Chapter 55

The sky faded from slate to black, and the only sounds were the rustling of the Atlantic waves down below, the occasional crack and pop of the blackened remains of the halla, and Peg’s cries, which had dwindled from gut-wrenching wails to exhaustion-laced whimpers.

Moira sat, arms still wrapped tightly around her friend, rocking back and forth like her mother had done so often for her as a little girl. Oblivious to any chill in the air, Moira stared as the smoke reduced to wisps and curls and ascended to the heavens. Footfalls on the road drew her attention. Sean approached.

He laid a tender hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t ya take Peg back to her house. Give her some dry clothes and a hot cuppa. The lads and I will begin the search, now the flames have died down.”

Moira bobbed her head slightly and looped her arms under Peg’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you warm and dry.”

Peg’s face shot up to Moira’s as though she meant to protest. Instead, she crumpled, and a fresh spate of tears spilled onto her cheeks and splashed down the front of her wrinkled dress.

Her body numb, Moira held the weight of her friend as they shuffled the few hundred yards to the Sweeny home. Inside, the house was eerily silent. A plate of crumbs and a half-drunk cup of tea sat at Colm’s place at the table—evidence of his late-night snack abandoned to see to the halla. Moira turned Peg’s shoulders as they passed the sitting room, discreetly averting the woman’s gaze from the sight.

Peg slumped down to sit on the bed, her gaze glued to the floor, her mind obviously elsewhere. Moira searched through the wardrobe and settled on a dark brown dress rather than the traditional black of mourning. They may yet find him alive. Please, Lord, let it be so.

She dressed her friend in silence as tears slid ceaselessly down Peg’s cheeks. Once the buttons were fastened and dry stockings in place, Moira eased her to lie down on the bed, pulling up a quilt to cover her—the same quilt that had comforted Moira as she recovered from the attack. “Just rest. I’ll put the kettle on.”

In a stupor, Moira shuffled into the kitchen, set the kettle to boil on the stove, and arranged the tea tray as thoughtfully as she’d seen Peg do so many times. How did this happen? What was Colm doing there? This can’t be real. The whistle broke through her thoughts, and she poured the steaming water into the teapot, watching as it turned golden brown when it hit the tea.

She carried the tray to the room where Peg lay, the soft breathing and slow rise and fall of her shoulders indicating sleep had mercifully fallen upon her. Leaving the tray on the creepie next to the bed and setting the fire in the fireplace to rights, she slipped the door closed and made her way to the sitting room.

A knock at the front door broke her reverie. Bríd stood in the doorway holding Moira’s faded traveling frock. “I thought ye might need somethin’ other than your gúna oiche to wear.”

Moira looked down at her damp, soiled robe and nightgown. “Oh, thank you, Bríd. It wouldn’t do for me to carry on like this, would it?”

Bríd shook her head with a sad chuckle.

“Will you stay for tea?”

“I won’t, peata, but thanks.” Bríd was already turning to go. “There’s loads more to be taken care of in town.”

“Of course.” Moira waved her friend off, closed the door, and made her way to the sitting room, where she hastily changed her dress. She stood in the middle of the room and turned about, unsure what to do next.

Unable to bring herself to clear Colm’s dishes, she slid into the upholstered chair and absently poked at the fire with a stick. Memories swirled like a gale around her—Colm standing at her door with Sean, hat in hand, eyeing the tea cakes on the table behind her. His weathered eyes winking down at his wife. His fatherly hand placed firmly on Sean’s shoulder.

The door scuffed open, pale early-morning light spilled onto the floor, and Sean’s form filled the entryway. She raised hopeful eyes to his, dismayed to see him covered in soot. There was gut-wrenching sadness in his eyes. She raised her eyebrows. Is there any hope?

Sean’s head fell forward, his eyes on his feet, and he shook his head so slightly she almost missed it. Sean’s knees buckled, and a cry welled up and out of him as his face collapsed.

Moira flew over and caught him before his knees hit the ground, easing him to the floor. She held him close and stroked his head. “Shh, shh,” she crooned in his ear. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

Sobs rocked their bodies as they mourned their friend, their father figure. “I should’ve been there,” Sean whispered. “I should’ve saved him.”

Moira could only wag her head over and over. Clasping handfuls of his shirt as she held him and sobbed.

