by BJ Hoff
He was determined to spend the rest of this night alone, in the silence, waiting. Waiting for whatever it was that God wanted to make known to him. And praying that he would be given the strength for whatever might be required.
At last, though, the recent succession of sleepless nights and wearying days began to take their toll. Exhausted, he slumped over the desk and, resting his head on his arms, fell asleep.
Arthur wasn’t sure what had awakened him. Maybe the rain beating down on the roof that jutted out past his bedroom window.
He raised up in bed and listened. Other than the rain, there wasn’t a sound to be heard, but somehow he knew that Mr. Jess was having another wakeful night.
Night after night lately, he had heard him. The stairs would creak under his weight, and after a while Arthur would hear him pacing the downstairs hall or moving quietly from room to room.
There was trouble. Bad trouble, even though nobody was saying much about it. It was that business at the big church again. Mr. Jess was in trouble, sure enough, with the people that ran things over there. And all because of him—Arthur Jackson, a runaway slave boy who didn’t belong here in the first place.
A mixture of sick fear and anger set his stomach to churning as he thought about what was happening to Mr. Jess. And what it would mean to Miss Kerry and Casey-Fitz. Oh, Casey-Fitz kept on insisting that most of the trouble had to do with his daddy’s being an—an abolitionist. But Arthur knew the boy was just trying to make him feel better.
He also knew what he had to do. It would mean breaking his promise to Casey-Fitz, and now that he was a Christian, he realized that was a wrong thing to do. But right now, keeping Mr. Jess and his family out of trouble seemed a lot more important than a promise.
Besides—he was the only one who might be able to help. He’d brought this trouble on Mr. Jess, after all, so he reckoned it was up to him to put an end to it.
Ignoring the chill of the room, he slipped out of bed and dropped down to his knees. Two weeks ago, he’d decided for himself that what Mr. Jess had been teaching him about the man named Jesus had to be the Truth. There was no other way that man could have done the things He did—raising dead people up out of the grave and making those leper people clean—and, the most amazing thing of all, forgiving those hateful folks that nailed Him up on the cross.
So, with Mr. Jess helping him, and Casey-Fitz and Miss Kerry laughing and rejoicing, he’d become a Christian—baptized and everything!
Mr. Jess said that one of the most important things a Christian should do was to pray. That, even though there was no explaining how the Lord could hear everybody praying at the same time and still work out answers for all of them, the fact was that He did it.
So ever since then, Arthur had been practicing his praying each night, with the help of Mr. Jess, and sometimes Casey-Fitz. He thought he was good enough at it by now to try some praying on his own, so, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a big breath, he asked the Lord to make him brave enough to do what he knew he had to do.
And to please let Casey-Fitz forgive him for breaking his promise.
The desk beneath his arms had become a pulpit…the pulpit at the Fifth Avenue Church. Solid and sturdy oak, softened and aged by the oil of human hands throughout the years—preachers’ hands….
No longer did Jess sit in the library, at his desk. Now, in this strange dream that he somehow knew to be a dream, he stood at his pulpit in the sanctuary, speaking to the congregation….
The pews were crowded with people. His people. The flock placed under his shepherding care. His to teach, to guide, to comfort. To shepherd.
Streams of morning sunlight flooded the sanctuary, bathing the heavy oak doors, the pews, every corner—even the ceiling—with light. Golden light, as warm as a touch.
With his Bible at his fingertips, Jess opened his mouth to preach the Word, the Good News that they were a beloved people, beloved of the Father God, the sheep of His pasture.
He felt, rather than saw, the light shift. The radiant, golden hues began to spiral, as if tossed by a sudden wind, to the rear of the sanctuary, where they writhed and gathered until the light became a dense, pewter smoke.
As Jess watched, the smoke began to drift and coil, wafting forward, coming to settle over the people in the pews like an ominous, undulating cloud.
