Chapter 24
24
Saoirse looked at Aileen, eyes wide. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “I don’t want to do that.”
Aileen gripped her friend’s arms, eyes pleading. “Ah, please?” She glanced over her shoulder to the teacher, then turned back to Saoirse. “For me?”
Saoirse followed suit and looked to the tall man who was trying to wrangle two more contestants for the race, then back to Aileen. The imploring on her face was almost more than Saoirse could bear. She presumed looking foolish in a silly pancake race was the least she could do for the friend who’d taken her in when she had no place to go. Sighing, she rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
Aileen squealed and clapped her hands, then grabbed Saoirse by the elbow and pulled her to the start line. They were both given a pan with a cold pancake already in it. The rules were repeated and then the race began. With intense focus fixed on her pan, Saoirse flipped the cake over and over, all while taking small, swift steps to avoid any jarring movements that might cause her to drop either the pan or the cake. She and Aileen reached the doorframe at the same time, touched it, and turned back. From the corner of her eye, she watched Aileen—a wide grin lighting her face—as she scurried toward the finish line. Saoirse slowed her steps a tad, allowing her friend to finish first. Raucous cheers erupted from the onlookers, and the teacher congratulated the victor, then handed her a stout as her prize. Saoirse was declared to have had the most successful flips and was thus bestowed with the honor of a stack of fresh pancakes. After one more round of racing, everyone settled down in groups to eat. Saoirse couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so full. The whole meal was utterly delicious, with pancakes, brown bread, steamed puddings, and more. Hearty conversation accompanied the meal, and Saoirse enjoyed sitting back and watching Owen in his element, chatting with the neighbors he all too rarely got to spend time with.
As the meal began to wind down, the haunting whine of uillean pipes filled the air. After a few notes of adjustment, the piper jumped right in to a lively jig tune. Owen leaned forward, squinting. “Well, as I live and breathe.”
Saoirse matched his posture, straining through the darkness to see what Owen saw.
“That’s auld Charlie MacSweeney,” Owen said.
Saoirse’s brows soared. “ An Píobaire Mór ?”
Owen nodded. “The world champion Big Piper himself.”
The crowd listened to the song, toes tapping, relishing the opportunity to hear someone of MacSweeney’s caliber play. Eventually, no longer able to contain himself, an older gentleman stood up and shimmied onto the makeshift dance floor the Sheridans had set up and began dancing. Song after song, man, woman, and child took turns showcasing their talents in the jig, céilí , and reel. There was a lull in the ac tion when Charlie took a break for a cup of tea, but when he returned, he had a broom in his hand.
“Who’ll give us a damhsa bruscar ?” Charlie held the broom up to the delight of the crowd. But no one volunteered.
Suddenly someone shouted, “Owen McCready, g’on up and give us a dance!” The rest of the onlookers erupted in applause, and calls went up all around for Owen to dance. Saoirse turned to him, delight swelling in her chest. Owen waved off the requests, but when his eyes met Saoirse’s, she nodded at him. “G’on,” she said. “Please?”
He studied her for a moment and finally relented. As he approached the dance floor, more musicians joined Charlie. Now, in addition to the pipes, there was a concertina, a fiddle, and a tin whistle.
Owen took his place on the dance floor and laid the broom flat on the ground, then stood behind it. After another quick tune-up, the band began an upbeat song. Owen’s toes tapped for a bar or two and then he set off dancing. He tapped out rhythms with his feet and danced in a square all around the broom. Then he crossed his right leg over the handle and back, then his left at half tempo. After a few beats he repeated the steps at double time, every now and then using a stomp or double-footed jump to accentuate the downbeat. After dancing around the broom one more time, he bent and picked it up. Whistles went up from the crowd.
“G’on now.”
“Get it, Owen!”
He kicked one leg up and passed the handle of the broom under it, letting it land between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand rather than grasping it. Then repeated it in reverse. After four passes, he made the sign of the cross, eliciting guffaws from the crowd, and repeated the kick steps again in double time.
