Mrs. McGregor must have known I would choose to stay in the Governess’s Room because she left extra blankets in the wardrobe and a tray on the table in front of the window with bottles of water and a tin of my favorite homemade Irish butter cookies.
I love Mrs. McGregor! She looks like a character straight out of a Colm Tóibín novel, with a face like a baked apple, wrinkled and brown from years of living near the sea, and a head scarf knotted under her chin. She has been at Tásúildun since Saint Kevin lived like a hermit in a cave in Glendalough and is a walking encyclopedia when it comes to the castle and village. I have fond memories of times I spent with her in the kitchen, learning how to make Irish soda bread or lamb stew or corned beef.
I open the window and look out over the rolling glen glowing with golden furze. The prickly evergreen shrubs bloom all year and form many of the hedgerows around Donegal. Even though they add pops of color to the predominantly green landscape, they make hiking through the glens a challenge.
I lean out the window, hoping to catch the sweet, nutty aroma of the blossoms. When the sun is strong and the wind just right, the small yellow flowers infuse the air with an aroma that reminds me of toasted coconut. I smell only fresh, salty sea air.
I shift my gaze to the prehistoric standing stone perched on a nearby hill. It’s one of a dozen standing stones in the area that form the Turas Cholmcille. Pilgrims used to travel the Turas, stopping at each stone to pray and practice their devotions. Bless their hearts. I can’t imagine climbing dozens of hills and picking my way through thorny furze just to stand at a stone and say a prayer. As Emma Lee would say, “Respect!”
A cold gust of wind blows in through the open window, billowing the drapes and slapping my cheeks silly. It always took a while for my thin blood to thicken up enough to stand the colder temperatures along the Donegal coast. It’s a vicious, biting kind of cold that grabs ahold of you until even your bones ache with the pain of it. I close the window, hurry over to the wardrobe, pull out a nubby wool blanket, and toss it over my shoulders. Then, I grab the stack of magazines I bought at the airport—Food & Wine, Bon Appetite, Savuer—and the tin of butter cookies and climb into bed, clicking on the sconce and closing the bed drapes.
I munch on butter cookies and read an article about women who turned their passion for food into lucrative businesses. I am ugly with envy when I read about the successful commodities broker who gave up her job to make organic fruit bars and is now the president of a multimillion-dollar business! I keep reading, though, about the hairdresser who put down her scissors to start making goat cheese cheesecakes, the bus driver who made a career detour and now sells mass-produced “homemade” chicken noodle soup over the internet, and a radio DJ who found her groove making chipotle aioli. Don’t laugh. The former disc spinner made four million dollars last year selling mayonnaise seasoned with peppers!
I don’t care what anyone says. Mayonnaise is mayonnaise, y’all, even if you give it a fancy French name, sprinkle it with chili peppers, and put it in a pretty bottle! No matter how you whip it, it’s still mayo.
I read until the words blur and my eyelids feel too heavy to keep open. Maybe it is the jet lag or the belly full of butter cookies, but I suddenly need a nap something fierce.
* * *
I am buried under a mound of blankets, the empty cookie tin by my head, my cheeks and pillow sprinkled with buttery crumbs, warm in a dream world where I have become the queen of a condiment empire, when someone shakes my shoulder.
“Tara?”
I blink my eyes open and—sweet baby Jesus and all the sheep in the manger—find Aidan standing over me, his previously tousled hair neatly combed.
For a split second I am embarrassed that Aidan has found me in a most unladylike position, splayed out on my bed like roadkill.
“Ya look like ya went out on the lash and got locked out of your tree like a monkey who forgot his keys.” He chuckles. “Ya are in tatters.”
“What does that mean? In English, please.”
“Wasn’t that English, then?”
I roll my gritty eyes at him.
“American English.”
“I said ya look like ya went out drinking and got extremely intoxicated, to be sure.”
“Thanks,” I say, pushing away the covers and sitting up. “Does that line get you far in the pubs?”
He ignores my question and reaches for the empty cookie tin.
