A Love by Any Measure (3 page)

In Remembering we have, and what we’ve lost

Killarney, Ireland, 1856

Such a sight young Maeve had never before witnessed.

There must have been twenty in all, an Englishman atop each. Certainly she had seen horses before, and had even been on the back of one a few times. The Boyles over the hill had one, and sometimes when she, Ma, and Da went into Killarney to attend mass, Billy Boyle would let her work the reins.

But in general, horses were work animals, and she hadn’t seen anyone but August’s father mounted right atop one laden with riding gear. She wondered if this was what the Knights of the Round Table had looked like when they rode off to Jerusalem. She had liked that part of the Tales of King Arthur most, and consequently August had read that passage to her several times over the summer.

August’s favorite part, when Guinevere betrayed Arthur and rode off to be with Lancelot, was positively scandalous. Maeve had told him that Guinevere was a foolish woman of bad morals. August had argued that their marriage was doomed from the start. For one, Arthur became a king who was no longer worthy of obeisance, and Guinevere had been right to leave him. Secondly, Arthur needed an heir and Guinevere was unable to provide him one. On reflection, he couldn’t understand why Arthur hadn’t pitched her earlier. Then maybe he could have had a queen who would have borne him a legitimate son before Mordrid had killed him.

Maeve had been confused. “I don’t understand,” she’d told August as they sat together in the hayloft over the stable. “I thought marrying meant they would have children. Why didn’t Guinevere have a baby then, if that’s what Arthur needed?”

“Perhaps they didn’t do it enough,” August returned with a slight blush on his cheeks.

But Maeve was more confused still. “Do what?”

August smirked. “It, Maeve.”

She hadn’t understood, but August was reluctant to offer any more explanation.

The riding party approached the dirt lane that connected the O’Connor cottage to Killarney. Further down shore sat the newly completed manor house where the Graysons resided. Most of the horseman continued on, seemingly pressed in their business. One, however, slowed near the O’Connors’ gate. Maeve’s mother and father walked out to meet him. They spoke in voices too low to hear from the cottage stoop where she sat, carding wool. At one point, there was a lull in their conversation as all turned to look to her. She blushed deeply as the Englishman gave a disappointed grimace her way.

Finally, the Englishman straightened on his steed and continued up the lane. Both Sine and Rory O’Connor’s expressions spoke of anxious confusion. Sine exhaled and beckoned her daughter near with a wave.

Maeve set down the combs on top of the sack of wool and rubbed the oily residue from her hands onto her skirt as she walked over to her parents.

“When did you last see Master Grayson?” Sine asked her daughter.

Maeve fidgeted. August’s formal title was detestable. Titles belonged to the English, and though August was English, she couldn’t slight him that way in her own mind. To her he was simply August, a friend with whom she had spent the whole summer, running over hill and dale near Middle Lake.

“We were in the stable last night, reading until twilight,” she answered in her matter-of-fact tone. “I came home right after dark. He said he was going to try to see his mother.”

Sine scowled, her cheeks flushing red. She did not like the idea of Maeve getting, as the Yanks who came through town would say, “too big for her britches.” After a summer of being Master Grayson’s distraction from his mother’s illness, Maeve’s britches were beginning to look awfully taut. Firstly, she spent half her time cooped up with him in the hay loft of the stable, reading. The young Grayson had taken great delight and pride in teaching Maeve to read, but Maeve didn’t see the lessons for what they were. Maeve thought August was doing her a kindness; Sine thought August held it as nothing more than teaching a puppy a fancy trick. Whenever they weren’t running around the grounds of Shepherd’s Bluff, they were to be found somewhere else together, whether seated at the only table in the modest O’Connor cottage, or with their knees covered in mud and muck at the lakeshore.

Then came the day when August’s gaze fell upon her daughter with a new softness, a sense of reverence that she had understood at once with tempered fret. Her child wasn’t even yet thirteen, but old enough to have caught the eye of someone of her own casting.

