Moira pressed her lips together and took a step toward him. Before she could get closer, Lady Willams took his arm and pulled him to his feet.
“Pull yourself together, man,” she hissed in his ear, loud enough that the others could hear.
He sniffled loudly, wiped a dirty sleeve across his face, and yanked his other arm from her grasp.
Lady Williams jutted her chin in the air and with dainty yet hurried steps, left the room. Buach started to follow suit, but Sean grabbed him by the arm.
“Let’s have a wee chat, auld man.” Sean dragged Buach into the kitchen and all but threw him into a wooden chair near the fireplace. “What’s all this about?”
Buach hung his head, chin trembling. He wagged his head but stayed silent.
“Speak, man!” Sean bent over to meet Buach’s eyes. “Did ye start that fire?”
Buach’s gaze flew up to meet Sean’s. “Nae! Nae! I didna touch the halla!”
Sean straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “So you say.” He started to pace the room.
Moira watched, biting her lip to keep her tears at bay. What was happening?
Suddenly the crowd behind her parted, and Peg slid past Moira and into the kitchen. Men removed their caps and bowed slightly at the waist.
“Buach O’Boyle.” They were the first words Peg had spoken in hours. “I know ye loved my Colm. We all did.”
A robust chorus of ayes and hear, hears burst forth from the crowd.
“But ’tis also no saicrit that there are others here who were closer ta him than the likes o’ ye.” She paused. “So what is it ye’re so terribly sorry fer?”
The old man shook his head, swiping his nose with his sleeve again. “I canna. I canna.”
“You can’t what?” Sean crouched low, forcing him to speak face-to-face.
“We t’ought . . .” He glanced around the room, seeming to rest his eyes on the crowd in general. “We t’ought it was ye in the halla, not Colm.”
Voices rippled through the crowd, and a sickening feeling floated to the back of her throat. We?
“Ye thought it was me?” Sean pointed to his own chest.
“Nae.” Buach buried his face in his hands.
“Then who, man? Speak!” Sean gripped the old man by the shoulders and shook him until his teeth chattered.
Moira laid a hand on Sean’s back. “Sean, please.”
Sean’s trembling slowed, and he turned to look at her. She shook her head ever so slightly, and Sean took a measured step backward. “If not me,” Sean asked through clenched teeth, “then just who did you think it was?”
“We t’ought it was ye.” A crooked finger raised in the air. “Miss Doherty. The teacher.”
Gasps filled the crowded room, and Moira stumbled backward. A pair of unseen hands caught and steadied her. She didn’t look back to see who it was. She only righted herself and stared at Buach in disbelief.
Chapter 58
Sean watched in horror as the color drained from Moira’s face. He scanned the kitchen for another chair. Someone read his thoughts and handed him one from across the room. He set it behind Moira and eased her to sit, then he turned his attention back to Buach.
“Ye’re not makin’ any sense, auld man.” Sean resisted the urge to shake him again.
“We were aimin’ fer the teacher.” Buach nodded in Moira’s direction. “If I’d o’ t’ought fer one second we’d hurt Colm . . .” His face screwed up, causing his wayward tooth to protrude even farther, as new tears poured down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Peg. Please, ye must fergive me.”
A hand on his arm drew Sean’s attention away from Buach. “But why? Why did you seek to harm me?” Moira’s strained voice was almost more than Sean could bear.
She stepped forward, recognition registering in her eyes. “‘That woman running her mouth,’” she said softly before crouching to look Buach in the eye. “Were you talking about my mother? Did she do something to you?”
Buach’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Aye.”
“But why? Why treat me so poorly?” Moira asked.
“Because you deserved it,” answered a voice from the doorway.
Confusion twisted Moira’s face as Lady Williams entered the room.
“Explain yerself, madam,” Sean said.
“Because of you.” Lady Williams sniffed at Moira in contempt. “Because of your tart of a mother, my daughter was overlooked to marry John Adair.”
Moira looked confused as she rose from her crouch. “I beg your pardon, milady, but I fail to see how something my mother did to Buach twenty years ago would be an obstacle to your dauther’s marriage, nor how it warrants harm to me.”
