The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (48 page)

“It might be best if you come in out of the rain. You need a hot meal, dry clothes and a good night’s sleep. Al wil look better in the morning. Except for me.” She winked and Brian Fitzgerald laughed in embarrassment.

“I am very pleased to final y meet you.” He seemed sincere.

Maeve peeked in at him as he warmed his feet near the fire, half asleep with exhaustion. The young woman enchanted within the crone stirred restlessly at his fine figure, long legs stretched out, broad shoulders wrapped in a blanket of her own making, silky auburn hair brushing his once-starched col ar. No, she reprimanded herself, do not imagine he is the one who wil lift this enchantment.

He was the first of the Fitzgerald men to travel without a manservant, and Maeve wondered idly how long he would stay in the rambling mansion with the quiet bearing down on him and the luxuries of Boston an ocean away. The young woman in her surfaced again momentarily, wondering too what life alone under the same roof would bring. No doubt disappointment. She would put that dream in a box and lock it with a key, throw the key into Galway Bay.

“You must let me help, Mrs MacGearailt.” Brian bit back a testy tone, anxious to make headway on his writing. She dropped an enormous basket of laundry near his desk.

Maeve MacGearailt was the toughest, most stubborn woman he’d ever had the fortune, or misfortune as the case may be, to encounter. Maeve looked to be a thousand years old, give or take a few centuries. How she carried pails of water with her crooked back and withered limbs confounded him. Her body looked like one of the aged scrubby trees dotting the landscape, grown twisted and knotty against a cruel climate.

She rose in the morning before him, tidied up the mess he left in his study, cooked a hearty breakfast, and scrubbed the floor or washed the curtains by the time he brushed sleep from his eyes. He’d grown accustomed to her haggish appearance – at least it no longer startled him.

Although the first sight of her, standing in the doorway of the mansion, with lightning and wind as a haunting backdrop, had nearly sent him to his knees in prayer against an Irish curse.

“How far along are you now, Mr Fitzgerald?” She folded clothes in his study, a habit that irritated the hel out of him.

Further by thousands of words if you would leave me be, he thought. “Please, let us stop this formality. Cal me Brian.”

“I am Maeve.”

Brian frowned, feeling a bit guilty he’d never even asked about her given name, never asked her a thing about her life. How did she come to be alone at Kildooney House? Did she have family or friends? She never spoke of anything but his comfort, listening to him rant away about the difficulties of penning his grand novel. The barristers had always seen to the house, and no doubt to the pittance Maeve earned keeping the place standing.

At times in the last few months, he’d questioned the wisdom of sel ing the
Boston Daily
Traveler
, the newspaper that had brought wealth and esteem to the family. At twenty-four, he’d yearned for a different life. Without a compass, he’d latched on to the first intriguing notion introduced at the reading of his father’s last wil and testament.

He owned a mansion in Ireland. Brian glanced at Maeve, her tattered dress and shawl blending with the tattered furnishings of Kildooney House. A mansion in Ireland had a different meaning, no doubt.

Stil , it was lovely and wild and quiet on Inishmore. No social obligations pul ed him away, no insipid young ladies sent unsolicited notes and invitations. There was only a warm house, a bluff overlooking a wild bay, a town four kilometre’s walk away with nothing but a pub, a smithy and a few poor shops, and Maeve.

To Brian, Maeve embodied al he knew of Ireland. As far from the ton of Boston as a person could be, Maeve was ugly, evidently poor and fil ed with a mixture of what seemed like fortitude and longing. She tugged at his heart, and he wondered why. No doubt just melancholy for his own mother and grandmother, long since crossed.

“Wel , Brian, it seems you’re in need of a
Leannán
Sidhe, but do take care should you meet her.”

“Please, Maeve, no young women. I’ve had my fil , begging your pardon for mentioning it. I came for quiet.”

Maeve cackled out a laugh so hearty she col apsed on to the couch hugging her stomach. “You don’t know of the Aos Sí? The faery folk? The Gentry?”

Brian rested his head on his typewriter. He’d been warned that to open the door to an Irish story could mean the waste of hours of precious time. He turned and glanced at Maeve, stil red in the face from laughing. How could he be rude to her?

“Go ahead; tel me about the wee faeries.”

