by BJ Hoff
Brady was roused from his thoughts when Terese Sheridan stood and made an oddly formal statement of appreciation to her host. “I am grateful for your hospitality, sir. I will repay you as soon as I find a position.”
Gabriel took a long sip of tea, then said mildly, “You will not speak of payment for an open door and a plate of potatoes, lass, unless you mean to insult me.”
The girl blanched, then tried to stammer a protest, but Gabriel ignored her. Getting to his feet, he summoned Roweena to him and began to instruct her, voicing his words slowly and emphatically as he always did, much like an accompaniment to the fluid hand movements by which he “spoke” to her.
Roweena cast a quick glance at Brady, then made a gesture that the other girl should follow her. Struck by the contrast between the two, Brady could not help staring. The dark-haired Roweena, slight and delicate in appearance—and clearly awed by this stranger in their midst—was like a timid fawn in contrast to the taller, oddly regal Terese Sheridan. The latter, with eyes of blue smoke and a tumultuous, wild beauty, might have been one of the mythic warrior queens readying herself for battle as she accompanied the diminutive Roweena behind the curtain. Queen Maeve on a rout.
Abruptly, Brady tried to force his thoughts away from the two girls—especially from Roweena, who he sensed might, if he did not take care, represent the first serious threat to his emotions in a very long time. Roweena was no mere girl, as he had thought upon their initial encounter during the storm. He had come to realize that she was probably in her early twenties at least—not all that much younger than himself, at twenty-seven.
Even so, he had found her to be nothing like he would have expected from that first encounter during the storm. That night, in her frenzy to get the child, Evie, to safety, she had appeared impetuous, brave—even impassioned. But inside these snug walls, she was scarcely more than a shadow of that fleet-footed sprite. At times, she seemed almost childish, less womanly than the subtle curves of her body might indicate. To Gabriel, she was submissive, scurrying to do his bidding and see to his comforts. With others she maintained a shy, deferential demeanor that almost made her appear slow-witted.
Even with Evie, she seemed more a big sister than a maternal figure. And her pretty blushes each time Brady caught her eye only confirmed his suspicion that Gabriel had kept her thoroughly sheltered from the outside world—particularly from men.
As for the strange relationship between Gabriel and the two girls, Brady had learned nothing more than what Evie had expressed the night of the storm. The child, apparently abandoned when she was little more than an infant, had been rescued and taken in by the big fisherman. Similarly, Gabriel had provided Roweena a home from the time she was a small girl. There had been something about a fire, but he hadn’t been able to figure out much else from Evie’s chatter.
So far as Brady knew, there was no blood tie between Gabriel and either of the girls, but both were obviously devoted to their guardian. On numerous occasions, he had wanted to ask about the girls’ backgrounds, but Gabriel had a way about him that discouraged too many questions.
As for Roweena, the appeal she held for him had come as a total surprise to Brady, and a distinctly unsettling one. He had never been attracted to the shy, “nice girls” at home. No doubt it spoke volumes about his character that his tastes had always run to the more flamboyant sort of women, often older than himself, whose morals—according to Jack, at least—were as questionable as Brady’s own. It wasn’t typical that a girl like Roweena—lovely as she was—would capture his interest.
Yet he couldn’t deny his response to her. She aroused something akin to tenderness in him—an instinct to protect, to cherish—that up until now he hadn’t known he possessed. He found himself uncharacteristically considerate of her feelings, careful of his behavior toward her. At the same time, he fervently wished he could somehow breach her defenses, draw her out of her shyness so he might get to know her better.
Not that he would allow himself a serious attachment. He had made a practice of shunning commitment. To even consider some sort of involvement with a backward deaf girl in this remote, primitive place would border on sheer lunacy.
He blamed his temporary fascination on the fact that Roweena was so dramatically different from the other women he’d known. Brady adored women. He had made an art of pursuing them, flirting with them, enjoying them. And leaving them, more often than not with little rancor on either side.
