Heart of the Lonely Exile (3 page)

“No!
No, Michael, it is
not
Morgan! I've tried to explain all this before. I thought you understood…”

His gaze on her didn't waver. “Nora, I have tried. But I'm not blind, lass. I see the way things are.”

Nora looked away, but she could still feel his eyes on her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that Morgan Fitzgerald still occupies a large space in your heart—perhaps so great a space there will never be room for another.”

“Michael—”

He waved away her protest, saying nothing. Instead, he went to stand at the window, his back to her. He stood there for a long time in silence. At last, he drew in a deep sigh and said quietly, “We'd be good together, I think. We could build a fine life, a good home—watch our boys grow to manhood.” Stopping he turned to face her. “Perhaps we could even have more children…”

He let his words drift away, unfinished. As he stood there, his gaze
fixed on her face, the frustration that had hardened his expression earlier faded, giving way to a rare tenderness. The grim lines about his mouth seemed to disappear, and his eyes took on a gentle smile.

“We go back a long way, you and I,” he said softly. “And our boys—why, they're well on their way to being brothers already. Ah, it could work for us, Nora! You must see that.” Shoving his hands down deep into his pockets, he stood watching her. “I know I cannot offer you much in the way of material things just yet, but we'd have enough, enough for us all. And things will improve, I can promise you that. I have prospects on the force—”

“Oh, Michael, you know none of that matters to me!”

With three broad strides he closed the distance between them. Bracing both hands palms down on the tabletop, he brought his face close to hers, his eyes burning. “What, then, Nora? What
does
matter? Tell me, lass, for I'll do whatever I can to make this work for us. I swear I will! Tell me what I can do to convince you to marry me.”

Nora remembered he had asked her that same question once before, when he was still a young man preparing to go to America. He had done his best then, too, to convince her to be his wife.

That had been seventeen years ago.
Seventeen years, and her answer was still not what he wanted to hear.

“Michael, you know you have ever been…special…to me.”

He said nothing, simply went on searching her eyes, his large, blunt hands now clenched to fists atop the table.

“I
do
care for you…” She
did.
She was not immune to Michael's appeal, his almost arrogant handsomeness, the strength that seemed to pulse from him. But more than that, and far deeper, were the memories that bound them, the friendship that even today anchored their affection for each other. She could not bring herself to hurt him, but neither could she lie to him!

Suddenly, he stunned her by grasping both her hands in his and pulling her up from the chair to face him. Holding her hands firmly, he drew her to him. “And I care for you, Nora,” he said, his voice gruff. With one hand he lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his relentless gaze. “I have always cared for you, lass, and that's the truth.”

Trembling, Nora held her breath as he bent to press his lips to hers. Irrationally, she almost wished Michael's kiss would blind her with love for him, send stars shooting through her. Instead, she felt only the gentle warmth, the same sweet, sad affection she had felt for him all those years
so long ago when he had kissed her goodbye, regret brimming in his eyes, before sailing for America.

He knew. He said nothing, but she felt his knowing as she stood there, miserable beneath those dark, searching eyes that seemed to probe her very soul. Gradually he freed her from his embrace, setting her gently away from him with a sad smile.

“You have been through a great sorrow,” he said huskily. “And I am asking too much of you, too soon. I'm sorry, lass. Perhaps it's just that I'm anxious for you to realize that when you're ready, I will be here. I will wait.”

“Oh, Michael, please—don't…”

He put a finger to her lips to silence her. “Enough sober talk for tonight. Why don't we have us a stroll? We'll go and find the lads and see what they're up to.”

Relieved, Nora nodded, managing a smile. “Aye, I'd like that.”

Michael smiled, too, watching her with infinite tenderness. Framing her face between his calloused hands, he brushed his lips over her forehead. “Remember that I am still your friend, Nora Ellen. No matter what happens—or does not happen—between us, I will always be your friend.”

Nora could have wept for gratitude at his understanding, his gentleness. “Thank you, Michael,” she whispered. “Thank you for being the man you are. And thank you,” she added fervently, “for being my
friend.
”

2

It was a time when thoughts and violets bloomed—
When skies were bright, and air was bland and warm.

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803–1849)

D
usk was gathering, but the evening was still sweet-scented and warm.

Nora was keenly aware of the mixed glances that greeted her and Michael on their evening stroll. Most of the looks directed their way were friendly. A few women raked her with sharp, grudging stares, and one or two shifty-eyed men stepped smart in an obvious attempt to avoid Michael's eye. The rougher-looking youths steered well clear of him, too, while pretending to be not at all cowed by his close scrutiny. One young woman, whom Nora immediately pegged as fresh, gave Michael a bold, painted smile, causing him to scowl and turn red.

