Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  “She had just given birth to her second little girl when we discovered the cancer.”

  Daniel’s throat tightened. He already knew he didn’t want to hear the rest of Dr. Grafton’s story, yet he could not help but listen.

  “It took her nearly a year to die, and it was one of the most agonizing, heartrending deaths I have ever witnessed. Everyone grieved. Even the most resolute Christian believers suddenly found themselves questioning a God who could allow a woman like Felicia to suffer such agony. Just to be in the room with her toward the end was enough to devastate the strongest man. There were times when I actually felt myself caught up and trapped inside her pain—it was that vicious. It was unbearable…simply unbearable”

  He stopped, and Daniel saw the doctor’s shoulders lift as he drew in a long, steadying breath. “Yet I never, in all that time, heard her utter an angry or accusing word against her God.”

  He turned around, and he suddenly looked much older. A veil of sorrow seemed to have slipped over his features. “I’m afraid I can’t say as much for myself. I raged at God—I believe I may have even threatened Him a time or two. I expect I’m living proof of His mercy, for He could just as easily have struck me dead for my blasphemy. Perhaps He took pity on me, for I believe by then I might have been a little mad.”

  For a moment the doctor said nothing more, but simply stood, his hands clasped behind him, looking across the room at the chair Elizabeth Ward had recently vacated.

  Slowly, then, he lifted his eyes back to Daniel. “Felicia was my wife,” he said quietly.

  At Daniel’s sharp intake of breath, the doctor raised a hand to indicate he had not finished his story. “A few weeks after she died, I found her diary, which she had kept up until the time she was no longer able to write. It was a revelation. For all her suffering, her agony, she had written beautiful things. Her words were almost like songs of exultation. I found page after page of surprises, amazing insights and feelings that had come from her heart…her soul…things that changed forever my ideas about pain—and where God is in the midst of pain.

  “She wrote about the Lord holding her hand, about how He carried her over the mountains and above the valleys of pain and showed her wondrous things—promised glories. There was this incomprehensible…joy in everything she wrote. Even when she wrote directly of the pain, she seemed to be rejoicing somewhere deep inside her, closed to the rest of us.

  “One entry was written directly to me…” He faltered, wiped a hand over his eyes, then went on. “She told me how God had come to her in what she called her ‘valley of pain,’ how He had come close, closer than He had ever been before and lifted her up into His arms. She said He had carried her through it all, had held her so close…so very close…that she almost thought she could hear His very heartbeat.”

  Shaken, Daniel clung to his every word. His mother had spoken of an experience something very like what the doctor was relating after she gave birth to Teddy. She, too, had talked of the Lord “carrying” her through her pain.

  Dr. Grafton looked weary and gray, but his eyes were filled with a faint glimmer of wonder as he went on. “Felicia apparently found a kind of…glory… in her suffering. To this day, I can’t begin to comprehend what she must have experienced. But her words gave me a hope that I believe has made me a better doctor than I might have been otherwise.”

  He looked at Daniel. “It’s my observation that you will make a fine, fine doctor, son, and I truly hope you’ll pursue your dream. If I may, though, let me give you this caution, in hopes it might ease your way a bit. This is the best time—now, while you’re young and life hasn’t worn you down—to face the reality of pain and suffering. As a doctor, you’re going to encounter horrible things, wretched, heartbreaking things. This is the time to confront that reality, not when you’re caught up in the middle of an emotional storm. Face the dragon now and decide just how you intend to deal with it. It is for you to choose whether you’re going to blame God for the ugliness life is sure to bring—or whether you’re going to trust Him with it all and keep on going.

  “For I tell you, Daniel, I am convinced that what you believe, really believe, about the Great Physician and His workings in our poor human lives will make a very real difference in the kind of physician—and the kind of man—you ultimately become.”

  Daniel stood staring at this man he had come to admire and trust, in whose footsteps he hoped to follow. He couldn’t speak. His feelings were too overpowering, his thoughts racing in too many directions.

