Romance Novel Chapter - Irish http://www.wikihow.com/Write-Romance-Novels The year 1920 was exciting for a 19-year-old boy with the independence of Ireland on his mind. Two decades of living certainly had done nothing to make me realize how foolish I was being. I didn’t know anyone would die. No one was supposed to die. We were just kids. We thought there’d be a fight, sure—the kind you have when Michail and Sinead drank too much—but British soldiers didn’t stop when you tapped out. British soldiers didn’t give you fair warning. By 1930, I was a man. I had lived through the Cogadh na Saoirse. I had suffered more loss than most people twice my age. So many of my brethren fell on the battlefield, but so much of my life had been taken as well. I’d had a wife and lost her, had two sons and lost them, had a home and farm, but it felt like I had lost those too. Some wives were supportive of the IRA; others saw their men as foolish traitors and left with the children in the night. My Greer, my beautiful Greer turned hard by murdered friends and family, took my boys without a word—without a thought for me. This was my Ireland. And hers. And our sons’. It was ours, and I was taking it back for us. How could she not want it back? How could she not want me to take it back? It had been more than two thousand days since I’d seen her last. Two thousand days living in a small flat above the tavern. Two thousand days drinking away the few quid I made growing grain in a tiny plot. The barmaid would only ask ‘How many, Ned?’ Mary and the bar, Teagan and his dairy, Aedan and his chickens, Cillian and whatever it was that occupies him when he wasn’t breathing in the ale—the same people everyday. Each had something, and I had them. Barely. I occupied the largest room above the tavern while the three smaller rooms were rented out to passersby and men who had been kicked out by their wives. The only permanent resident of The Dancing Pony. The rooms were paneled top to bottom with wood that looked like it had seen more than its share of oil lamps. The only source of natural light—if you could call it that—were windows just about the size of your head that were filled with jagged cuts of glass so riddled with impurities you could barely see through them. Several heavy, patched quilts helped fight off the cool Irish air that seemed to flow unimpeded through the whole tavern and the very bones of its patrons. I woke with a start on an icy morning to someone loudly rapping on my door. I threw off my blankets, and what little heat I had accumulated disappeared in an instant. I set both feet onto the cold wooden floorboards and rubbed sleep out of my eyes. The rapping continued, testing my temper. I shuffled clumsily, my brain still foggy and sleep-addled. Reaching the door, I groped for the handle and swung the door open. “D’anam don diabhal, what is it?!” I spat loudly, dizzy still from the night before. Leaning against the jamb, with my eyes turned floorward, I focused on a blue hem brushing the floor. I followed it up to a blue skirt, a blue bodice, a blue collar, snowy blonde curls falling upon tiny shoulders and pink, round cheeks. A pair of giant green eyes stared up at me curiously, amused, wide-eyed, and eager. She extended a large, steaming mug in her pale little hand. Unsure if she was a dream or a spirit, I stared back frozen. Brown wooden chairs, brown cloaks, brown ale in brown mugs in a brown tavern, and here stood before me a creature so bright and white and light with her soft, delicate, blue frock, she seemed to be glowing. She grinned broadly, pushing the mug into my chest encouragingly. “Go on,” came a soft voice from her bright red lips. She sounded older than her youthful face, but not Irish. It was English, but it wasn’t Irish. I didn’t know what is was or who she was or what she wanted. “Mary says you’ve had a rough night. She’s tending to other guests so I thought I’d help out,” she said pulling the mug back toward her. “Wha-innit?” I slurred. “Sorry?” “I said, what is in it?” I articulated loudy. I grabbed the mug rather than waiting for a response, stuck my face in the opening, and breathed deeply. Tea. The night came back to me in snippets of blurred scenes. Me on my back...outside...with a dog? “Ale,” I mumbled. “Getting me a pint, dearie,” and brushed past her in my pyjamas, leaving her standing at the door looking after me. “So what d’you do?” I jumped hard, spilling some ale in my lap. She’d come out of nowhere and surprised me with her loud, peppy voice. “Grain,” I mumbled. “Eh?” “Grain!” I barked, grabbing my ale and stomping up the stairs, slamming the door to my room and falling into