Shamrocks in the Heather: Fifth in the Brothers Series - First in the Shamrocks Saga

By Clara M. Miller

Warning: this is not a religious book!

Shamrocks in the Heather is the fifth book in the Brothers Series and the first in the Shamrocks Saga. It continues the story of the on-going battle between Michael the Archangel and his brother Lucifer by going back in time to trace the history of Theodora and Theodosia Quigley, the mysterious twins mentioned in the previous books. The story begins with the twins grandparents, Rory and Mary Ann Quigley and their beginnings in Ireland. Forced by circumstances to move to Scotland, they set about creating a new life for themselves and their growing family. Their oldest child, Conor, begins the family tradition of seeing and forming a close association with his Guardian Angel. These associations deepens quickly into warm and unique friendships and, time and time again, will prove to be critical. They same friendships also make the family the subject of much curiosity.
The birth of the other Quigley children: Erin, Ethna, Angus and Martin, leads deeper and deeper into the story. World War I and the terrible flu pandemic that followed subjected the family to tragedy and heartbreak. Their mettle is tested again and again as time goes on. Perhaps its this testing that helps form the steel backbones of Theodora and Theodosia who will not be born until Martin moves to London and begins his career as a journalist. Ahead many joys, tragedies and surprises await the Quigleys and time alone will tell if theyre up to the challenge..
As with the others in the series, this is not a religious book nor meant to endorse or promote any type of belief. It is intended to provide a verbal roller-coaster ride. Plus, Ive grown to quite like The Old Man. I hope you have too. Enjoy!




Other books by Clara M. Miller
Non-Fiction:
Echoes of a Haunting

Fiction:
THE BROTHERS SERIES:
Brothers
Once a Demon
Birds of a Feather
Cirque Diabolique

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 13, 2004
• ISBN: 9781469109688

Clara M. Miller

The author was born in Buffalo, New York. Her first published book, Echoes of a Haunting (published in 1999) is non-fiction. In the fiction field, she has written Brothers (2001), Once a Demon (2002), Birds of a Feather (2002). Cirque Diabolique (2003), Shamrocks in the Heather (2003), A Breath of Old Smoke (2004) and Daughters of Gemini all in the BROTHERS Series. In 1975, she moved out West, first to California and then north to Oregon. She currently resides in the coastal town of Florence, Oregon with her mother, their dog, “Dear” Abby and a cat named Miss Kitty.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

T he nineteenth century was hard on Ireland. Not that uprising and deprivation were new to this always hopeful, lushly green land. On the contrary. Since time immemorial, these mystic isles were the scenes of many wars: some inter-septal feuds and some with foreign invaders. Now, however, the invader was closer to home.

The Irish, an independent and sometimes cantankerous race, were chafing under the yoke of English rule. The latter part of the eighteenth century had begun their downward slide. Now, the nineteenth had sealed their fate and they were bitterly aware of the fact their leaders had betrayed them. From the hopes raised by Thomas Addis Emmett and the beheading of his brother, Robert, in 1804 through the comet trajectory of the dedicated and charismatic Robert O’Connell and the ultimate failure of Charles Stewart Parnell, the Irish had seen their dreams shattered again and again.

But it was the potato famine, lasting from 1845 until 1848, that caused the most widespread suffering. For it was one thing to lose a goodly portion of your political freedom and quite another to watch your children die of starvation. During that short period, about a million people died, either of direct starvation or of diseases introduced by the famine. In addition, it caused the exodus of another million badly needed countrymen to foreign lands.

The catastrophe affected every family in the country, to one extent or another. Like ripples in a stream, it sent shock waves through the nation. Families were split up; sons headed for America; others made the shorter trip to Scotland and the more daring ones ventured, in their ambivalence, to England.

