Chapter 5
5
Once again, Owen’s azure eyes leveled themselves on Saoirse, and she fought not to squirm under his gaze. She’d never seen such an intoxicating color before. Coupled with the intense emotion she couldn’t name behind his expression, Saoirse found it equally unsettling and impossible to look away.
“So,” Owen said around a mouthful of tea. “What’s yer story?”
Saoirse’s pulse quickened. Of all the questions he could’ve posed, he had to ask that one? Hers was such a long and sordid tale. Though it hadn’t always been thus. Until a month ago, her story had been like anyone else’s in Ireland. Quiet, unassuming. She worked hard to eke out a living and help support her family. Though she’d always suffered from a terrible streak of what some called bad luck. It had been a running joke in her family. If things were going to go wrong for anyone in the Fagan family, it would be Saoirse. When she was a young lass, it was little things like her milk being the one to spill. But as she grew, the seeming failures grew with her. Even still, she’d never really been the cause of any true harm. But then ... that all came crashing down. Surely, he didn’t want to know all that. Just tell him the truth—but as little of it as possible.
She tried to paste a look of calm on her face. “I came up from Westmeath to start as a maid at Drumboe Castle only to discover the place locked up and abandoned.”
Owen nodded slightly. “I’d heard the auld codger had passed. Why’d ye come all this way if there was no post to be had?”
Saoirse tugged the plaid tighter around her shoulders. “That’s just it. No one sent word. So when I arrived, I was stranded. My previous employer had kindly arranged for me to ride in her enclosed carriage, but the driver had to hurry on to Letterkenny and left before I knew what was going on.”
“’S desperate.” Aileen tsked, shaking her head. “Leavin’ a gairl stuck like that. ’Magine.”
Saoirse shrugged. “I didn’t know what to do, so I just started walking.” She tipped her head toward Aileen. “Night had fallen when Aileen came upon me and graciously offered me a lift.”
Owen grunted and drained the rest of his cup. “So, ye’ll be headin’ back home, then?”
It was a logical assumption, but the weight of it hit Saoirse like a sock to the gut. She wanted nothing more than to go home. For things to go back to the way they were. Images of her mother’s, father’s, and siblings’ faces floated across her mind’s eye, and she blinked against the stinging in her eyes. The lump in her throat stopped her voice, so she simply shook her head. A heavy, awkward silence yawned until it filled the room.
“I—” Saoirse’s voice cracked. “I don’t have a home.”
Owen’s gaze faltered slightly for the first time. “Oh.” He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “What happened?”
Aileen, who stood next to his chair, swatted his shoulder. “Have ya no tact, man? What does that matter?”
Owen shot a look at his sister. “It matters. And I’m just curious.” He turned back to Saoirse and waited.
“Fire,” she whispered. “Everything gone. Everyone gone.”
“Oh, Saoirse,” Aileen whispered and clutched her chest.
“I’m sorry.” True sympathy fluttered across Owen’s face, and his gaze drifted to the fire in the hearth. “So ya have no plans.” It came out as a quiet statement rather than a question.
“Now ya see why I invited her to stay,” Aileen said. “Even just for the night. How could I abandon her to the elements?”
Her brother merely nodded, a million miles away in thought. At length, he pressed his palms to his knees and stood. “Aileen,” he said, then he strolled into the kitchen.
He angled them so their backs were to Saoirse. She let her gaze fall to the ground as she lowered herself onto the low creepie stool next to the fire. She wouldn’t dare sit on their chairs in her damp clothing.
Snippets of their conversation drifted into the living room. Phrases like “supposed to do,” “not enough,” and “barely surviving as it is,” snaked their way into her ears, the deep timbre of Owen’s voice allowing a clarity of words that Aileen’s softer voice filtered. Saoirse glanced up just in time to see Aileen lay a hand on her brother’s arm, her pleading gaze tracing his face.
Owen sighed, and Aileen threw her arms around him. The pair returned to their places by the fire, and Owen slowly lowered himself into his chair.
“You can stay through the weekend,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “That gives you a few days to seek out new employment and lodging.”
Tears sprang to Saoirse’s eyes, and she leapt from her stool and fell before Owen. “Oh, thank you so much. Truly.”
He grunted what sounded like an acknowledgment, but a peculiar look had settled on his face and his gaze bore into his knee. Saoirse followed it to discover she’d clasped his uninjured hand in hers. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she pulled her hand away—but not before noting the way his roughened skin felt against her fingers or how strong his hand was, even without him returning her grip. She stood and brushed her hands down the front of her skirts. “I’m terribly sorry. I’m just ever so grateful for your hospitality.”
“I’m afraid all I can offer ya is the barn,” Owen said. Next to him, Aileen shrugged, an apologetic look on her face. “We’ve no place fer you to sleep in here.”
Saoirse shook her head, her cheeks damp from her tears. “That will suit me just fine.”
Aileen stepped forward. “We’ll set ya up real nice. I’ll make ya a proper bed. Or, at least, a pallet that’ll be more comfortable than the hard ground.”
Saoirse smiled at her new friend. “Thank you,” she mouthed. She took a steadying breath, and when she found her voice again, hurried to add, “And I’ll help out around here however I can. I don’t expect something for nothing. I’ll earn my keep.”
“Fine.” Owen stood. “Now if ye’ll excuse me, I have a few things to see to before supper. Aileen, ya’d better make with whatever grand plan ya have for that bed before the weather gets worse, and so ya have time to get dinner going.”