For the most part, however, they appeared to be a good-natured lot who openly approved of Officer Burke and his lady friend.

Michael seemed to know everyone they met and was diligent in inquiring after “the wife's health” or “the lad's whereabouts.” They stopped now for a moment to chat with the peg-legged Cooley Breen, who presented them with a wide grin and a cup of hot chestnuts.

Suddenly, a little girl on the stoop of a nearby tenement screamed. Nora whirled around to see one of the countless pigs that freely roamed New York charging toward them. With an angry sound of disgust, Michael pivoted to shove Nora behind him. Crouching, he gave a terrible fierce roar at the pig, then lunged as if to attack it.

The porker stopped, sizing Michael up with a speculative glare. After a moment, as if uncertain whether the man meant business, the pig finally veered and lumbered across the street.

Seeing pigs running wild as hyenas on the streets of New York City had been one of Nora's biggest surprises when they first arrived. The pigs were not the only scavengers running free, of course. Huge rats scurried everywhere, and packs of wild dogs traveled from the mansions on Murray Hill to the slums of Five Points, feeding at will on the ever-present garbage that littered almost all the city streets. Occasionally a cow or a horse also sauntered onto an avenue, giving spectators a good laugh when the “coppers” gave chase.

Michael again took Nora's arm, and they continued on. As soon as they rounded the corner to Pearl Street, they spied Daniel John and Tierney in front of Krueger's bakery. Nora smiled at the sight of them, she and Michael slowing their stride as they approached.

Lounging against the storefront, the boys appeared to be deep in conversation. Tierney, obviously caught up in his own words, sliced the air with his hands for emphasis, while Daniel John stood smiling and nodding.

Watching them, Nora realized with surprise that the boys could easily pass for blood brothers. Although Tierney, the older of the two, was not quite so tall as Daniel John, it was obvious they would both be big men when fully grown. Each had blue eyes, Tierney's lighter and more intense, Daniel John's a deep blue and somewhat hooded. Tierney's thick hair was straight and dark, with the satin sheen of mahogany, while Daniel John's black curls were somewhat untamed but just as thick. Each boy had a long, narrow face, but where Daniel John's was hollow-cheeked and melancholy, Tierney's was impish and often flushed with indignation or anger.

“They are handsome lads, and there's no denying it,” Nora said with soft pride.

They had stopped walking altogether now, and Michael smiled faintly, his gaze on his son and Daniel John. “Aye, they are that, and with faces as Irish as a map of Erin.”

“We are blessed, Michael. God has been good in spite of all we have lost.”

He looked down at her. “Do you mean that, Nora? With all you have suffered, it's no small thing that you can speak so.”

For a moment the old, painful memories wrenched Nora's heart anew.
She shivered as once again she saw her husband's lifeless body carried across the threshold of the cottage; the angry, flushed skin and wild eyes of Tahg, her eldest son, caught up in the throes of fever; her black-haired Ellie, the poor, wee lass who died before ever she reached her seventh year.

Nora had to squeeze her eyes shut for a moment against the pain. “They are in God's arms,” she murmured, more to herself than to Michael. “It helps me to remember that He holds them all to His heart.”

Michael regarded her with a look of shared sadness, then resumed walking. When they reached the boys, Nora was immediately aware of Tierney's disconcerting appraisal, almost as if he were expecting some sort of announcement. Daniel John also greeted her and Michael with a questioning look. As soon as Nora met his gaze, he turned away, but not before she saw a glint of disappointment flicker in his eyes.

Obviously, the boys were hoping for a match. Perhaps it was irrational, but Nora suddenly felt a stab of guilt. Could it be that in her uncertainty she was failing her own son—and Michael's, too?

For a moment, she wondered if she shouldn't simply fling her pride and doubts to the wind and give in, give both boys what they seemed to want so badly. On the heels of that thought, however, came the familiar touch of restraint, the faint, inexplicable caution to wait.

Forcing a smile for the benefit of the boys, she said teasingly, “Is it sugar I see on your upper lip, Daniel John?”

The tension broken, he licked the sugar from his lip. “Tierney's treat,” he said, grinning, elbowing the other boy as they moved in front of Nora and Michael.

Nora did not miss the fact that Tierney remained silent all the way back to the flat. Despite her attempt to ignore his rebuff, she felt his resentment like a blow.

