“I’m surprised the townsfolk allow you to walk among them,” Janet Davies called out as she approached Mary.
Mary sighed and closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, any peace in her silent musings destroyed by the arrival of Aileen’s contemptuous aunt. Mary turned to meet the challenging stare of a woman who did not understand the meaning of the words family or loyalty or shame. “’Twould think it would be you who would cower in fear, not me,” Mary replied with a wry smile.
Janet huffed out a breath, her bosom straining the silver buttons of her evergreen-colored wool coat. “I have never done a thing in my life to warrant such censure.”
“No, … other than attempting to force your beloved niece into a loveless marriage. Oh, an’ stealin’ the money sent home for her from her father for almost two decades. An’ lyin’ about never havin’ heard from her father. An’ spinnin’ malicious lies to Aileen about her lack of beauty an’ intelligence. An’ blaming a helpless child for your loveless spinster life.” Mary raised an eyebrow as she watched her adversary in an assessing manner as she ticked off Janet Davies’s offenses. “Should I continue?”
Janet stroked a hand down the fine wool of her coat, which, by all appearances, looked new. “I’ve never harbored a brothel owner in my house.”
Mary beamed at her. “’Twould be an edifyin’ experience for you.” She laughed at Janet’s horrified expression. “She’s a remarkable woman who exemplifies every characteristic you lack.”
Scoffing and rolling her eyes, Janet rested a hand on her hip. “I’m certain she does. If knowing how to entice a worthless man to my bed is the skill I need to master, I will forever be a novice.”
Watching Janet with a sly expression, Mary smiled. “But he wasn’t worthless, was he? An’ your sister won him, much to your chagrin.” When Janet’s face puckered up, as though she’d just sucked on a lime, Mary nodded. “You would have done well to learn a little from both your sister and a woman like Nora.” After a long pause, Mary said in a soft voice, “What separates Nora from a woman like you, Janet, is that Nora understands loyalty. To family. To friends.” Any levity had faded as Mary stared at the woman who had attempted to ruin Kevin’s happiness. “Nora understands what is sacred and will never threaten those bonds.”
Janet sneered at her. “Little is sacred in this life. That’s something you and your family have yet to learn.”
Mary shared a long look with Janet. “So you may believe right now, especially as you have aligned yourself with a man such as Mr. Chaffee.” She paused. “Do you assume we’ll forget your association with such a man because of your relation to Aileen?” Mary shook her head. “We’ll never forget what you’ve encouraged him to do.”
Flushing beet red, Janet fisted her hands at her sides as she leaned toward Mary. “You don’t know what it is to survive solely by your wits. You’ve always had everything handed to you.” She smiled as Mary stared at her with astonishment. “And he did nothing except uphold his duty to the law.”
Raising her brows, Mary asked, “Omitting essential aspects of Connor’s wishes was how he was taught to fulfill his obligation to his profession?” She shook her head. “An’ you’re a fool to believe a man like Uriah will ever support you as your family could have. You’ve sacrificed loyalty for the false promises of a man who will only ever show dedication to himself. After all, he remained here this winter because he had to flee Virginia City or suffer for his sins. ’Tis our misfortune he missed the last boat south. He’s a man who will only ever be faithful to himself, and God help the woman who doesn’t understand that about him.” Mary leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Something I have far too much knowledge of.” She straightened and ran a hand over her practical navy wool skirt. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected at the café.”
Without a backward glance, she turned toward the café, leaving Janet Davies sputtering in indignation.
Niamh stumbled from her bed to Maura’s, after awaking with a start from her nap. She fell into a chair by her daughter’s bedside, her hands instinctively reaching forward to run over her daughter. Sighing with frustration, she felt the heat emanating from her daughter’s forehead, signaling her fever had yet to break. “Maura, oh, my little love,” she whispered, as a tear tracked down her cheek. “Please fight.”
Niamh stiffened and then relaxed as her sister, Maggie, wrapped an arm around her and leaned against her side. Although Maggie had been sitting in the other bedside chair, Niamh had ignored her. “She still has the fever, but it’s not as high, and her breathing has calmed. She will recover.”
