Since Lochlainn always noticed the three of them together, conversing so no one could overhear, he told himself he was being absurd. Muireann couldn't possibly have taken this poor emaciated young man as her lover, could she?
All the same, he felt left out. They had always used each other as a sounding board, yet now she was setting up the school without even troubling to consult him.
When he finally did get a chance to ask her how she had fared in Dublin a few days after her arrival home, on a sultry June evening, she said curtly, "Everything is fine. The house is sold, and I've paid off a large portion of our mortgage for Barnakilla. Those high interest payments were crippling, but I think we've solved that problem now."
"I'm glad to hear it," Lochlainn said quietly, trying to subdue his rising temper. "But that still doesn't tell me what the house was like, or Mrs. Barnes, or any of it. You've been gone for weeks, with not a single letter to any of us, even though you promised to write. Now you've come back with money and these two schoolteachers. What's the matter, are we not good enough for you? Too lacking in education?"
She turned sideways to avoid his blazing gaze.
Infuriated, he took her by the shoulders to get her to face him.
Like lightning, Muireann knocked his hands away roughly and stepped back. "Let go of me, damn you!"
Lochlainn stared down at her in stunned surprise. The very words he had dreaded hearing for so long now echoed in his ears like the death knell at his own funeral.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Caldwell," he said in his most crisp accent. "It won't happen again."
Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the office.
"No, Lochlainn, wait!" Muireann tried to call him back to explain, but he kept on going and soon disappeared out of sight.
Muireann sighed and let him go. After all, there was work to be done on the farm, and in truth she couldn't really explain it all anyway. He was better off not knowing.
Besides, it was much better to block out the truth even from her own mind, than to face all she had seen, all she had learnt since that fateful day when she had exchanged vows with Augustine Caldwell. Her two trips to Dublin had both been a test of her character. She judged herself harshly, and found herself lacking.
She wanted to make up for what she had done, channel the bitter experiences she had endured into a positive force for the future. There would be time enough to mend fences with Lochlainn when she felt she was ready, or so she believed.
In the meantime there was more than enough to keep her occupied at Barnakilla. For example, the sheep shearing at the start of May had gone quite well. It was the washing, dyeing, carding, spinning and weaving that were causing trouble. She managed in the end to find more experienced weavers, knitters and crocheters, who produced a wide variety of socks, stockings, mufflers, and shawls, which were added to an ever growing pile of clothes for the estate workers.
Muireann's sewing circle proceeded to make dresses out of the woolen cloth the looms were producing slowly but surely. At first Muireann hadn't believed it possible to dye the wool, but with her experts' knowledge of lichens, mosses and so on to get the right colors, some of the cloth was proving to be quite attractive.
"You know, we might even be able to sell our surplus soon," she said optimistically to Sharon. "That is, once we all get kitted out for winter ourselves."
Everyone on the estate noticed that she never smiled any more, except when she played with Tadhg, which wasn't very often. The poor puppy followed her devotedly everywhere, wondering where his formerly jovial playmate had gone and desperately eager for attention, or any game at all.
His long spindly legs helped him keep up with her stride as she went restlessly from building to building. He also sat on her lap comfortingly when she was at rest in a chair, but this happened rarely. From sun up to sun down, they could be seen all over the estate.
"Why is she working so hard? What's the matter with her?" Ciara asked Lochlainn late one evening when she heard the familiar light crunch of gravel as Muireann went past their house.
Lochlainn paused, listening expectantly, hoping he was coming to see him. When the footsteps had disappeared off into the distance, he replied bitterly, "We haven't spoken on a personal level since she returned from Dublin. I have no idea what she's thinking these days."
Ciara looked gloomy and observed, "Well, perhaps it's for the best. It will save you worse disappointment in the long run if you end it now."
"That's the last thing I wanted to hear," he snapped.
He stormed out of the house and headed in the opposite direction from the one Muireann had taken. He knew if he met her on the path on a balmy moonlit night, he would only end up making a complete fool of himself. And the last thing he wanted was a confrontation in which she told him it was well and truly over between them…
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Day after day, Muireann laboriously kept track of all the finances, tallying up the hours everyone worked, and how much each family owed for rent and food. She had made it clear from the start that the workers were not to consider themselves servants, but neither was she running a charity. Not when her own finances were in such desperate shape with the mortgage and other expenses every month.
Some people even worked two or three shifts in an effort to pay off their arrears, and Muireann prayed they were all succeeding in keeping the wolf from the door.
Her brother-in-law Neil continued to support her endeavors by buying more timber, which they cut from the new forests she had bought from the Colonel and from Malcolm Stephens. It was hard work clearing all the trees, but Muireann wanted them all out to conserve her own hardwoods for Lochlainn's carpentry enterprise, and in order to consolidate the estates. With the trees gone and the stumps dug up, she would have more pastureland for her expanding herds, and could convert her current pastures into fields for crops.
