Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  “Ain’t that somethin’, Captain?”

  Michael turned to look at the big black laborer who had moved in next to him. Skipper Jones stood, his cap pulled low over one eye, his thick-muscled arms crossed over his chest, nodding in time to the music.

  Michael looked from the black man to the singers. “Aye,” he said, shaking his head in slow wonder. “That is something indeed.” Even as he spoke, his own foot took up the irresistible rhythm with a sharp tapping.

  By the end of the day’s rehearsal, the recently established Five Points Choral Society had a number of prospective new members, the beginning of an entirely new repertoire—and a brand-new name.

  With the consent of their somewhat dazed director, the singing group would henceforth be known as the Five Points Celebration Singers.

  As he started across Paradise Square to his borrowed carriage, the always correct and somewhat straightlaced Evan Whittaker had all he could do not to click his heels in the air.

  He could not wait to get home to tell Nora!

  2

  Shadows on the Heart

  Pulse of my heart,

  What gloom is thine?

  FROM WALSH’S IRISH POPULAR SONGS (1847)

  Nora Whittaker stood at the front window of her new home in Brooklyn, hugging her arms to herself as she waited for Evan.

  They had been married close on five months now, but his daily homecoming was still an event. An hour before he was due, Nora would begin watching the window and listening for Evan’s key in the door. They would embrace, share the news of the day, then collect the Fitzgerald children and take them for a walk in the park before dinner.

  This evening, however, she was finding it difficult to summon any real excitement. Once again, her hopes had been dashed, leaving her spirit as barren and empty as she was beginning to fear her womb might be.

  She had been so sure this time, almost convinced, she was finally with child. But, just as before, she had been wrong.

  At least she hadn’t told Evan. Had he known, he would, of course, conceal his own disappointment. Never did the man so much as hint that their life together was anything less than ideal. Their marriage was still new, he would say when he caught her fretting; they had plenty of time, after all. Besides, he would remind her, he neither wanted nor needed anything more than what he had.

  But Nora did. From the beginning of their marriage, she had prayed for, longed for, a child. Her deepest wish was to give Evan a son. The only child of elderly parents, it was up to him to carry on the family name. A son would be her gift to him—the finest gift she could possibly give to this man who had given her so very much.

  Lately, though, she was becoming increasingly anxious, even fearful, that she would never again experience the miracle of birth. They were not young, she and Evan. He was nearly thirty-seven, she thirty-four. Her child-bearing years would soon be over.

  At times like these, when disappointment washed over her like a bitter wave, Nora had all she could do not to give in to the dread that she might be barren. It was her greatest fear, and one she could not bring herself to voice to anyone—not to Evan, not even to Sara Farmington, her dearest friend.

  Before leaving Ireland at the height of the famine, she—like thousands of others—had lived for months at the very edge of starvation, warding off disease as her flesh wasted away, until she was only a shadow of herself. Then, the past winter, the scarlet fever had felled her, leaving her deathly ill for weeks. She could not help but wonder if that prolonged period of hunger and illness might not have caused some terrible, irreversible harm to her body.

  The thought that she could not bear Evan’s child was enough to tarnish her newly found happiness. Like a shadow on her heart, it threatened to stain the perfection of their union, dull the luster of her joy.

  Tears stung her eyes, and she clenched her hands at her sides. She must stop this. She must! They had time—plenty of time. They had been married only a few months, after all. Their love was still new, and she was not yet an old drab. She need not, would not, give up her hope.

  Pulling the drapery to one side, Nora managed to smile a little at the sight of wee Tom and Johanna playing in the leaves. She loved the view from the small house. By now the sun had fallen almost entirely out of sight, rouging the sky with peach and crimson. The spacious front yard was dense with trees, maples and oaks still lush with the honey gold and warm scarlet of October. A light evening wind had blown up, whipping the leaves about like swirling banners.

