Standing Stones

by Beth Camp

  “No.”

  “I remember good years. We had a small holding near Ennis, and then we lost it. We lived by hiring out and by poaching.” He sighed. “‘Twas either that or no food. Came a time we couldn’t pay the rent. Everywhere, people was living in the lanes and starving. So we went to Ulster, looking for work, and we found it at Peterport. We scrabbled enough together to pay passage over to Glasgow for my two brothers and me. The plan was for us to work and send money back .The rest, my father, my mother, and three sisters stayed in Peterport, picking up day jobs as they could.”

  He couldn’t speak for a moment, and then he laughed, a harsh sound in the cool night. “I’ll save the rest for another time. You wouldn’t believe how many starving Irishmen they can fit on one of those ferries.”

  Moira could feel the muscles on his arm tighten. The moon hung low on the horizon. “It’s so beautiful tonight, you nearly forget the hard times,” she said. “What happened in Glasgow?”

  “You sure you want to hear this?" Dylan shook his head. "I was taken up at a shipyard, and Michael and Sammy got in at the railroad. We found a place to stay, crammed in at the top of a tenement seven stories high. There we slept, the three of us, sharing half a room and sending money home. Except it wasn’t enough. First we got word that my youngest sister died. Then my mother and my father went. After that we didn’t hear anything. ‘Twas the cholera. God forgot us all.”

  “No, never say that.” Moira wondered if words were ever enough. “My mother and father both died. There’s only my brothers and me.”

  “Then you know.”

  She nodded.

  “There’s more,” said Dylan. He cleared his throat and held her hands tightly. “In the spring, the cholera came to Glasgow. It spread through the tenements like a plague, and it took my younger brother, Sammy. All that’s left now is Michael and me.”

  They walked in silence for a bit, holding hands. “I have two younger brothers,” Moira said. “I don’t know how I’d feel if anything happened to them.”

  “You don’t die,” Dylan said. “That’s the hard part. They’ve all been black days until I saw you dancing this night.”

  “Your brother, Michael. Is he here tonight?”

  “Ah, no. If he were, we’d be fighting over you.” Dylan grinned. “He’s digging track down by Inverness.”

  “So, how came you to Foulksay?”

  “Hired I was, by the lord’s factor from the boatyard over in Inverness. I’m here to help the fishermen rebuild their boats.”

  “You’ll be working with my two older brothers, then.”

  Dylan threw back his head and laughed. “Lucky I am. I’ll charm those trolls until they think I’m one of them, and they’ll bring me home to you.” He picked Moira up and twirled her around. “Let’s go back to dancing, for if we stay here, I’ll kiss you before I should.”

  Moira leaned her face close to Dylan. “Then kiss me now, for I’d like to know how an Irishman kisses.”

  Dylan stood completely still.

  Moira couldn’t take her eyes away from his. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her gently, his lips warm on hers. The tip of his tongue teased her lips, and his kiss lasted until she could no longer breathe, yet she wanted him to never stop.

  The kiss ended. She wasn’t sure if she should stay or run away. She smiled and so did he.

  “Beautiful.” Dylan stroked her hair and drew her close. “Moira, Moira. Your name reminds me of the Queen of Heaven, and that you are, queen of my heaven.”

  They watched the stars shine above the sea.

  “You know that I’m serious about you?” he asked after a long while.

  “Yes.” Moira felt tears in her eyes.

  “Hist, love, tears? None of that. ‘Tis not a bad thing. As you see, I’m only an Irishman, and Protestant to boot, not enough to stand between us.”

  “It’s not that.” Moira wanted nothing more than to stay here next to him for the sheer joy of being close to him, smelling the salt on his body, holding his hand. A tumult of emotions ran through her. Her brothers would be waiting. After Sunday, she’d be starting at Westness or back down on the beach, cleaning fish. “We better go back.”

  “Not ‘till this is resolved.” He looked at their hands, joined together. “I want to see you again. I hear sometimes people meet out by the standing stones. Will you meet me there tomorrow eve when the moon rises?”

  "Aye." Moira knew in that moment that nothing else mattered, not her brothers, not Westness.

