Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  When he first saw the empty bed he didn’t panic. He looked about, surprised but relieved that Finola apparently felt strong enough to be up.

  The room was dim and shadowed, lighted by only one candle on the bedside table. Despite the immaculate linen and subtle scent of cloves, the cloying odor of illness hung over the room.

  It took him a moment to register the fact that there was no sign of Finola or the woman, Lucy Hoy. His gaze went back to the bed.

  Where was she?

  He felt suddenly chilled. The only sounds in the room were his own shallow breathing and the wild banging of his heart against his chest.

  Spinning the wheels of the chair hard, he whipped the rest of the way into the room, coming to a sharp halt before he reached the bed.

  “Finola?” he choked out.

  With silence his only reply, he veered the chair around to the other side of the bed, screeching to a stop at the sight of her, lying face down on the floor in her nightdress.

  “Merciful Lord—Finola!”

  Shaking off the panic clutching at his throat, Morgan raised himself almost out of the chair by the sheer strength of his arms. He caught himself just before he pitched forward.

  “Sandemon!”

  He had no idea where Sandemon might be, where the woman, Lucy Hoy, had gone. Trembling, he leaned over as far as he could, bracing himself with one hand on the arm of the wheelchair. At last he managed to turn Finola over just enough to reassure himself that she had only fainted and did not seem to be otherwise injured.

  Letting go the arm of the chair, Morgan attempted to lift the unconscious girl off the floor, but succeeded only in losing his balance and nearly keeling over himself.

  Chafing at his own helplessness, he again called out for Sandemon. He leaned forward, more cautiously this time, and shook Finola gently, trying to rouse her. She continued to lie completely still and silent.

  Straightening in the chair, Morgan sat staring at the slender, inert form sprawled on the floor. The longer he sat there, the more furious he grew—with the missing Lucy Hoy, with the accursed wheelchair, with his useless legs….

  A thought struck him, and his hand went to his belt. Yanking it free of his trousers, he looped it through the slats of the wheelchair, then fastened it snugly about his middle, anchoring himself to the chair.

  Morgan wedged the wheelchair firmly against the side of the bed and again leaned forward. The belt served to give him enough leverage that, this time, he was able to turn Finola all the way over. Grasping her under the arms, he began to lift her carefully from the floor.

  Lucy panicked when she saw Finola’s door standing open. Lifting her skirts, she took off running down the hall and into the bedroom, milk splashing over the sides of the cup as she went.

  She stopped just inside the room, gasping at the sight of the Fitzgerald holding Finola in his arms. The girl was draped over his lap like a doll, her long hair nearly touching the floor as it fell free.

  He jerked around. Under the burning gaze of those fiery green eyes, Lucy lost her breath.

  “Where in blazes have you been, woman?” he shouted. “You’re supposed to be taking care of her, and I find her on the floor!”

  His face was crimson with fury, the muscles in his neck knotted like ropes.

  Quaking in terror at his anger and the sight of Finola, lying helpless in his arms, Lucy could only stand and gape.

  “She must have tried to get up on her own and fainted!” His eyes, still ablaze with anger and accusation, forced Lucy to squirm with guilt.

  “I…I only meant to be a moment. I went to fetch her some warm milk, to help her sleep!”

  “Obviously it took you longer than a moment!” he snapped, his voice harsh with censure.

  “But, sir, I wasn’t gone long, truly I—”

  “And where is Sandemon?” he railed, ignoring her attempt to explain.

  “I am here, Seanchai,” announced a quiet, steady voice at the door.

  Lucy gulped in a ragged breath of relief at the sight of the black man, hoping his presence would divert the Fitzgerald’s attention—and wrath—from her.

  Even as he spoke, Sandemon crossed the room and lifted Finola from the Fitzgerald’s arms as if she were no more than a young willow branch. With great care, the black man placed her on the bed and covered her.

