Heart of the Lonely Exile (17 page)

Doesn't Evan look nice tonight?

Surprised, Nora realized she had never thought much one way or the other about Evan's appearance; certainly, she had never thought of him as—as
attractive.

She was accustomed to seeing him in a business suit, used to his impeccable grooming. Why, Evan would never think of being caught outside his rooms, she was certain, without his hair neatly combed and his spectacles polished. Tonight, though, there seemed to be something different about him. Something almost…charming.

It was his smile, Nora suddenly realized. The man had such a warmth to him. She blinked at the thought, then restrained a smile of her own. Who would have imagined she would ever see warmth in an
Englishman's
smile?

But this was no ordinary Englishman. This was Evan. Evan, who had risked his own life to save her and her family, who, even when wracked with pain and fever aboard ship, had offered his protection to her for as long as she might need it. Evan, who had lost his arm as a result of his efforts in their behalf. Evan, with the kind heart and good soul. Evan, her very dear friend.

Impulsively, she squeezed his hand, and the warmth in his eyes enfolded her heart.

After the final curtain had fallen, the audience stood applauding, then chatting with one another. Nora was still shaken by the tragic, sorrowful finale. That poor girl—Elvira—losing her one true love, left with nothing except the prospect of a dutiful marriage to an aged nobleman she could never love.

Still unnerved by the powerful drama, she said nothing as they followed the Farmingtons out of the theater.

“You're awfully quiet, N-Nora,” Evan said, studying her with concern.

Even with her arm anchored firmly inside his, Nora felt unsteady on her feet. “It was so sad,” she said without preamble. “I didn't know music could be so sad and yet so grand all at the same time.”

The crowd in front of them slowed as they began to empty from the theater, and Nora clung a bit more tightly to Evan's arm.

“I'm afraid m-most operas are sad,” he said, smiling. “A few have happy endings, but not m-many. But d-did you
enjoy
it?”

“Oh my, of course, I did!” she assured him. “It was grand! And I do thank you for helping me with the story. Where did you ever learn to speak
Italian,
Evan?”

He laughed. “I d-don't really
speak
Italian. Just a few words, that's all—enough to help m-me understand what's happening on the stage.”

Just outside the theater, the throng of people had come to a complete stop, unable to move because of the press of so many bodies spilling out onto the street at once. Nora turned to look at Evan while they waited. “You're an awfully smart man, Evan. You seem to know something about everything!”

A light flush rose to his cheeks. “But n-not very much about
anything.”
he protested.

“Why, that's not a bit true!” Nora gave him a stern frown, then smiled. “You're the cleverest man I know,” she insisted, studying his open, good face. “And quite the nicest.”

His eyes went over her features with such a tenderness that Nora felt as if he had touched her. They stood that way for another moment, looking at each other with questions in their eyes as a strange, undefinable awareness hung between them.

Suddenly, from just outside the crowd, a gruff voice called her name.

Nora whirled around, startled.

“Nora?”
Michael's face was hard, his eyes glinting with incredulity as he parted the crowd to reach her. “What are
you
doing here?”

He stood as still as a stone in front of her, his jaw tight, his eyes flashing.

Irrationally, it struck Nora that he was far bigger and broader than she had once thought. For a moment she could see nothing but the front of his dark wool coat and the copper star pinned there.

Before she could attempt a reply, Michael glanced from her to Evan, then the Farmingtons. To Sara and her father, he offered a short but polite greeting; to Evan, he managed only a curt nod with a grudging “Whittaker.”

Bewildered by the surge of guilt that came crashing over her without warning, Nora found herself unwilling to meet Michael's dark eyes. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the copper badge.

“I scarcely knew you in your finery.” His words grated with unmistakable sarcasm.

Slowly, Nora dragged her eyes away from the badge, forcing herself to meet his gaze. Expecting to find his eyes as cold as his voice, she caught her breath in surprise at his stricken expression. Without really understanding why, she suddenly felt foolish and bitterly deceitful.

17

Last night we saw the stars arise,
But clouds soon dimmed the ether blue;
And when we sought each other's eyes
Tears dimmed them too!

GEORGE DARLEY (1795–1846)

S
tunned and confused, Michael fought to keep his hurt from showing. Yet, he knew Nora had seen, could tell by the way she quickly glanced away from him.

