“Sure.”
A couple of minutes later, they were all seated at the table with filled glasses and a plate of crackers and cheese. Rusty lay under the table where he was ready to pounce should any food drop.
“First,” Fiona said, looking at Nora with her hands folded over top of her papers, “I think we should talk about Eve.”
Nora blinked. “Okay.”
“Sheila told me Brigid wouldn’t tell you why she warned you to stay away from Eve.”
“That’s right. It all felt very mysterious.”
“That’s a good word for it.” Fiona took a drink. “Before I begin, you need to know a little background. When we were young, I’m ashamed to admit it was a cruel kind of game for the kids to dare each other to see who could get closest to Eve’s cottage without being snared. Of course the stories of what she did to those she caught scared us to death, even if they most likely weren’t true.”
Nora glanced at Sheila. “I’ve asked this before, but how old is she?”
Fiona flipped her hands palm-up. “Who knows? She’s been in that cottage, looking exactly the same, for as long as our parents remembered.”
“That’s impossible,” Nora said.
“So are ghosts,” said Sheila with an impish grin.
“Touché.”
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Fiona said.
“Go on.” Nora raised her glass and sipped.
“Well,” Fiona said, “when we were maybe twelve or thirteen, a gaggle of us were sneaking up to Eve’s cottage to spy on her. I saw her outside, doing something with her plants, and then she just vanished. Brigid crept a bit closer to see where she’d gone and, suddenly, she had Brigid by the arm and was dragging her inside. The others all scattered and ran, but I charged into the cottage, demanding she let my little sister go.”
Nora smothered a grin, visualizing a feisty young Fiona doing just that.
“When I got in there, she had Brigid sitting at the fire and said, ‘We were waiting for you.’”
Nora leaned forward. “So what happened?”
“She said she’d had a vision about one of us, but she wasn’t sure which, as we looked so much alike.”
“What kind of vision?” Nora asked breathlessly.
“That one who came from us would have to make a fateful choice—a choice that could take her life. Or give life to another.”
Nora looked from Fiona to Sheila and back again. “What does that mean?”
“We’ve never known. Eve couldn’t or wouldn’t explain further.” Fiona gave an embarrassed laugh. “We just chalked it up to Eve’s strange behavior and tried to forget about it. But when Tommy said he’d arranged for you to rent Sióg Cottage from James McCarthy…”
She grasped Nora’s forearm. “Brigid and Tom were thrilled when you decided to come here, but then you met Eve and, well… Brigid remembered Eve’s… prophecy, we’ll call it. She’s worried about you, Nora.”
Nora sat back, speechless.
“But it might not mean Nora a’tall,” Sheila said.
“It might not,” Fiona agreed. “I’ve worried all my adult life about my children and then all of you when you were wee ones. As you’ve grown, I’d almost forgotten it completely until Nora’s coming here seemed to awaken something. Something tied to that bloody cottage.”
The back door opened, and Quinn stomped into the kitchen, Briana on his heels.
“Fiona!” he said, his weathered, freckled face splitting into a wide smile.
Fiona got up to give him a hug. “How’s my favorite grandson-in-law?”
“Well enough. You remember our friend, Briana?”
“Of course.”
Briana sniffed. “Smells wonderful in here.”
Sheila got up. “Wine or beer?”
“Beer for me,” Quinn said, toeing off his boots.
Briana followed suit, and Nora noticed she seemed to be avoiding her gaze. Nora went to the refrigerator to get two bottles of Harp’s and opened them. She handed one to Quinn.
“Here,” she said, offering the other to Briana. When Bri tried to take it, she held on for a moment, forcing Briana to meet her eyes. She smiled, just barely stopping herself from caressing Briana’s cheek to calm the near panic she saw in her face. Her heart thrummed happily as she returned to her seat.
“What’s all this?” Quinn asked, pointing his bottle at Fiona’s papers before taking a big swig.
