Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

He spent his days, those times when he did not wait outside her door, at his desk in the library among his many books and correspondence. Sandemon had posted numerous letters for him: to the adoption attorneys, to his friend Mr. Smith O’Brien in gaol, to his friends in America—and to a man who was unknown to all but the Seanchai himself, and to Sandemon.

  Concerned that Miss Finola might have family who were, even now, attempting to locate her, the Seanchai had retained a person to investigate her past. To Sandemon, he had confided his fears about such a search. He was aware, he admitted, that danger might lie in discovery. Yet he felt convicted to try.

  “If there’s a chance at all that someone out there might be able to help Finola through this time, we have to find him,” he had said to Sandemon only days ago. “The man I’ve retained is entirely reliable—I trust him as I trust few men. He’ll use discretion. Should he learn anything that could prove harmful for Finola, it will remain a secret.”

  Finally rising from his knees, Sandemon felt the same prickling of dread he had experienced when he’d first learned of the investigation. He trusted the Seanchai’s judgment in such matters, understood his desperation to help the stricken young woman. Yet it was a chilling thought, that whatever, or whoever, had been responsible for Miss Finola’s lonely silence—a silence devoid of memories and even her own identity—might at last become known. And with what consequence?

  Perhaps the Seanchai would not agree, but Sandemon could not help but wonder if there might not be some things best left untouched and unknown. Could not too much probing of the past rouse old demons, once imprisoned, perhaps even set them loose on the present?

  Or did he only fear such a possibility because of his own dark yesterdays?

  Later that morning, Morgan Fitzgerald sat hunched over his desk in the library, working through the considerable volume of correspondence that required his attention.

  These days he had to force himself to give any real thought to matters that weren’t of the utmost importance. Anything pertaining to Annie’s adoption received highest priority, of course, but to date there had been no new developments. An excessive amount of money—and a not-so-veiled threat—had been hung out to the child’s mother. He believed—and the attorneys concurred—that if the threat of legal charges to the woman and her drunken, abusive husband did not bring the desired response, the exorbitant amount of money would.

  Not for the first time, Morgan wished he might have the use of his legs again—if only for the time required for a trip to Belfast. He was sure if he could get his hands on that soak of a stepfather—Tully—he could successfully convince both him and the mother to relinquish all claim on Annie.

  Sighing, he turned his attention to a more cheerful task, that of replying to Evan Whittaker’s most recent letter. Picking up his pen, he sat thinking about the Englishman who continued to amaze him. Somehow, Whittaker had landed himself what, to most, would seem the unenviable task of directing a singing group composed of both Irish and black youths—and this in the midst of a New York slum.

  As if that weren’t challenge enough, he had also involved himself in arranging music for them. His recent letter was by way of enlisting Morgan’s help in acquiring some Irish songs—simple melodies, he stressed—which could be incorporated into his American arrangements. These, as well as some of the music of the Negro slaves, would constitute Whittaker’s first attempts to create what he referred to as “ethnic-American” songs.

  Daniel John, Whittaker remarked, was helping him as best he could, but hadn’t enough musical notation to supply detailed scores.

  I am teaching him the basics, however, and daily thank God for the surprisingly thorough musical education I received at university some years ago. Daniel quite enjoys the irony in an Englishman teaching him the rudiments of harmony, so that he can arrange his Irish melodies.

  Morgan smiled a little at that, and read on. Whittaker hoped to eventually integrate a variety of music of other races and nationalities into his own arrangements. The man seemed convinced that a new kind of American song was beginning to emerge, one containing a mixture of ethnic melody and American form. Ultimately, he believed it would represent the true spirit of America, the “land of a thousand dreams,” as he called his newly adopted country.

  I hope to encourage this new music among the youth in the slums. In some small way, I believe it can help to bridge at least a part of the divisions that now exist.

  An ambitious undertaking. Morgan shook his head at the idealism of the man, but he had to admire him. Removing his reading glasses, he propped his elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his folded hands.

