Chapter 21

Tiny, frigid droplets held the atmosphere captive. A cap of dense clouds pinned the frosty, saturated air to the earth. Moira hugged herself against the cold as she made her way to the market to meet Sinead’s family. What a dreadful day for a wagon ride.

An intense shiver shook Moira from her head to her feet. Despite the dismal weather, she was determined to enjoy the day. Quickening her steps, she wished she could somehow coax the sun from its hiding place.

“Ye look as though yer cat’s had kittens wit’ dat smile across yer face.” Sinead’s stout laughter burst through the mist like a lighthouse.

Moira’s grin widened and she bounded down the hill to her friend. The two embraced and squeezed so tight Moira couldn’t breathe. Their friendship was young but solid. Moira was infinitely grateful for the instant connection.

“Well, you know,” she answered, “I thought I’d try my hand at controlling the weather with a happy heart.”

“If dat works, soon we’ll all be walkin’ ’round beamin’ like eejits.”

Sinead hoisted a large sack and dropped it into the back of the wagon with a thud. “Ye’ll be riding up on the seat there. Ma said we can’t be havin’ ye crumpled in the back like a sack of spuds.” Sinead shrugged and pointed Moira to the top of two benches at the front of the rig.

“Will you sit with me?”

“Me? No, I sit in the back an’ make sure nuttin’ falls off. Plus, the lads get the preferred seatin’ anyway. You know how it is, men’re more important, so they are.” Sinead’s eyes rolled so far back in her head, Moira feared they might not return to their proper places.

“What lads?”

At that moment, a figure rose from behind the wagon, wiping his hands on a rag. He turned and froze.

“Moira! I—it’s . . . er . . . hello.” A funny little smile played on Sean’s lips as he raked a hand through his auburn hair.

Moira’s ears and cheeks burned as if she’d spent too much time in the sun. “Good morning, Mr. McFadden.” She bobbed her head before turning her attention to a stubborn string on the sleeve of her coat. What was he doing here? Surely he wouldn’t be joining them?

“Ma and Da said Sean could come along. Old Man Sweeny needs some supplies,” Sinead offered as if reading Moira’s thoughts. “No sense in two wagons making the journey when one will do.”

“Sinead, are those sacks on the wagon yet?” A red-faced woman bounded out of the shop, hands in a tizzy twisting her apron. She was the spitting image of Sinead, only at least a score her senior. She caught a glimpse of Moira and stopped short. Her hands met in front of her mouth with a clap and a wide smile broke onto her face.

In an instant the woman was at Moira’s side. A heavy arm landed on Moira’s shoulder.

“Céad mile fáilte, a leanbh!”

Moira cocked a crooked smile and chuckled.

“A hundred, thousand welcomes, my dear! My Sinead tells me ye’re the new teacher. I am so glad youse are here, now! Come, let’s get ye up into the seat and we can head off, so.”

The woman offered Moira a hand, but Sean pressed in front of her.

“Ya don’t have to do that, Mrs. McGonigle. Ye go see what’s keepin’ that man o’ yourn.” He smiled at Moira and extended a hand. “Allow me.”

Moira blinked, internally rebuking herself for feeling every bit a giddy schoolgirl. She placed her hand in his and each nerve in her arm awoke. With the help of Sean’s strong support, she made the climb to the seat without any trouble. She took her place on the far edge.

“Sinead, are you sure you won’t join me?” Her eyes implored her friend to read her mind and sense her unease. “I’d quite like the enjoyment of your company on the journey.”

“Nah, I won’t,” she replied, seemingly oblivious to Moira’s agony. “I’ve got me own job back here. Ye just enjoy the scenery.” Was that a wink? Sinead hopped up onto the back of the wagon with surprising ease and settled in between two large sacks of potatoes. The elder McGonigles took their places on the lower front bench. Sean, much to Moira’s dismay, claimed the seat next to her.

A snap of the reins and the wagon jolted forward. Moira’s knuckles turned white and ached as she gripped the front edge of the seat. Was it possible to crack a wagon seat with one’s bare hands?

The rig rolled through the village, past the guesthouse, and followed the bend in the road, taking the passengers east. The peak of Mount Errigal loomed on the horizon.

Moira was keenly aware of Sean’s presence. Heat radiated from his side and the subtle aroma of heather and musk sent her insides aflutter. She stared straight ahead, neither seeing nor hearing anything, trying desperately to think of something other than the man next to her.

Suddenly the wagon jerked and a violent bump vaulted Moira off her seat and over the side of the rig. Her arms flailed. All seemed lost when a steady hand gripped her wrist and a firm arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her to safety.

