Dark of the Moon

by Karen Robards

  Hours later, Caitlyn was still in a happy daze. As she performed the hated indoor chores that fell to her lot because the steadily falling rain precluded the work in the garden with which she had meant to occupy the day, she took every chance to admire her ring. It was so heavy that her hand felt as if it were weighted down, and it was a trifle loose. Her greatest fear was that it might fall off and she might lose it. The thought made her shudder, and she vowed to tell Connor to have it made smaller as soon as he could. Even Mrs. McFee's scowling silence could not pierce the fog of her happiness. With the solid proof of his ring on her finger, Caitlyn could really allow herself to believe in what had happened: Connor had asked her to be his wife.

  Connor too was extraordinarily cheerful as he went about the myriad tasks that were necessary to the running of a sheep farm. When, later that afternoon, he discovered that Rory had inadvertently left the lid off a barrel of seed intended for spring planting and that a pair of hungry sheep had tipped it over, destroying what they did not eat, Connor's only response was a shrug and a philosophical "Well, now, these things will happen." Rory, slack-jawed with relief, called down blessings on the power of love. This did earn him a sharp look from his brother, but a wry grin followed on its heels.

  "You should be thanking your lucky stars, halfling," Connor told him. "Were I in my right mind, I'd be taking the cost of that seed out of your hide."

  " 'Tis Caitlyn I'm thanking, and not stars at all," Rory retorted, smiling back at his brother.

  Cormac, who was dosing sheep and had witnessed the entire incident, shook his head. "When will it wear off, I wonder? Caitlyn is bound to put you out of temper sooner or later, and my guess would be sooner. She always does."

  "Yes, but now that We're to be wed, I'm on my best behavior. I've already promised Connor that I'll make him a good wife." Caitlyn had come hurrying into the barn in time to respond. Though she'd left countless chores behind in the house, she'd decided to let Mrs. McFee and her women's work go hang. If truth were told, she'd been unable to stay away from Connor a moment longer and had been in search of him when she'd heard his voice. Shaking out the shawl she held over her head to protect it from the rain, she smiled saucily at Connor.

  "An obedient wife," he corrected with mock sternness, tapping her nose as she came to stand beside him.

  Rory and Cormac hooted in unison. Caitlyn, standing in the circle of Connor's arm, stuck out her tongue at them.

  "Conn, if you can stomach that impudent minx to wife, you're a braver man than I."

  "I don't think that's ever been in doubt." Connor's response was dry. Rory grinned at Cormac's comeuppance.

  "Well, this blissfulness is all very well, my children, but I've four more sheep down with this bloody flux. Conn, do you suppose I could borrow your intended?"

  "For what purpose?"

  "To sit on their heads," Caitlyn answered for Cormac, sighing as she detached herself from Connor's side to join Cormac in the stall and demonstrate by straddling the head of one thrown, squalling beast. "I'm just the right weight, you understand. Though as a Countess-to-be, I fear I may be demeaning myself."

  "Ah, but there are Countesses and there are Countesses," Rory said, leaning over the side of the stall and watching the proceedings. "And you are definitely going to be one of the other kind of Countesses."

  "Well, you-" Caitlyn started to retort spiritedly, only to be interrupted by Mickeen's hailing of Connor.

  "Yer lordship! Yer lordship, there you be! I…" Mickeen was panting, shaking raindrops from his grizzled head as he hurried toward where Connor leaned over the stall beside Rory.

  "Did you bear my message to Father Patrick, Mickeen?"

  "Aye, I did, and-"

  "And I decided to come myself to see you, Connor." The deep voice of a stranger interrupted. Situated as she was, Caitlyn could not see him, but she guessed straightaway that this must be the much-discussed Father Patrick. From Mickeen's miserable expression, she surmised that the priest's presence was what had caused Mickeen to rush in search of Connor. He had wanted to sound a warning.

  "Good day, Father." Rory's voice was deferential, even a trifie nervous. Caitlyn gathered that this priest had considerable influence with the d'Arcys.

  "Good day to you, Rory. Connor, in light of our recent conversations, I was a wee bit surprised at the message Mickeen brought me. He said you're desiring to be wed? Within the week?"

