Brigid looked at her great-niece, astonished. ‘Well, now!’ she said slowly. ‘I am retired. I can do as I please. And now I’m a woman of independent means . . . when do we go?’

Laughter erupted around the table as the Angelus bell chimed noon, and Marie-Claire took her iPad out of her bag to book Brigid’s flight to France.

At last, thought Armand, delighted. Now he could finally show Keelin’s much-loved aunt how grateful they were to her for taking them all under her wing when they had needed it most.

CHAPTER FORTY

Brigid sat staring at her reflection in the mirror, admiring her styled hair. She loved the way the silvery ash fringe feathered her forehead and swept sideways. It was very sophisticated indeed. Well, now I can add vanity to my evergrowing list of sins, she told herself. As for the new dress: that was indeed an occasion of sin, Brigid thought giddily. And she loved it!

When Armand had first suggested bringing her, Keelin, Marie-Claire, Marie-Hélène, Una and Maura, to dinner in the hotel, she’d demurred. She knew the gossip about the party was spreading like wildfire around the village. She’d got a few sideways glances and averted eyes when she’d walked into the hairdresser’s this morning, but Vera, the hairdresser, had handed her a book of hairstyles and she’d sat down to flick through them, fighting the urge to get up and run.

‘That would be a nice one on you,’ said the girl who came to bring her to the basin to wash her hair, pointing to a picture of the feather-cut style Brigid now sported.

When Vera had finished and she went to pay, Brigid’s spirits had been lifted when Peggy Flynn, the butcher’s wife, had complimented her: ‘Very nice, Reverend Mother,’ she approved. ‘And enjoy your retirement.’

‘Thank you, Peggy. I’ll do my best.’ Brigid smiled at the other woman and left the hairdresser’s, glad that she’d not delayed in making her first foray into the village. The next time wouldn’t be so hard.

Going to the hotel for dinner though had been a step too far for her nerves, and when Armand issued the invitation, she’d said no.

‘Ah come on,’ urged Marie-Hélène. ‘That hair needs celebrating!’

‘It would do you good,’ Una interjected. ‘What’s the point in moping around here?’

‘Do you know what we could do?’ Marie-Claire’s eyes lit up. ‘We could nip over to Kilrush now and get something nice for you to wear—’

‘Yay . . . a girls’ jaunt! I’m in,’ exclaimed Marie-Hélène.

‘No, no, no!’ protested Brigid, laughing.