Unfortunately, their new countries did not hold out a welcoming hand to these poor expatriates. In Scotland, their lack of training was derided and their religion barely tolerated. In England, the Micks were universally looked down upon and condemned as common brawlers which, in fact, they often were. In the United States, they were assigned the lowest jobs and the worst housing. Many Irishmen found work on the Police forces of major cities in America, at the time not a very prestigious job. Yes, it was a far reaching shock wave indeed and one that changed the course of history.

One of these shock waves ultimately led to the birth of two extraordinary women. Theodora and Theodosia Quigley weren’t born until 1925 but, to understand them, it is necessary to go back to their Irish roots. These roots shaped and honed them into two strong, stubborn and gifted individuals. Or, perhaps, one gifted individual since the twins always thought and acted as one. This, then, is the beginning of the saga that will culminate in the two women joining the forces arrayed against the Prince of Darkness in the small town of Scajaquada, Long Island, New York.

PART I

IRELAND

Weep O Ireland, tears of sorrow

Bitter tears of angry rue;

For thy children, lost and scattered

Mourn for gallant hearts so true.

Shamrocks planted now in heather

Or on England’s rocky shore

Gone to lands across the ocean

Lost to thee forevermore.

List’ O Ireland, hear thy children

Lost perhaps but true to thee;

Though they lie in distant reaches

Always Irish they will be.

Shamrocks planted bloom and flourish

Though their land is foreign still.

Now the roots of Ireland flower

Nourished by Hibernian will.

Sing O Ireland, sing in triumph

For thy sons and daughters pride

Spreading shamrocks dot the landscape

Scattered through the world and wide.

Sing O Ireland, send thy gladness

Winging to thy children’s door.

Tell them of thy pride and passion

They are thine forevermore.

cmm

CHAPTER 1

Bailecath, Ireland—1892

Few outside the area knew of the existence of the small, insignificant town of Bailecath. There, both Rory McHugh Quigley and Mary Ann O’Neill Boland were born in 1875, he on February second and she on April tenth. The picturesque hamlet was built on gently rolling hills and neatly sandwiched between Galway Bay and the Burren. Young people there had little opportunity for employment and soon found reason to leave, draining the lifeblood from the land.

Once, its fields had flourished with potatoes but now the land lay deserted, its owners having either died of starvation or fled to more prosperous locations. Merchants who depended on potato farmers for their livelihood had likewise given up the struggle. The three year potato famine, ending in 1848, had taken the heart and soul out of the people. Now, forty-four years later, they had yet to recover their former prosperity. In fact, it was becoming clearer every day that they never would. Bailecath was slowly dying. Education was hard to come by, there being few youngsters left to instruct and few teachers willing to do it. The bogs near the Burren provided the only employment opportunity open to many in the area. The sinks, ravines and underground streams of the Burren were familiar territory to the residents and posed only a minor threat to those who knew its hazards.

The remaining inhabitants watched with anxiety as Bailecath rapidly became a town of old people. Mary Ann Boland, being the daughter of a landowner was a little better off than most and was considered upper class. Despite the dwindling population, there was still a sharp distinction in the class system. Mary Ann’s father, Conor Boland, although his family holdings had been hard hit by the failure of the potato crop, also owned rental and industrial property near Fanroe and Ballyvaughan. The foresight shown by his grandfather and father had spread his loss of income and made it easier to bear, or so it appeared. Locally, Conor had extensive holdings containing the precious peat bogs. From that seemingly endless source, came the bulk of his revenue. The fact that he provided what little employment was available also gave him a financial advantage and the glow that came from feeling philanthropic. After all, what would the town do without him?

Mary Ann attended the Convent School in Ballyvaughan, a rare benefit for the privileged few since young women were not considered worthy of education. Conor thought differently. His daughter was a match for any brash young buckeen he knew. It would take a special man to win his bright colleen and Conor was sure he knew the very one. He had yet to persuade his headstrong young daughter.

