Heart of the Lonely Exile (44 page)

Lewis Farmington lifted his eyebrows. “Indeed? And here I thought I had the corner on gall—or so my business acquaintances tell me.”

The policeman forced a smile. “Still—what I wanted to say—to ask about, that is, concerns your daughter.”

Lewis fought to keep his expression noncommittal.

“I…ah—” Again the policeman cleared his throat. “I should explain, sir, that I know it's a bold thing I'm asking. In truth, I'm in no position at all to be making such a request.”

Poor fellow. Obviously, he was on unfamiliar ground altogether. Lewis doubted that this strapping Irishman was much accustomed to humbling himself. He sighed. It seemed there was nothing like a woman to bring a strong man to his knees.

“You see, Mr. Farmington, sir, I'm fully aware you may find my request insulting—because of my being, ah—”

“Irish?” Lewis finished helpfully.

Burke's eyes widened. “Sir?”

With another sort of man, Lewis might have done nothing to ease the policeman's struggle—indeed, he might even have prolonged the agony a bit, to test his mettle. But the truth was he found it almost distasteful that a man of Burke's obvious caliber would need question his acceptability as a suitor.

Therefore, he decided the captain's misery had gone on quite long enough. “You're wondering how I would feel about an Irish policeman courting my daughter. Isn't that it, son?”

Burke went white, but to his credit, he never so much as flinched. “Aye, sir, that's it, right enough. And I'd understand if you think I'm half-cracked in asking.”

Lewis studied the straight-backed Irishman with interest—and no small degree of admiration. “Perhaps you'd best tell me the nature of your intentions.”

The Adam's apple worked again. “The honest truth, sir?”

“Exactly that, son. Give it to me straight.”

“I'm looking for a wife, sir. Any woman I end up courting, 'twould be with an eye toward marriage.”

“I see.” Lewis measured the strong jaw, the dark eyes, the firm chin. “You're some older than Sara, I believe?”

“Yes, sir, I expect by a number of years. I'm well past thirty-six, you see.”

Lewis nodded. “That's almost ten years' difference. A significant gap.”

The policeman's mouth drew down slightly.

“But not necessarily a problem,” Lewis added. “There were eight years between Sara's mother and me and we had a wonderful marriage. The Daltons come to mind as well—she must have been little more than a girl when he married her, and there's certainly no denying their happiness. Still, you've been married before and have a son who's almost grown.”

“Aye,” said Michael Burke, his mouth thinning. “And I'll not mislead you, Mr. Farmington. Tierney's a bit of a problem these days.”

An honest man. Straight and direct. “Well, show me a boy his age who isn't a bit of a problem these days. Still, it wouldn't do to count on a wife being of much help with the boy. He's almost a man.”

Burke inclined his head, his expression somewhat grim. “Aye, I'm well aware of that, sir.” He paused. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Farmington, but Tierney has nothing to do with my reasons for wanting to court your daughter. I'm taken with Sara, and that's the truth.”

“You've made your peace about Nora, then?”

The policeman nodded and managed a smile. “I'm happy for her and Whittaker. I can see that it's best.”

Lewis regarded him with a thoughtful gaze. “I don't suppose you'd happen to know if Sara is
interested
in your courting her?”

The other hesitated. “I'd like to think so, sir. But I can't say for certain, no.”

“Hmm.” Lewis laced his fingers over his middle. “Well, I suppose there's only one way to find out, now, isn't there?”

The dark eyes glinted. “Sir?”

Lewis fingered his watch fob, then locked eyes with Burke.

“Let me just say this, Michael: Sara is my only daughter, and I'm understandably protective of her. I'd have no qualms about dealing harshly with any man who even thought of taking advantage.”

At Burke's red-faced attempt to protest, Lewis waved him off
.
“I'm not worried about the likelihood in your case. I'm simply telling you I won't be underestimated when it comes to my daughter. As for finding out if Sara would welcome your attentions, I suppose you'll just have to give it a go, now, won't you?”

The years seemed to fall away from Michael Burke. “With your blessing, sir?”

Lewis grinned at him. “Godspeed, my boy. Godspeed.”

The truth was, Lewis was itching to get this discussion over with so he could get back to Winifred Whittaker Coates.

Later that night, after his father and Aunt Winifred had retired to their
rooms in the mansion, Evan asked Nora and the children to join him in the cottage.

Although Nora was far from easy in her mind—tomorrow was her wedding day, after all—at least her fear about Evan's family had been vanquished. His father had been sweet, almost shy in his kindness to her. And his Aunt Winnie—well, it was just as Evan said: Nora adored her!

