An Irish Blessing: The Irish Sisters Trilogy (Montana Sky Series) Page 13

  He realized Alana might be viewing the supplies and presents as courtship gifts. Which, to be honest, they were. What if she’s angry about my pursuing her if she’s not interested. Heat prickled the back of his neck.

  “You didn’t listen to me.” This time her tone wasn’t as sharp.

  He swallowed, feeling he was walking down a manure-strewn road, stepping carefully to avoid any pungent piles. “You’re right,” Patrick said in the tone he used to calm a fretful horse. “I didn’t listen to your words.”

  Her expression remained implacable.

  “But I listened to what I thought were your wishes.” Patrick imbued what he was saying with sincerity, hoping if Alana could discern his intentions, she’d stop being angry. “That, like most women, you’d like a pretty new petticoat.” He gestured toward the garment.

  Alana’s head drooped and her shoulders rounded, as if the act of staying upright took too much of her energy.

  He wanted to kiss the vulnerable spot on her exposed slender neck, feel the delicate white skin under his lips. But now Patrick feared he’d set back any progress between them and wondered if he’d ever have an opportunity to touch her so familiarly.

  He waited on tenterhooks for her response. His heart pounded so hard Patrick thought the sound would give away how much this conversation meant to him. He sent up a prayer for divine help.

  As if in inspiration, a more rational argument came to him. “You ruined your petticoat for me, Alana,” he said in a soft tone. “If the situation was reversed, and I’d torn up a shirt to bandage you, wouldn’t you want to fix that shirt for me in the best way you could?”

  Alana finally raised her head. “You’re right.” Although she smiled, her eyes appeared sad. “Thank you for such a thoughtful gift.”

  As if to draw attention away from her niece, Henrietta rattled the brown paper she’d taken from Charlie. As she was in the process of folding it, she paused. Holding up the paper, she tapped some lettering. “These parcels are labeled with names. This was obviously meant for Alana to open.” She glanced around the table. “Children, stop everything until we sort this out.”

  Charlie picked up a package. “This one’s for me!” He hefted it. “Can I open it, Ma?”

  “Wait until we check each one.” Henrietta reached for a package near her and read the name. “Oh.” With a startled look she glanced at Patrick. “This one’s for me.”

  “I didn’t leave anyone out.” He grinned at her. “Even Sian can gnaw on the hambone after you’ve made soup with it.”

  “Well, that certainly is generous of you.”

  Rory gestured toward the package. “Show us what’s inside.”

  Everyone watched Henrietta undo the string and unfold the paper to reveal the emerald fabric.

  She gasped and held the swath of material to her chest. “Why, this is so beautiful!”

  Isleen fingered the edge of the fabric. “Ma, you’ll look so pretty in this. Can I use some for new hair ribbons?” She held up the end of one of her braids. “I can wear them on Sunday.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be enough to spare.”

  Idelle bounced in her seat. “Ma hasn’t had a new dress in years,” she said to Patrick. “She said it’s better for us to have something new because we’re growing.”

  “Very practical.” Patrick glanced at Rory to make sure he hadn’t rubbed the man’s poverty in his face, but he was beaming at his wife, as if imagining her wearing the dress when it was finished.

  He relaxed and enjoyed as each one took turns opening there gifts. The girls squealed over the flower-sprigged fabric in pale blue, and Charlie, although liking his new shirt, levitated off the bench, brandishing his pocketknife.

  “Something extra for taking such good care of Thunder,” Patrick told him, even though he knew the boy felt working with the horse was enough of a treat.

  “Gee willikers, Mr. Gallagher!” Charlie glanced at Patrick before examining the knife.

  “Charlie,” his mother cautioned. “No using slang. Thank Mr. Gallagher properly.”

  “I’m mighty appreciative, Mr. Gallagher,” Charlie said, his eyes shining with sincerity. “I’ll make you a present of the first thing I carve.”

  Patrick gave the boy a solemn nod. “I’d like that.”

  Charlie returned his attention to the knife, snapping the blade open and shut several times.