If not for the situation as it stood, Sine and half of Killarney would have thought it quite a scandal. Here was her daughter, of meager means and aspiration, running to and fro with the son of the landlord. Sine had very little problem with August himself; he was not entirely unpleasant a guest, and he rarely behaved in a manner that could be considered anything less than cordial. It wasn’t clear that August’s father was entirely aware of his son’s daily regimen of general tomfoolery, but it was likely he had little ability to mind. Everyone knew why they were spending their summer at Middle Lake, except perhaps August.

Eliza Grayson had been brought back to Ireland to die.

Sine laid her hand gently on Maeve’s shoulder.

“Darling, Lady Grayson … ” she trailed off. Maeve’s gaze grew heavy with concern. “Lady Grayson passed last night.”

Maeve’s hand flew over her mouth, stifling her gasp.

“August has gone missing. It seems he ran out of the house, and no one’s seen him all day. Lord Grayson is very concerned. Do you know where he might have gone?”

Maeve shook her head as her attention was drawn to her father reemerging from their cottage, a rifle in hand. As a yeoman of the Grayson lands, he was allowed this privilege. Maeve wondered what would require such measure in the hills around Middle Lake.

“I best to be goin’,” he said plainly as he loaded the ammunition. “The riders are going north towards town. We should check down in the abbey and lakeside.”

Sine smoothed the palm of her hand over Maeve’s cheek. “Stay inside. August may try to make his way here, after all. If he comes, you keep him safe until the Englishmen ride by again. Can you do that, sweet?”

Maeve nodded, still in shock. Sine leaned over, kissed her daughter’s forehead, and departed.

Maeve was not without suspicion, however, as to August’s probable whereabouts. They had dreamily talked of running away on several occasions. She wanted to go somewhere where she wouldn’t be thought foolish simply because she was poor and a girl. August wanted to go anywhere where his father wouldn’t find him. Maeve had suggested the mountains.

There was a stream that meandered through the woods in the hills. Billy Boyle’s son, Jared, had told Maeve that if you followed the stream up the mountain, you would come to a pond where fairies danced at night. Maeve thought Jared was a right liar and didn’t hesitate to tell him so. When Jared insisted, Maeve had lopped him square on the chin.

Nonetheless, August seemed intrigued when she passed along the tall tale. Not that he supposed there were fairies, but perhaps there were other wonders to behold. Maeve and he agreed that when they were older, they would follow that stream and find that pond, maybe even build a little cottage there. She didn’t understand why, but Maeve liked the idea of sharing a cottage with August. True, sometimes he could be a downright spoiled brute, but most of the time he was sweet and sincere.

They were best friends, when it came down to it.

As the day carried on with only the occasional thundering of hooves over the road marking time, Maeve paced about her cottage in contemplation. As the sun began to set and twilight grew near, she grew more and more convinced that they would not find August. They didn’t know where to look.

She threw on her cloak, said a quick prayer to Mother Mary for guidance, and grabbed one of her da’s lanterns from the hook on the porch.

The woods and the hillside turned out to be terribly frightening at night, eerily basked only in the light of the moon and her lantern’s humble flame. As she climbed higher into the hills, the trees became thicker and the lantern’s light more valuable. After an hour or so of traipsing over fallen trees and scattered rocks, she heard the rushing of water.

The stream continued uphill as she occasionally called out fruitlessly. With every step she took, the terrain was less familiar, less distinguished. She began to wonder if she’d be able to find her way back down, and what would happen if she couldn’t.

Maeve’s mind wandered too much for her own good. The rain as of late had surged the flow of the waters for a short spell. Now it had receded and the soft, billowy banks were too slippery to cover in the dark. An unfocused mind led to a lazy eye; she did not land in the water, but she did slip on the muddy shore.

Maeve brushed herself off as best she could and let a few words slip from her mouth that were probably inadvisable for a girl of her tender years. No one would hear her, she thought dismissively.

Except for August, who stared at her from just a few steps away.

His skin had been made pale by the coolness in the air, and even in the faint flicker of lantern light it was obvious that he had been crying, though his face for the moment was dry. His tufts of ebony hair were chaotic, a few spots of mud dotted his temple and clothing, and his green eyes were utterly blood shot.

