Heart of the Lonely Exile (29 page)

Now Evan could weep without her knowing.

Feeling foolish and meddlesome—but determined—Sara caught up with Michael halfway down the hall.

She saw his shoulders stiffen when she called to him. He stopped, and without thinking she put a hand to his arm. His eyes went from her face to her hand. For an instant, Sara thought he might actually shake off her touch.

Instead, he merely stood, saying nothing, not quite meeting her gaze. Now that she had acted on her instincts, Sara hadn't the faintest notion what to say. Quickly, she dropped her hand away. She really didn't know this man—didn't know him at all. Whatever had made her think she could help him, could ease whatever hurt he might be feeling?

Finally he looked at her, and Sara flinched at the resentment she saw burning out from him. Wildly she searched for the right words, words that wouldn't sound as foolish as she suddenly felt.

“Michael, I…” she faltered. “I don't know what to say, exactly, but—”

“Why would you be thinking you need to say anything?” he replied quietly.

Sara was excruciatingly aware that she had overstepped the established
bounds of conventional behavior, was guilty of the very thing about which her father frequently teased her: meddling in the affairs of others. Michael Burke more than likely considered her a tiresome, interfering spinster. Yet she could not bring herself to ignore his pain.

In the end, he eased the awkwardness between them. “I expect we are both feeling the same thing,” he said, still not meeting her eyes. “Relief that the worst would seem to be over for Nora—and for Daniel, as well.”

Sara hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course. But.…”

She let her words drift off, unfinished, as he finally looked directly at her. His expression was not unkind, but neither was it altogether friendly. Certainly, it did not invite further interference.

“Well, Sara Farmington,” he finally said, twisting his mouth in what was probably intended to be a smile, “don't you think you might as well go on and say whatever it is you're thinking? I should be used to looking the fool in front of you by now—you seem to have a way of being present on those occasions when I fall on my face.”

Sara opened her mouth to protest, then stopped.
Why did I ever follow him out of the room?

“Sure, and you're not at a loss for words?” he bit out, obviously baiting her. “That would be a strange thing entirely.”

Stung by what appeared to be contempt on his part, Sara told herself not to mind, that he was only venting his anger on the most convenient target. Still, she wasn't at all certain he would not turn on her if she provoked him.

“I only wanted to say that—that I know you're disappointed…about Nora and Evan Whittaker…and I understand.” She had not intended to be so blunt. But what, exactly,
had
she
intended? “What I meant to say—”

He drew a deep sigh, making it clear that his patience was at the expense of great effort. “I expect what you meant to say is that I shouldn't be in the least surprised about Nora and the Englishman. And you would be entirely right. As a matter of fact, I'm not surprised at all, having seen the two of them together on past occasions—and given the fact that conditions have been made altogether ideal for a relationship to grow between them.

“However,” he went on, the edge in his voice now more pronounced and the flint in his eye sharper still, “since you claim to understand how I feel, perhaps you'll allow me a bit of time to collect what's left of my pride. It will take some getting used to, I confess.”

Then, giving her no chance to reply, he turned the corner of the hallway and strode resolutely toward an oncoming nurse.

Miserable, Sara stood and watched him go. Why hadn't she left him alone? It had been a mistake to confront him while the wound was still raw. She should have waited.

With a heavy heart, she started back toward Nora's room. Before tonight, she would have said that she at least had Michael's friendship. Now, because of her foolish meddling, she wondered if even
that
could be salvaged.

She had spoken the truth about understanding his disappointment—his pain. Even now, the sound of his dreams breaking, his hope shattering, seemed to echo in her own heart with a terrible finality.

29

As a white candle
In a holy place,
So is the beauty
Of an aged face.

JOSEPH CAMPBELL (1879–1944)

Ireland
Mid-January 1848

A
week after their return from Belfast, Morgan's grandfather took to his bed.

Morgan knew the man would not get up again. “Your grandfather's body has simply worn out,” the physician announced. “His heart—and his lungs—can no longer bear the strain. There's really nothing to be done except to make him comfortable.”

For two days now, Sir Richard had slept most of the hours away, slipping in and out of consciousness like one drifting slowly out to sea, rising and falling with the ebb of the tide.

Slumped in his wheelchair beside the bed, watching his grandfather sleep, Morgan closed his eyes, wishing he, too, could sleep away the days with the old man—or at least the nights. Determined not to become dependent on the opium, he had refused to bring even a small supply home from the hospital. He was beginning to regret the decision; last night had been yet another of many without sleep, and he knew himself to be strung with brittle wire.

