by Trisha Telep
To Brian, Maeve embodied all he knew of Ireland. As far from the ton of Boston as a person could be, Maeve was ugly, evidently poor and filled with a mixture of what seemed like fortitude and longing. She tugged at his heart, and he wondered why. No doubt just melancholy for his own mother and grandmother, long since crossed.
“Well, Brian, it seems you’re in need of a Leannán Sidhe, but do take care should you meet her.”
“Please, Maeve, no young women. I’ve had my fill, begging your pardon for mentioning it. I came for quiet.”
Maeve cackled out a laugh so hearty she collapsed on to the couch hugging her stomach. “You don’t know of the Aos Sí? The faery folk? The Gentry?”
Brian rested his head on his typewriter. He’d been warned that to open the door to an Irish story could mean the waste of hours of precious time. He turned and glanced at Maeve, still red in the face from laughing. How could he be rude to her?
“Go ahead; tell me about the wee faeries.”
“Wee? Ah, I see. Little brownies and such, is that it?” Maeve rose and brushed at her apron, which no amount of straightening would ever make crisp, and tucked her parchment white hair under her kerchief.
“I meant no offence! Do tell me.” Brian bit back a curse, knowing that he had to mend this rift lest guilt haunt him the rest of the day. The novel would have to wait. It seemed it always had to wait.
“If you truly insist?” Maeve sat again, and folded her hands reverently.
“I do insist.” Brian pulled the paper from his typewriter to show his willingness to listen, and lit his pipe.
“You are a writer, an artist, is that not so?”
A subtle smile pulled at her lips and Brian saw the joke. “As you well know, I have yet to write a thing of any import. I take that is an example of the famous Irish sense of humour.”
“That is why you must find your Leannán Sidhe!” She clapped her hands as if she’d made the cleverest announcement. “Your muse, Brian. A Leannán Sidhe is a lovely young woman, one of the Gentry. She imbues artists with intense creativity, and from her, they rise to the summit of their abilities. But one must take care, for your muse may also torture your spirit, so alluring is her form and well . . . ways, shall we say?”
“I’m finding that writing is torture enough, without throwing a Lea—?”
“Leannán Sidhe . . .”
“Without complicating matters with one of those.”
“Ah, all matters are already complicated, whether you wish for them or not.”
Brian wondered if Maeve had ever been lovely, had ever inspired a young man to great heights. And as he looked into her twinkling eyes, a fine shimmering mist arose between them. Beyond the veil of mist, sat a young Maeve, a much younger Maeve. The most beautiful girl Brian had seen or imagined. He shook his head and the illusion lifted as quickly as it came. I have the imagination of an artist, he thought. If I only had the talent to match.
“Well, Maeve, if you ever run into one of the Gentry, I will gladly accept any help they are willing to bestow. For I am now one month behind in my work. I may as well have stayed in Boston. No doubt I will return there as a failure. At least, I now wish I’d not told my friends that I would return a novelist.”
Maeve cheated every morning, as she had for hundreds of years. While the master of the house slept, she assumed her youthful form to perform the most arduous tasks. Technically, as a Corrigan, she could assume either of her personas at will, as long as she gave them equal time. Long ago, she’d found it easier to drift through the years as a crone. The bones ached, the muscles were weak, and there was no joy in glancing into the mirror, but men left her alone. Because no man cared about an old crone.
This is exactly what was required to break the spell of her kind. A man needed to love the crone as much as the beauty. She’d learned after much heartbreak, more than once, nay, more than a dozen times, that beauty was the only prize men cherished. Wasn’t this the curse of womankind, faery or human?
A youthful body made easy work of scrubbing a floor or pulling weeds from the garden, though. Brian Fitzpatrick was blessedly a sound sleeper. Poor fellow, she mused, wondering if he’d ever finish his book. He’d made good progress in the last few weeks, but he cursed when he didn’t think she heard. She’d found many pages of discarded would-be brilliance balled up under his desk or surrounding the ash can.