  "Aye."

  "To the lass we were discussing?"

  Though Caitlyn could not see Father Patrick, she could see Connor. He grinned wickedly. "Oh, aye, Father."

  "Before I can agree to officiate at such a ceremony, I must make as sure as I can that it is in the best interests of both parties. I would talk with the lass, if you've no objection."

  At that precise moment, Caitlyn was sitting precariously astride the head of a struggling sheep. As she realized that she was about to meet the priest who had counseled Connor to rid himself of her at all cost, Caitlyn lost her concentration. As a result, the sheep with a mighty toss of its head managed to send her sailing over its ears. Her head banged into the side of the stall, and she saw stars as she fell backward to land smack on her backside in muddy straw. It was ail she could do to bite back an oath. Cormac, who had spilled half the sticky medicine down his shirtfront because of her fall, was not as fortunate. He swore roundly, condemning the sheep for its obstinacy and Caitlyn for her clumsiness in the same breath. Then, remembering the presence of the priest, he colored to his ears.

  "Sorry, Father," he muttered, shamefaced. Connor had opened the stall and crossed to Caitlyn's side. Concern darkened his eyes as he crouched in front of her, brushing errant strands of hair out of her face with gentie hands.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked low-voiced, his fingers touching the reddened spot on her forehead where she had made contact with the wall.

  "N-not really." Caitlyn shook her head, then smiled at him. "Just my dignity."

  "In future find someone else to sit on the blasted sheep," Connor said over his shoulder to Cormac as he helped Caitlyn to her feet. Though she was recovering by the second, she was content to lean against Connor's side, supported by his arm. At least she was until she looked up to meet the grave gray eyes of the portly, balding priest, who was regarding them steadily through the stall's open door.

  "I've no doubt at all that you are Caitlyn. Hello, child. I hope your head does not ache too badly. I am Father Patrick."

  "Hello, Father. Connor… has spoken of you more than once." Caitlyn pulled away from Connor's side, self- conscious with the priest's weighing eyes upon her. She smoothed back her hair with both hands, wishing that she had tied it up with more of an eye to security than beauty that morning. Even before her disastrous encounter with the sheep, it had been escaping from its ribbon. Now it was entirely loose, flowing freely over her shoulders and down her back. Her ribbon, she surmised, was somewhere in the stall with Cormac and the sheep. Her dress was a mess too, stained with earth and straw where she had fallen. Her hands were not entirely clean either, since they had broken her fall. But there was nothing she could do about her appearance, so she straightened her spine and walked toward the priest with the dignity of a Duchess. Connor was close behind her.

  "Would you care to come and talk with me a little, child? I must confess to some misgivings about this start of Connor's, but perhaps you could set them at ease. And I could use a spot of tea."

  "If you'll come into the house, Father, I'll be happy to talk with you and get your tea too." Caitlyn looked steadily back at the priest, chin high. Whether he approved or not, she was going to marry Connor. She would climb over the carcass of the devil himself to get to Connor if she had to. But she sensed that Connor valued the priest's opinion, so she very much wanted him to approve.

  Father Patrick smiled and tucked her hand in his arm. At closer range, Caitlyn saw he was a homely man, with a round red face and undistinguished features not aided by the fringe of gray hair that ringed his head
just above his ears. His height rivaled Connor's, but his girth was such that in the flowing black robe he appeared immense.

  "We'd be pleased if you'd stay to supper, Father, and then perhaps afterward-" Connor had fallen into step at Caitlyn's other side. The priest's nod interrupted him.

  "Aye, Connor, and I thank you for the invitation. But for now, we've no need of you, have we, lassie? We'll do far better on our own."

  Connor frowned and glanced at Caitlyn, who was dwarfed between him and the oversize priest. "Caitlyn…?"

  " 'Tis all right, Connor. I'll be perfectly fine with Father Patrick, I'm sure."

  "Sure, and the lass has more sense than you. I'm beginning to think that you led me a mite astray in this instance." Father Patrick gave Connor a mildly censorious look over Caitlyn's head.

