EILEEN
MID JUNE 1967
My days quickly find their rhythm. Breakfast with Bridey over a cup of tea, sifting through the keeping room library to pick out a book for the day, and a brisk ride with Sidhe, which always ends at what I have come to think of as "my grove." I enjoy the quiet and the solitude and often lose track of time up at the spring.
Bridey was right—there is a comfort in routines, in the sameness of my days. Even more comforting is Bridey's motherly interest in me. Since I had outgrown my governess, I have felt more and more adrift. The loss of my gran compounded it. Even though she was far away, Gran was always a strong presence in my life. I could always count on her love. Bridey has taken it upon herself to be for me what my gran had been for her. She has taken me under her wing and makes sure that I have "appropriate" underpinnings—her word—and treats me like the lady I have become, not the girl I used to be.
With my governess gone and my mother rarely in the same country as me, I had been making do with Maureen's hand-me-down bras, which to my chagrin, I was quickly outgrowing. My body is rebelling against me, and I really don't have any clue what to do about it. Bridey stepped into the fray matter-of-factly and sorted out my wardrobe. No more ill-fitting training bras, stuffy Boston riding outfits, or prissy debutante outfits. Thanks to her, I now have dungarees and light shirts perfect for life on the farm. I feel like a new woman and more like myself than I have in ages—maybe ever. I feel as though I fit in.
After my conversation with Granddad that first night, I was bound and determined to learn more about my Irish heritage. Especially how it pertains to my family. He always talks about "our role" in its history, but I don't know what that role was, how important it was, what it all means. So that meant lots of reading and digging through the library. I even found an old diary that belonged to a great-great aunt who ran away to Dublin to be an actress during the Gaelic Revival at the turn of the century. It has inspired me to be more diligent with mine.
The weather is unseasonably hot, even for summer, so I decide to cut short our ride and head straight to the spring today. The temperature has climbed to ninety, and it is sticky and oppressive. As we come to the point where the path opens up to the clearing, I stop Sidhe short. Splashing comes from the spring. Maybe the otters are back. I don't want to scare them away. They are so much fun to watch.
At first glimpse, all I see is shiny black hair like a seal's pelt. But it isn't otters. Is it a Selkie? I have gone mad with the heat.
I blink again, and it's just a boy.
Not a boy.
A man.
He rears up out of the water, tossing his head back and flinging a glittery stream of water droplets everywhere, trying to get that luscious black hair out of his eyes. As he makes his way to shore, my gaze lingers, transfixed, his face all angles and cheekbones and dark, almond-shaped eyes. He is lean and strong looking, not bulky like most of Granddad's hired men. His muscled chest, slick with water, tapers down to—I touch my fingers to my lips a moment too late to stop the gasp that escapes me.
I wish I was that droplet of water making its way down his torso, tracing the grooves of his abdomen in that moment. I have never seen a naked man before—unless you count David and the other classic sculptures we saw on a trip to Italy. He is everything and nothing like David. His thighs are all corded muscle, and his penis—oh my goodness! Surrounded by soft black hair, it is definitely bigger than any I have seen on a statue. I wonder what it would feel like under my fingers. I overheard Mo and her friends talking one day about their boyfriends and their penises—they called them cocks—and how they were hard and long and jutted out and made them feel so good. I understand the "long," but as I continue to gawk and puzzle out the rest, he hesitates in the shallow water and looks around before grabbing the towel I finally notice on the shore. He roughly dries his face and hair.
Oh no. Did he hear me? I don't want to be caught spying, so I carefully back Sidhe around and head to the farmhouse, but not before one last look at my beautiful mystery man, kissed by the spring water and sunlight.
That image haunts me as I spend the rest of the afternoon in the keeping room with a glass of lemonade and a romance novel I found tucked under the cushion of my gran's chair. The plan was to read something entertaining to take my mind off of him. It was a bad plan. The story is about a smuggler and the daughter of the local constable. It is full of kissing and touching—and more. Gran read naughty books! To make matters worse, the hero is tall and dark and makes the heroine—and me—feel things. All I can do is think of him. The book only makes things more confusing, thanks to the odd, tingly feelings in my belly that it inspires.
I take the opportunity at dinner to ask Granddad about the legend of the Selkie.
"The Selkie are half seal, half man. They live in the sea, but shapeshift when they come on land. They're not a local legend; it's from further north. What makes you ask, my dear?" Granddad looks up from his plate of delicious ham and potatoes and levels me with a probing look. The fae aren't something that comes up in our dinner conversations often.