He had no interest in the domestic life. There was too much he wanted to do, too many places he wanted to see. Jack sometimes accused him of having “the Gypsy in his soul,” and Brady wasn’t so sure that his brother might not be right. In truth, he was restless by nature, seldom satisfied for very long at a time. Something inside him continually urged him on to new faces, new experiences, new relationships.
That being the case, he would be the worst kind of fool to let his emotions run out of control. To take up with a girl like Roweena would jeopardize the freedom he prized so highly.
Besides, Gabriel would almost certainly murder him.
Fortunately, it wasn’t all that difficult to turn his attention elsewhere. The Claddagh itself had captured his interest. The place and its people had almost immediately seized him and drawn him in. Brady was convinced that some of his best portraits to date would come out of the Claddagh. Among these dusky, narrow lanes and crooked alleyways, he had found the many faces of sorrow, suffering, and despair. Yet he had also seen features chiseled of strength, endurance, and a strange kind of peace—a serenity unlike anything he had ever before encountered. Here the past blurred with the present. An age-old faith and ancient secrets were as much a part of the people’s existence as the sea that fed them and the God who they insisted dwelt among them.
The dark mystique that was the Claddagh had staked a claim on his soul. Nowadays he found himself increasingly reluctant to leave the place and return to his flat and even more loath to think of leaving Galway for good.
Later, when Terese Sheridan reappeared from behind the curtain—now scrubbed clean, her riot of russet hair brushed to a blaze of copper—it occurred to Brady that perhaps here was yet another attraction to heighten the Claddagh’s appeal.
Gabriel watched the young American rascal—for if his instincts did not serve him false, this Brady Kane was just that, a rascal—as Roweena and the island girl returned. At first he thought the spark of interest in the lad’s eye was for Roweena, and his jaw tightened.
But upon closer appraisal, he realized that the object of the Yank’s scrutiny was the girl from Inishmore.
He almost smiled. That one would be a match for the young jackeen, he would warrant. She might be young, but she was no foolish girl. Trouble and hard times had hardened her; that much was plain. In her own way, she seemed years older than Roweena or the American.
He stood, gave a nod of approval to the tall island girl, then another to Roweena for her help. The wee wane was clearly wanting to be included in their midst, so he dipped low to scoop her up. “You may go with us to see Jane. She likes your company well enough, for some unaccountable reason,” he teased.
The child beamed at him and chuckled. “I like your company, Gabriel.”
“Indeed? And I expect you would like to ride upon my shoulders as well, eh? Come on, then,” he said, swinging the child around to piggyback him. “We will be on our way.”
He turned to Roweena, then Brady Kane. “It is time for you to be getting along, too, Yank,” he said pointedly. “Roweena will go with us to see Jane Connolly.”
The young American looked at him, then glanced at Roweena, not quite concealing his disappointment. But he made no protest. Instead, he cracked his roguish grin and, with a courtly bow for the girls and a wide sweep of his hand, made a jaunty exit.
With wee Eveleen still hugging his neck, Gabriel stood watching the American leave. He was disquieted to realize that Roweena’s gaze also followed the bothersome Yank until he was completely out of sight.<
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12
JANE CONNOLLY
For who can say by what strange way
Christ brings His will to light…
OSCAR WILDE
Terese hurried along the cobbled streets, close behind the others. With her belly satisfied for the first time in weeks and the chance for a position as well, she could almost allow herself to feel hopeful. But fast on the heels of this flicker of optimism came the reminder that she must not dare to hope too much, lest the devil should resent her light heart and cast a weight on it.
For all she knew, this Jane Connolly person might turn out to be an evil old shrew who would shriek and squawk and make life wretched altogether. But sure, wouldn’t she plug her ears and tend to the woman in spite of her hatefulness if it meant paying her passage to America?
