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Authors: Cora Harrison
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It would be an act of kindness to give work to poor Eileen. She’s all alone at the moment as the husband will be very busy up the mountain with the sheep shearing.’
‘How old is she?’ Mara was cautious. A girl who had lost her own son might not be careful enough of this very, very precious little fellow. She would have preferred someone who, like Sorcha, was nursing her own child and had enough milk for two.
‘Oh, she’s not a young girl. She has been married for over twenty years. It’s very sad because it looked as though she were barren. This was the first child. You needn’t think that she is a heedless young thing. That child was always beautifully cared for and looked as strong as a young horse. It was just one of those things! Children die easily. Poor little fellow, he died of a fever. You’ll like Eileen. She’s a very nice woman, very good with her hands, and we always have her at the tower house whenever we need extra staff for a party or a festival. She’ll do some lovely stitching for you; I think that you would like her. I’ve never seen such a good seamstress, though she’s left-handed and they are not usually so good, are they? She gets quite a bit of silver for her work at Noughaval market. Would you like me to ask her to come to see you?’
‘Yes, do.’ Mara had a quick, inward struggle, but it was no good trying to evade facts; she was not able to feed her son and Sorcha would be returning to Galway in a week or two. She had to have a wet nurse, and this Eileen, at least, was no giddy girl, but a woman of about Mara’s age, or more. She watched resignedly as Sorcha fed the baby; no matter who it was, she was going to be jealous. She just had to put up with it, and get on with solving the murder and sorting out the problems that Boetius had left her with after failing two of her scholars in their important summer examinations.
‘Here’s Oisín!’ exclaimed Sorcha, and a minute later, to the accompaniment of joyful squeals from the children, Oisín came into view; Aislinn riding high on his shoulders and Domhnall clinging to one hand.
Baby Manus woke and howled, his large brown eyes surveying the company indignantly. With one arm Sorcha reached out for her own child, slipped him under the linen shawl that she wore around her shoulders and allowed him to feed from her other breast.
‘Now we’ll have peace all around,’ she said.
‘Aren’t they the image of their father,’ said Ciara looking at the three dark-haired, dark-eyed children.
‘The living image,’ said Sorcha.
‘All descended from Dubh (black) Daibhrean himself,’ said Mara. ‘My father used to tell me about him. I remember him telling Ardal O’Lochlainn and myself the story of the different races that came to Ireland. Ardal with his red hair and his white skin was a descendent of the Celtic race, and me with my dark hair and dark eyes was a descendent of the Firbolg race.’
‘It’s true,’ said Ciara. ‘Sorcha is the only one of the O’Davoren clan without the dark hair and eyes. Look at Nuala, the image of Malachy, of course.’
‘Sorcha takes after her father Dualta,’ said Mara briefly. ‘Oisín is a true O’Davoren.’ She hoped that this talk about the O’Davoren clan would not lead to talk about Malachy’s murder. He, of course, like his daughter, had been O’Davoren in looks, but he had missed out on the brains that the O’Davoren family seemed to possess. Malachy had been a poor physician. Somehow he had lacked the ability or the application to do justice to the people of the Burren who had sought his help and advice.
Mara surveyed her handsome son-in-law, admiring the adroit way that he managed to greet Ciara and herself, kiss his wife, stroke the rosy cheek of his youngest child, accept a bunch of tiny pimpernel flowers from Aislinn, admire Domhnall’s prowess at jumping across grykes, at the same time as stretching out on the warm surface of the clint and exposing his tanned bare
‘How old is she?’ Mara was cautious. A girl who had lost her own son might not be careful enough of this very, very precious little fellow. She would have preferred someone who, like Sorcha, was nursing her own child and had enough milk for two.
‘Oh, she’s not a young girl. She has been married for over twenty years. It’s very sad because it looked as though she were barren. This was the first child. You needn’t think that she is a heedless young thing. That child was always beautifully cared for and looked as strong as a young horse. It was just one of those things! Children die easily. Poor little fellow, he died of a fever. You’ll like Eileen. She’s a very nice woman, very good with her hands, and we always have her at the tower house whenever we need extra staff for a party or a festival. She’ll do some lovely stitching for you; I think that you would like her. I’ve never seen such a good seamstress, though she’s left-handed and they are not usually so good, are they? She gets quite a bit of silver for her work at Noughaval market. Would you like me to ask her to come to see you?’
‘Yes, do.’ Mara had a quick, inward struggle, but it was no good trying to evade facts; she was not able to feed her son and Sorcha would be returning to Galway in a week or two. She had to have a wet nurse, and this Eileen, at least, was no giddy girl, but a woman of about Mara’s age, or more. She watched resignedly as Sorcha fed the baby; no matter who it was, she was going to be jealous. She just had to put up with it, and get on with solving the murder and sorting out the problems that Boetius had left her with after failing two of her scholars in their important summer examinations.
‘Here’s Oisín!’ exclaimed Sorcha, and a minute later, to the accompaniment of joyful squeals from the children, Oisín came into view; Aislinn riding high on his shoulders and Domhnall clinging to one hand.
Baby Manus woke and howled, his large brown eyes surveying the company indignantly. With one arm Sorcha reached out for her own child, slipped him under the linen shawl that she wore around her shoulders and allowed him to feed from her other breast.
‘Now we’ll have peace all around,’ she said.
‘Aren’t they the image of their father,’ said Ciara looking at the three dark-haired, dark-eyed children.
‘The living image,’ said Sorcha.
‘All descended from Dubh (black) Daibhrean himself,’ said Mara. ‘My father used to tell me about him. I remember him telling Ardal O’Lochlainn and myself the story of the different races that came to Ireland. Ardal with his red hair and his white skin was a descendent of the Celtic race, and me with my dark hair and dark eyes was a descendent of the Firbolg race.’
‘It’s true,’ said Ciara. ‘Sorcha is the only one of the O’Davoren clan without the dark hair and eyes. Look at Nuala, the image of Malachy, of course.’
‘Sorcha takes after her father Dualta,’ said Mara briefly. ‘Oisín is a true O’Davoren.’ She hoped that this talk about the O’Davoren clan would not lead to talk about Malachy’s murder. He, of course, like his daughter, had been O’Davoren in looks, but he had missed out on the brains that the O’Davoren family seemed to possess. Malachy had been a poor physician. Somehow he had lacked the ability or the application to do justice to the people of the Burren who had sought his help and advice.
Mara surveyed her handsome son-in-law, admiring the adroit way that he managed to greet Ciara and herself, kiss his wife, stroke the rosy cheek of his youngest child, accept a bunch of tiny pimpernel flowers from Aislinn, admire Domhnall’s prowess at jumping across grykes, at the same time as stretching out on the warm surface of the clint and exposing his tanned bare
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