deep sleep once more. Imagine my surprise when I awoke to find the lady in the blue dress chopping cabbage and carrots alongside Miss Mary. She never left. Days turned into weeks, and still she remained. She prodded me with her questions and brought me tea each morning, whining that I should drink less ale, accompanying me to my plot of grain and even helping me till a bit. She wasn’t a nuisance, really. She wasn’t particularly talented either, but I had no reason to tell her to go. “So where’s the lady of the house? Or should I say, lady of the room?” she giggled one day. It struck a chord. I didn’t know from where or why, but it stung and my blood boiled. My chest tight, my fists clenched, my face hot and head throbbing I roared, “You and your bloody stupid questions!” She jumped, wide-eyed and shaken, dropping her carving knife and scattering little wheels of carrots everywhere. She flew up the stairs, and a few patrons shot me disapproving looks. I told them where they could go, and Mary swiped my ale from me. Before I could even open my mouth to protest, she spat loudly, “You are hopeless!” pausing after each word. “Wh—” “You blind, bitter old hog! Have you become so thick and harsh that you’re unawares of the attractions of even the finest of creatures?” Her words stabbed at me, catching me off guard. She rolled her eyes at the confusion stretched across my dirty face. “That Anabelle is so fond of you. Have you no brain or no heart?” Fond? The word seemed foreign to me. The tea in the morning, preparing the evening’s stew, following me to my grain plot, watching me, quizzing me? I looked up to find Mary staring at me, left arm extended toward Anabelle’s room. I shifted out of my chair, trudging up the stairs as if being punished by my mother. Anabelle. I never even asked her name. Weeks had gone by, and I never thought to ask what to call her other than ‘girl.’ I swallowed hard as I got to her door. The door flew open the moment my knuckles made contact. She looked wounded, her face streaked with tears, her pretty hair disheveled. My mind raced, desperately searching for words. She sighed loudly, looking just as desperate and began to slowly close the door. “Anabelle...” She stopped and looked at me surprised. In that moment, my mind was clear. My wife, the IRA, British soldiers, ale—for once, none of those things were clamoring for attention. I felt...clean. “I shouted,” I said. “I shouldn’t have done that.” She grinned and opened her mouth, but before she could respond I had to ask, “Why have you been trying to know me?” Mary was right. I was blind. I was foolish. I was heartless. Standing in front of me was a beautiful woman who had been trying her hardest to break through this ice barrier of mine, and here I stood asking her why. She interrupted my internal chastisement and spoke just above a whisper. “You’re so beautiful.” The thought didn’t register. My simple mind rolled the word around in my head over and over and over. Beautiful. Beautiful. You’re beautiful. While my brain continued to short circuit, my heart flew into a panic in my chest as pretty little Anabelle took three steps forward and stood but an inch away. She raised her right hand placed a delicate finger on my brow, tracing it to my temple and down my face, across my jaw to my chin, slowly dragging it down my throat, gently brushing it across my collar bone. She paused as I shuddered, the hair on the back of my neck and arms standing up as my breath stopped. She continued, tracing her finger down my bicep, watching her own hand as she moved, barely brushing the skin on my forearm before intertwining her slender fingers with my own coarse hands. She raised herself onto her toes and stretched her neck to press her red lips gently on my cheek bone. I closed my eyes, inhaling sharply, her warm breath giving me shivers once again. I felt her pull away and opened my eyes to see her dart back in her room, her face bright red, a tiny grin on her face before she snapped the door shut once again. I reeled, dizzy, floating, floored by a girl barely out of her teens. I was 19 and in love again. I closed my own door and slumped against it, lit my pipe, and puffed away, frowning, trying to recall the rules of courtship I learned so distantly in my past. My racing thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock. Mary stood before me. “Don’t look so disappointed, you rat. You’ve a visitor. A lady asking for Ned.” I followed her to the stairs and leaned over the banister, grinning. “What’ve I done this time?” My visitor turned. I recognized her immediately. Of course I did. My wife. My traitor wife, come back from the dead.