Not to mention a reprieve from the workhouse…
People died in the workhouse, and from the tales Terese had heard, they died from worse things than starvation. For her part, she would rather drop in the street from hunger than die of some filthy disease or at the hands of a raving lunatic.
The little girl—Evie, they called her—glanced back over her shoulder and smiled. An imp, that one. But the child’s ingenuous, cheerful nature was somehow heartening after the hostile stares to which Terese had grown accustomed.
These seemed to be good people, if somewhat peculiar. She had always heard that the Claddagh fishermen were a wild lot, but the giant, Gabriel, and the two girls certainly appeared civilized enough. At least they had been kind to her—kinder than she had any right to expect, she conceded grudgingly.
Even the American had seemed genuinely concerned for her safety, although Terese didn’t quite know what to make of him. There had been something disturbing in those dark eyes, something too bold, too inquisitive—and something too much like amusement, as if he found her curiously entertaining. Terese didn’t trust him, but it was clear that he had some sort of connection to these Claddagh folk—and she was inclined to trust them. She had never met an American before, of course. For all she knew, they might all be as insolent and peculiar as this Brady Kane.
Ahead of her, the big man, Gabriel, and the two girls now came to a halt in front of a stoutly built thatched house. The place was set off to itself, not squeezed in among others, as were the majority of dwellings Terese had noticed on the way. Although the house appeared sturdy enough, there was a forlorn air of abandonment about it. Rotted netting and other debris had been strewn across the yard. On one side of the front door was propped an eel spear, on the other, a splintered barrel. The thatch of the roof also showed signs of neglect.
Terese suppressed a shudder at the gloom and pall of dejection that seemed to hover over the place. But when the big fisherman gestured for her to accompany them to the door, she didn’t hesitate. She had already decided that a leaking roof over her head would be better than no roof at all.
Inside, the afternoon gloom bathed the room in deep shadows, but here, too, the same sense of neglect was unmistakable. A stale odor of dust and mold hung over the room. Terese took in the unswept floor, the dingy furniture, and the unwashed dishes with the eye of one who had not so long ago labored over such things in her Aunt Una’s household.
Despite Gabriel’s description of Jane Connolly, Terese had to make a concentrated effort to conceal the blast of pity that shot through her at the sight of the woman. She had expected to be greeted by a hunched, misshapen figure whose temperament would no doubt be as dismal as her physical state. But the widow Connolly was something of a surprise. The woman seated in the wheelchair by the turf fire was so small that she could have easily been mistaken for a child. Her head was bent low, and she appeared to be dozing. But when Gabriel called out a greeting of “God bless all here,” she looked up with eyes that were bright and welcoming.
Gabriel had said the woman was neither young nor old, and Terese could see what he meant. Jane Connolly had the kind of pinched and wizened features that might have been drawn by pain just as easily as by the passing of time. Her hands on the wooden arms of the chair were almost deformed; the wrists were swollen and red, and her right hand in particular was painful to look upon, with its thumb bent toward the palm and the other fingers toward the wrist. The body beneath the lap blanket was clearly twisted. But the hair coiled at the back of her neck was more brown than gray, and the hazel eyes were alert and knowing.
Terese didn’t miss the way the woman’s features softened at the sight of Roweena and the child, who immediately ran to her and, at the instruction of Gabriel, handed over a small pouch. The woman gave the fisherman a nod as if to thank him, then turned a narrowed gaze on Terese.
When Gabriel began to explain in the Irish, Jane Connolly seemed more intent on studying Terese than on hearing what the big fisherman had to say. The woman’s scrutiny was bold and somehow unnerving, and Terese found herself wanting to look away from those searching eyes. Instead, Roweena caught her hand to bring her up close to the crippled woman as Gabriel set about making an introduction.
There was no acknowledgment by the widow, no effort to make a civil greeting. Only that sharp-eyed, measuring stare. After another moment, she turned to Gabriel, and a quick, barbed exchange ensued in the Irish.
