Chapter 56

The Sweeny house was awash with candlelight when Moira entered behind Peg. The neighbor women had lit hundreds of candles, many of which stood in the back bedroom. The linens were stripped, and white cloth covered the heather mattress. Moira watched in awe as the evening unfolded.

Peg took her place by the fire—the seat of honor, as it were. Would that this honor could pass from her. The three women Moira had met on their way out followed Sean and the others as they carried Colm’s body into the room. They laid the stretcher on the ground and the men carefully lifted him onto the bed. Moira started to enter the room, but Sean held his hand up to her. He and the other men slipped from the room and closed the door. Sean pulled Moira aside.

“Ye’ll want to stay out here,” he whispered.

Moira furrowed her brow. “Can I not help?”

“’Tis tradition for the neighbor women to wash and prepare the body.” He looked toward the door and his eyes darkened. “Ye’ll not want to see Colm in that state, Moira. He’d want you to remember him as he was.”

Moira pressed a hand to her mouth, fresh tears pooling in her eyes.

“There are other things I must attend to.” Sean’s expression softened. “I am sorry.” He briefly laid a tender hand on Moira’s shoulder.

Assuring him she would be fine, she sent him to see to his duties. So many traditions and customs of which she was unaware. It was like a well-choreographed dance, each person knowing their part, each step familiar to them. Everyone but Moira. She did her best to be useful, making sure there was always water in the kettle and a fire in the hearth.

All the mirrors had been covered, and the clocks were stopped, showing the hour at which Colm passed. Peg sat, stoic, in her chair and graciously received the endless stream of mourners.

Without the benefit of the clock, it was impossible to track how much time had passed. It seemed hours before the door to Colm’s room opened and the three neighbor women emerged, faces somber. One by one they presented themselves in front of Peg. They shook her hand, kissed her cheek, and murmured the traditional Irish sympathies: ní maith liom do trioblóide—“I don’t like your trouble.”

Once the women had all greeted her, Peg stood and squared her shoulders. She extended a hand to Moira, who grasped it immediately. The pair walked slowly to the room where Colm lay.

Soft candlelight cast shadows on the walls. The women had done a fine job of preparing the room, so it was tasteful and beautiful. Crisp white linen adorned with black ribbons was draped across the body, and several pipes and dishes of tobacco and snuff were placed strategically around the room.

Peg clutched Moira’s hand so hard her nails dug into skin, but Moira remained still. Despite Peg’s obvious grief, no tears fell as she stood by the side of the man she loved. After a moment, Peg leaned over and kissed the linen over Colm’s forehead. She whispered an endearment meant only for his ears, then gently touched her forehead, belly button, left shoulder, then right. “Amen,” she whispered and turned to Moira, giving her a slight nod.

Moira took a moment to whisper a prayer of thanks for Colm and all he had done for her. She laid her hand upon his shoulder and dropped her head as she prayed. Sensing the presence of others in the room, Moira lifted her eyes and turned to join Peg at the door. A steady stream of men filed in and uttered their respects to Colm before taking a puff or two from one of the pipes in the room.

Moira followed Peg back to the sitting room, where Aoife’s mother, the copper-haired woman, and the other neighbor were setting out glasses of poitín, pints of ale, and trays piled high with brown bread, cakes, and biscuits. Donations from the townsfolk, Moira assumed. In the corner, the mournful whine of the uilleann pipes whirred, and a fiddler tuned his strings. Another gentleman produced a bodhrán as visitors and mourners filled every nook and cranny of the house.

Still, Peg sat in her chair, ever the gracious hostess, even in her grief. But it was Peg’s dry eyes that gave Moira the most pause. She vowed to keep a close eye on her friend and not let her succumb to the numbing effects of grief.

The somewhat boisterous conversations filling the house fell to an abrupt silence. Whispers and murmurs floated to the rafters. Moira, sensing someone behind her, turned around.

Lady Williams’s lithe figure loomed over her. A good head taller than Moira, the woman was foreboding indeed. Up close, the lines and creases on her face indicated she was far more advanced in years than Moira had believed. A stern expression was plastered on her face, and she looked Moira over for a long while before finally speaking.

“Good day, Miss Doherty.”

Moira curtsied nervously. “Good day, Lady Williams.”

“I did not expect to see you today. Not . . . here, anyway.”

Moira racked her brain for what sort of meaning the Lady held by that statement. Unable to find any she merely uttered, “Yes, Lady Williams.”

Looking over Moira’s head toward the table laden with drink, Lady Williams sniffed and stepped past her, heading for one of the other women of Ballymann with whom to converse.

Utterly confounded by the encounter, Moira reclaimed the seat across from Peg, whose face briefly registered the same confusion before returning to the somber countenance of a widow at the wake of her husband.

As the day wore on, more people filled the house, spilling outside and milling about the fields surrounding them, despite the damp, dreary weather. Music poured forth ceaselessly from the group in the corner, each musician breaking as needed for a drink or breath of fresh air.

No one spoke a word to Moira, though plenty shot dirty looks her way as they whispered with Lady Williams across the room. Some made a wide berth around her as they shuffled through the house, while others managed a tsk, tsk with a twitch of their noses as they passed.

Throughout the day as Moira passed through the hall to refill the kettle or fetch another tray from the kitchen, she noticed that a woman from the area was always seated in a chair at the foot of the bed where Colm lay. Though not always the same woman, someone consistently occupied that seat—it was always a woman, and never Peg. Men filed through, doffed their caps, bowed their heads, and dutifully puffed from a pipe, yet there a woman sat. Moira assumed it was yet another custom she wasn’t used to.

As evening approached, the crowd dwindled, but more people than Moira expected lingered. When the angelus—the countrywide ringing of the church bells to call people to prayer—rang at six o’clock, Sinead and her parents arrived, bearing armloads of fresh-baked scones and bread, and a fresh barrel of poitín.

Moira stepped toward Sinead, who pursed her lips and turned in the opposite direction. Mrs. McGonigle offered a curt nod before greeting Peg and then heading in to pay her respects to Colm. Paddy made his way to a group of men congregated in the kitchen. Moira tried to ignore the hurt she felt at Sinead’s continued disdain, but each new shun was like lemon juice in a fresh wound.

When the night had well fallen, and the candles dripped from their stands, a familiar scuffling made its way into the house, and a recognizable tsk, tsk caused the hair on the back of Moira’s neck to stand up. She turned and fell back a step as her worst nightmare appeared in the doorway.

Buach.