It wasn’t, but Brianna walked over to make minute adjustments to the flue.
“Stop fussing,” Niall ordered with a casual wave of his hand. “It’s drawing fine. We all know Maeve lives to complain.”
“Doesn’t she, now?” Lottie spoke pleasantly while she pulled her knitting needles from the basket she’d brought along. “I pay no mind to it myself. But that comes from raising four children, I suppose.”
Unsure what step to take, Christine focused on Lottie. “What lovely wool, Mrs. Sullivan.”
“Thank you. I’m partial to it myself. Had you a nice trip from Dublin, then?”
“A lovely one, yes. I’d forgotten how beautiful this part of the country was.”
“Nothing but fields and cows,” Maeve tossed out, annoyed that the conversation was circling out of her control. “It’s fine to live in Dublin and pass through on a fine autumn day. Come winter, you wouldn’t think it so lovely.” She might have continued the theme, but Maggie came in.
“Why, it’s Uncle Niall, big as life.” With a laugh, she went into his arms.
“Little Maggie Mae, all grown up.”
“As I’ve been for some time.” She stepped back, laughed again. “Well, you’ve lost nearly all of it now.” She rubbed an affectionate hand over his head.
“It was such a fine head, you see, the good Lord saw no need to cover it with hair. I’ve heard about how well you’re doing, darling. I’m proud of you.”
“Mrs. Sweeney’s telling you that so she can brag upon her grandson. It’s lovely seeing you,” Maggie said to Christine. “I hope you won’t let this one run you ragged in Galway.”
“I find I can keep up. I was hoping, if it’s not inconvenient to you, that I could have a look at your glass house tomorrow before we go.”
“Sure I’d be glad to show you. Hello, Lottie, are you well?”
“Fit as a fiddle.” Her needles clacked musically. “I was hoping you’d come by the house and tell us about your trip to France.”
This statement drew an audible sniff from Maeve. Schooling her features, Maggie turned. “Mother.”
“Margaret Mary. You’ve been busy with your own doings, as usual, I see.”
“I have.”
“Brianna finds time to come by twice a week to see that I have all I need.”
Maggie nodded. “Then it isn’t necessary for me to do the same.”
“I’ll serve dinner now, if everyone’s ready,” Brianna cut in.
“I’m always ready for a meal,” Niall kept Christine’s hand in his, using his free one to give Maggie’s shoulder a squeeze as they went into the dining room.
There was linen on the table, and fresh flowers, with the warmth of candles flickering on the sideboard. The food was beautifully prepared and plentiful. It should have been a pleasant, congenial evening. But, of course, it wasn’t.
Maeve picked at her foot. The lighter the mood at the table became, the darker grew her own. She envied Christine her fine, well-cut dress, the gleam of pearls around her throat, the quiet, expensive scent that drifted from her skin. And the skin itself, soft and pampered by wealth.
Her mother’s friend, Maeve thought. Her childhood playmate, class to class. The life Christine Sweeney had led should have been hers, she thought. Would have been hers, but for one mistake. But for Maggie.
She could have wept from the rage of it, from the shame of it. From the helpless loss of it.
All around her the conversation bubbled like some expensive wine, frothy and foolish talk about flowers and old times, about Paris and Dublin. About children.
“How lovely for you to have such a large family,” Christine was saying to Lottie. “I was always sorry that Michael and I couldn’t have more children. Though we doted on our son, then on Rogan.”
“A son,” Maeve muttered. “A son doesn’t forget his mother.”
“It’s true, it’s a special bond.” Christine smiled, hoping to soften the harshness around Maeve’s mouth. “But I confess, I always wanted a daughter of my own. You’re blessed with two, Mrs. Concannon.”
“Cursed, more like.”
“Try the mushrooms, Maeve.” Deliberately Lottie spooned some onto Maeve’s plate. “They’re fried to a turn. You’ve a fine hand, Brianna.”
“I learned the knack of these from my gran,” Brianna began. “I was always pestering her to show me how to cook.”
“And blaming me because I didn’t chose to strap myself to the stove,” Maeve tossed back her head. “I’d no liking for it. I’ll wager you don’t spend much time in the kitchen, Mrs. Sweeney.”
“Not a great deal, I’m afraid.” Aware her voice had chilled, Christine made the effort to lighten it again. “And I’ll have to admit that none of my efforts there can come close to what you’ve served us tonight, Brianna. Rogan was right to praise your cooking.”
“She makes a living from it. Bedding and boarding strangers.”
“Leave her alone.” Maggie spoke quietly, but the look in her eyes was as sharp as a shout. “God knows she bedded and boarded you as well.”
“As was her duty. There’s no one at this table would deny that it’s a daughter’s obligation to tend to her mother. Which is more than you’ve ever done, Margaret Mary.”
“Or ever will do, so count your blessings that Brie tolerates you.”
“I haven’t a blessing to count, with my own children tossing me out of my own house. Then leaving me, sick and alone.”
“Why, you haven’t been sick a day, Maeve,” Lottie said complacently. “And how can you be alone when I’m there, day and night?”
“And you draw a weekly wage to be there. It should be my own blood tending me, but no. My daughters turn their backs, and my uncle, with his fine house in Galway, pays no mind at all.”
“Enough to see you haven’t changed, Maeve.” Niall regarded her with pity. “Not a whit. I apologize, Chrissy, for my niece’s poor behavior.”
“I think we’ll have our dessert in the parlor.” Pale and quiet, Brianna rose. “If you’d like to go in and sit, I’ll serve it.”
“Much cozier,” Lottie agreed. “I’ll help you, Brianna.”