“Wee? Ah, I see. Little brownies and such, is that it?” Maeve rose and brushed at her apron, which no amount of straightening would ever make crisp, and tucked her parchment white hair under her kerchief.

“I meant no offence! Do tel me.” Brian bit back a curse, knowing that he had to mend this rift lest guilt haunt him the rest of the day. The novel would have to wait. It seemed it always had to wait.

“If you truly insist?” Maeve sat again, and folded her hands reverently.

“I do insist.” Brian pul ed the paper from his typewriter to show his wil ingness to listen, and lit his pipe.

“You are a writer, an artist, is that not so?”

A subtle smile pul ed at her lips and Brian saw the joke. “As you wel know, I have yet to write a thing of any import. I take that is an example of the famous Irish sense of humour.”

“That is why you must find your Leannán Sidhe!” She clapped her hands as if she’d made the cleverest announcement. “Your muse, Brian. A Leannán Sidhe is a lovely young woman, one of the Gentry. She imbues artists with intense creativity, and from her, they rise to the summit of their abilities. But one must take care, for your muse may also torture your spirit, so al uring is her form and wel . . . ways, shal we say?”

“I’m finding that writing is torture enough, without throwing a Lea—?”

“Leannán Sidhe . . .”

“Without complicating matters with one of those.”

“Ah, al matters are already complicated, whether you wish for them or not.” Brian wondered if Maeve had ever been lovely, had ever inspired a young man to great heights.

And as he looked into her twinkling eyes, a fine shimmering mist arose between them. Beyond the veil of mist, sat a young Maeve, a much younger Maeve. The most beautiful girl Brian had seen or imagined. He shook his head and the il usion lifted as quickly as it came. I have the imagination of an artist, he thought. If I only had the talent to match.

“Wel , Maeve, if you ever run into one of the Gentry, I wil gladly accept any help they are wil ing to bestow. For I am now one month behind in my work. I may as wel have stayed in Boston. No doubt I wil return there as a failure. At least, I now wish I’d not told my friends that I would return a novelist.”

Maeve cheated every morning, as she had for hundreds of years. While the master of the house slept, she assumed her youthful form to perform the most arduous tasks. Technical y, as a Corrigan, she could assume either of her personas at wil , as long as she gave them equal time.

Long ago, she’d found it easier to drift through the years as a crone. The bones ached, the muscles were weak, and there was no joy in glancing into the mirror, but men left her alone.

Because no man cared about an old crone.

This is exactly what was required to break the spel of her kind. A man needed to love the crone as much as the beauty. She’d learned after much heartbreak, more than once, nay, more than a dozen times, that beauty was the only prize men cherished. Wasn’t this the curse of womankind, faery or human?

A youthful body made easy work of scrubbing a floor or pul ing weeds from the garden, though.

Brian Fitzpatrick was blessedly a sound sleeper. Poor fel ow, she mused, wondering if he’d ever finish his book. He’d made good progress in the last few weeks, but he cursed when he didn’t think she heard. She’d found many pages of discarded would-be bril iance bal ed up under his desk or surrounding the ash can.

She tried to leave him alone, truly she did, but her mixed nature betrayed her at times. She’d knit an Aran sweater for him while sitting on the couch near his desk, eyeing his handsome profile, knowing that she drove him to near insanity with her clacking bone needles. At times she almost wished he’d speak his mind, tel her to leave the room, or worse, send her packing. Then she would reveal herself to his great amazement and shame, she fantasized.

No, Brian Fitzgerald was genteel and mannered, although without airs. He was not the sort to insult an old lady. He seemed to have come to enjoy their evening pipes by the fire nearly as much as she. Once, a bit in his cups after a particularly gruel ing day of staring at a blank page, he’d pul ed her in for a benign hug. Maeve had forced herself to stay the crone, while her spirit craved to cleave to his warm embrace as a young beauty.

Ah, just one kiss before he left for Boston, she fantasized as she pushed the basket of clean wet clothes on to her hip and set to the lines for hanging in the salt breeze. What would it hurt? One touch of that dark handsome cheek, one rake of her hand through his silken hair, one—

“Hel o.”

Maeve jumped with a squeal and turned on her bare foot to see Brian, a bit sleepy, pushing a hand through his hair. His eyes widened as he took her in, and Maeve, for the first time in hundreds of years, fel mute.