  Glancing down the length of the bed, he met Lucy’s eyes. “Some cool cloths, perhaps—”

  Lucy jerked to action, hurrying across the room to fetch the basin. But even as she moved, Finola uttered a soft moan and began to stir.

  “He will discharge me,” Lucy muttered to the black man in the hall. They had been dismissed once Finola revived, and now stood at the top of the stairs, whispering.

  Sandemon shook his head. “No,” he said, “I do not think so. He was only frightened. The Seanchai is a reasonable man.”

  “He is an angry man! Did you see the way he looked daggers at me when he told me he would sit with her alone?”

  The black man might try to reassure her, but Lucy had seen the fury in those fiery green eyes. The Fitzgerald thought her negligent and worthless.

  From the beginning, he had only allowed her to stay because Finola wanted her. True, he had paid her a fair wage in the meantime, but Lucy had known her days at Nelson Hall were numbered. She had thought to stay on only until Finola was well.

  Now, it seemed even that was not to be. Not that she blamed him. In truth, she should have been with Finola, should never have stayed so long in the kitchen prattling on to Sandemon. She should have gone back upstairs immediately. The girl could have been seriously hurt!

  “Whatever possessed her,” said the black man, his tone thoughtful, “to leave her bed, as weak and ill as she is?”

  “You gave me a terrible fright, lass!” Morgan said. “Why would you get up, weak as you are? You might have been badly injured, taking such a fall!”

  “I didn’t fall,” Finola murmured. Immediately after the words were out, a stricken look crossed her features, as if she had spoken before she thought.

  Leaning as close to her as he could manage from the wheelchair, Morgan frowned. “What happened, then? I thought you fainted and fell.”

  Abruptly, she looked away. “No…I mean, I did faint…but…”

  Studying her, Morgan took in the waxen pallor of her skin, the red-rimmed eyes, smudged with shadows and hollowed by the severe thinness of her face. The effects of prolonged weeping and illness were all too evident.

  “Finola?” Uncertainly, he extended his hand, touching hers.

  Over the past few weeks, Finola had gained to the extent that he felt free to take her hand upon occasion. They would sit quietly together, talking as friends, although he was invariably the one who made most of the conversation.

  While her voice had almost fully returned, her quietness, her faint shyness in his presence, had not changed. But he had begun to believe that she was growing more comfortable with him, was almost at ease in their relationship.

  Earlier, when he had heard her sobbing in her room, he’d had all he could do not to go to her. Yet he had instinctively known it would be best to wait, to give her time to absorb this latest shock.

  Now, as he sat watching her, his hand barely touching hers, he would have given all he had to gather her into his arms, to try to shield her against her pain. Instead, he was half-afraid she might refuse even the touch of his hand.

  To his great relief, he felt her slip her hand inside his. He was careful not to press her fingers too tightly with his big paw, for she seemed as fragile as a reed in the wind.

  “Finola,” he said shakily, not quite certain how to go on. “I know…you have had another shock today.”

  He saw the tears start, but she kept her eyes fixed on the low-burning candle on the table. His heart aching for her, Morgan started to lift her hand to his lips, then caught himself. “Is there anything I can get for you, lass? Anything I can do—anything at all?”

  She b
linked, then again shook her head. Morgan didn’t miss the obvious effort she was making for his benefit. He could see her fighting back the tears, wished she would simply let go and weep; at least then he could attempt to comfort her.

  Struggling not to give in to his own anguish, he said, “I know you must be feeling overwhelmed about…everything. Perhaps, a bit frightened as well. But this will work out, lass, you will see. I—we will take care of you, Finola. You will stay here, with us. You are not alone.”

  Finally, she looked at him, and the pain in her eyes caught him like a blow. It was as if her very heart was shattering. The wondrous blue gaze was no longer clear and bright, but instead burned raw with shame and humiliation.

  His chest wrenched, stealing his breath. His arms ached to pull her close to his heart. He actually leaned forward, then stopped.

  “I didn’t fall….”

  So faint were the words Morgan wasn’t sure what he had heard. He bent his head closer. “What, then, lass?”