She tried to leave him alone, truly she did, but her mixed nature betrayed her at times. She’d knit an Aran sweater for him while sitting on the couch near his desk, eyeing his handsome profile, knowing that she drove him to near insanity with her clacking bone needles. At times she almost wished he’d speak his mind, tell her to leave the room, or worse, send her packing. Then she would reveal herself to his great amazement and shame, she fantasized.
No, Brian Fitzgerald was genteel and mannered, although without airs. He was not the sort to insult an old lady. He seemed to have come to enjoy their evening pipes by the fire nearly as much as she. Once, a bit in his cups after a particularly gruelling day of staring at a blank page, he’d pulled her in for a benign hug. Maeve had forced herself to stay the crone, while her spirit craved to cleave to his warm embrace as a young beauty.
Ah, just one kiss before he left for Boston, she fantasized as she pushed the basket of clean wet clothes on to her hip and set to the lines for hanging in the salt breeze. What would it hurt? One touch of that dark handsome cheek, one rake of her hand through his silken hair, one—
“Hello.”
Maeve jumped with a squeal and turned on her bare foot to see Brian, a bit sleepy, pushing a hand through his hair. His eyes widened as he took her in, and Maeve, for the first time in hundreds of years, fell mute.
“I’m sorry to have frightened you. I haven’t . . .” Brian went mute as well, and ran his gaze up and down her, sending coils of excitement and fear through her veins. He took a few hesitant strides and extended his hand.
“I’m Brian Fitzgerald, from Boston.”
Think, Maeve, for the love of the Goddess, think.
“Yes, of course you are!” She pinned his shirt to the line and ignored his extended hand. “Just getting this done. I’ll be out of your way presently.”
“That’s my washing.”
“Is it now? Oh my, well, no need for you to see this. Back in the house with you. I’m sure you’ll want some tea and bacon, and Maeve will have that for you shortly.”
“Where is Maeve?”
“I mean, she’ll have that for you when she returns from Kilronan. That’s where she is, Kilronan.”
“How did she get to town? She said nothing of it to me. Please do not say that my dear Maeve walked all that way.”
“Yes, she did. She does so quite often.”
“I must take the horse and cart to retrieve her then. She is not fit for that. Why did you let her go?”
“No! She did get a ride, now that I recall. I am so silly today, you must forgive me.” Maeve, Maeve, you are doing quite poorly here. Pull your knickers on straight and catch your breath.
She turned and faced Brian, feeling the heat rush to her cheeks. He’d think her a simpleton, and he’d be right to do so. “I am Fiona, Maeve’s granddaughter, come from Kilronan to help.”
“Ah, then I’m very pleased to meet you, Fiona.” Indeed he was, eyeing her with the lust that emanated from every man she encountered. He caught himself and straightened up, all but slapping himself in the face to stop gaping.
“So there is nothing wrong with Maeve? She has not called you here because the work is too arduous? I wondered about her family, but she never mentioned a granddaughter.”
Maeve started at his tone, a bit reprimanding. “I do help when I can.”
“I am very glad to hear it. I thought perhaps to hire a man to do the heavy work. It pains me to see her at her chores. I would just as well have her here as a guest. I would not insult her, but she is quite old. And I do believe she is the worst cook on the island.” He laughed lig
htly as Maeve’s blood started to boil.
“The worst cook, you said? On the island?”
“Perhaps the worst in Ireland. The woman can burn water, truth be told.”
Maeve bit at her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes, holding back a curse that would turn the bastard into a hare.
“Listen, you ungrateful, good for nothing American, with your fancy ways and tastes. My grandmother is a fine cook, a fine cook indeed. Imagine, calling Maeve MacGearailt a poor cook. Why don’t you push her to the ground and kick her? Do you know what it is to say such a thing about a MacGearailt? Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat.”
Brian had backed up several steps and was dangerously close to falling into a bramble. “What?”
“I said, may you be eaten by a cat that is eaten by the devil!”
“I’m very sorry, I had no idea . . .” He held up a hand to ward off her ire and tripped into the hedgerow.
Maeve saw her chance and made a break for it, picking up her skirts and running for all she was worth to the path leading to the beach. He’d follow her, she was sure, so she ducked behind a tree and cast a light shadow spell to remain hidden.
