Heart of the Glen

Chapter 9

9

What are you doing?

Saoirse pushed aside the question ringing in her mind. What choice did she have? The only other option was to sit back and watch as Owen and Aileen foundered in the coming weeks. Or leave and pretend they never existed.

Owen’s laugh interrupted her thoughts. It wasn’t a mirthful or even amusing sound, rather one of doubt. “That’s kind of you to offer. But I don’t think so.”

He started to stand but winced and lowered himself back down. As he tried again, Saoirse rushed to his side and grabbed his elbow, but he waved her off.

“I’m being serious,” she said, ignoring the doubt churning in her gut. “You can show me what to do.”

At length, Owen was on his feet. He simply shook his head and brushed past her as he shuffled outside.

Saoirse followed him, squinting at the unusually bright February morning, and turned to close and latch the shed door. She watched as he slowly ambled down the hill, enjoying the view, and fighting frustration toward him in equal measure. She knew men to be a stubborn lot, but Owen Mc Cready was something else. Would he really let his pride get in the way of keeping his family afloat? Did he think her so incapable that she couldn’t learn how to do what he did? It was weaving. How hard could it be?

You hardly know the man. Why does it matter so much to you?

Saoirse had to stop at the bottom of the hill and consider the question. She’d known Aileen and Owen for barely a week—hardly enough time to form a deep connection. Then again, she’d experienced more in the last seven days with them than she’d been through in years with her own family ... last month’s tragedy notwithstanding.

She’d gotten a front-row seat to how Aileen and Owen really and truly depended on each other. One would be lost without the other. And by caring for Owen, tending his wounds, changing his dressings, sponging his face ... she’d managed to memorize every crease and curve. Without even trying, she could see the salt-and-pepper stubble lining his cheeks, she knew where the whiskers swirled just so near his jawline. She knew the rhythm of his breathing as he slept. She could trace the patterns of veins on the back of his hand, and her fingertips remembered the feel of his even when he wasn’t there. She hardly knew the man, and yet she knew more about him than perhaps any other man she’d known, in ways she couldn’t have imagined. And while it might sound scandalous to speak out loud, it was the purest form of compassion because it was born out of the complete dependence of one upon the other, the act of serving another human with absolutely zero expectations of anything in return.

Of course, Saoirse certainly couldn’t say she’d fallen in love with Owen McCready as she worked alongside his sister to care for him in his time of need. But she could no longer deny the fact that she’d fallen completely in love with the idea of him, as well as the idea of bringing him back to health so he could fulfill whatever it was the Good Lord had prepared for him to do. And she was convinced that those plans did not include the McCreadys being relegated to the poorhouse because of the injustice of a sheep heist gone awry.

She rounded the corner just as Aileen met Owen in the doorway of the house.

“And just where have you been, mister?” Aileen’s balled-up fists were pressed firmly to her hips.

Owen glanced behind him and met Saoirse’s gaze for a split second. “Don’t worry, Mammy,” he said to Aileen. “Just went for a wee stroll.” He shuffled inside.

Aileen pursed her lips. “Mm-hmm.” She looked to Saoirse, who simply shrugged. “Well, I’d say ye’ve had enough excitement for one morning. Sit yerself down by the fire and I’ll make ya a cuppa before I see to the sheep.”

At the mention of the flock, Stout picked his head up, ears perked. “Not yet, boyo,” Owen said. He sat down with a grunt, then rested his head against the back of the chair and shut his eyes.

“Aileen,” he said, eyes still closed. “Did you put her up to this?”

Aileen rounded the chair, a fresh cup of steaming tea in her hand. “Did I put who up to what?”

Owen cracked one eye open.

“She had nothing to do with it,” Saoirse interjected.

Aileen set the cup and saucer on the small table by the fireplace with a rattle. “Would one o’ ye kindly fill me in on what ye’re on about?”

“Saoirse here”—Owen lifted his head, fully awake now—“has offered to do the fíodóireacht for me.”

Saoirse smiled and nodded. Aileen would see it her way, surely.

Aileen’s eyes rounded as she looked at Saoirse. “Dáiríre?”

“Really,” Owen repeated as he laid his head back again.

Aileen’s puffed breath caused her lips to flap together. “’Tis a noble idea, to be sure.” She sighed and wagged her head. “But I don’t think ya know what ye’re sayin’.”

Saoirse’s brows pulled together. “Well, I figured Owen could talk me through it and show me what to do as best he can. I just want to help.”

Aileen crossed the room and rubbed her hand down Saoirse’s arm. “I know, dearie, and I appreciate it.” She lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “But weavin’s far more complex than most folk realize.”

“Can you do it?” Saoirse asked Aileen, in genuine curiosity. She hadn’t even considered the notion that perhaps both McCreadys were skilled in the craft.

“Psh!” Aileen laughed. “No way. I do the cardin’, spinnin’, and help with the dyin’. The fíodóireacht is all Owen.”

Saoirse sat at the kitchen table. “You never learned?”

The corners of Aileen’s mouth tugged downward, and she shook her head. “Most weavers are men. I don’t really know why. Maybe because the womenfolk typically tend to the home and whatnot. But I never did learn.” She shrugged.

Saoirse wondered how they hadn’t ensured they both were familiar with all aspects of the process—for times just like this. But if she thought about it, her family had been the same. No, they didn’t run a trade craft from their home, but they each had their own roles and responsibilities.