  He was dimly aware that she was clutching his hand more tightly. “I had…I was lying on the floor….” Her words were vague, disjointed. “I only meant to pray, you see…I didn’t fall….”

  Lying on the floor…the act of the penitent…

  Dismay washed over Morgan like a tidal wave. She blamed herself! God be merciful, she blamed herself for what had been done to her!

  “Finola…” he choked out.

  Suddenly she was gripping his hand with a strength he would not have thought she possessed. “I’m sorry! I’ve burdened you so, and now this—I’m so sorry!”

  Morgan had thought he would never again know such pain. It was the same anguish that had riddled him the morning they carried her into Nelson Hall, beaten and broken, after the attack.

  The cry of his heart was silent, but it roared in his ears like rolling thunder as he beheld her torment. “Finola…please tell me you are not blaming yourself for what happened! You must not!”

  But her eyes burned with the undeniable evidence of self-condemnation, shame, and grief.

  For a moment he wanted to kill the man who had done this to her! Even as he struggled to control his fury, his mind groped for some bit of reassurance, some word to convince her of the truth. “Finola,” he said finally, “do you trust me?”

  A startled look crossed her features, replacing the pain. She nodded, slowly.

  “Then hear me now. You see the way I am, with these useless legs, bound to this chair—half a man—”

  She strained toward him, shaking her head in protest, but he went on. “No, lass,” he said gently. “Let me finish. I have told you about the shooting…how I came to be as I am—”

  She nodded, watching him closely, her eyes questioning.

  “Do you believe that I was in any way responsible for what happened?”

  For a moment she didn’t seem to understand. Then her eyes widened with dismay. “Of course not!”

  “You understand and believe, then, do you, that what happened to me was entirely beyond my control? That I had absolutely nothing to do with it? That I merely survived an act of violence committed against me?”

  In the silence that hung between them, he sensed her confusion. Her eyes probed his, and he squeezed her hand, gently. “Finola?”

  Finally, she nodded. “Aye, you know I do,” she murmured.

  “Good,” he said firmly. “Then so must you understand and believe that what happened to you is no different. It is the same for you as for me, Finola.”

  When she opened her mouth to speak, he stopped her with a shake of his head, saying, “Let me finish. You have survived an attack of violence, just as I did. You were a victim. And just as I have…scars…of my attack, so will you have your scars. But you have something else, Finola. As a result of that attack, a child now grows beneath your heart.”

  Leaning as closely to her as he dared, he gathered both her hands in his and gazed into her eyes. “Only God can understand all the reasons for what happened to you and to me, Finola. But I do know this much: if there is no shame, no disgrace, due me for the violence that put me in this chair, then there is none due you for the violence that left you with child! And I ask you to give me your word, right now, at this moment, that you will never, never blame yourself again!”

  He saw the tears about to spill over, felt his own eyes burn for her pain.

  “Then, the child…you don’t believe it’s…evil?” she murmured.

  His heart thudded. “What? Of course, the child isn’t evil! Why would you think such a thing?”

  He saw the confusion and uncertainty in her eyes as she answered. “Lucy…Lucy said the child…that perhaps I should not have—”

  Morgan stiffened, not realizing that he had increased the pressure on her hands until, seeing her wince, he quickly gentled his touch.

  “Finola? What, exactly, did Lucy say?” he asked, his voice tight.

  Finola’s gaze was stricken, as if she suddenly realized she might have brought trouble on her friend. “She only meant to help me,” she whispered, looking away. “Please don’t be angry with Lucy.”

  With great effort, Morgan managed to bank his rage. He would settle with Lucy Hoy later.

  “Finola—please look at me,” he said, still clinging to her hands.

  Finally, she turned back to him.

  “There is something I would suggest to you, if you are strong enough that I might stay for a bit. Something I think might help us both.”

  When she nodded her assent, he plumped the pillows behind her shoulders, then again took her hand and began to speak what was in his heart.

