The Eden Tree (16 page)

“
Mairin de Barra
,” he said, naming the tune. “Beautiful, is it not?”

“It certainly is,” Linn agreed. The plaintive air reminded her of
Greensleeves
. She smiled. “I’ll bet it’s a sad love song.”

Sean laughed. “That’s a safe bet. They all are.”

“Not so. My father sang a lot of rousing battle songs.”

Sean nodded as he drove into the square, looking for a parking space. The street was crowded with cars; people had come into town from miles around them. “But the war songs don’t sound like that. They’re loud and rhythmic, like marches.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.”

Sean parked the car and they got out. Linn craned her neck down the street. The activity was taking place at the other end of the main thoroughfare, in the field around Saint Michael’s. She could see a raised wooden platform on which people were dancing, and a group of musicians seated on folding chairs. The doors to the Kinnon Arms stood open wide and a steady stream of patrons flowed in and out, laughing and talking. A few danced along to the music, which carried down the street; they were all as graceful as careless children caught up in a game.

As they approached the platform the music changed to the steady drumbeat of the
Garry Owen
. In the blink of an eye the dancers fell into a wild jig, arms at their sides, feet flashing in intricate patterns. Linn stopped, fascinated. It looked like a Hollywood production number, as if they’d been practicing for weeks.

“What do you think of that?” Sean asked, seeing her reaction.

She shook her head slowly in wonder. “Surely some of you must be clumsy,” she said.

Sean laughed. “Not hereabouts. We run them out of town.”

“You’d better not get me dancing, then. I won’t last long at Ildathach.”

“I’ll show you the steps. You’d be amazed how easy it is.”

“I certainly would be amazed if that turned out to be easy.”

Linn walked into the crowd with Sean, looking around at the participants. She saw Neil McCarthy with his wife, a wispy blonde who clung to his arm, and Bridie with her husband. She caught Linn’s eye and waved. A few minutes later Linn spotted Terry Cleary hoisting a glass of contraband Guinness, surrounded by a bevy of teenage girls. Sean touched her arm and she turned to him.

“Will you have a drop?” he asked, pointing to the wooden kegs set up on a table nearby.

“Yes, I think so. What’s available?”

“Stout and porter, beer maybe.”

“American beer?” Linn asked hopefully.

Sean shrugged. “I’ll try.” He made his way through the crowd and Linn turned back to view the dancers.
 

Bridie was standing behind her.

“Where’s himself?” Bridie asked without preliminary. “Have you seen him?”

“If you’re referring to Con I haven’t seen him, and I don’t care to.”

Bridie nodded. “Tell it to the Scots. I don’t believe a word of it. I’ll save you the trouble of asking; he’s with Kate Costello.”

Though this hardly qualified as a surprise it still stung. Linn did her best to hide her reaction but Bridie wasn’t fooled.

“Don’t look like that, my girl; you’ve no room to talk. You’re here with that blatherskite Seaneen Roche.”

Oh, dear. Another blatherskite. They seemed to be multiplying. “Sean is very nice,” Linn replied. “I’m having a good time.”

“Hmmph,” Bridie responded. She looked into the distance. “Here comes my man. I’d better get back.” She took Linn’s arm. “Don’t do anything foolish. I happen to know that Con came alone and Kate just attached herself to him like a barnacle.”

Linn’s spirits rose, though she remained deliberately impassive.

“He’s over by the players, just forninst the drummer,” Bridie muttered in farewell as Sean arrived with their drinks. Linn stood on tiptoe but could see nothing.

“No beer but I got you a shandy,” Sean said, handing Linn the glass.

“That’s fine, Sean. Thanks.”

They sipped in silence and then a drumroll called attention to the platform. Larry Fitzgibbon was approaching the microphone.

“What’s he doing?” Linn asked.