As June matured into July, she began to feel more content with the way things were going on the estate, and more at ease that she had done the right thing, despite the horror she had felt at her own acts in Dublin in May.
Her only worry now was that she knew she had to mend fences with Lochlainn, who had continued to avoid her, and never spent time alone with her for more than a minute since they had exchanged heated words soon after she had returned.
She had missed him desperately, but he was so good, so decent, as were all the people at Barnakilla. She was almost afraid of contaminating them, or being punished for what she had done, even though she knew it had been for the best.
Lochlainn had immediately jumped to the conclusion that their relationship was over. He was certain that the trip to Dublin had triggered her seeming depression, that she pined for her old life.
His theory couldn't have been further from the truth, but Muireann had no idea what he was thinking. She tried feebly to explain her odd behavior to him without revealing everything. At the back of her mind she knew perhaps one day he might find out the truth if he quizzed Emma and Sam about their past life too deeply, but for the moment they were following her orders and keeping to themselves, teaching but not socializing with the tenantry except at meal times.
One evening toward the end of July, Muireann went to look for Lochlainn in the carpentry workshop, and was relieved to find him there.
"Please, Lochlainn, we need to talk to each other without arguing," she said quickly when she saw him moving to leave.
It crossed his mind to tell her he was busy, but over six weeks of this impasse had certainly been long enough. He needed her. He only prayed she was going to tell him something he would be glad to hear.
He laid down his tools. "All right."
She went ahead of him up the path to her office, and poured them both a glass of the vile liquor Augustine had always drunk. Lochlainn noticed her hands shook but said nothing, merely waited for her to start.
"I wanted to speak to you about when I first came home, about how I shouted at you. I'm terribly sorry if I upse
t you. It was the way you grabbed me. It hurt. It made me feel helpless. I know you didn't mean to hurt me, but on top of everything else, well, I just sort of snapped."
"Everything else?" Lochlainn prompted softly.
She came to sit down beside him. "The bad dreams came back as soon as I left here. I think it must have been because I went back to Dublin, and had all sorts of terrible associations with Augustine's death. I hope you can understand that I was distraught. Forgive me if I upset you or seemed to reject you.
"It's just that so much has happened since January. I've been trying to get things more settled, plan for our future. I'm not used to any of this. I led a sheltered, protected life until I came here. I know it's no excuse for the way I've acted, but I'm asking you to try to be patient with a foolish young girl, and forgive me.
"I've missed you, Lochlainn. I want us to try to get things back to the way they were between us before I went away. It may be wrong of me to want you, to rely upon you so much, but I can't do this on my own any more. I don't want to do it on my own any more, Lochlainn."
At her words, Lochlainn simply opened his arms wide and she ran into them and hugged him tightly. He stroked his hands down her back soothingly, but was unable to trust himself to speak at first.
He had grave misgivings as to the wisdom of resuming the affair, not least because she was apparently admitting to him that she was still completely distraught over Augustine's death.
"If that's what you really want, Muireann, of course we can try to get back what we once had. But as you say, you're young. That isn't a criticism. You've coped far better than people twice or even three times your age. But what I'm saying is, you have your whole life ahead of you. I'm so much older than you, Muireann. You might change your mind about us one day.
"With so much having happened, I do think you need time to ponder the situation a bit more first. You yourself said when we started all this back in January that you wanted to be strong. I've been here for you by your side since. But there may come a time when you find you don't need me any longer."
"I do need you, Lochlainn, truly," Muireann said tearfully.
He shook his head. "No, you don't, Muireann, not really. You went to Dublin on your own, and you coped. I'm sure it was hard, but you did it on your own. You're strong, Muireann, but you don't have to be strong all the time. You've worked so hard in the past few weeks since you got back. Let me share the burden with you now. But if there ever comes a time when you don't need me any longer, I'll understand."
Muireann slumped back into her chair wearily, shattered by his rejection of any future for them together. She sat there silently, feeling utterly defeated.
He relented at once. "Please, my dear, I hate to see you looking so wan and pale. It isn't like you."
Taking her by the arm gently, he helped her out of the chair and led her to her room. He urged her to lie down on the bed, and sat on the edge.
He held one hand tenderly and asked, "Where's the woman who drove the coach like a professional, and had a snowball fight with me in Dublin, or who used to climb trees with Tadhg?"
He reached down then and patted the pup fondly on the head as it wrapped itself around its mistress' feet.
Muireann lay there silently. In her heart she was disappointed. If she had expected any declaration of love from Lochlainn, certainly none seemed to be forthcoming.
