A Dance in Donegal Read online

Moira had discussed the dreams at length with Leona over the past three months. The same question vexed both women: How could Moira possibly save her mother if she was already dead?

  “Oh Lord,” Moira whispered, not sure if it was a prayer or exclamation, “I don’t know what to do.” Adding to her apprehension, word had reached America of the “War for Independence”—Ireland’s fight for its independence. Donegal seemed a sweet respite from the heart of the fighting, but the idea of traveling to a war-torn country unsettled her.

  Mother’s words echoed in her mind, “Save me, Moira! Come to Ireland and save me.”

  Moira squeezed her eyes shut and slumped to the floor, exasperated and exhausted. “I don’t know.” She sighed. “I just don’t know.”

  And thine ears shall hear a word behind thee, saying, This is the way, walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left.

  The words floated into her heart, and Moira opened her eyes to scan the room. “Could it be?” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Could it be that simple? Are You asking me to go to Ireland?”

  A sense of confirmation took root within her.

  I will never leave you. I will never forsake you.

  Moira stood and a shaky breath escaped her lips. She brushed off her skirts and returned to the window. What, truly, did she have to lose? Father had passed away when she was a child. Mother was now gone. With no siblings, no other close relations nearby, and no husband, there was nothing tying her down to Boston. She had always wanted to see Ireland, walk the streets her mother had walked, and experience the culture, the food, and the community firsthand.

  Could she really do this?

  “Leona,” Moira called, heading for the door, a smile spreading across her face. “Start a telegram, please.”

  Chapter 3

  COUNTY DONEGAL, IRELAND

  FEBRUARY 1, 1921

  Moira had always longed to see the places of which her mother often spoke with nostalgia and longing. She wanted to smell the sweet aroma of the burning peat and hear the crashing waves beating upon the rocky Irish shores. Why had her mother never made a return visit? Moira would never know.

  Standing atop the cliff now, gazing at the valley and the angry waves of the Atlantic pummeling the rugged shore, excitement and longing withdrew into the wings as fear and doubt waltzed in and took center stage. The circumstances of her life were barreling ahead like a steam locomotive, but she preferred the gentle rocking of a horse and buggy.

  Moira scanned the horizon, letting her eyes linger, taking in all the sights that until that moment had lived only in her imagination and her mother’s memories. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the bungalows below. The salty, almost sweet smell of the churning North Atlantic stirred her exhausted spirit and ignited her hopes.

  In the dead center of the valley, looming in stark contrast to the welcoming scene of farms and flowers, a gray stone building stood with a tower jutting high into the air. The church. As she took in the sight, the magnitude of the gift of grace that had been extended to her overwhelmed her. Were these soon-to-be new neighbors locked in the catacombs of moldy tradition? Or did they enjoy this same grace from her heavenly Father? Let it be so, Father. Let it be so.

  The wind bullied her, carrying with it whispers of secrets and mysteries yet untold—but the gales were not alone in their intimidation. Acrid thoughts butted close to her, hissing doubt and confusion with each whip of the salty air.

  She hadn’t fully realized the storm’s ferocity and the wind barreling in from the sea until a gust ripped the woolen scarf from her neck. She snatched it just before it flew away for good and tucked it deep into the front of her jacket. Earlier in the day, the slate-gray clouds on the horizon had caught her eye, but she hadn’t expected them to reach land so quickly.

  Once again, your wandering mind has led you down a shaky path, Moira Girl, she scolded herself. If you’re going to reach your lodging before the torrent, you must leave now.

  Sighing, she clambered back into the seat of the carriage. Moira flicked her wrists. The shadowy brown horse responded to the tap of the reins and resumed the trek down the path toward the village.

  Driven by the wind, mist stung Moira’s face as the horse plodded steadily into the valley. It changed to a drizzle before finally evolving into heavy, fat raindrops. She was traveling on what she assumed to be the main road, though it looked little more than a back alley. Small, humble bungalows with whitewashed walls and thatched roofs lay scattered here and there along the hillsides. Just off the road to the right was the local pub, where the silhouettes of four hunched figures drinking their pints drew her gaze. The scene appeared warm, quiet, and inviting.