“Jaysus,” he says, turning the tin over and giving it a good shake. “Did ya eat a whole tin of Mrs. McGregor’s biscuits, then? In one sitting?”
I reach for the tin.
“What I do with my biscuits”—I snatch the tin out of his hand and cradle it—“is none of your business.”
“I’ve never seen anyone eat an entire tin of butter biscuits.”
“Mrs. McGregor knows the fastest way to my heart is with butter.”
His lip pulls up in a half-smile. Or is it a sneer? I can’t tell with him. “I’ll remember that.”
My breath catches in my chest. Hold up. Is the intense, scowling Irishman flirting with me?
“Hello?” There is a knock and Sin sticks his head in the door. “There is a woman downstairs waving a wooden spoon and cursing in Gaelic. At least, I think it is Gaelic.”
Sin. In my bedroom. Staring at my crumb covered sheets. I comb my fingers through my hair and climb out of bed real slow and graceful-like, as if it is perfectly normal for me to be entertaining gentlemen in my bedroom, as if I am a Victorian lady rising from a swooning couch.
“You look knackered,” Sin says. “Jet lag can be a bloody brutal thing, can’t it?”
I am dying inside, y’all. Dy-ing. Because I know I must look a fright, with my hair all sleep tangled, standing in a mess of cookie crumbs in my stocking feet. What would Miss Belle say if she could see me now, without a stitch of makeup on my face?
I dig down deep, mustering every last bit of my grace, elegance, and charm.
“You’re terribly kind, Sin,” I say, in a voice as sweet as honeysuckle. “I am feeling refreshed now that I have had a little nap. If you give me just a moment, I will join you in the dining room.”
“Brilliant,” he says, winking. “See you soon.”
He disappears. I listen to his footsteps fade as he walks back down the hallway.
Aidan is standing with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks at me, shakes his head, and chuckles.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Well it sure enough was something,” I snap. “Where I come from it is impolite to snicker or laugh at someone.”
“Thanks for the etiquette lesson, banphrionsa.”
“What does that mean? What did you just call me?”
“Princess.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say, gritting my teeth. “I am not a princess!”
He walks over to the wardrobe and picks up one of my crystal encrusted Christian Louboutin heels.
“Ya know what they say, banphrionsa,” he says, tossing the shoe for me to catch on his way to the door. “If the glass slipper fits . . .”
Chapter Eleven
I was madder than a wet hen when Aidan called me a princess and walked out of my room, but Mrs. McGregor’s beer braised Irish stew and colcannon has fixed my ruffled feathers.
I’m not ashamed to say I had seconds of colcannon, a traditional Irish dish that warms the belly. I pretended not to notice Aidan’s grin or his raised brow when Mrs. McGregor spooned the potatoes and cabbage onto my plate. Let him judge me. See if I care. I ain’t too proud to beg for colcannon.
Mrs. McGregor’s butter cookies. Colcannon. My momma’s pecan pie. These are my soul foods. Foods that nourish my body and my soul. When I eat them I feel loved and closer to the people who first cooked them for me. Besides, I plan on hiking to the village tomorrow. There’s a path that meanders through the hills. A girl can work up a nice glow and burn off the colcannon calories climbing up those hills.
We
help clear away the dishes and then I insist Mrs. McGregor join us for tea and sticky toffee pudding. I close my eyes and breathe in the intoxicating aroma of ginger, dates, and dark, spicy-sweet treacle. Monsieur Museau, one of my instructors at the culinary institute, said smell is the most underrated of the senses. A good chef, he said, understands that flavor and aroma are linked. Develop zee nose, he would say, tapping his bulbous beak. Exercise zee olfactory organ.
My olfactory organ exercised, I spoon fluffy whipped cream on top of the steaming cake and watch it melt and flow like a river into the sea of toffee sauce at the bottom of my bowl.
“Thank you for preparing such a delicious meal for us,” I say, remembering my manners. “I know it was a lot of work.”
“Get away with ya,” the old woman says, waving her hands at me.
