Chapter 27

When the music and stories paused for tea and cake, Sinead grabbed Moira by the arm and dragged her outside.

The night smelled like moss and ocean-dampened grasses. The chilled evening air filled every inch of her lungs, refreshing her from the stagnant, ale-infused sauna the house had become.

“Ye canna tell me he wasn’t singin’ to ye.” Sinead pulled Moira down to sit on a rock wall.

“Sinead,” Moira chided gently.

“No, really,” Sinead insisted. “I’ve seen the way he looks at ye—and ye at him. Ye canna tell me there’s not a spark there.” She cocked an eyebrow at Moira.

“I won’t deny he’s very handsome. And kind. And incredibly strong. But he’s given me no reason to believe he carries any real feelings for me.”

“Oh, really?” Sinead scoffed. “Ya mean a heartfelt serenade in front o’ the whole village isn’t reason enough?”

Moira opened her mouth to retort, only to snap it shut again. She shrugged. “You don’t know that he was singing about me, that’s all.”

“Whatever you say.” Sinead slumped, clearly growing tired of arguing about it.

The pair sat in silence for a moment, enjoying the briskness of the night. Inside, men bantered among themselves, women chattered happily between sips of tea and bites of cake. The occasional bleating of a sheep in the distance floated through the air. Moira thought for a moment this place could really be home but then remembered the reception she’d received so far. It should have been a peaceful time, but inside Moira was in turmoil.

Despite the magical evening, the fact remained there was a secret looming over her, threatening her livelihood. After all, if the people of Ballymann couldn’t trust her, how was she to ever earn the right to help shepherd their children? Out here in the quiet of night, away from the bustle of the crowd inside, it seemed the perfect time to broach the subject. She swallowed hard, attempting to bolster enough courage to ask Sinead about her mother.

Moira broke the silence and cleared her throat. “So, back in the Poisoned Glen, you said I should know more about Glenveagh. What did you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, really.” Sinead’s voice was light and breezy. “Just that I figured since yer mam had worked there all those years, you knew everythin’.” She turned her gaze away, as if realizing she had said too much.

“Well, Mother never really talked about that part of her life. I vaguely recall her saying she had been a member of a household staff. But she never told me where, or what exactly she did.” Moira hoped this would encourage Sinead to open up further about what she knew, but the girl simply sat staring blankly into the darkness. Moira continued. “I’d love to hear more about it though. Glenveagh Castle? It sounds utterly enchanting!”

Unable to contain herself, Sinead bubbled over with excitement. “Oh, ’tis grand, you can believe tha’. The gardens are so expansive, full of every color of flower you could imagine. And, wait ’til I tell ya, it’s got a pool! That’s right. It’s right down there on the level with Loch Veagh, so you can sit in the pool and reach out and stick yer hands right in the lake.”

“Oh, that does sound enchanting! So, my mother was on the household staff there?”

“Oh yes, she was one of their best. Second only to the headmistress. At least, according to Mammy, anyway.” Sinead’s eyes rolled upward, as though playing back a conversation in her mind, and then she nodded as if to reassure herself she had remembered correctly. “In her final months at Glenveagh, she’d been promoted to head chambermaid. She was responsible for makin’ sure wha’ever the visiting bigwigs needed in their rooms was provided quickly and efficiently.”

Rather than being satiated, Moira’s appetite for information was only further roused by Sinead’s account. Why would Mother hide such things from her? Did she truly hide them, or simply fail to mention them? And how did Sinead know all of this? “Well, that’s delightful. I’m so proud to hear she was so well respected. Here I was worried there might be something more sinister to the tale.”

Sinead slid from the wall and paced back and forth in front of Moira, her hands bobbing up and down. She chewed her lip with such vigor Moira feared the girl might draw blood.

Sinead’s nervous behavior confirmed Moira’s suspicions, and fueled her to press further. “What is it, Sinead?”

The girl gave a quick but violent shake of her head.

“Please,” Moira implored. “You know you can tell me anything. I promise not to be cross with you.”

Sinead’s eyes tracked to the open door of her bungalow. Inside, Mrs. McGonigle bustled about clearing teacups and plates of half-eaten cake. “Is it your mother? Are you worried she’ll be upset if you tell me?”

Sinead’s eyes fell to hers. They were glassy and wet, and her bottom lip trembled. She nodded ever so slightly.

Moira rose and clasped her friend’s hands in her own. “Dear, sweet Sinead. I would never wish you trouble at home.” She paused and wiped a tear from the girl’s fleshy cheek. “But . . . I need to know what happened. Why is the whole of Ballymann treating me as if I’m unclean?” Moira’s lip quivered now, and she searched Sinead’s eyes through fresh tears of her own.

At Sinead’s bidding, the pair increased their distance from the open door—and away from Mrs. McGonigle’s ever-listening ears. Sinead wiped her cheeks with her apron, steadied herself with a breath, and began. “Moira, ye’re not gonna like this. But, word ’round the parish is that yer mam—” Sinead looked past Moira into the darkness.

Moira squeezed her hand, willing her to continue.

“You see, folk say she had a . . . a moment of indiscretion with John Adair. He’s the son of the family who owns Glenveagh.”

Moira recoiled. “‘Indiscretion’?”

Sinead nodded. “Someone discovered her in his chambers. With him.”

Moira leaned against a rock wall and dropped her elbows to her knees. A thick, warm hand lay on her back and rubbed, but it imparted not even a modicum of comfort. “It can’t be,” Moira whispered. “It can’t.” She lifted her head and searched Sinead’s eyes. She found no lie or embellishment. Sinead spoke truth.

“I’m sorry, Moira.” Sinead pulled her into a tight hug. “But, ehm, there’s more.”

Moira pushed out of her embrace, shaking her head. “How can there be more ?” As she heard the words coming from her mouth, a sickening feeling wormed into the depths of her heart. She pressed a hand to her belly, the realization of what Sinead would say dawning.

“When ye showed up here, Moira . . . ye’re of the right age. And folk began to piece it together.” She nibbled her fingernail. “Ya see, yer mam left Donegal in such a rush, and it was about that time it came to light of her . . . of what happened. The rumor mill was flyin’ anyway. But when they saw yer face arrive in town, they knew it must be true.”

Moira pressed her palms onto the top of the rock wall. Cold seeped up her skin, and the moss pressing against her skirt soaked it with dew. But she didn’t care. Images flooded her mind of all the times she’d seen her mother in the wingback chair in their sitting room in Boston, Bible open across her lap—with the pages tattered and dog-eared from decades of use.

This can’t be true. Bile rose to the back of her throat. She swallowed it down, the vile burn trailing all the way.

“I’m sorry, Moira. I wish it weren’t true.” Sinead’s voice was thick with sorrow. “An’ I’m sorry ya had to hear it from me.” She offered a soft pat on Moira’s shoulder, but when Moira gave no response, she walked away in silence, head and shoulders slumped low.

“I wish I’d never asked,” Moira whispered to the night between soft, silent sobs.