by BJ Hoff
Suddenly caught up in a fierce yearning for the friend of his youth, it was all he could do not to throw open his arms and embrace the boy. Instead, he darted a cursory glance at the slavering guard, collapsed in a heap on the floor, then the other, upon whom he still held a gun. At last his eyes went to the unconscious boy near the wall.
“That would be the Gypsy—the cousin of the lad who brought your message?” he asked, now turning his attention back to Tierney
“Yes—he…it was his idea to write the note…he said one of his people would deliver it, but in truth I didn’t really hope.”
The boy let his words drift off, unfinished. Morgan noted his obvious discomfort and decided it was more than likely a rare feeling for the young rascal.
Sandemon had gone to the Gypsy boy on the floor and was down on his knees, examining him. “He is unconscious,” he said, looking up, “but not badly hurt, I think.”
Morgan nodded. “What exactly is all this about? The cell door standing open, you fighting with your gaolers—”
“They charged in here and began to beat on us!” The boy’s mouth thinned to a hard, indignant line. “They were furious because we got a message to the outside!”
“You’re fortunate it didn’t go worse for you! I doubt that you’ve any idea the kind of thugs you’re dealing with in a place like this.”
“Oh, I think I do,” the boy grated, pointedly glancing at the arm encased in a grimy sling. “This came about, for example, because I demanded some clean drinking water.”
Morgan grimaced. “Aye,” he said quietly. “I am not unacquainted with the penal system myself.” He studied the boy for a moment. “You have been released into my custody. I trust you will give me no cause for regret.”
The boy flushed, and—ah, yes…there it was again, that arrogant toss of the head, the defiant flare of the nostrils. Like a young and spirited thoroughbred.
So like his father…like Michael…
“I can explain all this, sir.”
“No doubt,” Morgan said. “And I am sure I will be altogether fascinated by your explanation. But that will have to wait, I fear. The first order of business is to get you out of here.”
He turned to Sandemon, who had come to stand near the door again. The black man’s expression was impassive, but Morgan knew him well enough to recognize the disapproval and guarded curiosity in his eyes.
“Find the chief warder. Tell him we need a physician at once.” He stopped. “Make sure he knows he has guards who need attention, not only a prisoner. Then I shall speak with the governor again before we leave for home.”
“Sir?”
Morgan turned back to Tierney Burke, who motioned toward the Gypsy youth, still lying on the floor.
“Can’t we take him with us? Please. I owe him, you see.”
Morgan stared at him. “Impossible! The boy is a total stranger to you. A prisoner.” He paused. “And a Gypsy.”
The blue eyes flashed. “He’s a friend! He opened a vein for me! I won’t leave him here like this. They’ll murder him.”
Morgan considered him, feeling an odd sort of approval for his heated outburst. So, then, it would seem there was even more of his father in him than mere good looks. Loyalty and a keen sense of fairness had always been strong in Michael.
Sandemon had stopped just outside the doorway and stood watching them. Morgan met his gaze and saw the troubled look, the doubt there.
Turning back to Tierney, he said, “One can’t simply take a Gypsy off as he pleases. We might very well bring the wrath of the whole tribe on Nelson Hall. His people would not take kindly to our interference.”
“Our interference would surely be preferable to leaving him here to be slaughtered! You know what they will do to him. He pulled a knife on the guards!”
He was right, of course. The boy was as good as dead if they left him. Gypsies were mere animals to bullies like these—of no consequence whatever. Indeed, most of the population despised the Romany, bitterly resented their numbers in the city.
But even if he were willing to take the boy to Nelson Hall, he couldn’t just whisk him out of gaol! “I have no legal right to take him away,” he said, frowning.
“How did you get me released?” Tierney Burke countered.
Morgan gave a grim smile. “You might say that I combined my deceased grandfather’s influence with a generous donation to the penal system,” he answered dryly.
The boy needn’t know that it had been an out-and-out bribe, coupled with a veiled threat. “I did promise your father that I would assume responsibility for you, you see.”