  To her left stood the local market shop, closed for the night.

  Though much smaller than she had anticipated, the town—with its dainty cottages, glowing windows, and sleepy little streets—hosted a cozy atmosphere, even in the midst of the storm. Anticipation wound up her spine and into her heart. This place, despite the cold and wind, felt like home. Up the road, a few more darkened buildings lined the street. At the horizon where the road began to bend, an orange light flickered in the night.

  “Oh bless! Please, God, let that be the guesthouse.” A sigh of relief welled in her chest and spilled out with a flutter of her lips. The horse nickered and quickened his pace, jaunting down the muddied path with energy Moira hadn’t seen in him since they’d set out three days prior. “I guess you’re glad for this trip to be over, too, boy?”

  The flickering beacon welcomed Moira. Her pulse raced as she headed toward the building.

  The horse startled. A dark shadow emerged on the side of the road. The horse flew as fast as his pounding hooves would take him, narrowly missing the shadowed figure. Already coated in thick, wet mud, the wooden wheels refused to grip the rutted path. Moira jolted into the air, then fell back on the wooden seat with a thud. The carriage skidded side to side. She gripped the reins, tugging to no avail. Tipping and lurching, the carriage threatened to flip with each bump. Rain mixed with tears blurred her eyes and her heart pounded in her ears.

  With one final, desperate tug at the reins, she veered the wagon to one side of the road. The horse skidded to a halt with a whinny, his hooves slipping in the mire.

  The shadowed man stomped toward the rig, head hunched low against the elements. “Whoa, now! Watch yourself before you kill someone, includin’ ye!”

  Moira spun about in her seat to face the man standing off to the side of the road, her mouth agape.

  “Ya won’t last long around here drivin’ like ya own the place, so ya won’t!” the man scolded. He was naught but a shadow shrouded in dark and rain, but Moira could just make out the figure snatching the hat from his head and running a hand through a thick mop of hair, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Probably English,” he growled as he turned and stormed away.

  “I’m terribly sorry!” Moira called after him, but it was too late. The wild winds tore the words from her mouth.

  The figure disappeared into the downpour as Moira righted herself in the seat and urged the horse on toward the light.

  A woman stood in the doorway as Moira pulled up to the modest, two-story home. “Mrs. Martin?”

  Joy glowed from the woman’s smile. The smell of strong black tea and fresh-baked Irish brown bread wafted out of the open door behind her.

  The woman rushed to Moira’s side. “Aye! Oh, I’m so glad ye’re here!” Mrs. Martin called over the storm. “I was ragin’ when I saw the storm coming, and I was worried to death you’d not make it. Thank God ye’re alright! Come in, now, pet, come in! My Owen’ll see to yer horse.”

  An older gentleman bustled around the corner and unhitched the horse. Shifting his feet impatiently in the mud, the animal made it clear he was ready to get out of the rain as well.

  Mrs. Martin sang out a command to the man in what didn’t sound like words at all. Moira knitted her brows together.

  “I’m
sorry to be speakin’ the Gaeilge in front of ya when ya don’t have a word of it, do ya?” She chuckled. “That’s what most of us speak around here. Ye’ll catch on soon.”

  Moira blew a puff of air. “I’ll certainly try.” Doubt clouded her voice as she followed her hostess indoors. As they entered the house and the warmth of the turf fire enveloped her, thoughts of letters, Gaelic, and languages vanished as longing for hot tea and a comfortable seat stole every ounce of her attention.

  “The sittin’ room’s just there.” Mrs. Martin motioned to the left. “Give me yer bags and sit ye down. Ye must be wrecked.” The woman scooped up Moira’s bags and scurried off.

  Moira studied the room. The trappings of a charming but unpretentious home greeted her. Small tables stood at either end of the couch. A long brown sofa with a blanket her mother would have said was “made for the frosty nights of an Irish winter” beckoned her. Moira’s icy toes squirmed inside her boots as she stared at the inviting fire.

  A work of needlepoint—The Lord’s Prayer in both English and another language—hung over the mantel.

