Call Home the Heart

by Shannon Farrell

  "You gave me a promise when I hired you in January, and I intend to see you keep that promise. We've worked side by side together every day since. I have no intention of letting you break your promise. You swore you would never leave me as long as I needed you. I'm now reminding you of your promise, nay, insisting that you keep it."

  Lochlainn scowled and turned away to stare into the fire so that she couldn't see the expression on his face. "Aye, I did promise you that, Muireann. But I thought we were talking about things for your own good. Staying here at Barnakilla is not good for you. The two of us being lovers isn't good for you. You would only tire of me in the end. Come to resent me being inferior to you in the end."

  "I would have thought you knew me better than that!" she exclaimed, piqued as his lack of faith in her love for him. "But this is for my good. This is my home and no one, nothing, is going to make me leave!"

  Her voice softened then, and she looked up at him longingly. "Please, Lochlainn, please don't abandon me now."

  Lochlainn soothed her as she broke into agonized sobs, hugging her close and leading her to her bedroom.

  He sat against the headboard of the bed, let her recline on his chest, and kissed her softly on the temple. "Just rest, dear. It's been a terribly emotional day for us all. Please, calm down. There's no need to decide everything this minute."

  Lochlainn struggled to keep his touch light and comforting, but as she wept against his chest, he turned her onto her back and began to kiss the tears away. Soon her snuffling gasps subsided, and she began to moan softly.

  Time stood still for both of them as he tugged down her underclothes and stroked her until he felt her press down urgently against his hand. He watched her response to him in fascination, until at last he could bear it no longer and divested himself of his trousers.

  She climaxed the instant they joined as one, taking him with her along the dark road of passion so compellingly that he thought his soul was being ripped from his body.

  Despite his brave attempt to get Muireann to see reason in the face of overwhelming odds, he knew he would have been brokenhearted if she had assented to his suggestion.

  At any rate, how could he give all this up? It would be like ceasing to breathe. He wanted Muireann so badly, he could barely restrain himself when he was around her.

  She had thought him ashamed of her? Nothing could have been further from the truth. He longed to tell her he loved her. His fear of being laughed at, or her interpreting his declaration as an attempt to try to persuade her to stay, even though it might be against her best interests, silenced him.

  Lochlainn flipped himself over onto his back heavily and sighed. Muireann snuggled up to him, kissing him full on the lips, before resting her cheek against his.

  "Please, Lochlainn, let's not fight any more. I'm so tired," she admitted.

  "I know, my love, I do know. I am too," he sighed, holding her close.

  "You won't leave me, will you?" she begged softly.

  "No, never. I gave you my word, Muireann. Even though I've said many a foolish thing in my time, I have no wish to take that promise back," he said gently, and felt a great burden being lifted from his shoulders as he made the promise.

  She wanted him now. It was obvious, from her kisses, the way she opened to him like a morning glory seeking the warmth of the sun.

  Enjoy it while it lasts, Lochlainn, he counseled himself. No more worries about the future. There is only the here and now.

  Muireann hugged him close, and prayed she could one day make him love her as much as she loved him. Surely her class shouldn't be an insuperable obstacle? She didn't care what people thought. She only wanted to be happy with the man she loved.

  Lochlainn had advised her to go home, but she knew it was only because he worried about her. That surely was an indication that he at least cared a little, wasn't it? She could make this work, she knew she could. They would have a long rest that night, and face the future in the morning.

  Lochlainn drowsily closed his eyes, and vowed he would stop comparing Muireann to Tara. Muireann wouldn't run away. She had never run from anything in her life. They were two very different women, he reminded himself, and began to dream of a lovely violet-eyed woman with raven black hair who enveloped him in a silky cocoon of warmth and tenderness such as he had never known.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  As the Famine raged throughout Ireland, Lochlainn and Muireann faced a hard winter at Barnakilla. Despite all of her economies, the estate continued to be encumbered by expenses and the mortgage, and the food restrictions she had put into force meant privation for everyone.

  When times got hard in December, some of the original Barnakilla tenants urged her to send the newcomers away, but Muireann adamantly refused.

  "By keeping them here, you're ruining our chances of survival!" old Thomas the slate cutter argued one day after dinner.

  She shook her head. "I can't send them away, Thomas. They've all worked so hard trying to help make all my dreams for this place come true. I can't turn them out to die a lonely death on the roads. Don't ask me to evict them again, is that clear?"

  "Dreams don't fill our bellies!" he sniped.

  She rounded on him furiously. "I never asked you for a penny of back rent. I could have evicted every single one of you and found paying tenants, couldn't I? So don't you dare complain to me again! If you're so worried about your survival, why don't you get up off your arse and go hunting and fishing?"

  The old man stalked out, and she felt Lochlainn's eyes upon her across the room.

