Patricia Falvey (51 page)

“Saoirse Elizabeth Sheridan,” I said aloud to the baby. “What do you think of that now? Isn’t it a grand-sounding name?”

She gurgled in response and looked up at me with wide eyes.

Owen brought in the newspapers. They were filled with the story of the fire at Queensbrook. Photos of the fire brigade dousing the building were splashed across the front pages. The papers called it a foiled IRA plot. There was mention of James’s arrest. Miraculously, no one had been killed in the fire. But most startling was the headline that blazed across all the front pages in big block letters:

WOMAN CREDITED WITH SAVING MILL. EILEEN CONLON LAUDED AS HEROINE.

“Jesus!” I exclaimed to Owen. “Where did they get that story at all?”

Owen smiled. “But it’s true. Joe Shields gave a statement to the reporters and the police. He says if it wasn’t for you, they would all have died and the mill would have been completely destroyed.” He paused and looked around the room. “Where do you think all these flowers have come from? They’re from people grateful to you that they still have a job to go to.”

Owen had told me that while the mill was badly damaged, the damage had not been structural. It would be closed for a while, but the Sheridans had every intention of opening it up again. In the meantime, the workers would be paid a small stipend to tide them over.

“But the fire brigade would have come eventually,” I protested. “And besides, if I was really a hero, I would have come to you with the information sooner.”

I had told Owen that I had known about the fire for almost a week.

“It was not an easy decision for you, Eileen. But you made the right one in the end. You are a hero to me as well as to many of the townspeople.”

I shrugged. “I’m sure there’s them will say I turned against my own husband.”

Owen nodded. “There will always be those who will find some fault.”

“I wasn’t looking for any glory,” I said earnestly. “I just wanted to do what was right.”

“I know.”

Owen had explained that he’d left the dinner party early to check on the men at the mill. He’d had a strange feeling, he said, that something was wrong.

I hesitated for a moment, then asked him the question that had been haunting me since the night of the fire. “Why did you stop me from shooting James?”

Owen took my hand and kissed it, then looked straight at me. “You know why. You would never have forgiven yourself if you had killed Aoife’s father, no matter what the reason.”

“I was aiming for his arm,” I said, “the one that held the torch.”

“Even so, what if you had missed and caught his heart?”

I smiled. “You weren’t to know what a great hand I am with a rifle. I wouldn’t have missed,” I said lightly. But he was right. In my condition that night, I could easily have missed my aim.

“He’ll be dead either way now,” I said, thinking of the execution that awaited James.

Owen nodded. “At least he’ll get a soldier’s death. He would have wanted that.”

Owen had made no mention of that awful night when he had walked out of my house and not come back. It was understood between us now that I had finally been forced to choose, and I had chosen him.

I reached over and took his hand. “You are a rare brave man. You showed it the night of the fire. You risked your life to save those men. And James, too. Thank you.”

Just then Saoirse woke up and started bawling with the hunger.

I HAD NO
shortage of visitors. Mrs. Mullen came with Paddy, who looked down at the child and smiled. P.J., Terrence, and the lads from the band arrived and pronounced Saoirse beautiful. Fergus was with them, but we said little to each other—the looks that passed between us said it all. Father Dornan from Newry Cathedral came in while they were there and brought out his flask of whiskey. They all drank a toast and then another one. They kicked up such a commotion, singing and carrying on, that the nursing sister had to come and throw them out, priest and all. Oul’ Mrs. Conlon came, just to sniff around and tell me how hard she was praying for my soul and for the child conceived in sin. Joe Shields came, all dressed up in a black suit two sizes too small for him and carrying a bunch of flowers. He was so comical looking, I almost laughed.

“Jesus, you look like an altar boy, Joe,” I teased.

“Aye,” he said gruffly. “The wife made me put on the monkey suit.” He dropped the flowers as if they were contagious. “I came to thank you, Eileen.”

“Och, sure I’ve had enough thanks to do me the rest of my life,” I said. “You’ve no need to say more.”

Nobody from Owen’s side came. It did not surprise me. I was sure Owen had told them, but I did not press him on it. I knew it hurt him. Forgiveness from that side, it seemed, would be a long time in coming.

I thought of Ma. I wished she were here with me—and Da and Lizzie, too. And Frank, poor Frank. His burns had healed as well as they could, so Sister Rafferty said, but he was still in the coma. How long he would stay in it no one knew.

What did surprise me was that there was no sign of Theresa. I would have thought she would be the first one in, not just to see me and Saoirse, but to get all the gossip she could. When she came in on the third day, holding Aoife by the hand, I realized why she had stayed away. It was time for her to give Aoife back.

I had not seen Aoife since the night James took her away. My heart swelled at the sight of her and I reached out my arms, but she did not move. Instead, she stared at the child in the bassinet.

“That’s your wee sister, Aoife,” I said softly. “Isn’t she lovely?”

Aoife’s face curled up in the pout I remembered so well. She looked directly at me, accusation in her eyes. Theresa edged the child forward.

“Och, she’s your sister, love,” she coaxed. “Give her a kiss, now.”

