Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  In the months since he and his household had befriended the mysterious young woman, Morgan had become more than a little fond of her. She was a frequent guest at Nelson Hall, and with each visit he desired to know her better. She was a continual delight to them all, a gift. Indeed, Finola’s presence in the sprawling, gloomy halls of the estate was like a spray of sunshine, captured and poured out indoors.

  Morgan was intent on finding the key that would eventually unlock the secret of Finola’s silence. He had become increasingly convinced that she had once possessed a voice. His experience with his niece, Johanna, who was both deaf and mute, had given him some understanding of the affliction. He was absolutely certain that Finola held the memory of spoken words, as well as the instincts of one who had not always been mute. The ease with which she formed words on her lips as she signed on her hands, the way the muscles in her throat worked as if instinctively—Morgan knew with near certainty that Finola had once spoken.

  He knew little else about her. Beyond her name and where she lived, she had revealed virtually nothing about herself, not even her age. That she was Irish went without saying. She knew the old language, readily understood Morgan when he spoke it. She seemed a devout Catholic, comfortable in her relationship with her God. But on those rare occasions when he inquired about her past, she simply gave a helpless shrug, turning on him a look of such bewildered dejection that he felt almost shamed for having troubled her with his questions.

  Yet an urgency drove him to see her removed from Healy’s Inn. He feared for her safety, living as she did in a known house of prostitution, in the heart of one of Dublin’s most disgraceful slums.

  The women who had taken her in years ago apparently treated her well, much as a pampered little sister. They dressed her in their own gowns, gave her light household chores to do around the establishment and, in their own careless way, looked after her needs.

  But they also taught her to paint her face like theirs and frequently sent her off in the carriage dressed in one of their nearly indecent gowns. The sight of the girl’s innocent loveliness marred by the garish cosmetics and gaudy apparel invariably set Morgan’s blood to boiling like a fury. It was bad enough, he would rail at Sandemon, that her youthful beauty should be tarnished so cheaply. But couldn’t the fools see the jeopardy in which they were placing the girl? A lovely woman, painted and packaged as if she were one of them, living in their midst—it was dangerous beyond imagining!

  They professed, of course, to closet Finola from the “clients” who came and went. But there was no way they could protect her entirely, Morgan knew. She was at a continual risk, never completely out of harm’s way.

  The decision to employ a woman as a classroom instructor and a part-time companion for Annie had been, in truth, only one part of a larger plan. Eventually, Morgan wanted to move Finola here, to Nelson Hall. Certainly, a nun would provide such an arrangement the required respectability. Indeed, the more Morgan considered the idea, the more feasible it seemed.

  At the sound of a commotion in the hallway, he wheeled around to look.

  Just inside the doorway, dwarfed by Sandemon’s presence, stood a diminutive woman in a nun’s habit. Her carriage was rigid, her chin thrust forward as she came the rest of the way into the room.

  Surprised, Morgan saw that the nun had firmly in hand two red-faced, spluttering boys, one on either side. The O’Higgins twins, Barnaby and Barry. Identical in appearance—roaring red hair, like caps of fire, and blue eyes—the two were equally matched in mischief. The school’s first two scholars, these. And after only a few weeks of probationary enrollment, they had become the bane of Morgan’s existence. When he had envisioned his Academy, they were not what he’d had in mind.

  Only days after their arrival, the gorsoons had managed to fill his inkwell with tea and coat the chalkboards with soap. In short time, Morgan had realized that the father of the two, an acquaintance and fellow Young Irelander, apparently viewed the new Academy as a detention hall, where the boys might do penance for their sins while being disciplined.

  Morgan had already written to Jerome O’Higgins in Cavan, by way of informing him he was not running an establishment for potential young felons, and that he could collect the two wee heathen forthwith. As yet he had received no reply, which didn’t surprise him in the least: were such savages his own, he, too, would delay in having them home.

  “Seanchai, I am pleased to present Sister Louisa,” said Sandemon, breaking into the twins’ grumbling with a look of dry amusement.

