by BJ Hoff
Morgan’s hands trembled on the arms of the wheelchair. “How…how is she? How is Finola?”
“She is—anxious, of course,” answered Sister Louisa carefully. “She will feel easier when the doctor arrives, I expect.”
“Where is he, anyway?” Morgan muttered. “He could have been here and back by now!”
Upstairs, a cry came from Finola’s bedroom. Morgan reared in the chair, his entire body breaking into a tremble to match the shaking of his hands. “She is in pain!”
Sister shot him an impatient glance. “No child is born without pain, sir.” Her look clearly said that men were ever the great fools about such matters.
Morgan started the chair toward the lift. Sister Louisa stepped in front of him. “It would be best for you to wait here for the surgeon, don’t you think, Seanchai?”
Morgan stared at her, then looked up at the hallway, toward Finola’s bedroom door. “Is Lucy—”
“Lucy will not leave her. Nor will I.”
He knew he should not—perhaps could not—go into that room. Yet, every part of his being cried out to be with her, to go to her side.
It was unheard of, of course. An Irishman in the birthing room? Unthinkable!
Convention aside, he did not want to be in the birthing room, or anywhere near it, for that matter! But the thought struck him that she might be frightened, might want him there, even need him with her. They had grown close, after all, she had come to depend on him, at least in small ways.…
“Seanchai, I must go back upstairs.” Sister Louisa’s voice jarred him from his frantic thoughts. “Send the surgeon up the moment he arrives.” She gave him a sharp look, then turned to Annie. “It would not be a good idea to detain him with questions.”
Morgan’s mouth seemed numb. “Do you think I should go up…”
Sister turned an almost pitying glance upon him. “Surely not,” she said evenly. “It’s quite late. Why don’t you have Mrs. Ryan serve tea?”
Tea—the nun’s answer to any and every crisis.
“I do not want tea!”
What he wanted, God forgive him, was a drink! And wasn’t the nun glaring at him as if she knew it?
Well, then, but what of it? At such a time as this, could not the strongest man be forgiven a momentary weakness?
Another cry came from Finola’s room. This time Morgan nearly catapulted from the wheelchair. “I will go to her—”
Again Sister Louisa blocked his passage, a small but formidable sentry. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped when Lucy Hoy came hurrying down the stairs.
Morgan cast accusing eyes on Sister Louisa. “Didn’t you say the woman would not leave Finola’s side?”
“Oh, sweet pity—” The nun broke off, rolling her eyes toward heaven as Lucy came to a halt at the landing.
“What is it?” Morgan demanded. “What has happened?”
Lucy stopped, looking from him to Sister Louisa.
“Happened? Oh, nothing, sir! Nothing at all! It’s just that Finola asked me to fetch—”
Morgan braced himself, fought down still another attack of panic. “I will go up,” he managed bravely.
Again Lucy looked at him peculiarly. “I—I don’t think that would be best, sir. But she did ask—”
“What?” Morgan interrupted, ignoring the relief that washed over him. “What did she ask? She must have anything she wants, anything at all!”
“Aye, sir, thank you, sir. She was wondering if your daughter would come up, sir. She would like Miss Annie to be with her, if she pleases.”
Morgan stared at her. “My daughter? Annie?”
At his side, he heard Annie’s sharp intake of breath. He glanced at the girl, now poised like a spring. Her eyes were huge, her mouth agape. “Finola—wants me with her?”
“Aye, Miss, she does that. If you’re willing, she says.”
“Truly?”
Now Annie began to tremble. But though her hands were indeed shaking, her back was straight, her chin high and firm as she turned to Morgan. “It will be well, Seanchai. It will almost be the same as if you were with Finola, my being your daughter and all.”
She stopped, searching his eyes as if looking for affirmation. “I will be…standing in for you, as it were. In a way, you will be right beside her, isn’t that so?”
Morgan’s eyes locked with hers. He felt a sudden surge of pride for her: pride and gratitude for all that she had come to mean to him, for the strength she was now offering him, and for the depth of love that gazed out at him from behind those dark, seeking eyes.