“How can you say that? You’re not a healer,” Niamh snapped and then flushed, her cheeks as rosy as her ailing daughter’s. “I’m sorry.”
Maggie shrugged. “I might not have been trained, but I’ve had to learn a lot while living out in the wilds with my family. And I enjoy it. Besides, Madam Nora has many interesting books, and it’s been a pleasure reading some of them these past few days.” She pulled her sister close, ignoring Niamh’s prickliness. “Come. You know you can lean on me. On Mum. You have to learn that you aren’t alone in your struggles.”
Niamh tugged a cloth from her pocket to swipe at her nose, although she did relax into her sister’s embrace. “I have been, for so long.”
Maggie made a soothing noise and kissed Niamh on her head, acting like the elder sister. “Your husband was a scoundrel, but it doesn’t mean it was your fault, Niamh. I don’t understand why you hold yourself apart from us or why you’d push Cormac away. He’s a good man.”
Niamh made a derisive noise. “You do the same thing with any man who shows you interest.”
Easing away from Niamh, Maggie flushed and then studied Niamh. “Then we both have memories we must banish.” With an impish smile, Maggie said, “Besides, I’m young yet. I don’t want to marry when I’ve just turned eighteen.”
The rosy flush faded as Niamh gaped at her sister. “Your birthday! Your first birthday with us, and we didn’t celebrate. Because of me.”
Maggie lifted a shoulder. “I’ll hopefully have another here. And it didn’t seem right to have a party while the threat of the Madam taking Maura away loomed. And then Cormac departed, and now Maura’s sick.” Maggie ran a hand over the blankets covering her niece, her astute gaze taking in Maura’s calm breathing as she slept. “Although, if you wanted to bake me a cake when Maura’s feeling better, I’d never complain.”
“Oh, if you aren’t an O’Rourke!” Niamh said with a giggle. She immediately covered her mouth, her eyes wide and filled with embarrassment, as she glanced at her daughter sleeping peacefully. “I shouldn’t …” She shook her head.
“What, Niamh?” Maggie whispered. “Feel joy? Laugh? Smile?” She paused as Niamh ducked her head. “Are those a few of the things he tried to beat out of you?” When Niamh’s head jerked up, her gaze filled with astonishment and humiliation, Maggie nodded. “There is never any shame in overcoming cruelty, Niamh. And never shame in finding happiness again.”
Maggie moved to stand, but Niamh clasped her arm. “How are you this wise?”
“I speak with Mum. She reassures me.”
“Mum,” Niamh gasped, the word laced with longing and pain. “I’m the reason she left.” At Maggie’s confused look, Niamh motioned to Maura. “I was sick, like Maura. But I had typhus. And I was so much work.” Niamh ducked her head. “She was pregnant with you and already tired. I can’t imagine she relished caring for me, when all she wanted was to rest and to prepare for you.”
Maggie sat in perplexed silence for a few moments, as she watched her niece. “You believe Mum left Da, our brothers, and you because she didn’t want the burden of caring for a sick child?”
Niamh nodded. “We were told she died soon afterward. I always knew I had been the one to kill her. And then, when she came back, I knew I was the reason she hadn’t wanted to be with us.”
Maggie sighed and shook her head. “You never would win a logic contest, sister.” When
Niamh bit her lip at an unexpected burst of laughter, Maggie smiled. “You’ve heard the story. You know why Mum and Da were separated. A nun put Mum and me in a small shack to keep us safe from the typhus, while another told Da that we’d died and had already been buried. It was all a horrible misunderstanding, and it had nothing to do with you.” Maggie emphasized the last sentence.
When Niamh looked unconvinced, Maggie said, “If what you say is true, then Mum should have found a way to abandon me when I had measles. I wouldn’t have been worth the work or the worry. But she didn’t. She cared for me and loved me through it. As she did you, Niamh. That’s who Mum is.”
Niamh stared at her with dawning wonder. “You were ill, Maggie?”
“Of course I was. No child is never ill, Niamh. Not in our world.” She rose, squeezing her sister’s shoulder. “Let go of your mistaken guilt, Niamh. It isn’t fair to you or to Mum.”