  Sandwiched between the O’Higgins twins, the sister was small, even petite, with the ageless smooth skin that seemed endemic to nuns alone. Morgan knew from her records, however, that she was close on fifty.

  At first glance she almost appeared to be held captive by the little pagans. Closer observation revealed, however, that it was the rowdy O’Higgins lads who had been apprehended, not the sister. Indeed, the nun had a firm grasp on the tender upper arms of both her charges; and though their flushed faces were wild with anger, they clearly knew they were trapped.

  Taken aback by this remarkable scene, Morgan eyed the nun with a combination of awe and trepidation. Her eyes were too large for her face and too dark to reflect the soul behind them. A small, perfectly aligned nose turned up with a certain arrogance, while the woman’s chin remained as fixed as a stone.

  Morgan met her gaze, squirming under its intensity. For an instant, he felt as trapped as the unfortunate O’Higgins lads. He attempted a smile, felt it crumble under her fierce stare.

  After a moment, Sandemon stepped in to redeem the situation. “Allow me to take these two off your hands, Sister. And, please, do forgive such a rude reception.”

  “You’ll take them nowhere at all until they apologize for their behavior.” Her voice was low, the tone unexpectedly smooth and composed, but her grip on the two troublemakers remained firm.

  Morgan spoke for the first time. “Indeed,” he rumbled, fixing his fiercest glare on the two miscreants. “Apologize to the sister. At once!”

  Barnaby, whom Morgan distinguished by the wider mask of freckles that banded his nose, pursed his mouth to a pout, saying nothing. His twin, Barry, met Morgan’s glare with a fierce scowl of his own.

  Sandemon moved to transfer the two to his keeping. The nun bristled. “I said, they will apologize before leaving the room.” Again, that peculiar voice—a velvet sheath, ribbed with steel beams.

  “You heard the sister, you little monkeys!” Morgan snarled. He would not have his authority undermined by this wisp of a nun. “Say your piece, and say it at once!”

  The apologies were muttered, the words indistinct.

  “I’m afraid I cannot hear you,” admonished the nun.

  After identical scowls, the twins raised their voices and recited their regrets with more clarity, if not with any real enthusiasm.

  “It’s not for me to decide,” said the nun, looking from Morgan to Sandemon, “but were they my responsibility, I would suggest mucking the stables on a daily basis. It seems a waste not to apply such energy to constructive use. Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “they’re quite old enough to help out in the kitchen as well.”

  “The kitchen?” shrilled the twins with identical outrage.

  The nun’s dark eyes seemed never to blink. “Indeed,” she said in an entirely level voice. “The kitchen. Perhaps next time you will stop and think before throwing a dead wren into the path of a nun.”

  “A dead wren!” Morgan exploded, half rising from his wheelchair by the force of his arms.

  The nun lifted one dark brow as if to rebuke him for shouting. “I’m sure they’ll not be so wicked again, Master Fitzgerald.” After a moment she added, her tone still quiet and altogether controlled, “You’ll be wanting my references, I expect. May I sit down, please?”

  Sinking back in the wheelchair, Morgan stared at her, then managed a stiff nod.

  He waited for Sandemon to haul the O’Higgins terrors, now noticeabl
y subdued, from the library before commencing the interview. During the lull, he had the oddest sensation that he’d somehow skipped a moment in time—that Sister Louisa had been hired, had taken charge, and the rest of them were now in her employ.

  The interview was nearing its end, and Morgan knew little more about the nun than he had at the beginning, at least in the way of any personal information.

  Her references, on the surface, appeared exemplary. She had instructed in the classroom for nearly two decades, had even developed a specialized course of study for those children whose learning capacities were impaired. Her education was extraordinary, her achievements many and varied. She also, according to her records, excelled in the arts; in particular, she was an accomplished portrait and landscape artist.

  Moreover, her deeds among Dublin’s impoverished seemed too great to number. Obviously, she was an indefatigable worker, a selfless Christian servant.

  Yet Morgan could not shake the suspicion that the order was altogether too willing to ship her off.

