THE START OF THE RAINBOW
Amanda McCabe/Laurel McKee
(Author's Note: St. Patrick's Day is one of my favorite holidays! This story was originally published on a blog for my local RWA chapter, OKRWA, and kicked off a series to celebrate the Irish in all of us. I loved the chance to get to celebrate with some of my best writing friends, and to revisit the world of my Laurel McKee RITA-nominated “Daughters of Erin” trilogy. Hope you enjoy it too! For more info visit me at https://ammandamccabe.com, or read the rest of the stories at https://wildokies.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-start-of-rainbow-by-amanda.html)
Just outside Dublin, 1802
Diolain!
Lady Allison Bennett ran as fast as her slippered feet could take her out of the tiny back room of the Rose and Shamrock, her head bowed so no one could see her ridiculous blushes. She was a blasted fool for falling in love when it was obvious those feelings would never be returned.
“Lady Allison!” Aidan, the barkeep at the Rose and Shamrock, shouted after her as she scurried past.
Aidan was a light-hearted, witty man, one she usually enjoyed sharing a pint and a tale of ancient Ireland with after meetings of the Celtic Society. It meant one less hour she had to be at home with her family on Green Street, one less hour she had to pretend to be someone she wasn't. Lady Allison Bennett, prim and proper debutante, earl's daughter, the quiet sister, the bookish one. No one at the Rose an shamrock cared about such things, and she loved them for it.
But tonight she was in no mood for Aidan's teasing. She couldn't bear for anyone else to see her tears.
She kept running, grateful that Aidan had too many thirsty customers waiting for their pints to follow her. Outside the warm, crowded, noisy tavern, a cold wind hit her in the face and tugged at her blue muslin skirts and cashmere shawl. Its chill seemed to wake her up and her head cleared a bit.
She walked away from the pub, leaving the echo of its laughter behind until all she could hear was the rustle of that wind through the trees. The Rose and Shamrock was on the main road out of Dublin, a favorite stopping spot for the mail coaches that ran past every day but far enough from the city that it felt isolated, set alone except for a few scattered cottages.
Beyond was a thick, dark stretch of woods, rumored to be the haunt of highwaymen. And of banshees, leprechauns, and the ghosts of the rebels of '98. Such tales kept the more nervous travelers far away—and usually the British authorities too. They were busy enough chasing rumored rebels in the city.
All that made the Rose and Shamrock the perfect place for secret meetings of the Celtic Society. The Society had been banned after the rising of '98, even though it was a group of scholars and writers, most of them far too wrapped up in their studies to take the time to foment rebellions. Just the fact that they studied and wrote about the history and culture of Ireland, the heroic myths and legendary warriors and poets, was enough to get them banned in such powder-keg dangerous days. Many of the '98 leaders were inspired by work done by the Celtic Society.
Allison came to it through her friend Lady Caroline Blacknall. Once Caro found out Allison hoped to write a novel about ancient Ireland, she insisted on bringing Allison to the meeting.
And that was where she met him. Sir Finnegal Adams. Finn. The most handsome, most brilliant man in Ireland.
The pub door swung open and two drunks straggled out, singing at the top of their soused lungs. Allison hurried away, finding the narrow pathway that led into the woods. It was late enough that the moon was rising in the dusty-black sky. Its chalky-yellow rays lit her way between the trees. She wasn't afraid of the night, of the skeletal clack of the wind through the branches. No one had ever hurt her at the Rose and Shamrock. The place seemed surrounded by a blanket of safety, of magic, just like the glorious tales the Celtic Society shared in the small back room.
No, the woods held no danger for her. Only her own heart could do that.
Allison thought of Finn, of his thick, untidy sweep of golden curls and his bright blue eyes. His tall, lean figure and strong shoulders. He was handsome, ridiculously so, like a hero in a saga. But more than that, he was brilliant, one of the youngest professors at Trinity University. He was the son of an Anglo-Irish baron, but his passion was with Ireland, as Allison's was.
Tonight he spoke to the Celtic Society about Cuchulain and Maeve, and as he paced the length of the back room in front of that strange, tiny green door, his whole being seemed to crackle with energy and emotion. His passion for the story inspired it in everyone else as well, making them jump up from their seats and applaud as if they were at a cricket match.
And then Finn's bright blue gaze landed on Allison—and she was filled with the wild yearning to kiss him.
Fool, fool, she cursed herself as she ran into the woods. She kicked out at a fallen log and pain rushed up her leg, making her feel even more silly. Yes, she had shared a pint at the Rose and Shamrock with Finn before, they had talked about the Irish myths they loved. Once or twice, she even hopefully imagined his stare lingered on her as hers did with him.
But then he would turn away. And she feared she wasn't the sort of wife a man like him needed. Her family scoffed at intellectual pursuits; it was why she herself had to escape them so often. They couldn't help his career as other families could. And she was certainly no great beauty, with her plain brown hair and freckled nose, her brown eyes.
Yet still that longing to kiss him was there, stronger than ever.
Fool!
Allison whirled around, her foot flying out as if she would kick something again. Suddenly she froze at the sight that greeted her.
In the center of a small, tight ring of trees was a half-open trunk that she could have sworn was not there before. A ray of moonlight gleamed on dull gold piled inside.
Hardly daring to breathe, Allison tiptoed closer and knelt down beside the trunk. She could hardly feel the damp earth seeping through her thin muslin skirt, or feel the chilly wind pulling at her hair. She only saw the astonishing sight in front of her.
It was gold, coins it looked like, a large hoard of them. She carefully picked one up and examined it in the moonlight. It looked very old, a profile image etched on one side and strange letters on the other. Symbolic images she didn't recognize from her studies marched around the beveled edge, which was nearly worn smooth.
They weren't English coins. Could they be some kind of ancient Celtic treasure? But what was it doing here?
Allison glanced over her shoulder, suddenly nervous as she remembered the stories of highwaymen. She knew she couldn't carry the whole trunk herself, but she longed to know what the coins could be. And she knew exactly who could tell her.
Finn.
Allison quickly scooped up as many coins as she could fit in her hand, and ran as fast as her feet could carry her back to the pub.