Brendan had come with his parents, younger brother, and sister, Meg. Meg was so pretty, with her raven hair flowing down her back and that wide smile that had all the lads asking her for a dance back at the house, but Meg was already betrothed to a man named Rob Garrow, who’d come with the family. He was stocky and tall, his jaw covered by a golden stubble that matched the fair hair on his head, and Meg had eyes only for him. They’d be wed after the harvest, but Rowan’s mam said they would not attend the wedding. It was too far to travel for someone who wasn’t even kin. Rowan would have loved to see Meg get married, if only for another glimpse of her handsome brother. She didn’t like Jasper though. He was a good-looking boy of around fourteen, but he had a cruel set to his mouth and looked around with derision, as if searching for something to mock.
Jasper’s eyes swept over the congregation before they settled on her and narrowed in speculation. He didn’t smile or give her a polite bow; instead, he just watched her with his head cocked to the side, his eyes boring into her in a way that bordered on insolence. Rowan looked away, feeling suddenly self-conscious and uncomfortable. She inched closer to her mother whose attention was wholly on the couple in front of the altar. Her mother always cried at weddings, but not at funerals, something that Rowan found rather odd, but then her mam wasn’t much like the other women she knew. Her mam was beautiful and special, a woman who had secret knowledge that she shared with only those she loved.
After the service was finally over, everyone walked back to Uncle Caleb’s farm for the wedding party. Long tables were set up outside, and several women from the village were already hard at work, bringing out pies, platters of roasted meat, vegetables, and loaves of freshly baked bread. There were several barrels of beer, and even a keg of whiskey. The adults were talking loudly as they took their seats, hungry after church and eager to enjoy such a feast.
Rowan licked the grease from the pie from her fingers, enjoying the smoky flavor of the meat filling that clung to her hands. She’d like to have eaten more, but she was full to the bursting and tired of sitting for such a long time. The adults were all talking and laughing, the men making veiled suggestions about the coming wedding night. Rowan didn’t understand what they meant, but judging by the sly looks at the bride, and the merriment the comments caused, it must have been something shameful. She slid off the bench and headed for the outbuildings. It would be nice to have a few moments to rest before the bonfire was lit and the dancing began in earnest. The party would go well into the night, and she meant to enjoy it. Normally, she went to bed once it got dark, but today she was allowed to stay up as long as she wanted, and she planned to take full advantage of such a promise.
Rowan walked into the barn and sat down on a bale of hay, leaning her head against the rough wooden planks of the wall. It was nice and quiet, the animals chewing their cud and shifting restlessly in the stalls, as if somehow aware of all the gaiety going on not too far away. She supposed they could sense that today was different, or maybe they couldn’t. She always attributed human emotions to animals, something her mother found to be endearing.
She must have dozed off because she woke up with a start, a shadow looming over her in the dim light of the barn. Jasper Carr stood in the doorway, his large frame blocking out most of the light. He was big for a boy his age, tall and broad. He gave her a charming smile as he advanced slowly toward her.
“Rowan, is it?” he asked. Rowan nodded, suddenly feeling trapped. He wasn’t doing anything to frighten her, but she felt an overwhelming need to get out of the barn and into the summer sunshine. She got to her feet and brushed the straw off her skirt as she took a tentative step toward the door, but Jasper blocked her exit. He moved quicker than she expected, and she felt the first twinges of fear as she tried to get around him.
“Wait! Where are you running off to in such a hurry? I only wanted to sit with you awhile.” He was smiling, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes, which frightened Rowan all the more. Her mother always said that the eyes were a window to the soul, and Jasper’s gaze was hard and threatening.
“My mam will be looking for me,” Rowan mumbled as she tried again to get around Jasper’s bulky frame. He reached out and caught her, dragging her against him like a sack of flour. He smelled of beer and Rowan wondered how much he’d drunk.
“Your mam is too busy having a good time to be looking for you,” he breathed, his face moving closer to hers. “How about I teach you a game? Would you like that?”