We eat our dessert in companionable silence, the peat and wood logs crackling in the fireplace. When we finish satiating ourselves on sticky toffee, we sip our tea and make polite conversation.
“How have you been, Mrs. McGregor?”
She shakes her head. “I have been sad, mournfully sad. Tásúildun has been an empty place without herself.”
“The news of Aunt Patricia’s death must have come as quite a shock to you, Mrs. McGregor,” Sin says softly.
“It came as no surprise!”
Sin chuckles.
“Are you prescient, Mrs. McGregor?”
“’Tis omens I read, not the future.” The old woman shifts her gaze from Sin to me, but I have the strange, fearful feeling she doesn’t see me. “The day before herself perished in the sea, a snag breac tapped his beak on the kitchen window pane . . .”
“Snog brack?”
“Magpie,” Aidan says, translating the word from Gaelic to English.
“. . . and that terrible morning herself perished, the feannóga were circling the sky over Tásúildun.”
Sin looks at me and I shrug.
“Feannóga is Gaelic for crows,” Aidan explains. “In Irish mythology, crows circling over a home portends death.”
Mrs. McGregor nods her head.
I always knew Mrs. McGregor was superstitious—she once told me to avoid the fishermen in the village because redheads bring bad luck to seafarers—but I thought her superstitious notions were of the average, run-of-the-mill sort. After all, Ireland is the land of superstitions. It is bad luck to put new shoes on a table. If you see a penny, you must pick it up. When you see a new moon you should bless yourself or you will have bad luck. If you spill salt on the table you will get into a fight.
“I wish the crows would have flown over Black Ash that morning instead of Tásúildun,” I say, casting my gaze down at the caramel colored residue left on my bowl. “Maybe then, I could have asked daddy not to go sailing.”
Sin reaches across the table and covers my hand with his, squeezing it gently. “There was nothing you could have done to prevent the tragedy, Tara.”
“I know.”
Aidan shifts in his seat and Sin pulls his hand away.
“Will you be staying on at Tásúildun now that my aunt is . . .”
“Away with the fairies?” Mrs. McGregor asks.
“I thought ‘away with the fairies’ meant daydreaming.”
“It does, but it can also mean someone who has literally been snatched from this world by The Folk.”
“The folk?”
“The Fair Folk.”
I stare at her blankly.
“The Good Neighbors. The People of the Sídhe.”
I shake my head.
“Fairies,” Aidan snaps. “She’s talking about the bleedin’ fairies.”
Ya bleedin’ eejit is what he meant to say. He might not have spoken the words, but I heard it as clear and sharp as a whistle. I want to snap back at him. Who do you think you are, you puffed-up, self-impressed bully, trying to make me feel like an idiot just because I forgot the Irish refer to the fairies as The Folk?
“Do forgive me, Mister Gallagher, for not being an expert in Irish mythology. To my everlasting mortification, this conversation has illuminated the gaping holes in my exclusive, private school education.”
Sin chuckles.
“Forgiven.”
Ooo! He is ruffling my feathers again.
“And I suppose you view my ignorance in matters of the fairy folk as a great deficiency?”
“Actually—”
Mrs. McGregor makes a quick, sharp noise that sounds like air hissing out of a punctured tire and Aidan stops talking.
“Go on,” I prod. “What were you going to say?”
The teacups suddenly rattle against their saucers, Aidan inhales sharply, and I realize Mrs. McGregor must have given him a swift kick under the table.
“Nothing.”
I might have forgotten to mention Aidan and Mrs. McGregor are related. Aidan’s grandmother and Mrs. McGregor were sisters or cousins. Whatever the connection, it’s clear she has some influence over him. Thank heavens. Let her put a muzzle on the scowling beast.
Though, if I am being completely honest, I still want to know what was going to come after his actually.
“If we have to live together for the next three months, and then, perhaps, share the responsibilities of managing this estate, it is important we develop an open and honest rapport.” I stare at Aidan, daring him to charge at the red flag I am mentally waving. “Please, finish what you were going to say.”
“Well now, if ya insist, banphrionsa,” he says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Wasn’t your mam born in Ireland?”