  But he was moved almost to tears with gratitude. For somehow he knew that today, thanks to Nicholas Grafton’s willingness to bare his heart, he had already faced the dragon and made his choice.

  25

  Portrait of a Woman

  The certainty that I shall see that lady

  Leaning or standing or walking

  In the first loveliness of womanhood,

  And with the fervour of my youthful eyes,

  Has set me muttering like a fool.

  W.B. YEATS (1865-1939)

  Dublin

  Late October

  This child spends far more time in his mother’s bedroom than in his nursery,” Lucy observed good-naturedly as she watched Finola cuddle baby Gabriel on her lap. “He will not recognize one from the other, I’m thinking.”

  In the rocking chair by the window, Finola ruffled the golden head snuggled next to her heart, smiling down at her son. “He is far too small for that big drafty room, I think. Although it is quite grand, as nurseries go,” she added. “Besides, he will be hungry soon, so I shall keep him here for now.”

  Lucy watched them for another moment. “Then I will take the diapers downstairs to the laundry. Do you want anything from the kitchen when I come back?”

  Finola shook her head. “I am growing far too round as it is.”

  “Would you listen to the girl!” Lucy burst out, propping her hands on her hips. “For the first time in memory, she has a bit of meat on her bones, and doesn’t she fret?”

  Finola laughed at her. “All the same, I will have nothing from the kitchen.”

  After Lucy left the room, Finola nursed baby Gabriel contentedly. She treasured these times of quiet closeness with her son. And how she did adore him!

  Her golden child had charmed the entire household. Except for Artegal, that is. The sour-tempered footman obviously found even a sweet baby boy only a bother.

  But everyone else did dote on the new heir of Nelson Hall. His big sister, Aine, could not pass him by without a squeeze and a kiss. She picked him up so often that Lucy had taken to scolding: “The babe hasn’t a chance! He will be spoiled entirely!”

  Sister Louisa, however, declared that there was little likelihood of spoiling such a sweet-tempered child. “He will know himself to be cherished, so where’s the harm? Just see how well he takes it all in his stride. The child is an angel.”

  “You see, my precious? You have captured an entire treasure of hearts for your very own!” Finola continued to affirm her son with soft reminders of how important he was to her and his family at Nelson Hall. She often carried on long conversations with the babe when they were together. She would speak to him of the day’s events, discuss decisions that needed to be made, and he would rub his tiny hand along the column of her throat as if to reply.

  But at times like these, it seemed that words were not enough! Her heart threatened to burst with the joy of being a mother—Gabriel’s mother. Without warning, a song welled up inside her, a frivolous, but delightful, little children’s air.

  These days, she frequently found herself singing, although silently. In her heart she sang lullabies for Gabriel, joyful hymns to her merciful Lord, and even timid, secret songs of affection for Morgan.

  Only now did she realize that she was singing the happy little children’s song aloud! Surprised at herself, she went on singing, elated at how easy it seemed.

  The words seemed to fairly dance over her tongue! Irish words, bright
and carefree. They came easily, spilling out like sparkling clear water from a fountain. How perfectly they seemed to fit her emotions this night.

  Obviously, baby Gabriel appreciated her song. He nursed eagerly, his tiny hand locking hold of her thumb as she went on singing.

  Morgan stopped the wheelchair outside Finola’s partially opened door, caught off guard by the sound of singing. He recognized the lighthearted children’s song, and after a moment realized with amazement that Finola was singing it!

  What kind of voice was this from one so young, so timid and fragile?

  He had always admired her speaking voice, for it was crystalline and gently rhythmic, like a pure, sweet waterfall. But this…this was a voice that could scale the Mountains of Mayo, a voice that could put wings to the heart and sweep it over the sun! This was a voice one would never forget.

  It was also a highly trained voice, Morgan suddenly realized. Aside from the glorious quality and tone, there was an obvious discipline and control, as well as a technical perfection that even a simple children’s song could not obscure. This was no young girl’s fancy of a voice, but a well-polished instrument, fine and rich and wondrous.