Saoirse watched, a hand pressed against her chest. She remembered thinking he must be a good dancer, given the coordination needed to run the loom, but she had no idea he would be this good. She couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across her face as he finished the dance with a flourish, broom under one foot, both hands raised in victory. The crowd went wild.
Saoirse turned to Aileen. “I had no idea.”
Aileen chuckled. “Oh, aye, weavers always make the best dancers.”
When the applause had died down and Owen returned to his seat, breaths coming in heavy puffs, John took center stage. “Well, I don’ think anyone’s gonna top that, aye?”
“No!”
“Níl!”
“Not a chance!”
John nodded and patted the air to quiet the crowd again. “Right. Let’s get everyone out here, then. Four tops, let’s go!”
Saoirse wondered how odd this whole ritual must seem to an outsider. Clearly none were present, though, because the group dutifully divided up into groups of eight and formed squares with two people on each side. Owen stood, caught Saoirse’s eye, and inclined his head to the dance floor. Next to him, John and Bridie beckoned her and Aileen to join them. Saoirse nodded and stood, taking her place next to Owen. John and Bridie took their place at the top of the square, with Owen and Saoirse to their left. The couple on the left of them were another local farmer and his wife. Across from Saoirse, Aileen stood alone.
It was difficult to tell by the firelight, but Saoirse was certain tears pooled in Aileen’s eyes. She turned to go, but John caught her elbow. He craned his neck and scanned the crowd. His eyes landed on someone, and his face brightened. “Hugh,” he called, waving his hand. “Goitse!”
A moment later, the schoolteacher jogged up and took the place next to Aileen, who looked like she’d just seen a ghost. Saoirse and Bridie stole a glance at one another, grins playing on both of their lips. Did John know about her interest in Hugh, or was it just happenstance? Just as Hugh got settled in his place, the musicians began playing the “High Cauled Cap,” one of Saoirse’s favorite dances. But it had been ages since she’d been to a céilí and done set dances, so she was disappointed when she missed a few steps. Whenever she’d get confused, Owen’s hand would land on the small of her back and gently guide her where she was supposed to be.
After several more set dances, the band shifted to play partner dance songs. Bridie and John were off without a second thought, as were the farmer and his wife. Hugh bowed slightly at the waist, offering his hand to Aileen, who giggled, curtsied, and accepted his offer. Saoirse turned to go sit down, but ended up facing Owen, who opened his arms to her.
“May I have this dance?” he asked.
Saoirse paused, heat flushing her face—partly from the boisterous dancing but more so from the idea of being embraced by him. Finally, she nodded and slid her hand into his and placed her other one on his shoulder. He wrapped his free hand around her waist, and they set off in a quick, two-hand polka.
****
Owen held Saoirse close as they whirled around the dance floor, grateful that his right hand was on her waist and not trying to hold her hand. It had been ages since he’d done any dancing, and if he was honest with himself, he’d missed it. He’d never give Aileen the satisfaction, but while taking a spin on the dance floor with Saoirse in his arms, he was overcome with gratitude that they’d chosen to come tonight. He’d gotten a glimpse of Saoirse during his brush dance, and the delight that shone in her eyes had swelled his chest with pride, and he was absolutely sure he would do whatever he needed to do to put that look on her face over and over again.
After another polka, then a reel, the tempo slowed to a gentle waltz. Several couples left the floor to rest a spell, but Owen gently pulled Saoirse closer, held her hand to his chest, and let their feet carry them away with the mournful tune. Almost immediately, her head lowered to rest on his chest, and his eyes drifted closed at the sensation. The light scent of lavender wafted up from her hair as she slid her arm farther up his shoulder and around his neck. His pulse quickened at her nearness, and he absently wondered if she could hear his heart thrumming against his chest. They made a couple of trips around the floor and eventually settled in the corner, swaying back and forth. Owen’s cheek rested on the top of her head, and he resisted the urge to press kisses onto the ringlets tickling his nose. Instead, he rubbed his thumb back and forth over her fingers and smiled as she pulled in a deep breath, releasing it with a sigh of contentment.
