Chapter 2

DECEMBER 1920

Moira’s burlap bag sat in the corner. Though packed and ready for travel, a layer of dust had settled across the top. It had been three months since Mother’s passing, and still Moira had yet to decide about the offer her mother had presented just months before she died.

Though she had always dreamed of seeing her mother’s home village of Ballymann, Ireland, what her mother had asked Moira to do was simply too much. Moira poked at the fire in the grate and returned to her window. Her perch in her second-floor room had been a favorite and hallowed place ever since her childhood. She had spent hours gazing out at the world below, crafting stories in her mind about the people who passed by. Now though, the timeworn sill was no longer a place of solace and comfort. It was her place of melancholy.

“Begging your pardon, Miss”—Leona’s voice shattered Moira’s reverie—“but we’ve a telegram from Ballymann.”

Moira’s gaze remained glued on the street below.

“Moira.”

She turned to find the housekeeper’s face compassionate but resolute.

“They need to know,” she urged. “They need an answer.”

Moira nodded. “Yes, yes. I know.” But she didn’t know.

“Today,” Leona added softly. “I’ll be in the parlor when you come to a decision.” She hovered at the door another moment and then disappeared into the hallway.

What on earth had possessed Mother to recommend Moira for such a task? Moira tried to remember the conversation when Mother had told her the news.

Noreen Doherty had sat in an overstuffed chair in the living room of her brownstone, overlooking Massachusetts Avenue. A funny sort of smile flirted with the corners of her mouth, and an unfamiliar emotion swam within the woman’s eyes.

“Moira, dear, I have some wonderful news from home.” She gestured for Moira to take a seat on the matching chair across from her. “Do you remember when I told you that my old teacher from Ireland, Miss McGinley, had passed on?”

Moira nodded slowly, not sure where her mother was heading with the conversation.

“Well, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to get your hopes up unjustly.” The dignified woman paused. The amber light from the setting sun set her silvery gray hair alight.

“Tell me what, Mother? You’re worrying me.”

“Oh, darling, there is nothing to fear.” She smiled. “Did I not say I had wonderful news? You see, when I learned of Mrs. McGinley’s unfortunate passing, I wrote to the parish and recommended that you be the new teacher in Ballymann.” She grinned more broadly and sat back in her chair, clearly pleased with her surprise. Yet her eyes held something that unsettled Moira.

“So?” Moira swallowed hard. “What did they say?”

Her mother had stared out the window behind Moira for a moment. Something akin to wistfulness, or regret, reflected in her eyes. “I’m told the parish leaders were reluctant.”

Moira knitted her brows but remained silent.

“But,” Mother continued, “Lady Williams insisted upon you being the one.”

Moira sat, dumfounded, with her chin practically hanging in her lap. “What? How? When did—?” Unbidden, a rumble of laughter bubbled up and tumbled out of her mouth.

“I know, I don’t deny I was shocked as well.” Mother clasped Moira’s hand. “I’d had some dealings with Lady Williams . . . before.”

“Before?”

“Oh . . .” Her mother had faltered. “When I was younger.”

Moira nodded but something niggled at her gut that there was more than her mother was telling her.

“At any rate, Lady Williams was quite insistent that you come. I don’t pretend to know why she is so interested in you, but I’m grateful.” A warm smile spread across her mother’s face and she pressed Moira’s hand.

“Oh, Mother, thank you! But”—she swallowed—“it’s so far! I can’t leave you here.”

Mother’s smile faded a little, but her eyes still held their gleam of excitement. “Moira dear, I’ll be fine. This is the chance you’ve always dreamed of, is it not?”

Moira had pressed her lips together. She leaned forward and swallowed her mother in a hug. The two of them sat and rocked for the longest time, just mother and daughter.

Though Mother’s speech had been encouraging, it had yet to convince Moira to leave everything she’d ever known, voyage across the seas, and settle in a foreign place with foreign people.

Moira had all but decided not to go when the dream began haunting her. When it first occurred that stormy night in October, Moira hoped it had been born of the toxic mixture of grief and fatigue. But as time pressed on, the dreams not only continued but grew in frequency and intensity.

Though the specific details changed from night to night, each dream took place in Ireland, and concluded with Mother pleading with Moira to come to Ireland and save her.

Moira had discussed the dreams at length with Leona over the past three months. The same question vexed both women: How could Moira possibly save her mother if she was already dead?

“Oh Lord,” Moira whispered, not sure if it was a prayer or exclamation, “I don’t know what to do.” Adding to her apprehension, word had reached America of the “War for Independence”—Ireland’s fight for its independence. Donegal seemed a sweet respite from the heart of the fighting, but the idea of traveling to a war-torn country unsettled her.

Mother’s words echoed in her mind, “Save me, Moira! Come to Ireland and save me.”

Moira squeezed her eyes shut and slumped to the floor, exasperated and exhausted. “I don’t know.” She sighed. “I just don’t know.”

And thine ears shall hear a word behind thee, saying, This is the way, walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left.

The words floated into her heart, and Moira opened her eyes to scan the room. “Could it be?” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Could it be that simple? Are You asking me to go to Ireland?”

A sense of confirmation took root within her.

I will never leave you. I will never forsake you.

Moira stood and a shaky breath escaped her lips. She brushed off her skirts and returned to the window. What, truly, did she have to lose? Father had passed away when she was a child. Mother was now gone. With no siblings, no other close relations nearby, and no husband, there was nothing tying her down to Boston. She had always wanted to see Ireland, walk the streets her mother had walked, and experience the culture, the food, and the community firsthand.

Could she really do this?

“Leona,” Moira called, heading for the door, a smile spreading across her face. “Start a telegram, please.”