“County Kerry. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Did ya never develop a curiosity about where ya come from?”
“What are you saying? I spent every summer in Ireland.”
“Until you turned eighteen.”
“So?”
“Don’t give out like ya don’t understand,” he says, piercing me with a sharp stare. “Ya spent summers here because ya had no choice, but as soon as ya were old enough to have a say in where ya went, ya turned your back on m”—he looks away—“Ireland.”
I am so riled up I open my mouth before I know what I want to say. I could have sworn Aidan was going to say, “You turned your back on me.” I close my mouth and look at him, really look at him. Could his brooding, aloof, unfriendly demeanor be a symptom of a broken heart? Maybe our last summer together—the kisses on the boat, in the stables, at the beach—meant more to him than I realized. Maybe he was in love with me.
That’s actually very sweet.
“Ya can stop making cow eyes at me,” he says, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table. “If you’re thinking I was in love with ya and wept when ya didn’t return, think again.”
“Sure and begorrah,” I say, mimicking an Irish accent. “What did it matter if I came back to Donegal? It’s not like I was good for a laugh and a snog. Eh, boy?”
“Jaysus! Nobody in Ireland says sure and begorrah. Next you’ll be saying, ‘Top o’ the mornin ’to ya.’”
“Only if I’m eating me Lucky Charms,” I say, grinning.
Sin laughs.
Aidan groans.
“Can’t ya see she’s winding ya up, boy?” Mrs. McGregor says, picking up Aidan’s empty bowl and placing it atop the others. “To answer your question, Tara. I will stay at the castle for as long as ya need me, luv.”
“Thank you, Mrs. McGregor. Can we help you with the dishes?”
“What are ya on about?”
She looks genuinely affronted as she carries the rattling bowls out of the dining room on her way to the kitchen.
“Mrs. McGregor is an ace cook,” Sin says, tossing his napkin on the table. “I can’t remember the last time I ate so much.”
“It was a delicious meal,” I say.
Aidan doesn’t contribute to the conversation and an awkward silence fills the room, the sort of silence where every small sound seems magnified. The popping peat logs. The distant
ticking of the tall-case clock. The soft patter of raindrops on the window.
“Perhaps we should adjourn to the living room,” I say, smiling brightly.
“Brilliant idea,” Sin says, standing. “I would like to have a proper chat about how we intend to sort things out.”
We follow Sin into the living room. I select one of four upholstered chairs arranged around the fireplace and sit down, crossing my legs at the ankles even though I want to prop my feet on an ottoman and zone out while staring at the flickering flames. Sin sits in one of the chairs opposite me. Aidan remains standing, assuming his crossed-arm stance.
“What sorts of things did ya want to sort out?”
“Well, for one,” Sin says, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and pressing his fingertips together to form a triangle. “I thought we might discuss the running of the estate.”
“Go on,” Aidan says.
“According to her solicitor in London, Aunt Patricia left funds in an account to be used for Tásúildun’s maintenance and upkeep. I ran the numbers and that figure is not sufficient. Economies will have to be made.”
“What sorts of economies?” I ask.
“I have drawn up a list.”
“Of course you have,” Aidan mutters.
Sin rests his hands on the arms of the chair, tilts his head to one side, and looks at Aidan through slightly narrowed eyes, a polite smile on his handsome face.
“Are we going to have a problem, Gallagher?”
“I don’t know, Burroughes,” Aidan says, in a low, steady voice. “Are we?”
They continue to stare at each other like a pair of wary gunslingers confronting each other outside the saloon, six shooters drawn, and fingers itching to pull the trigger.
“Holster your weapons, cowboys,” I say, forcing a laugh. “I am pretty sure Mrs. McGregor won’t appreciate having to scrub blood out of the living room rug.”
Aidan, the immovable object, and Sin, the irresistible force, continue their childish, testosterone-fueled stare-down. I hear the theme song from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly playing in my head and consider whistling it to break the tension. Instead, I stand up and move between them, turning my back to Sin.
You'll Always Have Tara Page 9