Aileen scurried about the small home, gathering a few bits and bobs. When her arms were sufficiently loaded, she handed a small, flat pillow to Saoirse and inclined her head toward the door. “C’mon, let’s get ya sorted.”
****
Owen flexed his left hand as he trudged to the weaving shed, forcing himself not to think about the electricity that had jolted through him at Saoirse’s touch. He’d held plenty a woman’s hand over the course of his thirty-eight years on this earth, so the touch of a woman wasn’t new to him. Granted, most of his experience was limited to a passing brush while working on a mutual task, or during a céilí when he held a woman close to dance. He’d never really held designs on romance. Not that he was against the notion—not by any means. And as a younger man he would’ve welcomed the right woman. However, life simply hadn’t worked out that way for him, and once his parents had passed, and it was down to just him and Aileen to run the farm and do the weaving, there wasn’t time for anything else. But that split second near the fire when Saoirse grasped his hand was a sensation he’d never experienced. She was a lovely woman, to be sure. Easy on the eyes and more than likely a delightful person to be around. But he didn’t have room in his life for anything else—namely another mouth to feed. So, confound it all, why would his rebellious hand not stop tingling at the absence of her touch?
She’ll be gone in a few days’ time, anyway , he reminded himself. He held on to that thought like an anchor, letting it hold his wayward thoughts under the surface to drown. Entering the shed, he lit a lantern and began to inspect the loom. He’d done not a stitch of weaving today, so it was imperative he have everything ready to start a full day of work at the crack of dawn tomorrow.
He slowly moved around the loom, checking that all was in place. The warp was already set and meticulously strung through the eyes of the heddles that would pull different strands up at a time in order to create the various patterns Owen was known for. He heaved a sigh of relief that he’d already finished the task of stringing the warp, which ran the length of the loom frame—by far the most wearisome part of the whole weaving process. One might think it a mindless task, but it was imperative to keep focused on what he was doing or risk making a mistake that would cost him at best hours of work re-stringing, or at worst a whole bolt of destroyed fabric. With that job done, Owen was set to get straight to the actual weaving in the morning.
He tugged on the ends of one string of warp to ensure it was fully tied and winced as pain sliced through his right hand. This was going to be interesting. He could weave despite his wound, no doubt. But it would not be a pleasant experience. He eyed the bandage, grateful to see no blood had leaked through the cloth but still cursed the bandits who continued to threaten his livelihood. As he closed up the shed, ensuring the door was secure, the scent of Aileen’s stew drifted on the air mingled with the aroma of the turf fire burning in his hearth. His stomach rumbled in anticipation of the feast that awaited him. Okay, perhaps feast was a bit of an exaggeration. The truth was, they barely had enough to keep the two of them fed. Owen swallowed the disappointment of having to go with less of his favorite dish in order to feed their new guest. Spoken like a true selfish scut. He shook the thought free and determined to be grateful for what he had, then headed to the house and his supper.
****
When Owen entered the house, Saoirse stood at the counter next to Aileen, the two in quiet conversation. Stout lay at Saoirse’s feet and, upon seeing Owen, thwapped his tail on the ground a few times before lumbering to his feet and trotting over to greet his master.
“Supper’s almost done,” Aileen said. “Just waitin’ for the bread to cool enough to slice.”
“Grand, so,” Owen replied, hoping to drown out the growling in his gut. Stew and brown bread, his absolute favorite. The only way to top this meal would be to finish it off with some apple tart and fresh cream, but that was not to be. Not only was it the wrong season for the fruit but the extra sugar, butter, and flour required would leave them in a lurch at the end of the month.
Owen shuffled to the washbasin and cleaned his hands and face while Aileen and Saoirse set the table and dished out the steaming ambrosia, moving in a coordinated dance as though they’d been working together the whole of their lives. He dried himself and hung the rough-nubbed towel on the hook just as Aileen summoned him to the table.
The trio sat at the small table that was crowded when it was just the two of them. He offered a short prayer of thanks, and they dug in. All was quiet for a long while as everyone enjoyed the hearty stew full of lamb, potatoes, and carrots—all harvested from their land and flock—in a thick gravy broth.
Saoirse was the first to break the silence. “What can I help with tomorrow?”
Aileen flapped her hand. “Ya really don’t need to work around here. We’ve only offered for ya to stay.”
“There’s work to be done in the garden, and the stock need fed,” Owen said, attention fixed on his bowl as he scooped up some of the broth with a wedge of brown bread. “The sheep need moved to the eastern quarter, and I’ve a full day in the shed ahead of me.”
“Owen,” Aileen scolded.
He shrugged. If they were going to be sacrificing from their own stores to feed this woman, the least she could do was help out a bit. It would be nice to have an extra pair of hands for a few days.
“I really don’t mind,” Saoirse said around a mouthful of food. “I know it’s a burden to feed and house me for so long, and I want to contribute as much as I can.”
Owen studied her for a moment. Her strawberry ringlets had been tied back with a ribbon, but a few stray ones fell around her face. She looked from Aileen to him and back, her expression one of earnest pleading. “Truly,” she added. “I want to.”
Aileen pressed her lips together. “Very well, then. You can start in the garden with me and then we can work the stock together.”
Owen nodded, stood, and took his dishes to the basin. “’Tis settled, then. Now, if ye’ll excuse me, we’ve an early start tomorrow, and I must turn in.”