  That must be Gaelic.

  Moira ran tender, reverent fingers over the strange-looking jumble of letters and accents. A smile spread across her face at the precise detail of the stitching.

  Mrs. Martin returned carrying two teacups, a kettle, sugar, milk, a few biscuits, some piping-hot brown bread, and a dish of butter, all precariously yet perfectly balanced on a decorative tray.

  “Have a seat, darlin’. Would ya like a little cuppa?” the spry old woman asked, setting it all down on the table.

  “Yes, please.” Moira sighed. The idea of tea brought relief to Moira’s tired bones. “Mother made sure I knew the value of a good cuppa.”

  Mrs. Martin chuckled. “She always did enjoy her tea, so she did.” Her shoulders quaked with quiet laughter. “Shall we sit?”

  The woman sat in one of the chairs nearest the fire and proceeded to pour the tea. Relief washed over Moira as she lowered herself into a padded seat, taking the hot cup offered to her. The heat of the turf fire embraced her like flannel. It was such a gentle heat, so unlike the harsh coal fires she’d grown up with in Boston. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the soothing warmth to comfort her weary body.

  “Ya must be wrecked after that long journey. Traveling all that way by yerself? ’Magine! Were ya not scared at all?”

  “It wasn’t too bad. Mother, in her wisdom, had places arranged before she passed for me to stay each night, so I wasn’t alone in the evenings. But, yes, I am exhausted. I didn’t expect the trip to be so cumbersome. I’m glad to finally be here.” She stole a sip of tea before Mrs. Martin could ask her another question.

  The two sipped in comfortable silence while Moira watched the fire in the grate. The flames seemed to grab a partner and reel around like the High-Cauled Cap—Moira’s favorite Irish dance. Mesmerized by the scene, she fought to keep her eyelids from drooping.

  “Well, I’ll not keep ya up tonight then.” The old woman drained her tea in a gulp. “Come on up the stairs and I’ll show ya yer room. I’ll have breakfast ready in the mornin’ for ya. You’ll need your strength for those wee ones, won’t ya?”

  The last sentence tumbled out in a curious chuckle. Unnerving. Either the woman was implying Moira was not going to do well, or she was in for a surprise. But Moira was perfectly confident in her training and ability to teach the local children all they needed to know and more. At least she had been, until about an hour ago when she first gazed at the village and doubts rose like the tide.

  As if reading her thoughts, Mrs. Martin murmured, “I know one or two wee ones who take the energy of this whole village and more.”

  Is she talking to me? Or herself? Moira took a final sip of her tea before abandoning it to follow her hostess. As they ascended the stairs, black-and-white images in ornate frames looked on them with solemn faces. Did they, too, know what lay ahead for Moira? Were even pictures in frames concerned about her naivete?

  This new job—which had once been an innocent idea of adventure in her mind—was beginning to weigh Moira down. A daunting task lay before her, and she wondered if she had made a colossal mistake.

  She followed her hostess down a short hall.

  “Now, here we are, love,” Mrs. Martin chirped.

  The door creaked open, and Moira caught her first glimpse of the room that would be home until the teacher’s chalet was ready.

  Lit only by a gas lamp, the room looked homey—just what Moira had envisioned for a rural Irish guesthouse. The roof was so slanted she could hardly stand upright near the window. A bed lay in the corner, covered with a thick duvet and a pillow so flat it practically blended into the mattress. On a low stool in the corner, a portly cat lay curled, his tail flapping lazily. He lifted his head toward Moira as he licked his nose, then returned to his napping.

  After a heavy blink, Moira mustered a smile and turned to her hostess. “Thanks very much, Mrs. Martin. It’s perfect, just lovely.”

  She gestured to the snoozing feline. “Don’t let Benny there bother ye. Feel free to shoo him from the room. Now, if there’s nothin’ else you’ll be needin’, I’ll be on my way, then.” With that, Mrs. Martin quietly closed the door.

  Moira yawned and set about getting the room ready for the night. Her two large canvas bags seemed to weigh a thousand pounds as she moved them near the bed. She decided to unpack properly in the morning, too tired to bother with it tonight.