  CHAPTER 17: AFTER LAMMAS

  The next morning, Moira dished up porridge for her brothers and wondered if she would meet Dylan that night at the standing stones.

  Jamie and Colin pushed each other over who would get the last of the Lammas bread.

  Mac’s eyes narrowed. “I saw you with that scrap of a man, that stranger. I asked around. Is that what’s bringing a silly smile to your face? You’ve not done anything foolish, have you, lass?”

  “What would I be doing? Yes, I finally met a man. Little enough you would know, with you off fishing all day and gone all night.” Moira leveled her wooden spoon at Mac. “And when are you going to find a wife so I’m not the only one here cleaning and cooking and washing and all, and now working up at Westness.”

  “Don’t try to change what we’re talking about. That man’s an outsider, Moira. He’s out to break your heart, and then he’ll slip away like an unknotted rope.” Mac's head barely cleared the beams of the ceiling. “As to the rest, you should know that I’m serious about Deidre.”

  “Serious? Whatever does that mean? You could be serious about a person for a hundred years and never take a wife,” Moira shot back.

  Jamie and Colin giggled behind their hands.

  “Shut your laughing,” Mac growled. “I hear the Irish are coming over by the thousands down south. They’re filling up the cities, and they’re taking our work. Ah, what’s the point? I know what kind of man he is. He’s most likely gone off the island by now, with never a thought for you.”

  “He’s not leaving. Mac, give him a chance. He’s had a hard time.”

  “Told you a pretty story, did he? What's he doing here?”

  “He’s to help the fishermen rebuild their boats.” Moira saw the anger rise in Mac’s face. “Wait. I know that’s something you don’t want, but, Mac, I don’t care he’s a stranger or even an Irishman. I wouldn’t care if he were a papist. I want a chance to know him.”

  “You’ll know him all right if he gets his way. What did he do to you so fast?”

  “Nothing. We just danced and talked.”

  “Out, boys,” Mac said. “Stay close for we’re leaving for church shortly. That’s right. Off you go. Moira, stay a moment. Dougal, stay as well.”

  “Why do I have to go out? I’m old enough,” Colin grumbled. “I could have met someone dancing.”

  Mac glared at Colin. “And does your head hurt? Don’t think I didn’t see you drinking buckets of ale last night. Out.”

  The stone cottage was quiet. Moira couldn’t help a sense of dread. She remembered Dylan as clearly as if he stood before her, the warmth of his lips on hers. Now I’ll have to fight to see him again, but I will. She busied herself with cleaning up, scraping the porridge pot clean, keeping her back to her brothers.

  Mac and Dougal exchanged glances. “Moira, come sit. We need to talk,” Mac said.

  Moira pulled a stool from under the side table and sat. She glared at Mac.

  “Ah, sister, dinna work yourself up. This is serious business. Did this man force himself on you?”

  “His name is Dylan. We danced and talked. That’s all.” Moira crossed her arms.

  “Is he a papist?” Mac began pacing.

  “No. He's Protestant, same as you and me. Maybe not our kirk, but we didn't talk about that.”

  “I'll bet,” said Mac.

  “Moira, he's not one of us.” Dougal hunkered down next to Moira. “Surely you don’t want that?”

&nbs
p; “He makes me laugh. He’s kind and gentle. He lost his sisters and his family back in Ireland; otherwise, he wouldn’t be here.”

  “I saw the two of you dancing,” said Dougal. “You looked happy last night. But we don’t know anything about this man.”

  “I want to see him again.”

  “First, we talk to him,” said Mac.

  Dougal nodded.

  “I will see him again,” Moira replied. “If you harm the slightest hair on his head, you won’t be my brothers, not in the same way ever again. That I promise you.”

  “But he works for Lord Gordon,” Mac interrupted. “All they want is to squeeze more and more money out of us. You might as well know Lord Gordon increased our rent. That’s what he told us last night while you were all making music and dancing. And there’s nothing we can do about it.” Mac threw his hands out in frustration. “So we need that money you’ll get at Westness, but I still don’t like you working up there. And now there’s this Irish man on top of it. We’ll talk to him before you meet again, that’s certain.”

  “His name is Dylan. Mac, you won’t hurt him, will you?”