She looked so…different.
Elegant,
that was the only word for her. She always looked sweet and fine, in her everyday gingham dresses and sensible hairdo. But this, now—this was something else, something that seemed too grand for Nora, too extravagant.

Standing there in her finery, with flowers in her hair, she looked uncommonly lovely and delicate. Her cheeks were flushed—with embarrassment, he sensed. He made no move to relieve the awkwardness between them, but simply continued to rake her face with a demanding stare.

Finally, he realized he was being rude and dragged his gaze away from her, only to find Lewis Farmington regarding him with a curious, measuring expression. But it was Sara who finally threatened to shake his composure. She stood, straight-backed and dignified as always, her level, knowing gaze brimming with something akin to pity.

Michael wanted to run. She had seen his hurt, then, as had Nora. He felt the fool for the first time in a long time, at least where a woman was concerned.

He groped for words, desperately wishing he had not even approached the foursome. “Well, now, Nora,” he choked out inanely, “aren't you looking grand tonight? I did not know that you fancied the opera.”

Her huge gray eyes held an appeal to which he could not, would not respond. He followed the movement of her hand as she dropped it quickly away from Whittaker's arm and touched a sprig of flowers in her hair. “I—Mr. Farmington and Sara invited…us…” Her voice faded, and she made no attempt to go on.

Lewis Farmington cleared his throat and said something vacuous about the large crowd. “Is this a special duty for you, Sergeant Burke?”

Michael directed his reply to Nora, continuing to appraise the uncertainty in her eyes. “I'm an assistant captain now, sir. And, yes, this is…special duty.”

“Oh,
Michael
!” Nora cried, reaching out to him, then drawing her hand back when he simply stared down at it. “Your promotion came through at last. I'm—I'm so very happy for you,” she said lamely.

Her pleasure appeared to be genuine, but Michael found no satisfaction in it. He was too taken aback by seeing her like this, dressed up like the grand lady, parading about with the Farmingtons—and on the arm of that…Englishman.

He had seen the way the two of them looked at each other. But, wait, now—
what,
exactly, had he seen? Nora could not possibly be…
interested
…in a man like Whittaker.

Could she?

Unable to stand and look the fool any longer—and unwilling to allow Sara Farmington any further glimpse of his pain—Michael lifted his chin and took a step backward. Somehow, he managed a lame smile.

“Well, I must be seeing to my men…make sure there are no problems,” he said tightly.

Locking gazes with Nora one more time, he made a determined effort to conceal his conflicting feelings. “A pleasant evening to you all,” he said with difficulty. Then, giving a short, stiff nod, he whipped around and walked away.

A knot of dismay rose to her throat as Nora watched Michael traipse off into the crowd. Seeing the slump of his broad shoulders, remembering the one fleeting glimpse of raw hurt she had seen in his eyes, she knew with a sick sense of guilt that she had wronged him, wounded him.

She could have dealt with his anger. But it was the terrible fierce look of betrayal in his eyes that she now found impossible to bear.

The pain she had seen before he concealed it had surprised her. Obviously, it was not seeing her here—but seeing her here with
Evan
—that had done the damage.

But why? He couldn't be jealous of Evan, after all! That would be too foolish entirely!

Suddenly, she knew it was
not
foolish. Michael
had
been jealous of Evan. No doubt he had seen them come out of the theater together, had seen her on Evan's arm, seen the two of them talking together, laughing together.

She felt a knife stab her own heart now at the memory of the pain she had encountered in Michael's eyes. She should have
told
him, told him long before now about tonight.

And why, exactly,
hadn't
she? It wasn't as if there had been no opportunity. She had seen him two or three times, at least, since Evan first told her about the tickets. She could easily have talked to him, explained about tonight.

Why hadn't she, then?

“Nora?”

At Evan's soft reminder, Nora blinked. Aware that both he and Sara Farmington were regarding her with uncertain expressions, she forced a smile.

For a moment she was unable to look directly at either one of them. Glancing instead at Mr. Farmington, she encountered a look of understanding, a gentle smile of reassurance.

“It's late,” he said with his usual straightforward brusqueness. “I'll have our carriages brought around.”

Why hadn't she
told
him?

Michael agonized over the question all the way home. Rejecting a ride in the Black Maria, he walked, hunkered down against the cold sting of the night wind on his face.

In an attempt to throw off his anger and humiliation, he first tried to convince himself he was making too much of the entire affair. After all, it
went without saying that the Farmingtons had arranged the whole evening. Certainly, neither Whittaker nor Nora could so much as afford the tickets, much less the required finery.

