Heart of the Glen

Chapter 15

15

Sun pooled in through the two square windows on the front of the house and bounced around on the whitewashed walls inside. A welcome respite from the dark, dreary storms the past few days. As Owen finished his last bite of stew, he sat back in his chair, eyes closed, and let the light warm his face as pride warmed his chest. He couldn’t believe how well Saoirse had done with her first weaving session that morning. For the first time in weeks, he felt like he could take a full breath. Not because of his injuries, but because he finally felt there was hope for him and Aileen. Hope that they were going to make it. Despite the ill omen of the first lamb of the season, all things seemed to be pointing up. He was even able to move his hand more today than he had since the attack, and hope grew that he might not lose the use of it after all.

A knock at the door jolted him out of his reverie. “Maybe it’s another lodger,” he said, a playful smirk on his face, and sent a wink in Saoirse’s direction.

Aileen laughed but looked confused, if not a bit concerned, about his rare display of humor.

Still chuckling, he opened the door to find Tommy O’Hanlon on the other side. “Tommy, how are ya?” The official Irish Post hat was at least a full size too big and sat awkwardly on the boy’s head.

“This came fer ye today,” Tommy said, his voice still cracking with youth. “They said it were really important, and I figured it might be another few days before ya got back to the village to collect yer post, so I brought it here.”

Owen’s smile was replaced by a scowl as he tried to imagine who would be sending him an urgent post and why. He absently took the letter from the lad’s hand. “Thanks, Tommy.”

When the boy cleared his throat, Owen blinked. “Oh, sorry.” He reached into his pocket and gave the boy two pence—one for the price of the stamp and one as a tip.

“ Go raibh maith agat ,” Tommy said, then sprinted off back toward the village.

“What is it?” Aileen asked, moving to Owen’s side.

Owen tore open the seal and unfolded the letter. As he read, the familiar weight returned to his shoulders, and his hand floated to his forehead to quell the dull pounding that had accompanied his reading of the letter.

He clenched the paper, then threw it across the room with a shout. “ Dochreidte! ” Ignoring how Aileen and Saoirse jolted at his outburst, he plodded over to his chair by the fire and sank down, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Footsteps shuffled over, and he heard the crackle of paper as one of them unfurled it from the ball he’d crushed it into.

“It’s from Murphy’s,” Aileen said, her voice taut. “Dear Mister McCready, it is with much sadness that we inform you that our storehouse was badly damaged in the recent storms. Several rolls of tweed were destroyed, and we find ourselves in the unfortunate position of not having enough completed fabric to fulfill our current orders and demands.” Aileen stopped reading aloud and sucked in a shuddered breath.

“What does that mean?” Saoirse asked. Owen felt her presence next to his chair.

Aileen was quiet for a moment, and the sound of paper fluttering told Owen she was reading the rest. “It means ... it means...” Aileen’s voice cracked, and she sniffled once more.

Next to him, Saoirse moved, and suddenly she was reading. “In light of these unfortunate events, we must ask that you submit your finished rolls of tweed earlier than agreed upon. Please remit the completed fabric to us by the end of this month.” Her tender hand laid on Owen’s shoulder. “Oh, Owen,” she whispered.

Aileen sank to the floor, her hands gripping his knee. “What’re we gonna do?” Her voice, barely above a whisper, threatened to undo him. Stout scooted over and plopped down on Owen’s feet, but not until he’d placed a cursory lick to his hand. Surrounded by every member of his household, being held by them, each one looking to him for answers, the load of expectation was almost too much to bear.

He shook his head, unable to voice that he had no idea what they were to do. Yes, Saoirse had made incredible strides in her first day of weaving. But not enough to produce as much as they’d been asked to make in two weeks’ less time.

A weighty silence filled the cottage. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the occasional sniffle from one of the ladies.

Strength and courage.

Owen’s head shot up at the almost audible voice.

Aileen’s red-rimmed eyes met his, a tenuous hope swimming in them. “Did ya think of something?”

He ignored her question. “Did ye year that?”

“Hear what?” Aileen and Saoirse asked in unison.

