Dolly Keenan stopped an arm’s length away. Butterscotch seemed to melt over Tom. «Tubbercurry isn’t far from Ballymote, but it’s a long way from here. Surely you didn’t come all that way on your bicycle?»
He couldn’t imagine Kate riding a bicycle half that distance. She wouldn’t even go into town without a wagon.
Kate left his thoughts altogether when Dolly Keenan raised her chin the way she had at King Finvarra’s table. «Indeed I did. It’s better than walking, though the ride up tired me out, and that’s the gospel truth. I’m after having a bit of a nap in the woods myself.»
Maybe she’d ride home with him. It wouldn’t hurt to ask. «I’m on my way back down, ma’am. You’re welcome to ride with me in my wagon.»
A smile that would shame the northern lights broke over her face. «Thank you, Tom. I wouldn’t mind a lift as far as the road to Tubber.»
Bursting with triumph, he stepped to her side. «Let’s get your bicycle, then.»
When Dolly Keenan linked her arm through his, Tom set his cap on his head and rejoiced.
They stopped in Collooney to rest the horse, and Tom bought two apples at a shop near the train station. He sat with Dolly on the wagon seat, devouring the apples and chatting about Sligo until they pitched the cores into a nearby barrel.
A handkerchief embroidered with blue and green leaves appeared in her hand. She dabbed at lips he longed to kiss and returned the cloth to her pocket. «Give me a minute, Tom. Since we’re at the station, I want to get a timetable.»
He feared he’d done something to offend her, that she’d decided to take the train home, but the line ran to Ballymote from here, not to Tubbercurry. Mystified, he sighed. Whatever she’d gone to get, her going had left a hole in his heart.
Soon she returned with her prize: a square white page with rows of tiny print set beneath a troubling title. He wondered why she’d want the times of trains for Queenstown, though of course he didn’t ask. It wasn’t his business.
He’d been to Queenstown selling tea, but few souls ventured to the deep Cork port on Ireland’s southern shore unless they meant to emigrate. The thought of Dolly Keenan leaving saddened him.
Whether she emigrated or not, he doubted he’d ever see her again. The wagon ride was all they’d have. Familiar with disappointment as any Irishman, he helped her to the wagon seat, intent on enjoying every minute of her company.
A porridge of weather followed them from Collooney. Showers came and went. Blue broke through the clouds in snatches. Gram used to call it a rainbow sky.
«Be on the watch, Tomáseen,» she’d say. «Seeing a rainbow brings good luck.»
Tom needed no rainbow today. Good luck was already his. Dolly Keenan rode beside him on the compact wagon seat. Their arms and thighs collided as the springs bounced, and she didn’t shy away. Nor did she complain about the mist that dampened her cheeks and hair. They gossiped and bantered, talking of nonsense, of favourite foods and ancient legends. She laughed a lot, and so did he.
The mare clip-clopped over a twisting road rutted in some spots, soggy in others. Sheep dotted the knolls and bogs. Cows grazed in square green pastures divided by hawthorn hedges. Now and then an abandoned stone cottage, roofless and overgrown, provided a landmark that told Tom where he was.
The idea that Dolly had ridden this road by herself both impressed and worried him, yet she wouldn’t have been alone. Several cyclists passed them. They called out pleasant greetings, as did many foot travellers and the drivers of drays and donkey carts. Tom and Dolly waved cheerfully back.
Before they’d left Tobernalt, she’d shared the cheese and scones in her saddlebag, and he’d split his chunk of currant bread in half. While they’d eaten, he’d spotted the pearl ring on her right hand. He’d carried her bicycle from the woods thinking how she’d surely look down on him once she knew more about him.
She’d peeked inside the wagon when he opened the rear doors. «What’ve you got in there, Tom?»
«Tea.» He’d helped her to the wagon seat. The touch of her fingers thrilled him, and though he knew right well she didn’t have to, she leaned on him when she mounted the step. «I travel the counties selling tea.»
«Is that where you’re coming from now? A sales jaunt?»
«In Donegal and Tyrone, yes.» He’d settled beside her and tugged the reins. «Got as far as Strabane. There’s trouble up there. At the inn where I stayed, the landlady said I shouldn’t go out. Said the local lads were on the prowl for southerners.»
The idea still amused him, but furrows had appeared on Dolly’s forehead. «My father’s spoken of such goings on in the north, but I’ve never heard of them firsthand. Still and all, you don’t look like the sort anyone would be stupid enough to take on.» Her cheeks turned crimson, as if she’d said something she shouldn’t.
Tom had been delighted she’d said it at all and, thinking of it now, he sat taller on the seat. He guided the horse to the side of the road to let a northbound wagon pass. Once it did, he eased his hold on the reins and continued conversing with Dolly.
She’d recently returned from England, where she’d attended nursing school. She’d lived with her brother Lanigan and his wife.
«Lanigan’s a crackerjack carpenter, but he had to go to London to find work. My brother Maneen and sister Badie have emigrated to America. Mac is still in Tubbercurry. He’s a teacher, like my mother. Sissie was, too, but she died of consumption two years ago.»
Tom recognized the grief in her voice. «I’m sorry. There’s a lot of that about.»
«Too much. That’s one reason why I want to be a nurse. To help. I deliberately failed the teaching exam so I could go to nursing school.»
Tom’s delighted laughter echoed over the bogs. «It’s grand that you could. My father took me out after sixth grade to work the farm and do odd jobs.»
«That’s not uncommon. Most of my friends ended their schooling likewise. I’m lucky my parents let me go off at all, with twenty acres to manage. They were disappointed about the nursing. An unsuitable calling for a proper young lady, they said. Wanted me to stay home and teach, like Sissie and Mac. When Mac isn’t teaching, he helps my father about the farm. He’ll inherit the place some day.»
«So will I, though it’s little I want it.»
«I wondered about that, Tom. A Ballymote lad travelling all over Ireland. When you see other ways to live besides milking cows, it’s hard to go back to farming, isn’t it?»
Tom tightened his hold on the reins. He didn’t want to talk about cows, not now. «Your brothers and sisters have odd names. Nicknames, are they?»
«Yes. Jim is Lanigan, John is Maneen. Michael is Mac, and Annie’s called Badie. Kathleen was Sissie.»
«Is Dolly a nickname as well?»
«It is. They called me that because I was the youngest. My real name is Doreen.»
Hearing the name from his dream stunned Tom, though he recovered quickly. This was Ireland after all. And a fellow got used to such odd occurrences.
Awake or dreaming, he had no business befriending an educated young lady whose father held a good strong farm of twenty Irish acres. «The matchmakers will be hopping about like hungry hens over a girl as pretty as you.»
Dolly blushed again. Her lips pressed into a thin straight line, and she shook her head. «Marriage would be the death of nursing for me. I’m thinking of emigrating. To Boston, like Maneen and Badie. That’s why I was at the well. Looking for guidance, for something to help me find my way.»