***
Now Edward was back! No warning. No notice. He just turned up out of the blue with a beautiful young American lady by his side and announced that they were going to get married at the end of August.
And within a week of Edward coming home Joe Coffey began to notice a change in Maeve and his heart sank down into his boots.
It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on, exactly. It was just that she seemed so distant, so vague, as if she had something very much on her mind. And he sensed an irritation in her too, especially if he came home early in the evenings. Almost as if he’d interrupted something.
She’d do her best to appear normal, of course, eagerly pouring the hot water from the kettle into a basin for him to wash in before getting his meal ready.
But in the morning she’d be very anxious to get him out of the house again. She’d put his canvas sack over his shoulder, kiss him on the cheek and wave to him as he walked off up the hill to the gamekeepers hut. However, before he reached the first clump of trees she’d have already vanished back inside the house.
A few days later Joe Coffey found out why.
He was out checking some snares in the woods when he lost his footing and fell into a ditch. The crusty old gamekeeper cursed him repeatedly as he struggled back out holding his aching wrist.
‘Shur tis only a bit of a sprain,’ he growled, ignoring Joe Coffey’s yelps as he examined the damage. ‘But I suppose you’d better get off home and give it a rest. But mind you’re back here at the crack of dawn tomorrow or you can look out!’
So Joe Coffey came sauntering down the winding dirt track that took him out of the woods, whistling happily to himself. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d got home so early in the day. And the pain in his wrist wasn’t really that bad. Life was good after all.
But as he came over the rise in the meadow he noticed the shiny black carriage standing outside the front door of his cottage. He stopped dead and watched in stunned silence. Because he recognized the carriage immediately.
It belonged to Edward O’Leary.
In one split second Joe Coffey knew his worst fears had come true. Edward had been home for less than a week and already his carriage was outside Maeve’s door.
Totally distraught, Joe Coffey found himself half way back up the hill to the gamekeeper’s hut. He’d just turned around and run away in the confusion and the pain, and now he dropped exhausted into the long thick grass, shaking in anger and frustration.
And he knew he could never have any faith in Maeve again unless Edward was out of their lives. Forever!
Desperation welled up inside him. He had to get rid of Edward. He had to remove this threat to his happiness, to his very future. He had to stop Edward from taking the most precious thing in his whole life. And he had to do it quickly.
And the way to do it was so simple that it left him breathless.
Edward was a creature of habit. All his life he’d gone riding after breakfast on a Sunday morning, arriving back at the big house in time for Mass in the tiny chapel.
Yesterday Joe Coffey overheard the groom telling the stable lads that Edward still wanted the horse ready this weekend.
Edward always took the same route, up over Foley’s Glen to Conor Pass then back down by the River Shannon where it touched his land. It was wild and dangerous country. The scope for an accident was horrendous.
One part of Foley’s Glen was just a narrow track with a high ridge on one side and a sheer drop to the valley floor on the other. Any gamekeeper would know a million ways to spring a simple - and lethal - trap.
Joe Coffey’s would be the simplest of all. A thin vine stretched across the path, tied to the branch of a tree and pulled back as tight as a spring. The horse would just have to clip the vine and the branch would snap out, clearing the rider from the saddle. The only way the rider could go was down over the cliff. Nature would take care of any evidence.
So early that Sunday morning Joe Coffey went out and set the trap. And he was amazed at how calm he felt as he hurried back to meet the rest of the men. It was the custom that the men made their way to the chapel together and met their wives at the door half an hour before the O’Leary family arrived.
Joe Coffey had just reached the stables when the clatter of hoofs on the stone cobbles drew everyone’s attention to the rider-less horse as it came in through the archway at a steady trot.
And it was only then that the cold reality of what he’d done hit Joe Coffey suddenly and violently like a blow to the chest. Panic took hold of him as the men rushed out to calm the sweating animal. As their worried voices echoed all around the yard Joe Coffey felt a desperate need to run away again. And the only place he could think of was home.
But as he came rushing around the side of the cottage a shocked yelp stuck in his throat and he slid to an abrupt halt. There outside his front door was Edward’s carriage.
His heart thumped in his ears as he sank down onto the long damp grass, and he put his head in his trembling hands.
What on earth was going on? That was definitely Edward’s carriage. There was no doubt about that! But he had seen Edward go out riding that morning. He had seen the rider and the horse go out, and he had seen the horse come back alone.
Just then he heard the front door open. He jumped to his feet and moved quickly back into the cover of the bushes. And he frowned in confusion at the voices that floated across the small yard towards him.
Women’s voices!
As they came out of the cottage together the American lady had her arm around Maeve’s waist.
‘I know I’ve said it a hundred times already, Maeve,’ the American lady was saying in a voice that was bubbling with excitement. ‘But I have to say it again - this really is the most beautiful wedding dress I’ve ever seen. Colm O’Leary was right when he insisted you had the gift, and you should make my wedding dress.’
When they reached the carriage Maeve stepped back and gave a little curtsy as the lady took the reins and climbed up into it.
‘Thank you, Madam. I’m so proud you asked me to make it for you. It really is a great honour.’
‘You’re so welcome,’ the lady continued. ‘And I really want to thank you for keeping the whole thing a secret. It’s very important to me. I know it seems childish but I want it to be a total secret right up to the last possible moment. No one must see my dress until I walk into that chapel on my wedding day.’
She smoothed out her coat and straightened her hat.
‘Everyone is speculating about it, you know.’ She gave a mock frown of concern. ‘Who will design it? Who will make it? Some of the very best names have been bandied about, of course. People from London and Dublin! But after seeing what you did with your own wedding dress I just knew there was only one person in the whole world who could create exactly what I wanted. I’m only sorry it will have to remain our little secret for the time being. But I’ll always be in your debt, Maeve. And the day the world sees my wedding dress the name that will be on everyone’s lips will be yours.’
Suddenly she threw back her head and laughed.
‘But how on earth did you manage to keep your husband from finding out about it?’ She put her hand on Maeve’s shoulder. ‘It must have driven you mad, not being able to tell him about my secret visits, sneaking down here when he was out at work. It’s lucky no one ever saw me!’
Maeve’s hand went to her mouth.
‘Oh dear! Just imagine …’
The End
***
Thank you for taking the time to read Maeve Ryan’s Wicked Secret. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would be delighted if you were to visit my web site at https://www.bgobrien.com/ and let me know what you thought of it by leaving your views on my guestbook page.
Brief Bio
Brendan Gerad O’Brien was born in Tralee, on the west coast of Ireland, and now he lives in Wales with his wife Jennife
r and daughters Shelly and Sarah.
As a child he spent his summer holidays in Listowel, Co Kerry, where his uncle Moss Scanlon had a harness maker’s shop, sadly now long gone.
The shop was a magnet for all sorts of colourful characters. It was there that his love of words was kindled by the stories of John B. Keane and Bryan MacMahon, who often wandered in for a chat and bit of jovial banter.
Now retired, his hobby is writing short stories, twenty of which have already been published individually over the years, and now available in his collection Dreamin’ Dreams
Gallows Field
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