Heart of the Lonely Exile (33 page)

To her surprise, she eventually found him in the chapel. He seldom went inside the small sanctuary; it reminded him too painfully of Sara's mother. Most often, he did his praying and shared his quiet times with God in the seclusion of the library.

Tonight, however, he was sitting in the back of the chapel, his arms folded over his chest as he faced the small, plain cross that was the only adornment at the front of the room.

His face was shadowed in the dim light from two flickering candles. For a moment Sara thought her father was praying. Not wanting to intrude, she turned to go.

When he quietly spoke her name, however, she went to join him. “If you want to be alone, Father—”

“Not at all,” he said, taking her hand. “I was just sitting here thinking of your mother.”

Surprised, Sara examined his profile. “Are you feeling lonely tonight, Father?” she asked, concerned.

He shook his head, turning to look at her. “No, not lonely. Sometimes I just like to sit and think about Clarissa. About our special times together.”

“You were very happy together, you and Mother,” said Sara, squeezing his hand.

A faint smile touched his lips. “Indeed we were. Your mother was a wonderful wife—a splendid woman. Our marriage was quite the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“You've missed her terribly over the years, haven't you, Father?”

He sighed. “I will always miss her, Sara. But I have memories the years can't touch.”

Sara turned away, inexplicably saddened by the rapt expression on his face. Sometimes it seemed that all those around her had someone special in their life—or at least had known the unforgettable experience of loving and being loved. She rejoiced in their joy, but she could not share it. She knew God loved her, of course, and she knew that her friends cared—her father, Nora and Evan, the Daltons. But somehow, tonight, none of that seemed to matter. When she returned to her room and lay down to sleep, she would still face the unutterable isolation of her aloneness, unwarmed even by her memories.

Her father's hand tightened on hers. “Sara? Is something wrong?”

She turned to him. To her dismay, something in his gentle, fatherly expression of concern brought her feelings of loneliness rushing to the surface. She felt tears form in her eyes and blinked furiously so he wouldn't see.

“Why, Sara,” her father said, cupping her chin so she could not look away, “what is it? What's made you so unhappy?”

Suddenly she felt like a little girl again. And for a moment she almost wished she
could
be
.
Everything was so much easier then. She had never felt alone or unwanted, hadn't worried about growing older by herself without a husband or children or the fulfillment of loving someone who loved her as well. She could simply crawl onto her father's lap, and he would rock her in his arms and make everything in her world all right again.

“Sara?” he pressed gently.

She looked at him, able to manage only the weakest of smiles.

“I'm sorry, Father. I'm not unhappy. Truly, I'm not. I think I'm just feeling very emotional because of Evan and Nora's wedding. They're so sweet together, aren't they? And for a moment it made me sad, to think of you and Mother as you must have been, the way you must have loved each other. I believe I might be feeling a bit sentimental tonight.”

Her father's dark eyes, so disconcertingly knowing, went over her face. Slowly, he nodded, then pulled her head against his shoulder. “I understand, dear,” he said quietly, holding her. “I understand.”

Sara closed her eyes and leaned against him, summoning all her reserves to resist the temptation to let go, to let years of unshed tears fall at last. She did not—could not—tell her father how she longed to be loved, how something deep inside her cried out for her to give up being strong and
capable, just for a moment. There was no one to turn to, no one to lean on, no one to whom she
belonged.

Sara finally caught Nora by herself later that night in the upstairs hallway. Apparently, she had left Evan not long before, for her face was absolutely radiant.

Sara could not resist teasing. “While I know that glowing smile isn't for me, it's a delight to see you looking so happy.”

Nora blushed, but continued to smile.

“Let's go to my room,” suggested Sara. “I have some questions only you can answer about the guest list for the wedding.”

Once they were settled on the chaise in Sara's bedroom, Sara searched the face of the bride-to-be for a moment. “You really
are
happy, aren't you, Nora?”

“Oh, of course, I am!” Nora assured her without hesitation.

