Page 69 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘That she died?’ finishes Maeve, and smiles sadly. ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘I gave her up for adoption. I was the one who died that day.’ She looks at my face, and seeing I don’t understand, adds quietly, ‘I died the moment I gave her away.’

Suddenly it all makes perfect sense. That sadness that Maeve always seems to be carrying around with her. Maeve is in mourning. She lost not just a daughter, but herself.

‘Gave. It sounds so easy, doesn’t it,’ Maeve is now saying. Swallowing hard, she looks straight at me, her eyes shining brightly. ‘It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It broke my heart.’

I place my hand on her arm and squeeze it supportively. There’s so many questions that I want to ask, but I get the feeling that Maeve has kept this secret hidden for a long, long time, and now she just wants to let it all out. So I just listen as she talks.

‘His name was Seamus. I met him at the fair. He had long, dark hair. Blue eyes. Cheekbones to cut you with. And the most beautiful hands – long, delicate fingers, smooth, pale skin – I’d never seen hands like that before. Men’s hands were always rough and calloused and ingrained with dirt from working on the land.’

Without prompting she starts telling the story, staring off into the middle distance as she talks.

‘But he was a painter. Landscapes were his thing. Big, dark canvases that filled the tiny flat he was renting . . .’ Her voice trails off and I can see she’s back there again, with him in his flat, experiencing all those feelings she had for him all over again. ‘I’d never known anyone like him. I’d lived on a farm my whole life, I didn’t know what a hippy was. I didn’t know anything. I was so naïve.’

She shakes her head in disbelief at her younger self.

‘He told me he loved me and I believed him. Everyone warned me against him, but I wouldn’t listen. What did they know? I was young and headstrong and invincible. And I was in love.’

Knowing Maeve now, it’s hard to imagine her being a strong, vibrant, confident person.

‘But then I got pregnant. And suddenly he didn’t love me any more,’ she says simply.

I’m silent for a moment, then I have to ask: ‘What happened to him?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shrugs. ‘He left town. Ran away. And there was I. Eighteen, unmarried and pregnant. Suddenly I wasn’t so invincible any more.’

She smiles ruefully.

‘The priest told me I’d brought shame on my family. My brother threw me out. I had nowhere to live. No job. I couldn’t support a baby.’

I try putting myself in her shoes, but I can’t. My parents would never disown me over something like that. Times have changed. Being unmarried and pregnant is no big deal. It’s practically the norm these days. How sad to think that something that would barely raise an eyebrow today had such a devastating effect upon her. Poor Maeve. God, she must have been so scared and alone. No wonder her self-esteem has been wrecked.

‘I had no choice,’ she says now, wiping away a lone tear that’s slowly trickling down her cheek. I squeeze her arm tighter in support. ‘Except that’s a lie, isn’t it?’ She sniffs, suddenly angry at herself. ‘I had a choice. I could have said no. I could have run away with her. Found a place to live. A job. I was a coward.’

‘No, you weren’t,’ I cry indignantly. ‘Things were different back then. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you can’t keep punishing yourself. You did the best you could.’

‘But did I? Did I really?’ she demands, and I suddenly get just a glimpse of the guilt she’s been carrying around with her for years. ‘All she had was me. Her father deserted her, and then I did too.’ Her lip trembles and she bites it. ‘I’m so ashamed of what I did. I don’t deserve to be happy ever again. I did a terrible thing, Emily. I deserve to be punished. She probably hates me and I don’t blame her.’

‘You don’t know that,’ I disagree.

Maeve sniffs loudly, her eyes still focused on the kids building the snowman.

‘Have you ever thought of looking for her?’ I ask gently.

There’s a pause. ‘Once,’ she says quietly. ‘When she would have turned eighteen, but—’ She breaks off and shakes her head, as if finding it difficult to speak. ‘I dream about her, you know. I picture her in my head, and try to imagine what she’s like. What it would be like to have a daughter, to be someone’s mother.’ Turning to face me, her pale blue eyes search mine. ‘You and your mother are very lucky. To have each other.’

I think about Mom. We’ve never had the traditional relationship between a mother and daughter, and now, listening to Maeve, I feel cheated. I mean, look at Maeve. She’d do anything to speak to her daughter, and yet my mom rarely ever makes the effort to come and see me, or even pick up the phone.

And yet, you’re not exactly blameless, are you, Emily? When was the last time you asked her how she was and really wanted to know? Instead of being satisfied with the obligatory ‘fine’.

‘You know, me and my mom aren’t really close,’ I confide to Maeve. ‘We don’t talk much.’

‘You don’t?’ asks Maeve. ‘But why?’

I think about her question. It’s one I’ve asked myself hundreds of times over the years, and yet I still don’t have an answer. ‘I don’t know, really.’ I shrug. ‘When I was a lot younger I remember hanging out with her more, having fun, but then as I got older . . .’ I trail off. ‘She’s always been so busy with her career, charity work, travelling, Dad, my brother – I didn’t want to bother her with stupid things that happened at school or boyfriend troubles. Instead, I shared that personal stuff with my friends. I still do.’