Heart of the Lonely Exile (39 page)

Michael knew he had done all he could. Perhaps he had thrown away their friendship forever for the sake of the truth. He could no longer bear the raw look of betrayal in her eyes. “Make our excuses to the Farmingtons, if you will,” he said shortly. “Tell Daniel I will wait for him outside. We must be leaving.”

Turning, Michael left the dining room without looking back. But the memory of Nora's stricken face was engraved upon his heart.

Tierney Burke found Rossiter soon after he arrived at the hotel. The bookkeeper sat hunched over his ledgers in the back office, leafing through the pages as carefully as if the answers to life's greatest mysteries were at his very fingertips.

Rossiter looked up with annoyance when Tierney entered. “You're late. There's been nobody at the desk for more than ten minutes.”

“And there is no one in the lobby to need a clerk at the desk,” Tierney countered.

“Mr. Walsh expects his employees to be prompt.”

“I'll work late. I wanted to ask if you still need a boy for those deliveries tonight.”

Rossiter frowned. “Deliveries?”

“The pickups on Water Street you asked me to do,” Tierney reminded him impatiently.

The bookkeeper looked him over. “As it happens, we do. But why would you care?”

Tierney shrugged. “I can do the job, after all,” he said casually. “If you want.”

Rossiter's eyes narrowed. “Why the change of heart?”

Tierney leveled a cold stare on the man. “Why not?”

Michael retreated to the quiet of his bedroom as soon as he and Daniel returned home. Weary and drained from his row with Tierney and the confrontation with Nora, he sank down into the rocking chair and closed his eyes.

Still troubled by Nora's resistance to his words, he was more troubled yet by Tierney. He could only pray that the boy's bitterness and streak of rebellion would not be his undoing.

Tierney had accused him more than once of not understanding him. Tonight, for the first time, Michael admitted to himself that the lad was probably right.

There was an anger, a deep-seated resentment in the boy that both baffled and frightened him for his son. Try as he would, he could not understand Tierney's volatile temper, his unreasonable bitterness. Nor could he fathom his undisguised hatred of people like the Farmingtons.

It was not merely the fact of their wealth, Michael sensed, although that was a part of it. More to the point, he believed it was what the Farmingtons represented. To Tierney's way of thinking, Lewis Farmington—and even Sara—had somehow attained their success, their status in society, at the expense of the less privileged.

The boy had created a simplistic formula—and a dangerously faulty one, Michael believed—equating wealth with the evil oppressor, and poverty with the innocent victim. Michael had been a policeman long enough to know that Tierney's view was extremely naive. Evil abounded on both sides of the dollar, and he for one would not want to try to figure where it thrived best.

Rocking slowly back and forth, he sighed. He did not know what to make of Tierney. The boy had more than his share of good points. Hadn't the teachers at school often commented on the lad's sharp wits, his natural
leadership ability, his protective instincts for the younger, less confident boys?

But he had his faults, too, and some were more prominent than others. His unpredictable fits of temper, a strain of spitefulness—even a trace of bigotry, Michael thought with despair.

In addition, Tierney's opinions were often unfair and shortsighted—like his contempt for the Farmingtons. Yet Lewis Farmington's works of Christian charity were widely known, even in the recesses of the Five Points slums. And as for Sara—she was a woman deserving of respect.

For the first time since their meeting, Michael allowed himself to think freely and honestly about Sara Farmington. For months, he had been committed to marrying Nora, to giving her a home and his name, just as he'd promised Morgan he would. But by Nora's choice, he was now free of that commitment.

Thinking about it, he had to admit that Sara Farmington had intrigued him from their very first meeting. In the grime and dust of a tenement hallway, he had watched her stoop down to offer kindness to a filthy, neglected child. The months of getting to know her better had only increased his admiration for her.

There was a strength about Sara, coupled with an unexpected gentleness, that appealed to him. In addition, he knew her to possess a seemingly unshakable faith—and an indomitable will. Yet she was never less than delightfully feminine. Her grace of figure was not one bit marred by her slight limp, any more than her allure was weakened by her wit. She was womanly, bright, interesting—and more than a little attractive.

Suddenly, Michael found himself thinking about Tierney's accusation—that Sara had a…a
yen
for him. As infuriating as he found the boy's insinuations, he could not deny half wishing his son were right.