“This,” said Fiona, “is the result of hours of online research. Tomorrow,” she eyed Nora, “you and I are going to the archives of St. Mary’s.”
“We are?”
Fiona nodded. “We are.” She spread her papers out, and Nora could see that they were photocopies of what looked like ship manifests and census records.
“Gran is into genealogy,” Sheila said.
“Mayo had such an enormous loss of inhabitants,” Fiona said. “Both the Famine and the wave of emigration that followed left us hollowed out, but provides us with a treasure trove of information on people who originated from this county.”
She slid two papers to Nora. Each had a line highlighted. Fiona pointed to one, saying, “This is a passenger manifest.”
Briana, sitting next to her, scooted nearer, pressing her thigh against Nora’s.
Nora had a hard time concentrating as she read, “Donall O’Hara.” She paused. “He Americanized the spelling.” Squinting at the faded writing, she continued, “He boarded with five children on 5th June, 1848, bound for Boston.”
Quinn reached for the page. “But no mention of Móirín.”
“No.” Fiona nudged the second page over to Nora. “The census of 1850.”
This was even more faded and difficult to read. Nora leaned close. “Clinton, Massachusetts.” She ran a finger down the page. “Here he is. Donall O’Hara, smith. Then Callum, age ten, Una age seven, Séan age five, Teafa age four.”
Nora looked up. “That’s only four children. There were five on the ship manifest. What happened?”
“Again, no mention of a wife,” said Sheila softly. “Did she die here and that’s why he left?”
Fiona shook her head. “No idea. But maybe we’ll find out more tomorrow.”
Briana shifted away, and Nora immediately missed the physical contact. Raising her beer, Briana said, “Good luck with your search.”
Nora gazed at her and raised her glass. “To finding what we need.”
“Rowan, see to the baby, will you?”
Móirín glances over to where the baby is fussing as she lies on a soft pile of blankets.
“Oh, I’ll tend to her,” says Mrs. Smythe, the head housekeeper.
She picks the baby up and takes her to a chair in the corner of the room where Móirín has a table covered with pieces of cloth, cut and ready to be sewn together for a new coat for Mr. Campbell, the butler. On the table is a jar filled with the latest bunch of flowers Rowan picked. The flowers are lovely but, dear God, corralling that girl is harder than shoeing a green horse.
“What unusual eyes for a baby,” Mrs. Smythe says, as the baby stares up at her. “Enough to make you believe she was dropped on your stoop by those fairy-folk.”
Not daring to cross herself for fear of setting off a rant about Papists, Móirín nevertheless uses her thumb to make a tiny cross on her forehead, her lips, and her heart. “Having carried her myself for nine months, I can tell you she’s mine.”
Mrs. Smythe gives the baby a finger to suckle. “How many did you say this one makes?”
Móirín, wishing very hard Mrs. Smythe had somewhere else to be, says, “She’s our sixth.”
“Six! It’s positively indecent how you Irish breed. Civilized people would never do any such thing.”
Móirín notices the frown on Rowan’s face, and nudges her under the table. When Rowan glances in her direction, Móirín gives her a little shake of the head.
She bends back to her work, neat stitches creating smooth seams, as Mrs. Smythe laments her “exile”,
as she calls it, to Ireland from the family’s other country house in Yorkshire.
“Of course, they needed someone to bring some order to Ashford, as the Irish peasants were robbing them hand over fist.”
Mrs. Smythe seems oblivious to the angry flush in Móirín’s cheeks or the way Rowan has turned her back as she works on the sleeve cuffs, sewing the way her mam taught her.
When at last the baby has drifted off to sleep, and Mrs. Smythe has left to see to some other things, Rowan looks up.
“Why does she say such things about us, Mam?”
Móirín tries to keep her tone even. “A lot of the English think the way Mrs. Smythe thinks. That we’re no more than an island of ignorant people, breeding like rabbits. They think the famine is our own fault. That’s why they won’t help.”
“But that’s wrong.”
