• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Was it necessary? Or did they fear that Brendan was going to show that element beyond indiscipline, the true selfishness that destroys? Was it fear that Emily had seen in Colleen Flaherty’s face when she watched her son, or only an anxiety that others would believe of him what they had witnessed in his father?

Was it true? And had Connor Riordan come into the village, with vision not clouded by history and excuses, and seen Brendan more clearly than the others? Or was Mrs. Flaherty’s fear only her own experience with the husband she was so in love with, crowding out the truth that Brendan was another man, a different one. She could not cling on to her husband, or put right what may have been wrong, revisit the old failings.

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 she did? Did she feed his weaknesses so he would still need her, rather than curbing them?

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?”

Mrs. Flaherty looked startled to see Emily on the doorstep.

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