Conor had also served as the honorary postmaster at the local Oifig an Phoist and, through the years, had held several minor public offices. The local priest, Father Cunniff, was his cousin, adding to his lofty community status. The darkest cloud on Conor’s horizon was the newly aroused peasantry, rallied by the labor uprising in County Mayo. There, Captain Boycott, an agent for Lord Erne, had rashly dismissed his laborers over a wage dispute. Suddenly, all services were denied him. The story had become legend and Conor brooded over the long-term implications.

After Captain Boycott’s action, no one would work for him: the blacksmith couldn’t find time to shoe his horses; the baker ran out of flour; the postman forgot to deliver his mail and there were no helpers to bring in the harvest so it began rotting in the fields. Finally, fifty northern Orangemen escorted by two thousand soldiers arrived in Mayo to assist the Captain. Strangely enough, there was no car in Claremorris able to transport them; not a horse that hadn’t a loose shoe, spavins, rickets or housemaid’s knee. The laborers and their escort had to slog the fifteen miles from Claremorris to Lough Mask House in the rain and camp on the Captain’s lawn. Aside from the Captain’s personal loss, the estimated cost to the country from the incident was set at ten pounds for every pound’s worth of crop reaped on his land. The lesson was a dear one and Conor didn’t relish repeating it. So, he kept on the good side of his cottars by acting as civil to them as his stiff neck would allow.

Mary Ann, being bright even beyond her father’s glowing opinion, realized what was happening, of course. The secret she hugged to her ripe bosom was that she shared the rebellious feelings of the cottars and admired their independence. At heart, she was a staunch supporter of the working class. Still, on the whole, Mary Ann’s life was pleasant and a far cry from Rory’s.

Rory McHugh Quigley, in sharp contrast, came from a family of apparent ne’er-do-wells. Popular opinion had it that his father had been the village drunk until his demise at the tender age of 34, a demise that went unmourned by all but his long-suffering wife. Thus it was that Rory and his two older brothers were required to work from a very early age. Unfortunately, Devyn and Finn tended to earn their money and promptly drink it away at the nearest pub. Rory, seeing the tears of disappointment behind his mother’s eyes, handed his entire, meager pay over to her in contrition for his neglectful brothers. That and a paltry income from a legacy his father had received from his grandmother, kept them from penury.

So, while his brothers flirted with barmaids, Rory never had any money to visit the pub … not that he was inclined to follow their example. Gradually, his dismal life contracted into a small, unending and wearisome circle. He never had money for decent clothing so his bony wrists protruded from his threadbare third-hand coats and made him a laughing stock. He never had enough to eat so his body resembled that of a rather loosely put together scarecrow. His insufficient education had been provided by his patient mother so he had little hope of advancement beyond the gathering of peat. Taking everything into consideration, he was a poor marriage prospect and all the girls in town knew it so they pointedly ignored his lowly presence. Rory didn’t even dare wish for the luxury of a girlfriend. He’d have been happy merely to have enough money to make necessary repairs around the rented house and put a bit of meat on the table occasionally. He had no hopes for attracting the attention of a colleen let alone starting a family of his own.

Wearily, each day, he would slog home from his dirty, mind-numbing job and collapse in one of the rickety chairs in front of the fire muttering his usual Go mbeannai Dia annseo! Out of long habit, he always blessed everyone present, although his thoughts were far from his words and his mum was the only one in the cramped house. Usually, his mother nodded and went about her work silently. He was accustomed to her quiet ways but today she surprised him.

Rory, said the soft voice. He raised his heavy head and looked at her. Seeing she had his attention, she continued, Devyn an’ Finn have left. It was a flat statement with no emotion behind it. The shock went through him quickly, like a dash of ice water followed just as quickly by the unbidden thought, Thank God, two fewer mouths t’ feed. A stab of guilt made him catch his breath and he looked at his care-worn mother to gauge the effect on her. There was no expression at all on her face.

Gently, he addressed her, Mo croidhe, conas tá tú? How are you?

Her reply was slow in coming and spoken so softly he had to strain to hear. Tá mé go maith, go raibh maith agat. I’m fine, thank you. A much more formal answer than he’d expected. Its tone showed more clearly than words how deeply his brothers’ desertion had hurt her.