Owen allowed the words to echo in his mind over and over, pulling his thoughts toward Father Cunningham’s homily last week—and Owen’s subsequent conversation with God. Could this be one of His plans? It all seemed ridiculous enough. Cruel, even. There was only one way to find out.

Owen stood, almost knocking his sister over. “Get dressed and meet me at the wagon in ten minutes.”

****

The journey to Glentornan had felt hours long, as not a single one of them said a word the entire way. When Owen had ordered them all out to the wagon and left the house, Aileen had told Saoirse it was best not to ask questions when he was like that. So, they’d rumbled through the valley, questions surely swirling in each of their minds as the reality of Murphy’s letter settled further over all of them.

When they rolled to a stop in front of the church, the muscles in Saoirse’s neck tightened. She didn’t know exactly what they needed, but she wasn’t sure it was this. She offered a weak smile to Aileen, who was still lost in thought. Owen helped them each down, and as they entered the dimly lit stone building, they were met by Bridie and John Sheridan.

“Well, as I live an’ breathe,” Bridie said as she approached Aileen and gave her a hug. “The McCreadys darkenin’ the door of the church twice in less than a seachtain ?”

Aileen held on long to her friend. When they released, fresh tears glistened in her eyes. “Aye, well, needs must.”

“Mm,” Bridie replied, nodding. Her gaze searched Aileen’s face, but she didn’t inquire about her tears. Instead, she turned to Saoirse. “How are ya, love? Good to see ye again.” She swallowed Saoirse up in an embrace. The emotion that welled up in Saoirse took her by surprise.

“You too,” she finally managed to murmur.

The three women stood and chatted for a moment while Owen and John greeted one another, and then they all wandered to their customary rows. The organ played softly, and the gleaming marble walls amplified the sound until it filled up Saoirse’s very soul. Her gaze drifted to the ornate wooden zigzag pattern of the ceiling. She wondered if her prayers would penetrate such a fortress or if it took the petitions of a more worthy believer to reach the throne of heaven.

What on earth was the Lord up to? Why would He have brought her all the way here just to bring disaster on another poor, unassuming family? Or perhaps He’d not brought her here at all and she was completely on her own. Sighing, she lowered herself onto the wooden pew.

She went through the motions of the hymns and prayers but struggled to quiet her soul enough to really pay attention to what she was doing. When Father Cunningham ascended the pulpit, she squinted and worked to keep her focus fixed on his message. He began reading from the Scriptures. Saoirse nodded in agreement, then paused. These verses sounded very familiar. It wasn’t uncommon for the same verses to be read during services throughout the week but rare that they would be repeated the following week.

When he finished the passage about the battle of Jericho, he began to read again from the book of Judges and the account of Gideon. Saoirse was struggling to keep her mind from wandering when a verse jumped out and nearly slapped her in the face.

“And Gideon said unto him,” the priest was reading, “Oh my Lord, if the L ORD be with us, why then is all this befallen us? and where be all his miracles which our fathers told us of, saying, Did not the L ORD bring us up from Egypt? but now the L ORD hath forsaken us, and delivered us into the hands of the Midianites.”

When he finished reading the full account, ending with Gideon defeating the Midianites, Father Cunningham paused and scanned the small crowd of fewer than a dozen attendees. “My friends, I know most in this room live less than comfortable lives. Tragedy befalls this community, this country, more than most—or so it seems. But we can see here in God’s own Word, that His wisdom reaches far beyond our own.”

He then went on to speak about all the ways God works in our lives, all the while giving examples from the Holy Scriptures, of ways and times God’s actions made no sense. From Moses and Aaron to Joshua, Gideon, and on down to Mary and Joseph, and even to His own son, Jesus. All down through the history of the world, God used ordinary people to do strange and wonderful things. And they all started with a plan that made no sense—and some of those plans seemed downright foolish.

Saoirse couldn’t help but agree with what Father Cunningham was saying. But how did it apply specifically to her? What was God’s plan for Saoirse Fagan?