  Autumn had ever been a bittersweet time for Nora, with its beauty teetering on the edge of a final farewell before the bleak hand of winter seized the land. She could never quite rejoice in the season’s glory without a shadow of foreboding hovering near.

  The specter of approaching winter.

  Winter in famine-ravaged Ireland had meant only more suffering. For those evicted from their homes, the snow and cold promised certain death. Even for those with a roof above their heads, the lack of food and fuel meant unthinkable hardship.

  Nora brought her hand to her throat, remembering the last winter in Ireland. Many had been the night her heart had keened with the wailing wind off the Atlantic. Throughout those months of sorrow and deprivation, her spirit had seemed to turn as cold as the dark, sullen waters of Killala Bay.

  A shudder rippled through her, and she shook her head slightly as if to throw off her melancholy. Just then she caught sight of Evan turning the corner and starting for the house. For the first time since morning, she felt the weight of disappointment and dread lift from her heart.

  Evan saw her at the window and waved. Nora watched him closely as he neared the cottage. This was his afternoon in Five Points with the new singing group, and she was learning to associate certain telltale signs of discouragement with Thursday afternoons.

  But not today. Her own mood brightened still more when she saw that he wore a smile. Indeed, he was taking the walk with the eager, carefree steps of a boy!

  Curious as to what might account for his obvious high spirits, Nora hurried to the door and flung it open. Eagerly, she slipped into her husband’s embrace, feeling the last shadow of her earlier gloom disappear.

  After dinner and the children’s prayers, Evan and Nora sat on the sofa, reading. As was their habit each evening—and at Nora’s insistence—Evan read aloud.

  For several days now, they had been enjoying Oliver Twist—a novel by the English author Charles Dickens. An indictment of the London society that so callously and routinely abused the poor, the book created a world of such realistic, distinctive characters that both Evan and Nora found it difficult to put down when day was done.

  Although he was a highly successful author, Dickens was yet regarded with suspicion and even disdain in some quarters. Famous while still in his early twenties, the prolific writer apparently possessed unlimited mental and physical energy. Yet the sheer volume of his writings and their unanticipated success seemed to contribute to the criticism leveled against him: that he was entirely too commercial, too sentimental and unsophisticated. He was nothing more than an entertainer, critics charged.

  Even in America, where Dickens had toured early in the decade, the popular author was accused of lacking artistic taste and relying much too heavily on cheap dramatic effects.

  With a mixture of annoyance and amusement, Evan wondered if the criticism would have been nearly as heated had Dickens not so successfully and brilliantly exposed the corruption of an entire political and social system. He personally found the man’s work nothing short of genius. Both the Papers of the Pickwick Club, which he had read while still in England, and this new work, Oliver Twist, were surely the products of an inventive mind, a deeply sensitive and acute observer of the human condition. He suspected the widely read, popular—and entertaining—author’s works would long outlast many of the more “literary” and “artistic” efforts of others.

  Evan was somewhat surprised to realize that Nora had fallen asleep, her head resting on h
is shoulders. Usually she protested when he put the book away for the evening. A prickle of concern intruded on his thoughts, and he turned slightly to study her face.

  Still troubled, he noted the shadows under her eyes, the slight frown even in repose. Being careful not to waken her, he settled her more closely against his side and sat watching the fire.

  Outside, the wind moaned. Despite the room’s snug warmth, Evan shivered. Staring into the fire, he let his thoughts roam. As always, they went to his wife.

  Nora thought him unaware of her sadness, her apprehension. But he had known as soon as he saw her framed in the doorway earlier in the evening that she had been weeping. Later, while playing with Johanna and Tom outside, he had caught her staring into the distance, an unmistakable glaze of sorrow in her eyes.

  As always, she had evaded his questions, making an obvious effort to be more cheerful. But by now Evan recognized the slight darkening of those magnificent gray eyes, the faint tightening of the skin around her mouth.

  She was determined to give him a child. A son. And it seemed no amount of reassurance on his part would ease her anxiety.