Rowan shook her head vehemently. “No, I don’t want to play a game. I just want to go back to the party.”
“What a silly little girl you are,” Jasper said, pulling her closer until she felt his breath on her face. She instinctively tried to back away, but Jasper’s arms were like bands of steel around her. “If you don’t learn how to make a man happy, no one will ever want you. You’ll be an old, dried-up spinster.” He laughed without humor and suddenly cupped her breast. It was too small to fill his hand, but he didn’t seem to mind, squeezing it and rubbing his thumb over her nipple through the fabric. Rowan tried to pull away, but Jasper just laughed, pushing her against the wall and sliding a hand under her skirt. “Shall I show you what else men like?”
Terrified, she struggled against him, but he was too big for her to even budge. He was enjoying the game, releasing her for a moment and then grabbing her even harder. Most likely he hadn’t come upon her by accident, but followed her from the main house. He’d had this in mind all along, ever since he spotted her in the church. Hot, angry tears began to flow down Rowan’s cheeks. She was still too innocent to understand what Jasper could do to her, but the feeling of helplessness that engulfed her was frightening, making her realize that someone could exercise power over her against her will and she could do nothing to stop it.
“Let me go,” she begged, but Jasper just chuckled and tried to pull down her bodice. Rowan was about to scream when Jasper beat her to it. He let out an angry bellow as he was practically lifted off his feet and tossed against the wall by his brother.
“Get out!” Brendan roared. Rowan expected Jasper to put up a fight, but he just looked at his brother with contempt.
“I was only having a bit of fun. I wouldn't have hurt her,” he said, clearly trying to appease Brendan. It seemed that Jasper actually looked up to him and wanted his forgiveness, but it wasn’t to be given.
“Get out,” Brendan repeated, quieter this time.
“She’s ugly anyway,” Jasper sniggered as he got to his feet. “Ugly, and flat as a wooden plank. No man will ever want her, unless he’s blind.” Jasper spit at Rowan’s feet and stumbled from the barn, but not before he gave his brother a mighty shove. Brendan didn’t budge or spare Jasper a glance.
“Are you all right?” He’d taken her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes, his gaze so different from his brother’s. His eyes were kind, and an understanding smile played about his lips as he watched her dissolve in tears. She was so ashamed and stung by what Jasper had said about her.
“Did he hurt you?” Brendan gazed into her eyes, his face full of kindness and sympathy, which made her feel even worse.
Rowan just shook her head. She’d already forgotten about Jasper’s clumsy advances, but the words rankled. Was she really ugly? What if he was right and no man would want her when the time came? There were two women in their village who never married, and everyone always felt sorry for them, saying they’d been unlucky in life and a burden to their families. Was that to be her fate?
Rowan was distracted by the sound of the violin as old Mr. Graham tuned his fiddle in preparation for the dancing. She loved to dance, but at the moment she wanted to just go off somewhere and be alone. Who’d want to dance with her? She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she barely noticed Brendan studying her, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“You know, I have a mind to dance. Would you do me the honor? I wager dancing with the prettiest girl will make all the other lasses take notice of me.
” He was grinning at her and Rowan thought that all the girls at the party already took notice of him and were probably scheming to get his attention and an invitation to dance, and here he was, asking her. Brendan held out his hand to her and Rowan took it, enjoying the feel of his large hand closing around hers and making her feel safe and wanted. She followed him back to the yard, her heart thumping in time to the music. Maybe he was just feeling sorry for her, but she didn’t care. She certainly wasn’t the prettiest girl, but he was the handsomest lad, and right now she was the happiest girl in the world.
The Present
Chapter 15
The last hint of fuchsia faded from the summer sky as darkness finally settled on the meadow, thousands of stars shimmering in the clear velvety sky. A half-moon that looked like a slice of a juicy apple hung just above the treetops as it slowly began to ascend into the starlit expanse above us.