When Lochlainn got no response, he began to rise from the bed. Muireann's hand shot out, and she clung to him. "Please don't go. We haven't finished talking. You haven't told me you forgive me."
Lochlainn gave a bitter laugh. "There's nothing to forgive. Not really. People can't help the way they feel, can they? I'm sorry I upset you. I didn't understand. I pushed you too hard. But I don't own you, my dear, any more than you own me.
"I must admit I don't always agree with your decisions about the fields, the school, the trading. But I want you to have your own thoughts and ideas, your own emotions and feelings, even when I hold you in my arms like this." He kissed her forehead. "Sometimes caring for someone means knowing when to let them go."
Muireann looked up into his steel-gray eyes, and saw no trace of the light that had once shone in them. She could see that Lochlainn had almost given up hope. It was hard for him to accept that Muireann was sincere in wanting him back. Even if she were, how long would they be able to go on like this?
He never seemed to know what she was thinking any more. Had he ever? There were all sorts of hidden places within her that he didn't dare explore for fear of losing her as he had once lost Tara. Now he simply felt lonely and worn out, and unsure of his ability to ever make her truly happy.
He pulled the covers up to her chin then and moved to snuff out the candles.
"You're not going already, are you?" she asked, disappointment evident in her tone. "We haven't had a chance to discuss anything yet."
Lochlainn shook his head. "We don't have to decide about this right now, do we? I have to get back to work, and you look exhausted, Muireann."
"Don't leave me," Muireann pleaded tearfully.
Lochlainn hadn't seen her cry since the early days after she had been widowed. He relented at the sight, and offered, "I'll sit with you until you fall asleep, all right?"
Muireann stroked his cheek, and reached up to kiss him passionately on the mouth.
Despite his best efforts to keep his hands off her, Lochlainn couldn't resist her rousing kisses forever. Soon he found himself naked, making love to her so gently he almost thought he was dreaming. Muireann sighed and moaned under him, and after her long, gasping climax, she suddenly began to weep.
Lochlainn asked her worriedly if he had hurt her, but she denied it, eventually crying herself to sleep in his arms.
He lay sleepless for hours by her side, with her wrapped around him like a clinging kitten. His misgivings grew with every passing second as the hours ticked by.
Finally he eased himself from her side as the early morning light filtered through the curtains, got dressed, and let himself out silently.
Lochlainn saw over the next few days that the resumption of their relationship did not seem to do anything to improve Muireann's mood. Gone was the joy he had seen on her face on the beach at Rossnowlagh and when she had run about the estate on her birthday with Tadhg skipping at her heels.
He was sure it was only a matter of time before Muireann returned to Scotland, a suspicion which seemed to be confirmed as July made way for August, and yet another crisis for Muireann at Barnakilla began to loom on the horizon like a dark thundercloud.
Muireann had prayed that no more emergencies would arise, but rumors began to spread in early August that the potato crops in Europe were not doing well because of the unusually cool spring and very damp summer weather.
Being quite far north, Muireann knew they couldn't start harvesting their crops until the end of August, and their potatoes until the end of October, and prayed for good weather. But a murky cold fog seemed to settle on the entire country, accompanied by a strange odor, not unlike rotting vegetables.
Muireann looked out of her window one gray August morning, and then turned back into the warmth of Lochlainn's arms
"It certainly looks grim out there," she said sleepily, her breath tickling his shoulder.
"Maybe you should have a day off for a change," Lochlainn suggested. "It would do you the world of good, Muireann. You've been working like a slave ever since you arrived here seven months ago. Go into Enniskillen to do some shopping, or go visit Priscilla and the boys at the Grange. I'm sure they would be delighted to see you."
She thought about his suggestion for a moment. "It is tempting, but no. I have too much to do today. Besides, if I had one day off, I would just lie in bed. Not that I ever really did that back home. I always found things to occupy my time, but I would often sit in bed reading, writing letters, and so on. So one day in bed would be absolutely splendid. But not today."
"Why not?"
"Because I happe
n to know that you have a huge long list of things to do as well."
Lochlainn frowned down at her.
"What, you didn't expect me to want to spend the whole day in bed by myself, did you?" She smiled up at him. "Where would be the fun in that?"
Lochlainn, overwhelmingly relieved that she had at last smiled again, hugged her close.
Muireann planted a kiss on his mouth, and despite the nagging voice at the back of his mind reminding him to get to work, that it was daylight, that their special time together had to come to an end, he made love to Muireann in the glowing sunlight that suddenly lit the bed as a ray pierced through the gloomy clouds, until they both lay exhausted.
With one last kiss he tore himself away from Muireann. Donning his clothes hastily, he fled the room. He didn't want to linger long enough to see the look of regret on her face at what they had done in the bright light of day.
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