“What are you thinking, man? I am not a wealthy woman. I can’t afford a hired girl.”
“We’ve talked of this before, Jane. You need a girl. You know you do.” The big fisherman spoke evenly and quietly but with a firmness that brooked no argument. “This girl will work for a reasonable wage.”
“Ha.” The small face creased even more as she shot a skeptical glance at Terese.
Ignoring the woman’s surliness, Gabriel continued. “The girl needs a place to stay. And you need help. Look at her—she’s strong and fit and will be of much use to you.”
The widow glared at him. “She’s not one of us. She might be a lunatic or a murderer, for all we’re knowing.”
“Jane, Jane, I thought you trusted me,” the fisherman countered reasonably. “Would I bring you a dangerous girl?”
The woman sniffed. “She might steal me blind, a wild girl like that.”
Terese clenched her hands at her sides. The big fisherman’s eyes sparked with something that might have been amusement, but his tone was offhand and agreeable as he replied. “Now, Jane, you say you are but a poor widow woman, with nothing to steal.”
Jane Connolly rolled her eyes toward heaven and gave an exaggerated sigh. “ ’Tis true,” she said. “But she might murder me in my bed, even so.”
The woman was daft entirely, Terese decided. The dread disease that had twisted her body must have also afflicted her brain.
Gabriel shook his head. “Now, Jane, haven’t you told me that most nights you cannot get yourself into your bed at all but must sleep in your chair?”
Ah, now the eyes really narrowed, and the square little chin jutted out a bit more. Terese felt an irrational urge to laugh. This poor crippled woman was such a wee thing, yet she obviously considered herself a force to be reckoned with. Something told her that the widow Connolly was actually warming to the idea of hiring her on, but for some fatuous reason of her own was bent on making the fisherman first prove his case.
The giant was nothing if not even natured—Terese would give him that—allowing this sour-tempered woman to rant at him so.
“You surprise me, man, truly you do, putting me at the mercy of an outsider.”
Gabriel crossed his sturdy arms over his chest. “Why don’t you just speak with the girl, Jane? Have you no word of welcome for a stranger?”
She curled her lip at him, then turned to rake Terese with a hawkeyed stare. “Well, girl? You’re from the Big Island, says Gabriel.”
“I am.”
The woman curled her lip. “My husband never did trust an islander.”
Terese clasped her hands behind her back, drew a long breath, then let it out.
“My man always said the islanders were a bunch of savages.”
<
br /> Only the thought of another cold night in the alleys enabled Terese to hold her tongue.
Jane Connolly lifted a gnarled hand, and Terese couldn’t help but notice the way she flinched with the movement. “Well, come here, then, girl,” the woman demanded. “Come closer.”
Terese stepped up to her, hands still behind her back.
“Show me your hands,” the little woman demanded. “Let’s see how well acquainted you are with work.”
Grinding her teeth, Terese extended both hands palms up and stood unmoving as the woman examined them. The widow’s eyes gleamed almost spitefully as she looked up. “Ach, and don’t those nails need a good scrubbing? I’ll not have a slatternly girl working for me.”
With an effort, Terese clamped down on her anger. She was familiar with humiliation, but that did not mean she would tolerate it gladly. Still, the woman was in a pathetic condition. Sure, her pain must be fierce.
“What of your family?” the widow probed. “Why would a young girl like yourself be on your own keeping?”
Terese looked at her. Reluctantly, she gave a brief account of her father and brother’s emigration, the subsequent deaths of her family members, and the destruction of her aunt’s house in the storm.
She was aware of the widow’s scrutiny as she spoke, the knowing expression, the curt nod. “So, then, your menfolk abandoned you,” the woman put in, “and now you’ve run off from your aunt in her time of need, is that it?”
Something in Terese snapped. She yanked her hands back and whipped about as if to go. “You are a batty old woman, do you know that?” she shot over her shoulder as she started for the door. “I will not work for a mad woman.”