I stared into the leaping flames, mesmerized by the orange and crimson tongues that darted between the bits of wood, licking, caressing, and ultimately devouring everything in its path. The wood crackled, sending a shower of sparks into the night and making my face feel suddenly hot. Only a half hour ago, I could still make out the shape of tables and dressers that Aidan’s men had dragged to the hill, but now the individual pieces were indistinguishable from one another in the pyre. I’d spent the better part of the day administering red stickers, and now the house looked strangely empty after room after room had been cleaned out entirely. I did come across a few nice pieces which I decided to keep, but most of the late Mrs. Hughes’s possessions were consigned to the flames.
I could see the dark outline of the house against the navy-blue sky, the twin peaks of the pitched roof solid and symmetrical in their beauty; the numerous windows currently dark, the square panes of glass reflecting nothing but the nighttime sky. I’d run out to the shops while the furniture was being removed to get something for our bonfire picnic. It was my first solo foray into the village, and I walked up the street, looking at storefronts which were already closed for the night. Thankfully, the grocery store was still open, so I ducked in, grabbed a shopping basket and quickly tossed in some bread, cheese, ham, fruit, and some breakfast essentials. My next project was to clean the old stove and start cooking for myself. I couldn’t live on canned food for long.
The woman at the counter cast curious looks my way as I made my way down the narrow isle and finally arrived at the cash register with my shopping, tossing in a couple of bags of chips that were prominently displayed by the counter. How could I have forgotten chips?
“Will that be all, dear?” she asked in sugary tones. “Always a pleasure to see a new face hereabouts. I always tell my husband, “There’s not a single person I don’t know for miles around. I never forget a name or a face. Never.”
The woman was close to sixty, with wiry gray hair and a spherical shape that was displayed in all its rotund fullness by a sweater set in an unfortunate shade of canary yellow, paired up with a skirt of brown and beige plaid. Her dark eyes were lively as a young girl’s and nearly devoured me with undisguised curiosity. Her gaze travelled from my pony-tailed hair, over my face, down to my lime-green V-neck top and my jeans and flats, snapping back up to my face as I answered.
“Yes, for now.” I normally enjoyed talking to people, but this woman was appraising me as if I were a brood mare, no doubt collecting vital details to be shared with other patrons about the newcomer to their village. She was likely the village’s premier gossip, so being rude was not a good idea. It would just feed into the notion that all Americans were ill-mannered. I smiled brightly and introduced myself.
“I’m Lexi Maxwell,” I ventured. “I just bought the old Hughes place.”
“Don’t I know it?!” she exclaimed. “Such a shame that no one wanted the house after Eleanor died. But, it couldn’t have turned out better, could it?” she said cryptically.
“In what way?” I asked, confused.
“Well, it’s been in the family for generations.” She made this statement as if she were telling me something obvious, but I had no idea what she meant.
“And you have Aidan MacKay doing the work, I hear? Recommended by Paula Dees?” she asked with a look of naked disapproval. “Thick as thieves, they are, but he does good work, or so I’m told. Frankly, I have my doubts about him. He’s a Scot, a Highlander, and you know how they are.” She gave me a meaningful look, but I really had no idea how Scots were. Did she expect him to charge down the hill wild and barefoot, waving a sword and shrieking, his face painted blue with woad? Or were those Picts? Clearly I had my barbarians confused, but I wasn’t about to share that fact with the erstwhile shopkeeper. I could only imagine what she’d make of Aidan and I having a Midsummer Bonfire, but I wasn’t about to enlighten her.
“Ah, thank you,” I mumbled as I grabbed my shopping and stowed it in the canvas bag I’d brought along. I had to dash if I were to make sandwiches before sunset.
“It’s Mildred Higgins, dear,” the woman called after me as I left the store. Mildred Higgins, I thought, a perfect name for a busybody.