  Connor met Father Patrick's look with wry comprehension. "Perhaps I did, Father, perhaps I did. Whenever I came to you, it was because I had been sorely tried."

  This exchange made absolutely no sense to Caitlyn, but as she looked from one to the other she could tell that Connor and the priest understood each other perfectiy.

  "Go on about your business now and let me talk to the lassie in peace. We'll have a quiet tea and get to know one another."

  Still Connor hesitated, looking at Caitlyn.

  "I'll be fine," she said again. "Truly."

  He nodded, then turned on his heel, heading back toward where Rory was helping Cormac dose the shrilly bleating sheep.

  "So tell me, child," Father Patrick began as they walked through the drizzle toward the house, "are you of the Church?"

  By the time they had taken tea together and the family had finished supper, Father Patrick knew most of what there was to know about Caitlyn (though some things she had edited, for after all, there was no reason to paint herself blacker than was strictly necessary). At the conclusion of the meal, as the men rose to leave the table and Caitlyn started to help Mrs. McFee clear away, Father Patrick motioned her over to where he stood with Connor and placed a beefy hand on her shoulder.

  "I'll tell you both that I set out this morning thinking to save you, Connor, from a disastrous marriage. I've since changed my mind entirely. From what I've seen, it may be the making of you. 'Tis time your thoughts turned toward the future instead of the past. This is as sweet and loving a lassie as you'll find across the breadth of Ireland, and 'tis obvious you have a care for her. She'll make you a fine wife, give you bonny sons. You have my blessing, the pair of you."

  "Thank you, Father," Caitlyn said, pleased and surprised at the praise, which she privately considered to be largely undeserved.

  "You're a man of rare discernment, Father," Connor said with a grin, slipping his arm around Caitlyn and pulling her close against his side. "How soon can we be wed?"

  "A month," Father Patrick said firmly and cocked an admonishing eye at Connor. "And by the by, I would have a private word with you, if I may, my son."

  Connor winced. "The last time you called me your son, the penance made my knees ache for a week."

  "I've a feeling they'll ache for rather longer this time. Come, I haven't much time."

  Connor, looking resigned, took Father Patrick upstairs to the office. Not long afterward, the pair emerged on seemingly excellent terms, though Connor appeared a bit rueful. Caitlyn had left Mrs. McFee to finish the dishes and joined the younger d'Arcys in the parlor, where she passed the time by playing spinnikins with Cormac. Connor entered the room with the priest and crossed to stand behind her chair.

  "Did you have to tell him about last night?" he bent to whisper with pained humor in her ear. She turned pink and cast an apologetic look up at him.

  "I could not lie to a priest," she whispered back, then shushed him with a look.

  Moments later, Mickeen appeared in the doorway. Connor left her side to join the little man in the hall.

  "All's in readiness, yer lordship," she heard him say. She frowned in puzzlement. Before she could get up to join them, Connor was back, talking to Father Patrick in low tones.

  "Is something wrong?" she whispered to Rory, who was standing nearby.

  Rory shook his head. "Father Patrick will be holding a hedge mass for the people of Donoughmore. They've gathered together in the woods behind the sheep barn. That way, if word of it gets out, blame will be harder to attach to any here."

  "A hedge mass?" Connor was beside her then, draping a shawl around her shoulders before taking her arm. In almost total silence, they left the house in a group behind Father Patrick. Mrs. McFee joined them, and Mickeen, as they stepped out into the darkness. The rain had stopped sometime during the evening. The grass was wet beneath their feet, and the air was cool in the aftermath of the rain. About them the night was alive with people moving, converging on the thick grove of trees that flourished in a little hollow behind the barn. More people awaited them. As they recognized the priest's black robes and Connor, the peasants parted to let them through.

  Someone had rolled a large tree stump with a flat top into the middle of the hollow. Someone else had placed a length of white lace and two tiny, barely flickering candles on it. A silver chalice that Caitlyn recognized as coming from the house sat between the candles, and next to it was the flat white circle of the Host. Father Patrick moved behind the makeshift altar. The crowd gathered around, grew silent. Someone sneezed, and there was a steady rustle of clothing as people shifted where they stood. The nearby stream gurgled; a night bird called. But it seemed as if a hush had fallen over the night.