  Understanding came rushing in on him like the tide. Of course! Why had he not realized it before now? Her love of music, the way her throat had seemed to caress the words of a song in those days before she regained her voice, and, later, after she had at last begun to speak, the smooth, flowing rhythm of her words—he should have seen long before now!

  Sometime…somewhere, in the dark, unknown chamber of her past, Finola’s voice had been trained. Someone had coached her, taught her how to use that splendid instrument to perfection.

  The door to the bedroom was partly ajar, and he turned the wheelchair just enough so that he could see inside. She was there, sitting by the window in the dim glow of candlelight, her back to him, her head bent low over the child. She was singing to Gabriel, her voice low and tender and caressing. A mother singing a lullaby to her babe.

  Morgan could tell by her pose that she was nursing the baby, and for a moment he felt embarrassed, almost like a voyeur. But as quickly as it came, the awkwardness passed, and he allowed himself the luxury of watching that golden head bent over her child as she sang her tender songs of love to her son.

  As he sat there, drinking in the sight of her, his heart melting, his head swimming, an awareness of something different about her slowly dawned inside him. For the first time he saw Finola as more than the lovely, enigmatic girl with wounded eyes, whom he had grown to cherish with a fiercely protective kind of love. He saw her as an infinitely lovely, mature young woman. A woman, a mother…and his wife. In his house, under his eyes…Finola had gently passed from girl to woman. A mystery!

  They made such a beautiful picture, the two of them, that he wished he could have a painting of the scene.

  The thought of a portrait nagged at him, teased his mind, as if there were something he was not seeing, something important.…

  It hit him so suddenly he almost gasped aloud. If he had a portrait to send to Frank Cassidy, surely it would aid him in his search! Cassidy had been frustrated at every turn in his quest to uncover Finola’s background. Every attempt to locate her family had been futile.

  But a likeness of Finola—it might make all the difference! And even if he couldn’t locate a trace of her family, there must be others—others who would recognize that unforgettable face! If he were right about her having been trained in the singing, then somewhere there must be a vocal coach, an instructor.

  A portrait was what was needed, right enough!

  But there was no portrait, nothing at all except for the large family portrait Sister Louisa had painted as a wedding gift.

  Sister Louisa! Whipping the wheelchair around, Morgan sped down the hall toward the nun’s room, almost ramming the chair against the door when he reached it.

  “A portrait of Finola?” Sister Louisa stared at the Seanchai, his face eager and expectant in the open doorway. “Why, yes…I expect I could. But—”

  “I would need it as soon as possible, that’s the thing.”

  Sister Louisa had been altogether startled by the fierce pounding on her door, more startled yet when she opened it to find the Seanchai, looking somewhat wild-eyed and impatient.

  Her first thought had been of Finola and the child, or young Annie. Panic had gripped her, but the Seanchai quickly assured her that nothing was wrong. “But I would ask a favor of you, Sister, if I might impose.”

  His request made, he still seemed quite agitated. The urgency behind his words made Sister Louisa more than a little curious. But clearly, he was not going to explain.

  “I shouldn’t imagine it would take long.” She paused, still hoping for an explanation. “Is it to be a surprise?” she asked. “Should I not mention it to Finola?”

  “That’s right. I’d rather you say nothing about it. It can be small, Sister, as long as it’s a fair likeness. And…quickly rendered.”

  Sister Louisa nodded, still bemused by his behavior as she watched him wheel himself off down the hall toward his bedroom.

  The Seanchai could really be quite strange at times, in a rather endearing manner.

  Closing the door, she crossed the room and set a clean sheet of drawing paper on the small easel that Sandemon had made for her as a gift. Within moments, she had the beginnings of what she considered an attractive—and highly realistic—portrait of Finola Fitzgerald.

