Chapter 26

Sinead had proven scarce following her spontaneous invitation at the start of the week. Moira had planned to broach the subject of her mother’s connection to Glenveagh Castle when next she saw her, but her friend had remained unseen. That week had held its share of other disappointments as well, and Moira was anxious to see friendly faces. Despite the low points, the days had held blessings. Áedach had been blissfully absent from school the entire week.

Guilt gnawed at her for the thought. She brushed it away like crumbs from a plate.

As his teacher, Moira should have investigated his absence after the second day. But, truth be told, she was enjoying the quiet pleasure of a classroom without his barbs and threats too much to go out of her way to bring him back.

Forgive me, Lord.

She promised in her heart to investigate if his seat went unfilled yet again on Monday.

The thought of Monday widened her smile. A new start to the week meant the distinct possibility of seeing Sean. After the thatcher’s silent and regrettable parting last week following her encounter with Áedach, Moira noticed that Sean or Colm was always nearby when she arrived at school each day.

One day they were pruning hedges along the roadside. Another found them investigating a questionable section of thatch on the roof of the schoolhouse, though it looked as solid as could be to Moira’s untrained eye.

She wondered if the men had taken it upon themselves to watch over her upon discovering Áedach had made a habit of waiting for her in the shadows most mornings. She secretly hoped so.

Grateful for caring friends, Moira gathered the freshly baked scones she’d made to take to the McGonigle family and made her way to Sinead’s house.

Moira rounded the corner. Her steps slowed and her mouth fell open. Though it was a modest bungalow with gleaming white walls topped with a clean thatch and a door as black as coal, the house crawled with people. A group of at least two dozen more milled about the property. Smoke curled lazily from pipes. Stout laughter and the lilt of Gaelic conversations melded into a symphony of Irish delight.

Conversations lulled to whispers and feet shuffled this way and that as Moira approached. Men gave a slight tip of their caps but refused to look her in the eye. Women dipped shallow curtsies and mumbled, “A Mhúinteoir” as she passed.

“Hello.” The word caught in her throat. She nodded in greeting and searched the open door for any sign of a friendly face.

“Moira! Ye came!” Sinead bounded from the bungalow, arms outstretched.

Relief rolled over Moira as she embraced her friend. “So much for a quiet family gathering, eh?”

Sinead’s brow furrowed. “Wha’?”

“When you said to come over—”

“Oh, youse thought it would be just ye comin’, did ya?” Sinead laughed.

Moira nodded.

“Ah, g’on, now. We gather every Sunday night for the craic.”

Finally, a Gaelic word she recognized! “Well, let’s hope the craic is mighty, then,” Moira declared.

Sinead erupted into breath-stealing guffaws. “Ah, yer a good woman yerself, Moira Darrty.” She wrapped a broad arm across Moira’s shoulder and led her into the house.

The air inside was thick with smoke, heavy with a blazing turf fire and the heat of far too many bodies stuffed into too small a space. Moira pressed a hand to her cheeks, letting the chill from her walk pass to her already heated face.

Sinead made a few cursory introductions, but Moira was met only with gruff nods and averted eyes.

At her mother’s bidding, Sinead scurried off to pour tea, leaving Moira alone in the sea of strangers. An older gentleman nursing a pint of ale was the only one willing to look at her. His face was dour and puckered—from age or a cantankerous personality, she couldn’t tell. Moira thought his eyes, squinting in discerning slits, held a gleam that belied his grim expression. The same could not be said for the other parishioners.

Moira fought to hold back the tears stinging her eyes. Did the whole town believe her to be evil? Frustration mounted, and Moira began to think she preferred the loneliness of yet another night in her chalet to the hateful silence thrust upon her here. She had just turned to leave when a voice near the hearth caught her ear.

Craning to see beyond woolen-clad bodies and over a sea of flat caps, Moira caught a glimpse of familiar green eyes. Sean jumped to his feet, putting whatever conversation he was in to an abrupt end.

“Miss Doherty!” He waved and began to navigate the gauntlet of people, making his way toward her. Given the throng pressing in around them, he made it to her side with impressive speed. “How are you?”

Moira scanned the crowd before bringing her gaze back to his. She stood silent for a moment, trying to rein in her thoughts. Why must his eyes be so enchanting?

He inclined his head, brows raised, clearly awaiting her reply.

“Well, this is certainly not what I had in mind when Sinead invited me to call over tonight. Is the entirety of Ballymann in this bungalow?” A nervous laugh escaped her lips.

“Very nearly,” he replied. “The McGonigles’ Sunday gatherings are the stuff of Donegal legend. I know it’s a bit overwhelming now, but just give it a chance. Ye’re gonna love it, I promise.”

Moira shrugged. “Perhaps. I just can’t help but think everyone here hates me.” She lowered her voice just above a whisper. “I feel like . . . like perhaps Áedach isn’t bluffing. That maybe there is something dark in my past and everyone knows it but me.”

Sean’s expression was a mixture of compassion and comfort. “If yer mother was anything ’tall like you, there can be no substance to Áedach’s—or Buach’s—claims.” He stepped closer. “And even if there were, it would have no bearing on yer own character.”

Moira smiled. “Thank you, Sean. That means a great deal.” Her arms ached to wrap themselves around him, letting him protect her forever. Instead, she twisted her fingers and forced herself not to get lost in his eyes. She was discomfited by the intensity of her feelings, and the swiftness with which they had gone from annoyance to attraction.