  Patrick loved watching the children’s faces light up and seeing their happiness reflected in the pleased glow of their parents’ expressions. This occasion certainly was better than Christmas at his place, which tended to be a fairly subdued holiday. After breakfast, he’d hand out presents to his stablemen and his housekeeper, and he received one in return that everyone had chipped in for. Once the presents were opened and admired, the workers finished their chores, only to later come together and sit down to enjoy a Christmas feast. A pleasant day, but nothing compared to the energy and excitement buzzing in this room.

  Patrick had never given much thought to children, beyond having a son or two to someday step into his boots. But after these days of close contact with Charlie and the twins, he’d come to want children of his own.

  Paper crackled as Alana opened her parcel to reveal navy blue broadcloth, sprinkled with a pattern of pale blue and gold ribbons.

  Whether it was Mrs. Cobb or the sheriff who’d chosen the fabric, she’d fulfilled expectations that had been printed on his list. Miss O’Donnell, dress material (navy blue, if possible)

  Patrick hoped Alana would like the fabric, but after her reaction to the petticoat, he braced for a protest, for anger, as with the petticoat but dared to hope for a more positive response.

  Her only reaction was a widening of her eyes. Then, as if reading his thoughts, Alana looked up at him. Her mouth turned up at the corners. “Thank you, Patrick. This will make a fine dress for Sundays.”

  “And parties,” he echoed, thinking of Isleen’s earlier words.

  “And parties,” she agreed. The smile remained, although the sadness in her eyes seemed, if anything, to deepen. “I will think of you when I wear it.” She glanced at Idelle. “You can have some of mine for hair ribbons,” she said gaily, acting perhaps too cheerful.

  With an uneasy feeling, Patrick watched Alana. Although she was saying and doing all the right things, something was wrong, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

  He glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed something odd about her, but the others were caught up in the thrill of their presents. The family seemed as happy about each other’s gifts as they were about their own.

  He couldn’t figure out a way to talk privately to Alana tonight, but he’d try tomorrow.

  CHAPTER TEN

  That night after supper, the family gathered around the fireplace. They’d arranged their chairs in a semi-circle to catch the heat and light from the flames. Rory seemed content to stare into the fire, while Henrietta darned a sock. Only Charlie, working arithmetic problems on his slate, remained at the table.

  The twins were waiting until their brother finished so they could use the slate for their schoolwork. In the meantime, when they couldn’t convince their mother to immediately begin making their dresses, they coaxed Patrick to hold the finished end of the rag braid they plaited to make into a rug. A battered cardboard box near their feet held a pile of rags cut into strips. When one twin came to the end of her piece, she’d rummage through the box, select one, stitch it on, and continue the braid.

  The girls chattered to Patrick, telling stories of each rag that had once been a piece of clothing. He seemed to enjoy helping the twins, arbitrating when they bickered over which color to choose next, and even appearing gratified when Idelle remarked how much faster their braid grew with his help as the anchor.

  Since the girls focused on their guest, Alana could remain silent, continuing to knit the lace once destined for her old petticoat. Now that she had a new one, she could consign the damaged undergarment to be worn o
nly when doing the messiest of chores and use this lace on something else.

  Alana had positioned herself so her hands moved in the light of the second oil lamp, but her face remained in shadow. If she were to make sense of the thoughts churning in her mind, she didn’t want her expression to give anything away.

  After becoming upset with Patrick, Alana had worked hard to pretend all was well with her—something she had plenty of experience with since leaving Ireland. Her family seemed fooled by the show of normalcy, but she suspected Patrick wasn’t, for he sent studied glances her way far too often for her comfort.

  Thinking back to the moment she’d held the new petticoat, Alana tried to trace the origins of the surge of emotion she’d experienced. Now the strength of her reaction seemed ridiculous, but at the time, she’d practically shaken with anger. Why?

