Liam lifted the heavy brass knocker on the large oak door and let it fall. His heart was beating a little faster than normal, and he found waiting for admittance difficult. It had been six long weeks since he'd last seen his betrothed, and he was eager to see her again. When he'd gotten her note informing him that she'd returned home and asking him to call, he'd obeyed immediately. The bouquet of flowers he held in his hand trembled just a bit.

At last the door was opened by a young maidservant. "Brenna, my love," Liam grinned in greeting. Instead of getting the blushing giggle he was used to, she gave him a nervous glance, bobbed a quick curtsy and stepped back allowing him entrance.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Liam," she said solemnly.

He was a little surprised by her reticence, but decided that she must be suffering from female troubles. His mother was never the easiest of women when Herself was afflicted by female vapors. He followed the plump little maid to the drawing room.

"Shall I put the flowers in water, sir?"

"Thank you, Brenna," Liam answered politely handing the bouquet over.

"I'll tell Miss Margaret you're here, sir," she said, bobbing another curtsy and closing the drawing room door. Liam took a seat on the hard settee and gazed up at the painting that held pride of place over the mantel. A young girl of six years looked back at him. She was seated on the ground and wore a pale blue dress. Her long, fair hair hung in ringlets down to her shoulders. One alabaster arm was looped around an old, fat, tan and white King Charles spaniel, and she looked back at Liam with mischief in her wide blue eyes and a smile on her rosy, bow-shaped mouth.

She'd been only a few years older than she'd been when she'd posed for this painting the first time he'd met her. He'd been a lad of ten and had fallen in love with her instantly. He'd courted her first with frogs and green apples and pony rides, and later with flowers and books and carriage rides. He'd never known such joy as on the day she'd agreed to be his wife. He knew that most men wanted fine, strong sons, but Liam held the dream in his heart of a household full of tiny, giggling girls, fair and beautiful like their mother.

His musings were interrupted when the door opened and Margaret at last entered the room. The loveliness of the child had matured to a breathtaking beauty in the woman. She was small, her head barely reaching his shoulder. The pale, little-girl blonde hair had darkened to a rich gold, but her eyes still sparkled with mischief. The little pug of a nose was now fine-boned and complemented the delicate grace of her features. This afternoon she wore a gown of deep blue that showed her ripe breasts and tiny waist off to perfection. She was an angel sent by God to bless his life.

Liam leapt from his seat and came forward eagerly. He clasped her two small hands in his much larger ones and leaned down to press a kiss to her sweet mouth. She turned her head, and his lips brushed her cheek instead. He pulled back, his hands still holding hers and said, "Maggie, my love, I’ve missed you so much."

Margaret smiled sadly at him and said, "Let's sit down, Liam."

He wondered briefly at her restrained greeting, but followed her to the settee. She sat stiffly, her back straight, and her eyes downcast. Her hands lay clasped tightly together on her lap.

"How was your trip, darling?" he asked, beginning to feel the first hints of anxiety. His beloved Margaret was not acting like herself. He had expected her to run into his arms and kiss him joyfully. This reserved, quiet woman was a stranger to him.

He saw Margaret close her eyes briefly, and when she looked up again, what he saw in her eyes made his heart lurch in fear. She swallowed, looked down again and said, "You know that we went to visit my mother's brother, Father Paul Finnegan, at his parish in Ballinlough."

"Yes, I know that."

"I didn't tell you the reason why we went to visit him."

"He's your uncle, dearest. Was there a reason other than familial affection for your visit?"

She was silent again for a few seconds, and then she nodded her head. Standing, she walked over to the window and stood gazing out, her back to him.

"I've been having doubts lately, Liam. About our marriage."

Liam stood up, pain stabbing into his heart. "Margaret, are you saying you don't love me?"

She turned back around, shaking her head in denial. "No, Liam, it isn't that. I love you with all my heart."

"Then why, my love?" He made to move to her, but stopped when she held up a hand in forbearance. "Why are you having doubts?" A thought struck him. "If it's your marital duty... If you fear..."

Margaret blushed. "No, no. It's not that either." Taking a deep breath, she said, "You know I love our Mother Church."

"Yes, of course. You've always been a good daughter of the Faith," Liam said, confused.

"I've had the feeling lately that God is calling me."

Liam felt his blood run cold. "Margaret, you cannot be meaning..."

She nodded her head. "That was why we went to visit Father Paul. I needed to know if my calling was true or only bridal nerves as my father was insisting."

She walked up to Liam, taking his hands in hers. "I'm so sorry, Liam. I love you with all my heart, but I love God more. I'm entering the novitiate at the end of the month."

"Margaret, no! We're to be married after the harvest."

She stood on tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. Pulling back, she withdrew her hands from his and slipped the antique ring he'd given her from her finger. She laid it into the palm of his hand and closed his fingers around it.

"I'm sorry, Liam," she said again. "I'll always love you, but this is something I must do." Without another word, she walked out of the room, and Liam felt his world shatter.

On the day that Margaret Elizabeth Smythe entered the convent, Liam took his first drink.

Six years later, in the company of another lovely, petite, fair-haired woman, he visited his love one last time.


The End