“Miss Fiona?” His call was but a whisper, and Maeve regretted lashing out at him so, at least a little. “Miss Fiona, where are you? I’m very sorry. I love your grandmother, and never meant an insult.”
I love your grandmother. Oh, if that were only true, Maeve thought.
He searched the beach, every room of the house, every foot of the grounds. Fiona had disappeared as suddenly as she’d materialized. Her impression on him, however, lingered.
Why was it that the most beautiful woman in the world had the temper of a crazed dog? Who would have guessed that one could become so irate over a comment about cooking? Surely the granddaughter knew that Maeve burned everything? And why hadn’t she come even once in the four months he’d been at Kildooney? Was she so busy in Kilronan, or did she care so little for her grandmère?
And if she was such a shrew, why did she burn in Brian’s mind and body like he’d been branded for eternity by the mere sight of her? What a beauty, with long straight dark hair and bright blue eyes – Maeve’s eyes, for sure, but without the film of the years clouding them. Her pale skin and wide curves figured heavily in his fantasies of kissing her and hovering an inch over her ready, loving and naked body.
Well, with Fiona gone, Maeve was the priority, for sure. He hitched the jaunting cart to old Eamon and headed for Kilronan, intent on finding his aged friend and, with any luck, becoming friends with the younger MacGearailt.
The road to Kilronan took him past tiny estates, so small they seemed fit only for the faery folk Maeve loved to speak of. He wound his way down to the sea, looking for Maeve and taking in the grey vista of the port and bay that would one day start his journey back to Boston. Without a novel in hand, at least one worth reading.
The best source of information in any Irish community, even in America, is the local pub, so that’s where he hitched Eamon. When his eyes adjusted to the low light and his nose to the strong odours, Brian settled on the oldest patron he could find – the most likely source of information. He was nearly as wizened as Maeve and, for all Brian knew, could have been her brother, so interrelated were these Aran folk.
Brian removed his hat and indicated the stool next to the man. “Do you speak English?”
“When I like.”
Brian bit back a groan and didn’t bother sitting. “I don’t suppose that this might be one of those times?”
“Depends on what you want with me, Brian Fitzgerald of Boston, Massachusetts.”
Lord, of course. There wouldn’t be a soul in Kilronan who didn’t know his identity and his business, and probably his hat size as well.
Brian put a coin on the bar and motioned to the keep to bring another round to the stranger.
“I’m looking for Maeve MacGearailt, and her granddaughter, Fiona. Have you seen either?”
“Fiona?” The man turned to face Brian and narrowed his eyes. “There is no Fiona of Maeve’s blood, you fool. Daft, are you? Looking for the Tuatha Dé Danann?”
Brian stared blankly, wondering frantically how to avoid another long tale.
“The Gentry, lad. You don’t look for them; they find you. Now be off with your Fiona and Maeve. Find one and find both. You’ll be in Boston before Samhain, for sure, with Maeve’s boot print on your arse.”
Brian picked up his coin and turned on his heel, hearing the stranger mutter “Imeacht gan teacht ort” behind him.
“I certainly won’t come back,” Brian called over his shoulder. He’d not found poor Maeve or irate Fiona, and had only a thirsty horse and a fierce headache for his trouble. Perhaps it was time to think about going home. They were all crazy, superstitious and ill-tempered, these island natives. Still, the whole ride home, the vision of Fiona danced in his head, and started an enchanted spiralling journey into his chest.
Maeve pulled her shawl over her head as she walked the grey strand, thinking of Brian, as she did most waking moments. For four months she’d endured the torture of his closeness. Torture because it was not close enough. He was a good man, and a good man deserved the truth, but she was not free to give the truth to him. Within weeks, he would tire of his would-be sanctuary, tire of his hag of a housekeeper, and sail away forever.
Didn’t she deserve his touch, a bit of closeness, a kiss, an embrace? Could she stand, just one more time, to enjoy the attention of a man without falling in love with him?