  What a marvel the Englishman had turned out to be. A memory of the slight, almost timid Whittaker, with his poor eyesight and fierce stammer, brought a wry smile. This same timid, stammering Britisher had gone and married Morgan’s own childhood sweetheart, winning her away from both himself and Michael Burke—and then proceeded to take in Morgan’s niece and nephew to raise as his own. At the same time, he’d managed to make a place for himself in the employ of one of the wealthiest men in America.

  Timid, indeed!

  Morgan could only cheer him on. Many men strived for nobility of soul, but Evan Whittaker was one of the few he had known who seemed to have attained it.

  The thought of his niece and nephew made Morgan again ponder the question of whether or not he should bring Tom and Johanna back to Ireland. He was providing for them financially, of course, had settled a generous sum of money on them under the supervision of Evan Whittaker. He wrote to them, and, with Nora and Evan’s help, they sent him messages in response.

  But was it enough? They were his brother’s children, after all; he had always been more than fond of them. Yet he could not see uprooting them again, at least not at the present.

  He could offer them a fine home, see to their education, provide security. But with Ireland in such dire straits, he was convinced that America could offer them far more.

  He wished only to do what was best for them. Whittaker had assured him time and again that he and Nora loved both the children as their own and wanted them in their home, and Morgan did not doubt their sincerity. Still, at some point in time, the question would more than likely have to be posed to the children themselves.

  With a heavy sigh, he deliberately set the problem aside for the time being. He was too preoccupied to make an objective decision about even the most inconsequential things these days, much less something as important as the future of his brother’s children.

  Putting on his glasses again, he laid Whittaker’s letter aside; he would collect the melodies he’d requested, perhaps even provide some original songs of his own. But for now, he should answer Michael’s letter.

  This missive, too, was, for the most part, filled with good news. News of the coming wedding between Michael and his Sara, his promotion to police captain, his appointment to a special subcommission on crime.

  At least two of their circle of three had found happiness….

  The thought was without envy, though not without a certain regret for the course his own life had taken. He had given little heed to the idea of home and family when he’d still been a young man…and whole. For most of his life, Ireland had been his love, his consuming passion. Any notion of becoming a husband and father had been, at best, only a vague, distant possibility.

  Nora’s eventual marriage to Owen Kavanagh had jolted him to the realization that the one woman who might have loved him enough to forgive him his faults, even share his divided devotion, was lost to him. The door to love had been closed with a resounding finality. From that time on, Morgan never seriously considered taking a wife.

  And now…now, he was no longer young. No longer whole. Certainly, no longer of any interest to women. Yet only now did he think that he might finally have matured enough to be an adequate husband. Now, when the very possibility seemed the remotest star in the heavens.

  Raking a hand through the hair at the back of h
is neck, he forced himself to pen a letter of congratulations and good wishes to Michael. He found himself somewhat amused at the thought of Michael’s taking on a society wife—a wife who apparently had a mind of her own. A fine mind—and a decidedly strong will, according to her husband-to-be.

  Fair enough. Perhaps she’d prove a match for her strong-hearted and often hardheaded husband, he thought with a wry smile.

  Evidently, the disapproval of Michael’s son lent the one gloomy note to the romance. It would seem that the boy was being deliberately difficult.

  He stopped writing for a moment and sat tapping the end of his pen on the desk. The more Michael told him of his boy, the more Morgan found himself drawn to young Tierney. His affinity for the lad might be nothing more than the fact that he was the son of his best friend. On the other hand, he conceded with the ghost of a smile, it might just be that he recognized a great deal of himself in Tierney Burke’s feckless, rebellious nature.

  Poor Michael. Practical, sensible, straight-ahead Michael. No doubt he would find such a son a great challenge.

  The thought of his friend’s difficulties with his son made Morgan stop and realize again just how much he appreciated Annie. The child might not be of his own blood, but she was unquestionably of his heart—her quicksilver mind, her insatiable curiosity and love of the books, her generosity of affection.

