Chapter 7

“Whar’s yer head, lad? You’ve been thatchin’ that same strand of straw for nigh half an hour!”

Colm Sweeny’s voice sliced through Sean’s thoughts like a hot knife through butter. Sean flinched at his superior’s tone and chided himself.

Aw, japers! That woman had gotten into his head and was going to be the death of him. Fancy a woman like that drifting into town with the lofty idea she could teach the children. She had not an idea what it was to live here. Her and her American ways. “Eh, sorry, Colm. I was . . . thinkin’ ’bout the best way to carry the thatch ’round the corner of the eaves on the gable end.”

Liar.

There was no point letting Colm in on the truth that a wee gal from a far-off land had piqued his curiosity. Sean knew Colm already fancied him a flirtatious lad, so there was no point in trying to explain that for some reason it felt different this time.

“The gable end, ya say? Mmm.” Colm’s gray head bobbed and he returned to his work, though not before Sean caught a hint of a gleam in the chap’s eye.

Not much slipped past Colm. He was older than Sean by a score and seemed wiser even beyond that. His weathered skin, barely shielded by his flat cap, was thick as leather and as brown as milky tea. He held more respect from the community than was due his station.

Sean set about working on the next section that needed securing. It was a brilliant day for thatching. Although the calendar showed Feabhra, the sun was shining like the middle of July, and the breeze gently led the tattered ends of the bales of straw in a jig as they waited to be thatched. Sean took a deep breath, energized by the chill that filled his lungs, and glanced up at the top of the roof.

He grimaced. Over the straw he could see a lithe figure walking down the hill toward the market, skirts bouncing blithely in the breeze.

Miss Moira Doherty. Sean, feeling every bit the schoolboy, ducked his head, lest he be seen. Why are you hiding, man? Had he offended her with his good-natured ribbing? He hoped it hadn’t ruined his chances at friendship with the girl.

Aye, friendship . . . or more.

“Tsk! Don’t be such an amadán,” he muttered under his breath as he returned to his thatching, trying not to wonder where she was going.

Moira would not let her run-in with a silly lad like Sean McFadden further deter her from completing her tasks for the day. There was plenty of work to be done to ready the schoolroom for classes on Monday, and it was already midmorning. If she had any hope of starting instruction ahead of the curve, she had no choice but to venture back, whether Sean McFadden was there or not. She set a determined pace to the schoolhouse, but as she neared, her confidence began to wane.

She scanned the area before entering the schoolhouse. The strange noises meeting her ears had to be merely the wind in the bare branches of the birch trees. The heavy door groaned in protest as Moira tentatively opened it, listening for anyone inside. A quick glance around the room answered her question.

Ah, alone indeed. Thank God.

She cautiously closed the door, and then laughed at herself for being so childish. Taking a deep breath, Moira once again surveyed her surroundings. At the front of the room near her desk stood a fireplace—the room’s only source of heat. Next to it sat a basket of turf and a small shovel for removing the ashes.

Having grown up in the city, she had never laid eyes on a brick of peat before but had heard her mother describe them. Walking about town that morning, she had smelled peat’s uniquely sweet and earthy aroma and couldn’t help but bend down now to take a closer look.

Roughly cut briquettes lay neatly stacked in the basket. She lifted one out for further inspection, running her hand over the packed dirt. Handfuls of dry grass, twigs, and moss jutted in all directions, poking her soft skin.

Although the morning held plenty of chill, she’d not waste the fuel today. Better to save it for school days. Returning the peat to its place, she brushed the dirt from her hands and stood to face the pupils’ desks.

The imagined faces of her students, round and ready to learn, floated across her mind. Running her fingers over the top of each desk, she slowly walked up and down the rows while whispering a prayer over each child.

Bless him with health. Let her find joy in this room. While the students’ names were still unknown to her, she dearly loved each one. Her mother would have said that to be the sign of a true teacher. Was she?

Her attention turned to her own desk, and she crossed the room to take her seat. Her posture more that of a queen than a teacher unsure of herself, she sat tall, as if the mantle of responsibility had been freshly placed on her shoulders. The desk before her wasn’t the shined oak or mahogany of a barrister or wealthy landlord but the rough-hewn desk of generations of teachers before her. She’d prayed over her students. Now she whispered a desperate plea of her own.