Too late, she thought, wiping a tear from her cheek. Unrequited love was her fate, the fate of all the women of her kind, for all eternity. And indeed, she did love Brian.
Maeve fretted with a tangle in her hair as she walked, wishing now she had not left a note for him. For as sure as day would turn to night an hour hence, Brian Fitzgerald would be happy to have a beauty under his roof instead of a hag. But he would not stay; he would not love her.
Be strong, Maeve, she chastised herself, and made her way up the path towards Kildooney House. Enjoy this time you have. You may not see the likes of this man for a long time.
He sat on the steps and rose as she approached the house. “Miss Fiona! I’ve looked for you. I’m very sorry to have angered you.”
Maeve smiled at his blush. “Was I angry? I cannot recall.” She winked and his blush deepened.
“I am forgiven? I saw Maeve’s note saying that she must visit her sister in Galway for a week. I had no idea she had a sister!”
“Aye, a twin sister.”
“Imagine, two of them! I have been the worst friend to her. Thinking only of myself and my petty cares.”
“You are the master of the house, Mr Fitzgerald. Your cares are ours.”
“I do not need care, Miss Fiona. I can take care of myself, and you can return to Kilronan if you like.” Maeve saw it pained him to suggest it, and wondered what manner of man turned away a beautiful young woman ready to serve him.
“No, I promised Maeve I would look after you. Especially your meals.” Maeve winked again and this time, Brian laughed fully. What a sight, she thought, as his handsome face came to life. I’ll have him for a time, and Goddess willing, it will be sweet enough to help me swallow this bitter pill of fate.
“I will eat what you put before me, without a word. Please, will you let me do any heavy work? I am tired of watching Irish women work their fingers to the bone on my account.”
“We shall see.” Maeve swept by Brian into the house, letting him catch a whiff of her magical scent to set the wheels in motion. He’d be on her in an instant.
To her amazement, Brian strode into his study, lit his pipe, and settled in at his desk. She stood and watched from the doorway as he threaded a new sheet of paper into his machine, cracked his knuckles, and starting tapping away.
Maeve ran to the great room and scurried before the full-length mirror, terrified she’d morphed permanently into an ogre. The exquisite image she’d seen for c
enturies stared back at her in concern. She’d flirted, and he’d sat down to work. Well, that would not do at all! Maeve hadn’t imagined that Brian had undressed her with his eyes, that he’d had to pick his tongue off the earth at the first sight of her.
Perhaps the isolation had finally taken its toll? Had he gone mad?
Maeve hurried to the kitchen to brew a kettle of tea, tapping her foot as she waited for the water to churn. When she entered the study, Brian did not look up, but continued tapping away.
“Excuse me, Brian. Tea is on.”
He looked up, confusion etched on his face. “Tea?”
“Certainly Maeve brought you tea while you worked?” Maeve poured and sat on the couch near his desk, not waiting for an invitation to join him.
“Yes, sorry. I say, my brain has sprung a leak on to the page! Oh, I wish Maeve were here to tell. She’d be so happy for me. I have you to thank.” He smiled and Maeve’s heart lurched in her chest.
“Me?”
“Yes, I believe you may be the muse she warned me about! An exquisite beauty who would bring me to my highest level of creativity.”
“Do you mean a Leannán Sidhe?”
“That’s it exactly! Now, I don’t believe all of Maeve’s tales, but she did warn me to take care should such a beauty appear. As soon as I sat down, the words came pouring from my fingertips. I fancy they’re good words.”
Maeve covered her mouth with her hand. The man thought her a threat?
“I’m no muse, Brian. Just a pretty face. You can’t honestly believe that I could torture you into a terrible lovelorn state?”
“Oh, I believe you could wear down a holy man. Your beauty has inspired me to write a tale of unrequited love.” He sipped at his tea and smiled sincerely.
“For the love of . . .” You imbecile, she wanted to scream. “Must it be unrequited? Couldn’t it be more . . . requited? Returned? Consummated?”
His eyes widened and he rattled his cup on its saucer. “Miss Fiona, I . . . I can barely imagine . . . well, I can imagine . . . I could not dream of . . . could I?”