“Well, all the more reason to teach me.” She sighed and lifted her hands, palms to the ceiling. “At least let me try.”

Aileen and Owen turned to each other, a whole conversation taking place with just a look.

Saoirse leaned back in her chair. “If we don’t try it, you’ll lose the contract for certain.”

“She has a point, Owen,” Aileen said.

He groaned. “Ye lassies are gonna be the death o’ me.”

“Seems ye’ve got that part down pat on yer own, brother.” Aileen laughed.

Another sigh from the man of the house. “Be that as it may, I just don’t see how it’ll work.”

Aileen rolled her eyes and crossed back over to Saoirse, then whispered in her ear, “Give me some time to work on him.”

****

That afternoon, the three worked together in the barn feeding the stock, mucking the stables, and the like. Owen begrudgingly sat at the rough wooden counter polishing saddles and cleaning tools—tasks he often put off for more active chores. But Aileen had forced him to either sit here and work on these tedious tasks or sit in the house while the women worked in the barn. He couldn’t stand another second in that bungalow, so he opted for the lesser of the two evils. He would never give Aileen the satisfaction, but these chores were long overdue, and Owen secretly appreciated the forced time to slow down and focus on things he often swept aside.

“How did you get into weaving to begin with?” Saoirse asked, huffing a strand of hair from her face as she tossed a shovelful of soiled straw into the wheelbarrow.

Owen rested his elbow on the counter. “Well.” He paused to think back to what his parents had told him. “My great-great-grandparents on my father’s side started this wee farm. Sometime after my great-grandparents took over, they took in a loom through a government scheme and began weaving.”

Saoirse nodded.

Aileen stopped sweeping and rested her forearms on the top of the broom handle. “The fíodóireacht is what kept our parents afloat during the famine.”

Owen bobbed his head. “And not long after that came the Glenveagh evictions in ’61. Granted, we aren’t on Glenveagh land, but we’re just a stone’s throw away. Being fairly profitable crofters didn’t hurt in keeping our land then, either.”

“Mammy passed from a bad flu shortly after the evictions,” Aileen added. “Then Da went in a horrible accident in ’89, so it’s been just the two of us ever since.” Aileen’s eyes glistened. “Without the weavin’, we’d have been sunk.”

Saoirse froze, a strange expression on her face. She seemed to get lost in thought for a long movement, then she blinked and said, “Wait, ye’ve been on yer own for twenty-three years?” Saoirse’s voice cracked. “Ya had to be just kids.”

Owen dropped his gaze to the floor. “I was fifteen.” He looked at his sister.

She met his gaze, sadness shining in her eyes. “Thirteen.”

Saoirse pressed her hand to her heart. “So young. And ye’ve no other siblings?”

Owen’s lips tugged into a thin line. “That’s a long story.”

“They’d all passed on already.” Aileen sighed.

“I’m so sorry.” Saoirse’s sad gaze bore into Owen’s.

He hated talking about these things. It made him feel weak. Vulnerable. “Ah, well”—he attempted to add a tone of nonchalance to his voice—“we’ve not had it any worse than anyone else in Donegal. In fact, we’ve fared much better than many.” His gaze drifted in the direction of the weaving shed. “Thanks to the loom.”

A heavy silence hung in the air, all three lost in thought for a moment. Aileen’s sigh broke the quiet. “What about ye, Saoirse?”

“Hmm?” Saoirse blinked and turned toward Aileen.

“What of your family? What did they do before ... I’m sorry, that’s terribly insensitive of me.”

A shadow flitted across Saoirse’s face, and something Owen couldn’t read flashed in her eyes. “No, it’s fine. We all worked at Waterstown House in some form or fashion.” She gave them a watery smile, then leaned the shovel against the wall and hoisted the handles of the wheelbarrow. “I’ll go dump this.”

Owen watched her hurry from the barn. As she turned the corner outside, he caught a whisper of her shuddered breath before she disappeared from sight.

****

Once she could no longer feel Owen’s gaze boring into her back, Saoirse abandoned the pushcart and fled to the field she’d hidden in on her first morning in Dunlewey. Her breath came in jagged gasps as her heart threatened to pound out of her chest. Stomach churning, she collapsed behind the low rock wall and let the sobs come freely as the faces of her mother, father, sister, and brothers drifted across her mind’s eye.

Her keening echoed in the valley, but she didn’t care. How long would their memory send her careening down a spiral of panic and anxiety? Nae, it wasn’t their memory. It was what she’d done. And now the guilt compounded with the fear of what Owen and Aileen would do if they knew tugged her below the surface of grief and shame, suffocating her and setting her head spinning. They could never know.

And yet...

A part of her wanted them to know. Wanted him to know—to know and tell her it would all be okay. Saoirse desperately wanted to be free from this millstone tied around her neck, but the risk was far too great. What good would it do to confess her horrible past? It wouldn’t undo what she’d done. All revealing her secrets would do is tarnish any hint of good impression the McCreadys had of her and saddle them with the weight of who they’d welcomed into their home. They hadn’t even revisited the fact that she was still living in their barn and eating their food days after she was supposed to have left. She’d never even had a chance to try and find a new post. Nor did she want to. She wanted to stay here, with Aileen. With Owen. To work alongside them and do everything within her power to ensure they stayed on their farm as long as they wished. To see it handed down to the next generation.

But to do that, she had to bury her secret. To lock it up and hide it away, never to see the light of day again. The notion almost killed her.