  "I'm sorry," she sighed when Thomas had gone. "I shouldn't have scolded him like that. He only had the nerve to say what a lot of the others have been thinking. But I've been out hunting and fishing every day this week in the cold, and all the carters have gone everywhere looking for food to buy, only to come back with nothing."

  "You're just tired, my girl, that's all. Thomas has a tough old hide. He'll be fine. It's not your fault nothing is being bought and sold at the markets. People are hanging on to whatever they have. It's too late now for any ship to get through, so we'll just have to make do with the food here until the Andromeda comes back again."

  "We're going to have to kill some of the livestock, aren't we? If we don't, someone will only do it himself, or try to steal them."

  "I know. I've put patrols on the edges of our lands and at the storehouses day and night. People will do anything to get food."

  "We'll soon be sick of eating soup, but at least it is warm and filling. But Thomas does have a point. We have so many mouths to feed."

  "Do you also have to give something to every beggar who knocks at the door?" Lochlainn asked.

  Her shoulders stiffened and she got up off the bench to pump some water. "The Irish have always been famous for their hospitality. I'm not going to turn them away empty-handed, not when we at least still have a warm home to live in. They have nothing but the rags they wear, and if they are lucky, a barn or loft to sleep in. I'll go hunting on the islands tomorrow to make up for it. I'm sure they won't give a damn that they're eating goat."

  "There is another option, you know," he said, taking over the pump to help her fill the cauldron. "Let some of our tenants go to the workhouses. They will be taken in with your recommendation, and they are clean and hard-working."

  Muireann refused to even consider the proposal. "Those places are full of filth and disease, and the families are all spilt up, with the husbands and wives and even the children in separate dormitories. I've seen the workhouse in Enniskillen. It's not a place I would wish anyone to have to resort to.

  "No, I'm afraid I'm going to do the unthinkable. I hate asking my family for help, but if it means saving us, I'll just have to tell my father everything. Make him try to understand why I kept the truth from him for so long. And get some money and provisions to tide us over. Maybe even pay the mortgage."

  From everything she had said about her family, he knew this tack would be an absolute last re
sort for them both. He could just imagine her imperious old father whisking her away from him forever. "But Muireann, you've done so well. Why tell him now? Things will get better."

  She met his gaze full on, and shook her head. "Because my pride won't fill people's bellies. Maybe it's about time my parents knew the truth, all of it. I'm tired of feeling ashamed of what I've done."

  Lochlainn frowned. "Ashamed? Why should you be? You've been marvelous the way you've kept your head all this time."

  Muireann hauled the pot over to the fire, then sat down on a kitchen bench heavily. "I've been ruthless and unkind. Just look how I treated old Thomas. I'll try Colonel Lowry first, to see if there is any more money forthcoming from Mr. Blessington and Mr. Henry's ill-gotten gains. If nothing can be released, then I shall consider writing to Father. But who knows? With any luck I might get some very expensive Christmas presents we could sell," she said, trying to sound optimistic.

  Lochlainn dreaded her parents seeing her in such desperate circumstances. Surely her father would insist upon her selling Barnakilla and going back to Fintry with him once he knew the whole truth.

  At the same time, though, Alistair Graham couldn't force her to sell the estate, could he? She could always leave it in his own hands, and then when her father simmered down, she could come home to him again.

  He was going to suggest it might not be such a bad idea if she went home for Christmas, which was only a few weeks away. But somehow it seemed so underhanded. He also loathed the thought of even being parted from her for one day, let alone indefinitely.

  Muireann went back to the stable block and sat in her freezing office as she sought to balance the books. She tried not to think of her family, the little nephew she still hadn't seen, and Christmas the year before, when she had attended every ball of the season with Augustine.

  "Any luck?" Lochlainn asked when he came in that night from hunting, and saw her looking completely forlorn.

  Muireann threw her arms around his neck to warm him, and shook her head. "We just have to keep on going as best we can until the spring, unless we get help from home. I'll write to Neil, ask him to cash in all my shares. That is, if there are any left."

  "You could always go home. There's your sister and her baby, Michael, and your other cousins."

  She withdrew from his arms slightly, shaking her head. "No, I'm staying here. This is my home. I'll not leave you to go off to have a good time with my family when you all need me."

  Lochlainn kissed down the side of her neck while his long, lean fingers worked at the fastenings of her gown. Soon his mouth was feasting on one rosy nipple. He prayed God they would be given some form of reprieve. For surely He had to know that without Muireann, he was nothing and no one. And the good Lord only knew what would happen to them all if she ever left.

  By Christmas, some help had come in the shape of Muireann's many presents from her family, who assumed she hadn't come over because she was still in deep mourning.

  Much to her surprise, there was also some charitable relief from the Stephenses, who couldn't bear to see Muireann suffering so cruelly. Colonel Lowry also advanced her a small sum, claiming it was from Mr. Blessington's funds, when it had actually come from his son Anthony in Dublin. The Colonel half-wondered if the raven-haired beauty hadn't turned his son's head after all, so angry was Anthony when the Colonel had spoken to him of Barnakilla's imminent collapse.

