Heart of the Glen

Chapter 36

36

The next morning, Owen awoke early in order to tend to the sheep before Conn’s visit around lunchtime. He made his tea and toast as quietly as he could, then tugged on his jacket and flatcap and slipped out into the morning mist. As he crested the first hill past the barn, he stopped short. Saoirse sat on the low stone wall overlooking the valley, lazily scratching Stout’s head as he sat next to her.

“Ye’re up early,” he said as he stepped over the wall and sat beside her. Stout wagged his tail a few times but didn’t move from his place on the other side of Saoirse.

She glanced at Owen and smiled softly before turning her gaze back to the valley. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Owen studied her profile as he tried to get a read on her mood. What was going on in her mind? Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in a pile of ringlets, and the light he usually found in her eyes was muted and dim.

He reached over and took her hand. “Everythin’ alright?”

She squeezed his hand softly but then slid hers from his grip. “It’s fine. Just needed some fresh air.”

He let his gaze drift along the horizon. Experience with Aileen had taught him that when a woman said she was fine, she very rarely actually meant it. But he also wanted to give Saoirse any space she needed. He wasn’t so arrogant to think he could be the solution to all of her problems. And yet the idea of her struggling under the weight of any hardship sat ill with him, and he wanted to do anything he could to ease her burden. “Ye’re sure?”

She looked at him fully for the first time that morning and smiled, though it failed to reach her eyes. “Yes, I’m alright. I promise.” She reached over and patted his knee. “Thank you though.” Then she stood and made her way back to the house.

Owen watched after her, still feeling like something was off. “I’ll see to the flock, then I’ll be back,” he said. Saoirse nodded, then disappeared inside the house.

Once out in the fields, the tension in Owen’s shoulders began to melt. Between the weather, the weaving, and the women in his life, he felt like it had been ages since he’d been able to roam the hills with his flock. He inhaled deeply, reveling at the unique aromas of the damp grass, wet wool, and turf fires, then set to work checking the lambs and moving the herd to the next field.

Before he knew it, it was time to head back to meet with Conn. As he approached the house, doubts began to creep into his mind. How did Murphy’s envision this happening? What did they truly want him to do? What if the letter was sent by mistake and Conn was going to have to take back the offer?

Be strong and courageous. Show up and shout the Lord’s victory.

Owen’s steps stilled. He closed his eyes, drew in another deep breath, and reminded himself the circumstances around him didn’t matter. Whether he worked for Murphy’s or stayed here and eked out a living from the land, he knew he could trust God in any and all of it.

Rounding the barn, he saw that Conn had already arrived and was likely inside having tea with Aileen and Saoirse. Owen quickened his pace and joined them inside.

Conn stood as he entered. “Owen, good ta see ya,” he said, extending his hand.

Owen took his hand and shook it. “Same to ye.” He gestured to the table. “Come, sit. I presume Aileen’s given ya some tea?”

Conn nodded as he returned to the chair he’d been in. “Oh, aye. And she’s been tryin’ to get me to explain why I’m here, but I wanted to wait until ye were home.”

Owen took the seat next to Saoirse and pinned a look on his sister, who just shrugged innocently.

“Can’t blame a gairl fer tryin’,” she said.

“Now”—Conn leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table—“the letter told ye that Murphy’s wants ya to oversee their new centralized weaving operation.”

Owen nodded.

“And they’re just over the moon about yer new twill design, especially the colors.” He settled back against his chair. “The customers love it. Especially the wealthier yokes from abroad. They love how it looks like a piece of Donegal plucked right off the map and onto their shoulders.

“And this new batch, there was just somethin’ about it.” Conn shook his head. “It’s special.”

The warmth that had spread across Owen’s chest at Conn’s praise dissipated. He agreed—there was something special about Saoirse’s work. But he couldn’t have Conn believing Owen was the one responsible for it. He cleared his throat. “I hafta be honest with ya about something.”

Conn crossed his arms across his chest. “G’on.”

Owen looked to Saoirse, then back to the man. “I didn’t weave most of that. It was Saoirse here. I’d been badly wounded not long after accepting yer order”—he lifted his right hand and pointed to the scars. “But we couldn’t afford to back out of the contract, so I taught Saoirse how to do the weavin’ so we could fulfill the order.”

