Was that what Emily had seen in Brendan’s eyes? A fear that he was turning into his father, with his father’s weaknesses? Or a fear that his mother would neither see him for himself, or allow him to be free of Seamus’s ghost, and still love him?
Was she still protecting him because he needed it, or because
Had Connor seen that, and probed the wound? Sometimes legends matter more than reality, dreams more than truth. Would Daniel see it too?
“Thank you, Mr. Yorke,” Emily said suddenly. “You are right. I may very well come to see a beauty in the bog that I had not thought possible.”
She went on quickly now, aware that she was cold. She was glad to reach the shop and go inside where it was agreeably warm.
“Good day to you, Mrs. Radley,” Mary O’Donnell said with a smile. “A bit chill it is, for sure. Now what can I get for you? I have some nice heather honey, which I saved for poor Mrs. Ross. Very fond of it, she is. And it’ll do her good.” She bent down and picked a jar from below the counter. “And a dozen fresh eggs,” she went on. “What with that poor creature washed up by the sea, an’ all, you’ll be cooking more than usual. How is he, then?”
“Bruised,” Emily replied. “I think he was a bit more seriously injured than he said at first. But he’ll recover.”
“And stopping here in the meantime, no doubt.” Mary pulled her lips tight.
“Where would he go?” Emily asked.
“Some mother’s missing him,” Mary responded. “God comfort the poor creature.”
Emily put the shopping into her basket and paid for it. “The shop is quiet this afternoon,” she observed, allowing a slight look of concern into her expression.
Mary’s gaze moved away, as if caught by something else, except there was nothing, no movement except the wind.
“It’ll get busy later, I daresay,” she said with a smile.
Emily knew she would learn nothing if she did not ask. “I met Mr. Yorke along the beach. He was telling me something of the history of the village.”
“Oh, he would,” Mary agreed, relieved to have something general to talk about. “Knows more than anyone about the place.”
“And the people,” Emily added.
The light vanished from Mary’s eyes. “That too, I suppose. By the way, Mrs. Radley, I have half a loaf of bread here for Mrs. Flaherty. If you’re going that way, would you mind dropping it in for her?” She produced a bag, carefully wrapped. It was not quite an invitation to conclude the conversation, but the suggestion was there.
Emily seized it. “Of course. I would be happy to.”
Immediately Mary gave her directions to the Flaherty house.
“You can’t miss it,” she said warmly. “It’s the only one along that road with stone gateposts and two trees in the front. And would you mind taking a pound of butter at the same time?”
Emily held out the loaf and the butter, explaining how she came to have them.
Mrs. Flaherty took them and invited Emily, who had remained standing on the doorstep, in to have a cup of tea. Emily accepted immediately.
The kitchen was warm from the big stove against the wall, and the polished copper pans gave it a comfortable feeling, along with strings of onions hanging from the ceiling beams, the bunches of herbs and the blue and white china on the old wooden dresser.
“What a lovely room,” Emily said spontaneously.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Flaherty smiled. She pushed the kettle over onto the hob and started taking down cups and saucers. She had gone to the larder to fetch milk when a movement outside the window caught Emily’s eye. She was staring into the garden, watching Brendan Flaherty deep in conversation with someone just beyond her sight when Mrs. Flaherty returned. She glanced outside and saw Brendan, and her face filled with a kind of exasperated pride as she looked at him. He was holding up a carved wooden frame, such as might have fitted around a painting.
“His father made that,” Mrs. Flaherty said quietly. “Seamus had wonderful hands, and he loved the wood. Knew the grain of it, which way it wanted to go, as if it spoke to him.”
“Has Brendan the same gift?” Emily asked, watching as Brendan’s hand caressed the piece he held.
A shadow crossed Mrs. Flaherty’s face. “Oh, he’s like his father inasmuch as one man can be like another.” Her voice was low and hollow with a kind of regret, and in that moment Emily had a sudden awareness of Mrs. Flaherty’s loneliness, and how different it was from Susannah’s. It was incomplete, there were doubts in it, things unresolved.
Then Brendan moved and Emily saw that it was Daniel he was talking to. Daniel laughed and held out his hand. Brendan gave him the wooden frame. Daniel’s eyes met his, and he said something. Brendan put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder.
Mrs. Flaherty dropped the cups and saucers the short distance onto the table with a clatter and strode to the back kitchen door. She threw it open and went outside.
Brendan turned, startled. His hand dropped from Daniel’s shoulder. He looked embarrassed. Daniel simply stared at Mrs. Flaherty as if she were incomprehensible.
She snatched the carved frame out of his hands. “That isn’t Brendan’s to give,” she said hoarsely. “None of his father’s work is. I don’t know what you want here, young man, but you aren’t getting it.”
“Mother—” Brendan began.
She turned on him. “You don’t give away your father’s work until you can equal it!” she told him fiercely, her voice shaking.
“Mother—” Brendan began again.
Daniel cut across him. “He wasn’t giving me anything, Mrs. Flaherty. He only showed it to me. He’s proud of his father, as you would want him to be.”
Mrs. Flaherty’s cheeks were flaming now. She was confused, wrong-footed without knowing how it had happened, and still angry.
“Perhaps I had better walk Daniel home, and not trouble you just now,” Emily interrupted. “I’ll accept your invitation for tea another time.” She could see the hot embarrassment in Brendan’s face as he glared at his mother, and the next moment looked away, searching for words without finding them.
“Thank you,” Daniel accepted, looking at Emily, then taking a step towards her. He swiveled slightly and smiled at Brendan, with gentleness and a quick flash of amusement in it. Then touching Emily lightly on the arm, he guided her along the path to the gate, and the road.
As Emily latched the gate behind them, she saw Brendan and Mrs. Flaherty arguing fiercely. Once Mrs. Flaherty jabbed her finger towards the road, without looking or seeing Emily staring at her. Brendan was shouting back, but she could not hear the words, only his shaking head made it clear he was denying something.
Daniel was looking at her. “Poor Brendan,” he said sadly. “Competing with the ghosts?”
“Ghosts?” she asked as they began to walk back along the road towards the shore. “His father. Who else?”
“I don’t know,” he replied with a quick smile. “Whoever it was that he liked, and his mother is so afraid of.”
He was right. It had been fear she had seen in Mrs. Flaherty’s eyes. Why? Was it an unsuitable friendship? Was she jealous, afraid of losing some part of him—his time, his attention, his need? Might someone else take from her the role of his protector?
Or was she afraid of something that Brendan might do? Did it concern Connor Riordan’s death? Was that why the sight of his friendship with Daniel had woken such fear in her? History repeating itself?
