Heart of the Glen

Chapter 6

6

Saoirse relished the feel of the cool, damp earth as she worked it between her fingers before pulling up the next weed. There weren’t too many, as it was apparent Aileen worked hard to keep their garden tidy and neat. The garden and house were her domain, Aileen had told her. Owen tended to the weaving and the livestock. Saoirse suspected that Aileen also had a hand in carding and spinning the wool, which she would’ve done over the long, dark winter months. February, while still cold and damp, was the official start of spring, starting on Saint Bríd’s Day.

“After this, we’ll head to the garden shed to chit the spuds,” Aileen called over her shoulder while pruning the blackberry bushes that made up the western border of the garden plot.

Saoirse nodded as she sat back on her heels, the final weed in her hand. Over the crest of the hill, the constant clickety-clack of the hand loom filled the air around them. It was so rhythmic and steady, one could dance to it, and Saoirse found herself drawn to the sound.

“We’ll do the spuds in here,” Aileen said, beckoning Saoirse over to a small, whitewashed shed—though the word shed was generous. It was little bigger than an outbuilding and held spades, rakes, a shovel, and some buckets, as well as a few other gardening tools. A rustic wooden shelving unit lined one wall. Saoirse joined Aileen at the shelves, and they made quick work of arranging all the tubers on a wooden tray so that the ends with the most eyes faced upwards. They’d be left to sprout so they’d be ready to plant come mid-March.

When the last seed potato was placed, Aileen brushed her hands together and sighed. “I think it’s time for a cuppa.”

Saoirse smiled. “I like the way you think, Aileen McCready.”

Aileen laughed and closed up the shed. “I’ll go put the kettle on. Would ya go see if Owen wants to come down, or if he’d like to take his tea there? Sometimes, if he’s in the groove of the loom, he doesn’t want to leave and break the spell.”

“Of course.” Saoirse chewed her lip to hide her smile. She’d been dying to get a look at the loom in action all morning. And if she was honest with herself, getting to peek at the brilliant blue of Owen’s eyes again didn’t make her too terribly sad either.

Muscles burning in protest after spending so much of the morning crouching in the dirt, Saoirse climbed the hill behind the McCreadys’ home and finally caught a glimpse of the weaving shed. She’d not noticed it until now. Roughly half the size of the house, it stood about thirty yards away due north from the back door, whereas the barn was about thirty yards to the east. The rhythmic clacking grew louder as she approached. The door to the shed was open, and Owen’s voice mingled with the loom’s percussion as he sang a jaunty tune to the beat. Smooth and deep, the baritone voice sent chills skittering up Saoirse’s arms. She allowed herself to indulge in her own personal concert for a moment before darkening the entrance at the threshold.

“Hallo?” The din of the loom swallowed her voice. When her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, her jaw fell slack. The contraption nearly filled the room, and so many pieces moved at once, she wasn’t sure what to watch first. She had envisioned a simple frame strung longways with threads and imagined Owen snaking other thread over and under. This, however, was a different beast entirely. At least three feet wide, and twice as long, the tallest parts reached five or six feet, causing her to feel overshadowed by the monstrosity. Hundreds of threads stretched the length of the loom and went through a curtain of strings that ran perpendicular, each one passing through a small loop in the upright strings. Her gaze drifted to Owen, and she watched his lithe movements. His left hand would pull a lever hanging from the top, then catch a spindle of thread and send it hurtling back the other direction before pulling another lever. His feet pressed long pedals near the ground like she’d seen on the organ at mass. The whole process was utterly dizzying. Suddenly, she was terrified to interrupt him. What if he lost his place? Would it ruin the whole bolt of fabric? She couldn’t be responsible for that. Especially not after he’d been so generous in allowing her to stay through the weekend.

She half turned to leave, then stopped. Aileen had requested she ask Owen about his tea. She couldn’t decide which instinct to follow—the self-preserving one that didn’t want to risk interfering with their livelihood, or the one wishing to please her hostess and do as she wished.

All at once, silence enveloped the shed. “Do ya need somethin’?”

Saoirse’s head spun to meet Owen’s gaze, his eyes glowing in the dim light. “Oh, sorry, I—” She cleared her throat and stepped farther into the space. “Aileen wanted me to ask if ya’d like to come down to the house for a cuppa, or if ya want ta take it up here?”

Owen pulled his flatcap off and scratched his head, then rolled it from side to side. “I’d best take it here. I’ve a long way to go.”

Saoirse nodded, but instead of turning to the door, she took another half step closer to the loom. “It’s extraordinary. How—”

“Tea!” Aileen’s call jolted Saoirse from her thoughts, ripping the question she was going to ask right from her mind.

“Right.” Saoirse smiled sheepishly. “Back in a sec.”

The air remained quiet, and Saoirse hurried back down the hill to the house. She supposed it wasn’t worth Owen getting back into a rhythm only for her to interrupt it again in a minute.

Aileen was standing in the doorway of the house, a grin splitting her face when Saoirse approached. “Get lost, didja?” She laughed.

Saoirse shrugged. “It’s a right mystery, that contraption!”

“ Psh !” Aileen shook her head. “That’s why I leave the weavin’ to him. He tried to teach me once, and I nearly lost the head with it all.”

“I can understand why.” Saoirse followed Aileen inside. “He said he’ll take his tea up there. Long way to go.”

“I figured as much.” Aileen handed her the same basket she’d used to bring breakfast to Saoirse yesterday. “Would ya mind running this back up there? I need to start on some things here in the kitchen.”