“I don’t need anyone to assume responsibility for me,” Tierney Burke said evenly. “I am seventeen years old.”
“And I am much older,” Morgan said just as evenly, “and, we will hope, a good deal wiser. Now, then, what do you know about this Gypsy?” He motioned toward the boy, still unconscious on the floor.
“Only that he freed a horse from two soldiers who were caning it,” the boy replied. “And that he was willing to write a message in his own blood to help a stranger.”
Those disconcerting blue eyes fastened on Morgan’s face in a look of undisguised challenge.
Relenting, Morgan sighed. “I will see what I can do,” he said wearily. “But if we all end up murdered in our beds by a band of Gypsies, let it be on your head, and not mine.”
7
The Open Door
King of stars,
Dark or bright my house may be,
But I close my door on none
Lest Christ close his door on me.
EARLY IRISH
Peering through a crack in the kitchen door, Annie Fitzgerald and Fergus the wolfhound were having a close-up look at not one new boy, as had been expected, but two—one of whom was a Gypsy! A real Gypsy, not just an ordinary tinker or one of the traveling people who affected to call themselves Gypsies—but a real-life Romany Gypsy!
It was almost too much to take in, such excitement in one night! Her first encounter with a real Gypsy—and an American as well! Well, not an encounter, actually: not yet, that is. For now, she could only peep through the partly open door into the kitchen, where the Seanchai and Sandemon were watching the surgeon patch up these two strangers to Nelson Hall. But she would have an encounter, and very soon, sure. She intended to make quite certain of it.
“This is an EVENT, Fergus,” she whispered under her breath to the wolfhound, who was also craning his neck to view the curious scene in the kitchen. “Of course, you may have seen many a Gypsy and even some Americans before you came to live with us, but as for me, I can assure you that this is indeed a great EVENT.”
Annie expected that she would have been keen enough to identify the Gypsy for what he was, a Romany, even if old Artegal, the footman, hadn’t been in such a state, muttering to himself and carrying on for anyone to hear. Sure, who else but a Gypsy would dress so?
And wasn’t he a sight! He was a real Gypsy, no doubt about it. With that dark, wicked-looking mustache, the bright-colored kerchief about his neck, and a gold ring in one ear, he looked bizarre and mysterious and perhaps even a bit dangerous!
She shivered slightly at the idea, then turned her attention to the other newcomer. As intriguing as the Gypsy might be, it was the other stranger who fascinated Annie most—the American, Tierney Burke.
Whereas the Gypsy would be returning to his own people, Tierney Burke would be living right here, at Nelson Hall. Indeed, as the son of the Seanchai’s oldest friend, wouldn’t he be almost like family?
And wasn’t he a grand-looking boy? Annie kept the thought to herself, not even sharing her impression of Tierney Burke with her best friend, Fergus.
Sure, Sister Louisa would go a bit wild-eyed were she to get wind of the fact that Annie had paid heed to a boy’s looks. Especially an American boy who was a virtual stranger to them all. Nuns, Annie had observed, were not very tolerant of boys in general.
Squinting, she watched as the surgeo
n moved the Gypsy boy to the bench against the wall. He slumped back, holding in his lap two items the Seanchai had passed to him earlier: a scarred violin and a leather pouch on a rope. He looked altogether weary, but still a sight better than he had before Dr. Dunne had worked on him.
Next, the surgeon moved Tierney Burke into the chair at the table and began to help him remove his shirt. Annie knew it was past time for her to leave, but a combination of curiosity and fascination with the astonishing events of the night made her loath to miss even a moment of what might come next.
For the sake of decency, she tried not to gawk at Tierney Burke’s broad chest. But she couldn’t help but conclude that her earlier expectations of the American had been wrong entirely. Perhaps because the Seanchai routinely referred to him as a boy, she had been expecting just that: a squat, red-faced toad of a boy like one of the awful O’Higgins twins, or perhaps a scarecrow of a gorsoon, with muddy freckles and big ears.