  He leaned back in the chair, pushing himself slightly away from the desk. “I can scarcely think why you’d be agreeable to a position here. Your credentials are impressive. You are accustomed to fine educational facilities and established methods. This Academy is experimental, as you no doubt know.”

  By now he had come to anticipate not even a hint as to what the nun might be thinking. Those unblinking dark eyes seemed closed doors on her soul.

  In reply, Sister Louisa merely lifted her eyebrows.

  Trying another approach, Morgan said, “Even more surprising is the idea that the order would consider letting you go. I should think your experience would be invaluable, both in the classroom and in your work with Dublin’s poor.”

  The nun leveled a look on Morgan that clearly said she recognized his dissembling.

  “You may be direct with me, sir. If you are wondering what undisclosed stain on my record has brought me to this place, you have only to ask.”

  Morgan flinched at the nun’s perception, but made no protest. Instead, he occupied himself by straightening the pages of her file on the desk in front of him.

  “You are no doubt wondering if I am under discipline, and, in a manner of speaking, I am. You have every right to know that I am considered entirely too radical in matters of religious education. I have been severely reprimanded for my teaching methods in that regard.”

  Morgan shot her a startled look. A radical nun? Unthinkable!

  As if reading his thoughts, Sister Louisa nodded.

  “I am accused of departing from certain teachings of the church as pertain to the reading of Holy Scripture and the Mass.”

  Morgan managed, with difficulty, not to gape.

  In the same controlled, direct voice, the nun went on. “According to Mother Superior, I have failed in my duty to give proper instruction concerning the Mass. I stress a personal relationship with Christ, you see, and I feel that certain parts of the Mass provide a perfect means for illuminating the various stages of this relationship.” She paused, but only for a moment. “There is some thought that my approach tended to undermine the importance of the confessional.”

  Morgan’s jaw dropped. “You took issue with a sacrament?”

  The nun narrowed those dark, unreadable eyes. “According to the interpretation of some.”

  Morgan leaned forward, altogether fascinated. “And your own interpretation?”

  A glint of something—was it amusement?—suddenly flickered across her features.

  “I suggested to the young women—they were not children, by the way—that as we mature in the faith, we come to recognize our Lord’s desire for us to have close fellowship with Him, to come directly to Him with our needs.” The stubborn chin lifted a fraction. “Not only for confession, but for communion and worship as well. You might just as well know that I advocate a personal study of the Holy Scriptures. Some of my superiors believe me to be in rebellion.”

  She sat unmoving, perched forward on the straight-backed chair, her small hands folded neatly in her lap. For one deranged moment, Morgan was struck with a vision of the decorous, self-contained sister waving a banner of rebellion above her head and marching off to battle amid the rattle of drums and the thunder of smoking cannon.

  Immediately he gave himself a mental shake in rebuke for such sacrilege.

  “I have often observed,” he said carefully, “that it is the rebels among us who ultimately make the difference, who get things done.”

  The nun’s face brightened, and she seemed about to speak, but Morgan went on. “One might even refer to our Lord as a Rebel—of a kind. Unfortunately,” he went on with a grim smile, “rebels are more often than not crucified or persecuted or imprisoned. I have a friend who even now reaps the consequences of his rebellious ways.”

  “Smith O’Brien,” said the nun.

  Morgan looked at her. “Aye. You know of him?”

  The sister nodded. “And who in Ireland does not? The fallen hero of the Widow McCormack’s cabbage patch.”

  Bitterness welled up in Morgan’s throat. Smith O’Brien now languished in gaol, judged guilty of high treason and sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. Morgan and a number of the patriot’s followers were even now exhausting all measures to have his life spared.

  In the meantime, the English press had orchestrated a deliberate, ruthless campaign to make a mockery of O’Brien and the failed rising of 1848 by attempting to reduce the man and the final battle to a farce. Unable to raise a lasting army from Ireland’s starving, defeated people, O’Brien had nevertheless played the revolt to its weak, whimpering end. In a last pathetic skirmish in late July, O’Brien and a half-armed mob of disorganized peasants had attacked a body of panicked police who broke ranks, barricading themselves in a widow’s house on Boulah Common, near Ballingarry.