“I’m sorry to have frightened you. I haven’t . . .” Brian went mute as wel , and ran his gaze up and down her, sending coils of excitement and fear through her veins. He took a few hesitant strides and extended his hand.

“I’m Brian Fitzgerald, from Boston.”

Think, Maeve, for the love of the Goddess, think.

“Yes, of course you are!” She pinned his shirt to the line and ignored his extended hand. “Just getting this done. I’l be out of your way presently.”

“That’s my washing.”

“Is it now? Oh my, wel , no need for you to see this. Back in the house with you. I’m sure you’l want some tea and bacon, and Maeve wil have that for you shortly.”

“Where is Maeve?”

“I mean, she’l have that for you when she returns from Kilronan. That’s where she is, Kilronan.”

“How did she get to town? She said nothing of it to me. Please do not say that my dear Maeve walked al that way.”

“Yes, she did. She does so quite often.”

“I must take the horse and cart to retrieve her then. She is not fit for that. Why did you let her go?”

“No! She did get a ride, now that I recal . I am so sil y today, you must forgive me.”
Maeve,
Maeve, you are doing quite poorly here. Pull your knickers on straight and catch your breath.

She turned and faced Brian, feeling the heat rush to her cheeks. He’d think her a simpleton, and he’d be right to do so. “I am Fiona, Maeve’s granddaughter, come from Kilronan to help.”

“Ah, then I’m very pleased to meet you, Fiona.” Indeed he was, eyeing her with the lust that emanated from every man she encountered. He caught himself and straightened up, al but slapping himself in the face to stop gaping.

“So there is nothing wrong with Maeve? She has not cal ed you here because the work is too arduous? I wondered about her family, but she never mentioned a granddaughter.” Maeve started at his tone, a bit reprimanding. “I do help when I can.”

“I am very glad to hear it. I thought perhaps to hire a man to do the heavy work. It pains me to see her at her chores. I would just as wel have her here as a guest. I would not insult her, but she is quite old. And I do believe she is the worst cook on the island.” He laughed lightly as Maeve’s blood started to boil.

“The worst cook, you said? On the island?”

“Perhaps the worst in Ireland. The woman can burn water, truth be told.” Maeve bit at her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes, holding back a curse that would turn the bastard into a hare.

“Listen, you ungrateful, good for nothing
American,
with your fancy ways and tastes. My grandmother is a fine cook, a fine cook indeed. Imagine, cal ing Maeve MacGearailt a poor cook.

Why don’t you push her to the ground and kick her? Do you know what it is to say such a thing about a MacGearailt?
Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat.”
Brian had backed up several steps and was dangerously close to fal ing into a bramble.

“What?”

“I said, may you be eaten by a cat that is eaten by the devil!”

“I’m very sorry, I had no idea . . .” He held up a hand to ward off her ire and tripped into the hedgerow.

Maeve saw her chance and made a break for it, picking up her skirts and running for al she was worth to the path leading to the beach. He’d fol ow her, she was sure, so she ducked behind a tree and cast a light shadow spel to remain hidden.

“Miss Fiona?” His cal was but a whisper, and Maeve regretted lashing out at him so, at least a little. “Miss Fiona, where are you? I’m very sorry. I love your grandmother, and never meant an insult.”

I love your grandmother.
Oh, if that were only true, Maeve thought.

He searched the beach, every room of the house, every foot of the grounds. Fiona had disappeared as suddenly as she’d materialized. Her impression on him, however, lingered.

Why was it that the most beautiful woman in the world had the temper of a crazed dog? Who would have guessed that one could become so irate over a comment about cooking? Surely the granddaughter knew that Maeve burned everything? And why hadn’t she come even once in the four months he’d been at Kildooney? Was she so busy in Kilronan, or did she care so little for her grandmère?

And if she was such a shrew, why did she burn in Brian’s mind and body like he’d been branded for eternity by the mere sight of her? What a beauty, with long straight dark hair and bright blue eyes – Maeve’s eyes, for sure, but without the film of the years clouding them. Her pale skin and wide curves figured heavily in his fantasies of kissing her and hovering an inch over her ready, loving and naked body.