He rose slowly to his feet, suddenly conscious of how ungainly he was, how large his feet, how peat-stained his hands, how inept he was at consolation. Awkwardly, he put his thin arms around her and whispered, I’ll no’ leave y’, Mháthair. Y’ know I won’t.

Tenderly, Máire Quigley held her son at arm’s length. Rory, they felt no obligation t’ me, nor should you. I’m ill. Sure an’ y’ know that well enough. ‘Tis a fact that me cough is worse every day.

Rory, desperate now, spoke quickly, Och, ‘tis jist the dampness. Sure an’ a cup o’ hot tea will set y’ t’ rights.

Laughing softly, but with no amusement in the sound, his mother answered, Och, machree, tea isn’t the answer this time. I won’t be around much longer. Y’ must find somewhere t’ go. God knows there’s no future in the bogs.

Rory, feeling the limitations of his seventeen years, shook his head resolutely, I’ll no’ be leavin’ y’ an’ well y’ know it!

Deciding that she’d upset her son enough for one day, Máire folded her arms across her aching chest in mock-admonition. She tapped her foot impatiently. Is that any way t’ come t’ the table? Rory McHugh Quigley, you wash up this minute! ‘Tis poor we may be but at least we’ll stay clean.

With a sheepish pull on his forelock, he sprang to do his mother’s bidding. The moment had passed, safely he hoped. That his mother was soon to die had occurred to him more than once but, the thought being unbearable, he’d quickly thrust it aside. Now she had forced him to resurrect the image. What would he do? Where would he go? She was his only link to life. Without her, he wasn’t sure he could keep up this farce of an existence. He went out to the backyard pump, shared with three neighboring cottages, and sluiced cold water over himself until the shock drove the painful visions out of his mind.

The road toward town was uphill, of course. Today its winding length seemed interminable. Rory had heard his mother’s cough all last night. But lack of sleep wasn’t what made his feet heavy. A month had passed since their uncomfortable conversation, but last night’s sleeplessness had brought it back with a vengeance. He had to face facts. But the facts were so hard!

At his side, his fellow peat-cutters walked. They were equally tired and dirty but most of them had families to spend a cheerful evening with. Rory felt isolated and forlorn, afraid of finding his mother cold on the hearth when he reached home. His face was frozen in a rictus of pain. Perhaps it was this rigid countenance that kept the others from including him in their rowdy horseplay. He walked alone.

Rory knew that he’d have to bring his roiling emotions under control before he reached the cottage or his mother would read them as she had always read every thought in his transparent mind. He raked his fingers through the unruly thatch of reddish-brown hair and felt the bits of peat embedded there. Nodding his head with a sudden resolution, he decided to walk through the village to calm himself. The venture would be a solitary one, of that he was sure. Dirty as he was and being who he was, he could count on being brusquely ignored by the populace.

Head down, peat particles falling like dandruff across his face, he strode, seeing only his scuffed, dirty brogans in front of him. Suddenly, he heard a derisive, teasing laugh and looked up. There, in front of him, was the most beautiful colleen in all of Erin. Oh, he knew Mary Ann Boland, everyone did, but only from a distance. Up close, she was a sight to behold. Still dressed in her school uniform—neat, white blouse and long, navy blue skirt—she looked like a creature from another world. The words she hurled at him cut him to the core.

Her expression was as pert as her conversation. Well, what have we here? Are y’ one o’ the sidh fresh from the underworld; a tanist in disguise or are y’ jist a sassenach who doesn’t know how t’ wash?

Rory ducked his head still further and shuffled his big feet, feeling the stones through the thin soles. Words failed him. What could he say to this shining vision in front of him that would do anything but add to her poor opinion of him? Nothing, he was sure. So, instead of speaking, he slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. Rory would have been astonished to know the impact of those green-gold eyes on the young girl in front of him. Framed by thick, dark lashes, they resembled the keen eyes of a hawk, softened by the gentle nature behind them. Mary Ann melted and her heart ached at the harsh words she had spoken. She knew him. Everyone knew the son of the town drunk.