Tierney Burke was neither. Even sprawled in the chair as he was, Annie could tell that he was tall, with wide-set shoulders and a fine, strong chin—what she could see of it beneath the ragged dark beard. And while he was in truth as lean as a high-spirited yearling, he had the hard-muscled, somewhat threatening look of a man grown. And he had a scar—a rakish, piratelike scar that ran down from his forehead, puckering one dark eyebrow, and ending with a pinch at the outer corner of his left eye.
Any fear of retribution for her outrageous behavior vanished as she saw the mass of angry bruises over the American boy’s midsection. Why, didn’t he look for all the world as if someone had attempted to murder him?
Annie put a fist to her mouth, bracing her other hand on Fergus’s strong back. She was struck by an unexpected wrench of pain at the thought of some of the more vicious beatings she had suffered at the hands of her drunken stepfather. But how, she wondered, had anyone managed to trap a fierce-looking boy like Tierney Burke long enough to wreak such abuse on him?
She saw his face go pale when the surgeon removed the disreputable sling and then the splint. Involuntarily, Annie winced for the American boy’s pain. Dr. Dunne muttered something about “breaking the bone all over again,” and Annie felt the blood drain from her head.
She decided she had played the peep long enough. Besides, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to watch what came next.…
“Aine Fitzgerald! Explain yourself at once!”
Annie stiffened, expelling a sharp breath of annoyance at being caught. For a moment, she deliberately remained fixed in place, unwilling to face Sister Louisa’s wrath. The nun’s blistering tone was bad enough. Sure, the fire in her eyes would be a terror.
“I said…explain yourself.”
In the second before Annie turned around, Fergus gave a convincingly pitiful whimper, which Annie hoped might help to soften the nun. But Sister ignored the wolfhound entirely, fixing Annie with a terrible gaze, sharp enough to part her hair.
“Why, Sister, wasn’t I just coming down for some warm milk to help me sleep, when I heard all the commotion and looked in to see what was happening? And didn’t I find strangers and Gypsies all about the house? Of course, I intended to come and fetch you…but before disturbing your rest, I thought I should investigate and find out what all the ruckus was about—”
“I’ll have none of your blather, Miss! I’m far too cross.”
Annie could see that, all right. Her mind groped for a reasonable explanation that might help to placate the nun. “Well, you see, Sister—”
“You should have been asleep hours ago!” Sister Louisa railed on, ignoring Annie’s attempt to explain. “Instead, I find you sneaking about the hallway, spying on things that I am certain are none of your affair, none at all. Whatever has possessed you, child? And what, exactly, might be so engrossing that you would demean yourself in such a fashion?”
Now she was in for it! Annie braced herself for the worst, screwing up one side of her mouth in grim anticipation as Sister elbowed her out of the way to have herself a look into the kitchen.
“May the saints preserve us!” Sister whipped about, her skin as stark as the white linen framing her face. The raisin-dark eyes looked about to roll up into her brain. Annie’s mind went spinning in one last desperate attempt to redeem herself before the nun lost all control. Another conciliatory whimper came from Fergus.
“This is what you are spying on? Heathen Gypsies and half-naked strangers?”
Annie twisted her face as if bracing for a blow. She waited for the enormity of her sin to settle over her, for the full measure of her disgrace to sink in and make her properly repentant.
“Didn’t I only want to see what was happening?” she offered feebly, hoping Sister would hear for herself the genuine remorse in her voice.
Suddenly, a brilliant idea seized her. “And wasn’t I about to go to sleep, Sister? Truly, I was! I had been studying my lessons, don’t you see, but what with all the disturbance I simply couldn’t concentrate. I feared something disastrous must have happened!”
“And it may, if you’re not at the top of the stairs by the time I count to ten, Miss! And under the covers by the count of fifteen!”
Immensely grateful for this unexpected mercy, Annie began to move. “Come, Fergus—”
“Wait—”
Annie stopped in mid-flight, turning back. She might have known Sister would retract such uncharacteristic leniency.
The nun, not a great deal taller than Annie, who was slight herself, closed the distance between them. “You will stay away from those two,” she warned, her eyes snapping. “There is no telling what to expect from a tinker—or an American!”
