Patricia Falvey (54 page)

“We’ve seen a lot of life since the last time we were here,” I whispered.

He must have been thinking the same thing. “Yes. I was off to find my life’s meaning, and you were still a young girl with a passionate dream.”

“And you still haven’t found your meaning, and my dream’s in tatters.” I shrugged.

“Maybe I’ve not yet found my meaning,” he said thoughtfully, “but at least I know it does not lie in war.” He smiled then. “However, you, young lady, you can still have your dream. You can move to the Yellow House. I have told you before I will give it to you.”

“And I’ve told you I won’t take it. If I ever want it—which I don’t—I will get it under my own steam.”

“Stubborn, independent girl.” He smiled. “But then, you always were.”

“Do you remember when we first met?”

He nodded and smiled. “How could I forget? Nobody had ever had the cheek to talk back to me like that.”

My cheeks reddened. “Aye, I had an awful tongue in my head back then.”

“Still do.” He grinned.

His eyes clouded—a look I had come to know well. “Why did you never write to me, Eileen? If you had, I might not have married Joanna. Things might have been a lot different.”

I shrugged. “Och, Owen. I was just a young girl, and believe it or not, I was shy. I couldn’t imagine going to Queensbrook House with letters addressed to you.” I laughed then. “You should have seen the cut of Joe Shields when he handed me your letter, though!”

Owen laughed back. “I can only imagine.”

“I still have the letter,” I whispered.

We were silent for a moment, lost in our own thoughts.

“I was hurt when you took up with James,” he went on, serious again. “I know I had no right to be, but deep down it hurt. And then after you and I… after we made love, the thought that you had slept with James again nearly drove me to distraction. I never knew I was capable of such jealousy.”

I wanted to stop the direction of the conversation. What good was to be had from it all now?

“And what about your life’s meaning?” I said. “I think maybe it’s been staring you in the face all along.”

He looked at me, confused.

“Sister Rafferty told me all the wonderful things you do for the children at the workhouse. And the Sheridan mill is the only mill around here that has not sacked all the Catholics, and I know you had a hand in that. I think all the meaning you need is right here.”

Then a thought occurred to me. “Unless they’ve disinherited you, on account of me?” I cried.

He smiled. “On the contrary, they are urging me more than ever to take over the mill.” He let out a small laugh and shrugged. “But if they had disinherited me, I might have made a fine gentleman farmer.” He looked up at me and grinned. “All water under the bridge,” he said briskly. “Now, about your birthday…” He reached into his pocket and took out a small velvet box tied up in a ribbon. I stared at it.

“Go on, open it.”

Before I could do so, Mrs. Morocco came over to our table. She beamed down at Owen.

“Oh, Mr. Sheridan,” she said, “my husband told me you were here. I had to come out and see you—and thank you.”

I looked from her to Owen. He waved his hand. “No need, Mrs. Morocco.”

She grabbed his hand in hers. “Oh, yes, Mr. Sheridan. Without your help we would have lost the shop—and after my husband had worked so hard…”

Tears lit the corner of her eyes. Owen took his hand away from her. “You both worked hard,” he said softly. “I only did what anyone would have done.”

She nodded and wiped her tears with her apron. “More tea?” she said.

We both shook our heads no, and she moved away. I looked at Owen, waiting for an explanation. He shrugged. “I worked out a small loan for them. Their business dropped off during the war years. I just helped them get back on their feet. Now, open your present.”

I pulled the box toward me and untied it slowly, my large fingers awkward on the delicate ribbon. I removed the lid. There on a bed of satin lay a lovely ring with an emerald stone. I dropped it as if it were on fire.

“Emerald,” said Owen, “to match your eyes. Of course, if you don’t like it…”

“Like it?” I cried. “What woman wouldn’t like it? But I can’t take it.”

Owen’s eyes widened. “For heaven’s sake, why not?”

“Because I’m not ready to marry you,” I burst out. “Not you or anybody else. It’s too soon. Don’t you see? I’ve only just buried a husband. For the first time in years I have my freedom. Och, Owen, I must be mad in the head to be refusing you now, but I need time. There are too many pieces of unfinished business in my life now, Frankie, Lizzie, Paddy, where I will live—all of it.”

I realized he was laughing. He threw back his head and laughed louder than I had ever heard him do before. “Oh, Eileen,” he said finally, “my darling Eileen. Do you not think I know you well enough not to spring something like that on you? I don’t know what Miss Theresa told you, but this ring is to celebrate your birthday and the birth of our darling Saoirse!”

I stared at him, my mouth open. “You mean you don’t want to marry me?”

He leaned forward and took my hands in his. “Of course I do, my love. I would run away with you this minute if you would let me. But I realize you need some time. I cannot say that I am in no hurry, but I want the decision to be yours. I want you to come to me openly and willingly and without any doubts. That is the only way I will marry you!”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Where did I ever find a man who knew me to the core as this man did? Where did I ever find a man as understanding and unselfish as this man was? Och, Da, did you send him to me after all?

Owen took my right hand in his and slipped the ring on my finger. It fit perfectly. I had a feeling Theresa had helped him with the size. I looked down at it and smiled through the tears that clouded my eyes.

“It’s beautiful, Owen,” I whispered.

When we arrived home, Theresa made a big show of taking the girls out for a long walk. If she noticed the ring on my right hand instead of my left, she said nothing—I would be in for the inquisition later. I smiled and closed the door behind her. Owen and I made love sweetly and passionately. Afterward, he told me he would be going back to England shortly. His father would not last much longer, he said, and wanted Owen’s decision as to whether he would take over the mill. If he said yes, he would need to spend time learning at similar mills in England. He did not know how long he would be gone, he said, but probably into the next year.