Mary Ann’s next words were spoken in a soft, gentle voice. Och, I didn’t mean a word o’ it, Rory. ‘Tis that ashamed I am! Sure an’ ‘tis true you’re a bit ‘peaty’ but that’s t’ be expected. Twisting a rebellious, loose curl around her finger, she continued in a teasing voice, Will y’ be at the party in honor of Lá Fhéile Pádraig? Sure, an’ there’s t’ be a dance after wi’ bagpipes, a melodeon an’ our own Celtic dancers. ‘Tis said they’ll even have a seanachai.

Rory’s face flushed as red as the Irish sunset. Mumbling, he managed, I’ll not be there, St. Patrick or no’. I doubt the storyteller’ll miss me an’ I’ve no use f’r dancin’ a’tall. I’ve no’ got the feet f ’r it. Ruefully, he added quietly, Nor the clothes.

Mary Ann’s heart contracted within her. Never had she truly stopped and thought of the plight of others. Though she sympathized with the workers, the concept of not enough was foreign to her. In her world, clothes were taken for granted. Not so in Rory’s. Understanding flowed through her with a suddenness that forced a sharp intake of breath. She’d not make that mistake again.

Mary Ann stood a little straighter, putting the strength of her back behind her statement, Rory Quigley, I’ll not take no f ’r an answer. Sure, if y’ don’t take t’ dancin’, still I know y’ll enjoy the storyteller, will y’ no’? Do y’ know, I’ve turned down three lads already who wanted me t’ walk out wi’ them. Now, y’ jist put on y’r best shirt an’ polish y’r shoes a wee bit. Y’ needn’t play the grand lord f ’r me. ‘Tis proud I’ll be t’ go t’ the party wi’ you at my side. Will y’ no’ say yes?

Rory, quiet at the best of times, was tongue-tied. This lovely colleen wanted to go to the Musical Festival with him? With Rory McHugh Quigley, son of the town drunk, brother to two of the most worthless louts ever to grace a pub? Yes, by the set of her mouth and the arms now akimbo, she did!

Carefully, he cleared his throat several times before answering. "Mary Ann Boland, ‘tis pleased I am that y’ve lowered y’rself t’ ask me but what o’ your athair? He’ll no’ be wantin’ the likes o’ me takin’ the likes o’ you anywhere, let alone where God an’ everyone can see us." His voice had risen in his anxiety.

Mary Ann knew his worry was justified. Her father was a snob, especially about her. He always screened her friends carefully. But Mary Ann also knew how to handle her father, had known since birth. Taking her tiny fists off her hips, she smiled, "Arra, Rory, y’ worry overmuch. Let me take care o’ m’ father. I’ll meet y’ outside the hall on Saturday next, a wee bit after six. Will that suit y’?"

Already Rory had mentally inventoried his threadbare wardrobe and prayed his mother could suggest some solution but his tongue answered readily enough. Mary Ann Boland, ‘twill be me pleasure. Saturday it is then. I’d best be off. Mum will be that worried.

Rory made a sketchy and rather shaky bow which Mary Ann found quite charming, and fairly skipped home. He burst in the door, startling Máire so badly she sloshed the thin annraith on the floor. Wiping the soup up with a damp cloth, she rose to see a new Rory. His face, grimed with dirt, but shining with joy was one his mother had never seen before. Without wondering at the cause, her own smile rose to her lips to meet his.

She sat down and folded her hands in her lap, her accustomed posture when she anticipated news of any kind. By the stillness of her hands, she knew it was good news for a change. Well now, an’ what has happened t’ stir me Rory so? Have y’ met a leprechaun, mayhap, an’ he’s shown y’ his pot o’ gold?