  Such behavior was unlike her. The only two occasions Alana could recall ever feeling so angry, she’d also been acting protective. Once she’d railed at William Doody because he refused to refrain from marital relations, even though his wife had borne a babe a year and then miscarried three more. She’d harshly told him that if he didn’t want to be a widower raising ten children on his own, he’d better be more considerate of his wife. Another time, Granny Gogerty attempted to drown her cat because she feared the animal would suck the breath from her infant grandson. Luckily the cat clawed its way to freedom. Alana bandaged the daft old woman’s hands and arms and gave her a sharp scolding to set her right. Cat and baby both thrived.

  The memories made her think of Timkin, her confidant, in whom she’d confided both experiences. He’d always been such a good listener—something she’d loved about him.

  Alana had left Ireland with a broken heart, knowing her life would completely change. What she hadn’t realized was how much she had changed as a result of Timkin’s rejection, and, she reflected in dismay, in ways she didn’t like. Will I always become angry when a man doesn’t do what I want? As if I’m some spoiled beauty needing her every whim indulged. The idea almost nauseated her.

  Perhaps I just needed to be angry, instead of sad and mopey, and Patrick became the target. She took a deep breath. He didn’t deserve the lambasting. Too bad I didn’t have a chance to express my ire to Timkin. She imagined scolding him like a fishwife, shaking a finger in his face. The image almost made her laugh, and, suddenly, she felt better.

  She peeped at Patrick from under lowered eyelashes. Although as different from Timkin as could be—both in appearance and personality—his big body and bold, handsome looks had grown on her sensibilities.

  He is, indeed, a fine figure of a man. The more she was around him, the more attracted she became, something that just a week ago, she wouldn’t have believed possible. But attraction isn’t love.

  “Finally!” Charlie threw down his chalk and then had to grab the piece before it rolled off the table. “I never thought I’d get that last one right. I had to go through the problem three times before I found my mistake,” he said in a long-suffering tone. He waved at the slate. “Your turn,” he told the twins.

  Isleen made a face at him.

  Slumping, Idelle let out a sigh.

  Charlie swung his legs over the bench and jumped to his feet. He picked up a piece of pine and a page from the newspaper that he’d set on the table and walked over to take Isleen’s chair. He spread the paper on the floor near his feet, took out the new knife from his pocket, threw Patrick an appreciative grin, and began to slice shavings off the middle of the wood.

  Patrick raised his eyebrows. “What are you making for my present? Or is it a surprise.”

  “A horse like Thunder. I’ve carved one before using Pa’s knife.”

  “Came out looking like a three-legged dog,” Isleen teased.

  Her mother sent her reproving look. “That’s enough out of you, young lady. You two, get going on your schoolwork.”

  The girls knotted the end of the rag braid and neatly coiled it into the box on top of the rags before slowly rising to their feet.

  Isleen, obviously dawdling, stopped to look out the window into the darkness. “It’s snowing.”

  Idelle joined her. “Maybe we won’t have to go to school tomorrow.”

  “We could work on our dresses,” Isleen said in a wistful tone.

  Henrietta glanced up from her darning. “When you two are finished with your schoolwork, if it’s not too late, I think we can have some of that popcorn Patrick brought us.”

  “We won’t be long,” Idelle assured her mother, while her sister hurried to the table. “We did most of the schoolwork on the way home. We read the history chapter about the Battle of Lexington and memorized two stanzas of Longfellow’s “Paul Revere’s Ride”.”

  “One more than we need to know for tomorrow,” Isleen interjected before plopping onto the bench in a most unladylike manner that, luckily, her mother didn’t witness.

  As if her twin hadn’t spoken, Idelle continued. “As well as our spelling words. Now all we have is our arithmetic problems.”

  With the girls no longer claiming Patrick’s attention, he began watching Alana in almost the same way Rory gazed into the fire, as if her moving hands and the inches added to her lace trim mesmerized him. She suspected he kept trying to see her face, and she was grateful for the shadows.

  Unable to bear his scrutiny, Alana wracked her brain for something to occupy his attention until she hit on an idea. She set her handwork on the table and rose, skirting the chairs to reach the ladder of the loft. She climbed up and, without her feet leaving the rung, she stretched to pull her satchel from beside her bed. The heavy volume of Shakespeare’s plays laid on the bottom. She fished out the book and climbed back down, walking to Patrick and handing him the volume. “Make yerself useful, boyo,” she said in a playful tone. “Pick a play and read to us.”

