* * *
Monday was the first day of school, and like all the mornings of all the first days of school that had come before, this morning was proving to be a trial for Olivia. Carrie rebelled at the idea of having silly ribbons in her hair and hated her school dress because it now had a ruffle. Miranda was in tears, her excitement about school dissolving into terror when she realized Mama was not going with her. Becky whined that it wasn't fitting to give Miss Sheridan three jars of spiced peaches again this year for her first-day gift. Conor proved to be no help whatsoever. He ducked out the back door halfway through breakfast, just about the time Miranda threw up. Obviously, domestic bliss was still an alien concept to him. Olivia watched him go, and she wondered if it always would be.
By the time Oren came to take the girls into town with his own children, Olivia was heartily glad to see them go. She walked back into the kitchen, which looked as if the Union Army had marched through it, rolled up her sleeves, and began cleaning up the mess.
It took about thirty minutes, just long enough to do the breakfast dishes, for her to realize that, for the first time in years, she was completely alone in the house. Miranda had always been at home with her, and that had somehow made it easier to send Becky and Carrie off for the first day of school. But now Miranda was at school with them, she wasn't at home getting underfoot and demanding attention.
Olivia sank down in one of the kitchen chairs, suddenly feeling incredibly lonely. The house was so quiet. She missed her baby.
Chester ambled over to her side. He nuzzled her hand with a whine, as if to say he missed Miranda, too. She patted the dog's head, brushed away a solitary tear with an impatient swipe of her hand, and told herself not to be silly. She had piles of laundry to do, and sitting here wasn't getting it done.
But instead of getting to work as she knew she ought, Olivia rested her elbow on the table and her cheek in her hand, staring dismally at the empty kitchen.
She wondered what Conor was doing. Avoiding her, probably. She couldn't blame him for that. He hadn't wanted to be tied to a farm and a ready-made family. He had only married her out of a sense of obligation. She thought wistfully of that night in Monroe, of how for one brief moment he had let her into his solitary life, and the price he had paid for it.
She was filled with desolation at the idea of spending all the days of her life loving him, knowing he did not love her, knowing he did not want her, knowing he might even hate her for what he had been forced to do, knowing that one day she could wake up and find him gone.
She glanced up at the ceiling, confessing her deepest fear aloud to the only one she knew was listening. "How do I make him forget the past?" she whispered. "I love him so, and I'm so afraid it isn't enough."
But Olivia knew the only thing she could do was keep right on loving him and hope for the best. She was not going to walk on eggshells, or worry about what might not happen, or indulge in any self-pity. She rose from the table and went back to work.
By midday, the laundry was hanging on the clothesline, the garden was weeded, and a pot of vegetable soup was simmering on the stove. She put a pan of corn bread in the oven, and went in search of Conor to tell him dinner was ready. But she did not find him in the yard, or in any of the outbuildings, and she wondered where he had gone.
But she did not go searching for him any farther. When he felt crowded, he retreated to a safe and solitary distance. It was his way, and she wasn't going to go chasing after him. She ate her dinner alone; she did the ironing; and she tried not to think about how quiet and empty the house seemed.
But by midafternoon, she couldn't stand the quiet any longer. She went in search of Conor again. This time, he proved much easier to find. She found him in the old toolshed, sorting through Nate's junk. He glanced up as she entered the dim and dusty shed.
"You missed dinner," she said, striving to sound casual. She wondered where he had gone, how he had spent his day, but she did not ask him. Instead, she asked, "Are you hungry?"
He shook his head. "Thanks, but it's getting too late. I'll wait for supper." He tossed a rusty bucket aside and gestured to a stack of unused lumber in the corner. "Do you mind if I use some of this?"
"Of course not. You don't have to ask my permission, Conor," she said in a quiet voice. "This is your home now, too."
His lips tightened. He turned away and knelt down to rummage through a crate of tools. "Yes, I suppose it is."
