Heart of the Lonely Exile (24 page)

Still, he would be leaving for Dublin, and leaving without
her,
unless she could prevent it. She did have an idea—but would the old man hear her out? And even if he did, would he take her seriously?

The silver-haired priest came out of the room. Watching him for only a moment, Annie got to her feet.

Perhaps he was the very one to give her idea a boost.

24

Oh! who can tell what things she hears—
What secrets of the faery spheres,
That fill her eyes with silent tears!
Sweet wandering fancy-charmed child,
With cheek so pale, and eyes so wild.
Oh! what shall come of this lonely dreaming!

THOMAS CAULFIELD IRWIN (1823–1892)

F
aith, child, would you be causing a priest to fall on his face, then?” Joseph Mahon threw out a hand to brace himself against the wall in the dim hallway. The raggedy little urchin had darted out in front of him from nowhere, blocking his path and causing him to stumble.

“Sure, and I'm sorry, Father!” the child said breathlessly. “But I would speak with you, if you please. It's that important.”

Joseph stared down at the thin elfin face, speculating as to whether this creature was a girl-child or a lad.

“And who is it wanting to speak with me?”

“Annie Delaney, your reverence.” The pointed chin lifted, as if the name itself were a matter of pride.

The face was perky, if not altogether clean, capped by a shaggy riot of black, straight hair that seemed to grow wild, entirely without direction. Two black-marble eyes peered out from behind the hair, studying Joseph with an unsettling, solemn gaze. The clothes were wretched: a boy's cap, an
oversized coat that looked as if it might have belonged to a drunken sailor, and a long, tattered skirt above boys' shoes and woolen stockings.

A street urchin. One of the numerous Belfast orphans on her own keeping, no doubt, living off what she could beg or steal.

Now regretting his sharp tone, Joseph softened. “And what, exactly, would you be hoping to discuss with me, Annie Delaney?”

Those disconcerting dark eyes measured Joseph for another full moment. “I would speak to you about your friend, Father. Morgan Fitzgerald. I'm hoping you might put in a word for me with the grandfather.”

Joseph frowned. “A word for you? I'm afraid I don't understand, lass.”

The thin shoulders straightened. “I'm asking your help in convincing the old gentleman to take me along to Dublin City when they go.” She paused, swatting an unruly shock of hair out of her eyes. “To help take care of his grandson, don't you see?”

Joseph's first instinct was to laugh, but he sensed it would be a grave error. The child was deadly serious. “Well, Annie Delaney, I'm afraid you're a bit young to be the nursemaid for such a man as Morgan Fitzgerald. And a bit small.” Joseph paused, lifting his eyebrows in a stern look. “Besides, what would your family be thinking of such an outrageous idea?”

The black eyes locked with his. Joseph caught a fleeting glimpse of a terrible pain in that young soul. “Sure, and there's no family to be fretting about me, Father. As to me age and me size, more than likely I'm older—and stronger—than you think.” The child paused. “I'm nearly eleven, after all.”

Joseph studied the strange lass with growing curiosity. She
was
older than he would have thought—if she were telling the truth.

Again the sharp little chin thrust upward. “If you're thinking that's too young for such a position, then you should be knowing I've lived some longer than me years—I've been on me own keeping for quite a spell, don't you see? And I'm educated as well, Father—I can read and write and do sums. I'm not ignorant.”

Of course, she would not be ignorant. What child on the bitter streets of Belfast would be ignorant? But how to convince this curious wee lass that her schemes were out of the question?

“Please, Father, if you'd just try to persuade the old gentleman to take me on, he wouldn't regret it, I promise you.”

Joseph was entirely at a loss for words. He found himself drawn to the
child, did not want to be harsh with her. She was digging with the wrong foot, but he sensed she would not listen to such an incidental thing as reason. A man, even a priest, would be hard-pressed to topple Annie Delaney's dreams, he was sure.

Scratching his head, he drew a long sigh. Annie Delaney's gaze never wavered as Joseph groped for an acceptable response to her outrageous proposal.

When Joseph met with Richard Nelson later that evening in the hospital waiting room, he found it difficult to describe his remarkable meeting with Annie Delaney.

What surprised him was that Sir Richard already knew about the peculiar wee lassie.

The aging Englishman sat in the rickety chair with the dignity of a monarch. Yet Joseph did not miss the trembling of his hands on the head of his cane or the quaking of his voice when he spoke. “Oh, dear, yes. The poor child has been hovering about the hospital day and night.” He shook his head. “The nurses wanted to order her out any number of times, but I told them to let her alone, just so long as she doesn't disturb Morgan. She thinks we haven't noticed her, of course.”

As he went on, his voice faltered, then took on new strength. Obviously, it was difficult for him to even speak of the incident that had felled his grandson. “Smith O'Brien says the child ran out into the street when Morgan was…shot. Began screaming at the bystanders to get help. Apparently she stayed right there in the street with him until the ambulance arrived. And she's been at the hospital almost every day since, I believe.”