Rory laughed, a rare sound, and music to his mother’s ears. Machree, y’d no’ guess—no’ in a year o’ guessin’. Mary Ann Boland has asked me t’ accompany her t’ the St. Patrick’s Day Party Saturday next. Can y’ imagine that?

Máire’s heart fell. The Bolands were fine folk and not for the likes of them as she had reason to know. Conor Boland owned the peat bog where Rory worked and he’d never allow one of his piners to take his daughter out. Everyone knew how Conor felt about Mary Ann. He had a fine wedding planned for her with a young man from Dublin, a barrister from the rumors.

Carefully, she took a painful breath, for breath was coming harder and harder now. Rory, do y’ think that wise? Y’ know her father. He’s a rare terror, he is.

Rory sighed, exasperated because his mother was voicing his own sentiments and doubts. Och, machree, don’t do that t’ me. I need y’r support on this. Mary Ann says she can handle him an’, by the set o’ her mouth, I believe her. But, mum, God in heaven, what’ll I wear. Me trousers are that ragged an’ the cuffs o’ me shirt have been turned till there’s no material left.

Never one to quibble with a settled matter, Máire rose to her feet. Well, Rory, when we’ve finished our supper, we’ll jist do somethin’ about that. We’ve a wee bit o’ cáis t’ go wi’ our broth an’ bread; an’ then we’ve prátai an’ neeps.

Rory crowed. It seemed like a good omen that supper was more plentiful than usual. Mum, what a grand supper y’ve made f ’r us! The soup an’ bread smell wonderful; an’ potatoes an’ turnips besides! A meal fit f’r a king. How did y’ manage it all?

His mother preened, buoyed by her son’s good humor and appreciation of her ingenuity. Och, I did a wee bit o’ needlework f ’r the widow McLean. She gave me cheese an’ let me have a go at what’s left in her root cellar. I’m that pleased wi’ m’self!

Rory laughed again and it came easier this time. As indeed y’ should be, mo cuishle! As indeed y’ should be!

His mother poked him and exclaimed Macushla, is it? Well, I’ll allow the liberty since y’re obviously no’ in y’r right mind.

Clasping hands, mother and son said Grace together, voices intertwining and each vying with the other in its eagerness to let God know just how pleased they both were with this meal and this day.

Once again, Rory’s mother surprised him. Following their gayest supper in his memory, she ceremoniously picked up the oil lamp and led him to the cramped loft that served as a storage place. The ladder was wobbly and the trapdoor narrow. After they’d both squeezed through, Máire raised her lamp and pulled a carefully wrapped parcel toward her. Shoving it at Rory, she reached for another and yet another. Finally, she grunted in satisfaction and ordered her son to precede her down the ladder. In order to fit through, Rory had to leave the parcels; climb to the floor and catch them as his mother threw them down. Her face, in the indirect shine of the lamp, looked almost maniacal in its glee and Rory worried.

As Máire climbed down, she handed him the lamp and reached up to close the trap door. As she did, she slipped. In one swift motion, Rory set down the lamp and caught her in his arms. He gasped as he felt the fragile bones, almost devoid of flesh. Was this the consumption everyone talked about? Surely, it was consuming her flesh at a frightening rate. Still, she was laughing gaily and commanding him to set her down. Quickly hiding his dismay, Rory followed her orders. Together, they picked up the precious packages and carried them into the kitchen table.

Ceremoniously, Máire unwrapped each one, explaining, Did y’ think y’r da had nothin’ t’ leave y’? ‘Tis a small enough legacy. Still, ‘twill serve. Once, y’ know, Rory, y’r da had some fine clothes. Had it no’ been f’r his marriage t’ a poor colleen like me, his life might have been much different. Now look at this linen shirt. I ask y’, lad, is that no’ fine enough f’r Brian Boru himself?

Rory took the shirt from his mother and realized that it was, indeed, an elegant garment. Certainly, it was much better than anything he had ever possessed. While he was still enthralled, she handed him a pair of dark blue briste. Her voice was triumphant. I knew the moths wouldn’t touch the trousers wi’ the heather an’ lavender tucked inside. Look y’, Rory, are they no’ perfect?