Aoife shook her head. She tugged on Theresa’s hand. “No,” she said.

Theresa looked at me. “I suppose you’ll be wanting her back now,” she whispered.

A spike of anger shot through me. Of course I wanted the child back. I looked over at Aoife. She stared back at me, fierceness in her small face.

“I love you, Aoife,” I said, ignoring Theresa’s question. “I love you just as much as that baby there. I want us all to be together now.”

I put out my hands toward her again, but the child balled her fists and gave me the defiant look I was so used to.

“Mary Margaret!” she declared. “Not Aoife.”

A sudden, desperate fear that I had lost her drove my anger to the surface. I glared at Theresa.

“How dare you?” I cried. “How dare you steal my child?”

I knew it was unfair—it was James who had stolen Aoife—but I didn’t care. Memories of Aoife’s christening day came flooding back. I saw old Mrs. Conlon’s triumphant face as she told me the child was to be called Mary Margaret. James’s family had wanted to steal her from the beginning. Had they succeeded? Had I already lost her?

“Give her back to me, Theresa,” I cried. “She’s mine.”

Sobs burst out of me. The noise frightened Aoife, but I couldn’t stop them. She whimpered and hid her face against Theresa’s coat.

Theresa came over and put her arms around me and rocked me like a child. “Sure I know she’s yours, Eileen,” she whispered. “It’s just… well, Tommy and I have become so attached to her, and…” Her voice trailed off.

I was suddenly filled with pity. Poor Theresa, desperate for a child, had smothered Aoife with love. Inwardly, I cursed James for putting all of us through this.

“I’m sorry, Theresa,” I said. And then I added, “Aoife can stay with you and Tommy until I’m home from hospital and settled in. But after that…”

“It’s all right, Eileen,” Theresa whispered, “I knew all along I could never keep her.”

When they had gone, I got up and lifted Saoirse out of her bassinet and cradled her in my arms. I nestled my face in the warm fuzz of her head. She let out contented little sounds. “I’ll be the best mother I know how to be,” I whispered. “God help me I will.”

I HAD BEEN
home only a day when a car pulled up outside the house. I sighed. Owen had just left, Theresa was not due back with Aoife until the next day, and I really didn’t want to see anyone else right now. I had just put Saoirse down in her crib and was enjoying a quiet cup of tea, lost in my own thoughts. I got up and went over to the window and drew back the curtain. A black taxi idled in the road. A slightly built young woman with blond hair got out and seemed to say something to the driver, who turned off the motor. She turned and looked up at the house. I dropped the curtain and hoped she had not seen me peering out like some nosy oul’ bitch who couldn’t mind her own business. By the looks of her finery, I supposed she was a visitor from England looking for her poor, unfortunate relatives. Well, good luck to her. She probably wouldn’t be staying too long once she found them.

A gentle knock on the front door startled me. I strained to listen. The knock was so quiet, I wondered if I had heard right. Then it came again, a bit louder this time. What would she be wanting with me? I hardly knew my neighbors, so it was unlikely I would be able to help her. Annoyed, I got up and opened the door.

“Yes?” I said sharply.

She stepped back from the doorstep. “I am sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but I was looking for a Mrs. Eileen Conlon.”

Her voice was soft and well-bred. Not English, I decided. There was an Irish accent there all right, and something else as well.

“I’m Mrs. Conlon,” I said warily. “Who’s asking for her?”

She smiled, a lovely wide smile that showed dimples in her pale cheeks. She put out both her hands to clasp mine. “Oh, wonderful,” she said, “I’ve found you.” She looked genuinely happy to have found me. I waited.

“I was hoping to find you before I left. You see, I’m leaving tomorrow. I was here two weeks ago and no one was home. Then I had to go to Belfast. I thought I would give it one more try and stop here before going home. And here you are…” She was breathless with the words running out of her like a river.

“But who are you?” I said.

“I’m your sister, Lizzie,” she cried.

I could get no words out. I stood frozen in place on the doorstep.

She raised a gloved hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I realize you were not expecting me, I just took the chance that you’d be here, and—”

I found my voice then, and I opened my arms wide.

“Lizzie!” I cried. “Oh, my lovely Lizzie!”

WE SENT THE
taxi away and talked through the night, stopping only when the first rays of dawn spiked through the windows. We drank tea and took turns holding Saoirse as we talked. I began at the beginning and traced the whole story for Lizzie, starting with the Yellow House. She smiled as I spoke, remembering dreams, she said, that all made sense now: a house with a garden, children laughing, a dark-haired woman calling her name. She flinched at the account of Ma going away into herself after she lost Lizzie. Tears filled her eyes. “Poor woman,” she whispered. Of course I knew she would never think of Ma as her mother—she would be a stranger always. I told her about how Da was shot the night they burned the Yellow House, and how Paddy and I ran to Newry in the middle of the night. I told her about our grandfather and how poor Frank lost himself. I told her about the mill and James and his passion for the Cause of Irish freedom. I cried when I told her about Aoife and how James had taken her away. I told her that Owen was Saoirse’s father—and how torn I had been between James and him.