The Farmington carriage was waiting as the four of them approached the flat. “Uriah's early today,” Michael remarked, carefully guiding Nora around a circle of small boys playing marbles in the street. “I had hoped you could stay and visit a bit longer.”

As soon as the elderly black driver saw them approach, he leaned from the carriage. His usually cheerful countenance was deeply lined; Nora knew at once something was wrong.

“Miss Nora, I'm to take you back right away!” he called out, his voice trembling with urgency. “It's little Miss Katie.”

Nora put a hand to her throat. “Katie? What about Katie, Uriah? What's happened?”

“She took worse this afternoon. Could hardly get her breath, the poor child! She's awful sick, Miss Sara says. They've called for Dr. Grafton, but Miss Sara, she said you'd want to come soon as I can get you there.”

Nora heard Daniel John's quick intake of breath. Meeting his stricken eyes, she tried to hide her own fear.

“I'm going with you,” he said, already starting for the carriage.

Nora glanced at Michael, who nodded, saying, “Send word if you need me.”

3

They brought her to the city
And she faded slowly there.

RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS (1822–1862)

N
ora sat unmoving in the dim shadows outside Katie's room. Across from her, Daniel John braced on the edge of a chair that Sara Farmington had pulled into the hall from one of the bedrooms. His head was bent low, his hands clasped; Nora knew he was praying.

The doctor had been with Katie for more than an hour—a bad sign, Nora feared. What with the Fitzgeralds being of the Roman faith, a priest had also been sent for—surely an even more ominous indication that Katie's condition was grave indeed.

Shifting uneasily on her chair, Nora found her thoughts going to the night Katie had been born. The birthing had been a difficult one for Catherine, Katie's mother. Nora had stayed with her friend throughout the long hours, and when the two of them finally beheld the weensy red-haired infant, they had first laughed at her terrible frown, then cried with joy that she was healthy and whole.

Dear Lord, has it really been eleven years ago?
She could remember Katie's pinched little face as if it were but yesterday. Poor wee thing, she had never been strong, not really. Like a wisp in the wind, she had failed to thrive throughout her childhood, drifting through the years in a quiet, unobtrusive way. When the Hunger came, she continued to fade, growing thinner and thinner until at last she was little more than a shadow of herself.

Even now, after all this time of basking in the protective care of the
Farmingtons, the lass continued to fail. Over the past few weeks, Katie's breathing seemed to have grown more labored than ever. She picked indifferently at her food, when she ate at all, and recently had taken to lying abed later and later in the mornings. Nothing the doctor did seemed to make any difference.

We are losing her.
Sick at heart, Nora steeled herself to face the truth in order that she might be strong enough to help her son face it.

Poor Daniel John. What would he do without his Katie? The two of them had grown up nearly inseparable, each shadowing the other throughout their childhood. The affection between them had been a gentle, childish thing, but, given time, it might well have deepened into something more lasting. Now, as she sat watching her son, Nora knew with a dread certainty that there would be no more time for Daniel John and his Katie.

Merciful Lord, he has already lost so much…his father, his brother, his little sister, his home. How much more must he bear?

She looked up at the sound of voices to see Sara Farmington ascending the winding staircase. Just behind her came one of the largest men Nora had ever seen, nearly as big as Morgan Fitzgerald himself. Sara Farmington was a tall young woman, but this man towered over her. His well-tailored suit and immaculate linen marked him at once as a gentleman, in spite of the vast span of his shoulders and his heavy black beard. He had a full head of curly hair, black going to silver, but as he approached, Nora saw that he was younger than she might have thought at first glance.

She knew who he was right away: Pastor Jess Dalton. Sara Farmington often spoke with great enthusiasm about the famed abolitionist preacher. Mr. Dalton was to fill the pulpit recently vacated by the pastor of the Farmingtons' uptown church. In addition, arrangements had been made with the Ladies' Home Missionary Society for him to establish a mission in Five Points, the city's most scandalous slum district.

A former chaplain of the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, Pastor Dalton most recently had served the pulpit of a wealthy, influential congregation in Washington, D.C., where his abolitionist sympathies proved extremely unpopular. His arrival in New York City coincided with that of another controversial preacher, the minister of the newly established Plymouth Church in Brooklyn. Indeed, the new Brooklyn minister, Henry Ward Beecher, was a friend of Pastor Dalton, had traveled from his former pastorate in Indiana to perform the Daltons' wedding service
at West Point. And now, by coincidence, they had both arrived in New York at the same time.