He didn't sound happy about that, but what else could she expect? To avoid the painful direction her thoughts were taking, she changed the subject. "What are you going to do with the lumber?"
"I don't really know," he said. "But it seems a shame to let it sit here waiting for the termites to get it." He paused, then looked up at her and added, "When I was fixing the roof, I was thinking how good it felt to hold a hammer again. I haven't done carpentry for a long time."
"Is that what you did back in Ireland?"
He nodded. "I began as an apprentice to a furniture maker when I was sixteen."
She leaned back against Nate's dust-covered workbench, which stood beside the door, as Conor continued to sort through the contents of the crate. "Did you give it up to become a prizefighter?"
"No." He rose to his feet and lifted the crate, then moved to her side to set the crate on the workbench. "I gave it up to become a rebel," he said, taking a router out of the crate to examine it more closely. "A Fenian. A full-time thorn in the side of the British Empire."
She remembered his bitter, drunken words of two nights before, and she knew by the ironic glance he gave her, he remembered them, too. But she was not— was not—going to become a nag about spirits, or any other subject, for that matter.
"Fenian," she repeated the strange-sounding word thoughtfully. "Does that mean some sort of secret society?"
"Aye. The Irish Republican Brotherhood." He set the router back in the crate. "Your man had some fine tools."
His words sounded so funny, she couldn't help it— she burst out laughing.
Conor shot her a puzzled glance. "Did I say something funny?"
She clamped one hand over her mouth and shook her head, still laughing, unable to speak. "Nate was about seventy years old," she finally managed. "Black as coal, with a long, scraggly, white beard and teeth yellow from chewing tobacco." She made a wry face. "Nasty habit. He was a sweet old dear, but he wasn't, by any stretch of the imagination, 'my man,' as you put it."
"It's a figure of speech, love. In Ireland, we say 'your man' to mean someone you know, or someone you've just met, or even a stranger who approaches you. Actually," he added as her smile widened, "now that I think about it, the term could refer to just about anybody."
"It's odd the way different people say things, isn't it? Down here, we say, 'I reckon,' and you say, 'I'm thinking,' but it means the same thing, doesn't it? 'It's going to rain, I reckon.' 'It's going to rain, I'm thinking.'"
"Well, the Irish are known to say things in a way other people find amusing."
"Such as?"
"If I run into a man I haven't seen for a while, I'd probably say something like, 'Why, Daniel O'Shea, is that yourself?'"
She smiled. "Well, down here, we say things that the Yankees find odd, that's for sure."
"That's one of them."
"What?"
"In Ireland, any American is a Yankee."
She lifted her chin. "I am not a Yankee. Calling me one is a good way to start a fight."
He grinned at her. "I'll remember that. Or I'll just have to keep ducking when you throw eggs at me."
Suddenly, they were laughing together. She looked at him and remembered what had happened after the eggs. Slowly, their laughter faded into silence.
Olivia felt a tingling awareness radiating through her body. When he moved a hairsbreadth closer, she realized wildly that he was going to kiss her. She swayed toward him.
"Daddy! Mama! Where are you?"
Miranda's voice had both of them jerking back at once.
But neither of them looked away. She licked her dry lips, watched his gaze catch on the nervous movement. "The girls are home," she said.
"I figured that," he answered dryly.
"Daddy? Mama? Where are you?"
Feeling almost vexed at the interruption, when she'd been missing her girls like crazy all day, Olivia stepped back through the doorway of the shed and glanced toward the house. Becky and Carrie were coming down the porch steps, but Miranda was much closer. "We're in here!" she called, beckoning to them with a wave of her hand. She also waved to Oren and his four school-age children as he turned the wagon around and headed for home.
Miranda came flying toward the shed, and Olivia smiled, holding out her arms. But the child raced past her into the shed with a perfunctory, "Hello, Mama," and ran straight to Conor.
Olivia turned and watched through the doorway, astonished and somewhat bemused as Conor lifted the child into his arms.