Wondering what Evan was thinking on this, their last night to live apart, Nora searched his eyes as he took her hand in front of Daniel John and the children. He smiled at her, his gaze going over her face with tender affection.

“There is something I wo-would say to you,” he began quietly, turning toward Johanna and speaking slowly, that she might better understand his words. “Just b-before we left Ireland, I p-promised Morgan Fitzgerald, who is very d-dear to us all, that I would t-take care of you—every one of you—as if you were m-my own.”

He paused, giving Nora's hand a gentle squeeze. “Now that Nora and I…are to be m-married, I feel that, in a very special way, you
are
m-my own. You have become m-my family…and I love you all. I know I can n-never take the place of your father, Daniel—or yours, Tom and Johanna. But I hope you will at least allow m-me to be your friend.”

Nora's heart swelled with pride and thankfulness as Evan went on. “Tomorrow, Nora and I will vow b-before God to love and care for each other for the rest of our lives. But t-tonight, in your hearing, and b-before God, I want to renew the promise I m-made in your behalf many m-months ago. I vow to you all that I will love you and care for you as if you are m-my own. For indeed you are m-my own…and for that, I am grateful beyond all words.”

That night, alone in his room—the
last
night he would be alone in his room, Evan reminded himself thankfully—he read the letter that Daniel John had handed him just before leaving the cottage with Nora and the children.

“It is from Morgan,” the boy had said, handing Evan the envelope. “He sent a gift as well, but asked that I keep back the gift until the wedding day.”

Now, seated at the table in his room, Evan opened the letter somewhat hesitantly, uncertain as to what he might expect from the great Gael who had held such a deep love for Nora.

He need not have feared. The first few lines left little doubt as to Fitzgerald's intent.

The letter was brief, but reassuringly warm, filled with the big Irishman's wishes for their marriage and their future.

As Evan reached Fitzgerald's final words, he could only smile. Indeed, he could almost imagine the glint that might have danced in those piercing green eyes when the man penned his closing thrust:

Evan laid the letter in front of him, on the table. His eyes misted as he sat staring at it. “God keep him,” he finally whispered, touching the letter with gentle fingers. “God keep us all.”

43

Hold the gift with reverent hands,
For it is holy….

MORGAN FITZGERALD (1848)

T
he wedding day dawned with a warm and honeyed May sunrise.

In the Farmington mansion there was much excitement. Daniel John, who had spent the night there, did all he could to keep Little Tom in tow, but the tyke was spinning like a top by midday. Even Sara Farmington was a flurry of nervous excitement, hurrying from one room to the next, helping Nora dress, seeing to the flowers, nagging her father, and listening to Evan's Aunt Winifred regale the maid with backdoor tales of wayward British nobility.

By early afternoon, Sara was quite wild, and had decided that if and when she ever married, she just might brave the scandal of elopement.

Nora's fingers were numb, her knees jelly. Only Sara's timely appearance in the doorway saved her from utter hysteria. Between the two of them, they finally managed to secure the countless pearl buttons of her wedding dress, with time to spare for the veil.

“I should not have agreed to a veil,” Nora worried. “I am no young virgin bride, after all.”

“You are still quite young,” Sara said firmly, inspecting the veil and Nora's hair. “And you are Evan's bride. It's entirely proper that you wear a veil.”

“Such an expense,” Nora fretted.

“A worthwhile extravagance, surely.”

“I am going to be ill,” Nora warned.

“Nonsense! You are going to be married.”

“Aren't you listening to me at all, Sara? I am terrified, and that's the truth!”

A pearl-studded pin in her mouth, Sara stepped back for a better look at her handiwork, then moved to tuck the pin in one last place. “More to the point, you are absolutely lovely.”

Brushing a stubborn wisp of hair away from Nora's temple, Sara met her eyes. “You'll not faint, surely?”

“I might. I'm mortal ill.”

Sara shook her head. “It won't do. If your groom is even half as anxious as rumor has it downstairs, you will be needed to prop him up. Now, then, take some good, deep breaths and let's go.”

“Go?” Nora stared at her.

Sara patted her arm. “Yes, dear. Downstairs. To the chapel. It's time.”

Nora attempted a deep breath, as Sara suggested. A sharp pain sliced the breath into ragged gasps. “It's as I said.” She put a hand to her heart. “I am mortal ill.”

Sara laughed at her. “You're impossible!” she scolded, tucking Nora's arm securely inside her own. “Now come along. We can't very well have a wedding without a bride, can we?”

In the wing off the chapel, Lewis Farmington peered closely at Evan's silk tie. “We haven't quite got it yet, I'm afraid,” he said, frowning. “Let's have one more go at it.”

Quaking, Evan lifted his chin and suffered his employer's thick-knuckled ministration.