Opening his eyes, he glanced down over himself with distaste. He had thinned out to a scarecrow, and felt even more useless. Until the shooting,
Morgan had not realized how much he had always taken his size and his strength for granted. He had always been a great oaf, even as a lad, but had never thought much about it one way or the other. His awareness of being excessively tall and physically powerful extended only to the practical: beds were generally too short, chairs too flimsy, and doorways too low.

Lately, however, he had come to see that indeed he had enjoyed being large, had perhaps even used it to his own advantage now and then. Now he was whip-thin, and it dismayed him to realize how weak and worthless he really was.

He hated his body, he hated his weakness; most of all, he hated this cursed wheelchair. He was insightful enough to see that all his hatred was turning inward, against himself and the things around him, because he could not direct it to the ones who had done this thing to him. Nobody was willing to talk, to point the finger. There was no reason to believe his assailants would ever be caught.

In the meantime, he did his best not to think of the future. The truth was, he could not bear to speculate on what lay ahead. As long as his grandfather was still alive, he would put on the brave face and pretend that he was doing well.

A grim smile touched his lips. What else
could
he do? His present activities were limited to wheeling in and out of rooms and hoisting a book onto his lap.

As yet he could do virtually nothing on his own. Since returning to Dublin, he'd been more or less at the mercy of a surly male attendant from the hospital. For an exorbitant sum, the man came once a day to help with Morgan's bath and “exercise.”

There was no one else. Even the ancient butler had been retired. A few weeks before the Belfast trip, Parkes' poor health and crippling arthritis had forced him to take his pension and go to his sister's home in the country.

Mrs. Ryan cooked, and the day maids kept house, but certainly they were no help to
him.
Until his newly hired companion arrived, he was virtually on his own.

The thought made him scowl. Not only was he to be dependent on the wheelchair, but he would also be dependent on another man. A black servant, hired sight unseen, before they had ever left the hospital in Belfast. Joseph Mahon, the priest, had suggested the man, and in his eagerness to
provide Morgan with immediate care, his grandfather had urged Joseph to make the necessary arrangements without delay.

The new companion was to have arrived before now, but with the deep snow and icy roads across the country, there was no telling when he would actually show up.
If
he showed up at all.

Sandemon,
he was called. A former slave, he had been granted his freedom by the Crown while still in Barbados, and was eventually given shelter at a mission run by one of Joseph's priest-friends. When the priest left the island and returned to Castlebar, he brought the freed slave…
Sandemon
…with him.

According to Joseph, the black man was intelligent, well educated, strong, and healthy. When his grandfather inquired somewhat delicately as to whether or not the man was “civilized,” Joseph had merely smiled what Morgan thought of as his “sly priest's smile” and replied, “Aye, Sandemon is quite civilized, Sir Richard. He's had the benefits of a fine education—and he's more than a little enterprising, as you'll see.”

Joseph had gone on to explain that this Sandemon—a Christian man—had allegedly taken an active part in the work of the church in Castlebar. “He's as good with his hands as he is with the books—and he has a back of solid iron,” Joseph assured them. “He practically built the chapel on the outskirts of Castlebar with his own two hands.”

When Morgan dryly questioned aloud why the town of Castlebar would consider parting with such a wonder, Joseph had fixed a stern look on him. “Because his patron—my friend—recently died,” he said. “'Tis a fate common to a great host of priests in Ireland these days,” he added pointedly.

With the loss of the priest and the devastation of the town, he went on to explain, Sandemon was left without a job and without resources. He needed employment. “And he needs a home. Sure, and it would seem he might be just the man for you, Morgan. He's a great fellow—broad in the shoulder with a back of steel. And with an intellect as clever and relentless as your own.”

Morgan had conceded the Great One's admirable qualities, suggesting that no doubt such a marvel as Sandemon could also cook and sew as well. “We'd best snatch him up before the Queen gets word of him.”

Joseph's thin face had sobered and grown stern with rebuke. “Now, Morgan, I would say something to you: The truth is that you will be needing
a strong man to help out. Sandemon will prove a good companion—you will see. You'll not find another man of his qualities so easily.”

His grandfather could not wait to sign him on. The deed was as good as done that day in the hospital waiting room. Sandemon was to be “Morgan's man.”

On a trial basis, of course. Strictly a trial basis.

Now, pulling himself up in the wheelchair, Morgan found himself wishing the man would hurry up and get here. Whether he turned out to be more nuisance than blessing remained to be seen. At the moment, his greatest need was for a strong back.

He glanced over at his sleeping grandfather, and regret hit him like a blow. He had known it would come to this one day soon, of course. Richard Nelson was well into his eighties and had been failing for months. Knowing it and expecting it, however, did not necessarily make it easier to face.