“ Cinnte .” Saoirse took the messages and scurried back up the hill, eager to get another look at the weaving process.

Owen stood, one shoulder leaned lazily against the doorjamb, a piece of straw twirling in his lips, and his gaze a million miles away into the hills.

She slowed her pace so as not to startle him. “Here ya go,” she said softly.

He blinked and his gaze refocused. It seemed to take a second for him to remember where he was. After another long look at the horizon, he took the tea and bread from her hands. “T’anks.”

Saoirse turned and followed the direction Owen’s gaze had been fixed. “Wishin’ you were somewhere else?” she asked as she poured him a cup.

He chuckled, and it rumbled low in his chest. Saoirse couldn’t help but grin at the sound. “That’s a loaded question,” he said, taking a long draw of tea.

She hiked her thumb toward the hills. “Seems like ye’d rather be out there.”

He bobbled his head from side to side, the corners of his mouth pulled downward as he considered her statement. “Perhaps. I do enjoy bein’ among creation with my flock. But I enjoy this too.” He glanced briefly through the door behind him, then back toward the horizon. “I’m just a mite worried about mo thread caorach .”

Saoirse stepped closer. “Oh?”

He nodded. “Bandits have been more active of late than they’ve been in a while. They always want my sheep.”

“Why?” She shifted her feet. “I mean, why yours specifically?”

A sly smile tickled the corner of his mouth, and he glanced at her from the side of his eye. “’Cause they’re the best.”

Laughter bubbled up from Saoirse’s belly. “Oh, I see.”

He chuckled again, and she warmed at the sound. He drained the last of his cup, then handed it back to Saoirse. “Thanks for bringin’ that up.” He turned and stood half in the doorway. “I need to get back to it.”

Saoirse held the basket toward him. “But ye’ve not had your bread.”

“Just set it there.” He gestured to the windowsill. “I’ll have it in a bit.”

Saoirse did as he bade and excused herself back down the hill.

The rest of the afternoon, Saoirse helped feed the horses in the barn, mucked out their stables, and swept the building clean—all to the music of Owen’s weaving. She’d planned to help Aileen move the sheep to the eastern quarter—which, as it turned out, was the field Saoirse had hidden in yesterday morning—but Aileen had said it would just be easier if she did it. Aileen wasn’t sure how Stout would take to Saoirse trying to give the commands, though the animal was clearly taken with her. But more than that, she didn’t want the sheep to startle at the presence of a stranger.

“They’re so used to the bandits tryin’ to run off with ’em,” Aileen had said. “They bolt when anyone but me or Owen gets near.”

Now, Saoirse tugged the heavy barn door closed and looked to where the sun had just begun to kiss the horizon. She pressed her hands to the small of her back, arched, and absently thought, If those bandits put half as much effort into making an honest living as they do trying to steal other people’s sheep, they’d be richer than they realize.

****

The light outside had gone from golden to a purplish blue to gray, and finally too low for Owen to make any more progress with the weave tonight. The lantern light simply wasn’t strong enough. Owen stepped from behind the machine and stretched his tight shoulders and shook his legs. A day of weaving was like a never-ending bit of céilí dancing, and he was exhausted.

Before heading back to the house, he stopped by the barn to check on the progress of things there. When he stepped inside, his brows soared. The place fairly sparkled. It hadn’t been that clean in a dog’s age—and Owen prided himself on keeping the tidiest barn in the parish. But somehow, his sister had managed to take it to a whole other level.

When he entered the house, the aroma of mashed potatoes, fresh bread, and tea welcomed him. The ladies were setting the table.

“Well, look who finally decided to call it a day,” Aileen said. “Hurry now and wash up before this all goes devilishly cold.”

His sister sure did have a way with words. “Aye, Mammy.” He smiled to himself and made quick work of cleaning up.

After blessing the food, the trio dug in.

“The barn looks great,” Owen told Aileen. “Well done.”

Aileen, who’d just shoved a mound of spuds in her mouth, shook her head and pointed at Saoirse with her fork. “That was all Saoirse.”

Once again, Owen’s brows lifted, and he turned to their guest. Saoirse’s cheeks flushed, and she dropped her gaze to her food.

“Is that right?” he asked.

Saoirse lifted one shoulder and let it fall.

Owen swallowed another bite. “Well, thank you. Well done.”

She nodded and her eyes briefly met his. “Happy to help.” Then, after a sip of tea, she sat back. “Tomorrow, after I finish whatever you need me to do, I was going to head into town to see about employment opportunities.” She grimaced slightly. “That is, if you can direct me to which town might be best.”

Owen thought for a moment, trying not to pay heed to how much he admired her drive. “Well, Glentornan likely won’t have what ye’re lookin’ for. Ya might try Ballymann to the west, or Letterkenny to the east—that might be your best option, what with tomorrow being a Sunday. Letterkenny is certainly the biggest of all your options.” He paused another moment, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling in thought. “Perhaps even Glenveagh Castle, depending on what yer skills are.” He sat back as well. “What do you do?”

“She’s a wiz of a seamstress,” Aileen offered. Owen and Saoirse both spun their heads toward her. Aileen shrugged. “We’ve had a lot of time to talk.” She rose and started clearing the empty dishes.

“I have done a fair bit o’ sewing,” Saoirse said. “I’ve also worked as a housemaid. And I was set to be the head maid at Drumboe.”

Owen nodded. She shouldn’t have too much trouble finding something. Folks were always in the market for good help. Though resources to pay that help were often scarce. But that wasn’t his problem. Saoirse was clearly a very capable woman. Surely she’d land on her feet.