After a moment, he reached for her hand. “You are quite certain about this, alannah? It will not be—too difficult for you?”
The pert chin lifted a fraction more. “I am quite certain, Seanchai,” she said quietly. “It is what I should do.”
Morgan pressed her hand, studying her. Finally, he nodded. “Aye…I believe you are right. As my daughter, it seems fitting that you should be with Finola at this most important time. You will tell her for me.” he faltered, glancing about at the others, then lowering his voice. “Tell Finola that I am with her.” He put a hand to his heart. “Here, in my heart…I am with her.”
Annie beamed, squeezed his fingers once, then sprinted toward the stairs, taking them two at a time.
When the wolfhound whimpered and would have followed, Morgan put a restraining hand on his great head. “Not this time, old boy,” he soothed. “For now, I fear you have been relegated to the estate of all Irish males. It would seem that it’s our lot to feel utterly worthless and quite helpless upon momentous occasions such as this.”
As he spoke, he looked directly at Sister Louisa, who merely gave a brief nod, as if satisfied that at last he understood the way of things.
19
A Child Is Born
Thread from silver moon at night,
Dust from evening star’s soft light,
Kiss of sun from summer morn—
Angels smile…a child is born.
ANONYMOUS
In his bedchamber, Morgan willed the minutes, then the hours, to pass. He had chosen to wait here, where he might be as close as possible to Finola. He could hear her moans and cries through the thick walls and heavy connecting door, yet this very closeness to her as she labored seemed to make the waiting more bearable.
He felt a small comfort, almost as if he were linked with Finola, what with Annie at her side and himself just on the other side of the door. If he could not share firsthand the actual birthing, perhaps this was the next best thing.
Sandemon had offered to wait with him, but Morgan had declined, asking him instead to go to the chapel. “Do what you do best, my friend. Pray for Finola…and for the child. Pray until all is accomplished, if you will.”
And so now he sat alone, waiting in the silence. He had thought before tonight that Nelson Hall was not an especially quiet place after the sun went down. There were always muffled noises in the night, the reassuring sounds of a large estate being well kept by a competent, if slightly aged, staff. A small retinue of kitchen servants baked and prepared for the day ahead. The classrooms were cleaned and straightened. Minor repairs that might inconvenience the household through the day were carried out quietly in the late night hours. Routine but necessary tasks were performed inconspicuously, with a certain vague hum that indicated an ongoing life in the rambling old dwelling.
This night, however, seemed vastly different. Tonight, it sounded as if all activity in the house had been suspended—indeed, as if the very heartbeat of the house had paused, hushed, to await the birth of the new babe. Finola’s child.
And mine, Morgan reminded himself. I promised her that, Lord. I promised the child more than my name, now didn’t I, more than my protection? I promised my love…my fatherhood.
A shudder seized him, almost overwhelming him with the magnitude of the commitment he had made.
What if the child were not normal? A shattering rush of dread flooded him, unbidden thoug
hts of all the pain and torture Finola must have endured during the brutal attack that had left her with child. What if the beating, the savage punishment to her body and her mind—dear God, the unspeakable evil of her attacker—what if it had damaged the babe in some hideous way?
What if he could not love the child, after all?
He moaned aloud, furious with his own weakness. Determined to banish from his mind the paralyzing fear, the ominous imaginings, he wheeled the chair over to the corner and retrieved his harp. Going to the window, then, he sat staring into the night, plucking the strings in a quiet, underlying harmony to the desperate prayer of his heart.
In the labor room, each attendant had her own responsibility. Lucy had quite naturally assumed the role of the surgeon’s nurse, working side by side with him as he administered what little assistance he could offer Finola. Sister Louisa took charge of supplies and keeping the laboring young mother as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.
Annie, with an occasional assist from Sister, provided Finola a strong hand to grip and an ongoing flow of encouragement.