  Her penchant for mischief and mixups…

  Ah, but she was a gift, for all her scalawag ways. A gift for which he was daily grateful. He did cherish the lass, surely more than she could know.

  Putting down his pen, Morgan flexed his fingers, then leaned back a bit from the desk, giving a deep sigh. The child might not feel all that cherished of late, he worried. He had tried not to let his distress for Finola interfere in his relationship with Annie, but of course it did.

  Annie’s energy exhausted him, and her transparent attempts to brighten his spirits fell flat. Somehow, when this was over, he must make it up to her. He would reassure her that she was as dear to him as if she had been his own. Whatever it took, Annie must never, never feel unwanted again.

  In the meantime, he wished the child and Sister Louisa could make it up. The sister was more than willing, of course, but Annie had at some point decided “the Nun” had it in for her.

  The situation sorely grieved Morgan, for he had hoped Sister Louisa would be good for the child. He had noted her attempts at friendship, but Annie obviously had other ideas. And Annie, he knew, did not easily change her ideas.

  He simply could not deal with any of it at present. He had neither the heart nor the strength. Perhaps that’s why he spent so much of his time writing letters. It required little concentration and a minimum of energy. With a pen in his hand, his mind remained free to dwell on Finola.

  It was still a source of great pain, the surgeon’s admonition to keep his distance. It pierced his heart every time he stopped at the door of her room. To see her lying there, eyes open without really seeing, occasionally moaning or sobbing in pain—and not go to her—took every shred of self-control he could summon.

  He ached to gather her in his arms, to hold her…gently, carefully…close to him. Involuntarily, he winced at the thought. It was scarcely conceivable that Finola would allow herself to be held by a man—any man—ever again.

  But it would be enough for him to sit beside the bed, just to look at her, talk with her. Be with her.

  At times, he secretly questioned the surgeon’s instructions. But just as quickly, he dismissed his doubts as nothing more than his own selfish need to be close to her. He must do what was best for Finola, and if staying away from her was what it took—then that is what he would do, and without complaint.

  Lacking human companionship, Annie went looking for Fergus. What a fix to be in, to have no one with whom she could share her deepest feelings, except for a scruffy old dog!

  She stopped where she was, hunching her shoulders and squeezing her eyes shut. “Sorry, Lord…again. Sure, and I know I can always share my deepest, deepest feelings with You. It’s just that there are times of late when I might get to feeling a bit lonely, don’t You see, and even though Fergus isn’t human—he only thinks he is—there’s no one else, besides Yourself, of course, with the time to listen to the likes of me!”

  These days, Annie frequently found herself turning to the wolfhound for companionship. The Seanchai was naturally distracted by his worry for Finola. And Sandemon—well, he was busier than ever.

  “You understand, don’t You, Lord? I mean, the two people I count on most simply can’t be bothered with me right now. I’m not complaining, mind,” she quickly added, starting on down the hallway in search of Fergus. “I’m not blaming the Seanchai at all for being worried to distraction for Finola. We all are, and that’s the truth! And Sand-Man is that busy, what with his own responsibilities and some of the tasks the Seanchai tends to neglect lately.”

  She had promised herself she would not be a nuisance, would not aggravate the grown-ups. Sandemon and the Seanchai needed her to be a help during this time, not a bother. She did her utmost to be quiet about the house and lend a hand wherever she could.

  But sometimes she got to feeling terribly alone, perhaps even a bit fearful. Lately, she couldn’t help wondering if the Seanchai would actually go ahead with the adoption. She wouldn’t ask, of course. More than likely, he hadn’t given it a thought since the terrible business with Finola, and that being the case, she didn’t think she’d want to hear him say it. It was painful and frightening enough just to think it.

  “Please, Lord, Sir, if that’s the situation, could You perhaps just prod the Seanchai’s memory a bit, once Finola starts to feel better? Not now, of course—he’s too worried and distracted at present, I know. But later, perhaps You could just make sure he doesn’t forget it entirely.”

