Chapter 59

When the guilty parties had been escorted outside, the crowd seemed to lose interest and dispersed—the events of the night sure to be fodder for stories told around the fire for years to come. A few women mumbled admiration to Peg as they made their way back to the table, to sit vigil with Colm, or to head home to their own children.

“Oh, Peg.” Moira lay a hand on Peg’s shoulder and guided her back to the fire. “I don’t know what to say.”

What a senseless loss. Colm’s absence would be felt by the community for decades. And for what? To save face over a crime committed and reported long ago? Lady Williams’s grievances were moot, knowing John Adair’s lack of return had nothing to do with Noreen O’Connell Doherty.

“Rest assured,” Sean was saying when Moira came out of her reverie, “Buach and Lady—though I hate to refer to her as such—Williams will be dealt with swiftly and harshly. Duffy can hardly ignore their confessions, especially with so many witnesses who heard them.”

Moira sank into the chair across from Peg and stared into the fire. “’Tis my fault.” She shook her head. “Had I never come here, none of this would have happened.”

“Seafóid!” Peg leaned forward and clasped Moira’s hand. “The Laird brought you here. Of that I have no doubt. Ye are as much to blame for what happened to my dearest Colm as ye are for the tide comin’ and goin’ each day.”

“But, Peg—”

“Nae.” Peg cut Moira’s protest short. “Colm loved to serve ye. He loved servin’ the whole of Ballymann. Sure, he’d said something wasna right. He had a hunch somethin’ was out o’ sorts. That’s why he went to the halla last night. He was always watchin’ out for folk in this town. He’d hate to see ye blamin’ yerself for somethin’ ye didna do.”

Moira squeezed Peg’s hand, the lump in her throat holding back any words she might attempt to say.

Peg returned the squeeze, then rose and bussed the top of Moira’s head. “Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I’d like to sit with my husband.”

Out of respect, Moira stood. As she turned to the hallway, Sinead entered from outside, her cheeks stained with tears. “Oh Moira, can ya ever forgive me?”

Moira rushed over and embraced her friend.

“I shoulda known,” Sinead said between sobs. “I shoulda known it wasna true. I’ve been so awful to ye.”

“Aye, you have been.” Moira braced Sinead’s shoulders and eased her back to look in her face. “Had you but asked, I could have told you the truth. In fact, I did tell you.”

“I know.” Sinead’s gaze fell to the floor. “Folk were sayin’ so many t’ings, and when I saw ye come out of Áedach’s place alone, my imagination went wanderin’.”

Moira sighed and grabbed Sinead’s hands. “If Peg can forgive those who hurt her poor Colm, and the Lord can forgive me for all I’ve done wrong, I suppose I can forgive you.” She looked hard at Sinead’s face before breaking into a smile and gathering her friend in a warm embrace.

From the back of the house, a mournful groan filled the air. It sounded so near a howl, Moira looked about to see if it was an animal.

“Peg’s begun the caoineadh.” Sinead’s eyes swam with compassion.

Moira furrowed her brow.

“The keening . . . her official mourning,” Sinead clarified.

“I must say, I’m relieved to hear her cry.”

Sean and Sinead looked at her as though she had two heads. Moira looked from Sean to Sinead and back again. “She’d been so . . . calm. I was worried that she was slipping away from us.”

“Once again ye’re unfamiliar with our ways, Miss Darrty,” Sinead said in a mocking scold. “Once the body arrives at the wake house, there can be no cryin’ ’til the deceased has been properly prepared, or ye risk attractin’ bad spirits into the home.”

Moira grimaced. “But the women finished preparing things hours ago.”

“Aye.” Sean motioned for the trio to take a seat at the table. “Sometimes the widow—or widower—chooses to wait until the first night to begin keening. Just to be safe.”

The copper-haired woman appeared in the doorway, a glass of poitín in hand. She raised it aloft and began to recite a poem. All in Irish, Moira only caught a word here or there, but as she spoke, and Peg’s keening mingled with the mournful words, heads bowed throughout the house. When the woman finished, each person raised his or her glass in silent toast to Colm and drank.

One after another, women stood and recited poems or sang a mournful tune. When the songs were finally done, the poitín low, and the mourners sufficiently cried out, each took their leave, one by one. Only the three neighbor women remained with Moira, Sinead, and Sean throughout the night. Colm was never left alone, and Peg continued her keening long into the morning.

The sun was just beginning to peek over the Donegal hills when Moira left the Sweeny house. She needed fresh air and water on her face. She needed time to think and pray before returning to Peg’s for the procession to the church. As she trudged home, memories of Colm and Peg washed over her.

If not for Colm, her chalet would be in shambles, and she likely would not have met Peg. Without Peg, she wouldn’t have had the courage to continue looking after Áedach. Her feet stilled.

Where was Áedach? She’d not seen him since he arrived to help with the Paddy’s Day preparations at the halla. Except for the conversation you eavesdropped on at his hovel that night. Buach had ordered the lad to “keep to the plan.”

Did Áedach know of Buach and Lady Williams’s plans to kill her? Had he run away when he learned of the fire? She made a mental note to stop by his hovel after the funeral to see the lad and how he fared. But she purposed not to go alone.

A gust of frigid, salty air woke Moira from her thoughts like a slap to the face. She looked about, realizing she’d walked right past her chalet and was nearly as far as the guesthouse. A heavy slate sky hung overhead. Nature itself was in mourning, it would seem. The street was unusually empty, and no figures could be seen in the windows of the pub.

Moira crossed the road and wandered down the path leading toward the ocean until she came to the rock she had sat upon her first day in Ballymann. Very little, if anything, had changed since she was last there. Yet everything had changed. She had changed.

Gathering her skirts around her, she sat on the rock and once again closed her eyes. Sea grass rustled and tickled her legs. Waves crashed upon the rocky shore, singing their own doleful ballad. Her spirit was raw and worn, her heart broken at the loss and deception she’d suffered at the hands of her fellow community members. Wanting to pray, needing to pray, her words were sorely lacking. No matter how hard she tried, no eloquent phrases conjured in her heart, and no utterances lifted from her spirit to the Lord.

Come to me, ye who are weary. And I will give you rest.

The familiar promise from Scripture whispered deep in her heart and soothed like water in a parched land. Rather than force some contrived prayer or attempt to appear holier than she was, she allowed herself to simply rest in the presence of the One who had brought her here.

At length, the weight lightened. Her breaths came easier. Don’t let this be wasted, Lord. Redeem these evil days and restore the hope of those who have none. She opened her eyes, finding the world just as she’d left it when first she sat upon the rock. Her heart was still heavy. Grief still surrounded her like a shroud. But the despair had lifted.

In Him, there was never a promise of no grief on this side of heaven, but there was always the promise of joy. And she would await that day with a hopeful heart.