Heart of the Glen

Chapter 22

22

Saoirse hummed to herself as she worked the loom pedals and threw the shuttle back and forth. The whole process was coming much more easily to her now, though she still had to keep her focus completely on what she was doing. If she let her mind wander too much, something would go awry. Stout lay not far from her feet, the loud din of the weaving not bothersome to him in the slightest. Saoirse supposed he was used to it after years of his master’s labors. Owen had left her to weave alone for an hour or so while he saw to the sheep. They were in the field next to the barn this morning, so Stout wasn’t needed. Saoirse couldn’t tell if the dog was grateful for the day of rest or pouting at being left behind.

Either way, she was grateful for the company. Owen’s absence loomed large in the shed, and Saoirse had to force herself not to imagine him behind her, singing, the warmth of his body pressed up against her back.

“Saoirse!”

Saoirse jolted, stopping the loom, heat flashing to her cheeks. “What, I didn’t do anything.”

Aileen burst into the small shed, breathless. Confound that woman and how she always managed to scare the tar out of Saoirse at the most inopportune moments. “Guess what, guess what?” Aileen said between huffs, oblivious to Saoirse’s pounding heart. “We’re goin’!” she announced.

Saoirse knew exactly what she was talking about. The last day and a half, Aileen had done nothing but pester Owen about attending the Máirt na hInide celebration at the Sheridans’. Saoirse had tried to stay out of the way, though secretly she was dying to go as well. Aileen and Owen’s bickering had reminded Saoirse of her younger brother and sister who used to argue over just about anything. One could say the sky was blue, and the other would find a reason to disagree. It used to drive Saoirse crazy, but what she wouldn’t give to hear them nagging one another now. Seemingly unable to escape the memories of her family that had been assaulting her more and more of late, she hoped the party would be a very welcome distraction. Three times already she’d almost told Owen everything as they worked together in the weaving shed and as she helped him muck out the stables.

“Did ya hear what I said?” Aileen closed the distance and shook Saoirse’s shoulders. “I said we’re goin’ to Bridie and John’s tonight!”

Saoirse pasted on a smile. “Buíocihas le Dia,” she said, laughing.

“Thanks be to God, indeed,” Aileen replied. “It’s about time that man came to his senses.”

Saoirse shrugged. “Well, I can understand why he wouldn’t want to go. There’s so much to be done here.” She made one final pass of the shuttle before cutting the thread and tying it off. “We’ve made good progress on the tweed, but there’s loads more to weave.”

Aileen scoffed and flapped a hand. “Ye can make up a few hours some other time. Pancake Tuesday comes only once a year, and I’m not goin’ to start my Lenten fast without a proper celebration first.”

Saoirse wondered if Aileen knew how insensitive she came across sometimes. But she also knew where her friend was coming from. Máirt na hInide was a time to indulge but also a time to be responsible—to use up all the forbidden items before Lent, so as not to let them go to waste.

“Don’t just stand there.” Aileen grabbed Saoirse by the elbow. “We’ve got to get ready.”

Back in the house, Saoirse hadn’t much to do to prepare. She cleaned her face and hands and removed her apron, then she twisted her ringlets up in a simple style, with strands falling around her face and neck.

Aileen, on the other hand, spent an inordinate amount of time weaving her hair in an intricate pattern of plaits circling her head. She then donned a lovely dress Saoirse had never seen before. Given their financial state—much like everyone else in the county—she suspected Aileen reserved it for any and all special occasions.

“You look absolutely lovely,” Saoirse said when Aileen joined her in the living room.

“Aw, t’anks,” she said, waving a dismissive hand, though her smile belied her delight at the compliment.

Suddenly, doubt crept up Saoirse’s spine and her face flushed. “Will this suffice?” she asked, standing and shaking out her skirts. Not that it mattered if it wouldn’t. It was all she had.

Aileen smiled and crossed the room to join Saoirse at the hearth. “Ah, sure, ye’re grand.” Aileen patted her own hair self-consciously. “I just felt like ... makin’ tonight special.”