****

At the end of the service, Aileen and Saoirse walked out to the wagon together while Owen lingered inside, head low as he sat in the pew. Bridie approached and looped her arm through Aileen’s.

“Come on down fer some tea, will ya?” Bridie asked.

Aileen sighed and glanced at Saoirse, who shrugged. She couldn’t deny that the company sounded wonderful. While she’d grown to love spending time with both Aileen and Owen, she couldn’t help but feel a buffer of sorts was needed. Especially today.

Aileen chewed her lip. “I dunno.”

“It might be just the thing,” Saoirse offered.

Bridie nodded, a wide smile lighting her face. “John’s in there workin’ on yer man.” She hitched her thumb back toward the church. Saoirse followed the direction just in time to see John and Owen exit through the large wooden doors. John clapped a hand on Owen’s shoulder.

“I talked him into it,” John said as they approached. “C’mon, woman, ar aghaidh linn .”

Bridie flapped her hand at her husband playfully. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’.” She turned to Saoirse and Aileen. “We’ll see ya in a wee sec.”

They waved and nodded, then turned to get into the wagon.

“Eh,” Owen said, “I thought we’d walk?”

Aileen’s gaze flitted to the sky, and Saoirse followed suit. Hardly a cloud blocked the view of the stars, and the wind was unusually calm.

“Seems a lovely night for a stroll,” Saoirse said, the lightness she tried to infuse in her voice failing to reach it.

Owen moved between the two women and extended his elbows.

“Oh, such a gentleman,” Aileen quipped, humor dripping from her words.

“Ye’re more than welcome to walk on yer own, dear sister,” he retorted with a laugh.

Aileen rolled her eyes and hooked her arm through his. “Just don’t let me fall, aye?”

He flashed her a look and said, “That’s kind of the point,” and then he turned his attention to Saoirse, waiting.

She slipped her right hand into the crook of his elbow, noting the warmth of his rough woolen jumper almost immediately. Owen tucked his arm in slightly, and the trio set off toward the center of Glentornan.

The dirt path was deeply rutted from years of wagon and donkey use, not to mention the thousands of free grazing sheep that had traversed it over the centuries. There was just enough star- and moonlight to make out two or three feet in front of them.

“Did anyone else find tonight’s message a mite ... interesting?” Aileen asked, drowning out the crunching of gravel and dirt beneath their feet.

“How so?” Saoirse swallowed back the twinge of guilt at not readily agreeing with her friend.

“Well,” Aileen answered, “I’ve been goin’ to that church since I was a wee gairl, and I’ve never felt like Father Cunningham was talkin’ directly to me.”

Next to her, Owen nodded. “And ya did tonight?”

Aileen scoffed. “Didn’t ye?”

Had all three had the same experience tonight? “I wonder wha—” Saoirse’s ankle rolled on the lip of a rut, and her foot slid out from under her. In a flash, Owen’s hand grasped hers and pulled her toward him.

“Easy now,” he said, his grip tightening as Saoirse struggled to right herself. “Ya alright?”

“Oh, Saoirse, are ya okay?” Aileen added.

Saoirse swiped an errant ringlet from her face. “I am, thank you.” She rolled her foot around in a circle and winced.

Owen’s gaze drifted to her feet. “Your ankle?”

Saoirse nodded, and carefully shifted some of her weight onto it. Sore but not painful. She breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s grand. Just twisted it a bit, but no real harm done.”

His eyes met hers. “Ya sure?”

“Aye. Let’s carry on. Bridie’ll be waitin’ on us.”

As they turned back in the direction they’d been heading, Owen didn’t release his grip on Saoirse’s hand. Instead, he tucked it under his arm, next to his chest. Warmth flooded her cheeks even as she relished the feel of his masculine, workworn hand holding hers, and she chided herself for taking such delight in his touch.

He means nothing by it , she told herself. Surely he was just trying to prevent another slip or, worse, a fall resulting in further injury to any of them, keeping them from finishing the tweed order even more. The weight of their reality settled once again on her shoulders, and in her soul, as they rounded the walk leading to the Sheridans’ house.