  “We’ll talk to him gently,” said Dougal.

  Mac nodded. “But you’re not to see him again until we do. Agreed?”

  “All right.”

  Mac stood abruptly. “Enough of this. I've got a meeting after church, Sabbath or no.” Mac crammed his cap on his head and slammed out of the cottage.

  “He’ll cool down,” said Dougal. “He’s just angry about the rents and all.”

  “I know.” Moira pulled her shawl close. “But, Dylan’s different.”

  “We’ll see.” Dougal put his arm around his sister. “Come on. You’ll be safe enough in church. For sure you won’t be seeing him there.”

  Moira bristled. “You don’t know that.”

  The McDonnells didn't talk as they walked down the hill to St. Ninian's. Inside, Moira and her brothers took up nearly the entire back row. Moira sat on the narrow wooden bench next to Jamie and Colin. She sneaked a glance at Mac and tipped forward a little to see if Dylan had come and where he might sit. Peter MacTavish scowled at her. Moira looked at her hands.

  But she couldn’t find either Dylan or Lord Gordon. In the very front of the church, closest to the altar, Lady Alice sat alone in the family pew, wearing a small hat with a veil that concealed her face.

  Around her, the congregation rustled. Jamie fidgeted. Moira nudged him to keep him still. Maybe Dylan had come, and she couldn't see him. Maybe he would speak to her after services. She flushed. She wished her mother were alive. The wind picked up outside. Moira felt a cold draft on her feet.

  Pastor McPherson came in from the sacristy, one finger holding his place in his Bible. He nodded to Lady Alice. “Today, my children, we mark the end of summer. For it is written in Ecclesiastics, there is a time for sowing and a time for reaping. Now we reap the bounty of our labor.”

  Pastor McPherson paused. “We know the future is uncertain. We do not know if we can carry the burdens that come to us. But if we have faith in God and in ourselves, we will prevail. Let us give thanks to God for our blessings. When the collection box is passed this morning, consider our neighbors. Who is in want? Who goes hungry this day? Let us pray.”

  Moira peeked at the bowed heads around her and at her brothers to see if they were truly praying. Only Mac’s head remained upright, his eyes open as he stared at Lady Alice.

  CHAPTER 18: MOIRA AT WESTNESS

  Moira wrapped her plaid tightly around her shoulders and quickened her steps as she set off on the walk to Westness just after sunrise. She could barely see the path before her as the sky lightened. Cormorants cried out over a passing school of fish. The birds dove into the sea and wheeled back again, hunting breakfast. She felt like running. Today, she wouldn’t be cleaning fish.

  That first morning at Westness, all was chaos. Sarah Britton, sweaty, her apron stained with fresh jelly, shouted and bullied everyone who came near. Moira didn’t know where anything was or what she was supposed to do.

  When she thought she couldn’t stand another moment, Moira thought of the higher rents due next quarter day and Jamie's love of books. She imagined Mrs. Britton out on their boat, screeching at her brothers. That made it all possible.

  “You, girl, help Maggie take the trays up,” Mrs. Britton said, gesturing to Moira. “Now, don’t look directly at himself, and for God’s sake, don’t spill anything.”

  “Yes, mum,” said Moira, as she lifted the heavy breakfast tray and followed Maggie up the dark, winding back stairs. She nearly tripped at the door to the dining room and kept her eyes on the floor as she followed Maggie over to the side table and laid out the serving dishes, eggs covered with cream sauce, kippers, black olives, and fried potatoes with tomatoes and bacon. The smells made her dizzy. So much food. Even white bread.

  Moira sneaked a peek at the laird. She was to call him Lord Gordon if he spoke to her. He sat at the very end of the table, alone with his papers. Benson served tea and then breakfast. Moira and Maggie stood at attention by the great sideboard, bringing dishes over as directed. Finally, they carried the trays, cluttered with used dishes and half-eaten food, back downstairs to the kitchen.

  “We’ll come back up when they ring the bell. No guests today,” said Maggie, with a nudge. “That means we’ll have more for us later.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Moira.

  “Didn’t they tell you?” Maggie stopped on the stairs. “Now that the new laird's here, there’s people coming and going all the time. We get whatever’s left over. Sometimes it’s not so much, but aren’t you hungry?”