But even as she spoke, something altered in her expression that made Sara frown and touch her arm. “What is it?”

Nora's answering smile was weak and self-conscious. “It's foolish entirely. I don't think I could explain.” She glanced away, then turned back with a short, unconvincing laugh. “Sure, it's nothing more than Irish superstition. It's just that at times, when I'm feeling happiest, it's as if a cold, dark shadow passes over my heart. Almost as if…to warn me I mustn't be
too
happy.”

Again she laughed. “As I said—'tis nothing more than superstitious nonsense. ‘Too much joy makes the devil jealous,' Old Dan used to say.” Her expression turned somber. “It might be I'm afraid of too much joy, Sara.”

Nora sat silent for a moment, her eyes averted. Then, with obvious effort, she forced a more cheerful expression. “Now,” she said, “there was something you wanted to talk about?”

Sara searched Nora's face briefly, then withdrew the guest list from her skirt pocket. “I have just a few questions. I want to be sure I don't neglect anyone you want invited to the wedding.”

“Oh, Sara, you needn't do this!” Nora protested. “We really don't want anyone here but the children and you and your father—”

“Evan's father, if he comes—”

“Yes, of course. And his aunt.”

“What about Michael Burke and Tierney?”

The light faded from Nora's eyes. “I—I don't know that either will come.”

“Nora, have you talked with Michael? I mean,
really
talked with him, since your illness?”

Nora shook her head and looked away.

“Shouldn't you?”

When Nora looked at her, Sara hastily said, “I don't mean to interfere. But I think Michael would want to come. And I'm certain that Daniel would want him and Tierney to be there.”

“I did try to talk with Michael,” Nora said, “once, while I was still in the hospital, and again later. He was—he seemed in a fierce hurry to leave me. I don't think he heard anything I said. I don't think he
wanted
to.”

“He was still hurting,” Sara said gently. “Perhaps you could try again, now that he's had time to accept things.”

Nora raised her eyes from her hands. “Do you truly think so? I'm not sure…and Tierney—”

“It may take longer for Tierney. But perhaps Michael could at least convince him to come to the wedding. I think it's important for Daniel.”

Nodding slowly, Nora said, “Yes, you're right. Daniel would want him there. They're such good friends.”

“So are you and Michael,” Sara reminded her gently.

Nora looked at her with a thoughtful smile. “Yes. And you are a good friend, too, Sara. A very good friend, indeed.” She paused. “You're right about Michael. I'll try to talk with him again soon.”

“Is there anyone else at all you'd like invited, Nora? What about family or friends still in Ireland?”

The last remaining light of happiness faded from Nora's eyes as she turned her face away from Sara. “There are no family or friends left in Ireland,” she said quietly. “Only one. But…he would not be wanting to come to my wedding.”

33

The valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind,
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
That saddened the joy of my mind.

THOMAS MOORE (1779–1852)

New York City
Early March

A
s she dressed for her visit to Michael, Nora's hands shook so badly she could scarcely button her shirtwaist. It took her several minutes simply to get the hairpins in her hair, because she kept dropping each one she picked up.

Smoothing her collar with trembling fingers, she remained standing in front of the mirror without really seeing herself. She knew her apprehension was foolish. This was Michael, after all. He would not strike her or insult her. More than likely, she would be met by the same fixed, inscrutable expression that had greeted her two previous efforts to put things right between them.

But this time, she must find a way to break through his unyielding coldness. She
must,
for the sake of their friendship—and for the sake of Daniel John, who had finally admitted his desire to go on living with Michael and Tierney. She prayed the Lord would open Michael's heart to her this evening, that he would be receptive and at least try to understand.

Michael did not love her. Nora had known that for a long time. He cared about her, would have done anything in his power to help her—even to the
extreme of marrying her. But he did not
love
her, not as a man should love a wife. Nor could her feelings for him ever be anything more than friendship.