She heaved a sigh and brushed a shock of hair from her forehead with her free hand. She turned and met Sean’s eyes, only a handbreadth away from her own. One arm was secure around her waist, the other held fast to her left hand. Never before had she felt so protected. She could have stayed like that for hours. Though she tried, she could not bring herself to let go.

“Are ya okay?” Sean’s eyes searched hers. It felt like his question addressed more than the situation at hand.

She bobbed her head and cleared her throat. “Yes, I am. Thank you.”

He paused as though making sure she wasn’t going to topple over again. Once he seemed convinced she was steady, he released her and reclaimed his seat a respectable distance away. But his gaze remained steadfast on hers.

The warmth from his embrace dissipated. She missed it instantly—and scolded herself for the notion.

“Sorry about that, love.” Mr. McGonigle turned his gaze to meet hers briefly. “These roads are a mite disheveled. Ye must keep a good hold as we go.”

Moira nodded in obedience as the rig turned a corner. Her mouth fell open and her eyes widened to take in the spectacular scene before her. On their right lay a mirror of the sky. Dunlewey Lake, as still as glass. A valley stretched before them with towering rocky hills forming a bowl around a smaller hill standing center stage. A white marble church stood atop it, glistening even in the cloud-darkened mist.

“It’s absolutely beautiful.” Moira took a deep breath of fresh air. “It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

Mr. McGonigle turned, pride plastered across his face as though he himself was responsible for the scene. “’Tis the crowning glory in all of Donegal.” He beamed. “There’s no place in the whole wairld like our Poisoned Glen. There’s not the likes of it to be found anywhere.”

Moira frowned. “I can’t imagine why on earth anyone would call this stunning place ‘poisoned.’”

Boisterous laughter erupted from the McGonigle clan.

“No, no,” Mr. McGonigle explained. “’Tisn’t because the place is poisoned. It comes from the auld Irish.”

“Oh?”

“You see, the Irish name for this place means ‘the heavenly glen.’ But the words for ‘heaven’ and ‘poison’ sound very similar. So when the Brits came”—Mr. McGonigle and Sinead hocked and spit over the side of the wagon—“they muddled the whole t’ing and thought we’d called this place ‘Poison.’” Mr. McGonigle nodded. Apparently deciding he had explained sufficiently, he turned his back.

Sean and Moira exchanged a glance. He leaned nearer and whispered, “Clear as mud?”

Moira covered a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

Sinead popped up from the back and added, “Doncha be encouragin’ me auld man to tell his historical tales. He fancies himself a seanchaí. Once ye get him goin’, ye’ll never get him to stop.”

The three younger ones laughed freely before the sights beckoned them once more.

Sean scooted just a bit closer to Moira and pointed out each of the mountains that made up the Seven Sisters of the Poisoned Glen. “That’s Errigal”—he gestured to the nearest peak—“and there’s Mackoght, Aghla More, Aghla Beag, Crocknalaragagh, Muckish, and that one over there?” He pointed and took a deep breath. “That one is Ardloughnabrackbaddy.”

Moira blinked hard and shook her head. “Well done, sir. That was quite a mouthful.”

“Tá, cinnte!” Mr. McGonigle chimed. “Indeed!”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to pronounce those names, let alone remember all of them.” What a rich and fascinating language Irish was turning out be.

Though they sounded less like monikers and more like the ramblings of her uncle when he’d had one too many pints down at the tavern back in Boston, the names weren’t what mattered to Moira anyway. It was these people. This place. The beauty of the sweeping valley with its far green slopes and glistening slate mountaintops.

The group rode on in silence, enchanted by the allure of the Irish valley. As they rumbled on to the east, Sinead popped up once again and pointed out a narrow road that split off to the south before disappearing into a grove of trees.

“That there’s the entrance to Glenveagh Castle.” She wagged her finger in the air. “I suppose ye could educate us on that place better than we could you, Moira.”

Confusion clouded Moira’s mind and she pressed her brows together. “Why do you say that? I’ve never even heard of that place.”

In the front seat, Mrs. McGonigle spun around and shot a fiery glance at her daughter. Moira turned to Sinead, who looked both caught and hurt. The mother and daughter stared at one another before Sinead acquiesced.

“Never mind, I must be mistaken.” She huffed and flopped down to her seat in the back.

Moira looked at Sean, wondering if he had any idea as to what had just happened.

He was silent, bewilderment clouding his face. His eyes were fixed on his boots, but his gaze was a million miles away as he chewed his lip.

Moira stared at the grove of trees as they rolled by, wondering what secrets lay beyond. Donegal held more intrigue than she had bargained for. And certainly more than she welcomed.