Chapter 34
Moira pulled her cloak tighter around her neck and tucked her face against the biting cold. It was a bitter day, and the mist hanging in the air stung her cheeks as she hurried to the schoolhouse. Desperate for the respite of the fire that would soon be roaring in the school’s hearth, she jogged the last few yards to the musty old building.
Once inside, she set to work stoking the leftover ashes, bringing the slumbering fire back to life. When was she last here? Days had blurred together, and Moira had been walking through life in a fog thicker than the one suspended outside. She remembered very little of the past week, save caring for Áedach and her dispute with Sean, no longer certain which vexed her more.
As the fire crackled to life, Moira backed up as close as prudence allowed. The heat radiated up her spine, warming her skirts and thawing her aching toes. She hoped it would dispel the mist that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her mind as well.
Lord, give me strength.
The children would be arriving any moment, and she longed to be fully present, giving them the full of her energy and the attention they deserved.
Down the road, the church bells tolled the first note of their morning song. Moira planted a smile on her face, closed her eyes, and awaited the sound of shuffling feet scurrying up the path.
The bells rang out the final clang, but Moira still stood alone in the schoolroom. She waited. Minutes ticked by. It was typical for one, maybe two students to be tardy, but everyone? Something wasn’t right.
She moved to the window, but there was too much condensation to see much of anything. Wiping the pane clear with her sleeve, she looked again. Not a soul could be seen on the path in either direction. Grabbing her cloak, she headed back out of doors.
The biting cold greeted her like a slap in the face. Nevertheless, she pulled the door closed and made her way to the middle of the street. Beyond the church, only a hawthorn tree could be seen on the horizon. As she looked toward town, the silhouette of a cart passed in the mist on the main road, but there were no children as far as the eye could see.
Moira counted on her fingers, reminding herself of the date. To her mind it was Friday, but perhaps in her state of mental fatigue more time had passed than she realized?
She made her way to the McGonigles’ shop. A few folks milled about inside, availing themselves of the freshly baked scones or collecting their latest messages. She recognized a few from the Sunday night gathering, which now seemed a lifetime ago.
Mrs. McGonigle rounded the corner with an armload of bread, which she delivered to a waiting patron. The two carried on a brief conversation in Gaelic before the customer left and Mrs. McGonigle wiped her hands on her apron and turned to head back behind the counter.
“Good morning, Mrs. McGonigle.”
“Miss Doherty.” She gave a curt nod and busied herself moving jars from one shelf to the next.
“It’s a soft day,” Moira continued, using the phrase Bríd had taught her to refer to the veil of mist outside.
“That it is.” Mrs. McGonigle kept her eyes on her task, rearranging the jars a few more times without looking up.
Moira shifted her feet. Why was Mrs. McGonigle being so aloof? She decided to press forward anyway, choosing to believe the woman was merely tired. “Would you be so kind as to tell me what day it is? I’m afraid I have my calendar all jumbled in my mind.”
Mrs. McGonigle shot her a wary glance, her brows knitted together—in confusion or annoyance Moira couldn’t discern. “’Tis Fridee, lass.”
Moira chewed her fingernail. Friday? Then where were all the students? “Do you kno—”
“Is there somethin’ I can get fer ya, lass? If not, I’m gonna have to ask ye to make room for the other customers.”
Moira blinked hard. Just a week ago she was considered part of the family. What on earth had happened? “I’ll take half a loaf of brown bread, please,” she managed to say after an uncomfortable pause.
When Moira stepped to the counter to retrieve the bread, Mrs. McGonigle took a marked step backward, holding the rag over her mouth and nose.
More confused than ever, Moira thanked her for the bread, left her money on the counter, and made her way out into the frigid morning.
Perhaps I will find more warmth out there.
On the street, all manner of people milled about—all manner except children—braving the elements in order to take care of business. This sight no longer surprised Moira, as she had learned soon after arriving that if she waited only for good weather to accomplish a task, nothing would ever get done. She decided to circle back to the school in case the students had arrived in her absence. Moira hoped they would have a half-decent explanation for their tardiness.
The schoolhouse was dark and quiet, save for a slight orange glow that could be seen through the foggy windows. No children loitered. None came up the path. Utterly perplexed, Moira headed back to the main road to go home and drown her confusion in a nice hot cuppa.
Just as she turned the corner, sweet little Aoife came up the walk with her mother. Moira waved excitedly and hurried toward them.
“Aoife!” Moira stopped short in front of the pair and offered a smile. “Mrs. O’Sullivan, how do you do?”
Aoife smiled in return. “A Mhúinteoir!” She stepped out to hug Moira, but her mother grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back, forcing the girl to stand behind her.
“Marm.” The woman’s sharp voice was kitten-like compared with her glare. She snatched Aoife’s hand and nearly dragged the girl across the street.
“Mrs. O’Sullivan? Is everything—”
“We’re after bein’ late, marm. Leave us be.”
Moira couldn’t be sure because of the mist, but she thought she saw tears sliding down Aoife’s cheek as she offered a shy wave before her mother yanked her around, turning the child’s back on Moira.
Moira’s free hand slumped to her side and she took her frustration out on the ground with a stamp of her foot. What on earth was happening?
More than solitude and yet another cup of tea alone, Moira needed the company of a good friend. Peg was resting this morning before their planned trip that afternoon to check on Áedach, and Sinead would obviously not welcome her company. She hadn’t the energy for the possible row a visit to Sean might spark—not to mention the impropriety of such a call. Her list of possible companions grew thin. Then, through the mist, a beacon of welcome flickered in the dusky light, much as it had the night she’d arrived.