Saoirse nodded, but something about the way Aileen’s cheeks held a hint of pink and her eyes twinkled with anticipation made Saoirse think perhaps Aileen was holding something back.

You’re in good company then. The errant thought shocked Saoirse, and she shuffled to the kitchen to put the kettle on to distract herself from blurting out the secret that was hovering ever closer to the surface of late.

Just then, Owen walked in. Stout stood from his spot by the hearth, stretched, and trotted over to greet his master. “Hello, auld boy.” Owen bent to scratch the dog behind his ears. When he straightened, his gaze fell on his sister. “Well, aren’t we the pretty picture?”

“Why, thank you, good sir,” Aileen said, then she dipped into a sarcastic curtsy.

Owen scoffed. “I mean it. Ya look nice, Aileen.” He turned and held on to the doorframe as he worked to pull his feet from his wellies. “I just need to clean up and we can head down,” he said, his voice muffled against the wall. When he turned back, his eyes met Saoirse’s and widened for a split second, then he blinked rapidly.

Saoirse warmed under his gaze, as hers dipped to the floor.

“Doesn’t Saoirse look nice too?” Aileen asked, a knowing tone in her voice.

Saoirse turned wide eyes toward Aileen. If she was closer, she’d have swatted her friend on the arm.

Owen cleared his throat, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I, uh ... that is ... I hadn’t noticed.” He glanced back up at Saoirse. “But, aye—ahem—she does.”

He scurried to the wardrobe on the far wall, his head down, and rummaged through its contents. Then he snatched some clothes from a drawer and hurried down the hall. “I won’t be a minute,” he mumbled.

Aileen snickered as she shuffled toward the front door. “I’ll go get the wagon ready. Saoirse, will you see to the fire?”

Saoirse’s heart thudded in her chest as all the heat drained from her face. “I, uh ... I’ll get the horse and wagon.”

Aileen floated a strange look at her. “It’s no bother. I’m already halfway out the door.”

Saoirse stared into the flames for a moment before blinking and turning her attention back to Aileen. She moved in her direction. “No, no. We can’t risk you snagging your dress or mussing your hair.”

Aileen started to argue, but then stopped and pursed her lips. Twice she opened her mouth as if to speak, and then snapped it shut. Finally she said, “That’s very kind of ye. T’anks.”

Saoirse smiled. “O’course.” Then she swept through the door. As she trudged up the hill to the barn, she wondered if the thought had also crossed Aileen’s mind that she had just as much chance at sullying her clothing while tending the fire as she did hitching the horse to the wagon. Heaving the heavy barn door open, she forced herself to shake the thoughts aside. Tonight was not the night to wallow in guilt and self-pity. She needed some fun, and to hear Aileen tell of it, the Sheridans’ party promised to be great craic .

Rolling the wagon from its stall into the center of the barn was easy enough. But the McCreadys’ horse, Lir, had other ideas. Named after the king of old, Lir seemed to think he was sired in the same line as the sovereign and conducted himself as such. Meaning, he didn’t interact kindly with anyone he deemed below his station, and it had become clear early on in her time with the McCreadys that Lir definitely held himself in higher esteem than Saoirse. He would mind Owen, and even Aileen most of the time, but with Saoirse, he turned as stubborn as a mule. She’d have much rather hitched up Fadó, but he was too old to pull the wagon with three passengers so soon after the last journey.

As Saoirse tried to lead him out of the stall to hitch him up to the wagon, Lir dug his hind hooves into the ground and pulled in the opposite direction. She crooned, she commanded, she used all the same phrases she’d heard Owen say, but to no avail.

“What have I ever done to ya, eh, boy?” Saoirse asked through gritted teeth as she tugged the reins.

He tossed his head, pulling the reins from her hands, and whinnied.

“Don’t ya wanna go down into the glen?” she asked.

He stamped his foot. She took the leads again, tugged gently, and clicked three times.