Leaning forward a bit in the chair, he studied the sleeping old man with a heavy heart. His deeply lined face, now gaunt and hollowed, still spoke nobility and a kind, gentle heart. The white hair had grown thinner of late, but as always traced a neat, careful curve round the high forehead and lean jaw. His frame was shrunken, his hands gnarled—but there was a dignity and an elegance about the faded Richard Nelson that even time could not altogether destroy.

So many years had been lost to them, years they might have had together, if only…

If only
what
?
If only he had known sooner of his grandfather's existence? Not likely. It was only thanks to Joseph Mahon's interference—clever priest that he was—that Morgan had discovered he
had
an English grandfather. Just as it had been Joseph's doing that brought the news to Richard Nelson that his Irish grandson was about to swing. Had the old man not arranged Morgan's freedom from the gallows, forcing him to appear in Dublin as one of the conditions of the pardon, Morgan would never have consented to meet with him.

Even then, he had come grudgingly, with the intention of making the obligatory bow, only to be dismissed after the old man's curiosity was satisfied. Instead, Richard Nelson had begged him to stay.

And so he had stayed. He had stayed, and over the months had grown more than a little fond of his elderly English grandfather. Indeed, he had
come to love him. He had grown close to Richard Nelson in a way he had never been close to his father.

Gently, Morgan took his grandfather's hand—a hand not unlike his own. As he studied the long, thick-knuckled fingers, a sad smile crossed his face. He was going to miss this old man, miss him a great deal.

That his grandfather would soon be gone he had no doubt. Then there would be no need to pretend, no need to play the strong man, to feign a hope he did not have for a tomorrow he could no longer bear to imagine.

He knew he should pray for his grandfather—and for himself. He had tried—many times—since the shooting. He would close his eyes and fold his hands and try to go beyond the pain, to skirt the fear, the dread of the future, the unspeakable horror of being only half a man.

He had groped like a child in the dark, wept real tears—even tried, in his heart, to kneel in faith. In blind desperation he had fallen before the throne…and found nothing there. Nothing but silence.

Joseph Mahon the priest was fond of saying that no man was alone who could hear even the faintest whisper of God.

Morgan had listened. With a spirit raw and still bleeding from its wounds, he had cried out against the pain and then waited, listening.

Joseph Mahon the priest would have said that even in the silence, God was speaking.

Hearing nothing, Morgan could only wonder with bleak despair if the wheelchair was God's final word for him.

Just outside Drogheda, Annie Delaney stopped to rest. She had thought to be in Dublin City before nightfall. She would have been, too, had she not spent such a long time marveling over the ruins at Monasterboice.

Why, she'd lost an hour or more surveying the round tower alone! Sure, and it must have loomed a hundred feet and more into the air. You could see where its cap and upper parts had been destroyed long years ago, more than likely by a lightning storm. But it was an immense wonder all the same.

These were just some of the sacred ruins across Ireland which Morgan Fitzgerald had described in this thin sketchbook published a few years past. Although Annie had practically memorized the poet's descriptions of Monasterboice and other religious ruins, she had kept the handbook
carefully tucked away with her precious few other books. They were treasures, and to be cherished.

She had been on the road for twelve days now and was getting a bit impatient to reach her destination. The snow had slowed her down some. Her shoes were thin, so she had to keep stopping and rub her feet to ward off frostbite. Mostly, though, her journey had been free of obstacles. The nights had been the worst part of the trek altogether. She'd found shelter at a convent once or twice; mostly, though, she slept in barns or stables.

This evening she passed through Drogheda, which old Devil Cromwell had sacked two centuries before, butchering most of its people. Now, just outside the sad old town, she began to wish she had not lingered quite so long at Monasterboice.

Still and all, wasn't she seeing some grand sights for herself? She was gaining a much clearer understanding of Morgan Fitzgerald's love for tramping about the countryside, as had been his custom during the years before he got himself shot in Belfast.

Sobered by the memory, Annie wrapped her cloak more tightly about her throat, reminding herself of the reason for her journey. 'Twas not to be dallying over ancient ruins and crumbling relics.

She was on her way to Dublin City, she was. Fitzgerald's refusal to take her with him had been firm enough. Obviously, he'd marked her as a bit daft and not to be taken seriously. The old man had paid her even less heed.

Although disappointed, Annie supposed she understood. The old man—Sir Richard, he was called—was obviously consumed by worry for his grandson's recovery. As for Morgan Fitzgerald, more often than not he was dull with the opium or distracted with the pain.