In the second row, a hawk-faced Chester Pauling shifted restlessly, tugging at his brocade waistcoat as the smoke engulfed him. Jess peered through the gray haze and saw, to his amazement, the brocade fabric take on the look of flesh—living flesh, adorned with color and design. His eyes snapped up to Pauling’s face…but it wasn’t Pauling at all—it was the Tattooed Man from the dime museum!
The smoke drifted and hung in a wreath around Charles Street, who sat glaring up at Jess. As Jess watched, the man’s arms and chest began to swell like a balloon, bursting the seams of his coat and snapping his collar stays. The haze moved on, and Jess found himself looking into the eyes of the Strong Man.
Down in front and to the left sat a small boy, his legs tucked under him on the pew. Once more the smoke descended, completely obscuring the lad’s small form. When it lifted again, in the child’s place sat Bhima, the Turtle Boy, gazing up at Jess with his gentle, sorrowful eyes.
On and on it went, a succession of chilling, unaccountable changes, until the entire assembly had been transformed to a sea of faces from the Bowery…and Five Points…and Shantytown.
Gripping the pulpit with both hands, Jess saw the smoke lift and slowly retreat to the back of the sanctuary. Slowly, it began to thin, brightening and rising until again the sunshine bathed the sanctuary like a golden benediction.
He came awake to a gentle whisper, a voice so deep within himself that it seemed to abide in his very spirit, repeating over and over: “These are your people…and Mine…beloved of the Father. These are the sheep of My pasture. Feed My sheep…feed My sheep….”
With the whisper still sounding deep within him, Jess stirred. Early morning sunlight streamed through the library window. Blinking, he lifted his head and turned around to face the light.
PART THREE
DREAMS FULFILLED
New Tomorrows
You know with all your heart and soul that not one of all the good promises the Lord your God gave you has failed. Every promise has been fulfilled; not one has failed.
JOSHUA 23:14
35
The Princess and the Blackbird
And to one is given a beauty rare,
Like a star of heaven’s isle…
And to the other is given the star of Erin
And heaven in her smile.
MORGAN FITZGERALD (1849)
Dublin
Early April
Morgan sat, staring with satisfaction at the papers in front of him one last time. After another moment, he tucked them safely back inside a large envelope and locked it in his desk.
These were only copies, of course; Guinness had already filed the originals. Still, he wouldn’t want to chance them accidentally reaching Annie’s eyes. Despite the child’s brave efforts to pretend otherwise, he sensed that her mother’s rejection had caused her grievous pain. To see the woman’s signature on a document, whereby she irrevocably abdicated all rights to her daughter…well, it could do nothing but increase the girl’s feelings of abandonment.
As he sat drumming his fingers on the desk, a mixed tide of emotions washed over him. So, then…he was to be a father at last. Legal father to Annie, and, eventually, to Finola’s babe.
The astonishing turn his life had taken in less than two years was almost more than he could comprehend. The inheritance of his grandfather’s estate, the move to Dublin, the shooting that had left his legs paralyzed….
Most significant among all the changes, of course, was the advent of those whom he had come to think upon, with great affection, as his “family.” First, Sandemon, the West Indies Wonder…then Annie Delaney, his wee, fey child from Belfast…Finola, beloved
of his heart…even Sister Louisa, the radical nun who had somehow brought order to their lives, as well as to the school.
Morgan shook his head, smiling faintly. He could not help but think that many of the events of his life made for classic evidence that God could change grief to glory, could, indeed, just as the Scriptures promised, turn evil to good.
Most astounding of all, he would be a father. And two weeks hence—a husband. Such a succession of events was enough to weaken the knees of even the stoutest man. Ah, but his knees, of course, were unaffected, seeing as how they were already useless.
Turning his thoughts back to Annie, he pondered how to tell her the news. It should be a special occasion, he decided, a meaningful time for the child—an “event.”
Taking a small green velvet box from his desk, he opened the lid and sat staring at its contents for a moment before sliding it inside his vest pocket.
