Story for the Day: Love Interrupted
There is no love so amusing as love interrupted. Breigh Donnegal, born third in the Donnegal family, is Master Dairyman at the famous Royal Glaoustre Dairy, and naturally when he is in town, everyone and their mother should like to pay their addresses to the king's servant. Addresses, however kindly meant, given at the wrong time can ruin a most magical moment.
A woman
unmarried, living with a man she had no relation to or marriage with—it was
most distressing to her, and while Breigh could not mind the king’s great
condescension—nay, the condescension of the whole royal family-- she must mind
it as someone who could barely speak to the High Brother without being wracked
by timidity. She had never met anything like nobility in her life, had never
been introduced to another’s parents as a potential wife to a most devoted son,
and how she was expected to meet a family so large and so intimate while
keeping her countenance was a trial not soon to be surmounted. She crumbled in
the throes of mental anguish, disquieting notions of embarrassment and diffidence
attacking her every way, but when they came to the small bridge at the end of
the high street and the issuing crowds from the markets swarmed about her, forcing
her to brush against Breigh, her apprehensions ceased: her cheek pressed
against his chest as the throngs of market-goers passed by, the soft rataplan
of his heart beat against her ear, and she glaced up to be met with the master dairyman’s
subrisive aspect. Kings and families, meetings and associations were all lost
under the glamour of Breigh’s attention, and when they stopped to allow a few
old women to pass, Breigh placed his hand on her back and pushed her forward,
holding her frail frame firmly against him.
“Don’t you worry, girl, about
meetin’ anyone,” said he, in a low thrum. “They’ll like you ‘cause I like you,
and shise shin.” He leaned down, his
mouth lingering close to hers. “No other words need be had about it.”
They remained there, studying
one another in silent admiration, their eyes surveying every feature, and as
the crowds casscaded past and the brontide of indistinct voices emanated in
fremescent squalls, they stood in quiet investigation, the rapture of their
mutual recognition drowning out the raging din, dimming every colour, ever cry,
every clamour. It was a wondrous pause, one that roused her sentiments and confirmed his, and while the last of the droves past away into the high street,
all enduring voices were shut out and only the whisper of “Sure like you, girl…”
remained. His head canted, her neck craned, lips were parted, breath was bated,
mouths went eagerly in search of one another, but the impending congregation was
frightened off by two old crones crambling by who would not pass into the high
street without saying hello to the master dairyman, and Aibheann pulled away,
her valour frightened off by the two women flocking and fluttering about her.
“Afternoon, Master Donnegal,”
they chimed, beaming up at him.
Breigh made as polite a reply as
he could. “’Noon, ladies,” said he, with a disappointed air. He glanced at
Aibheann, who was nodding to the women and compelled to awkward smiles, and
held her tight against his side.
“Fine day, if we say so,” said
one lady.
“And we do,” said the other. “And
how is the master keepin’?”
“Well enough,” Breigh replied, trying
for a more amiable manner.
“Big day’s comin’ soon, don’t
mind sayin’,” said one woman.
“Big year it is. Five hundred to
the faire,” said the other.
“Aye, it is so. And yerselves?
How’s the family?”
The two women chatted away,
telling of their sons and grandsons and of their wives and of who was to be got
a wife and which of them would be coming to visit for the faire, and Breigh was
almost sorry for his civility toward those who had ruined his chance at first
intimacy. He listened and made what courteous genuflections and gracious remarks
as he could while the image of Aibheann being so close to him—and how lovely
she looked—was fresh in his mind. He listened to the women brabble on about
subjects he cared nothing for, while spying Aibheann from the corner of his
eye, and though the two women asked what famous cheeses would be on display at
the faire this year, he heard nothing while his attention was on the woman
clinging to his side. His awareness was all for her, and he could no more
attend the two interlopers than he could ignore his object. He became sensible
of all her little nuances: the fingers curled round his hand, the cheek resting
at his arm, the lashes browsing his skin, the calenture of her complexion
crimsoned over warm against him, and he very much wanted to be home. He apologized
to the ladies but he must go; he must take Aibheann home; it had been a long
and terribly pleasant day, and the fatigue of too much pleasure was descending.
There were cakes to be put in the larder and bread to be stored; they had been
out far too long already and the cheese in the icing of the cakes would not
keep if they were not got out of the sun tolerably soon. The women, of course,
must understand him: the indicative looks passing between him and Aibheann as
he explained in a hurried voice how they must be off told the whole, and though
they would keep the master dairyman there a little longer that they might hear more
about the faire, Breigh was moving to go, he was bowing his goodbyes, he was
taking Aibheann by the hand, he was leading her off, and with the box from the
bakery under one arm and Aibheann in the other, Breigh trundled through the
remaining crowds, keeping Aibheann close to his side.
“Never come out and say what
they wanna say,” said he, leading Aibheann down the ensuing lane. “Always gotta
be a song and dance to it. Shouda just asked me if I’d proposed to you yet.
That’s what they were after.” He shook his head. “Don’t mind ‘em,” Breigh
purred, bringing her close to his side. “They’re just lookin’ for somethin’ to talk
about.” He paused, and drawing her gaze, his lips wreathed in a conscious half
smile. “Maybe we should tell ‘em yer meetin’ the king.”
He winked at her, and Aibheann’s
heart leapt under so joyous a prospect. She had forgotten about kings and
queens; her attention was now all for him, and as she was willingly led down
the winding avenues, around the small cottages embracing the end of the lane, a
profusion of sanguine spirits rushed on her, his becoming aspect and
considerate character all her unwavering adulation.
They came to the house, and when
they approached the small gate, Breigh stopped and prevented her going farther
by holding her hand close at his side. “Wait here a minute,” said he, in a
half-whisper.
She stood at his side and gazed
up, amazed at his devoted expression.
He drew her close, his hand reaching under her
arm and reining her from behind. “Sure like you, girl,” he repeated, hoping to
recommence their suspended concession. “Like havin’ you with me. Like havin’
you home.”
Home: the word had been used to be a dreadful
penance to her. Under her stepmother’s reign, home had meant the governance and
tyranny of an officious old crone, one who could have loved her as a daughter
and despised her as an intruder. The wage she had earned, the reverence she had
expressed, the affability she had treated one who had shown her nothing but
littleness and cruelty was hardly worth the malice she had borne, but here was
joyous vindication, for she had suffered all the tribulations of a most
disagreeable woman and horrid home to be rewarded with tenderness and approbation. To be under
Breigh’s auspices, to be welcomed into his house and introduced to all the
secret workings of his heart was all her salvation, and as he leaned forward and
toched his forehead to hers, the tips of their noses touching, she triumphed in
knowing her interest requited, and where the word home was once accorded to
something which offered only shame and degradation, it was now become a means
of indebted delectation. She craned her neck once more, and her heart
flourished with all the elation that her gratitude and partiality could warrant
as Breigh pressed his lips against hers.
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