No doubt, Lewis Farmington had taken it upon himself to do a kindness for two people who worked for him. More than likely, that's all it was.

Then why hadn't she told him?

Try as he would, he couldn't banish the question. If, as he would like to believe, the entire affair meant nothing at all to Nora, why hadn't she at least mentioned it before tonight?

The knowledge that Sara Farmington had been witness to his humiliation somehow grieved him almost as much as Nora's deceit.

Michael heard the whisper of pride rise to the surface of his emotions, and he could not deny it was one reason for his hurt. Seeing the two of them decked out in their finery, mingling with New York society, had made him face the painful reality of who he was.

An Irish policeman.
Suddenly, his promotion to assistant captain meant nothing—nothing at all. The truth was that, no matter how hard he worked or how high he rose in the ranks, no matter how much he might better his lot in life—he was an immigrant—an
Irish
immigrant with little to offer a woman like Nora.

What
could
he offer her that would even begin to compare with what she already had? A three-room flat in a low-rent district. A policeman's pay that might support a family but would never do more than provide the bare necessities. And himself—a rough-edged copper with a mediocre education, whose manners at their best were blunt and crude.

Michael shook his head, muttering to himself as he strode along in the cold night. When Nora had come to America, he had believed—truly believed—that he could make a life for the two of them. With Morgan left behind in Ireland, he had hoped that her love for the man would diminish, that finally, after all these years, she would see her need for
him.
Besides, hadn't he promised Morgan to take care of her?

Yet, here she was now, on the arm of Evan Whittaker. Michael could deal with her love for Morgan. It was an old affection for a man much like himself—a man of strength and purpose. Evan Whittaker was—well, what kind of man
was
Evan Whittaker, after all? Intelligent, more than likely. Well-educated, even cultured. A different kind of man than himself, sure.

Did that matter to Nora? Was that what she wanted, then?

His wounded pride mingled with bitterness, and he almost choked on the lump of misery in his throat.

How it stung, to acknowledge his foolishness—and him a man grown! Why, he had thought to offer Nora so much—when in truth even if he offered her everything he had, it would be as nothing when compared to what was already hers!

Hours later, lying sleepless on her bed, Nora still could not shake the image of Michael's stricken, angry face.

There was no way she could have anticipated his reacting as he had. He had thrown her off-balance entirely with his unexpected harshness, his cold disdain, making her feel as though she had—betrayed him.

Could it be that Michael cared for her more deeply than she believed? Over the past few weeks, she had found herself questioning his feelings for
her
almost as often as she puzzled over her feelings for
him.
That Michael cared for her, she did not doubt. But what continued to puzzle her was the
depth
of his caring.

Some vague, nagging intuition caused her to question whether Michael's feelings for her were of the sort a man should have for the woman he marries. Nora could not shake the conviction that his affection was based more on memory, the old fondness of their youthful friendship—even on a sense of duty—than on any real depth of love.

No matter what Michael said, no matter how often he caught her eye when they were together or how tenderly he might happen to touch her hand, there were times when Nora almost felt that he had convinced himself he loved her, wanted to marry her, because he was lonely—or even because their
sons
desired the union!

Instinctively, she knew that if she were to confront him with her suspicions, he would deny them. It was almost as if once he had determined to marry her, he
would
marry her, no matter the reservations of his heart.

She should have told him before—long before—of her hesitation, of the nameless resistance in her heart to the idea of marrying him. She had only just recently identified it herself, and she doubted that he would understand. Michael still saw her as the young girl of his boyhood—how could he possibly understand the woman she had come to be?

Still, in her desire not to hurt him, she had hurt him even more.

Impatient with her sleeplessness, she flipped off the bedcovers and swung her feet to the floor. Grabbing her dressing gown, she shrugged into it and went to look out the window.

For a long time she stood, staring mindlessly into the stand of pines at the back of the grounds. With a sigh, she touched the cold windowpane, drawing a mindless design in the frosty vapor.

It was one thing to analyze Michael's feelings for
her,
but would she ever understand hers for
him
? She cared for him deeply—but did she care
enough?
The affection she felt for Michael was not the kind of love that would make her a good wife to him, the kind of wife he deserved.

Michael was a good man. Nora knew without even thinking that he would be a good husband—a
wonderful
husband.