Getting up from his rocking chair, he stretched and gave a small, self-mocking laugh at his foolishness. Lewis Farmington would more than likely have a stroke at the thought of an Irish cop taking a fancy to his only daughter. Still, the man was never anything but cordial when they met, and he had been downright friendly throughout dinner tonight. In truth, Michael liked the millionaire shipbuilder a great deal—and he sensed he had Farmington's respect as well.

That doesn't mean he'd take kindly to your courting his only daughter.…

Michael twisted his mouth at the thought. Sure, and what did it matter
what Farmington might think? To court a millionaire's daughter was a luxury hardly covered by the wages of an immigrant policeman. Besides, what gave him the cheek to think Sara herself would welcome his attentions? She was an heiress, after all, living on a level of society an Irish cop could never aspire to.

Besides, didn't the woman freeze in her shoes every time he came near? It seemed he had only to call her name and she lost her powers of speech. Still, there had been a time or two when she'd colored so prettily in his presence, he'd half thought—

He was being a great fool, and that was the truth. Disgusted with himself, Michael jerked down his bed linens with a fury. Straightening, he shook his head at the reflection in the mirror.

Later that night, after Michael and Daniel had gone and Nora had made her weak excuses to the Farmingtons, she lay in a crumpled heap atop her bed.

She could not rid her mind of Michael's words. They had pierced to her heart, where they continued to stab at her with what he had called the
truth.

Evan had come to the door at least twice, knocking and calling out to her, but had finally gone away when she begged him to leave her alone. Later, she had sensed Sara's presence outside the room, but finally her footsteps, too, moved on down the hall.

Nora lay there for what seemed an interminable time. As she heard Michael's words sound over and over again in her mind, her anger and shock began to fade. In their place came a gradual, painful awareness of the validity of what he had said. It was a truth she had long known, had even faced, years ago. But as Michael had said, Morgan's tragedy had somehow distorted reality for her. She had idealized and romanticized their old friendship and the love they had once shared into something it never was, and could never be.

And by doing so, she had risked the gift of Evan's love.

Slowly Nora sat up, rubbed her face between her hands, then reached for a handkerchief to wipe away the tears that remained. Suddenly she
realized what a hard thing Michael had done for her this night—a thing only a true friend could bring himself to do.

He had freed her, Michael had. Brave enough to make her face a painful truth she had almost forgotten, he had risked losing their friendship in an attempt to free her from a deadly trap of her own making.

And, she thought ruefully, it wasn't the first time, now, was it?

How often, when they were growing up together in the village, had Michael rescued her from some danger of her own doing, then shaken her by the shoulders and rebuked her for her foolishness?

Even then, young as they were, Nora had sensed that Michael's fierce reprimands were born of his concern, his affection, for her. And so it was now. No one but Michael could speak to her so, could pass beyond her wounded anger to reach her heart.

Michael, her friend and her brother. Her protector. Michael, who at times had served as her conscience.

Getting to her feet, Nora touched the bun at the nape of her neck, wondering if she dared go to Evan so late.

Of course she could.
He would be waiting, more than likely. Waiting and wondering. And worrying.

Suddenly, she was desperate to have him hold her, to press his cheek gently against hers and whisper his shy endearments against her hair.

Hurrying from the room, Nora raced down the stairs, grabbing her wrap from the coat tree in the hall. Once outside, she ran the entire distance between the big house and Evan's cottage.

When he opened the door, his anxious frown gave way to astonishment as Nora flew into his embrace.

39

The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more!

THOMAS MOORE (1779–1852)

Dublin
Early April

F
rom his bedroom window, Morgan watched the scene outside with a glint of amusement.

True to his word, Sandemon had at last found a “service” for their demented child from Belfast. It was an extra grace that this service happened to be safely outside Nelson Hall.

Annie Delaney had been appointed official groom to Morgan's horse, Pilgrim. This morning, she stood with Sandemon near the stream that flowed along the west side of the grounds. The great red stallion nuzzled the girl's hand as she stroked his immense head, her expression rapt.

That the cantankerous Pilgrim had taken a liking to the girl was a wonder indeed. Yet, watching them, Morgan could see for himself Sandemon's claim that the lass could do most anything she liked with the horse.

It could only be, Morgan thought wryly, a friendship made in heaven.
The feisty stallion was not one to tolerate authority; besides Morgan and one or two of the lads in Mayo, Pilgrim had suffered few hands at his bridle, even fewer bodies on his back. But for his own mysterious reasons, he seemed to adore Annie Delaney. Sandemon claimed the big brute practically purred like a contented cat at the girl's slightest touch.

