The Ground She Walks Upon by Meagan McKinney

Author:Meagan McKinney [McKinney, Meagan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Romance, Historical, Paranormal, Regency, Historical Romance
ISBN: 9781453240755
Google: V5naBAAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00OMMN06I
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-12-08T16:00:00+00:00

Reverend Drummond looked out at the church's summer fields of potatoes. Lir was beautiful at this time of day. The land was cast purple and green beneath the haze of a Celtic twilight. Atop the hill of the rectory, Drummond listened for the roar of the sea in the distance.

Millie Sproule, a maiden cousin who had taken Mrs. Dwyer's position when the old woman had died, had dragged his favorite armchair out onto the rectory lawn. There sat his ancient figure, taking his tea, enjoying every moment. He was a man in the sunset of his life, watching the day disappear beneath the Sorra Hills.

In pastoral harmony, the form of Michael O'Shea appeared in the distance, hoeing and tending to his plants with all the care of his father. His four brothers had long since departed for America, but now six of Michael's sons worked the fields, as Michael had done before them.

Reverend Drummond had found peace. The emerald splendor of the landscape was balm for his Ulster soul. Nothing was more satisfying to a loyal subject of the Crown than to see his land tilled and fruitful. Donations would be good this year from the looks of the abundant landscape.

"Wha's he doin'?" Millie Sproule whined, still not adjusted to the quirks of the people though she had been in Ireland more than five years now.

"What's who doing?" asked Reverend Drummond, cursing his age. His eyesight wasn't worth a damn these days, and every time Millie had to raise her annoying voice in order to explain something to him, he felt as feeble as Griffin O'Rooney.

"Why, Mr. O'Shea. 'E's on his knees, diggin' up all his potatoes. I daresay they haven't gotten big enough for him to start harvestin'. Why... Go on! Look at him! He's running around like a madman, diggin' up them potatoes!"

Those potatoes, Drummond thought, fighting the urge to correct her. Millie Sproule, to his familial shame, spoke like a tavern wench.

"He's shoutin'! Go on with you, look! They're all a-runnin'! Even McKinnon is dropping his hoe and comin' 'round the ogham stone."

"I can't imagine!" Though his eyesight wasn't what it once was, Drummond could make out the blurry figures of men running toward O'Shea. They were in a panic. "Get me out of this chair. I've got to find out what's happening." The reverend held on to Millie Sproule's arm. He rose from the chair and forced her to lead him down the rectory lawn to the tilled fields below.

Slowly they made their way through a furrow of potatoes. Men were running to Michael O'Shea. When the reverend and Millie reached his side, they found Michael on his knees, his head bent low in defeat.

" 'Tis the blight, it is," someone in the crowd whispered in despair.

Reverend Drummond broke through the crowd to see the plants. They were dusted with a downy mildew. The tubers in Michael O'Shea's hand that should have been the size of rocks were instead the size of acorns.

"Famine is come to Lir," another man announced, his voice full of doom.

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