When the song ended, neither one moved for a long moment—both seemingly not wanting the moment to end.
“Woohoo!” one of the musicians yelped, jolting both from their trance as another fast-tempo song began.
Saoirse lifted her head and stepped back. Even in the dim light, Owen could see the blush coloring her cheeks.
“Thanks for the dance,” he said, his voice thick.
She nodded, her gaze holding his for the most deliciously long moment before fluttering to the ground. He cleared his throat. “Tea?”
“Oh, yes, please.” Her shoulders relaxed as she headed for their seats.
A few minutes later, Saoirse sipped her tea and watched the couples still twirling around the dance floor. Owen took advantage of the opportunity to study her profile. More ringlets had fallen down, framing her face in a golden halo of sorts. The gentle slope of her nose was silhouetted against the firelight, tracing down to the outline of her full lips. When they split into a wide grin, he followed her gaze. At the far end of the dance floor, Aileen and Hugh spun in a circle, both laughing heartily. Owen couldn’t help the smile that slid up one corner of his mouth. It did him good to see his sister so happy—and to get his thoughts off Saoirse’s lips. Drat. Now he was thinking of them again.
He gulped his tea, hoping the scalding liquid trailing down his throat would pull his thoughts to more proper topics of rumination.
“Right, folks, it’s the last song,” Charlie called out, “so if ya didn’t dance with the lass ye’ve had yer eye on, it’s now or never.”
Disappointment flooded Owen’s chest. He wasn’t ready for this night to be over. And yet, it was probably good that things were wrapping up, the way his thoughts were running wild, envisioning holding Saoirse in his arms forevermore. Even still, he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to hold her again tonight.
A throng of people shuffled out to the floor. Owen stood and held his hand out to Saoirse. “May I have this dance?” He chuckled and added, “Again?”
She studied his hand for a long moment. Then she stood, avoiding his gaze, and said, “I’d better help Bridie clean up.” She scurried off to where their host was dunking dishes in a tub of water.
Her rebuff stole his breath, as though he’d been socked in the stomach. Had he misread things? Had he overstepped his bounds? He thought back to all the dances they’d shared, and his mind settled on the waltz. His arms tingled as he remembered the feeling of her pressing into him, laying her head on his chest. He remembered her sighs and how she’d melted into his embrace. Everything pointed to her enjoying the moment just as much as he was, but it seemed he’d somehow scared her away.
He couldn’t very well stand there staring at her the rest of the song, so he returned to his seat. He scanned the mob on the floor but didn’t see Aileen or Hugh. Trilling laughter caught his ear, and he turned toward the sound. His sister and the schoolteacher each sat on a stump a few seats away from him, deep in discussion, clearly very amused with their conversation. Owen smiled at the scene but couldn’t keep his gaze from bouncing back to Saoirse. She was drying a plate and smiling widely at Bridie, who was telling a story with wild animation. Then, as if she felt him watching her, Saoirse swung her gaze toward him. Owen quickly turned away and pretended to watch the dancing, but not before he wondered one more time what had gone wrong.
When the last few notes died out, the crowd cheered, and rounds of thanks were shouted to the Sheridans for hosting such great craic for the evening. Saoirse helped Bridie carry a stack of dishes into the house, then came back out, wiping her hands on her skirts. Owen watched as she scanned the crowd and found him, shadows darkening under her eyes. “Ready?” she asked.
He nodded, noting he suddenly felt as tired as Saoirse now looked. It had been long since anyone in his house had stayed up past midnight, and he was not looking forward to having to wake in a few short hours.
A gust of wind blew past them, and Saoirse shivered, then tossed her shawl around her shoulders and pulled it tight. Aileen and Hugh walked up, still laughing.
“Thanks for a lovely evening,” Aileen said, admiration shining in her eyes.
Hugh bowed slightly at the waist again. “Likewise,” he said. “The most enjoyable time I’ve had in a great long while.”
After one more round of goodbyes, several more offers for tea, and just as many declines, Owen, Aileen, and Saoirse loaded into the wagon as the wind picked up and tiny drops began to sprinkle down upon them.