Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  Straightening, he wiped his hands on his trousers. “A rare occurrence, surely.”

  Annie frowned at him. “This is important. I’ve been thinking a great deal about it. Now that I am truly the Seanchai’s daughter, what do you think I should call him?”

  The black man put a hand to his cheek, considering her question. “You’re wondering if you should no longer call him Seanchai, is that it?”

  Annie nodded. “What do you think would please him most?”

  “The Seanchai knows,” he said after a moment, “that you held a great affection for your birth father, God rest his soul, and, certainly, he does not intend to usurp that affection in any way. I believe he also understands the depth of feeling you hold for him. So, then, it is my opinion that, however you choose to address him, he will be pleased…for the devotion in your eyes, child, names him ‘Father’ with every look.”

  Annie beamed at him. “You are very wise, Sand-Man.”

  He smiled at her, and Annie blurted out, “I’m awfully glad you’re a part of our family!”

  “Thank you, child,” he said softly, still smiling. “I am greatly blessed to be among you.”

  In her bedroom, Sister Louisa inspected her gift with a sharply critical eye, hoping all the while that she had not been presumptuous in the planning. There was no denying the fact that it was somewhat…unusual.

  True enough. But, then, so was this wedding. Neither the groom nor the bride could be considered conventional.

  Indeed not. She smiled a little, pausing in her appraisal of the gift to remember the upbraiding she had received from the Seanchai the night she dared to question the marriage. For one so obviously intimidated by nuns in general, he had certainly put her soundly in her place.

  Lest her examination of the gift give way to vanity, she put it away, taking care to conceal it from curious eyes.

  At a sudden hard hammering on her door, she realized her caution had been well advised.

  “Come in, child.”

  “How do you always know it’s me, Sister?”

  Louisa studied the braids, askew as always, the grease-smudged face, and the eager wolfhound, who, at the moment, looked far more presentable than the child.

  “It is I,” she corrected automatically. “And I always know it is you because you announce yourself so vigorously.” She glanced again at the dog, who walked in, tail wagging, and immediately plopped down at Louisa’s feet.

  “He’s looking quite handsome,” she observed to them both.

  The child grinned and preened. So did the wolfhound.

  “I gave him a bath first thing this morning. For the wedding.”

  Sister Louisa regarded her with suspicion. “I do hope you’re not planning to take the dog into the chapel.”

  The wolfhound lifted his head, grinning hopefully as he looked from one to the other.

  “Certainly not!” said the child, tossing her braids. “Fergus will be attending the door.”

  “By whose consent?”

  “Sand-Man and the Seanchai both agreed,” declared the child, with obvious delight.

  Sister Louisa lifted her eyes heavenward, marveling not for the first time at the foolishness of grown men who really ought to know better.

  “What is that?” asked the sharp-eyed child, spying the gift propped up in the corner.

  “That,” said Louisa firmly, “is private. Now come here. We really must do something with your hair. We’ll start with a thorough brushing.”

  The child scowled. The wolfhound sighed.

  Louisa prevailed.

  Finola had expected to feel painfully awkward with Morgan this night, on the eve of their wedding. But after a few moments alone with him, she forgot her own discomfort in an attempt to ease his.

  At least three times since having her things moved earlier in the week, he had inquired if she was comfortable, if she was pleased with her new rooms. Tonight he went through the same explanations once again, as if he could not reassure her often enough that his intentions were entirely honorable.

  “Morgan, these rooms are beautiful,” Finola said, again trying to reassure him. “You see? Even Small One has given her approval.”

  Morgan glanced toward the massive bed, where the black and white cat, utterly contented, was curled up in the center of the coverlet.

  At the sound of her name, Small One opened one eye and looked at Morgan. Then, slowly, she stood up, yawned, stretched languidly, and stalked to the head of the bed, where she made two circles before settling down on the pillow and shutting her eyes again.

  Morgan did not seem convinced.