“C’mon, boy. Let’s go.” She tugged harder, and once again he leaned in the opposite direction. She pulled harder still, and he did the same until she was leaning with almost her full body weight, at which point he relaxed, causing her to fall to the ground. His whinny sounded like laughter.

Saoirse groaned and puffed a stray strand of hair from her face. “I like Stout better than you,” she mumbled under her breath. A low grunt rumbled in Lir’s chest as if to say that the feeling was mutual. When Saoirse finally managed to get to her feet, frustration overwhelmed her. She gritted her teeth, her face screwing up tight. If she didn’t let out her annoyance, she feared she might burst. She didn’t want to yell and risk spooking the cantankerous beast, so instead she hauled off and kicked the wall of the stall.

“Easy there, lass. My dad built this barn,” Owen said, laughter bouncing his words.

Saoirse’s head fell back, and she sighed. Of course he would walk in right then. “Sorry. It’s just...”

“Lir, are ya bein’ difficult?” Owen stepped up and stroked the horse’s nose. Lir snorted. Owen turned back to Saoirse, his gaze on her foot, which she refused to lift up to rub. What had she been thinking, kicking a wooden wall? “ An bhfuil tú ceart go leoir ?”

Saoirse offered a tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine.”

“Let’s go,” Owen said to Lir, then he gave the slightest tug on the reins. Lir sauntered from his stall and dutifully took his place in front of the wagon. Saoirse couldn’t be sure, but she was almost certain the horse had given her a side-eyed glare as he walked past. If horses could sneer, she had no doubt he would have.

Saoirse joined Owen at the front of the wagon, and the pair worked together to hitch Lir up. Owen grabbed the heavy yoke from a sturdy peg on the wall and slid it over the horse’s head. As he buckled the leather straps on one side, Saoirse worked to do the same on the other.

“Did you help him?” Saoirse asked as she tossed a leather strap over Lir’s rump.

“Help who?” Owen asked without looking up from checking Lir’s hooves.

“Your dad,” she replied. “To build the barn.”

Owen straightened, and a shadow darkened behind his eyes. “Not as much as I should have.” He stared off into the distance for a long moment.

Unsure how to reply, Saoirse finished her tasks and double-checked that all the fastenings were secure.

“He died here.” Owen’s voice was so low that Saoirse almost missed it.

She met his gaze, and the sorrow swimming in his eyes made her ache. “I’m so sorry.” She rounded Lir and stood next to Owen.

He shrugged a single shoulder. “I wasn’t here that day.” He sniffled and looked away. “And he died.”

Instinctively, Saoirse laid her hand on his arm. “How awful.” She took a half step closer. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

“No,” he ground out through clenched teeth, “it was O’Malley’s fault. But if I had been here, it might not have happened. So, in that way, I am to blame.”

Saoirse’s heart clenched, and she fought the urge to wrap her arms around him to try to comfort him. He didn’t readily offer the details surrounding his father’s death, and Saoirse wasn’t sure she should ask. She hadn’t offered more details about her own family’s fate when she first spoke of it. And she still hadn’t been able to bring herself to do so. He’d offered this much already. If he was ready to share more, he would have. She opted, instead, to say, “You don’t know that it would’ve turned out any differently if you had been here.” She paused and took a deep breath. “And if things still happened the same way, you’d have to carry that memory around with you, which, I imagine, would be a much heavier weight.”

She imagined witnessing a tragedy and having no control over it would be an even heavier burden to bear. But the weight of guilt was heavy enough—a burden that very nearly suffocated her on a regular basis. She assumed Owen’s burden was the same.

“It’s no matter,” Owen said, snapping Saoirse from her thoughts. “What’s done is done.” He took the reins and led Lir outside before sliding the large door closed.

Just then, Aileen rounded the corner, smiling a mile wide. Saoirse couldn’t help but smile in return, trying to muster the hope that this evening held as much promise as Aileen seemed to think it would.

Owen stood next to the wagon step and held his hand out to Saoirse. “Shall we?”