Moira merely nodded, then looked back over her shoulder at the crowd. Peg stood there, tears shining in her eyes. She nodded and blew a kiss to Moira.
Moira turned back to Sean and smiled. “I believe we shall.”
He led her into the old building, and Moira’s breath caught yet again. The afternoon light poured in through the open roof, and candles lined the walls, filled the fireplace, and lined the stone mantel. Though the crowd pressed around the building, poking their faces in the windows and the doorway, the sounds of the throng faded, and Moira’s attention fixed on Sean as he walked her throughout the halla.
“Here,” he said, taking her to the far back corner, “is where Paddy McGonigle, and his father before him, would serve the ale. Next to him, here, Father O’Friel kept a close eye on his flock.” He leaned in so close his lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “When he wasn’t entertaining the crowd with his Sean Nós dances, anyway.”
Moira giggled and placed a hand on his arm. Her other hand was still safely tucked in his as he continued the grand tour of the open room. She studied his face, the strong cut of his jaw, and the slight shadow of an afternoon beard. His green eyes shone with love for this place and her people as he retold many of the same stories Moira had heard from her own mother. Standing here now, surrounded by the people she loved, Moira appreciated the tales even more. It was as though all who’d gone before were there with them, enjoying the delight of this moment.
Even a building can be redeemed. The fear and pain she’d experienced at the hand of her attacker could have left a stain on her heart and the building itself, but it had all been burned clean in the fire. It held no threat. Only the wonder of hope.
“And over here,” Sean continued, leading her to the far opposite corner. “This was Noreen O’Connell’s favorite spot, so I’ve heard. It was in this corner she would sit and chat with her friends before leaping to the floor for her dances.” He let go of her hand, as though he knew she’d want to fully experience this sacred place.
Moira could envision her mother, young and carefree, laughing and dancing the night away. She ran her hand along the wall, as though she might feel her mother’s hand through the years. What a gift Sean had given her.
“Moira Doherty?”
Moira turned at his voice.
“May I have this dance?”
From the door, musicians began to play a slow, melodic waltz. Sean bowed deeply, then rose to meet her gaze as he extended his hand.
“I’d be honored, Sean McFadden.” She curtsied and placed her hand in his once more. He pulled her close, wrapping his other arm around her waist, and let the music sweep them away.
As they twirled and swayed together, Sean’s eyes never left hers until he leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “I love you, Moira.”
In that moment, they could have been flying and she wouldn’t have known it. Moira closed her eyes and laid her head on his chest. The scent of cotton and heather was embedded in her memory as uniquely his. When the music faded, they stood together, fingers laced, holding one another for a long moment until Moira finally lifted her head and gazed deep into his eyes.
“I love you too.”
He inclined his head toward hers and smoothed a tender hand over her hair. His lips hovered just a breath away from hers while his eyes traced the contours of her face. Pulling her closer still, he whispered, “Say it again.”
Moira’s breath stilled in her chest. She caressed his cheek with trembling fingers, her eyes searching his. “I love you, Sean McFadden.”
His green eyes lit up, and a smile curled on his lips. “Dance with me. Forever?”
She returned his smile and nodded.
He lowered his mouth. Softly at first, he pressed his lips to hers. When she wrapped her arms around him, he pulled his face away to look at her once more. Moira caressed his hair and pulled his face close. Their lips met again, the kiss deepening. Moira relished all that words could not convey. There in the warmth of his kiss and the tenderness of his embrace, she knew she’d found her true home.
“Yeeoo!” a voice howled in the distance. The musicians struck up a lively reel. The couple laughed and Sean whisked Moira away, hopping and spinning about the halla. Moira knew her mother had been right all along.
Pulling Sean to a stop, she planted another kiss on his mouth. “Ah, my love, there truly is nothing like a dance in Donegal.”
Chapter 1
GALWAY CITY, IRELAND, 1920
No one ever tells the truth about love.
The stories and fables paint a glowing portrait of valiant acts and enduring romance. Love, it is said, is the most powerful force in the world.
Stephen Jennings knew better.
He watched the pair from behind the polished glass case as they huddled together, giggling and fawning over one another.