It had been nearly three hours now since Dr. Dunne had arrived, the three longest hours of Annie’s life, she was certain. For a panicky few moments at the beginning, she had been tempted to bolt from the room and leave it all up to Sister and Lucy.
The initial sight of Finola lying there, her ashen face, her writhing body, her glorious hair now limp with perspiration, had knocked the breath from Annie. It had taken every bit of courage she could muster to approach the bed and clasp Finola’s hand.
But then Finola had smiled…a poor, weak smile it was, in truth, but a smile meant just for Annie, all the same…and she had somehow managed to put aside her panic.
“Will you stay with me, Aine?” Finola had asked in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “You are the babe’s sister…and mine, in my heart of hearts. Will you stay with me? I need your strength.…”
Annie had felt about to burst with pride and love. Finola had called her “sister”!
“Sure, and I will stay, Finola!” she promised, squeezing the slender, damp hand clinging to hers. “I will not leave you for a moment. I will be your strength, Finola…all that you need. I will stay for the duration.”
And she had stayed. Now, long hours later, she felt nearly as wrung out and limp as Finola herself. Every pain that brought a cry from Finola put a knife to Annie’s heart. Every moan, every gasp, seemed her own pain finding voice. But she would not leave. She had promised Finola and the Seanchai to stay, and so long as God enabled her to stand, she would keep that promise, she would.
Pain again. And such pain. Wave after wave of it, roaring through her, bearing down on her, then passing, only to leave her thoroughly depleted, almost without the strength to take a breath.
Finola was all too familiar with pain, remembered its torment, its savagery. But this time it was different. No less vicious, no less enfeebling—but different.
Before, the pain had been dark. Dark and obscene and deadly cold. Not so tonight. This pain somehow seemed borne of light and warmth and meaning. Its force was violent but cleansing, demanding but with a purpose. There was a kind of…purity about the very force of each fresh new wave that pounded her body.
Somewhere outside the room she heard Morgan’s harp…a soft tune, sweetly gentle. Somehow it gave her strength, knowing he was near, that he was waiting. The music seemed to undergird the pain, lift it from her.…
At last the final raging tide of pain slammed through her, making her arch her spine up from the bed and grip Annie’s hand on one side and Sister Louisa’s on the other. She cried out in one last piercing shriek that seemed to shatter the ball of agony inside her and send it exploding into the room—not a cry of desperation, but a white-hot shout of exultation.
Finola’s scream all but annihilated Morgan’s last thin shred of control.
Moments after the sound pierced the door between them, it still seemed to echo in the dimly lit corners of his bedchamber. The paralysis that had claimed his legs now seemed to seize his entire body. He sat, his hands locked in a trembling vise upon each arm of the wheelchair as he stared in raw panic at the heavy oak door between their rooms.
He tried to swallow, but his throat seemed frozen. He felt his blood slow, then churn through him like a river current. His pulse thundered a dangerous rhythm in his head as the hateful shaking began again in earnest.
How long he sat there, a palsied coward listening to the silence on the other side of the door, he could not say. It seemed hours before he caught the low murmur of women’s voices, followed by a lusty wail, then the incredible sound of Dr. Dunne’s soft chuckle.
As the trembling of his body subsided, the voices in Finola’s bedchamber seemed to brighten. Morgan stared hard at the door, holding his breath, willing it to open. When it was suddenly flung wide, he reared back so sharply he almost set the chair on end.
Sister Louisa stood in the doorway, her peppery features creased in a weary but reassuring smile. Morgan looked from the nun’s twinkling eyes to the bed, caught a glimpse of Annie, face stark white but dark eyes ablaze, standing beside Finola.
Finola. She lay, propped demurely against a mountain of pillows, surrounded altogether by snowy-white linens, a small bundle in the crook of her arm—
“Seanchai—” Sister Louisa’s voice cracked for an instant with the announcement. “You may now come in.”
Had Finola’s bedchamber always been so far distant from his own? Had the wheelchair always rolled so slowly?