  Reaching her room, Annie went in. She was pleased to find Fergus asleep on the floor at the foot of the bed, but she couldn’t resist scolding him a bit. “Napping, are you, lazy beast? What’s the matter, then, did the TROUBLESOME NUN tire of your company?”

  For the life of her, Annie could not understand the bond between Fergus and the nun. Starched and stern with her, the nun played the great fool over the wolfhound—when she thought nobody was looking, that is.

  And, great eejit that he was, Fergus reveled in the attention. At times he seemed inclined to be almost as much a friend to the nun as he was to Annie!

  “I’m that put out with you, you know,” she grumbled, dropping down on the floor beside him. “I’m tired of having to coax you away from that TROUBLESOME NUN when I want you! You’re my dog, after all. ’Twas me who took you in and convinced the Seanchai and Sand-Man to let you stay, you might be remembering! You’re ungrateful entirely, I’m thinking, and if you don’t change your ways, you might just find yourself sleeping in the stable!”

  The dimwitted dog simply grinned at her and threw a large, ungainly paw in her lap.

  “Don’t try your tricks on me, you ungrateful beast,” Annie muttered, nevertheless taking the big paw into her hand and holding on to it.

  After a moment, though, she forgot her irritation. “Have you been to visit Finola yet today?” she asked him, giving a deep sigh. “I stopped in, just a bit ago. There’s no change. She just lies there, staring at people as if she doesn’t see them at all. She doesn’t even seem to recognize me, and we were getting to be great friends.”

  Annie paused, again unsettled by the worrisome thought that Finola might never be any different, that she might simply stay as she was…forever.

  “Oh, Fergus! It’s such a sad thing, her being as she is! She’s so lovely and sweet and good! I hate that awful person who did this to her! I hope God strikes him—”

  Annie clamped a hand over her mouth, staring in horror at the wolfhound as she realized what she’d been about to say. “Oh, I’m sorry, Lord! I am! I know I’m not supposed to wish bad things on anyone—not even a creature like the one who hurt Finola! But i
t’s simply not fair! It’s not fair at all! He ought to be punished, and punished severely, it seems to me.”

  She paused, thinking. “Sand-Man says that You’re in charge of—of vengeance, that You’ll see him pay, whoever he is. I hope so, Lord! I can’t think of anything bad enough to pay him back for what he did to Finola, but perhaps You can.”

  The dog whimpered as if commiserating with her, then lay his great head in her lap. Rubbing his ears, Annie went on, her voice lower now so as not to invite heavenly repercussions for her previous outburst.

  “I get so angry sometimes, Fergus! So angry I could pop! Sand-Man says that kind of anger is wrong, but I can tell he gets angry, too, whenever somebody brings up poor Finola. He doesn’t say a word, but I can tell he’s angry, all the same. I see it in his eyes.”

  Stroking the wolfhound’s back, she gave another huge sigh. “I wonder how Finola feels inside,” she said. “I wonder if she isn’t in a fierce rage, even if we can’t see it.” A small, hard knot of unhappiness swelled in Annie’s throat. “It must be a terrible thing, to be hurt and angry and not be able to tell anyone about it.”

  The wolfhound moaned his understanding, and Annie went on. “One thing I believe, Fergus, and I wouldn’t say it to anyone else but you—not that anyone would pay heed to me even if I did—but I think that surgeon is wrong entirely, not to let the Seanchai near Finola!”

  The dog raised his big head, studying her face, and Annie nodded. “Aye, I’m convinced of it! Finola does dote on the Seanchai, I know she does. Why, the way she looks at him—at least the way she did look at him before this terrible thing happened—it seemed the morning sun rose in her eyes! And the Seanchai adores her. I saw it in his face. If the surgeon would only allow him to sit beside her and talk to her…perhaps even sing his songs to her…she loved it when he sang. I could tell she did…why, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she didn’t get better right away! I just feel it, Fergus! Truly, I do!”

  “I’m not so sure but what I agree with you, Annie Delaney.”