Móirín’s voice cracks and she blinks tears back as she says, “Yes, mo chailín. It’s wrong. One day they’ll realize that.”
Nora sneezed.
“God bless you,” said Fiona.
Nora grinned and dabbed at her nose with a tissue. “Thanks.”
They had spent the early part of the morning wandering the church cemetery, searching out family graves. Nora counted herself blessed that all four of her grandparents were still alive—her mom’s folks lived in North Carolina now and she’d never known her great-grandparents—so there was no strong sense of family roots to be found in the States. Here, though, their family went back several generations, both the Cleary and McNeill sides. Some of the old limestone markers were so pitted that the names were impossible to make out. There was no real sadness on Nora’s part, as she hadn’t known any of these people, but it strengthened a feeling of connection to Cong in a way that just being here hadn’t. Her family’s roots in this area were deep.
Now, sitting in the church basement, she bent back over the ancient—and dusty—register of baptisms while Fiona returned to her perusal of digitized records. The church secretary had told them the records in the computer were incomplete, and she’d been hesitant to give them access to the original books until Fiona assured her that Nora was a university librarian. When Nora produced a pair of clean cotton gloves for handling the books, the secretary had relented.
“You’re in your element here,” Fiona observed as Nora ran a finger down the page.
“Yeah,” Nora said with a sigh. “I guess I am.”
“You sound unhappy about that.”
Nora marked her place with a gloved finger and sat back. “Not unhappy. Just… unsettled, I guess.”
Fiona gazed at her, waiting for her to choose her words. It was almost like having her grandmother here.
“Don’t say anything to Mamma and Pop yet,” Nora began, “but I’m thinking of, maybe, moving here for good.”
Fiona’s raised eyebrows were her only sign of surprise.
“I mean I love my family,” Nora said quickly. “I miss them, but I can visit with them online.”
“What about your work?” Fiona asked.
“I’d miss library work,” Nora admitted. “But Sheila has offered me work with her at the nursery. She’ll have to hire someone no matter what.”
“She told me what a tremendous help you’ve been,” Fiona said. “What with the website and learning all the rest of the nursery business.”
“It’s been so much fun,” Nora said, her face lighting up. “Learning about all the herbs and oils she uses in her soaps and salves and lotions. And everything she’s taught me about plants and trees. It’s been such a change from what I do every day. Been doing every day for years.”
Fiona smiled. “Maybe that’s the appeal. You’re doing something different, something that’s stimulating to you.”
Nora frowned, flicking the tip of one gloved finger where the cotton puckered. “You think it won’t last. Like an early mid-life crisis.”
She stopped suddenly as she heard the words leave her mouth. It’s not all that early.
“I didn’t say that.” Fiona turned back to the computer monitor. “And is there no one else to go back for?”
Nora, too, bent over her book, but she wasn’t reading. “Not really.”
“But there’s someone here?”
Nora’s head whipped up again, but Fiona was intently focused on the monitor. “I don’t know.” Her shoulders sagged. “Am I that transparent?”
“Not transparent so much as… open,” Fiona said gently. “Like that book in front of you. There for anyone with the eyes to see.”
“But it doesn’t feel wise to make such a huge change based on something that might not work out.”
“Would that be your main reason for moving here?”
“No.” Nora bit her lip. “Would you think I’m crazy if I told you I’ve always had this feeling, like I was being drawn here?”
Fiona faced her again. “No, dear. I don’t think that’s crazy a’tall.”
Nora bent over her book again, and Fiona returned to her computer screen. They worked in silence for several minutes, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall.
“How do you know when it’s real?” Nora asked softly.
“When it’s real, you won’t have to ask.”
Nora bit her lip again, trying to stem tears that suddenly stung her eyes, but then she froze, the other conversation forgotten. Bending over the brittle page before her, she gasped.
“What?” Fiona wheeled her chair over to read the line Nora indicated. “Sweet Jesus.”
“I think,” Nora murmured, “we need to speak to my grandmother.”
