thing.” Peg beat Sean’s chest with her fists. “He said somethin’ wasna sittin’ right with him and he had to go ch
eck on the halla. Colm!”

  As if in response to her screams, the roof groaned again before collapsing completely into the building. Flames shot into the night sky. Peg crumpled to the ground, a guttural cry unlike any Moira had ever heard piercing the air.

  She wrapped her arms around Peg and nodded to Sean. “Go!”

  Sean ran to the other men. “Colm Sweeny’s inside, lads. Let’s go! Move it! Get that water over here! You—head over there.” Sean continued to call out orders while the men went into swift action. Bríd and some other women from the village gathered around Peg and Moira. Bríd’s prayers mixed with the cacophony as others wept openly. Still others could do nothing but stand and watch, mouths agape. Peg’s wails echoed on through the night.

  Chapter 55

  The sky faded from slate to black, and the only sounds were the rustling of the Atlantic waves down below, the occasional crack and pop of the blackened remains of the halla, and Peg’s cries, which had dwindled from gut-wrenching wails to exhaustion-laced whimpers.

  Moira sat, arms still wrapped tightly around her friend, rocking back and forth like her mother had done so often for her as a little girl. Oblivious to any chill in the air, Moira stared as the smoke reduced to wisps and curls and ascended to the heavens. Footfalls on the road drew her attention. Sean approached.

  He laid a tender hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t ya take Peg back to her house. Give her some dry clothes and a hot cuppa. The lads and I will begin the search, now the flames have died down.”

  Moira bobbed her head slightly and looped her arms under Peg’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you warm and dry.”

  Peg’s face shot up to Moira’s as though she meant to protest. Instead, she crumpled, and a fresh spate of tears spilled onto her cheeks and splashed down the front of her wrinkled dress.

  Her body numb, Moira held the weight of her friend as they shuffled the few hundred yards to the Sweeny home. Inside, the house was eerily silent. A plate of crumbs and a half-drunk cup of tea sat at Colm’s place at the table—evidence of his late-night snack abandoned to see to the halla. Moira turned Peg’s shoulders as they passed the sitting room, discreetly averting the woman’s gaze from the sight.