  Evan knew beyond all doubt that her desire for a child was more for him than for her. She seemed not to hear him when he insisted that he could not possibly want anything more than what he already had. He loved her, and he adored Daniel and the Fitzgerald children as if they were his own. He needed nothing more than his dear Nora and their readymade family.

  The truth was—and this he would not tell her—that the very idea of Nora’s bearing a child frightened him. He deliberately kept his fear to himself, thinking it best that she not know of his uneasiness should the time come when she did conceive.

  He would love the child, of course. He would be proud and happy and grateful, would feel all the things he imagined any normal man must feel upon becoming a father. But there was no denying the fact that his fear for Nora’s safety far outweighed any desire on his part for a child.

  Childbirth was a mystery that frankly terrified him. His father, a rural clergyman, had buried many a woman who had died either during her confinement or during the delivery itself. While Nora seemed to have regained most of her health, Evan still sensed she was not overly strong. How could she be, after months of starvation and a bout with scarlet fever that had almost claimed her life?

  What if she should conceive? What would it do to her to carry a child, to give birth?

  What if he were to lose her?

  The wind rattled the window. Instinctively, he pulled Nora more closely against him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he cherished the soft warmth of her body next to his, the gentle fragrance of her hair against his cheek.

  As was so often the case, her closeness made his heart swell with thanksgiving. He had waited all these years to love a woman and to be loved. Yet none of his dreams had ever come close to the reality of the bliss he had found with Nora. There was nothing in the world worth the risk of losing her. Nothing. Not even a child of his own.

  Perhaps he was being selfish and small-minded. If a child meant all that much to her, shouldn’t he at least try to share her longing, encourage her dream?

  She sighed in her sleep, and he touched his lips to her hair. His entire world was right here, beside him. He wasn’t sure he could pretend to want more. Yet, for Nora’s sake, he knew that he would try.

  3

  A Radical Nun at Nelson Hall

  What is there in man, frail clay and dust,

  That will rise and die for a cause,

  Yet cower and cringe like a motherless cur

  When a Good Woman unmasks his flaws?

  MORGAN FITZGERALD (1848)

  Dublin, Ireland

  It was just past dawn, but Morgan Fitzgerald had been at his desk in the library for nearly an hour.

  The shooting incident of a year past that had left his legs paralyzed had also served to make him a light sleeper. Most days he rose before daybreak and, with Sandemon’s help, was dressed and at his writing or other tasks by the time the sun rose.

  It seemed an ordinary morning. A pot of Sandemon’s robust, scalding coffee waited on the sideboard near the desk, and the most recent installment from Joseph Mahon’s journal was spread out in front of him.

  He took a deep sip of coffee, raising one eyebrow at the strength of the stuff. He drank tea less frequently since Sandemon’s arrival at Nelson Hall. But, then, he reflected dryly, the West Indies Wonder had been successful in modifying a number of his former habits—not the least of which was his affinity for the whiskey.

  With his pen still in hand, he turned back to the journal. For some months now, he had been editing the Mayo priest’s account of the famine. As yet he had not divulged his intentions to Joseph, but Morgan was convinced this painstakingly detailed, agonizing record of one parish’s suffering must be published. Moreover, he was determined to see it printed across the sea as well as in Ireland.

  The papers before him contained the reality of Ireland’s tragedy, captured in this account of one small community in the remote west. Here, then, was the stark, bitter truth, a truth to counter England’s denial and professed innocence in the evil that had been wreaked upon an entire nation.

  Because of his rapidly failing health and utter exhaustion, the priest’s entries were often little more than a hasty scrawl—a few terse words scratched out in the throes of fatigue or desperation. Yet the depths of the man’s soul pulsed through his words.

  In the pages of the journal, Morgan had discovered a side to the gentle priest he had not known. Joseph had made no attempt to hide his own anguish, his horror, his grief—even the occasional faltering of his faith. At times Morgan could almost hear his old friend’s spirit straining, his heart breaking, one fragile piece at a time.