  After a scuffle in the garden, the entire clash had ended in the humiliation of O’Brien and his insurgent “army.” Within days the leader was arrested and jailed. The insurrection proved a total, debasing defeat, and the English newspapers had been having the time of it ever since, demeaning O’Brien as some sort of half-cracked clown and his “soldiers” as deranged peasants with pikes.

  Turning his attention back to Sister Louisa, Morgan could not resist defending his old friend. “Perhaps he was mistaken in listening to his advisors, but it is a cruel end to an otherwise splendid career devoted entirely to Ireland.”

  To his surprise, the sister quickly agreed. “O’Brien is a good and noble man, but a man misled by his own sincere convictions and impetuous advisors. Pray God his life will be spared.”

  Morgan silently amended his earlier assessment of Sister Louisa: she was not only a radical, rebellious nun, but a political nun as well. No man but a fool would knowingly employ such a powder keg.

  Later that morning, Sandemon was called to the library, where he found the young master behind his massive desk. With a number of lulls in the conversation, during which the Seanchai uttered a grim chuckle of something akin to admiration, he told Sandemon of the incredible interview with Sister Louisa.

  When he had finished, Sandemon shook his head with a sigh. “Too bad, I think. We could have used someone of her presence and credentials with the young scholars.”

  The Seanchai raised his great head and smiled. “That was my feeling. She will serve us well, I expect.”

  Sandemon stared at him. “You hired her, then, Seanchai? In spite of her—questionable beliefs and rebellious tendencies?”

  The smile widened as the young master leaned back in his wheelchair. “Certainly not,” he said matter-of-factly. “I hired her because of them.”

  4

  Fergus

  Beast of the field, newly tamed, nobly named,

  Freed from the wild by the love of a child.

  ANONYMOUS

  On Saturday morning, two weeks after Sister Louisa’s arrival, Annie Delaney made her way to the stables of Nelson Hall carrying an apple i
n one hand and a lump of sugar in the other.

  Usually Annie looked forward to her daily visit with the Seanchai’s great stallion, Pilgrim. After all, Pilgrim was her personal responsibility. Nobody except Annie or Sandemon was supposed to groom him or walk him without special permission.

  Taking care of the fine horse was one of the few duties—if not the only one—at which Annie had managed to prove herself adequate. At most other tasks, she came up alarmingly awkward and amazingly incompetent. But she and Pilgrim had hit it off right from the beginning, affording her a measure of respect on the part of the other groomsmen, who found the stallion cantankerous and even a bit frightening.

  Today, however, Annie’s delight in visiting Pilgrim was somewhat diminished by her concern over a pressing problem—what to do about that TROUBLESOME NUN the Seanchai had hired as a teacher for the Academy.

  After two weeks of Sister Louisa’s relentless discipline and endless rules, Annie was growing desperate to find some way—any way—to rid Nelson Hall of her unwelcome presence.

  At first she had thought the terrible O’Higgins twins might just do the trick. Surely Beastly and Barbaric, as she secretly called them, could make short work of a small, frail-looking holy woman. But to Annie’s dismay, Sister already had the twins behaving themselves—if not exactly like gentlemen, at least more or less like human beings.

  There had to be another way. A prayer formed in Annie’s mind—a reckless request to the Almighty to take action on her behalf. But as quickly as she thought it, she took it back again. It was highly doubtful that the good Lord would go helping the likes of her to purge the Seanchai’s Academy of one of His own saints.

  “Well, then,” she muttered to herself as she laid her hand on the latch of the stable door, “I’ll just have to be finding my own way, I suppose.”

  The instant she stepped into the stable, Annie sensed something amiss. The horses were stirring restlessly, some snorting and pawing the ground. In his stall, Pilgrim was shaking his mane and digging with his front hooves as if in a temper.