Chapter 11
Yeats grunted in pleasure as Briana laid into the brush, running it in long strokes along his spine. Standing on a stool, she followed with her hands, massaging and kneading. His near rear hoof kicked a little.
“Found the sore spot, did I?”
The gelding had carried a heavy Swiss tourist who Liam reported had spent most of the ride twisted in the saddle, talking to the woman behind him, leaving poor Yeats to counterbalance the git’s weight.
“Good thing I wasn’t there,” she grunted along with Yeats as she worked. “Or he’d have walked back. Then Quinn would fire me, and no one would be working on you.”
Sweat beaded on her forehead and ran down her back. By the time she was finished, she felt she needed a massage her own self.
“How’s he, then?”
She stepped down off the stool and turned to Jimmie. “He’ll be fine, but no heavy loads for a day or two.”
He nodded, making a note on his clipboard. “We’ve a group of five women tomorrow morning. Think he’ll be okay with them?”
“Yeah.” She gave Yeats a pat, and he nickered his thanks.
Reaching for the stool and her brush, she carried them out of the stall. “Where’s Quinn?”
Jimmie didn’t glance up. “Horse auction in Sligo.”
“Well, don’t schedule anything for me on Thursday. I’m taking the day off.”
She felt his eyes boring into her back. He followed her into the tack room.
“A day off?”
“Yes, Jimmie. People are allowed to take a day off now and again.”
“So you’re ‘people’ now, are you? What’s the occasion?”
She kept her back to him as she straightened things unnecessarily. “No occasion. Just have some things to do.”
“Okay, squint. You’ll have your day off. For things.”
She heard him chuckling as he walked away. “Git.”
But she supposed she couldn’t blame him. She almost never took a day off, so taking one for any reason other than to go to Dublin to see her family would naturally raise his curiosity.
Now that part was taken care of, she needed to see if her plans for her day off would come together. Maybe she should have seen to that part first… She hurried to her cottage to shower.
A few minutes later, smelling much better and wearing clean jeans and a T-shirt, Briana whistled for Shannon and got
into the SUV.
A light rain misted the windshield as she drove. Her heart fell when she found Sióg Cottage dark, the door shut, no sign of Nora’s bicycle. She drummed her fingers on the wheel for a moment.
“I wonder.”
She drove on to the nursery. The shop was shut up for the day, but she parked and followed Shannon around back to the kitchen door. The kitchen was empty, but the lights were on. She let herself in, scuffing her shoes on the mat.
“Sheila?”
There was no answer, but she heard voices coming from the den. Following the sound, she found Nora, Sheila, and Fiona all gathered around the computer where a familiar face peered out at them.
Sheila turned and waved Briana in as Nora was saying, “But you never spoke to her again after that?”
“No,” said the woman in the monitor. “I steered clear of her, and I wish you would, too, Nora.”
“I can’t,” Nora said.
“We’ll keep an eye on her, Brigid,” Fiona said. “But you see what you can find out on your end, will you?”
“I will. Take care, all of you.”
“I love you, Mamma,” Nora said. “Love to Pop. I’m sorry I missed him.”
She ended the video call and sat back.
“What in the world is going on?” Briana asked.
Nora whipped around. “Hi.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“Not a’tall,” Sheila said.
They all went back into the kitchen. Briana was very aware of the way Nora’s face had lit up. Shannon plopped on the kitchen floor to get on Rusty’s level.
“What’s all this?” Briana asked, taking in the papers scattered on the table. She sniffed. “What’s baking?”
“Our research,” Nora said, taking a chair and nudging the one beside her for Briana. “The papers, not the baking part.”
“That’d be the soda bread,” said Sheila. “To go with the Guinness stew in the pot. You’ll stay and have supper with us.”
“Gladly.” Briana sat. “What did you find?”
“Some very interesting things,” Fiona said.
“Tea?” Sheila asked. “The kettle’s still hot.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Briana craned her head to read one of the pages. “What are these?”
A Bittersweet Garden Page 15
