Chapter Three
Liam and Kieran Butler hadn’t stopped laughing since introducing themselves. Sean attempted to take their teasing in stride. Attempting doesn’t always mean succeeding.
“Do all lads from Mayo not know the difference between a field and a road?” Liam, the ginger one with at least a stone’s worth of muscle on his brother, had latched on first thing to Sean’s home county.
“And what was it, Sean from Mayo, that convinced you to lead these beasts into the mud?” Kieran had also made a point of mentioning Sean’s home in nearly every sentence.
“It didn’t seem so terrible an idea on the map,” Sean muttered, hands thrust into his coat pockets.
The men’s identical grins only widened.
“And do you always let a map do your thinking for you?” Liam asked. “Or only on rainy days?”
“Around here,” Kieran jumped in, “every day’s a rainy day.”
“Meaning,” Liam added, “he’s somethin’ of a muttonhead every day.”
Sean ought to have been rewarded with a fancy title, or at least an estate, for the forbearance he showed that afternoon. Having his intelligence called into question again and again pushed his endurance to its limit.
But these two jesters had brought with them three very large draft horses, likely about the only thing that’d get Sean’s cart free of the mud and, in so doing, save his hide. So he kept his mouth shut. Never let it be said the Irish haven’t a knack for strategizing.
“Seems less than proper, though, leavin’ these fine animals stranded this way,” Kieran said. “Seems we ought to do something about them.”
“Seems.” Liam nodded, as if pondering deeply.
“I assumed that was the reason you brought the horses along.” Sean indicated them with a jerk of his thumb.
“Oh, not at all,” Liam insisted. “They’re fine company, they are, and tell the best jokes. There’s this one about a muttonhead who gets his cart stuck in the mud. It’s hilarious, I tell you.”
“Now, I’ve a difficult time believing that, brother,” Kieran said. “Not the bit about the talkin’ horses. That I could imagine happening. But a fella driving a cart into a muddy field? That seems unlikely.”
Sean shook his head at their nonsense. “Your sister told me that the pair of you would rib me over this. I think she made rather light of it.”
“Well, but she didn’t let her dogs eat you,” Liam pointed out. “That tells us there’s more to you than a stick in the mud.” He turned to his brother, grin growing. “Stick in the mud. The mud. That wasn’t half bad, now, was it?”
“I’ll tell you what is half bad: this cart.” Kieran gave it a firm tap with the toe of his boot. “He’s managed to sink this thing deep. We’ll not be pulling it out on our own.”
“Again, I figured that was why you brought the horses,” Sean said.
The brothers laughed, and, though Sean still wasn’t reveling in being the recipient of their teasing, he found that he could smile along with them.
“We could try pulling the cart out with these beasties.” Liam patted one of the very large horses they’d brought. “But I fear it’s too stuck for that and would only splinter.”
Sean shook his head. “Can’t let that happen, lads. The cart’s not mine. It belongs to the castle, as the horses do.”
“Fortunately, they’re not stuck,” Liam said.
“We can take them to the barn to warm up and get a bit to eat. Then I suppose we had better send for Donaghue and the up-road Butlers and dig out the Marquess’s cart.
” He looked at Sean. “Did you know that the owner of the castle was recently made a fine Marquess? I’d wager he’d be none too happy to hear that his new stable hand went and broke a cart. ”
Sean’s day hadn’t been a great one; that declaration didn’t help. “The cart and animals have to be to Kilkenny stables by tomorrow at nightfall. I’d hoped to arrive early to impress a few important people. You see, I need this job the way crops need the sun: desperately.”
Much of the humor in the brothers’ faces eased into an optimism tempered with concern, an expression one often sees on faces in Ireland.
Even when we know there’s little reason to expect a happy ending, we expect it anyway.
Some might blame that on the Guinness. But truth be known, ’tis nothing more or less than being raised to believe in better things to come.
We’ve had to make that way of seeing the world a choice, as there’s been precious little these past centuries to be hopeful about.
Yet hope arrived for Sean Kirkpatrick in the form of a burly farmer by the name of Finley Donaghue and another pair of brothers with the surname of Butler, though with the added distinction of being “up-road” Butlers.
It was the custom in days gone by for people to adopt the same surname as the nearest family of distinction.
That, in Kilkenny, was the Butler family of Kilkenny Castle.
And, thus, the countryside for many miles in all directions was littered with Butlers who had no more claim on the imposing structure than they did on Dublin Castle. But Butlers they were just the same.
The six of them were digging out Sean’s cart until past nightfall, a time that comes early in winter, long before anyone is truly ready to retire to his bed.
Sean’s cart emerged a bit worse for the experience, but in the course of that muddy undertaking, he’d made his first friends in this new county.
Liam and Kieran invited the lot of them to take supper up at the cottage.
“Won’t your sister have something to say about that?” Sean had learned from his own sainted mother that a man who valued his continued existence didn’t spring guests upon a woman without warning.
“Oh, Maeve’ll be expecting us,” Kieran insisted.
“Give the lass our regrets,” one of the up-road Butlers said. “We’ve a few chores yet to see to, and we mean to do them before the night grows too cold.”
Sean shook their hands firmly, hoping to communicate that he wasn’t an utter idiot despite the predicament they’d found him in upon first meeting. “I thank you again for your help.”
“You’re in Kilkenny now,” up-road Butler the second said. “We look after one another.”
“I’m appreciative.”
A few more firm nods split the group. Sean, Liam, Kieran, and Finley Donaghue made their way to the cottage.
“You’re certain Miss Maeve’ll not mind us dropping in for supper?” Sean asked again.
“She’ll not mind,” Liam said.
“And how is it you’re so confident of that? Have you the second sight?”
“If I had, I’d’ve locked the gate this morning to keep troublesome lads from Mayo off our land, now wouldn’t I?”
They’d only just reached the door of the cottage, precisely like every other cottage one generally sees in the countryside, from its thatched roof and white walls to its red door and small windows.
It isn’t that we aren’t a creative people; we’re simply limited by the materials on hand and by the somewhat crushing weight of not ever having any money.
Irish cuisine is about as varied as Irish country architecture.
Had Sean been asked to hazard a guess as to the menu Miss Maeve Butler had concocted, he’d likely’ve hit quite close to the mark.
He knew in an instant, as does every Irishman, the aroma of colcannon and soda bread, and that was precisely what he smelled the moment they stepped inside.
“You’re late, lads,” came the greeting from just out of sight around a corner.
“I’ve kept your meal warm, but if I hear a word of complaint about it bein’ overcooked, I’ll skin the lot of you and serve you to my hounds for breakfast.” Maeve stepped into sight, offered them all a brilliant smile, and added, “Dinner’s on, then. ”
There’s hardly a soul who’s not heard of love at first sight.
Yet, more often than not, ’tis a good dozen or so sights before a heart begins to realize it’s in danger of never being quite whole again.
Sean needed neither one nor twelve sightings of Maeve Butler to begin falling rather irretrievably into the first stages of love with her, the first stage being something along the lines of “that fine lass has caught my attention, and I’m wishing to know her better.
” Sean needed only two sightings to reach that starting place.
The first sighting had mostly been about her dogs and his horses. But the second one, this moment, with Maeve standing there, her apron dirtied with dinner, her hair hanging every which way, her large wooden spoon aimed at them all like a queen making a royal accusation— that moment did it for him.
He was well and truly gone, or at least pointed in that direction.