The child suddenly screwed her face into a fierce glare as she peered up at Sandemon. Morgan smiled and shook his head. More than likely, she had been given an instruction not to her liking. As always, the tall black man remained intractable in the face of the girl's mulishness. He stood as if waiting, one hand extended, until Annie finally relinquished Pilgrim's reins.

They moved away from the stream, Sandemon leading the stallion in the direction of the stables. Annie ran along behind, scooping up papers and other debris blown onto the grounds during last night's wind.

Morgan craned his neck to watch until they were out of sight, then leaned back in the wheelchair and closed his eyes. What he would give to feel the power of old Pilgrim beneath him again! How he missed the freedom, the exhilaration of riding the great brute across the mountains of Mayo. Only now, with the experience forbidden to him, did he admit to himself that sitting on that stallion's broad back had been, in some primitive, inexplicable way, a kind of rite of his manhood. Never did he feel quite so free, so completely and wonderfully a man grown, as when he and Pilgrim went thundering across the countryside, the wind in his face, the sun clinging to his back, and the high hope of living in his spirit. Knowing he would never savor such a feeling again made the memory all the more poignant. And painful.

Opening his eyes, Morgan wiped the back of his hand over his perspiring forehead. The hot pain in his back was on him already, and it was only midmorning. Though it attacked less frequently these days, its force had weakened not at all.

He needed a drink. But it was early yet, too early. If he started in now, he would be useless the rest of the day.

A dry, bitter laugh escaped him. As if he could be any more useless than he already was!

What was there to do, in any event? For the most part, he'd lost interest in reading. Aside from Joseph Mahon's journal, much of what was brought to his attention was the same raving political rhetoric. By now he could
recite most of it from memory:
The rebellion will come. The people will rise. Young Ireland will lead. Ireland will be free.

He had been a part of all that once. No longer. Smith O'Brien and one or two others among the lads continued to hound him to take up his pen again. He still had a voice, they insisted.

A voice, but no words. They did not understand that he no longer had anything to write. He had nothing to protest, nothing to defend, nothing to say. His journals lay empty, blank pages on a tidy desk. His harp lay silent—a dead, voiceless thing propped up in the corner of the room to accuse him.

The days passed in a meaningless succession of routine. He ate his meals, read his mail, endured the exercises Sandemon forced on him. He sat in the infernal wheelchair, his torso and arms growing stronger and more powerful through Sandemon's therapy, his legs hanging heavy and useless, his mind as dull as stale soda bread.

If he cared to, he worked a bit on Joseph's journal or told the girl a story in the library after dinner. She begged for the stories, did Annie. The ancient legends and tales. The adventures of Cuchulain and Finn mac Coul, the heroic exploits of the Fenians, the tragic love story of Deirdre and Naisi. It mattered not how many times she had already heard them told. The child was a sponge, soaking up whatever he was willing to offer.

Which was little enough, Morgan admitted to himself guiltily. Hadn't he seen her hunger, her yearning for the books, her thirst to learn? That she was clever and quick-witted enough, he had no doubt. But Annie needed more—wanted more, he sensed. The lass hungered for acceptance, for companionship—for
involvement.
She required more of him than he was able to give, more energy, both physical and emotional, than he could muster. It simply was not within his power to be all the girl needed him to be.

At night he drank. The whiskey helped some; it eased the pain, allowed him to sleep, to forget—for a few hours, at least.

Occasionally, he still tried to pray. But his prayers were lifeless things, like his legs. He sent them up from a leaden heart, felt them bounce back from an empty vault.

More than once he had asked for a sign of God's presence, a reminder that He had not abandoned Morgan Fitzgerald altogether. At times he thought if he could gain even the faintest glimpse of divine control in the chaos of his life, an assurance of peace beyond the pain—perhaps he could somehow summon the strength to endure without going mad.

But the echo of silence was his only reply, deepening his despair, his feelings of utter helplessness and hopelessness.

Less and less frequently now did he make the attempt to approach the throne. He was quite certain God did not notice. Or if He noticed, He did not care.

Annie Delaney and Sandemon worked in the stable until late morning. As always, Sandemon supervised Pilgrim's grooming. At the moment, he had left Annie to her work and gone to the other side of the stable, where he stood talking with Colm O'Grady, the full-time groom.