“This one here, lad.” The gangly man gestured at the display. “We’ll take it.”
The rusty-haired lass swooned. “Oh, Charlie, do ya mean it? In earnest? Oh!” She squealed and threw her arms around her beau’s neck.
“Very good, sir.” Stephen removed the silver ring from the case and buffed it carefully with a polishing cloth. He started with the hands that encircled the heart, then moved to the crown that topped the design. How many times had he recounted the tale of the Claddagh? More than he cared to count. With the ring sufficiently shined, he handed it to the gentleman.
Fingers trembling, the man took the ring. A foolish schoolboy grin spread across his face. His lass fanned herself, still giggling. The man glanced at Stephen out of the corner of his eye.
Oh no. No. Not here.
The man sank to one knee. “Maggie, you know I love you—”
Maggie erupted into hysterics. Stephen gritted his teeth, jaw aching from the pressure, and pasted on his best smile—though he feared it came across as more of a grimace.
“You know I love you,” the man said again. “And I couldna wait another second before askin’ ye . . . will ye marry me?”
Unintelligible sounds gurgled from Maggie’s lips as she yanked him off the floor and kissed him hard before holding out a trembling hand.
“Is that . . . is that a yes?” The man’s puppy-dog expression rivaled that of any begging canine in the alleys.
Good heavens, man, are ye daft?
“Oh, aye, Charles! Yes! Yes! A thousand times, yes!”
“I love you!” they said in unison.
Stephen had seen what “love” could do. Not even a mother’s love—which is said to be the most powerful—could protect his own beloved mum from leaving this world while bringing Stephen into it. And the glassy-eyed, giddy type of love the couple before him now displayed had certainly not served any grander purpose than deluded self-fulfillment. How could they be so blind?
Charles slipped the ring on Maggie’s finger and presented her hand to Stephen. “Is it on properly?”
Stephen cleared his throat. “Aye, that’s right. The tip of the heart points in, toward her own heart, if she’s spoken for.” He looked between the two, who only had eyes for one another. “And it seems she is most certainly spoken for.” Though he tried to soften it, his voice sounded flatter than it should have. After all, the store needed this sale. He pasted another smile on his face. “Comhghairdeas.”
Charles looked at him now. “Go raibh míle maith agat. A million thanks.” He handed the payment to Stephen and guided his bride-to-be out of the shop.
Stephen watched them leave, resisting the urge to rush and slam the door behind them. Fools.
“I canna do this anymore.” He dropped his head. His knuckles were white, and the edges of the case dug into the heels of his hands. He slapped his palm onto the wood beam that anchored it to the wall.
It was bad enough he was the only one who seemed to understand the truth of it, but his family made their living peddling the idea and legend of love. Salt in an ever-open wound. How could no one else see? Love was a myth. A crutch. And he couldn�
��t be part of flogging the lie any longer. He rubbed his hand over his head, down his face, then pulled a piece of paper from his trouser pocket.
He read the words he already knew by heart.
Dear Mr. Jennings,
We are delighted to accept you as an apprentice at Sánchez Iron and Masonry Works. Your family’s skill with design and craftsmanship is well known. We look forward to adding your expertise to our repertoire. Once you have acquired the necessary funds for your move, please let us know and we will make your lodgings ready.
Sincerely,
Roman Sánchez
Eyeing the door to the shop, Stephen could no longer deny the inevitable. It’s time. Father would be devastated, but the thought of staying here, hocking jewelry, and reliving his family’s legacy day in and day out was enough to bolster his courage to share his plans to leave.
Replacing the letter in his pocket, he turned to search for his father. But before he could take a step, the back door of the showroom opened and his father escorted someone inside. “Ah, Stephen, there’s a good lad. I’ve someone I want ye to meet.” Seamus’s eyes carried more spark than usual, and there was a bounce in his step that Stephen hadn’t seen in ages.