"Look, Daddy!" she said excitedly, holding up a sheet of paper with one hand and wrapping her free arm around his neck. "Look what I drew at school. It's a kangaroo. They have them in Australia. Miss Sheridan told us."
Daddy? Olivia was too astonished to be hurt by the lack of attention. Miranda had called him Daddy, and he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he didn't even seem surprised.
He studied the drawing. "Sure, and it is, lass. A kangaroo. It's a wonderful picture. I think we'll have to frame it and hang it in the house somewhere." He glanced at Olivia. "Don't you think?"
"Of course," she choked, averting her head to blink back another sudden onslaught of tears. But they were not tears of melancholy this time.
Carrie was the next one through the door, and she immediately demanded Daddy's attention as well, showing him her sketch of a castle and explaining to him what a parapet was used for.
Becky came last. She showed Conor the intricate map of Ireland she'd drawn with all the counties and major cities written on it; and Conor read the unfamiliar names aloud for her. "Sligo, Leitrim, Donegal. . ."
Through a blurry haze, Olivia watched her daughters clamoring for Conor's attention, and for the first time, she felt hope for her marriage.
She walked over to stand beside him and have a look at the drawings her daughters had made. After she'd made a great deal of fuss over them, she said, "There's cookies in the kitchen," and watched them race out of the shed. She called after them, "Only two apiece, or you'll ruin your supper! And put your dinner pails away."
She turned her attention to Conor, who was studying Miranda's sketch, still in his hand. He glanced at her. "A kangaroo?" he asked dubiously.
She leaned closer to have another look at the drawing, then she turned it right-side up for him. "Definitely a kangaroo."
The following morning, Conor was awakened by the sound of hurried footsteps overhead, as the girls got ready for school. After he dressed, he went out to chop the wood for Olivia, carried it into the kitchen, and built a fire in the stove. He then took the pail from its hook on the wall and went out to milk the cow for her, knowing she was busy trying to get the girls ready, and thinking she might need a bit of help with the chores.
That was where she found him. He glanced up as she entered the barn, not missing her astonished expression.
"You're milking the cow," she said.
"You don't have to sound so surprised. I do know how." He pulled the filled pail out from beneath Princess, rose to his feet, and pushed aside the milking stool, then turned and handed the pail of milk to her. She took it, but she continued to eye him as if this were the last thing in the world she would have expected. He watched that radiant smile light her face.
He suddenly felt uncomfortable. He didn't want her thinking this was anything to make a fuss about. "I just thought you might need some help in the mornings now that the girls are in school," he explained, looking away. He pointed to the sack of chicken feed in the corner. "I'll take over feeding the chickens, too, if you like."
"Thank you," she said and started for the door, the pail of milk in her hand. In the doorway, she stopped and turned back. "Conor?"
"Hmm?"
"If you'll bring in the eggs, I'll make breakfast. I've got fresh bread in the oven this morning."
She disappeared through the door before he could reply, but her words eased the tension inside him, and a sense of satisfaction slowly took its place.
That morning created a new routine in the house. While Olivia got the girls ready for school, Conor did the morning chores. After he'd brought in the milk and the eggs, Olivia made breakfast, while he took the water she'd heated for him to his room, where he bathed and shaved. After breakfast, the girls went off to school, and Conor and Olivia went about their own work. By tacit agreement, they divided work into two distinct halves, with Olivia handling the household tasks, and leaving the outdoor work to Conor, along with anything that required the use of a ladder.
To his surprise, Conor found the routine that defined his days did not feel stifling. He was able to choose how to spend his day. He could do whatever work he felt like doing, and that had an appeal of its own. Instead of feeling suffocated, he began to find a certain satisfaction in the hard work that kept him busy until late in the day, when the girls came home and told him what they'd learned that day, when he sat at the supper table and listened to them say grace, when in the cool of evening he sat beside Olivia in an uncomfortable chair on the back porch and enjoyed the quiet and the serenity.