“Why, Sister, isn’t Tierney Burke the son of the Seanchai’s oldest and dearest friend? As for the Gypsy—”
“As for the Gypsy, you will ignore him entirely!” the nun rejoined, wagging a finger and shaking her head. “Is that quite clear, Miss?”
“Oh, it is, Sister!” Annie’s eyes went to a small stray curl of dark hair that had slipped defiantly from beneath the nun’s wimple. “Well, then…I’ll just be off to bed, Sister, if you will commence to count, please.”
Sister’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she merely gave a brief nod of dismissal. Fergus dared one last look over his shoulder, as if to be certain the nun was not in pursuit, then raced Annie up the stairs, easily pulling ahead before they reached the landing.
It would seem, Annie concluded, that even a wolfhound knew enough to stay clear of a nun on the rampage.
Louisa watched them go, the girl’s white nightdress slapping her thin legs as she took the stairs two at a time. Easily outdistancing her, the wolfhound stood at the top of the landing, waiting.
Suppressing a smile, Louisa stood reflecting on whether she should retire to her own room or see if she were needed. She had been roused from her devotions at a time when most of the household would ordinarily have been abed. Half-expecting to be summoned downstairs, she’d hurriedly changed back into her habit and come down to find the child at her mischief.
She turned back toward the kitchen, then changed her mind. Certainly, an entire roomful of men could attend to things on their own.
Starting up the stairs, she wondered again at the wisdom of the Seanchai’s willingness to take on this American boy, who, by his father’s own admission, was a rebellious son. If it had occurred to Morgan Fitzgerald that he might be inviting trouble, however, he was keeping it to himself.
At the landing, Louisa looked down the hallway and saw that Annie’s bedroom door was securely closed. No doubt the child and the wolfhound were waiting at the keyhole to hear her footsteps go by.
Faith—that one was more than enough challenge for the Seanchai, indeed for the most stalwart of guardians! She hoped he would not eventually rue taking in yet another willful youth.
Going on down the hall, she wondered if the Seanchai had given enough thought to what he was doing. Certainly, he already had a formidable responsibility on his shoulders, with a newly adopte
d daughter and a troubled young wife. Not to mention the new babe on the way!
The man had either the heart of a saint or that of a fool—Louisa was never quite sure which. Bringing yet another difficult youth into a household that was already turbulent, to say the least, could prove a grave mistake. And what was he thinking, God help them all, to bring a Gypsy under the roof?
Louisa had served often enough in the Liberties and other slums throughout the city to acquire a fair measure of distrust for the Gypsies. Their heathen ways, their disregard for the property of others, their resistance to integrating themselves into society—even to the point of refusing their children an education—made them highly suspect to the church.
Yet, if she were to be entirely honest, she had also known those few who might have been said to possess some unexpectedly decent traits and, even more difficult to figure, a peculiar kind of nobility. Nevertheless, there was much that gave credence to the dark tales told about them, and they were not, as a whole, a people to be trusted—at least not by those outside their own.
That being the case, it seemed to her that the sooner the Gypsy was sent on his way, the better for them all.
8
Strangers at Nelson Hall
They call us aliens, we are told,
Because our wayward visions stray
From that dim banner they unfold,
The dreams of worn-out yesterday.
AE (GEORGE RUSSELL) (1867-1935)
Morgan felt the stab of pain in his own arm as he watched the surgeon reset Tierney Burke’s broken bone.
The boy had grit, he would give him that. White-faced, his jaw set, Tierney uttered not a sound, but simply clenched his fists and bore his pain with rigid self-control.
“He should go to bed and stay there for a time,” said the surgeon as he applied fresh bandages. “He has a bit of a fever and will be needing rest.” He glanced up at Morgan. “Rest and proper food. And that one,” he said, nodding at the Gypsy who looked to be half-dozing across the room, “should at least stay the night. I believe he will be fine, but he appears to have taken a nasty blow. He shouldn’t be traipsing about until I have another look at him tomorrow, to make certain—”