Stephen turned his attention to his father’s guest. Standing arm in arm with his father was a strikingly beautiful woman. Her golden hair twisted on top of her head in an intricate weave of braids and coils that fell around her shoulders in soft curls. Blue eyes pinned Stephen where he stood, and soft dimples accented her rosy cheeks as she smiled at him. She was beautiful, aye, but something about her seemed . . . amiss. Her dress was too fine. Her posture, too straight. He’d been around the store long enough to know a beautiful face and beguiling smile meant nothing. The most striking face could hide the blackest heart. What was this lass’s secret? Still, Stephen’s heart thudded unnaturally against his chest.
“Stephen, my boy, this is Miss Annabeth De Lacy.” Seamus beamed.
Stephen shook himself from his thoughts and turned his eyes sharply to his father. “De Lacy? As in—”
“How do you do?” Annabeth interrupted him and extended her left hand, fingers daintily dangling down.
Stephen looked from Annabeth to his father and back. “De Lacy?” He practically spat the name out.
“That’s right,” she said, hand still extended. She lifted her chin. “My father, Lord De Lacy, is the new landlord for this parish.” She cleared her throat and gave her hand a slight twitch.
Seamus continued to beam, then frowned and jerked his head slightly in the direction of the woman. “Where’re yer manners, lad?”
Making no attempt to mask his irritation at his father for bringing a British courtier into the shop, he stepped forward, grasped her fingertips, and wagged her hand briefly before dropping his arm back to his side. “Miss.” He nodded curtly. “Father? A word?”
Ignoring his son’s agitation, Seamus made an announcement. “Lady De Lacy is to be your apprentice.” He puffed out his chest so proudly the buttons practically popped off his waistcoat.
“Appr—my what?”
“Just what I said. Lady De Lacy here is to be your apprentice. Ye’re to show her the way of things. Ensure she knows the legend of the Claddagh, show her how to make the rings. She’s quite an accomplished artist.” He winked at Annabeth, and she rewarded him with a pearly-white grin.
“Please, call me Anna.”
An apprentice? What was the old man thinking? Sure, it could work to Stephen’s advantage if there were someone capable of staying on when he left. But a woman? And a British woman, no less? He crossed his arms over his chest, cleared his throat, and said through gritted teeth, “Father. May I please have a word?”
“Och!” Seamus waved a dismissive hand, then patted Annabeth’s. “I’ll only be a wee minute, lass. Take a look around the shop, so.”
Father and son stepped out of earshot of their new guest. “What’s the meaning of this?” Stephen asked.
“Now, now. It’s not as bad as ye think.” A hint of resignation flickered in the old man’s eye.
“Is tha’ so?” Stephen’s jaw ached.
Seamus pressed his lips into a thin line and shrugged.
“And what about Tommy, huh? After what they—”
Seamus lifted a silent hand. He stared hard into Stephen’s eyes for a long moment before answering. “No matter what has happened in the past, this is our present right now. You’re going to do this.” He paused. “I need you to do this.”
“Father, have you gone mad?”
“Mad? Have you seen the lass?” He chuckled and winked at Stephen.
“Be serious, man!”
“Serious, ye say? How’s this for serious?” Seamus glanced over his shoulder then continued, “The British government has sent us lowly Irishman a new landlord. I don’t know if ye’d noticed, but the last one they sent us was a real saint.” Sarcasm laced the old man’s voice.
“True.”
“Well, that shiny new landlord has requested we apprentice his daughter. It’s a mite out of the ordinary, I’ll grant you, but I’m not quite in the mood to cross the Brits at this stage.” Footsteps punctuated his point as a unit of soldiers marched past the shop. Whether they were Irish or British troops was impossible to tell.
Stephen sighed as an unwelcome shiver traversed his spine. The old codger had a point, much as he hated to admit it. “Fine, we need to stay in their good graces—if they even have any. But why me? The pair of ye seem to get on just fine. Why can’t ya teach her yerself?”
“In case ya haven’t noticed, lad, I’m no spring chicken.” He stretched his arms out to accentuate his point. “I’m gettin’ too auld to even be running the shop, let alone teachin’ another wee one. I was going to talk to ya about it anyway, but when Lord De Lacy approached me last week, it was mere confirmation. It’s time, boy.”
“Time?” Stephen’s brow furrowed. “Time for what, Da?”