Finally reaching the bed, Morgan stopped. His gaze went from Finola’s exhausted smile to the wee bundle she was balancing so carefully against her shoulder. He looked back at Finola, saw for the first time the uncertainty in her searching eyes.
“So, then…it is over at last? Are you…all right, Finola aroon?”
Still the uncertain smile, the searching gaze. She beckoned him closer, closer still, until he was but a hand length away.
He stared. First at her…a vision, even weary and depleted as she must be. Then his gaze went to the tiny bundle she hugged close to her. So small…
Startled, he saw her lift the bundle to him, saw her falter with the effort. Instinctively, Morgan reached out to take the burden from her, balancing it clumsily in his big paws, scarcely knowing which way to turn it, then forming a cradle of his arms.
Such warmth! How could something so small be so warm?
Trembling, he looked at Finola. She was loveliness itself…even in her weakness and fatigue, she seemed to glow.
“Morgan? Please…would you choose the name? Would you name him, please?”
Him. A boy-child, then…
Finally, Morgan dragged his eyes away from her. Wheeling himself and the babe over to the window near the bed, he pulled aside one corner of the drape to reveal the first faint glow of dawn.
Heart pounding, he gathered the child up, cradling him in one arm, and with awkward, unsteady fingers edged the blanket away from the tiny face.
A rush of light-filled wonder swept over him. Golden hair, just like his mother’s. Skin so delicate…so fair…
The eyes squinted, opened, met his and held. Round blue eyes…like his mother’s, as blue as an Irish sky on an afternoon in spring.
No evil there. No stain of darkness. Nothing but light. Warm and golden. He held light itself in his arms.
One trembling finger touched the soft, round cheek, then a fair wisp of hair. Golden hair.
A golden child, sent from God.
Once again, the Lord had turned ugliness to beauty—pain to glory—in the gift of this boy-child.
A son. My son.
Gabriel…
The name leaped up from somewhere deep in his spirit.
“Gabriel,” he murmured, then said it again, louder this time, testing the sound of it on his lips. “He shall be called Gabriel. ‘Man of God.’”
Braver now, he lifted the babe in his arms for a closer look. Af
ter a moment he turned back to Finola. “You have given me a fine son, Finola aroon,” he said quietly, his gaze holding hers. “I choose to name him Gabriel. Do you approve?”
She nodded, making no effort to brush away the tears that spilled over. Despite her weariness, despite the tears, she smiled, smiled at him in a way that made Morgan feel like a giant in the land.
His eyes clung to hers for another moment. “He will be a fine man, this Gabriel,” he said. “He will be noble and strong and—”
Morgan broke off abruptly and looked down at the child. The tiny golden-haired babe had reached out a flailing fist and caught Morgan’s little finger in a fierce grip, hanging on as if to prove by sheer infant strength the proof of the prophecy.
Caught up in a rush of bittersweet delight, Morgan started to laugh. But an unexpected sob came instead, and he had to fight to swallow down the lump in his throat. As he gazed down at the child in wonder, great unshed tears clouded his vision.
At last he looked up and saw Sandemon framed in the doorway, his dark face shining with relief and elation.
Morgan’s eyes swept the room. Sister Louisa stood at the foot of the bed, so very weary, yet so obviously pleased. Beside her, the doctor smiled at his handiwork with understandable pride and satisfaction. Behind them, Lucy Hoy…faithful Lucy, looking worn and tired and slightly stunned.
Ah, and there was Annie…his dark-eyed Aine, full of the joy and awe of this miracle of birth. Morgan reached out to her, and she came around from the other side of the bed to stand next to him.
Unable to stop the fountain of joy welling up in him, Morgan lifted the child in his arms, threw his head back, and laughed aloud.
“Our son!” he proclaimed in a voice that was almost a shout. Raising the child higher still, he presented him to the family. “This is Gabriel! Gabriel…Thomas…Fitzgerald! Finola’s son—and mine!”
PART TWO
LIGHT OF TRUTH
Gathering Darkness