Light wool breeches, still creased and carefully folded were reverently placed in his hands. Rory could feel dampness in the corners of his eyes. He remembered little of his father and what he did recall didn’t fit with the garments he held. How very meager was his knowledge of the man who had sired him.

Another package and a pair of black boots joined the pile. Not average brogans, mind you, but shining leather boots with scarlet insoles. God, he prayed, let them fit! The last package contained a cap made of the same soft wool as the trousers. Máire laughingly placed it on Rory’s head and proclaimed that he was as fine a lad as ever attended a St. Patrick’s Day Celebration. Then she added, Now, I’ll have a bit o’ sewin’ t’ do. Y’r da was a bit bigger in some places an’ a wee bit shorter in the leg. Still, they’ll do, will they no’, machree?

Rory placed the precious pile on the table and lifted his mother off her feet. Och, mum, sure an’ I’ll be the grandest lad o’ them all, thanks t’ you an’ me da. Mary Ann Boland doesn’t know she’s walkin’ out wi’ a real, proper dandy!

CHAPTER 2

Saturday—March 19, 1892

Saturday night came too soon for Rory. In some recess of his mind, he had anticipated a change in his feelings, an acceptance of his good fortune. It had never come. He still felt in awe of the challenge of acting like one of the upper class. Now the time was at hand and he was no more prepared than he had been when Mary Ann had extended her preposterous invitation.

His job at the peat bogs lasted until four o’clock on Saturdays and it was a long walk home. This didn’t leave him much time to get ready for the St. Patrick’s Day Gala. As he hurried up the hilly road toward home, panting with each breath, he reflected that maybe the short period allowed him was just as well. Had he more time, he might have lost his nerve completely and decided not to attend.

One concern he had not shared with his mother. He knew, elegant as his clothing had been when his father was alive, it would be badly outdated by now. He couldn’t tell his mother that and if the rest of the town laughed—well, let them. He’d do nothing to dim the pride that glowed from her face as she carefully stitched the alterations by the light of the fireplace.

When he arrived home, his clothes were laid out as though he were the pampered scion of a wealthy family. Quickly, he ran to the yard and fetched water for his makeshift bath. His mother was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t time to wonder about her absence. Careful not to spill any, he put the pail on the hob to take the chill off the water. Impatiently, he waited, his foot tapping rhythmically on the rough floorboards. His mother appeared at the door holding his boots and a blue patterned scarf. She looked tired but triumphant.

Although her voice shook with weariness, it held a note of girlish glee. Well now, Rory, I’ve y’r boots polished an’ I’ve managed t’ trade the storekeeper some honey f’r a scarf t’ wear wi’ y’r fine shirt. We’ll jist tie it an’ tuck it in the collar. Won’t y’ look like the King o’ Ulster himself? Her laugh was infectious and Rory took the silk scarf gingerly. It was used, that was plain, but it was still a much better quality item than he’d ever owned.

Holding it in front of him, he crowed, Mum, ‘tis that grand I think I should be takin’ a Queen t’ the dance. He sent a deep and surprisingly graceful bow her way and added Y’r Majesty, would y’ allow me t’ be y’r escort?

He wasn’t sure if the flush on his mother’s face was fever, pleasure or embarrassment. Then again, perhaps it was merely the heat from the fire. His mother’s voice sounded like that of a young girl and guilt stabbed through Rory. Get on wi’ y’! Y’ve a nerve, talkin’ t’ y’r poor old mum like that. A playful shove on his arm told him she was in a rare good humor.

Máire fetched the rough, hand-made soap and watched while he scrubbed his hair and face in the warm water. Seeing his sidewise glance, she excused herself while he undressed and made a more thorough job of his bath. I’ll jist go in t’other room an’ take a wee lie-down. Y’ll be lettin’ me know when y’re ready, will y’ no’, Rory?