"I was reading one of Gran's books of myths and it came up. But there are so few dark-haired people here—"
"And the fact that Bridey and her people have black hair made you curious." My grandfather fills in the rest of my unasked question.
"Bridey's people?" I didn't realize the rest of her family had black hair as well.
"Well, her son, Brendan, certainly takes after her. All black hair and dark eyes. Folks used to joke about him being a changeling until they met his mother." Granddad shakes his head at the seeming absurdity of the notion that people don't know their neighbors’ pedigree at least five generations back.
"I wish we talked more openly about the old beliefs and stories in America." I sigh.
"Why do you say that, my dear?"
It all pours out in a jumble, my scattered feelings coalescing as I put them into words. "The fae are real to the people here, even if it's just a shared story and habit. I like leaving a nibble for them and knowing that others do as well. I feel like I belong to something bigger. You and Bridey make me feel my connection to this place. A connection I'm finally old enough to appreciate. Mother and Dad ignore it entirely. They don't allow us to read much about fairytales or folklore or even Ireland. Ireland gets maybe ten lines in my History of Western Civilization textbook. They make being Irish feel like a shameful secret."
"English history is not Irish history. They're filling your head with nonsense, those American schools. Now I'll tell you who you can speak to if you want to learn know more about Irish history—Bridey's Brendan. He’s starting at university in the fall, but in the meantime, he's working with me to learn some practical skills in the import-export business. He's off to Dublin but will be back in a day or two. He's a fine young man. It would do you good to have someone closer to your age to talk with. Instead of spending all your time with an old man like me."
"You're not old. And you'll always be my favorite man in Ireland."
Tonight's one of the rare nights when Granddad doesn't have meetings with his tenants or the gentlemen from the village. I convince him to join me in the keeping room, and we play Parcheesi, just like when Mo and I did when we visited when we were young. We would play board games every night—Granddad and me against Mo and Gran.
When I finally drag myself off to bed and snuggle in for a good night's sleep, I find no such luck.
My sleep is filled with vivid dreams. I am swimming in the spring with an otter circling me, swimming around and between my legs, nudging me and brushing against my hips and breasts. As we undulate together through the water, I realized it isn't an otter—it is the black-haired man from the spring. He caresses me with strong hands, leaving a trail of soft heat that the water doesn't temper. My nipples tighten when his chest brushes against them before he crushes me to him as we swim together. Suddenly, I am under him, soft moss at my back, lying near the shore, skin to skin. We kiss, gently at first. His lips are soft like velvet, his tongue tests my resistance. Slowly, gently, he becomes more insistent, probing and tickling the seam of my lips until I relent and let him in. His kiss becomes needy and devouring, and I answer with a need of my own. We are all hands and limbs. Grasping, clinging. Heat, invasion, desire, and acquiescence with a rhythm all its own. Exploding and melting all at once.
Suddenly I wake, my fingers inside me, and my panties are soaked. I am exhausted but feel oddly satisfied. I drift off to sleep, hoping my Selkie will return to my dreams.
The next afternoon, I decide to throw caution to the wind and go swimming for the first time all summer. I can't very well ride back in my wet clothes, so I strip down and pile them in a prim, lady-like pile on the diving rock. After a deep breath, I jump in with a shriek, thanks to the change in temperature from sticky and hot to cool and refreshing.
I paddle around for a bit. My small act of rebellion is the highlight of my day for so many reasons. Floating on my back, I enjoy the sensation of the water lapping against my breasts, soft and insistent, caressing my nipples into pebbly points. Each brush of the water sends a shiver down my spine to my core, the sensations pooling there until the pressure becomes insistent.
Hoping to distract myself until the sensation subsides, I clamber back onto the rock to air dry and snack on the savory scone and fresh soft cheese that Bridey packed for me. Lying back to enjoy the heat of the sun, I give into temptation and curiosity and brush the backs of my fingers against my breasts and nipples, rekindling the pressure in my core with the jolt my fingers create. When I alternate between soft and harder touches, the tingle in my core slowly turns to a throb. My pace becomes more frantic—I am desperate to relieve the achy fullness the throbbing has created. I frantically clench my thighs together in an attempt to accelerate the throb when a branch cracks, startling me. Sidhe's ears prick up and she is on alert.
It's probably just a small animal in the woods.
Sidhe nickers and chuffs, fidgeting for a bit before she settles again.
The moment's gone, the heat and pressure draining out of me like a deflating balloon. I dry off, dress, and immerse myself in Oscar Wilde's fairytales, hoping to ignore the feelings I had set free.