The rest of the morning passed quickly as she arranged books, removed outdated projects and materials from walls and shelves, and organized what few teaching materials were provided in the room. Tomorrow she would return with her own effects to finish getting ready for the first day of school. Sunday would be spent resting, reflecting on Scripture, and praying, as she had done every week in Boston with Mother. This time she would be alone. As if on cue, the church bells tolled in the distance.

The morning had flown. Bríd would be waiting, as would lunch. Moira was grateful the guesthouse was not far, and she prayed the Martins had not waited to partake of their own lunch until her arrival. Moira grabbed her skirts and flew home.

Her gait slowed to a measured walk as she approached the house, fighting the urge to burst through the door with deepest apologies for her tardiness. On the doorstep she noticed a small bunch of white flowers.

“How lovely!” She stooped to pick them up, raising them to inhale the sweet scent before entering the house. Her hostess rounded the corner as if she had been perched there the entire time Moira had been gone.

“Well, hello, peata. Ye’re just in time for a bit of lunch. I’m only after finishing the bacon.”

Moira loved the way the last word rolled off of the old woman’s tongue. Bee-con. The strong Donegal accent was quite different from the ones she had heard from immigrants in Boston, watered down and thinned out over time and life in a melting pot of cultures and languages.

“Good afternoon, Bríd. Are you sure—”

Before Moira could finish, Bríd’s eyes widened. She snatched the flowers from Moira’s hand, spit on them, and threw them out the door. “Where on earth did ya get those? Ya didn’t pick them yerself, did ya? Don’t ya know if ya pick white flowers from a thornbush and bring them home, ye’ll die?” Desperation swam in Bríd’s expression.

“I—” Confusion swirled in Moira’s mind. “I found them on the doorstep. They’re such lovely flowers, I thought I’d bring them inside.”

“Ye found them on the doorstep?” Bríd chewed her lip. “Well, pay ye no mind, lass. Pay ye no mind. Just . . . stay away from those flowers, aye?”

Moira nodded.

“Now, what were ya wantin’ to ask me?” Bríd plastered a smile on her face.

Moira swallowed, dizzied by the rapid change in subject. “I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t late for lunch.”

“Oh!” Bríd chuckled. “A’course ye’re not late!” She headed for the kitchen. “Lunchtime ’round here is one o’ the clock.”

Moira filed that piece of information for safekeeping. At least you’ve not been rude to yet another person your first days in town, Moira Girl. She pushed thoughts of manners and flowers out of her mind and hurried upstairs to tend to her ablutions, then returned just as quickly to take her place at the table. No sooner was she seated than an overflowing plate bearing a pile of chunky bacon sandwiched between two slices of thick, crusty bread was set before her. Seared tomato halves and a dollop of mashed potatoes accompanied the sandwich. The bacon looked more like ham steak than the streaky bacon she was accustomed to at home.

The hearty meal filled her with warmth as she savored the saltiness of the bacon against the cool of the bread and creaminess of the potatoes. If I’m not careful, I’ll be visiting the local seamstress to have my dresses let out after just a week of Bríd’s hospitality!

The muted thuds and clanks coming from the kitchen told Moira her hostess was busy cleaning from the afternoon meal and likely making preparations for dinner. She stared at the closed door to the kitchen. Her shoulders slumped. Although she understood the work in a guesthouse was never done, she had hoped Bríd would join her for lunch and provide insights into her new community.

As if overhearing her thoughts, the woman appeared in the doorway. She began to clear Moira’s dishes and paused to ask, “Did ya find yer morning productive, peata?”

“Oh yes, quite. Thank you. I took a stroll through the town center and up the hill near the church. Then I spent the rest of the morning in the schoolroom cleaning and organizing. There is a good bit more work to do, but I feel much better having seen the school and getting some preparation done.”

“That’s lovely, dear, just lovely. Did ya meet any of the local folk while you were out?”

“Oh, well, yes.” She shifted in her seat. “While I was in the schoolroom, a young fellow came in. Nearly scared me to death, I was so lost in my own thoughts. A young man by the name of Sean, I believe. Sean McFadden?”

“Well, I am sure ye’ll be meetin’ a good number of folk over the next few days.”

Bríd’s voice was steady and matter of fact, but Moira detected a twinkle in the woman’s eyes when Moira mentioned Sean. Then again, maybe she was imagining things.