The Lord had known. More than once, she had sensed His Spirit's restraint, the caution to make no hasty commitment to Michael.

And now she knew why.
Evan
was God's plan for her, not Michael. In her heart she saw Evan's dear, kind face that day months ago, aboard the
Green Flag,
when he had offered her his “protection” during the terrible sea voyage and for as long afterward as she might need it. He had been ill even then, ill and feverish, with the wound in his arm already going bad. Yet he had sat there, pale and miserably shy, but with an unmistakable dignity, asking her to at least consider him a friend.

She could not say, exactly, when her love for Evan had begun. It had been a subtle, gradual awakening; indeed, it almost seemed to have had no real beginning. But God had known even then that one day He would join their hearts, would allow them to share a very special love. And for that, she would be forever grateful!

Yet, just as surely as she knew she was to wed Evan, Nora believed that her friendship with Michael was not to be taken lightly, to be cast aside as if it were of no value. Michael was important to her—and important to her son. Surely a friendship such as this was a gift worth preserving. And preserve it, she would, if she could only find the way.

If her life and Michael's were to be intertwined, if they were to share her son and sustain the bond of affection that had existed since their youth, she must somehow bridge the gap that lay between them. Much depended on the outcome of this evening, and her own peace of mind was but a small part of it.

Sighing, she turned away from the mirror and started for the bedroom door. She could not delay it any longer. While she still had no idea what she was going to say to Michael, she was resolved to try, and leave the rest in God's hands.

The letter from Joseph Mahon the priest reached Michael two weeks after he had written his own letter to Morgan Fitzgerald in Dublin.

Standing in the dimness of the kitchen early that evening, Michael had to read the priest's words over twice before his mind could fully
comprehend the tragedy that had befallen his boyhood friend. Even then, a part of him froze in disbelief, unwilling—unable—to take it in.

Stunned, he sat down at the table, staring at the letter that he held in front of him. He felt faint, as if all the blood in his body had drained away.

Again, his eyes went over the words. Morgan…paralyzed? Confined to a wheelchair…an invalid—for
life
?

Dear God in heaven, how could such a thing happen? And how was it to be borne by a man who had spent most of his life on his legs, roaming an entire country just for the love of it?

A painful memory flashed before Michael's mind—a younger Morgan, all long arms and legs, loping down the road with his harp slung over his shoulder and his eyes looking past the town, seeking whatever lay beyond the confines of their small village.

Another thought struck him now, and he squeezed his eyes shut and moaned aloud. The letter
he
had written, the letter to Morgan telling him about Nora and Whittaker: Would it make things more difficult still?

Inexplicably, Morgan had seemed resigned to the idea of Nora marrying his best friend—more than likely because it was a means of saving her life. But to learn that she was to wed, not Michael, but the English Whittaker—no matter how much he had liked and respected the man—what would such news do to him, coming on the heels of what he had already lost?

If only he had waited to send the letter. Yet he had believed that he should be the one to tell Morgan. He wanted him to know that he had at least fulfilled his part of his promise, that he had offered marriage to Nora, had waited months for her to decide—only to lose her to another man. There was nothing more he could have done to change things, and he wanted Morgan to hear that from
him.

Now, the thought that his letter might only deepen his friend's anguish hit Michael like a sickening blow. He wrapped his arms around himself bracing his body against the pain knifing through him.

Oh, Morgan, you great, grand fool! Didn't I warn you that terrible, fierce island would one day destroy you? Why couldn't you have left it with the rest of us? Why couldn't you have saved yourself while trying to save everyone else?

Never before had Michael felt so far away from Ireland. Never before had he sensed so keenly the vast distance that separated him from the one man in his life he had loved as a brother.

Hugging his arms tightly to his body, he stared at the letter spread out before him. A shattering sob tore from his throat, and for the first time since the death of his wife, Michael wept.