That evening, while her da watched over a resting Maura, Niamh slipped into the kitchen. She paused as she heard her mother singing in her sweet, pure voice. It was an old song, a song Mary had sung frequently when Niamh was a child. Memories washed over her—of her rushing forward, hugging her mother and receiving a kiss on her head, as her mother enfolded her in a warm embrace. Of being held close when she needed a few moments of reassurance. Of feeling cherished and adored. Always her mum expressed her joy at Niamh’s presence. Her mum never hid her pride in her smart, beautiful daughter. Never was Niamh made to feel a burden by her mother.
Tears coursed down her cheeks as she stared at her mum. “You always wanted us. Wanted me,” she whispered.
Somehow Mary heard her and spun to stare at her, her hazel eyes gleaming with a mixture of hope and fear. “Always.” She lifted her arms, as though to welcome Niamh close, as she had so many times before when Niamh was a wee girl. Yet, when Niamh remained across the room from her mum, Mary’s arms dropped to her sides, her gaze showing her disappointment.
Niamh’s breath came fast and shallow, and she fell to her knees, as a low keening wail emerged. She covered her face with her palms, stifling any outward signs of emotion, but she continued to rock to and fro as she knelt on the floor.
“Niamh, love, is it Maura?” When Niamh shook her head, Mary knelt in front of her, her gentle hands caressing Niamh’s shoulders and head. “You are safe and loved here, my beloved daughter.”
“Why did you have to go away?” Niamh stammered out, as she clutched at her belly, her head on her knees as her shoulders shook. “I nee-eeded you so much.”
Wrapping her daughter in her arms, Mary rocked her in place. “As I needed you, my beautiful daughter. I dreamed of you every night. Prayed you would grow to be the kind, wonderful woman you are.”
Niamh shuddered and pushed out of her mother’s arms, meeting her mum’s kind, loving gaze. “But I’m not good. I’m not considerate.” She dropped her gaze, so she wouldn’t have to admit her worst faults to her mother. “I’m mean and jealous and spiteful.”
Mary urged Niamh to sit up, and she gripped her daughter’s shoulders. She stared deeply into eyes that matched hers in color, beauty, and depth of emotion. “Never have you been those things, nor will you be.” She paused as she saw doubt in Niamh’s gaze. “I can only imagine what you suffered with Connor, but his truths are not yours, Niamh.”
Niamh bit her lip before whispering, “But I wished him dead. And then he died. It’s my fault he died.”
With a smile filled with tenderness and love, Mary shook her head. “You didn’t cause him to act as he did. You didn’t cause him to threaten another’s safety.” Mary paused, taking a deep breath. “Do you believe I am a good woman, worthy of your father’s esteem? Of his devotion and love?”
Niamh stared with wide-eyed wonder at her mother. “Yes,” she breathed. “You never faltered. Never, in your love for us or for Da.” She closed her eyes. “I was bitter and jealous when you returned.” She ducked her head. “I’m sorry.”
“No, Niamh, love, that’s not my point.” She waited for Niamh to meet her gaze again. “I prayed, every night, for my second husband to die. For him to leave me and my children in peace.” She smiled with tender understanding as Niamh watched her with astonishment. “Does that make me a horrible woman? Does that make me a woman undeserving of love, friendship, or esteem?”
“No,” Niamh whispered. “But you don’t understand, Mum. I … I did something awful.”
Mary cupped her daughter’s cheek and watched her with gentle loyalty. “Loving another while married to a man who never inspired devotion does not make you horrible. ’Tis not awful. For I continued to love Seamus and all my beautiful children while married to Francois.” She nodded, as Niamh’s eyes widened with shock at her mother’s blunt words. “’Tis a pity you chose the wrong brother.”
Niamh lurched forward, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder as she sobbed. “I missed you, Mum. I missed you so much. I wish I’d had your wise counsel. Things might have been so different.”
“Shh, my darling girl. God willing, you will have a second chance with the man of your heart.” She paused as Niamh blubbered into her shoulder. She whispered, “What matters is we are reunited. And we’ll never be separated again.” She kissed her daughter’s head, holding her close and rocking her, as Niamh sought solace from her mum as she had when she was a girl.