Lady Williams sighed and moved closer to Moira. Her bony hands rested on her hips. “Your mother was a housemaid at Glenveagh Castle for the Adair family. Their son, John, only visited during his holidays from university. He and my daughter had supped at the Adair table on many occasions, and it was said that he was going to propose to my Grainne at summer’s end that year.”
Sean noticed a few women rolling their eyes, but they seemed too interested in this latest twist of gossip to protest. He knew this story as well. Lady Williams had made no secret of the supposed impending engagement, but it had been widely disputed by those who would have been more privy to such information.
Moira crossed her arms over her chest. “And my mother’s position as a housemaid factors into this how?”
“She was caught in quite the compromising situation with John.” Lady Williams looked around the room, as if to survey the response to this accusation. When shock failed to register with the crowd, she continued, “A short time thereafter, your mother fled in her disgrace to America, while John was forced to leave Gweedore forever to avoid the shame that hussy had brought upon his household. He never again returned to Glenveagh, and my daughter lost the wealthiest marriage prospect she’d had.”
A heavy silence filled the room as the crowd mulled over Lady Willams’s story, each person presumably trying to connect the dots between her, the Adairs, and Moira.
Moira’s eyes widened. “You . . . you blame me for Mr. Adair not marrying your daughter?”
“Don’t you see?” The woman’s voice rose far louder than was prudent for a lady. “You are the fruit of the sordid affair. It is because of you that Noreen fled, bringing further shame upon the Adair name. You were the catalyst for the rejection that befell my family. Someone had to pay. And with your mother off in America, your arrival was the perfect opportunity to avenge my family’s honor.”
Moira’s jaw fell open, disbelief coloring her face. She wavered as though she was going to faint. Sean placed his hand between her shoulders to steady her.
“Tell them, Buach.” Lady Williams’s voice was thick with desperation. “You’re the one who discovered the affair. Tell them!”
Only then did Buach drop his hands from his face. “Nae! Nae!” He cried and waved his hands frantically in the air. “It was all a lie!”
“What?” Fire ignited Lady Williams’s eyes before she could regain her composure. “But you said—”
“I know what I said,” he spat out. “An’ I’m tellin’ ye, ’twas a lie.”
“Yer lie cost my husband his life. Ye’d best tell the truth now.” Peg’s voice was cool, but her fists were clenched tightly at her sides.
Buach heaved a sigh, stood, and turned his face to the fireplace. “What ye said about Noreen workin’ at Glenveagh is true.” He placed a hand on the mantel. “I was workin’ there as well. In the stables.”
“Aye, go on,” Sean said when Buach paused longer than he had patience for.
“Noreen had caught me stealin’ some o’ Master Adair’s silver. I’d hide it in my waistcoat a piece at a time. Anyhow, when she discovered me with it, I begged her not ta go ta the aut’orities.” He shrugged and turned his back to the fire, keeping his gaze on the ground. “When she reported my crime, o’course I lost my position. I’d never work in Gwe
edore again.”
“But why turn your venom on me?” Moira was steadier on her feet now, her palms turned up in question.
“Because of yer mammy, I lost everyt’ing. When she left for America soon after, I saw me chance. I told folk she had to flee because she’d been gettin’ up close an’ pairsonal wit’ John Adair and ran away to America when she found herself to be in the family way.”
“You fool!” Lady Williams hissed. “How dare you drag me into your charade!”
“Whan ye showed up, Miss Doherty, I saw my chance to get back at yer mother in me own way.” Buach’s red eyes turned at Peg. “I never dreamed it would end up hurtin’ the best man Ballymann has e’er seen.”
“Ye still haven’t explained the fire.” Sean placed a firm hand on Buach’s shoulder and pressed him back into the seat.
“Aye.” Buach shook his head. “Because of the story I told all those years ago, I knew Lady Williams was just as cross wit’ Noreen as me. When we’d heard Moira was goin’ to be helpin’ wit’ the readyin’ of the halla, we saw our chance.”