Asking Uriah to wait with the carriage, Nora started for the front door. She stopped long enough to glance up at the window of Michael's flat on the second floor, where a faint glow could be seen behind the curtains. Drawing in a long steadying breath, she went inside.

She was uncomfortably aware that her behavior was improper—a lone woman calling on a man in his home. But she considered her friendship with Michael of more importance than convention. Indeed, she had chosen this evening deliberately, knowing both Daniel John and Tierney would be away. Tierney would be working late at the hotel, as he did every Friday night, and Daniel John had been invited to spend the evening at the Daltons, with Casey-Fitz and Arthur Jackson. Their absence would give her and Michael time alone together to talk.

Assuming, of course, that he was
willing
to talk.

She had to knock twice before he opened the door.

“Michael, I know you didn't expect me, but—”

Nora broke off, staring at him. His eyes were red and shadowed, his face haggard. He looked as if he were either ill or utterly exhausted.

He stared at her with a vacant gaze for a moment, then stepped aside so she could enter. Slowly, he closed the door, then turned to face her.

“Nora,” he said dully, “Daniel John is not here.”

“Yes, I know,” she answered uncertainly. “I—I came to talk with you, Michael. But if this is a bad time—”

Again he stared at her. Finally, with a stiff, jerky movement, he pulled out a chair from the table and held it for her to sit down.

What looked to be a letter had been left open, and he reached now to fold it and return it to its envelope.

“Michael, I—we need desperately to talk. I know you haven't wanted to up until now, but if you would only listen to me….” Nora's words drifted off. He seemed strange, distracted; her nerve began to fail her.

As if he had not heard her at all, Michael went to stand at the window, his back to her.

Biting her lip, Nora watched him nervously for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Michael—I thought…I know you're unhappy with me, and I suppose you have a right to be. But I can't bear having this bitterness between us. I never meant to hurt you, Michael. I would
never
deliberately hurt you!”

He turned to look at her, and Nora saw with dismay that there was a great sorrow in his eyes.
Dear Lord, it is even worse than I thought!

“Michael,” she choked out. “Please…come sit down with me. Please, for the sake of our friendship—and our sons—we
must
talk
to each other!”

At last he nodded and moved away from the window. “Aye,” he said, absently starting for the stove, “you're right. We must talk. I'll just fix us some tea.”

Perhaps he was going to be reasonable, after all. Somewhat relieved, Nora waited until he brought the teakettle and cups to the table and sat down.

She began by reminding him of how important he had always been to her, from the time they had been childhood friends growing up in the village. His silence encouraged her, and she went on, telling him sincerely how much it had meant to her, his willingness to take Daniel John into his home—and his proposal of marriage upon her arrival in America.

“But, Michael,” she continued quietly, “I think I knew even then it was not to be. 'Twas not for love that you were wanting to marry me, but for the sake of our old friendship, yours and mine—and your promise to Morgan.”

Puzzled, Nora saw a look of pain cross his features. But he merely nodded and went on staring at his hands, clasped in front of him on the table.

“Michael…I did not mean…to fall in love with Evan. In truth, I never thought to love any man again, after Owen. What has happened between Evan and me—I can't explain it.”

For the first time since she'd begun her appeal, Michael spoke. Without raising his eyes from his hands, he said quietly, “Nora, you do not owe me an explanation. I know there is no explaining why a woman loves one man instead of another.”

Nora reached for his hand, and he looked up. His eyes searched hers, but there was no anger in his gaze. Relieved, Nora squeezed his hand. “Michael, that day in the hospital, when I first came to America, and you asked me to marry you—”

Unbelievably, he smiled a little. A sad, haunted smile. “And you refused me…for the second time?”

“Oh, Michael! Do you remember the promise you asked from me that day?”

He looked at her blankly.

“You said if the time ever came when my heart sang love for a man, I mustn't let the song be silenced by uncertainty or pride. You made me promise to—to
‘give love's song a voice,'
that's what you said. Even…” She faltered, then went on. “Even if the song was not for
you…
but for
another.”