  Moira nodded. “What about Lady Gordon? She wasn’t at breakfast.”

  “You mean Lady Alice? She don’t eat downstairs any more. She’ll have something in her room. Tea and a bit of toast is all she’ll eat. Most likely she’ll want her tray in her room right about the time we need to bring the rest of the dishes down from the morning room.” Maggie pushed a piece of white bread into her mouth and kept walking down the staircase. “You don’t want to be around them when they start arguing. And watch out for Perkins. Don’t let him get you alone.”

  Somehow, Moira got through the first day. She brought in endless loads of peat for the two large fireplaces in the kitchen, scrubbed pots, and washed dishes. She chopped vegetables and skinned meats as Mrs. Britton instructed. In the afternoon, Moira kneaded dough made up with white flour into rounds of fresh bread and brought provisions up from the cellar. She helped carry up trays for afternoon tea and dinner. She had never seen so much food, and, as Maggie had said, the staff ate some of what was left over, with scraps going to the pigs behind the stables.

  At supper, Moira carried up heavy trays with platters of meat and potatoes, a soup of leeks, and a raisin pie with cream to pour over it. At the end of the day, she scrubbed the stone kitchen floor and cleared away the last pots. She was tired but happy. Mrs. Britton had stopped shouting at her. Perkins had done no more than stare at her.

  Moira lay down to sleep beside the fireplace on a pallet made of blankets, warm and surrounded by the smell of the kitchen. She could hear Maggie's even breathing nearby. She looked up at the heavy beams over her head. Had Jamie fed her chickens and remembered to check the cheese? Had they taken her finished caps down to Scott’s Mercantile? Was Mac still angry about Dylan?

  Around her, all was quiet, but Moira lay awake, her back a little sore. She rubbed one finger that had gotten burned on a pot. Dylan. She could hardly see his face. Thick black hair she remembered, that and his warm hands. Perhaps she would see him on Saturday. Maybe Mac and Dougal had already talked to him, and he would be waiting at the house. She snorted. Not bloody likely. But she would go home Saturday afternoon. Maybe she could take a bundle of food as well. She fell asleep as the moonlight coming through the windows slowly faded to night.

  The kitchen was still dark when Maggie gave her a push. “Wake up. We got to get the fires started afore Cook com
es in, or she’ll have a fit. You do this one, and I’ll do the morning room.” Moira quickly pulled her shawl over her dress and stacked the peat in the fireplace. Another day had begun.

  On Thursday afternoon, Moira leaned against the casement outside the back door. She’d been up since dawn. The dishes and pots were clean for the moment, but she could hear Mrs. Britton clattering at the stove, starting a soup for dinner. Her hands were grimy from rebuilding the fire. She wished she had more than a moment alone. The kitchen garden stretched before her, tidy rows of onions and parsley, garlic and basil. She had filled her basket with potatoes and greens.

  “Hello, Moira.”

  Moira jerked around.

  Dylan stood before her.

  “I wasn’t sure you came to Westness.” He was as handsome as she’d remembered.

  A glint of humor edged his smile, and Dylan pulled her in his arms right there in the garden by the back door of the kitchen.

  His lips were warm. Moira lost herself in his kiss and then remembered. She could lose her job. “Hist. Stop. Someone will see you, and I’ll be in trouble.”

  “How could such a pretty one be in trouble?”

  “Ah, I’m working now. And I’m supposed to be inside in a few minutes more. Did my brothers talk to you?”

  “Aye, they talked. I listened. And the fairest lass of all Foulksay is mine to court.”

  “Did they say that?”

  “Not in so many words. But they didn’t say I couldn’t.”

  “I thought of you.” For a moment she leaned into Dylan’s arms.

  “Come out tonight?”

  “Impossible.”

  “Such a pretty bird. I’ll wait for you as long as it takes. When can you walk out with me?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll be home Saturday afternoon. Maybe then. I’ve got to go in.”

  “Stay until they call you.”

  Moira was still in his arms. She could feel his heart beating. She leaned her head against his shoulder. She wanted to breathe in his scent.