  What couldn’t wait, however, was a good face washing and running a brush through her hair—three days out in the elements was a lot to take for a city girl. Her hands, clumsy with fatigue, rummaged through her satchel until she found her brush. Sitting on the stool by the window, she swam in the memories of all that had brought her to this place.

  Her mother’s stories swirled in her mind, and she wondered what the future might hold for her here. It had never occurred to her she would be asked to come to Donegal to replace the beloved schoolteacher who had passed away just last year.

  The chance to teach brought Moira to life and filled her soul like nothing else. Having worked hard at her training, she was eager to impart her newly acquired wisdom to the spit-shined faces of the boys and girls in her charge. The only question had been where and when.

  Six months ago, when word reached Moira’s mother that her childhood teacher had passed away, she had put Moira’s name in for the replacement. Now, after a dizzying flurry of preparations, Moira was here, in the village she had always longed to see. Though she felt no more prepared than when she first received the news.

  Moira spotted a washbasin next to the door and brought it and a towel over to the chest of drawers beside her bed. Cool, clear water splashed from the pitcher into the basin. Raising her weary eyes to the mirror above the wooden chest, she gasped. No wonder Mrs. Martin had been so concerned for her! Black curls that had been neatly tied back in a low plait now stood out several inches from her head. Disheveled locks of hair roamed wherever they wished. Her face bore brown splotches of dried mud. What a sight she was! Her thin frame was swallowed up in a sea of clothing.

  One by one she removed the layers of waist jacket, woolen sweater, and cardigan. “There.” She blew out a long breath. “That looks more like the Moira Doherty I know. Now, let’s take care of that dirty face. It just won’t do to have a teacher dirtier than her pupils, now will it, Benny?”

  Benny stood, hopped on the bed, circled twice, and lay down with his woolly back to her. She smiled at his indifference and leaned down. Cupping both hands in the basin, she splashed water onto her face. One hand groped for the towel next to the basin. When her chilled fingers found it at last, she snatched it and buried her face in the rough but warm material.

  The smoky mirror now showed something much more to her liking. Her cheeks bore a rosy hue from the slaps of wind and cold. Her pale green eyes, although exhausted, danced with anticipation.

  Pressing a hand to her stomach, she will
ed the nervous flutters still. The next few weeks might leave her emotionally splattered with mud like the splotches she’d washed from her face. But Moira swallowed her nerves and straightened with resolve. Her faith would hold her steady. Time to cease fretting. The bed was an invitation to rest, and she intended to take it.

  She plodded across the room to one of her bags and riffled through it. Muscles aching and head heavy, she moved as if in a fog. She clothed herself for sleep, hanging her dress on a bent nail on the door. After draping her jacket and sweater over the back of the low chair in the corner, Moira padded across the floor and eased herself into bed.

  Oh, good heavens above, it may as well have been made from all feathers and fluff for as good as it felt to her weary bones. The covers that tucked under her chin soothed her. Moira adjusted her position and winced as the wooden furniture groaned and squeaked.

  The silence that followed should have been welcome. Instead, it screamed in her head. Unlike the endless commotion on the streets of Boston, the utter lack of noise overwhelmed and unnerved her. Each occasional creak seemed a siren, every groan of the wooden floor a gong. She whispered a prayer for peace and settled deeper into the covers, her eyes already closing.

  Chapter 4

  Blue light, soft and bereft of heat, seeped through the square window on the eastern wall. Tucked as snug and deep in the covers as she could get, Moira tried to block the bite of the morning chill. Her senses awakened as she stirred and stretched. She inhaled deeply, wishing morning away as the damp Irish air filled her lungs. Musty and earthy, it was like breathing in the scent of an old book.

  “Maybe a few more minutes,” she whispered to herself and snuggled farther into the cocoon of the covers. The warmth of the duvet blocked the callousness of the wool blanket.

  Just as her body settled back into the comfort of the mattress, a quiet tap sounded at the door. Moira’s eyes peered out from under the duvet. A slice of golden light swept across the floor as the door opened.