Island of the Heart Read Free

and painfully against her ribs.
    She could feel Other objections crowding in. She was assailed by
    nervousness and exhilaration at the same time.
    She said, 'Yes, I do. But I don't know what my parents will say.'
    'Leave them to me,' he said. 'I'll handle them.' He rose, and so did
    she. 'Now, shall we seal our bargain in the time-honoured way?'
    He held out his hand, and Sandie put her fingers into his, only to
    find herself drawn forward to receive Crispin's light kiss on her
    mouth.
    He said, 'I'll be in touch,' then the dressing room door closed behind
    him.
    Sandie stared after him, her hand lifting involuntarily to touch her
    lips.
    She thought, A summer in Connemara. It sounds like magic—too
    good to be true. She hesitated. But after the summer—what then?
    She shrugged. I'll wait and see, she told herself, and let the
    remembrance of Crispin Sinclair's smile dispel that faint chill of
    anxiety inside her.

    A fortnight later, still dazed at the total upheaval in her life, Sandie
    found herself descending from the plane at Shannon.
    Looking back, she realised she had never thought her parents would
    agree, and she hadn't the slightest idea how Crispin had persuaded
    them. Neither, she thought, had they. But she was aware that he'd
    accentuated her dubious role as his mother's accompanist rather than
    her status as his pupil, and although this wasn't exactly a deception,
    it had caused her a slight flicker of uneasiness.
    Inside the terminal building, she collected her luggage and made her
    way to the Aer Lingus desk as Crispin had instructed.
    'Excuse me,' she addressed the green-clad girl, who looked up
    smiling at her approach. 'My name is Beaumont. Someone is
    meeting me here.'
    The girl nodded. 'Your man was just enquiring for you,' she said.
    She looked past Sandie, and beckoned.
    Sandie turned to find herself confronted by a short, squat individual.
    His face was as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, and his greying
    hair still held a tinge of fierce red. He was staring at Sandie with an
    expression of incredulity that was too disconcerting to be amusing.
    'It's you, is it, I'm to take to Killane?' His tone held lively dismay.
    Sandie tilted her chin a little. 'I'm Mr Sinclair's guest, yes,' she
    returned coolly. 'How do you do, Mr— er --?' She held out her hand.
    'O'Flaherty will do—without the Mister.' The man ignored her hand,
    and picked up her cases. 'Guest,' he added with a faint snort. 'Well
    for Mr Crispin that himself's not at home to see this.' And on this
    obscure utterance, he turned and strode towards the main doors,
    heading for the car park. Sandie had to run in order to keep up with
    him.
    She said breathlessly, and a little desperately, *I am expected, aren't
    I?'
    'They're expecting someone, surely.' Sandie's cases were fitted into
    the back of a large estate car. 'in you get, now. We have a fair drive
    ahead of us.'
    Sandie got into the passenger seat and fastened its belt. It was not
    the introduction she'd expected to Ireland of the Hundred Thousand
    Welcomes, she thought, trying to feel amused, and failing.
    'It's a beautiful day,' she tried tentatively, as they won free of the
    airport's environs, and embarked on the road to Galway.
    'It won't last,' was the uncompromising reply, and Sandie sighed
    soundlessly, and transferred her attention to the scenery.
    It took well over an hour to reach Galway. Beyond the city, the road
    narrowed dramatically, and the weather, as O'Flaherty had
    predicted, began to de- teriorate. Ahead, Sandie could see
    mountains, their peaks hidden by cloud, and the whole landscape
    seemed to be changing, taking on a disturbing wildness now that the
    narrow grey towns had been left behind.
    O'Flaherty had wasted no time with his driving so far, but now he
    slowed perceptibly, as the rattle of loose chippings stung at the
    underside of the car. Moorland rolled away on both sides of the
    road, interspersed with a scatter of small white houses, most of them
    with