He removed his eyeglasses, then rang for Artegal. When the white-haired footman appeared—Artegal never entered a room, but rather seemed to materialize, like the pale specter he looked to be—Morgan dispatched him upstairs. “Tell Miss Annie to dress for dinner, that we will have a special family meal together. And tell her,” he added, “that she should be prepared to help Finola as well, if she’s able to come down. Oh—and send Sandemon to me.”
The footman inclined his head, his disapproval all too evident. Morgan wondered again why he did not simply discharge the man, whom he actively disliked and vaguely mistrusted.
True, Artegal was efficient to a fault; efficient and unobtrusive. Yet he bore an air of superiority, of unspoken condemnation, toward every member of the household, except perhaps toward Morgan himself—and when it came down to it, Morgan wasn’t at all sure that he was exempt.
He shrugged, and, as was his habit, relegated his dissatisfaction with Artegal to the back of his mind. There were more important things to think of this day.
Perched on a stool in the sewing room, with Fergus napping beside her, Annie pricked her finger with the needle for the third time. With a fierce scowl, she flung down both fabric and needle, suppressing a great howl and a curse. The wolfhound lifted his head and gave her a questioning look.
For the most part, she had given up her former habit of cursing. But at times like these, it was tempting to take it up again. She hated the sewing with a vengeance, she did! But Sister said she must learn, that needlework was a necessary part of her education.
TROUBLESOME NUN, Annie thought, grinning to herself. These days she seldom thought of Sister with anything less than affection—except when she bullied her about things like the sewing and proper deportment and ladylike behavior.
Still, Sister knew very well that Annie preferred almost anything else to the sewing. Her “Favorite Things to Do,” of course, included working in the stables with the horses, feeding the other animals on the estate, and practicing her sketching—in which Sister Louisa herself was instructing her.
But “young ladies,” Sister said, needed to acquire a “vast variety of domestic skills.” Bah! So far as Annie could tell, these domestic things were of no great account at all except to the maids.
Of course, there was the possibility of sewing for Finola’s baby. Sister had hinted that if Annie showed progress in her skill with the needle, she might be allowed to sew some garments for the wee wane.
Annie glanced down at the hateful material at her feet. Finally, grudgingly, she retrieved it and started it again. Perhaps she should make the effort so she could be of help to Finola.
The thought of the baby spurred her on. These days the entire household was in a continual whirl of haste and confusion: a wedding to plan, a baby to prepare for—so much work, and in such a brief time!
Even Sandemon, ordinarily so unhurried and serene, seemed to move with a new spring in his step and speak with a bit more urgency. As for Artegal the Ghost—Annie screwed up her mouth with distaste—the sour old footman’s nose appeared even longer than usual, his eyebrows pulled up in a constant expression of disapproval. Artegal, of course, disapproved of everyone and everything; no doubt he was only concerned about the fuss and bother a baby would bring.
For her part, Annie could scarcely wait. The baby would be a fine thing! And she would be a good big sister, she would, the very best! She would help to feed the babe and rock it to sleep and play with it—if she were allowed, that is.
Abruptly, she stopped sewing. She wanted to be the baby’s sister, wanted it fiercely! And as the Seanchai’s adopted daughter, she would be, once he and Finola were wed.
But only if she were adopted…
Nobody spoke of the adoption of late. All during Finola’s recovery, the Seanchai had barely said a word about the matter, and Annie feared that he might have forgotten about it altogether, what with worrying over Finola. It took everything Annie had not to ask at least once a day. But she didn’t, for fear of being a nuisance.
Each morning she would awaken, her mind clamoring with the same excitement of the night before, stirred and revitalized by the prospect of another day about to begin. And in spite of her firm intentions not to think about it, almost immediately she would wonder if today might be the day…the day she would be adopted.
But it never came, that news for which she had prayed so long and so fervently. She was sure that by now the Lord must be growing impatient with her incessant pleas. Hadn’t she pestered Him for months with her prayers?
Yet no answer came. Nothing changed.
What if it never did? What if, for any number of reasons, it did not work out? Then, she wouldn’t be anything to the Seanchai or the rest of his family—not his daughter, nor the baby’s sister. She would simply remain what she was now.