The laughter that erupted from Conn startled everyone else in the room. “Oh, we know that,” he said between guffaws. “I could tell when I first laid eyes on it that is wasna yers.” He wiped his eyes. “I thought ye were gonna tell me ya didn’t want to weave fer us or somethin’ like that.”

Owen’s jaw slackened. “You knew?”

“Oh, aye.” Conn nodded emphatically. “To the average customer, it all looks the same fer the most part. But to the trained eye, each master weaver has his own unique tell in his work. Or should I say, hers. Most of us at the shop can tell who wove what just by lookin’.”

“That’s incredible,” Saoirse said. Then her head slowly lowered. “I’m sorry if the tweed was subpar. I was just tryin’ to help my friends.”

Owen reached over and squeezed her arm.

Conn flapped his hand. “ Seafóid . Yer work was as fine as any I’ve seen.” He turned back to Owen. “We want ye to teach the weavers yer twill, or design, if you will, and then oversee the lot of ’em to ensure our orders get filled. The royals have just discovered us, and many are startin’ to choose Murphy’s over Harris and we need help managin’ the workload.”

He grabbed the teapot and helped himself to a fresh cup of tea. “An’ then ye’re free to join in the weavin’ whenever ye like,” he said after he’d gulped down a slurp.

Owen grimaced. Would they still want him if they knew he couldn’t weave anymore? He’d regained quite a bit of mobility in his right hand, but the dexterity needed for weaving and tying knots simply wasn’t there.

Owen stared at his hands. “I’m afraid I’m goin’ to hafta decline.”

“Owen Sean McCready, have ye gone mad?” Aileen rounded the table and smacked his shoulder. “What’s the matter wit’ ye?”

Saoirse laid her hand on his forearm. “’Tis a very generous offer.”

Shaking his head, Owen said, “I’m sorry. It is a very generous offer and an amazing opportunity.” He turned his hands over and back. “I’m just afraid I can no longer weave. I’ve lost most of the use of my right hand.” He lifted sorrowful eyes to Conn. “Please extend my deepest gratitude to everyone, especially Mister Murphy.”

Conn set his cup down with a loud clank, confusion pulling his brows together. “I don’t think ya understand—”

“I’m sorry, Conn. If I canna use my hand, I canna weave.”

Sighing, Conn flopped his hand flat on the table. “I only added the weavin’ part because I figured ye’d want to continue yer trade. The real bulk o’ the job is trainin’ and managin’. And if ya truly taught her”—he nodded at Saoirse—“to weave with that level of expertise in a manner of weeks, that just goes to show we’ve found the right man fer the job.”

Owen shook his head. How would they have known he could teach people how to weave the way he did? Why did they want him? It simply made no sense. He slowly turned to Saoirse. She looked back up at him expectantly. Could this really be what everything had been leading up to?

“How did you know?” he asked, his gaze still trained on her.

“Know what?” she replied.

Owen turned to Conn. “How did ye know I could teach weavin’?”

Conn shrugged. “We didn’t. What we’re really after is that pattern of yorn. Ye’re the only one weavin’ that design with those colors, but we simply need more of it. We figured we’d give it a shot to have you show others how to do it. But hearin’ ya taught Saoirse here confirms ye’re the man for the job.”

Owen looked at Saoirse once again.

“If it’s the lass ye’re worried about, there’s no need,” Conn said. “They want her too.”

“What?” Owen and Saoirse asked at the same time.

“Aye.” Conn nodded. “I meant it when I said that there’s something special in yer work. We want ya to be one of our full-time weavers.”

Saoirse’s hand fluttered up and covered her mouth. “I can’t believe it.” She turned wide eyes to Owen, fresh tears threatening to spill over. She searched his face, a million questions being asked without a single word.

Owen lifted his brows slightly, and she did the same. He nodded and she smiled.

He turned in his chair and took both her hands in his. “What do you say? Will you be strong and courageous with me and be my wife?”

A wide smile spread across her face, and she pressed her forehead against his. “I thought you’d never ask,” she whispered. “Yes.”

Across the table, Aileen squealed and clapped her hands together. Owen took Saoirse’s face in his hands. “I love you, Saoirse.” When he pressed his lips to hers, she responded immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck and stealing his breath with the intensity of her kiss.

Conn cleared his throat. “Does that mean yes for me too?”

Owen and Saoirse laughed. Her cheeks flushed. They both turned to Conn and said together, “Aye.”