Seacliff

Chapter twenty-six: Irish whiskey

1919

At the end of her frenzied tale, James looked more likely to believe that selkies were real than that Saoirse was pregnant.

"Are you absolutely sure?" he asked for what must have been the hundredth time.

"Bloody positive, James. I have been through this three times before."

His eyebrows jumped up.

"It's a very long story," she said in response, "which I'm not quite keen on telling right now. The fact of the matter remains – I am currently with child, I would very much like to keep it, but I would rather not have to wear a scarlet letter when out and about and condemn my child to a lifetime of humiliation."

"What do you suggest?"

Saoirse threw her hands up in the air. She hadn't been able to sit or stand still the entire time she'd relayed her predicament and continued to pace around the doctor's study.

"Sorely said he'd return, but who knows when – if ever. And even if he does return in time... how do you marry a selkie? They lead clandestine lives, they don't exist in any society of any kind."

James rubbed at his forehead. "Say... well, say you married in secret... and that your... secret husband... died."

Saoirse laughed. "That might just be worse than admitting I had an affair with a selkie."

The doctor bowed his head, heaving a desolate sigh, and her heart warmed at his compassion.

"James..."

As he looked up, affectionate, apologetic, the obvious solution suddenly occurred to her. The one that had been before her eyes all along. The man who would have loved to be her husband.

"James!" She ran over to him and took his hands. "James... James, marry me!"

His eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "Saoirse, what are you – "

"James, can't you see? It's the perfect arrangement! I need a husband and your parents want a daughter-in-law. Granted, I'm not sure they would be too pleased with a secondhand woman like me, but – "

"Saoirse – "

"It's a woman! You will be married. You'll even give them a grandchild. And – and..." She slowed down, catching her breath. "As long as you are good and decent as you have always been, and – for your safety – discreet... You can still love whoever you want."

"Saoirse..."

"I know, I know it's a shock, it's a lot, it's too much – " Renewed tears trickled down her cheek. She hurried to wipe at them. "I don't know what to do, James. I don't know what else to do."

She collapsed on an armchair, covering her face.

"It will sound horrible," she mumbled, "but sometimes I wish we were still at war. I'd still be sewing up wounds and sawing off limbs. I'm worth nothing here!"

A cry of despair, hand raised in frustration at the world.

"Not by myself. If I have this baby on my own, I will be a whore and he will be a bastard. I could live with being a whore, but my child, James... I want my child to grow up loved, not scared or ashamed."

She sniffled into her handkerchief and scrambled to her feet.

"So please take some time to consider it." She squeezed his hand, smiling. "Not too long, though." She placed her palm on her abdomen. "We're on a clock."

Saoirse left the house in a daze and decided to walk alongside Sasha for a bit, to hopefully sort out her thoughts and feelings. It was a cold December evening, growing ever colder, and now the adrenaline was receding, she was beginning to shiver. She passed the pub and ducked inside to warm up a little.

"Whiskey, please," she asked at the bar. It'd be the last one for a long time.

"Ye can't be here on your own, darlin'," the barkeep said.

"I beg your pardon?"

He pointed to a tiny table at the back. "You can sit over there if ye like, but women aren't allowed on their own at the bar."

Saoirse blinked, bewildered.

"Say that again, I dare you."

Menace seeped from her voice into her muscles, making her tense. The man had unknowingly poured salt into the reopened wound of a lioness fighting for her cub. The lauded Amazon arose within her, roaring for justice, punctuating each word with clinical clarity.

"Women aren't allowed?" Saoirse echoed. "Oh, like they weren't allowed in the war, you mean? But the stupid cows still volunteered, didn't they?"

An eerie silence befell the establishment.

"They went and drove ambulances," Saoirse carried on, all fired up now, "pulling mangled bodies from the rubble to save as many godforsaken lives as they could! And those women who couldn't go to the frontlines stayed behind and nursed the wounded or manned the ammunition factories, so you, boys, could keep fighting your bloody war! And we can't have a drink at the bar? You'd be dead without us. So bring me my fucking whiskey. And it better be Irish."