The preacher stopped to be introduced before going into the bedroom. Despite his size, Nora sensed him to be a man of great kindness. His voice was quiet and warm, his eyes soft with compassion as he bowed to Nora and solemnly shook Daniel John's hand.

“It's kind of him to come,” Nora said as he closed the bedroom door behind him. “What with us being strangers, and Katie a Catholic.”

“I don't believe things like that matter to Pastor Dalton,” said Sara. “He seems the sort of man who cares about
everyone
, not merely those of his own congregation. Oh—and did I tell you, Nora, that his wife is also from Ireland? She's absolutely delightful—you'll love her! She appears to be a good deal younger than Mr. Dalton,” Sara went on, “but they're obviously devoted to each other. You'll meet her soon, if you're serious about wanting to help out at the mission house.”

“Aye, of course, I'm serious,” Nora replied distractedly. “And Daniel John said he would help, too. Didn't you, son?”

She had to ask again before the boy answered. Dragging his gaze from his hands, he looked at her blankly for a moment, then nodded. Wincing at the bleakness in his eyes, Nora was glad when he agreed to accompany Sara to the kitchen, where the younger Fitzgerald children were awaiting word of their sister.

Pausing on the stairs, Sara turned back for a moment. “I sent Uriah to collect Father and Evan from the yards, Nora. I knew Evan would want to be here with you and the children.”

Nora felt a grateful rush of relief. She and Evan Whittaker had formed a close friendship during the months since their arrival in New York, a friendship that had begun during their voyage across the Atlantic and continued to deepen as they settled into their new lives.

Employed as a personal secretary to Lewis Farmington, Evan roomed in the small cottage behind the Farmington mansion.

Most evenings he dined with Nora and the children, and they had taken to spending their Sunday afternoons together as well.

Nora realized her friendship with the slender, diffident Englishman might strike some as a bit peculiar. With his silver-blond hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, he appeared timid and unassuming, an impression emphasized by his frequent stutter. But Nora had come to know Evan's
heart, had discovered behind the shyness and reserve a good, kind man with an unmistakable strength of character and a self-sacrificing spirit. Wasn't his empty left sleeve proof enough of his courage and selflessness? The man had risked his life—and lost his arm—in an effort to help a group of Irish strangers, herself included.

Time and close companionship had deepened Nora's admiration for her English friend to a genuine fondness. She thanked the Lord daily for Evan Whittaker. She was grateful, too, that Daniel John set such store by the man, for surely he would need the comfort of Evan's presence before this night was done.

In the bedroom across the hall, Dominic Carroll, the priest, completed the last rites, then motioned Jess Dalton to approach the bed.

The feverish face of the little girl appeared lost among the plump mounds of bedding all around her. Her hands, transparently thin, clutched the blanket; her small mouth was locked partly open in labored breathing. She was no longer conscious.

Jess Dalton had prayed at many bedsides; he was no stranger to the sickroom of the critically ill. He had witnessed much suffering, many deaths—but the sight of a dying child never failed to cause his spirit to moan in fresh anguish.

Nodding to the priest, whom he had met on numerous occasions before tonight, Jess looked over at the doctor, standing on the other side of the bed. His face gray with fatigue, the physician shook his head sadly. “She is almost gone, I'm afraid.”

While the priest held the little girl's hand and prayed a final benediction, Jess Dalton sank to his knees beside the bed. Closing his eyes, he sought the Savior's mercy for Katie Fitzgerald, a little girl who had known more than her share of trials in her brief lifetime.

He knew the story of the Fitzgeralds, of course; Sara Farmington had spoken of the mother's death, the father's slaying before the ship ever sailed, and the incredible suffering the entire family had endured while still in Ireland. He knew about the famine that had claimed the child's health, the torturous voyage across the Atlantic that had sapped what little strength she had left.

“Oh, Lord, in Your mercy, make this crossing an easy one for Katie Fitzgerald. May your angels bear her up and bring her safely and speedily into Your presence….”

The pastor had scarcely begun to pray before the rattle of a sigh came from the little girl's throat, followed by a muffled sound of despair from the doctor. Clenching his big hands even tighter, he waited.

When he finally looked up, the doctor again shook his head, this time with sad finality. The priest continued to hold the child's hand. Jess Dalton's broad back slumped, and his eyes burned as he resumed his prayer.

“May this child, for so long ill and hungry, now delight in Your kingdom and feast at Your banquet table for all eternity. Jesus, gentle Shepherd of our souls, receive yet another small lamb into Your welcoming arms, and grant her peace, eternal peace, with You.”