  But with the cold winter weather came disease, which spread through the crowded cottages and main house like wildfire. The tenants began to die of fever all over Barnakilla. They were mainly the people from the Lowry and Cole estates, who had arrived in poor enough condition to start with.

  But soon even the tenants from Barnakilla itself began to die of the typhus, which turned the patient's faces black as coal before death, and produced the most foul odors.

  There was also relapsing fever, which turned the patient's skin a yellow color. Though they eventually started to improve slightly, they would suddenly be struck down again by the mysterious malady.

  As the diseases spread, Emma and Sam closed the school, and despite Muireann's ardent pleading, they took to the roads together.

  "What you tried to do for us was very kind, Muireann, but once a--" Emma began.

  "No, I don't believe that!" Muireann shouted at the lovely young woman. "Please, stay, give it a few weeks longer!"

  "What we eat here could go to others. Don't worry, we'll be fine. If things start looking up, we'll come back," Sam promised. "You did your best, Muireann. You gave us a chance. Showed us a whole new life that could be ours for the asking. We won't forget that. Don't think you've failed. Only the potato did that."

  He hugged her tightly as Lochlainn looked on.

  Sam and Emma disappeared out of the kitchen door into a swirling snowstorm which coated the landscape in a fleecy blanket.

  Muireann's tears began to fall then, and she shuddered.

  "You were very fond of them," Lochlainn remarked quietly. "How did the three of you meet?"

  "I had an, er, accident in the street in Dublin, and the two of them came to my rescue. They needed work, so I brought them here," Muireann said vaguely, avoiding his piercing steel-gray gaze.

  "An accident? Nothing serious, I hope."

  Muireann made no reply, but moved over to the scullery sink and began to pump water for the dinnertime soup, unwilling to discuss the matter further.

  As the sickness continued to spread, Muireann appointed some of the single women to nurse the patients in a small makeshift hospital she had created after the deaths of several elderly people emptied one of the large new cottages which had been built over the summer.

  "At least if we isolate the cases, the fever will have less chance of spreading to the others."

  Lochlainn was unwilling to allow Muireann to expose herself to the horrors of the fevers, but she shrugged and said wearily, "What choice do I have? They need to be looked after. Let's just hope I'm one of the lucky ones."

  Lochlainn lost his temper at last. She seemed to be daring death, without a care for him or the rest of Barnakilla. "Why does it always have to be you?" he snapped. "Why can't you let someone else do the dirty, disgusting jobs around here?"

  Muireann stared at him for a moment in amazement. "I have to do it myself. I must lead Barnakilla from the front. These people will never trust me, never go along with my schemes if they see me shirking, or see any sign of weakness. Why are you always trying to protect me?" she demanded, putting her hands on her hips and tapping her foot in exasperation.

  "Because you don't belong here, don't you see!"

  Muireann sat down heavily then, misunderstanding his words. Despite everything, she had failed. She would never be able to call this place home, she knew that now. Even Lochlainn thought she was wasting her time trying to carry on such a futile struggle.

  They had talked about this in October, and two months later, she could see he had been right. She ought to just go back to Fintry before she did any more damage. But how she would miss the lough, the stunning landscape of mountains and forests which swept down majestically to the shores of the Erne. How could she give all this up? Give Lochlainn up?

  "Thank you for your concern. Now if you will excuse me, I have some laundry to scrub," she stated coldly, turning away from him.

  Lochlainn tried to pull her into his arms, but she wriggled away and declared, "Mr. Roche, I told you to go. Are you deaf?"

  She looked at him then with something akin to hatred, and Lochlainn, convinced the day had finally come when she no longer wanted him, simply left.

  Muireann sat there dazedly, and in an uncharacteristic bout of fury swept all the empty saucepans clattering to the floor.

  What has it all been for? she wondered angrily as she threw her cloak over her navy blue woolen gown. Ordering the dog to stay in his basket, she marched out to the potato pit, which she viewed as one might an enemy. She would have succeeded, if only the blight hadn't come. But now, all o
f her struggles had been for nothing.

  She walked to the edge of the estate, listening to the soft crunch of her boots on the newly fallen blanket of snow. She reveled in the peace and solitude of the woods, admiring the tall trees. Though bereft of leaves, they still looked majestic. She touched the trunks, and the ground, then began walking around the whole estate, taking in the pastures, the quarry, the stable block, the cottages. As she came back around to the mansion and stables, she saw the workers scurrying to and fro, and wondered to herself if she should indeed sell it all and go back home.

  It wasn't as if these people were her family or friends. They had all been complete strangers when she had arrived, even Lochlainn. He had just told her she didn't belong at Barnakilla. Maybe it was time to stop trying to fool herself. Her mother and sister had always told her to try to be more womanly, that her expected role in life was to marry a man who could protect her.