  “What a lovely idea, Alana,” Henrietta exclaimed. “It will be nice to listen to a different voice.”

  “What, are you tired of me Irish accent?” Rory said with a sly look and an exaggerated lilt to his words.

  Henrietta merely smiled and shook her head. She placed her darning into her sewing basket and stood. “Let me first make the popcorn.” She motioned for Alana to come help.

  Alana had never eaten popcorn—a distinctly American food—so she was eager to see how it was made. She followed her aunt into the kitchen.

  Henrietta spooned lard into a kettle on the stove. “The trick is heating the oil just right. Too quickly and the kernels only partially explode. Too slowly, and they don’t pop at all.” She smiled at Alana. “Those are the old maids.” She poured a handful of popcorn into the kettle, resulting in a low sizzle, and then set on the lid. “We need to make sure the kernels don’t burn, so we need to often shake the kettle, and slightly lift the lid to release the steam. As soon as a bunch pop—” She lifted her chin toward the ladle “—your job is to remove the ones that are ready.”

  Alana nodded her understanding.

  After a few minutes, the first kernels crackled, and, with a popping sound, burst open into white puffs. After that, they quickly exploded, keeping Alana busy scooping out the snowy pieces and dropping them into a big wooden bowl.

  When they finished, Henrietta sprinkled salt over the whole batch. She poured a portion into a bowl that she placed on the table for the girls to share. Then she distributed the rest into five other bowls, so everyone could have their own. She gave two to Alana. “Hand these out. Make sure to pass out napkins, as well. I’ll make us all some chamomile tea with honey.”

  After Alana handed Patrick his bowl, with a thumb and forefinger, he grasped a kernel and held it up. “You realize I can’t eat and read at the same time.”

  “I’ll eat yours,” Charlie offered.

  “Don’t even try. My knife is bigger.” Patrick winked at the boy and ate the piece. “Perfect.”

  Alana went back for hers and Henrietta’s bowls and set them on the side table, while Henrietta brought tea for everyone. S
he took a seat and gingerly put the first fluffy kernel into her mouth. The popcorn was airy and crispy. Each piece crunched and melted at the same time and tasted like salty goodness. She wanted to gobble up her share and, at the same time, savor each one. When her mouth became too dry from the salt, she took a sip of the hot tea, enjoying the sweetness of the honey. “This is wonderful!”

  “You realize you’re a full-fledged American now,” Patrick said in a teasing tone. “Baptism by popcorn.”

  Heat rose in her face. Unknowingly, Alana had shifted into the light of the oil lamp. Although not entirely averse to the idea of becoming an American, she wasn’t ready to open herself to Patrick’s scrutiny. She slid the chair left a few inches and leaned back so the shadows once again enveloped her.

  Patrick finished his share, set the bowl on the side table, wiped his hands on the napkin, and picked up the book. He paged through the thick volume before looking up. “Any suggestions?”

  Alana absolutely did not want to hear A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Puck reminded her too much of Timkin, but she didn’t want to say so. What reason could she give for not liking the play? She braced herself for the wave of grief that inevitably came when she thought of her lost love, but when the emotion hit, the feeling seemed more wavelet than wave.

  Before Alana could figure out what that change meant, Isleen bounced up from the bench and came a few steps closer, her hands clasped in front of her chest. Romeo and Juliet, she said, in a dreamy tone. “The older students are studying the play, and I’ve been listening when they read aloud. But mostly Mrs. Gordon talks to them about the meaning of the words and character roles, and they answer questions. I haven’t gotten to hear the whole story.”

  Patrick grinned at the girl. Romeo and Juliet it is.”

  With raised eyebrows, Henrietta sent Isleen a stern look and pointed toward the table.

  Patrick glanced at Rory and Henrietta. “Unless someone else votes for another choice.” His gaze lingered on Alana.

  She shook her head, relieved by her cousin’s choice.