“It's quite all right to breathe, Evan,” his employer remarked, standing back to inspect his work. “Ah! Perfect!”

“I am qu-quite ill.”

“Nonsense! You can't be ill! This is your wedding day!”

A thought suddenly struck Evan. “Father—and Aunt Winifred?”

“They're already seated. Your father is feeling better. Winifred says he's fine now. Just exhaustion from the voyage, I'm sure.”

“The ring?”

“Daniel has it, safe in hand. Really, Evan, you must relax. You should enjoy your own wedding, son! Besides, if Nora sees you in such a state, it might make her think you have doubts.”

Evan tightened his jaw. “Yes…y-you're right, of c-course. I mustn't let her kn-know how anxious I am. She m-might misunderstand.”

“Quite right!”

Evan moistened his lips. “D-Daniel?”

“On his way. With the ring. Deep breaths, now, Evan. I'll see you smiling and relaxed before we go in.”

“Go in?”

“To the chapel, Evan—into the chapel! You're about to be married, remember?”

Lewis Farmington patted Evan on the back. Evan's knees threatened to buckle, but his employer caught him just in time and prodded him forward to the door.

At the front of the chapel, Jess Dalton was taking great pleasure in anticipating the ceremony. Every wedding at which he officiated was special to him, of course, for he was a dedicated believer in the blessings of matrimony. But this particular ceremony was going to be a pure delight to his heart. Evan Whittaker was a fine, godly man who loved Nora Kavanagh to desperation. And Nora—a gift of a woman, no less. The two of them had gone through much suffering together, which would only serve to make their joy even sweeter.

He beamed out upon the cozy chapel with its small scattering of invited guests. On the third row back sat his own wife, the remarkable Kerry, beside a wide-eyed but smiling Arthur Jackson. The boy appeared a bit dazed by all the finery around him, yet he seemed to be enjoying what he called the “goings-on.”

Jess slanted a look at the ashen-faced groom to make certain he was still on his feet. With both Lewis Farmington and Daniel Kavanagh flanking him, he appeared reasonably secure. At least for the time being.

The processional music swelled from the organ, and the guests drew a collective breath of excitement.

Jess turned his gaze to the back of the chapel, where the beginning of the procession was now in view. Sara Farmington, elegant and quite lovely in the softest of blues, approached, her slight limp somehow giving her all the more charm.

Behind her came a smiling Johanna Fitzgerald, sweetly young and pretty in cream and blue lace, her dark red hair falling in soft curls around her shoulders. Wee Tom, as they called him, bounced cheerfully along behind his sister, quite the little man in suit coat and breeches—Sara Farmington's doing, no doubt.

Another swell and salute of the organ, a rustling of the guests, and the bride herself at last appeared. Nora Kavanagh was a vision in ice-blue silk and pearls, the veil scarcely concealing her enormous, anxious eyes.

Escorting her was the brawny, strong-featured Michael Burke. Straight and proud in a dark suit and starched linen, the policeman beamed a thoroughly Irish smile as he delivered the bride safely to her white-faced groom.

Nora managed surprisingly well throughout most of the ceremony, hardly stumbling over her vows at all.

She did not even weep until toward the end, when Daniel John stepped out from Evan's side and retrieved the Kavanagh harp from a small alcove near the front. Touching her arm, then Evan's, the boy murmured, “This is Morgan's gift, sent with his love. I will present it to you as he requested.”

Nora's eyes filled even as her son shouldered the harp and began to strum it softly. Evan's hand gripped hers as Daniel John first read Morgan's words in the Irish, then began to sing them in English:

At last Michael handed her over into Evan's keeping. For an instant, his strong hand lingered on her arm, and their eyes met. In that moment the
miracle of friendship spanned an ocean as three hearts touched, joined by memory and an enduring legacy of love.

Outside the mansion, the sun was a golden lamp. The warm spring afternoon was quiet and sweetly scented. Sara Farmington stood at the shoulder of Michael Burke, waiting for the first appearance of the new Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker.

As the doors to the chapel were flung open, Nora and Evan came forth for all eyes to behold, resplendent in their happiness. They stepped onto the brick walkway just outside the chapel. Then, bathed in the golden warmth of the sun and their newly found joy, they stood, smiling shyly at their well-wishers.

Suddenly, from a gentle rise on the east grounds, a low hum sounded. The hum deepened to a drone, rising up, spreading and flowering into a joyous Celtic wail. Everyone, including the newlyweds, turned to look.

Across the green lawn of the Farmington estate came a fully kilted piper, strutting, head high and proud. He stopped a short distance from the mansion, piping an ancient tribute to the new bride and groom.