Mary sat on her bed, her gaze distant, as silent tears coursed down her cheeks. Although the room was cool, she sat in only her flannel nightgown, her graying auburn hair unbound and flowing down her back. She envisioned Niamh in her cradle, her downy soft hair aglow in the gentle fire’s light, as she kicked her feet up and gurgled at her. Niamh as she stumbled and chased after her older brothers, determined not to be left behind. Kissing her palm as Niamh cried after scraping it open when falling from a rock wall.
The door opened to the small bedroom she shared with Seamus, but she remained lost to her memories. When Seamus’s arms wrapped around her, she relaxed at the feel of his gentle touch and his distinctive smell.
“A ghrá,” he whispered. “Are you well, my love?”
“Oh, Shay,” she whispered, as she pressed her face into his neck. “Niamh wanted my comfort this evening. ’Tis the first time since Montreal that I’ve been able to console her.”
He made a soothing sound and continued to hold her.
“Do you know what it’s like to finally hold my wee Niamh in my arms? To know she wanted me to soothe her?” Mary wrapped her arms around her husband as a sob burst forth. “’Tis as though she finally trusts me.”
“For some of our children, ’twill take them longer to understand you aren’t leaving again. That you will always be here when they need you.”
She backed away and stared at him with confusion. “I know I wasn’t here, Shay. I know I have no right to doubt or to question what occurred during my absence.” She dropped her gaze but then firmed her shoulders and stared at him with a hint of disappointment. “How could you have given your blessing for her to marry such a man?”
“Mary,” Seamus murmured, a hint of reproach in his voice. “You don’t know what it was like.”
“Help me to understand,” she pleaded. “I need to know why Niamh had to suffer so. Why she continues to suffer now.” She swiped at her cheeks. “’Tis unfair.”
“Aye, ’tis.” He paused, closing his eyes. “None of us acknowledged how much we suffered at the loss of you. We acted as though we had recovered from losing the one person who made our house a home. Who made us a family.” His jaw tensed. “Colleen had died, and the younger lads needed comfort as they mourned their mum. I … I didn’t focus on Niamh as I should have. I didn’t realize her loss of a mother was different than the loss the boys had suffered.”
“Seamus,” Mary whispered.
“She needed your wise counsel as she turned from girl to woman. She needed your advice and humor as she first noticed boys.” He half smiled. “She didn’t need overbearing brothers and an overprotective fath
er, who wanted her to stay as far away as possible from any lad who might pay her attention. Who might call on her and attempt to turn her head with pretty, but meaningless words.” His eyes glowed with torment. “I never allowed her to go walking with a lad. For how could any man be good enough for mo leanbhán, my baby.”
“Oh, a chuisle, you can’t blame yourself. You did all you could do for her and the boys.” She rubbed her nose over his neck and sighed. “We have to accept she made a horrible decision in marrying Connor.”
His hold on her tightened, as he pulled her even closer. “Aye, an’ pray she has the sense to pick a better man the next time she marries.”
Mary breathed into his ear. “’Tisn’t a matter of picking the man. ’Tis a matter of her believing she deserves him.”
“Feck,” Seamus muttered before apologizing. “Why did I think ’twould be easier to be their father as they grew? I thought the problems facin’ them would diminish.”
Mary laughed softly. “No, my love.” She kissed his neck. “My heartbeat,” she murmured, in English this time, rather than in Irish, the term he had taught her that he loved to hear. “No, their problems are much more complicated as they grow and are not as easily solved with a hug and a kiss.”
“Ah, that’s where you are wrong. For I know you eased an ache in Niamh’s heart that she’s carried for eighteen years tonight with your love.” He kissed her below her ear. “With your kiss.” His arms tightened again around her. “With your hug.” He sighed with contentment to hold her close. “For, if there’s one thing I know, a ghrá mo chroí, everything is better with your love.” He felt her shiver at calling her the love of his heart in Irish.
Pioneer Yearning: The O’Rourke Family Montana Saga, Book Three Page 9
