Heart of the Lonely Exile (38 page)

For an instant Tierney felt almost ashamed. With his thick dark hair uncombed and tousled, and the angry scar from his wound still blazing across his chest, Da looked at that moment more boy than man. The hurt in his eyes belied the anger in his voice, and Tierney knew he had wounded him with his words.

But it was true, all the same, and why couldn't the man see it? Inviting him to dinner at their grand mansion—as if Da were to be treated like one of their own kind! And him too gullible to see what was behind it all!

Well,
he
saw the way things were, all right! It was that ridiculous old maid, Sara Farmington! It was perfectly obvious to Tierney: She fancied Da and would amuse herself by playing the fine lady to this dumb Irisher. Even with all her money, she had obviously not been able to snare a man. So she had decided to dally with the poor, unsuspecting Irish cop.

And Da was falling for it!

“I told you,” his father said with exaggerated patience, “that the three of us were all invited this evening—you, as well as Daniel and myself. The entire affair is mostly to give me an opportunity to speak with Nora. Sara is worried for her.”

“ ‘Sara is worried for her,' ” Tierney mimicked.
“Sara
has a yen for
you,
is more to the point!”

Da's mouth thinned to a slash, and his hand on the iron tightened to a
white-knuckled grip. “Tierney, I'm warning you,” he grated out in a deadly hard voice, “you may be my son, and you may think you're the man grown. But if you don't stop with your disgusting accusations and your spiteful tongue, I will show you what a
gorsoon
you really are!”

Tierney stood, legs apart, hands clenched, glaring at his father with a mixture of rage and frustration.

“I think,” his da went on, white-faced but making an evident attempt to control his anger, “it would be best if neither of us said anything more for the time being. Perhaps you should just…leave me alone for now.”

“You bet I will.” Tierney shot back in a savage voice. “I wouldn't want to keep your fancy lady friend waiting.” Turning, he charged out of the room.

“Are you working tonight, then?” his da called behind him.

Tierney hesitated, then said in a bitter tone, “Aye, I'm working tonight, sure enough!”

In the kitchen Daniel was bent over a chair, shining his shoes. He straightened, his face pinched in a troubled frown. “What are you so riled about anyway?”

Tierney scowled at him. “You're going, of course.”

“Why shouldn't I go?”

Tierney's jaw tightened. “Aye,” he grated out, “why shouldn't you, indeed?”

Crossing the room, he flung open the door so hard it slammed into the wall and bounced back. He took the steps two at a time without so much as a glance behind him.

38

Thank God for one dear friend,
With face still radiant with the light of truth.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY (1844–1890)

W
hen Michael and Daniel arrived, each with bouquet in hand, Sara was moved beyond all reason. That a boy of Daniel's age would bring his mother flowers—and for no special occasion—she found quite wonderful.

Michael's bouquet was for
her,
he explained, appearing stiff and uncomfortable in his starched white shirt and slightly worn suit. It was not that a man had never brought Sara flowers before tonight. She had received a few bouquets over the years.

But not recently.

Perhaps it was the sight of the two that moved her: the fresh-faced Daniel, eager to see his mother; a carefully groomed Michael, obviously ill at ease, yet just as obviously pleased with himself that he had thought of flowers. In any event, never had Sara made such a fuss over a man's thoughtfulness. And never had she been so pleased by it.

Dinner was a pleasant success, once it recovered from a somewhat strained beginning. Father, bless his heart, was at his gregarious, jovial best, regaling them with stories about his first attempts at shipbuilding—especially some of the more hilarious failures. Somehow he also managed to find just the right questions to entice Michael to talk about
his
work.

Sara noticed with relief that Evan and Michael seemed to grow
increasingly comfortable with each other as the evening progressed. They even laughed together once or twice.

Nora was the quiet one at the table, Sara observed with some concern. Of course, Nora was always quiet, especially in the presence of more than one or two people. Tonight, though, her silence seemed born of bafflement rather than shyness or melancholy. She followed the banter between Sara and her father, the exchange about immigrant problems in which Evan and Michael eventually involved themselves, with watchful attention and a slightly bewildered look.