Once again, Rory felt the pain of regret shoot quickly through him. Damn me da, anyway! he thought with heat, Our lives could have been so much different! Quickly, he squelched the disloyal thought—disloyal to his mother who never complained. In a soft voice, he answered, Aye, mum, that I will. Sure an’ y’ know I’d no’ be leavin’ wi’out me favorite colleen givin’ her approval!

With a shy smile, Máire went to the sleeping area and pulled the cloth separating the rooms shut. Rory stripped and finished his makeshift ablutions, wishing he could do better. There was a public bath in town but he couldn’t afford to go. This would have to do.

Carefully, he unfolded the clothing. It was almost five-thirty already. His hands fumbled with the unfamiliar buttons. As he fastened the front, he realized that his mother had refashioned the shirt to resemble those worn by the more affluent members of the town. No longer did it look dated and old. His heart lifted. The trousers, too, had been altered to conform to the latest style. True, Bailecath was hardly a fashion center but never before had Rory even faintly resembled the rest of the residents. His clothes were always third-hand and much-mended and, in spite of his mother’s best efforts, they were a poor fit. He outgrew everything so quickly that his wrists always hung out. At seventeen, he was taller than most of the men in the village—five feet eleven inches. These clothes fit as though a tailor had fashioned them. Fearfully, he thrust he feet into the fine shoes, wincing at the hole in the toe of his sock. They fit, God be praised, they fit as though they’d been made for him. His heart lifted. Maybe this evening would not be such a disaster after all.

Quickly, he walked over to the mirror fastened on the wall. It was cloudy and cracked, the silver had flaked off in places but it would serve. The image given back by the uneven surface startled Rory. He looked almost handsome—and elegant. Yes, almost elegant. He straightened the scarf and tucked his shirt in. As a last touch, he donned the cap, set it at a jaunty angle and took one more, measuring look at the mirror. Then, assuming what he thought was a lord-of-the-manor pose, he called his mother.

With unaccustomed timidity, she pushed back the curtain and her eyes opened wide. A gasp escaped her as she exclaimed, Rory, y’re the image o’ y’r da. I never knew afore. Sure an’ y’re a handsome lad. I’ll be losin’ y’ this night t’ some colleen. If no’ Mary Ann, then some other.

Rory felt the flush creep up his face. Och, mum, y’ know that’s no’ true. Still, her heartfelt words gave him courage.

Carefully, his mother adjusted his makeshift ascot. Her eyes moist, she said softly, Y’d best go, lad. Y’r colleen will be waitin’ an’ ‘tis no’ the likes o’ her who’ll be havin’ t’ wait long afore some other lad claims her.

Grinning until his face felt as though it would crack, Rory made a reverential bow to his mother and scampered out for his first-ever date.

The mowed field that surrounded the hall was crowded with people, all dressed in their finest clothes. Still, Mary Ann stood out. Her dress was shamrock green with white accents. The vivid color emphasized her raven-wing hair and blue eyes. It made her pale skin glow or maybe it was the stars in Rory’s eyes that made it seem so. She was surrounded by admiring young men, all of them from a much better class than Rory. Well, there was no sense waiting; it was now or never. Rory squared his thin shoulders and sauntered forward.

For a moment, the crowd of young people stood speechless at the change in Rory Quigley. Gone was the too-short, threadbare clothing; gone was the subservient manner; gone, too, was the feeling of inferiority. With his father’s clothes on his back, a new confidence had flooded through him. Any laughter remaining was still-born in their mouths when the fairest colleen in Bailecath ran straight to him and clasped his hand possessively.

With a flourish, he bent and kissed Mary Ann’s hand almost as though he’d done it before. She blushed becomingly and laughed into his face. Her breath smelled like lemon and honeysuckle. Watching them, one would believe they were betrothed and had been for some time. Perhaps it was so in some celestial scheme. Perhaps some fate had destined this moment. Perhaps Rory was better than they’d all thought. Perhaps they’d all missed something that Mary Ann had instinctively known. The