Annie carefully combed Pilgrim's mane, relishing the silken weight of it. She loved every part of her duties as groom: the pungent smell of hay and warm animals in the stable, the way the horses had come to recognize her and welcome her—and especially the opportunity to become friends with the Fitzgerald's grand and noble stallion.

She was careful and conscientious in her new capacity. The great red stallion was the first animal for which she had ever taken responsibility, and she was resolved that in this area—unlike the other projects at which she'd failed so miserably—there would be no room at all for finding fault.

So far, Sandemon seemed satisfied with her efforts, which pleased Annie. They had become great friends, she and the black man. He kept a firm hand with her, sure, and gave little quarter where mischief was concerned. But he was kind, too; kind and helpful and genuinely interested in her as an
individual
—Sandemon's word. Annie could talk to him about most anything she chose, and he would have a comment, an observation, or at least a question.

She hadn't decided which of the two was the most clever or the wisest—Sandemon or the
Seanchai.
She supposed the
Seanchai
had the most classical education. Certainly he was more the scholar when it came to history and culture.

She suspected, however, that Sandemon had great wisdom, the kind of wisdom that had little to do with book knowledge, although he was obviously an educated man. Sandemon knew about nature and time and God. He understood tides and seasons and animals and trees.

And he understood
her.
As for the
Seanchai,
while he was kind enough
in his own gruff way, he seemed to find her little more than an amusement in his life—and at times an annoying one, at that. Obviously, he had no real interest in getting to know her as a person. He would listen to her chatter, cast a wry face at her shenanigans, and at times would even tell her stories, making the giant warriors and the faerie people of the ancient legends come alive.

But in spite of his tolerance, he did not care to know the
real
Annie Delaney, and his indifference grieved her. The
Seanchai
was a true hero, a great man, and she was devoted and indebted to him. In the beginning, she had hoped he would come to depend on
her
and even want her as his friend. As time went on, however, she had come to see such a possibility as more and more unlikely.

Perhaps it might have been different had it not been for his terrible tragedy. Sandemon said that tragedy worked in different ways upon different people. With some, he said, it acted as a separator—dividing them from their family, their friends, and even from God. With others, it seemed to draw them closer to their Creator and those who loved them.

It had been his experience, said Sandemon, that often the physically strong, the self-reliant, tended to draw away during their troubles. Perhaps because they had so cherished their own strength, their personal power, they found it difficult, if not impossible, to rely on others.

That being the case, it made perfect sense that the
Seanchai
would have the hard time of it. Annie sorrowed for what he had lost, longed to comfort him. But how could she comfort him when he refused to take her seriously?

Still, she had no room to complain, for hadn't the man taken her in, given her shelter and work to do? The both of them, the
Seanchai
and Sandemon, were kind to her. Indeed, through their kindness Annie was beginning to find her own healing—from her mum's hard heart and from Tully's brutality.

For the first time in a very long time, Annie lived without fear. She was finally learning to trust again.

“You will comb that poor horse bald if you do not give him a rest,” Sandemon observed mildly, coming to stand and watch.

Annie looked at him blankly for a moment, then at Pilgrim's mane, which indeed she had been combing steadily for a long time. Grinning, she rubbed the great stallion's nose, then put away the comb.

“What's on with Old Scratch?” she asked, motioning to the black
thoroughbred on the opposite side of the stable. Annie didn't like the horse, which, according to Colm O'Grady, was stabled there as a favor to one of Sir Roger Nelson's influential friends. The high-strung, nervous animal seemed to live in constant protest of his confinement. Annie had told him off once or twice, but he ignored her entirely.

Sandemon's gaze traveled to the horse, then back to Annie. “Bad blood in that one,” he said soberly. “You keep your distance, hear?”

“I expect I will,” said Annie. “He doesn't like me a bit more than I like him.”

Sandemon nodded. “We should go in now. The
Seanchai
may need me.”

“Aye. But one last lump of sugar for Pilgrim before we go,” Annie said, digging down in her pocket.

“You spoil that stallion shamefully,” observed Sandemon as they left the stable and started walking toward the house.

“I'm thinking he might be lonely,” said Annie. “He must miss the
Seanchai
in the worst way.”

Sandemon regarded her with a thoughtful expression. “Yes,” he said gently, “I imagine he does.”

After another moment, his face creased with an inscrutable smile. “I might know a secret,” he said.

Annie's ears vibrated, and she stared up at him. “What
sort
of a secret?”