He looked at Maeve as though she was a specter, not sure whether to be afraid or intrigued.

“August!” She ran to him, the lantern left where it had fallen. The upward angle of the beaming shafts of light made each seem taller to the other. She threw her arms around him in the rush of her relief. It was the first time that she had ever done so, and she was surprised at how comforting it felt to lean her head against his shoulder. She hoped for August to embrace her — to make any movement, to let her know that he was all right.

He did nothing, only stood stiff as stone and cold as coal, so Maeve pulled back and eyed him warily. The momentary thrill faded as soon as she remembered that from which he had fled.

“Oh, August,” she sighed. “I’m so sorry. Your ma … ”

“She called for me,” August rebuked, though his voice became weaker and more cracked as he continued. “Before she … d … d … died. She called for me, but he wouldn’t let me see her. He kept me from telling her I … loved her.”

Maeve backed away in surprise. His face … she had never witnessed such horror, such anger, such bitter sadness as she did in August’s present expression.

“I’m sure she knew,” were the only words she could bring herself to say.

With August found, Maeve became suddenly aware of how cold it was getting. The wet mud covering her legs didn’t help.

“Come, half of County Kerry is looking for you. Everyone’s quite worried and —”

“Is my father?” His eyes were all at once frightened and full of hope.

“I don’t know.”

He chuckled ruefully. “Of course he isn’t. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t love me the way your mother and father love you. You’re so lucky. So very, very lucky.”

Maeve knew Emmanuel Grayson was a strict disciplinarian, but she couldn’t imagine a father not having his child’s best at heart, even if all she had heard of him from August was cruelty. Maeve understood he was grieving, but she had been raised differently.

“You bite your tongue, August Grayson!” she spat out, pulling away and snatching the forsaken lantern from the ground. “The Bible says that you shall honor thy father and mother!”

Immediately, Maeve felt sorry, for August looked devastated by her rebuke. What he said next, however, overwhelmed her.

“I do honor thy mother and father,” he nearly whispered, his eyes fixed on the ground. “And you.”

August lifted his head to meet her watery eyes, his gaze never faltering. Maeve didn’t know whether to back away or shorten the distance herself. She chose to do neither and so stood planted in her spot.

“You cared enough to find me.”

August’s fingers brushed over her cheek as he hesitated before slowly closing the distance between them. Maeve trembled when his breath misted over her lips, and shook from head to toe when his lips ever so lightly touched hers.

She knew of kissing, for she had seen her parents and others give each other quick pecks. But she had never considered that she too might one day experience kissing, and never with August.

No words could she find. She didn’t know what to do, or if she should do anything. What was he expecting? Was she supposed to kiss him back? Was she supposed to thank him?

No, it was best to say nothing at all. It was late and August was likely weary, she thought, having been away from home since morning. She herself could do with a cup of tea. Turning from his kiss, Maeve used the stream for guidance, making way down the hill.

When at last they emerged from the woods, a plume of smoke towered skyward from Shepherd’s Bluff’s chimney. August did not resist her coaxing, too tired from a day without food or shelter, as she led him to the front door without resistance.

Inside, the house was still and quiet. Maeve wondered if indeed anyone was at home. It didn’t seem likely that everyone would have gone off in the search. Surely, one person stayed behind.

Just as this thought crossed her mind, a very woeful looking Emmanuel Grayson, rounded the corner from the foyer into the vestibule.

“August!”

The son, being so touched by the display of reverent and sincere relief on his father’s face, of feeling of shared grief at the loss of a woman they both loved, ran into his embrace. Emmanuel’s arms encircled August, rocking him side to side.

“I was so worried. I was beginning to think I had lost you both on the same day.”

For the whole summer, Maeve couldn’t recall having heard of August getting more than a passing snipe from Emmanuel Grayson. Now his actions spoke otherwise. August melted into his father’s warmth, and Maeve hoped that this would finally prove to him that he was not only lovable, he was loved.

“No cause, sir,” Maeve ventured, drawing Emmanuel’s attention. “He’s right dandy. Found him up in the mountains. Just a bit dirty and knackered, is all.”