Thwap! Thwap! Paddy rapped his shillelagh on the doorpost. The crowd fell silent as bodies lowered onto creepies, chairs, and whatever empty spot on the floor was available, leaving a space no bigger than a two-foot square in the center of the room. Moira found a stool near the edge of the crowd, and Sean slipped to the back with some of the other men.

The host launched into a swift-spoken Gaelic greeting before turning attention to the dour-faced man Moira had noticed before. The gathering erupted into a rousing round of applause, and whoops and hollers filled the small room.

The old man waved a hand, quieting them. He scanned his audience, mischief lighting up his eyes.

Moira relaxed a mite, despite the less-than-warm welcome she had received from him mere moments earlier. Sinead spotted her across the room and headed toward her friend.

When the silence had stretched to his satisfaction, and the crowd seemed sufficiently bated, he began. “An Grianan Aileach.” It sounded like a title.

At once, Sinead’s voice was in Moira’s ear. “He’s telling the story of the Grianan of Aileach. It’s an ancient ring fort half a day’s ride from here.”

Moira nodded. She was completely captivated by the story, though she understood not a word. The crowd, equally drawn in, offered in unison boos and hisses, or alternately cheers and hoorahs. At the tale’s end, the packed room exploded in applause and cheers. The dour-faced man, now bearing the slightest of grins, stood, offered a little bow, and hobbled back to his seat in the corner.

“Anois,” Paddy called. “Ceol! ”

As if from nowhere, all manner of instruments materialized. Moira counted three fiddles, two Irish flutes, a bodhrán, and a set of uilleann pipes. Hands clapped and feet tapped as the musicians played a heart-pumping set of reels and jigs. During a particularly rousing reel, driven by a strong bodhrán undertone, a lone figure hopped into the empty space in the middle of the floor. Moira was stunned to see Colm before her, his eyes closed, feet tapping furiously.

Colm’s arms dangled loosely and a look of sheer bliss rested on his face. His feet shuffled in a blur with an occasional toe tap or heel scrape punctuating a phrase in the music. It had been ages since Moira had seen anyone perform a traditional Sean Nós dance, and she was drawn in heart and soul. The song finished and Colm ended his dance with a flourish, arms raised over his head in triumph. The crowd offered their appreciation for the show, and Moira joined in the applause.

When the hoopla settled once more, Paddy opened the floor for requests.

“We need a song!” a voice called from the back wall.

“Aye.”

“G’on, now.”

“Sing us a song, so.”

The grocer raised both hands in surrender. “Okee, okee. A song youse want, a song ye’ll get.”

The crowd cheered in unison.

“But I doubt youse want a song sung by the likes o’ me?”

“Nae!”

“Laird, help us, no.”

“Who’ll ye have, then?” he asked.

Various names were murmured from the crowd, none of which were familiar to Moira.

Then Colm lifted halfway out of his seat and called, “Sean McFadden, sing ye a song.”

Moira’s gaze flew to Sean, who was leaning up against the wall near the hearth, arms folded across his chest.

He shook his head in protest. But the crowd wouldn’t back down. At last, he acquiesced and made his way to the center. Finding a spot in the midpoint of the floor, he settled himself, hands placed comfortably in his pockets, eyes closed, signaling his readiness to begin. The crowd fell silent.

Sean inhaled, and when the first note released into the air, Moira clutched her heart. His voice was like silk on velvet. Masculine yet without the gravelly quality so many men seemed to possess. The song, sung a cappella entirely in Gaelic, was melancholy and beautiful all at once. Moira ached at the sound of it. And never wanted the song to end.

Sudden pain shot through Moira’s side, and she turned to the source. Sinead’s elbow rammed repeatedly into Moira’s ribs. “What?” she whispered to her friend, unable to keep the irritation from her voice.

“No wonder yer man is singin’ this song.” Her eyes sparkled with delight. “’Tis called ‘Bean Dubh a’ Ghleanna—The Dark Woman of the Glen.’”

“It’s lovely, but—”

“It’s about a dark-haired lass so beautiful,” Sinead said, “it makes a man lament. The man canna eat nor sleep until he sees her again. He watches his flocks in the day, but his thoughts are consumed only by her beauty. And although every lad from Donegal to Dublin tries to win her hand, he purposes to make her his bride.”

Moira knitted her brows in confusion and stared at Sinead.

Sinead rolled her eyes and held up a tendril of Moira’s black hair. “Don’ ya see, Moira? He’s singin’ about ye!”

Moira turned her attention back to Sean. Sinead whispered the English translation of each line in her ear as he sang. Moira’s heart quickened, wondering at her friend’s prediction. Surely he wasn’t singing about her? It was simply a traditional song to which Sean was partial. Wasn’t it?

The warmth of his voice filled the air, and the entire crowd seemed just as enchanted as Moira. Heat rose up her neck and radiated to her face, setting her ears on fire. Inside her, it was as if Colm’s feet were dancing, setting her stomach in a delightful, terrifying whirl.

As Sean sang the last line of the song, he opened his eyes and looked at Moira, long and deep.

Sinead whispered the lyrics’ final meaning: “‘Hoping to win the dark maid’s affection.’”