***
I handed Aidan another sandwich and watched him swallow it in two bites. He’d been quiet for the past few minutes, just staring into the flames clearly as mesmerized as I was, the pyre reflected in his clear blue eyes. No sign of the wild Highlander, I thought, as I took in his pensive expression.
“Are many people lighting bonfires tonight?” I asked, less because I wanted to know and more because I wanted to draw him into conversation.
“There are some. Mostly young people. They don’t really care about tradition, just like the romance of a roaring fire on a summer’s night. It’s still celebrated in Cornwall and Wales, and of course, Scotland since it’s the week of Beltane.”
“So, it’s a Pagan tradition then?”
“It used to be a celebration of the summer solstice, but the Church decided to appropriate it, as it did the winter solstice and turned it into Christmas. They made June 23rd St. John’s Eve, since supposedly John the Baptist was born on June 24th. It used to be a time of merriment and feasting, but the Church wasn’t pleased with the pagan elements of the celebrations and demanded that June 23rd should be a day of fasting instead. They sure know how to ruin a good time, don’t they?” he said with a grin.
“So, not a churchgoer then?” I quipped, hoping he’d tell me more about himself.
“Well, I come from a long line of sour-faced Scottish Presbyterians, but I like the old ways when people were less concerned with religious dogma and more in tune with the world around them. I guess I’m a Pagan at heart. What about you?”
“Lapsed Catholic. I haven’t been to church since my confirmation.”
To be honest, the last thing I wanted to do was discuss religion. I was curious about his fiancee and why he hadn’t brought her to the bonfire, but it seemed too forward to ask. Our relationship, technically speaking, was a business one, and although sitting here with him felt more like spending time with a friend, I was loathe to be the one to cross the line, but I hoped he would.
“So, why England?” Aidan asked as he took a sip of his beer and reached for another sandwich.
“I wish I could explain it, but it’s something I’ve wanted since I was little. I used to draw all these pictures of a house that looked much like this one with a river behind it, telling my parents that’s where I wanted to live. In my imagination, it was always in England. It used to drive my father mad. He didn’t like England for some reason. One year for Father’s Day, I gave him a drawing of him, Mom, and myself in front of a house flying a Union Jack. Let’s just say he didn’t put it up on the fridge.”
“Do you have British ancestry?”
“No. My father’s family settled in New York in 1842. They’d survived the Potato Famine in Ireland, and left as soon as they could manage to pay for their passage, only to lose two of their children during the crossing. Their name was McCormack, but they changed it to Maxwell,
thinking it would help them avoid prejudice directed at the Irish in those days. But the name change hadn’t really helped. You can take a man out of Ireland, but you can’t take Ireland out of the man just by changing a name. They struggled for many years, living in some tenement on the Lower East Side. I believe it was called Five Points then. It was a brutal place, run by brutal people. Few families survived intact. If it wasn’t the disease that got them, it was the crime.”
My father liked to tell the story of his family, painting a vivid picture of life in Five Points and the hardships the McCormacks endured. It took two generations for them to finally leave and move to Queens where they lived still.
“My father often spoke of the plight of my ancestors, which made him all the more proud that his own father, having come back from fighting in Europe after WWII, pulled himself up by his bootstraps and started Maxwell Paper Products, which he bequeathed to my father, who hoped, despite all my protests, that I would take over the company when he retired.”
“Does he still think you will?” Aidan asked, his eyes straying to the dark outline of the house down the hill.
“My father died of a heart attack nearly a year ago, and I sold the company soon after. He would have been heartbroken, but I just couldn’t bring myself to devote my life to selling boxes and file folders. I felt a crushing guilt, but that just wasn’t my dream.”
“Well, we all have our dreams, don’t we? My own father is actually a doctor, but my granddad had been a carpenter, so I probably take more after him. I like to work with my hands. There’s nothing like the feeling of satisfaction when you see the direct result of your work,” he said, as if feeling the need to explain why he chose to forsake his university education and do something else.
“I know a few famous carpenters who left a mark on the world,” I replied with a smile.
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