Bríd! Of course! It had been forever since the two had shared a proper visit over a pot of tea. She started toward the guesthouse, her mouth already watering at the thought of Bríd’s brown bread. As she raised her hand to knock on the door, her stomach sank.
I hope she’ll welcome me.
Bolstering her courage with a deep breath of Irish mist, she knocked and waited.
The door swung open, and Bríd’s eyes grew twice their size when she saw Moira. “Oh, peata!” She scooped Moira up in an embrace, the aroma of bacon and bread wafting from her curls. “How are ya, dear? It’s been ages. Come in, pet, come in.”
She grabbed Moira’s hand and led her into the sitting room, where a roaring fire awaited. “How are ya, dear? How’re the wee dotes down at the school? Is yer chalet holdin’ up well in the spring gales? Wait, don’t answer that. First, cupán tae!” She spun on her heel and bustled into the kitchen.
Moira helped herself to a seat by the fire—the same seat in which she’d sat her first stormy moments in Donegal. It felt like years since that night. What a comfort to be back.
Bríd burst back into the room with a tray loaded with her famous tea and biscuits and a few slices of brown bread still steaming from the oven. She poured tea into both cups, sat back, and released a contented sigh.
“Now, peata, tell me everything.”
Moira sipped her tea and smiled. “Things are never boring in Ballymann, are they?”
Bríd cackled and slapped her knee. “I suppose you could say that. We may look like a sleepy auld village, but there’s plenty o’ drama to go ’round.”
Moira meant to laugh, but it came out as an exhale through her nose that connoted derision more than delight. She regretted it immediately. “You could say that again.” She helped herself to a slice of bread, giving herself time to formulate her next words. “One of my students has been ill.”
Bríd nodded. “Áedach.”
Moira wagged her head. Truly nothing was secret, was it? “Yes. Peg Sweeny and I have been looking after him. I honestly didn’t want to. He’s been such a bane for me, as you well know.” She took another bite, savoring the buttery goodness.
“But ya couldn’t verra well let the lad die, right?”
“Exactly!” A cloud of crumbs burst from her lips and she wiped them away, too keen to get her story out to be embarrassed. “Other than Colm, you seem to be the only one who understands that. Sinead McGonigle, who I thought was a good friend, has all but disowned me, and Sean”—she tossed her bread onto her plate—“eh, Mr. McFadden, was quite bothered by the whole notion. Both of them think me daft or naive.”
Bríd reached across and patted Moira’s arm. “The Laird said to love and pray for our enemies. He didna say ’twould be easy.”
Tears threatened to spill into Moira’s tea, and she bit her lip so hard trying to keep her composure she tasted blood. “Thank you for understanding,” she said at last, her voice a scant whisper.
“Aw, peata, I know you’ve had a hard time of it since ya arrived here. But God didna bring ya here just to let ya fall. Trust Him and His ways.”
“Thank you.” Moira pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “Maybe you can shed light on something else?”
“None of my students showed up for school today. Is it a holiday I don’t know about?”
Bríd shifted in her seat and shook her head slightly.
“Oh.” Moira drew the word out, gathering her thoughts and trying to decide what to ask next. “Almost everyone in town is giving me the cold shoulder. I saw one of my students today—the sweetest little girl—and her mother just about dragged her away from me as though I had the plague.”
“Well . . . as far as they’re concerned, ya do.”
“What?” Moira clanked her teacup down harder than she intended. “What are you talking about? The plague?”
“Steady, lass.” Bríd laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Have ya heard about the Spanish Flu epidemic that tore through here not too long ago?”
“Yes. Sinead said something about that. My neighbor succumbed to the dreadful disease as well. I hadn’t realized it had been so bad everywhere.”
“Ya have to understand, Moira, folk are still recovering from that. Not physically, of course, but emotionally. We lost thousands in County Donegal alone.” She refilled their tea. “Families were torn apart when they lost husbands, wives, children. It was awful.” Bríd’s stare brought a poignant pause to her story. “And the death was only the half of it. The treatments were often worse than the illness itself as doctors reverted to the auld ways in a desperate attempt to bring some modicum of relief.”
Moira’s tea sat untouched, her bread forgotten. “That’s terrible.”
Bríd nodded, drawing a long drink of tea.
“But . . . what does that have to do with me ?”
“Moira, dear, don’t ya see? If Áedach is in as bad a way as folk say, it could mean the Spanish Flu has returned. You’ve been spending extended periods of time with the lad. Touching him. Cleaning him.” She paused, her eyes searching Moira’s. “They’re terrified of it happenin’ again. They won’t do anything to risk exposin’ their children.”
Moira slumped in her chair, unable to hold back the tears any longer. “Those poor people.” Her stomach churned. “I never dreamed that helping Áedach would put anyone but myself at risk.”
“Tsk! ” Bríd retrieved a fresh hankie from her own sleeve and offered it to Moira. “Listen, pet,” she continued. “Ya have to do what the Laird directs ya to do. Ya also have to be willing to accept the consequences of yer obedience.”
“That sounds funny, ‘the consequences of your obedience.’” Moira offered a weak smile. “But I suppose you’re right. I don’t want to put anyone else at risk, but I can’t ignore what God has clearly told me to do.”
“So, it’s decided then.” Bríd raised her teacup high as though toasting. “Ye’re to keep on doin’ what the Laird told ya, and He’ll bring the kiddies back when it’s time. Sláinte.”
Moira followed suit, raised her cup, and finished the last of her tea with a confident gulp.