Limbs aching as she stretched, Moira did her best to ignore the dull throbbing in her forehead—a side effect of crying for hours. The warmth of the turf fire kissed her face, and she was surprised to find a plaid draped across her and a pillow under her head.

“I couldn’t bring myself to disturb ye.” Sean was seated at the far side of the table, as far as he could get from her.

Moira rubbed her eyes and stood, folding the plaid neatly and draping it across a chair. “My apologies for falling asleep.” She smoothed her hair down. “Have you heard anything from Peg?”

His gaze turned toward the room where Peg slept, and he shook his head. “I believe she’s still asleep.” He rose to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor, and made quickly for the door. “I must go and see about arrangements for Colm’s—” His voice broke. Clearing his throat and straightening his posture, he continued. “I must see that everythin’ is in order. Bring Peg down to the halla in half an hour’s time. She’ll want ta escort her husband home.”

Home? Whyever would they bring the body here? Her furrowed brow must’ve communicated her confusion.

“For the wake,” Sean explained. “He’ll lay in repose here before he’s laid to final rest.”

Moira swallowed the lump in her throat. “Of course.”

Sean quit the house, the loud thud of the closing door punctuating their grief.

How hard this must be for him. Lord, grant him peace.

After tidying what few things were out of place and splashing some water on her cheeks, Moira went to see Peg.

She knocked softly with the knuckle of her pointer finger and eased the door open. “Are you awake?” She peered around the door. Peg sat in bed, leaning against the headboard. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks chapped from hours of weeping. “Oh, Peg.” Moira swept to the bed and wrapped her arms around her, both women crying anew. After a moment, Moira fetched a clean handkerchief from the press and handed it to the new widow.

Peg dabbed her face and took a deep breath to quell the sobs. “Thank you, peata,” she whispered.

“Em, Peg.” Moira cleared her throat. “Sean was just here. They’ll be ready for you down at the halla soon. To . . . walk . . . to bring Colm home.”

Peg’s watery eyes studied Moira’s hands. “Aye.”

“Shall I fetch your mourning gown?”

Peg nodded. Moira retrieved the black muslin dress from its hanger and proceeded to prepare it—opening the buttons, unlacing the bodice. Peg’s hand stilled hers. Their eyes met and with a squeeze of her hand, Peg communicated what she could not voice.

“Of course.” Moira brushed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

Not ten minutes later, Peg joined Moira at the hearth. Moira whispered a prayer for strength and led Peg to the door. As they ventured out, three of Peg’s neighbors approached.

“We’ll see to everythin’, love.”

Moira recognized one woman as young Aoife’s mother. The other women, none of whom were familiar to Moira, nodded in agreement. One, a stout woman with hair the color of copper, reached out and squeezed Peg’s hand before heading into the house.

Peg and Moira walked in silence toward the halla. As they approached the crossroads, Moira’s jaw fell open and Peg pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. Dozens of people lined both sides of the road. Some held flowers, others candles. Men had removed their flat caps and held them over their hearts in respect.

When they reached the main road, Ballymann’s residents lined the streets in both directions as far as the eye could see. An uilleann piper played a mournful tune as Sean, the priest, Paddy, and another man carried Colm’s body on a makeshift stretcher out of the halla. Since it was draped in white canvas, it was easy to pretend someone else lay underneath. But the evidence of the far-reaching impact of Colm’s kindness, compassion, and goodness stretched along the streets of all of Ballymann. There was no denying it—Colm Sweeny was dead.

Moira studied the faces of those she knew. Grief and anger were etched on the lines of Sean’s face, but he carried himself with the pride and dignity befitting his mentor. Peg stood straight and tall, chin lifted, though trembling.

Oh, Peg, you need not be strong. There’s no shame in grief.

Every eye followed Colm, and as the pallbearers passed Moira and Peg, the crowd turned in unison. On a hill in the distance, Moira caught a glimpse of Lady Williams. She stood, skirts rustling in the breeze, with a smirk on her face. Her eyes seemed to scan the crowd, and when they met Moira’s, what looked like shock registered on the woman’s face. Lady Williams looked from Moira to Colm’s body and back again. Moira furrowed her brow, confused.

Focus, Moira Girl. ’Tis Peg who needs you now.

With slow, marked steps, Peg led the town to bring Colm home one last time.