  29

  Sacrament or Sacrilege?

  Till her eyes shine,

  ’Tis night within my heart.

  RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN (1751–1816)

  Morgan’s mouth felt dry, lined with lint, as he attempted to speak.

  While the turbulence of Finola’s emotions had seemed to subside for now, his own feelings roared like a firestorm in his heart.

  Clasping her hand, it occurred to him that, for a man reputed to be most eloquent in the Irish…and in the English, too, for that matter…he seemed to be a hopeless failure at this sort of speech. “Finola—there is something I would say, but perhaps I should apologize beforehand, in the event I happen to offend you. I assure you, my intentions are the best.”

  A small frown appeared on the pale forehead, but she said nothing.

  Another thought struck Morgan, this time having to do with the fact that he had never, before now, seriously considered the idea he was about to set forth. Feeling very much the green gorsoon, he forced himself to continue. “Please understand, lass, that I am looking for no response from you this night. Take as long as you need to consider your decision.”

  Leaning slightly forward, he added, “And know this, Finola: there are no conditions, no expectations on my part for anything other than what I am proposing. None whatever.”

  The frown deepened, but her gaze held his, never wavering.

  With his voice sounding thick and unnatural in his ears, Morgan went on. “Do you remember, Finola, that night I asked you to come and stay here, at Nelson Hall?”

  She nodded, her lips trembling as if she found the memory painful.

  For just an instant, Morgan’s gaze went to their clasped hands, hers so white and frail, engulfed in his big, thick-knuckled paw. “Even then, I think, what I am about to suggest was in the back of my mind. In time, perhaps,” he said, deliberately avoiding her eyes, “I would have found the courage to speak.”

  He knew there was nothing for it now but to say it all. “I am asking you, Finola, if you would consider…becoming my wife.”

  His face felt suddenly hot, his hands clammy. When he finally lifted his gaze to hers, he thought for a moment she had not heard him, or, at the least, did not understand. So still did she lie there, staring at him in silence, that she scarcely seemed to breathe.

  “Please…let me explain,” he said awkwardly
, clearing his throat. “I know how I must appear to you; a middle-aged cripple, vying for a lovely young woman’s hand.” He scowled at the image his own words conjured up.

  “Even before the wheelchair, I was never the great prize. Now—” He gave a resigned shrug. “Now, I am what I am. No doubt you find such a proposal outrageous, and I don’t blame you at all. But if you will be patient with me, hear me out, perhaps it will seem a bit less…improbable to you.”

  He stopped, half expecting her to yank her hand away, to shrink from him. She did neither, though her eyes had now gone wide with incredulity.

  “Finola,” he began again, “do you know that, before tonight, I have never asked a woman to be my wife?” He tried unsuccessfully to smile. “I was always too much the rake, the roaming fool, to settle down and provide for a family. Some claimed I was wed to this terrible island and her troubles. I wonder if it wasn’t more that I was her prisoner. In any event, I was too selfish entirely to love a woman, to take a wife.”

  He swallowed down the taste of bitterness swelling in his throat. “I have changed, Finola. Partly, as you might imagine, because of the wheelchair. Partly…I hope…because I have grown a bit wiser. I am still bound to Ireland, I admit, but now it is more a bond of loyalty and affection than one of desperation. In spite of that, I find myself wanting, even eager, to have a family…a wife, children. I have reached a point in my life where, I think, I can love something besides this island.”

  He was dimly aware that tears had formed in her magnificent eyes.

  But, with a sense of having been caught up in a raging current, he knew he could do nothing but finish what he had started.

  “Lest you misunderstand what I am suggesting, lass, I assure you that I would never…force my attentions on you. That is not what I am about. We would live as friends—good friends, companions. I would care for you; I would be a father to the child. You would lack for nothing, I promise you. And I swear to you as well that I would ask for nothing.”

  He was saying it badly, the words spilling out like worthless coins dropping through a hole in a pouch. Finola seemed to have gone paler still, her eyes red and glazed.