  26

  The Midnight Thief

  Oh! thou, who comest, like a midnight thief,

  Uncounted, seeking whom thou may’st destroy;

  Rupturing anew the half-closed wounds of grief,

  And sealing up each new-born spring of joy.…

  JOHN KEEGAN (1809-1849)

  (VICTIM OF THE DUBLIN CHOLERA EPIDEMIC OF 1849)

  It was one of those clear, piquant autumn nights that seemed made for music and merrymaking. In the Gypsy camp there was always plenty of both.

  The Romany caravan might have been in the middle of a country meadow instead of on the fringes of a Dublin slum, for all the attention the traveling people paid to those around them. About a dozen painted wagons were spread out to form a wide half circle, which gave a measure of privacy to the Gypsies. In the camp, children whooped and played outside until all hours, subdued only when their parents grew tired of the din. The men drank and laughed and made music late into the night, until they either fell asleep by the dying campfires or the weather turned bitter enough to drive them inside the wagons.

  If other denizens of the Liberties objected to the noise, they grumbled mostly to themselves. To approach the camp of the Rom with a complaint, no matter how legitimate, would be foolhardy. And for an inhabitant of such a notorious, crime-ridden slum to carry a grievance to the law would be more foolhardy still.

  Everyone knew that the Gypsies were quick to exact their revenge. The wisest course was to tolerate them from a distance.

  Indifferent to the chill in the air and the noise in the camp, Tierney Burke lay propped up on one elbow beside the fire. He felt sluggish and idle, but supremely content. The cheap wine he’d been drinking for well over an hour had thickened his blood, and the festive mood of the Romany camp had infected him with a kind of drowsy euphoria.

  Across from him, Jan Martova perched on a rock, cleaning a piece of harness. Each family shared their own campfire, although a great deal of intermingling went on. At the moment, Tierney and Jan were alone at the fire, the elder Martova brother and other relatives having gone to care for the horses.

  Someone across the camp was softly playing a squeeze-box. On the outer fringes of the wagons, the Gypsy dogs—fierce, wild things that seemed to growl with every breath—took up an eerie howling as if to echo the music. Children raced in and out between the wagons, shouting and laughing as they played their games.

  Tierney was no longer a stranger to the tribe. Tonight marked the third time he had managed to slip away from Nelson
Hall to visit the Gypsies. Although the cholera epidemic had long since ebbed, Morgan had as yet refused to lift his ban on entering Dublin. He made no exceptions, not even when Annie had begged to go and see the Queen ride through the city.

  What Annie did not know was that Tierney had sneaked off for a look at the royal procession. Just as he would have expected, the “Little Queen” was not much to see, nor was the rest of the royal family. He had thought the entire show in abominable taste and obscenely extravagant. Worse yet were the Dublin fools who stood in the streets and cheered the English queen, as if she were not responsible for shoveling dirt on countless Irish graves.

  The Gypsy camp was one of the first places Tierney sought out when he began slipping off at night. In the beginning, he had been welcomed with only a sullen courtesy by the Rom, especially in the case of Jan’s older brother, Greco. As a Gorgio—an outsider—Tierney was automatically suspect by the Gypsies, even though they acknowledged that he had helped to save the life of one of their own.

  By his second visit, however, the story of the experience at the jail and the subsequent hospitality extended to Jan at Nelson Hall had circulated the caravan, gaining Tierney a warmer reception. Even Greco, though still somewhat gruff in his demeanor, no longer behaved as if the young American might be carrying the plague.

  Having been exposed to all the prejudices against Gypsies in America, Tierney had acquired no small contempt for them. Yet he found himself drawn to the Martova camp more and more often. Here there was always food and drink, stories of faraway places, tales of ancient mysteries—and beautiful, exotic girls who seemed to find him dangerously intriguing.

  One of those girls was Jan’s sister, Zia. Only fourteen, she looked more like eighteen, with black, almond-shaped eyes, flashing white teeth, and skin the color of honey. An immense mass of dark hair flew about her face, and her slightest movement seemed imbued with the lithe grace of a young wildcat. She was a stunner, the kind of girl Da would call trouble.