Sean raised his eyes to the sky. “He’s the mayor, God help us. Did you not know?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, he is, and longwinded as well. He’ll make a speech now; I hope we’re all still standing when it’s finally over.’‘

Linn scanned the crowd while Larry droned on and then her eyes settled on their target. Con was leaning against the makeshift bandstand, his back to the speaker. She found him because he was looking at her.

He was wearing a stretched and faded navy Fordham sweatshirt with equally worn jeans. His clothing didn’t matter; to Linn’s hungry eyes he couldn’t have looked better if he were wearing a tuxedo.

His gaze held hers for a long moment and then he bent to hear what the woman at his side was saying. Kate, damn her, looked very pretty in a flowered shirtwaist that made the most of her tall, slender figure. Linn watched briefly and then turned away.

Larry tried to prolong his big moment, but even he took the hint when people in his audience began conducting individual conversations. He gave up and surrendered the mike to a tenor who began
Kathleen Mavourneen
in a high, reedy voice. Dancers gathered on the platform and the festival resumed.

Linn tried to forget about Con for the next couple of hours. Sean taught her a simple jig and she practiced it on the grass before venturing up with the group. They were very generous and helpful, tolerant of her mistakes and lavish with praise. Her moment of triumph came when she joined in a reel and was able to follow the flow of the dance and complete it without an error. Flushed and laughing, she spun into Sean’s arms at its conclusion, then looked up to find Con’s eyes on her. He was standing at the edge of the crowd among the onlookers and his expression was grim. Kate was gone.

Linn stopped short and turned in the other direction.

“Could we take a walk, Sean? I’d like to get away for a while.”

She didn’t have to ask twice. Seizing what seemed to be a golden opportunity, Sean took her arm.

“Would you like to see the churchyard?” he asked. “Some of the stones are very old.”

“Fine.”

They were strolling away from the crowd and had made it to the stand of evergreens that bordered the yard when a voice called out to Sean from behind them.

“Sean, may I have a word?”

Linn turned to see a priest approaching. He smiled at her.

Sean, dismayed at this interruption, looked on unhappily. “What is it, father?” he asked.

“Introduce me to the young lady, Sean. Have you no manners?”

“Miss Pierce, this is Father Daly. Father Daly, this is Linn Pierce, Dermot’s granddaughter.”

“So I’ve heard,” the priest responded. “How are you, my dear?”

“Fine, father. It’s nice to see you.”

“What do you want, father?” Sean asked impatiently.

“I need to borrow you for a moment if the lady doesn’t mind. I’ve got Mrs. Cudahy waiting and if you want that donation for the music cottage, you’d best come and talk to her now.”

Sean was clearly torn. He didn’t want to leave Linn, but he didn’t want to miss the chance to romance Mrs. Cudahy and her money.

“Go on, Sean,” Linn said. “I’ll wait right here.”

“Are you sure?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes. I’ll look around while you’re gone.”

He nodded and walked away with the priest. Linn watched them go and then wandered over to the small churchyard, which was enclosed by shrubbery and tucked into the shadow of the masonry wall. The oldest markers were stone slabs flat on the ground; the newer ones were upright Celtic crosses or angel wings or plain square monuments. She read the inscriptions, thinking of all the lives represented there. This was all that was left when the toil was done, when the laughter was silenced and the tears ceased to flow. “Dearest wife,” she recited to herself. “Beloved mother.” She knelt and traced the letters on one limestone slab, so old that the date was rubbed out and only the name remained. “Purcell,” she read. “Child Helen, aged three years.” Child Helen had not had much of a life.

A sound behind her made her whirl, startled. Con was watching her, his arms folded across the top of one of the monumets.

“What are you doing here?” Linn demanded. “Are you following me?”

“Somebody should be,” he replied, straightening and coming toward her. “If only to prevent you skulking about in the bushes with the likes of Seaneen Roche.”

“Skulking! I was not skulking! I was merely taking a walk.”

“Can’t you find better company than that milkman?”