But other than an occasional soft word to her son, she merely listened from the outer fringes without participating.

When the moment presented itself to cast Nora and Michael together, Lewis Farmington did his part—as previously coached by his daughter.

“Evan, I won't keep you long, but I'm afraid I do need you for just a few moments in the library, if you don't mind,” he said, getting up from the table. “Abraham Ware will be at the yards first thing in the morning, if he's true to form, and I still have to dictate the last part of our bid. Would you mind terribly?”

Even as Lewis spoke, Evan rose from his chair. The consummate assistant, he never failed to anticipate his employer's needs. “I rather expected you'd want to finish up after dinner, sir.”

Both men excused themselves—Evan with a slightly uncertain glance at Nora and Michael.

“Daniel, I'm going to steal you for a moment if your mother and Michael have no objection,” Sara said. “I've changed the trim on the Christmas harp you made and turned it into a decoration I can leave out all year. I want to see what you think of it.”

The boy gave her a curious look, but followed willingly. On the way out the door, Sara managed to breathe a hasty prayer that the Lord would take control of the situation in the dining room.

“So, then, Nora—I expect you've been busy,” Michael said as soon as they were alone. “Making your plans for the wedding and all, I warrant.”

Nodding uncertainly, Nora appeared embarrassed by his forthrightness. Michael, sensing he would get nowhere by being less than direct, decided to continue in the same vein.

“I should hope so,” he said, allowing himself to drink more deeply of his tea, now that the Farmingtons were out of the room. “There's not much time remaining till May.”

Still Nora avoided his eyes. Staring down at her half-empty plate, she gave another small nod. “No…I suppose not.”

“You didn't eat much tonight, I noticed. Wedding jitters, is it?”

Her eyes still downcast, she forced a smile. “More than likely.”

“What is it, Nora Ellen?”

Finally she raised her eyes to meet his. Her expression was uncertain, guarded. “I don't know what you mean.”

“You're still sorrowing over Morgan,” said Michael, making it a statement, not a question.

“And you're not?” she countered sharply. “Doesn't it trouble you, knowing the state he must be in?”

Michael nodded slowly. “Aye, of course, it troubles me. Just as it troubles me to see
you
in such a state.”

Fixing her eyes on the table once more, she offered no reply.

Impatient with the woman, Michael got up and went around to her. “The last time we parted,” he said, sitting down beside her, “ 'twas as friends, isn't that so?”

She nodded, and he went on. “Then speak to me now as a friend, Nora Ellen. Tell me what's in your heart, even though I suspect I already know.”

Her head snapped up, and Michael was almost pleased to see a glint of irritation in her eyes. She would likely be more candid with him if she were a bit fussed.

“And why wouldn't I be grieving about Morgan? I can't believe you're not distressed for him, as well!” she added accusingly.

Michael chose his words with care. “I am grieved for the man, sure. But I have also accepted the fact that there is nothing I can do for Morgan, other than to pray for him and perhaps write him of my concern. Do you have it in mind that I could do something more—something that has not yet occurred to me, then?”

Her shoulders slumped, and her face took on a weariness he had not seen there for a long time. “There must be something,” she said dully. “Some way we could help.”

Michael shook his head, holding her gaze as he took her hand. “There is not, Nora. And I think you know I am right in saying so. You are only hurting yourself by avoiding the truth.”

Her eyes searched his for a moment. “We could go to him,” she said quietly. “We could do that.”

It was the very thing he had feared. “Of all the foolish things you have ever said, that is surely the most foolish of them all!” he bit out, his voice hard. “I can't believe you would even consider such a daft idea.”

Pulling her hand away, she indicted him with a look. “Are you saying you haven't thought of it yourself? Sure, and Morgan needs his friends, at such a time as this!”

