Bruar's Rest

much as a hot morning cup of tea?’
    Megan thought she should be aware of her friend’s condition. ‘It’s Mother Foy, Bridget, she’s not at all well and wants to go home.’
    Bridget rushed over, leaned forward to examine the old woman’s face and said. ‘Tis the saddest news now, how did you end up being sickly on this, the day our Blessed Virgin gave birth to the Lord. Little Nuala will be heart-sorry for sure.’
    Just then Stephen came downstairs carrying Nuala, who was already dressed in riding gear; part of her Christmas present from Uncle Michael.
    ‘What’s wrong, Mother Foy?’ asked Stephen, gently dropping Nuala on a chair.
    ‘Nothing a good rest in me own bed won’t cure.’
    ‘She wants to go back to her wagon. Could either you or Michael rig up a buggy?’ asked Megan.
    Michael said, ‘Ah, you poor old thing, why don’t you stay here. Spend the day in bed, we can bring you a fine spread of turkey and stuffing on a tray.’
    Little Nuala came rushing into the room, and when she heard what was going on, cried, ‘I have a present for you, Mamma, please stay.’ A parcel, loosely wrapped, was retrieved from beneath the Christmas tree and put gently onto the old woman’s lap. It was a green, paisley-patterned shawl.
    Bridget, who’d been making tea, set a warm welcoming cup on the small table beside Mother Foy’s chair and said, ‘It was our mother’s Sunday best. We want you to have it.’
    Mother Foy unwrapped the present and draped the shawl over her knees. ‘A fine present. Thank you, Nuala, I shall treasure it.’ She looked at the couple, then at Michael and said, ‘You know me well enough that if I say I’m sore, then I am very sore. There’s nothing more I’d rather do this day than to have Christmas with you. Me pain is strong, though, and I wouldn’t eat or drink. I’d hate not to enjoy a grand feast after all the time and effort you’d put into it, Bridget. No, all I want to do is sleep in me own wagon-bed, but if Megan wishes to stay, then it’s me blessing I’ll give her.’
    ‘No, I’ll look after you.’
    Michael seemed rather annoyed and she couldn’t understand why. He walked outside, muttering that he’d get the buggy ready and take them back to the gorse field.
    ‘Nuala, sweet child, will you do Mamma a favour and keep an eye on Beth?’
    ‘Of course, but you must stay nearby to see my beautiful foal when uncle brings her over on the ferry.’
    ‘I’ll come first time I feel better. But if she be like her mother, I remember her beauty very well.
    Help me to my feet, Megan, we’ll be off,’ she said, holding a hand out for assistance.
    Little Nuala and Bridget gave the old woman a hug, making her promise to hurry and get well. Stephen promised to keep an eye on them. His parting words, though, brought a chill to both as he said, ‘If I hear any news of Buckley, I’ll be sure to let you know.’
    Mother Foy closed her fingers tightly over Megan’s arm; these were words neither wished to take back with them to the lonely spot down by the gorse field.
    ‘You do that. Now a million blessings on all for this Christmas Day.’
    Hugs and kisses over with, Michael drove up with a small two-man buggy. ‘Sorry, but we’ll have to squeeze together,’ he told them.
    ‘I’ll sit to the outside, me stomach feels a bit under the weather,’ said the old woman, adding, ‘talking ’bout weather, I’ve got cold earlobes, and that’s a sign of more snow.’
    As they huddled close for warmth, Megan, while keeping an arm round her companion’s shoulder, couldn’t help but feel the way Michael’s muscles rippled as he controlled the reins. It was only a mile to the wagon, yet she wished it were longer. It had been such a long time since she had felt the breath of a young man against her face and the movement of strong legs rubbing hers. Feelings she’d not experienced since she and Bruar made love on the braeside returned with a fire to them. Even although a fierce wind blew a torrent of bitter cold at her body she was warm. Beneath her breasts, little beads of sweat formed, making her feel more and more uncomfortable. Confusion took hold: how could her face sport a bright red nose, yet such a heat burn beneath her collar? The same feelings that had been generated by Bruar’s closeness filled her mind; she was attracted to this stranger.
    ‘Never,’ she told herself, ‘I will not do this, I can’t think this way.’ The wind lifted her skirt; she