And what was that, then? A nobody. A nobody who did not really belong…to anyone.
The threat of disappointment hovered at the edge of her mind, just waiting for a chance to edge its way into her thoughts and spoil her happiness.
She leaned over to put a hand to Fergus’s great head, seeking comfort from his warmth. “We must be very, very good, you and I, Fergus,” she said, her voice low. “And very helpful, as well. To everyone. Not just most of the time, but all the time. Perhaps then, even if we’re not adopted, we’ll still be welcome.”
She swallowed hard against the knot in her throat. “I couldn’t bear the hurt if we had to leave, Fergus, and that’s the truth. There wouldn’t be enough tears in the whole world to wash away such a hurt!”
Her heart pounding, Annie took a big breath. “But you’re not to worry, mind! The Seanchai would want us to stay with him, even if for some reason we’re not adopted. He would. Sure, he would.”
She looked up to find old Artegal the Ghost hovering in the open doorway. His nose was pulled down almost to the top of his thin upper lip as he glared at them. Annie was struck with a terrible fierce urge to stick out her tongue at him. But he would tell, and then she’d get a scolding from Sister for certain.
“The master instructs that you…dress…for dinner,” he announced stiffly. “And that you assist Miss Finola, if she, ah…is able to come downstairs.”
Strengthened by her new resolve to be good at all times, Annie actually managed to smile. A foolish, ladylike smile, she expected. Not that she cared. “Why, thank you very much, Artegal,” she said sweetly, pleased when he shot her a suspicious look.
After whisking herself into the only dress she really favored—a vivid, green-striped tarlatan—Annie hurried to Finola’s room, only to find that Lucy had already helped Finola complete her toilette.
Somewhat impatient with the round-faced Lucy—who was, Annie had privately declared to Sandemon, a bit shifty-eyed—she insisted on dressing Finola’s hair by herself. This was another of her “Favorite Things to Do,” for Finola’s hair was a glory, and that was the truth.
With Lucy dismissed to take her meal in the kitchen, Annie had Finola to herself, except for Small One, who lay on the bed eyeing Fergus with a suspicious stare. Poor Fergus,
as usual, was made to wait just outside the door, looking in; he and the cat simply could not agree, and had to keep their distance from each other.
“You look beautiful, Finola.” Annie stood behind her at the vanity, brushing the heavy, flaxen waves into spun gold. “Like a princess.”
Their eyes met in the reflection of the mirror, and Finola smiled at her. “I think you’ve been reading the faery stories again, Aine,” she said softly. “Sure, I’m no princess.”
Finola was the only one who seemed to consider Annie grown up enough to be called by her birth-name, Aine, and she preened at the sound of it.
Finola had a voice like rarest silk, she did. A voice as golden as her hair, sweet and flowing. Annie felt, when she opened her own mouth, like a squawking bird in comparison. Indeed, looking at herself and the fair Finola in the mirror, it was like gazing on an ungainly blackbird and a swan.
“You are a princess to me, Finola!” she blurted out. “And to the Seanchai! He is the prince of Nelson Hall, and you are his princess!’’ She stopped, the brush suspended in her hand. “Sure, he treats you like one, and that’s the truth!”
The reflection in the mirror sobered as the faintest hint of pink touched Finola’s cheeks. “He is…kindness itself to me. I…I can’t think how I shall ever repay him for all he is doing.”
Surprised, Annie stared at her. “Why, Finola—the Seanchai wouldn’t expect you to repay him! He does what he does because—” Annie stopped, not wanting to embarrass Finola. “Well, because he cares for you.”
The flush on Finola’s pale skin deepened still more. “His heart is large,” she said. “It holds much compassion. Perhaps too much.”
Annie studied the lovely, troubled face in the mirror. “What is it, Finola? What makes you so sad?” She blurted out the question before thinking, then wondered if she’d been too forward. Still, they were friends; Finola said so herself. Indeed, Finola treated her more as a sister than a bothersome child.