“You were supposed to be the one in that godforsaken halla,” Lady Williams hissed at Moira. “I should’ve checked to be certain, but when I heard movement inside, I assumed it was you. After all, your scarf was draped through the window.”
“I’m sorry,” Buach cried again. “If ’tweren’t fer my waggin’ tongue spinnin’ yarns, none o’ this woulda happened. I just wanted Noreen ta feel the pain she put on me.”
“Yer own daft behavior is what hurt ye, auld man.” Sean grabbed his arm, pulling Buach to his feet. “Yer all-forsaken pride was willing to take the life of an innocent girl to keep up appearances on a rumor ye started over twenty years ago.”
“The Gardaí’ll deal with the pair o’ ye.” Sean nodded at a few of the men and they sprang to action. Two grasped Lady Williams and another pair took Buach by the arms as they led them outside. As they passed through the crowd, some spat on their faces, others called out foul insults.
“Wait,” Peg yelled. She approached Buach until she was standing nose to nose with him.
“Let ’im have it!” called a voice from the crowd.
“Pummel ’im!” came another.
“Buach.” Peg held her head high, though her chin trembled. Moira stepped up beside her and slipped a hand through her elbow. “I . . . I forgive you. And may God have mercy on yer soul. And on ye, Lady Williams.”
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd as Peg nodded at the men to take the culprits away.
Chapter 59
When the guilty parties had been escorted outside, the crowd seemed to lose interest and dispersed—the events of the night sure to be fodder for stories told around the fire for years to come. A few women mumbled admiration to Peg as they made their way back to the table, to sit vigil with Colm, or to head home to their own children.
“Oh, Peg.” Moira lay a hand on Peg’s shoulder and guided her back to the fire. “I don’t know what to say.”
What a senseless loss. Colm’s absence would be felt by the community for decades. And for what? To save face over a crime committed and reported long ago? Lady Williams’s grievances were moot, knowing John Adair’s lack of return had nothing to do with Noreen O’Connell Doherty.
“Rest assured,” Sean was saying when Moira came out of her reverie, “Buach and Lady—though I hate to refer to her as such—Williams will be dealt with swiftly and harshly. Duffy can hardly ignore their confessions, especially with so many witnesses who heard them.”
Moira sank into the chair across from Peg and stared into the fire. “’Tis my fault.” She shook her head. “Had I never come here, none of this would have happened.”
“Seafóid!” Peg leaned forward and clasped Moira’s hand. “The Laird brought you here. Of that I have no doubt. Ye are as much to blame for what happened to my dearest Colm as ye are for the tide comin’ and goin’ each day.”
“But, Peg—”
“Nae.” Peg cut Moira’s protest short. “Colm loved to serve ye. He loved servin’ the whole of Ballymann. Sure, he’d said something wasna right. He had a hunch somethin’ was out o’ sorts. That’s why he went to the halla last night. He was always watchin’ out for folk in this town. He’d hate to see ye blamin’ yerself for somethin’ ye didna do.”
Moira squeezed Peg’s hand, the lump in her throat holding back any words she might attempt to say.
Peg returned the squeeze, then rose and bussed the top of Moira’s head. “Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I’d like to sit with my husband.”
Out of respect, Moira stood. As she turned to the hallway, Sinead entered from outside, her cheeks stained with tears. “Oh Moira, can ya ever forgive me?”
Moira rushed over and embraced her friend.
“I shoulda known,” Sinead said between sobs. “I shoulda known it wasna true. I’ve been so awful to ye.”
“Aye, you have been.” Moira braced Sinead’s shoulders and eased her back to look in her face. “Had you but asked, I could have told you the truth. In fact, I did tell you.”
“I know.” Sinead’s gaze fell to the floor. “Folk were sayin’ so many t’ings, and when I saw ye come out of Áedach’s place alone, my imagination went wanderin’.”
Moira sighed and grabbed Sinead’s hands. “If Peg can forgive those who hurt her poor Colm, and the Lord can forgive me for all I’ve done wrong, I suppose I can forgive you.” She looked hard at Sinead’s face before breaking into a smile and gathering her friend in a warm embrace.