  “These were my grandmother’s rooms,” he repeated for the fourth time. “I had them freshly decorated just for you.” Once more he pointed out that he meant for her to have the largest and finest bed chamber—and the one with the most expansive view of the grounds. He admitted to wanting her near, especially with the child coming and what with Lucy now having a room of her own, albeit adjacent to Finola’s.

  “Is she still so terrified of me, by the way?” he asked somewhat gruffly. “The woman fairly quakes every time I enter the room.”

  Finola had been standing at the window, gazing out at the moondusted grounds below. She turned, smiling a little at the grudging tone of his voice.

  “Perhaps not terrified,” she said. “Perhaps…only mildly panicked.”

  He drew a long breath. “I have been kindness itself of late. I don’t suppose she’s mentioned that.”

  Again, Finola was struck by how ill at ease he seemed, despite his obvious attempts to be casual. “In fact, she has told me. And she’s most grateful. Oh—and she likes her new room very much. She thinks it’s quite grand.”

  “You’ve only to say so, you know, if you want her things moved back,” he reminded her. “I just thought that, since you’re feeling some stronger now, you might like a bit of privacy.”

  She nodded, coming to sit down in the rocking chair opposite him. “This will work out well, I think. Lucy needs some privacy, too. She’s had little time to herself, since…”

  She let her words drift off, still unable to give voice to the ugliness of what had happened.

  As always, he seemed immediately sensitive to her thoughts and quickly moved to change the subject. “I don’t suppose you’ve learned anything more about what went on, to bring about this remarkable change in her.”

  Brightening, Finola shook her head. “Only what I’ve told you. Apparently she and Sandemon talked. She says he ‘showed her the Light.’ I do know she is much changed. She reads the Scriptures like a starving soul at a banquet—and she spends much time in the chapel. She loves the chapel.”

  Morgan nodded. “The man is truly a wonder,” he said, smiling to himself. “Though a stern taskmaster with me,” he added wryly. “He’s waiting for me now—it seems there is something we are to do yet tonight. I did remind him that tomorrow is my wedding day, but he was unmoved. He said he would wait.”

  For a time they were both silent. An awkward silence. Now and then he would glance at her, or Finola at him, each quickly looking away when the other smiled.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. “I told you that I would present you with the wedding ring tomorrow,” he said stiffly.

  Finola nodded, wondering if he was having second thoughts.

  “Yes…well, I hope you’ll be pleased with it. I had it designed especially for you.”

  “I’m sure it is lovely,” Finola said, studying her hands with great concentration.

  Again, silence. Then, “Finola?”

  She looked up, and he wheeled his chair a bit closer to her. “I…wanted you to have this tonight. It is my wedding gift for you…and there is something I would say.”

  Studying his dear, strong face, now taut with uncertainty, Finola watched him withdraw an ivory-colored case from inside his coat.

  “I would be pleased if you would wear this…tomorrow…for the ceremony,” he said, handing her the case.

&nbs
p; Again he cleared his throat. The brilliant green eyes looked everywhere but at her for a moment, then returned to rest on her face. Holding the still unopened case in her hand, Finola thought she could not bear the tenderness in his gaze.

  As always, his voice was gentle when he spoke to her. “I would like you to know, Finola, that I am infinitely grateful to you for agreeing to become my wife.”

  Startled, Finola stared at him and would have protested, had he not gone on. “You cannot imagine how proud it makes me that you are willing to wear my name. You are giving me a priceless gift, and I am thankful beyond all words. Please,” he said, gesturing to the case in her hand, “open it.”

  With trembling fingers, Finola slipped the latch on the smoothly polished case. She gasped, putting a hand to her throat when she saw the exquisite treasure within: a finely carved pendant of purest ivory, in the graceful shape of a swan, suspended on a thin, delicate gold chain.

  Her eyes filled with quick tears as she traced the outline of the swan with one. finger. “Oh, Morgan! It is quite the loveliest thing I have ever seen!

  He smiled into her eyes as if her words gave him great pleasure. “You will wear it, then?”