This was not going to be easy. Michael drew in a long breath, then reached once more to cover her hand with his, ignoring her attempt to pull away. Pressing his face close to hers, he said firmly, “Morgan has other friends, Nora. Friends right there in Ireland—in Dublin, if you will—who are close enough to be of help to him.”

“You can't be knowing that! Besides, Morgan has never been as close to anyone else as he was to us!”

Michael sighed but did not soften. “Even if that were the truth, lass, it's over now.”

The hurt in her eyes made him feel ashamed of what he was about to say. Yet it needed to be said, and there was nobody else to do the job. “What the three of us had, that's all in the past, Nora,” he said quietly. “There is nothing at all we can do for Morgan now, except to support him with our thoughts and our prayers. He would not be expecting more from us, and we should not expect it from ourselves.”

“How can you be so unfeeling about him?” she cried, twisting her hand free. “Sure, and the two of you were like brothers!”

His eyes went over her face—so fine, so delicate. So haunted. “And so we will ever be, in our heart of hearts. But I cannot go back to Ireland to prove it so, to Morgan, or to myself. Nor can you, lass.”

“I could get the money to go, if that's what you're thinking!”

He wanted to shake her. “This has nothing to do with money. Of course, you could get it. Sara Farmington would give you whatever you
asked.
She's
your friend, too, Nora, in case you haven't seen.” Michael stopped, pulled in another steadying breath, then pressed on. “You cannot go back, Nora Ellen, because the man you love is
here,
in New York City. And you are promised to
him.
To
Evan Whittaker.
Or have you forgotten so soon why you turned
me
down?”

He saw tears form in her eyes and felt a pang of self-disgust that he had been so rough with her. But he would finish what he'd begun. “You refused to marry
me
because of Whittaker. Now I am reminding you that you have no call to reject
his
love for a man who never
wanted
you!
You cannot do such a thing, Nora!”

Unable to bear the stricken expression in her eyes, Michael looked away.

“What did you say?” The words came as a choked whisper, and Michael despised himself even more.

But he turned back to her, forcing himself to ignore the trembling lip, the shimmering tears spilling down her lovely face.

“I said that Morgan never wanted you, Nora. And he does not want you now. Nor does he
need
you. That is the truth, and I believe that in your heart you have always known it. Morgan has ever been wed to Ireland—a fierce, jealous woman who will tolerate no other claim on a man's affections. You knew the way it was with him years ago, and you know it now. But pity has fooled you into thinking things are different. I am telling you that things are no different at all—and never will be.”

Stumbling to her feet, she stood over him, eyes blazing. “You have no right to say such a thing to me!” she cried fiercely.

Tossing his napkin onto the table, Michael shot to his feet and faced her. “I have
every
right, woman! I know Morgan Fitzgerald as well as you ever did, perhaps even better. He sliced a piece from my heart now and again—not only yours! And he'd do it again, to either one of us, don't you doubt it for a minute!”

Eyes wide, Nora backed away and would have fled the room. But Michael grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to stand and listen to him.

“You'll not run from this, Nora; you will hear me! Because of what has happened to Morgan, you've somehow romanticized him in your memories until you've lost sight of the way things really were—the way things still
are!
Well, it's no different now than it ever was. Morgan being Morgan, he will somehow overcome his trouble. You wait and see if he doesn't.
But in the meantime, you must face the truth: If the man had ever wanted you in his life, he could have
had
you
,
long before now. The truth is that he never loved you quite enough to give up his heart's greatest passion, his
Dark Rosaleen
—his Ireland! And,” Michael pressed brutally on, ignoring her sob of protest, “he
still doesn't.

“Open your eyes, woman! You have the love of a good man now, a man who would give up his very life for you! Don't be so foolish as to cast that love away. Leave Morgan to Ireland and the Lord, and get on with the new life God has granted you.”

Spent, he dropped his hands from her shoulders and stood watching her. Nora hugged her arms to her body as if to keep herself from shattering, but she did not weep. Instead, she stood, trembling, staring at him as though he had struck her.