Chapter 33
The stew was thick and rich, with a pillowy mound of mashed potatoes spooned onto the center. Its warmth soothed Moira’s body as well as her spirit. The pair ate in silence, both enjoying the respite from the dank hovel and the stress of caring for a dying patient. The ticking of the clock and the occasional clink of spoon against bowl were the only sounds, and neither woman seemed to mind.
Suddenly the door burst open and the hearty laughter of two work-tired men filled the air. Peg wiped her mouth, aimed a weary smile at her guest and then her husband, and rose from her seat. “Fáilte abhaile, love.” She bussed Colm’s cheek and took his coat.
Moira rose to greet the man of the house, who was still chuckling along with the mystery guest shadowed behind him. “Hello, Colm—” The words caught in her throat as the other man turned around. “And . . . Mr. McFadden, it’s lovely to see you again.” She hurried back to her seat, her cheeks burning. She hadn’t seen Sean since their disagreement outside her chalet the day before, and the tension, thick as butter, enveloped them.
Sean cleared his throat. “Miss Doherty.”
Peg arrived with two fresh, steaming bowls of stew, and the men took their places at the table.
Moira kept her eyes on her bowl, stirring more than eating, annoyed that Sean had robbed her of the appetite for such a delectable dinner.
“So.” Colm broke the silence. “How’s the patient?” All movement at the table froze, his question hanging in the air like Irish mist.
“Well,” Peg ventured, “it doesna look good. The puir lad’s temperature is as high as Errigal, and I canna believe that cough of his hasn’t already split him in two.”
Moira felt Sean’s eyes boring into the top of her head, and she wished she could crawl into her bowl and hide under the mash.
“Patient?” Sean queried. “Are ye fine, upstanding ladies caring for one of Ballyman’s ailing citizens?” His question was innocent enough, but his voice dripped with sarcasm. It was obvious he knew the pair were caring for Áedach, and he was clearly troubled about it.
Moira’s eyes shot up to meet his. “Yes,” she answered, a bit more sharply than she’d intended. “As I’ve told you already, young Áedach MacSuibhne has fallen deathly ill. Peg and I are working to ease his suffering as best we can.”
Sean grunted in acknowledgment and shoved his spoon into his dish. He thrust a far-too-large bite into his mouth, sending broth spilling down his chin and onto the table. He wiped the mess with the back of his hand and continued eating.
Moira grimaced. His animal-like disregard for polite dinner decorum disgusted her. An inexplicable desire to goad him overwhelmed her. “Yes,” she continued. “And we’ll be going back after supper to see to his evening care and ablutions.”
Sean’s spoon stilled and his eyes slowly raised to meet hers.
Moira shifted uncomfortably in her seat, regretting her impulse to press into his obvious frustration. She was too far into the charade now though. She’d have to hold her ground.
“Well,” Sean said at last, finally using his napkin to clean his hands and chin, “just ye be careful out there. It’ll be dark soon and ya never know who is lurking in the shadows.”
“Now, Sean,” Peg crooned as she collected Moira’s plate. “Ya know very well we’ll be careful. There’s no need to put the fear of God into the lass. The Laird has given her a task, and there’s nothin’ ye can do about it.” She punctuated her statement with a stiff nod before heading to the kitchen.
Taking her cue, Moira joined Peg. The pair worked quickly to ready the basket of goods for their final visit to the patient for the night.
“‘Nothin’ ye can do about it’? Humph! ” Sean’s boot heels struck the ground in angry steps as he walked home. What was the lass thinking? What could possess her to go out of her way, risking her own health, to nurse the scourge of Ballymann to recovery?
“Sean . . . Sean!” Colm came running up the path, breathless.
Worry seized him, and Sean grasped the man’s shoulders as soon as he reached him. “What is it? Is Moira alright?”
Colm stopped short. Even in the moonlight Sean could see the glint in his eyes.
“Aye, I imagine Miss Doherty is right as rain.” He held up something in front of Sean. “Ya left in such a tizzy, ya forgot yer hat.” A full grin split Colm’s face and a hearty guffaw bellowed into the cold night air.
“Oh.” Sean snatched the hat from Colm’s hands and stuffed it on his head. “Thanks.”
“Come now, lad.” Colm’s voice held no hint of judgment or joking. “What is it that vexes you so?”
Releasing a deep sigh, Sean folded his arms and leaned against the rock wall that lined the side of the street. “Does it not bother ya? Peg lookin’ after that . . . that boyo?”
“No,” Colm said without hesitation. “Why does it bother ye? No offense, lad, but what business is it of yourn?”
Sean took off his hat and shoved his hand through his hair. “It’s not safe, man. Don’t ya see? You know what the lad is capable of, how he’s treated Moira.”
Colm laughed. “Son, the boy is on his deathbed. What sinister deed do you imagine him committin’ when he canna lift his own head?”
“That’s not the point.” A sheep bleated in the distance. “Oh, be quiet with ye!” Sean called into the darkness.
“There’s no need beratin’ one of God’s créatúrs just because ye’re upset at—and in love with—a pretty lass.”
Sean’s mouth fell open and he sputtered, “I . . . what . . . er . . .”
Colm remained silent and pinned Sean with his stare.
“I can’t help it, Colm,” he said. “I tried to warn her that it wasn’t safe, but she just won’t listen. It’s infuriating!”
Colm’s shoulders bounced as he raised a hand to level a steady slap on Sean’s back. “Welcome to na mná, lad. Welcome to women.” He chuckled some more, obviously delighted at his own joke. “In all seriousness, though, Peg was right—the Laird has given this task to Moira. And ye canna stand in her way of obeyin’.”
Sean shook his head. “How do ya know it was the Laird, and not some stubborn idea she came up wit’ on her own?”
“Ya know yerself the way Áedach has treated her. An’ who’s to say what else he’s tried to do that she hasn’t told us about? Would ye conjur such an idea if things were turned ’round?”
Sean’s shoulders slumped. “My own reaction was to throttle the lad, and I said as much to Moira.”
Sean nodded.
“I think,” Colm continued, “maybe yer upset more that she didna take yer advice than ye are that she’s put herself in any danger.”
He didn’t want to give the auld man the satisfaction of agreeing with him, but in his heart, Sean knew Colm was right.
“Aye, maybe,” Sean managed at length. “But it’s not just for the sake of my own ego, ya know.”
“Mm-hmm.” Colm’s head bobbed in the darkness.
“I just want what’s best for Moira.” Sean hoisted himself off the wall and paced in front of his mentor. “I just don’t see how caring for that rógaire is what’s best for her, command of the good Laird or not.”
“Careful, Sean. Ye’re standin’ on shaky ground wit’ that argument.” Colm joined Sean on the road and squared himself so they were looking eye to eye. “Smack in the middle of what God is askin’ is the best place for any of us to be. I know you want what’s best for the lass, but I think yer confusin’ the idea of best with the idea of safe.”
The words struck Sean with such force he had to steady himself lest he stumble back from the blow. Had Colm always been so wise? Had Sean always been so selfish?
“Thanks, Colm.” Sean extended his hand. “Good night.”
Colm grasped his arm, holding just below the elbow. “Oíche mhaith, a mhac.”