  “Oh, of course, I will wear it! I…may I put it on now?”

  “Please,” he said.

  When her hands continued to tremble so badly she couldn’t release the clasp, he took it from her, wheeling his chair around to her side and slipping the chain over her hair as she dipped her head.

  Finola straightened, touching the pendant at her throat.

  He was staring at her in the strangest way, his hand on hers, his eyes somewhat glazed. “Even ivory,” he said softly, “seems a poor thing in the light of your loveliness.”

  He leaned toward her then, and Finola held her breath. “May I?” he whispered. Finola’s heart leaped when he touched his lips to her cheek, so lightly she almost thought she had imagined it.

  He backed away immediately, again reaching inside his pocket. “This is meant to accompany the pendant,” he said, pressing a piece of folded paper into her hand. “But I would ask that you not read it until later, after I leave you.” He paused, then added, lightly, “Which I will do now. You must rest, and the West Indies Wonder awaits my presence.”

  Finola caught his hand. “Morgan…”

  He waited, smiling uncertainly.

  “There is something I, too, would say. I…want you to know that I think you are…quite wonderful. And I am more than pleased. I am overwhelmed…to wear your name. And this lovely gift.”

  He left her then, wheeling himself quietly from the room with one last glance as he said goodnight.

  After he was gone, Finola sat for a moment, fingering the ivory pendant. At last, she opened the paper he had placed in her hand. For a moment she had difficulty making out the words, for she was forced to read through a mist of gathering tears. Finally, she saw that it was a poem…a poem written by one called The Singer for one named The Swan.

  It was a wondrous piece of writing, an enchanting prose-poem composed of love and light and promise. When Finola reached the final lines, she was breathless at the beauty of the words, in awe of the power of Morgan’s gift…and utterly and overwhelmingly moved, to know that she was to be the wife of such a man….

  “Now life’s lake is full of loveliness,

  The sky filled up with splendor,

  And my heart can only measure joy

  By overflowing founts….”

  43

  Wonder upon Wonder

  For the stars will sing a love song,

  And the angels add their voices,

  As the gift of love is granted

  To the Singer and the Swan….

  MORGAN FITZGERALD (1849)

  In the vestry off the chapel, Morgan Fitzgerald subjected himself to the strong arms and capable hands of his attendant.

  Fidgety as he was in these last moments before the ceremony, he was nevertheless mindful of the ways his brawny black friend had changed his life—and all for the better.

  The West Indies Wonder’s most recent stroke of genius was finally in place, and well concealed. It had actually taken less than twenty minutes to secure the iron braces over Morgan’s legs—a rather impressive record, considering that their initial efforts the night before had engaged more than an hour.

  Now he sat fixed in his chair, legs sprawled straight out in front of him, as he watched Sandemon make one last inspection of the crutches—odd-looking contraptions, designed with broad, platform tips, and reinforced with iron rods running the length of the bows.

  Although his iron-encased limbs were discreetly covered by his trousers and a lap robe, Morgan was keenly aware of his awkward condition.

  “I feel for all the world like a trussed turkey,” he muttered.

  The black man glanced at him. “A well-dressed one, at least.”

  Not amused, Morgan glared. “You are absolutely certain this will work?”

  “There are no absolutes in life, Seanchai,” Sandemon answered mildly. “You, of all people, surely know that.” After another moment, he gave a small nod of satisfaction and braced the crutches against the wall of the vestry. “We do know that it worked last night, and very well.” He paused. “If you are unwilling to risk it, there is still time to remove the braces,” he added gently.

  Morgan gripped the arms of the wheelchair. He had already decided it would be worth the risk. “We will proceed,” he said with far more confidence than he felt. “What is the worst that can happen, after all?”

  A rare look of uncertainty crossed the black man’s face, driving Morgan’s own doubts to a new high. Clenching his jaw, he waved a dismissing hand. “Ah, well…the chapel floor is of rugged construction,” he cracked, managing a sickly grin. “At the worst, I will make a great crash.”