Seamus rolled his lips between his teeth and stared at the ground for an uncomfortable length of time. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “It’s time for you to take over. You’re a better jewel smith than I ever was, and you’ve a smart head for business on yer shoulders. That last bout with the fever I had over the winter is what clinched it. The shop . . . she’s yours.” Seamus pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and swiped at his eyes. “Come now, lad, help your apprentice settle in and learn the shop.”
Glossary of Terms
amárach—[uh-MAH-rugh]—tomorrow
a Mhúinteoir—[uh WOON-chorr]—teacher, when addressing them directly
angelus—[ANE-geh-luss]—the national call to prayer in Ireland; church bells ring at noon and six in the evening
a thaisce—[uh HASH-kee]—a term of endearment, used when speaking to someone (not about them)
amadán—[AH-mah-donn]—idiot
anois—[eh-NISH]—now
babaí—[BAH-bee]—baby; young one
beag—[BYUG]—little
Bíobla—[BEEB-luh]—Bible
bodhrán—[BOW-ronn]—a traditional Irish drum
breá—[BRAW]—handsome
cad a tharla?—[CAD uh HARR-luh]—what happened?
caoineadh—[KEEN-cheh]—keening; grieving
céilí—[KAY-lee]—a party with music, dancing, and often storytelling
ceol—[KYOHL]—music
cosa—[CUHSS-ee]—feet
craic—[CRACK]—fun, good times; often, but not always, involving music
créatúr—[KRAY-tur]—creature; often used as a term of endearment for an infant
Día dhuit—[JEE-uh DITCH]—a common formal greeting in Irish Gaelic
fáilte abhaile—[FALL-chuh uh-WAHL-yuh]—welcome home
Feabhra—[FOW-ruh]—February
footed—used to describe when turf is stacked on its end, typically to let it dry further
go raibh míle maith agaibh—[guh ruh MEE-luh MY uh-GEE]—Thank you very much, to more than one person
&
nbsp; Gaeilge—[GAY-lih-guh]—Gaelic/Irish
gardaí—[garr-DEE]—police
grá mo chroí—[GHRA MOE CHREE]—love of my heart
gúna oiche—[GOO-nuh EE-huh]—nightdress
halla—hall
logh dom—[LOWG dumm]—forgive me
muinteoir—[MOON-chorr]—teacher
ní maith liom do trioblóide—[NEE MAH luhm do TRUH-bluh-juh]—traditional Irish sympathy greeting; literally “I don’t like your trouble.”
oh, Mhaidean—[oh WHY-jahn]—an exclamation of dismay; literally “Oh, Virgin!” referring to the Virgin Mary
oíche mhaith, a mhac—[EE-huh WAH uh WAHK]—good night, son
peat—[PEET]—a type of moss, found on the bog, used as solid fuel; also called turf
peata—[PA-the]—pet; a term of endearment
poitín—[PAH-cheen]—Irish moonshine
rógaire—[ROH-gerd-uh]—rogue
scuab—[SKOO-uhb]—broom
seafóid—[SHAH-fooj]—nonsense
seanchaí—[SHAWN-hee]—a storyteller
sean nós—[SHAWN OHS]—a form of traditional Irish dancing or singing
shillelagh—[shih-LAY-lee]—a traditional Irish club or walking stick
sláinte—[SLAHN-chuh]—an Irish toast of blessings and health
stad—[STAHD]—stop
tá brón orm—[taw brone OR-uhm]—I’m sorry
tá sé ceart go leor, gach duine! Tá sí go álainn!—[taw shay cart go lore gak DINN-yuh! Taw shee go HAW-linn]—It’s okay, everyone! She’s lovely!
uilleann pipes—[UHL-uhn PIPES]—the Irish form of bagpipes, played by pumping a bag using one’s elbow rather than blowing into a mouthpiece
Author’s Note
Thank you, dear reader, for journeying with me to Ballymann. Though a fictional place, it was deeply inspired and influenced by the tiny seaside village my family and I lived in for two years: Derrybeg, County Donegal. I hope this incredible land and her people have found their way into your heart as they have mine. I had the honor and blessing of living in Ireland for a total of almost six years, and I always say my heart was born there and I never truly found it until we moved to Ireland.
A Dance in Donegal Page 27