Sir Richard shook his head sadly. “I can't imagine what her family must be thinking, allowing her such freedom about the city!”

“She has no family—or so she says,” Joseph put in.

The old man lifted tired, sad eyes to look at Joseph. “I was afraid it might be something like that. You don't suppose she's a bit dull-witted, do you? Shadowing Morgan as she does? It's most peculiar.”

Joseph almost cracked a smile at the thought of Annie Delaney being dull-witted. The lass might be as flighty as a tinker's child—and certainly her behavior was somewhat odd. But dull-witted? Indeed, no! Why, hadn't she
marched out an entire parade of arguments—all surprisingly well posed—to support her plea that Joseph entreat Sir Richard in her behalf? And there had been something behind those intense black eyes—some clear, bright glint of watchfulness—that signaled the presence of a sharp, even superior intelligence.

“Whatever her reasons, she has fastened a great deal of hope on Morgan,” Joseph said with a sigh. Inexplicably, he was reluctant to take the child lightly. The fierce intensity, the solemn earnestness, of her plea had moved him more than he would have thought.

“The child has asked me to speak with you,” he said to Richard Nelson, “in the hopes you might be persuaded to take her to Dublin, once Morgan has recovered enough to go home.”

Sir Richard stared at him incredulously, then gave a short burst of laughter. “Why, the poor child! Was she serious, do you think?”

Joseph nodded, still disturbed by the memory of Annie Delaney's fierce insistence. “Oh, she was serious, all right. The lass seems to fancy herself involved with Morgan's life somehow. She is determined to go to Dublin, to help take care of him.”

“Good heavens! As if we haven't enough to deal with…” Nelson's words drifted off, and he looked away, almost as if he had forgotten Joseph's presence entirely.

Joseph noted again how much the elderly Englishman had failed since their first meeting in Dublin. His hands trembled continually, and his every movement appeared to require great effort. He seemed to have aged years in only months.

What
was
to be done about Morgan? Obviously his grandfather would be of no help at all in the more practical aspects of his care. Faith, it was more likely that Richard Nelson would soon need someone to look after
him.

Joseph rose, wincing at the stiffness in his own aging bones. Going to the window, he stood looking out. Dusk was gathering, and the candle-lit windows of Belfast's shops and houses softened the mean gloom of the city. He felt his own spirit darken with the dreariness of his surroundings.

“The child learned to read on Morgan's writings in
The Nation,”
he told Sir Richard, attempting to shake off his heavyhearted mood. “That is likely one reason she feels so attached to him. He has become a type of folk hero to her. You'd think she knows him, and knows him well, to hear her speak of him.”

“How peculiar,” Sir Richard replied vaguely. “But of course, what she asks is quite impossible. She's only a little girl. She'd be more trouble than help.”

Joseph turned to look at him. “What
are
you going to do, Sir Richard? Morgan will need a great deal of care, at least for an extended time, it would seem.”

The poor man seemed beside himself with worry. “I have people looking into it now. He's going to need someone quite strong, of course. And thoroughly reliable.” Nelson's voice faltered. “Certainly, I'll do all I can. But I'm afraid that will be precious little. I'm anxious to see him well settled…as soon as possible. If you could help us to find someone, I'd be most grateful.”

Their eyes met, and Joseph shuddered at what he saw there. He had looked into the eyes of approaching death too many times not to recognize it when it stared back at him.

At the same moment a thought struck him about a companion for Morgan. He said nothing to Richard Nelson, wanting time to consider the idea. But it occurred to Joseph that he just might be able to help Morgan's grandfather with his dilemma.

Morgan had deliberately foregone the laudanum with the intention of being alert enough to catch his devious wee phantom. And, sure enough, there she was! A glimpse of shaggy dark hair and odd clothes—and she whisked out of sight!

“
You! Come back here
!”
he ordered, leaning forward in the wheelchair.

He waited. When the doorway remained empty, he called again, this time more loudly. “
I know you heard me! Stop your skulking about and come here at once
!”

After a moment a face came into view, then the body attached to it—a small body, small and pathetically thin.

She was a disreputable-looking little creature—dust smudges on her chin, a scrape over the bridge of her nose.

“In here!” Morgan ordered.

She made no move, but simply stood staring at him with those bottomless black eyes.

“You're the imp my grandfather told me about. The one who saw me shot.”

At last there was a sign of life. A stiff little nod of the head, a quirk of the mouth.

“I haven't the strength to shout at you from across the room. Come closer,” Morgan commanded.

There was a long hesitation. Finally, hugging her arms tightly across her chest, she entered. In the middle of the room, she stood staring at him.

“So, then. Are you going to tell me your name?”

For a moment she seemed to consider his question.

“Annie Delaney. Annie Delaney is me name, sir.”

Twisting his mouth at the grating Ulster accent, Morgan appraised her. Not quite clean, but more raggedy than dirty. She reminded him a bit of a hungry kitten.

How old? Eight? Nine? Perhaps older.
“Well, Annie Delaney, I'm Morgan Fitzgerald. Should I be pleased to meet you at last?”