together, Maggie shrieking with laughter and Con jumping in frantic circles around them. "I can buy that glass lathe I've been wanting, and you can have that new stove you've been pretending you don't need. And we'll have a holiday. Anywhere in the world, anywhere a'tall. I'll have a new bed." She plopped back on the grass to wrestle with Con. "And you can add a whole wing onto Blackthorn if you've a mind to."
"I can't take it in. I just can't take it in."
"We'll find a house." Pushing herself up again, Maggie hooked an arm around Con's neck. "Whatever kind she wants. And hire someone to fetch and carry for her."
Brianna shut her eyes and fought back the first guilty flare of elation. "She might not want—"
"It will be what she wants. Listen to me." Maggie grabbed Brianna's hands and squeezed. "She'll go, Brie. And she'll be well taken care of. She'll have whatever pleases her. Tomorrow we'll go into Ennis and talk to Pat O'Shea. He sells houses. We'll set her up as grandly as we can, and as quickly. I promised Da I'd do my best by both of you, and that's what I'm going to do."
"Have you no consideration?" Maeve stood on the garden path, a shawl around her shoulders despite the warmth of the sun. The dress beneath it was starched and pressed—by Brianna's hand, Maggie had no doubt. "Out here shouting and shrieking while a body's trying to rest." She pulled the shawl closer and jabbed a finger at her younger daughter.
"Get up off the ground. What's wrong with you? Behaving like a hoyden, and you with guests in the house."
Brianna rose stiffly, brushed at her slacks. "It's a fine day. Perhaps you'd like to sit in the sun."
"I might as well. Call off that vicious dog."
"Sit, Con." Protectively, Brianna laid a hand on the dog's head. "Can I bring you some tea?"
"Yes, and brew it properly this rime." Maeve shuffled to the chair and table Brianna had set up beside the garden. "That boy, that Belgian, he's clattered up the stairs twice today. You'll have to tell him to mind the racket. It's what comes when parents let their children traipse all over the country."
"I'll have the tea in a moment. Maggie, will you stay?"
"Not for tea. But I'll have a word with Mother." She sent her sister a steely look to prevent any argument.
"Can you be ready to drive into Ennis by ten tomorrow. Brie?"
"I—yes, I'll be ready."
"What's this?" Maeve demanded as Brie walked toward the kitchen door.
"What are the two of you planning?"
"Your future." Maggie took the chair beside her mother's, kicked out her legs. She'd wanted to go about it differently. After what she'd begun to learn, she'd hoped she and her mother could find a meeting ground somewhere beyond the old hurts. But already the old angers and guilts were working in her. Remembering last night's moon and her thoughts about lost dreams, she spoke quietly.
"We're after buying you a house."
Maeve made a sound of disgust and plucked at the fringe of her shawl. "Nonsense. I'm content here, with Brianna to look after me."
"I'm sure you are, but it's about to end. Oh, I'll hire you a companion. You needn't worry that you'll have to learn to do for yourself. But you won't be using Brie any longer."
"Brianna understands the responsibilities of a child to her mother."
"More than," Maggie agreed. "She's done everything in her power to make you content. Mother. It hasn't been enough, and maybe I've begun to understand that."
"You understand nothing."
"Perhaps, but I'd like to understand." She took a deep breath. Though she couldn't reach out to her mother, physically or emotionally, her voice softened. "I truly would. I'm sorry for what you gave up. I learned of the singing only—"
"You won't speak of it." Maeve's voice was frigid. Her already pale skin whitened further with the shock of a pain she'd never forgotten, never forgiven. "You will never speak of that time."
"I wanted only to say I'm sorry."
"I don't want your sorrow." With her mouth tight, Maeve looked aside. She couldn't bear to have the past tossed in her face, to be pitied because she had sinned and lost what had mattered most to her.
"You will not speak of it to me again."
"All right." Maggie leaned forward until Maeve's gaze settled on her. "I'll say this. You blame me for what you lost, and maybe that comforts you somehow. I can't wish myself unborn. But I'll do what I can. You'll have a house, a good one, and a respectable, competent woman to see to your needs, someone I hope can be a friend to you as well as a companion. This I'll do for Da, and for Brie. And for you."
"You've done nothing for me in your life but cause me misery."
So there would be no softening, Maggie realized. No meeting on new ground. "So you've told me, time and again. We'll find a place close enough so that Brie can visit you, for she'll feel she should. And I'll furnish the place as well, however you like. You'll have a monthly allowance—for food, for clothes, for whatever it is you need. But I swear before God you'll be out of his house and into your own before a month is up."
"Pipe dreams." Her tone was blunt and dismissive, but Maggie sensed a little frisson of fear beneath.
"Like your father, you are full of empty dreams and foolish schemes."
"Not empty, and not foolish." Again, Maggie drew the check out of her pocket. This time she had the satisfaction of seeing her mother's eyes go wide and blank. "Aye, it's real, and it's mine. I earned it. I earned it because Da had the faith in me to let me learn, to let me try."
Maeve's eyes flicked to Maggie's, calculating. "What he gave you belonged to me as well."
"The money for Venice, for schooling and for the roof over my head, that's true. What else he gave me had nothing to do with you. And you'll get your share of this." Maggie tucked the check away again.
"Then I'll owe you nothing."
"You owe me your life," Maeve spat.
"Mine meant little enough to you. I may know why that is, but it doesn't change how it makes me feel inside. Understand me, you'll go without complaint, without making your last days with Brianna a misery for her."
"I'll not go at all." Maeve dug in her pocket for a lace-edged hanky.
"A mother needs the comfort of her child."
"You've no more love for Brianna than you do for me. We both know it. Mother. She might believe differently, but here, now, let's at least be honest. You've played on her heart, it's true, and God knows she's deserving of any love you have in that cold heart of yours." After a long breath, she pulled out the trump card she'd been holding for five years. "Would you have me tell her why Rory McAvery went off to America and broke her heart?"
Maeve's hands gave a quick little jerk. "I don't know what you're talking about?"
"Oh, but you do. You took him aside when you saw he was getting serious in his courting. And you told him that you couldn't in good conscience let him give his heart to your daughter. Not when she'd given her body to another. You convinced him, and he was only a boy, after all, that she'd been sleeping with Murphy."
"It's a lie." Maeve's chin thrust out, but there was fear in her eyes. "You're an evil, lying child, Margaret Mary."
"You're the liar, and worse, much worse than that. What kind of a woman is it that steals happiness from her own blood because she has none herself? I heard from Murphy," Maggie said tersely.
"After he and Rory beat each other to bloody pulps. Rory didn't believe his denial. Why should he, when Brianna's own mother had tearfully told him the tale?"
"She was too young to marry," Maeve said quickly. "I wouldn't have her making the same mistake as I did, ruining her life that way. The boy wasn't right for her, I tell you. He'd never have amounted to anything."
"She loved him."
"Love doesn't put bread on the table." Maeve fisted her hands, twisting the handkerchief in them.
"Why haven't you told her?"