  Removing his new reading glasses—a rueful concession to the encroachment of middle age—Morgan rubbed the bridge of his nose, then drained the last of the coffee from the cup. As he stacked the entries he’d just completed, it occurred to him there had been no new pages from Joseph for a number of weeks now. Knowing the burden of work under which the priest labored, the impossible hours he kept, Morgan supposed he shouldn’t be unduly alarmed. Yet a nagging shadow crossed his mind as he sat staring at the stack of pages in front of him.

  After another moment, he opened the right-hand drawer of his desk, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, and reached for his pen. He would get a note off to Joseph yet this morning, before early classes or interviews.

  He managed to pen only a few words before Sandemon entered the room. “She has arrived, Seanchai.”

  Morgan looked up. His black West Indies companion stood at ease, powerful arms at his sides, the sleeves of his favorite purple shirt flowing free. As always, the broad brow was smooth, the eyes dark pools of untroubled waters. In contrast, the gold-toothed smile hinted of some vague, anticipated pleasure.

  “By she, I expect you mean the NUN,” Morgan said grimly, replacing his pen on its brass stand.

  Sandemon gave a nod, and the smile widened. “Sister Louisa, yes. She is waiting in the entryway.”

  Morgan gave a deep sigh. “We might just as well have done with it, then.” Convinced now that the black man was indeed prepared to enjoy himself, Morgan glared at him. “I still think it’s a mistake, hiring a NUN.”

  Sandemon inclined his head. “But you agreed to the wisdom of employing a woman, that her influence could be invaluable, both for the child and for the Academy.”

  “Aye, and I still agree that a woman on the premises might be a fine thing for Annie and for the school. That in no way means I think it wise to hire a NUN.”

  Sandemon shook his head. “It seems an ideal solution to me. Sister Louisa comes with classroom experience and the calling to a holy life. Surely both will serve as a positive influence for the child.”

  Morgan straightened slightly in the wheelchair. “Sister Louisa,” he contradicted sullenly, “also comes highly suspect. I can’t quite help wondering why the order would
be so eager to send her off to a stranger’s house outside the city.”

  Sandemon pretended not to notice Morgan’s testiness. “The sister requested permission to interview, as you know.” He paused. “She indicated God’s guidance in the matter, I believe.”

  Morgan’s only reply was another sour frown. He had nothing against nuns in general. He admired their self-sacrifice, appreciated their life of service, and acknowledged their usefulness to the church. Sandemon need not know the truth: that he tended to stand somewhat in awe of the sisters, indeed could be all too easily cowed by the smallest slip of a woman in a black habit. Nuns were saintly beings, lived holy lives—in general, bore no likeness to most of the women in his past.

  In any event, it would not do for Sandemon to suspect that his employer could be terrorized by a nun. He would, no doubt, take great delight in such a discovery.

  At the other’s not-too-discreet throat-clearing, Morgan straightened. “Show her in,” he said, replacing his spectacles. “Let us see why the sisters were so willing to part company with her.”

  While Sandemon went to fetch the applicant, Morgan wheeled the chair to the window. It was a soft morning, veiled with rain and light fog rising from the stream that ran along the west side of the grounds. Leaning forward a little, he stared out the window, mulling over his resolve to hire a woman for Nelson Hall.

  Obviously, she would have to be a woman of impeccable reputation and unquestionable morals. No doubt a nun, as Sandemon suggested, might prove an ideal solution. And not simply for Annie, but for their new young friend, Finola, as well.

  The thought of the golden-haired beauty brought a smile, then a frown. He was resolved to see Finola out of the brothel where she was living. He would bring her here, to Nelson Hall, where she would be safe, where he could see to her well-being. Perhaps, should she so desire, he could even arrange for her to study within the Academy. She had indicated more than once a desire to advance her education.

  Certainly, the girl’s muteness was no mark of a dull intellect. To the contrary, her mind seemed a place of shooting stars and bubbling springs, where light was ever stirring and ideas flying.