“Sean is good company and he’s much more than a milkman. He’s a journalist.”

Con sneered. “He’s a milkman. He’s a milkman with a typewriter.”

Linn confronted him angrily. “Then I guess that makes you a caretaker with a typewriter, doesn’t it?”

Con stiffened. “I’ve never denied it.”

“And while we’re on the subject of companions, where’s your girlfriend? She’s the one Neil was talking about, isn’t she, the one who wants you to go back north and get yourself killed?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Which means I’m right. What is it, Con? What’s worth your safety to Kate?”

“Her father’s in a camp.”

“Oh, fine. Listen to her and you’ll be in one too if you’re lucky, dead if you’re not.”

Con closed the gap between them and seized her shoulders. “And would you care, Aislinn? Would you?”

Linn could feel herself melting at his touch and she deliberately went rigid, unyielding. “You’d better let me go, Con. Sean will be back in a minute.”

Con released her so suddenly that she rocked back on her heels. “You tell him something for me,” Con said, his voice deadly quiet. “You tell him that if he touches you I’ll break his back. You’re mine.”

Linn stared at him, aghast. “I’m not your property!”

He reached out with one hand, his fingers curled into a fist, and ran the edge of his knuckles over her throat from the underside of her chin to her collarbone. She shivered violently in reaction and he smiled.

“My property, no, but mine just the same.” His fingers opened, then closed about her neck. “You burn for me,” he said huskily. “I’ve felt the heat.”

Linn stood rooted, unable to speak. Then with a mixture of disappointment and relief she heard Sean returning. Con’s hand fell away and he stepped back.

Sean halted when he caught sight of Con. His eyes moved from the man to the woman; it was clear that something had happened but he didn’t know what.

“Seaneen, will you be singing later?” Con asked conversationally.

“I suppose,” Sean answered, still puzzled by the charged atmosphere. “I usually do.”

“Will you favor us with
Fainne Geal an Lae
?” Con asked. “I think Miss Pierce would especially like to hear that one.”

“I will,” Sean answered.

Con nodded, glanced at Linn, and left. Sean turned to regard Linn thoughtfully. “There’s been talk about you and him in the town,” he said.

“Has there?” Linn said mildly.

“Any truth to it?”

“Sean, you don’t have the right to ask me that question.”

Sean stared at the ground.

Linn regretted her nettled response. “Sean, forget it. Let’s go back and see what’s happening.” She tried to walk past him and Sean put his hand on her arm.

“I cannot compete with him, Linn.”

Although this was perfectly true, Linn was touched by Sean’s defeated expression. “I said to forget it. I want to see the rest of the festival. What did Con mean about the singing?”

“Oh, at the close some of us take turns and sing, sort of in a round robin. Whoever feels the urge will take the floor. Everybody’s half down the well by then; it makes for some interesting performances.”

Linn laughed and Sean’s good humor was restored.

When they returned to the group the singing was already underway. They joined the listeners and when the young girl who had the mike concluded, Sean got up and took her place.

The crowd applauded enthusiastically. Sean was evidently a favorite.

“I’ve had a request for Fainne Geal,” he said. “For those of you who haven’t the Irish, the title means ‘The Dawning of the Day.’”

Sean left the mike and walked around the circle, singing in a well modulated baritone. He sang first in Gaelic, and then repeated the verses in English. It was then that Linn understood Con’s request.

‘‘No cap or cloak this maiden wore, her neck and feet were bare, Down to her breast in ringlets fell her glossy golden hair...”

The song described Linn on the night she’d met Con, when she’d dashed from the house in the grip of her dream and come across a man stacking wood in a moonlit glen. Slowly she raised her head and met Con’s eyes across the crowd of listeners. His blue gaze locked with hers and he knew that she had received the message.

Sean finished to appreciative applause. No one rose to take his place. The pause lengthened until a feminine voice said, “Perhaps our American visitor will offer us a tune. We’d so love to hear something from the States.”