From the back of the house, a mournful groan filled the air. It sounded so near a howl, Moira looked about to see if it was an animal.
“Peg’s begun the caoineadh.” Sinead’s eyes swam with compassion.
Moira furrowed her brow.
“The keening . . . her official mourning,” Sinead clarified.
“I must say, I’m relieved to hear her cry.”
Sean and Sinead looked at her as though she had two heads. Moira looked from Sean to Sinead and back again. “She’d been so . . . calm. I was worried that she was slipping away from us.”
“Once again ye’re unfamiliar with our ways, Miss Darrty,” Sinead said in a mocking scold. “Once the body arrives at the wake house, there can be no cryin’ ’til the deceased has been properly prepared, or ye risk attractin’ bad spirits into the home.”
Moira grimaced. “But the women finished preparing things hours ago.”
“Aye.” Sean motioned for the trio to take a seat at the table. “Sometimes the widow—or widower—chooses to wait until the first night to begin keening. Just to be safe.”
The copper-haired woman appeared in the doorway, a glass of poitín in hand. She raised it aloft and began to recite a poem. All in Irish, Moira only caught a word here or there, but as she spoke, and Peg’s keening mingled with the mournful words, heads bowed throughout the house. When the woman finished, each person raised his or her glass in silent toast to Colm and drank.
One after another, women stood and recited poems or sang a mournful tune. When the songs were finally done, the poitín low, and the mourners sufficiently cried out, each took their leave, one by one. Only the three neighbor women remained with Moira, Sinead, and Sean throughout the night. Colm was never left alone, and Peg continued her keening long into the morning.
The sun was just beginning to peek over the Donegal hills when Moira left the Sweeny house. She needed fresh air and water on her face. She needed time to think and pray before returning to Peg’s for the procession to the church. As she trudged home, memories of Colm and Peg washed over her.
If not for Colm, her chalet would be in shambles, and she likely would not have met Peg. Without Peg, she wouldn’t have had the courage to continue looking after Áedach. Her feet stilled.
Where was Áedach? She’d not seen him since he arrived to help with the Paddy’s Day preparations at the halla. Except for the conversation you eavesdropped on at his hovel that night. Buach had ordered the lad to “kee
p to the plan.”
Did Áedach know of Buach and Lady Williams’s plans to kill her? Had he run away when he learned of the fire? She made a mental note to stop by his hovel after the funeral to see the lad and how he fared. But she purposed not to go alone.
A gust of frigid, salty air woke Moira from her thoughts like a slap to the face. She looked about, realizing she’d walked right past her chalet and was nearly as far as the guesthouse. A heavy slate sky hung overhead. Nature itself was in mourning, it would seem. The street was unusually empty, and no figures could be seen in the windows of the pub.
Moira crossed the road and wandered down the path leading toward the ocean until she came to the rock she had sat upon her first day in Ballymann. Very little, if anything, had changed since she was last there. Yet everything had changed. She had changed.
Gathering her skirts around her, she sat on the rock and once again closed her eyes. Sea grass rustled and tickled her legs. Waves crashed upon the rocky shore, singing their own doleful ballad. Her spirit was raw and worn, her heart broken at the loss and deception she’d suffered at the hands of her fellow community members. Wanting to pray, needing to pray, her words were sorely lacking. No matter how hard she tried, no eloquent phrases conjured in her heart, and no utterances lifted from her spirit to the Lord.
Come to me, ye who are weary. And I will give you rest.
The familiar promise from Scripture whispered deep in her heart and soothed like water in a parched land. Rather than force some contrived prayer or attempt to appear holier than she was, she allowed herself to simply rest in the presence of the One who had brought her here.
At length, the weight lightened. Her breaths came easier. Don’t let this be wasted, Lord. Redeem these evil days and restore the hope of those who have none. She opened her eyes, finding the world just as she’d left it when first she sat upon the rock. Her heart was still heavy. Grief still surrounded her like a shroud. But the despair had lifted.
In Him, there was never a promise of no grief on this side of heaven, but there was always the promise of joy. And she would await that day with a hopeful heart.
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