“Long enough,” Owen said, “for you to make your decision as well, Eileen.”

WORD CAME FROM
Sister Rafferty that Frankie had woken up from his coma. Terrence came for me, and together we rode to the hospital. I left Saoirse and Aoife with one of the young nurses and rushed to where Frank lay. I trembled as I looked down at him. His eyes were closed. I sat down and clutched his hand. Sister Rafferty came over.

“He goes in and out of it, love, but it’s a good sign. He’ll be back with us for good soon.”

I nodded and looked up at Terrence. It was hard to read his expression. What would happen when Frank came to and saw him? Would he spit at him again the way he had done the night Terrence had prayed over him? I sensed Terrence’s anxiety, and he sensed mine.

“It’s all right, Eileen,” he whispered. “I just want him well.”

We sat waiting. Terrence murmured quiet prayers. I said a few of my own. I had not prayed in a donkey’s age. God had not been kind to me. But now I wanted so much for Frank to be back with me, I actually slid off my chair and got down on my knees beside his bed.

“Sweet Jesus,” I murmured, “please help Frank. I know he sinned. I know he turned against you, the way I did myself. But it wasn’t his fault, Jesus.” I looked up, defiant. “If I can forgive him, why can’t you?”

As if he heard me, Frank opened his eyes.

“Frankie,” I screeched. “Frankie!”

Frank examined my face. He looked puzzled. Could it be that he didn’t remember me? Oh, Jesus, no. “It’s me, Frankie,” I cried, “Eileen.”

Frank stared at me and then at Terrence. His brown eyes were bright, as if he had a fever. I held my breath and waited. Terrence said nothing.

“I’m your sister, Frankie,” I said. “Eileen. Don’t you remember me?” Tears of frustration pricked at my eyes. “Please, darlin’,” I said.

Then a grin spread across Frankie’s face. It was a cheeky, smug grin. It was the same grin he’d flashed when we were children and he had just won a game against me.

“Eileen,” he muttered.

My heart leaped. “Aye, Frankie, Eileen.”

He noticed Terrence then, and his eyes blazed. “Music,” he cried, “Music Man.”

Terrence nodded. “Aye, Frank,” he whispered, “Music Man.”

“Play a tune,” said Frankie. “Lizzie wants to dance.”

A weight as heavy as Slieve Gullion herself settled in my belly. I could hardly breathe. I looked at Terrence, but he looked away.

“Play!” shouted Frankie, his voice demanding.

I tried again. I stroked his hand. “Do you not remember what happened, love?” I whispered. “Do you not remember the fire? Grandda Fitzwilliam?”

He gave me a puzzled stare and shook his head, rolling it back and forth violently on the pillow. “I want to go home now,” he cried.

“Where’s home, Frankie?” I whispered.

He sighed in exasperation. “The Yellow House, you eejit,” he said.

Sister Rafferty came up behind us. “I think that’s enough for now,” she said. I heard the pity in her voice.

“But he doesn’t remember,” I cried. “He thinks he’s a child. God help me, he thinks we’re all still at the Yellow House.”

Sister Rafferty patted my arm. “Sometimes it takes a while for the memory to come back,” she said softly. “We just have to be patient.”

“And what if it never comes?” I cried. “What if he’s… he’s left like Billy Craig?”

“We’ll just have to wait,” she said. “At least you have him alive.”

Terrence and I hardly said a word in the car all the way back to the house. When we arrived, I put Aoife and Saoirse to bed and poured Terrence and myself each a glass of whiskey.

“Well, so much for feckin’ prayer!” I said.

Terrence drained his glass, then looked at me. “God works in mysterious ways, Eileen—”

“Och, don’t give me that blather,” I cut in. “The O’Neills are going to have another mad one in the family, and that’s the size of it.”

Terrence winced at the reference to Ma. He never liked to talk about the fact that she was insane.

“Well, we’ll have to give it some time,” he said. “But if he doesn’t change, I suppose we should be thinking about arrangements.”

I looked up. “What arrangements?”

“Well, he won’t be fit to run your grandfather’s farm.”

“He can come and live with me!” I said, annoyed at the turn of the conversation. No matter what had passed between Frankie and me, he was still my brother, and he needed me. I would not abandon him now.

Terrence nodded. “That’s not entirely what I mean. Someone will have to step in and take care of his affairs. The Fitzwilliam estate and the other lands will have to be sold. And you would have been the next in line, as I understand things. So the proceeds should go to you.”

I rounded on Terrence. “Feck you!” I cried. “Frank’s not even in the ground and you’re talking as if he was dead. How can you be so cold, and him your own flesh and blood?”

Terrence stared at me and then looked over at Saoirse, who was sleeping peacefully in her crib.

“I’m just thinking of you, Eileen—and the children. In time you will see that I am right.”

After Terrence left, I sat by the fire, seething with anger. How could he talk like that? How did he know that Frankie would not wake up tomorrow and be right as rain? God knows I would rather have the angry old Frankie back than this child that lay in his bed. But what if he didn’t change? I could hardly bear to think about it. I got up and dragged myself up to bed.

IN THE END
, it was Terrence who arranged everything. Frankie was brought to my house. There was nothing more the hospital could do for him. He learned to walk with crutches on his poor, damaged legs, but his mind did not heal. He was a ten-year-old boy. He played happily with Saoirse and Aoife. Terrence brought him a bodhran drum and he beat on it while Terrence played the pipes. Sometimes I brought him to the Ceili House, and the boys would let him come up and play onstage. He grinned like a big child. His temper was so sweet that in time it was hard to remember the angry, brittle man he had been.