  Sandemon chuckled. “Like thunder from heaven.”

  Unwilling to consider the possibilities too closely, Morgan moved to change the subject. “Who knows about all this?”

  His companion turned and looked at him. “You told me to use my discretion. I thought it best if most of the household knew, so early this morning I mentioned the surprise to Artegal.” The ghost of a wry smile curved his lips. “Always a sure way to spread news. Still, it seemed best. Otherwise, by tomorrow the city would be rife with rumors that wonders and miracles are occurring at Nelson Hall.”

  “I am not sure the rumors would be greatly exaggerated,” Morgan said softly. “Since you came to me, my friend, I have seen definite signs of Divine intervention at Nelson Hall.”

  The black man looked at him. “Still,” he said, lifting one eyebrow, “I think it wise that the people know today’s wonder to be…undergirded, at least in part, by human effort.”

  Morgan looked at him, then burst out laughing. “Well put, and no doubt you’re right. I’d as soon not have pilgrims traipsing through the rooms of Nelson Hall in search of a miracle.”

  Leaning forward, he examined his legs once more. “You left instructions that no one enters the chapel until the doors are opened?”

  Sandemon nodded. “The wolfhound is standing sentry over the doors. Sister Louisa is also to come down early.”

  “Mm. Yes…well, for my part, I’d rather go up against a wolfhound any day than a nun.”

  “Especially our nun,” Sandemon remarked.

  “Indeed.”

  On her way down the stairs, Sister Louisa could see that the doors of the chapel had already been opened. With no one in sight, she assumed that most of the household had been seated by now.

  Soft harp music came drifting out the open doors, and the mixed fragrance from lavish sprays of flowers reached even the stairway.

  Hurrying the rest of the way downstairs, she started toward the chapel, stopping short at the incredible sight that greeted her.

  Decked out in a stiff white shirtfront—obviously hand-made by someone whose stitches were large and shamefully clumsy—the wolfhound sat just outside the chapel doors
. He seemed enormously pleased with himself, as, no doubt, was his sponsor, the Seanchai’s daughter.

  Louisa shot a glance heavenward, heaved a resigned sigh, then bent to give the wolfhound a quick pat of approval. He grinned happily as if to say he was having himself the fine time of it.

  Returning to the landing, Louisa stood, hands clasped at her waist to stop their nervous trembling, as she waited for a glimpse of the bride and her young attendant in the upstairs hallway.

  Inside the chapel, there was a rustling among those awaiting the commencement of the ceremony.

  Eyes widened and necks craned as the Seanchai himself entered the chapel from the vestry, the West Indies black man right behind the wheelchair, carrying a pair of oversized crutches.

  The Seanchai was resplendent in a fawn-colored suit and bronze silk ascot, his full head of hair brushed to a blazing copper sheen.

  Interest piqued even more as the black man handed the Seanchai the crutches, then returned to stand behind him.

  There was a collective intake of breath as, gripping the master under his arms, the black man slowly…very slowly, and with obvious care…raised him from the wheelchair to his feet.

  Once he was upright, with Sandemon still supporting his weight, the Seanchai braced the crutches under each arm. His eyes still locked on the black man, he leaned slightly forward to balance his weight, then gave a nod.

  A hush fell over the chapel as Sandemon slowly released his hands and took a step backward.

  There was a long silence, then a collective sigh of relief. Some wept and made the sign of the cross. Others gaped at the master’s height, nearly forgotten after so long a time in the wheelchair.

  All thrilled to see the smile that swept his strong features as he turned his face toward the doorway of the chapel.

  Morgan flinched, nearly losing his balance, when a blast from the organ heralded the approach of the bride.

  Sandemon was right beside him, lending confidence to his racing heart, his trembling arms. Although they had rehearsed this over and over, until late into the night, he had not realized…could not have imagined until this moment…the dizzying, overwhelming sensation of standing upright once again, like a man.