Something deep within him turned toward those moments with her, like a plant turning toward the sunlight. But he could not believe that it would last. And even as part of him began to anticipate it, actually hunger for it, another part of him remained uneasy and tense, waiting for it all to end, to crash down around him in pieces.
He continued to sleep alone, and Olivia made no further attempts to change the arrangement. He knew she did not understand his reasons, and he could not explain them to her. He'd spent the better part of his life on his own; he'd never felt the desire to confide in anyone. He couldn't do it now. But there were times, when they sat on the porch side by side, when he watched her bent over her sewing, her face soft in lamplight through the kitchen window, that he felt the overpowering desire to confide in her. But shame kept him silent.
There were times, too, when all he wanted was to grab her, carry her up those stairs, and make love to her. Just the sight of her hair in the sunlight or the sound of her voice when she said his name were enough to arouse him. But he thought of all the women he'd had who'd woken in the morning to find him gone, and he could not treat Olivia that way. She deserved a man who would sleep by her side when it was over, and he could not.
He still had dreams, and late at night, while the rest of the house slept, Conor would often go out to the toolshed with a lamp and work until the wee small hours, keeping his demons at bay with hammer and saw instead of a punching bag. He was making something special, and he did not want to think about why he was making it.
27
Saturday night was the harvest dance, and that morning, Becky tried on her blue silk dress at least five times, asked Olivia if it looked all right at least a dozen times, and acted so jumpy that her mother finally lost patience with her.
"For heaven's sake, Rebecca Ann, find something to do," she exclaimed in vexation when Becky started to ask her yet another question. "You're making me crazy."
"But, Mama, I just realized something."
Olivia sighed and looked up from the butter churn, exasperated. "Conor took your sisters fishing down by the creek. Why don't you join them?"
"But, Mama—"
"Out." Olivia pointed to the door.
Becky whirled around and left the kitchen, but she slammed the door behind her, making it clear that she thought her mother a most insensitive person for not listening to her. Olivia didn't care. She was too relieved.
But an hour later when she went out to the barn,
Olivia found that Conor and the girls were n
ot fishing. She heard voices from inside the barn as she approached.
"One-two-three . . . one-two-three . . ."
What on earth? She stepped inside the barn and came to an abrupt halt, staring in astonishment at the sight that met her eyes. Conor was leading Becky across the dusty floor in a waltz, while Miranda and Carrie sat atop the two dusty barrels in the corner and watched.
Dancing. Dumbfounded, Olivia realized that Becky had never learned how to waltz because she had never taught her, and she wondered how she could have neglected something so obvious. Becky had evidently not realized it either, until this morning.
Conor brought the girl to a swirling halt. "Perfect," he told her. "Just count in your head, lass, and after a while, it'll just come naturally. And remember, that lad of yours'll probably be counting, too."
"Thank you, Daddy," she whispered, and wrapped her arms around his neck in a smothering hug. "Thank you."
Conor caught sight of Olivia standing in the doorway. "The lass is going to do well, don't you think?" he said, sounding quite pleased.
Olivia smiled at her daughter. "Yes, I do."
But that night, when they stood beside the refreshment table in the Callersville town hall and watched Jeremiah lead Becky toward the dance floor for yet another waltz, Olivia found Conor wasn't quite so pleased any longer.
"That's four waltzes now," he commented with a frown.
Olivia didn't realize he'd been counting. "Well, she did put his name down for all the waltzes on her dance card."
Conor's frown deepened as he watched them. "They're dancing rather close together, aren't they?"
She caught the disapproval in his voice, and she glanced at Becky and Jeremiah, who were just far enough apart for it to remain respectable. She slanted a speculative, sidelong look at her husband from beneath her lashes. He was positively scowling.
She turned away, choking back her laughter, and ladled glasses of lemonade for Miranda and Carrie, who stood beside her. He really was the most unpredictable man. "Oh, I don't think it's anything to worry about," she murmured, although secretly she was delighted by Conor's disapproval, which was so obviously paternal.
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