  "God's blessing on all here," the priest intoned quietly.

  "And on you, Father," came the reply from many throats.

  "Dear friends, we have not much time. Let us begin."

  The chalice was passed, the Host shared. Forty or so people sank to their knees on the wet ground. Caitlyn, with Connor on one side and Rory on the other, knelt with the rest. The prayers were less loud than the gurglings of the stream. There was a palpable tension in the air. The saying of mass was forbidden by law; to be caught at their worship would result in dire punishment for all.

  Though born and baptized into the Church, Caitlyn could not remember ever having participated in a mass, but she thought she must have when she was small, before her mother had died. Her free-roarning life on the streets of Dublin had precluded any formal religious observance, although Catholicism pervaded the very air of the city's slums. She watched and listened intently. Gnarled old men knelt in prayer next to their sons and grandsons. Women with tears streaking their cheeks bowed shawled heads. Beside her, Connor's head was bowed like the rest. His hands were clasped before him, his lips moving as he intoned the prayers. Caitlyn, glancing sideways at him as he made the sign of the cross, felt her heart swell with love, for him and for Ireland and for the Church and for everyone present. In that moment, it seemed to her that they were all part of one another, part of a living whole.

  Then the last prayer was over, and they muttered, "Amen," in unison. The crowd stood up, melted away like the mist. Mickeen had brought Father Patrick's horse to the hollow; he stood with the d'Arcys and Caitlyn to bid the priest Godspeed before he rode off into the night.

  Connor held her hand tightly in his as they returned to the house. She felt happier and more at peace than she had ever been in her life.

  XXXI

  The next few days passed in a blur of blinding joy for Caitlyn. Though in fact it rained almost without ceasing, she felt as if the sun shone down upon her all the time. The only fly in her ointment was that Connor, prompted by conscience and Father Patrick, refused to continue his lessons in lovemaking until she was legally made his wife. Despite this prohibition and its ensuing frustrations, Connor, too, was unprecedentedly jovial. His brothers observed him with wary amazement as he took even the most maddening happenstance with calm good humor.

  Wherever Connor was, Caitlyn was usually nearby. She followed him about the farm, assisting him when she could or more often just admiring as he went about doing whatever wa
s necessary for the running of the farm. He was strong and skilled, a far better sheep farmer than any of his brothers, and she watched with unalloyed pleasure when, stripped to the waist, he would single-handedly throw and tie a sheep or lift one to the cart for market. The play of muscles beneath his bronzed skin could hold her transfixed for hours. Her adoration of him was apparent to all, and the object of much good-natured ribbing from his brothers whenever Connor himself was not about to take umbrage on her behalf. Caitlyn took their jesting in good measure. She did adore Connor, and now that they were to be wed, she didn't care who knew it.

  For the first time in her life she developed an interest in her wardrobe. Connor insisted that she be married in a proper wedding dress, and she discovered to her surprise that there was distinct pleasure to be gained from poring over patterns. With not quite three weeks until her wedding day, she selected a simple design with a high neck and long, tight sleeves to be made up in shimmery white silk. From a trunk in the attic she unearthed a fine lace veil, and that along with a white rosary that had belonged to Connor's mother completed her outfit. Connor rode with her to the village, where Mrs. Bannion, the local seamstress, took all her measurements and promised to have the dress ready for a fitting in a week. While in the village, which she had visited frequently since she had come to live with the d'Arcys, Caitlyn learned that she had become the focus of all attention. Mrs. McFee had trumpeted the news of his lordship's shocking engagement to the world, and the world turned out to stare.

  "I feel like a two-headed calf," she said with some ruefulness to Connor as he reached up to lift her from the saddle on their return to the stable at Donoughmore. She could dismount perfectly well herself, of course, but Connor was increasingly solicitous of her as their wedding day approached, and she was not about to object to anything that gave him an excuse to put his hands on her. It had been nigh on ten days now since he had introduced her to the sins of the flesh, and she was growing increasingly impatient to experience them again.