Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  The truth was, he owed his loyal companion more than could ever be expressed. From the day when the big, good-humored black man had first walked into Nelson Hall, he had devoted himself to improving Morgan’s quality of life—with notable success.

  Guilt clamped down on Morgan’s heart as he acknowledged that his friend deserved better—much, much better—than he was receiving from him these days. Perhaps Sandemon had made an error in judgment—what of it? The good Lord knew that Morgan Fitzgerald had made more than his share of mistakes in the past.

  His throat tightened. It was a singular act of churlishness for him to question Sandemon’s loyalty. The man was faithful beyond measure, yet Morgan had rewarded his fidelity with cold reserve and unfounded disappointment.

  Morgan’s eyes stung, and he felt weary beyond belief. Removing his spectacles, he laid them aside, promising himself that he would not allow this barrier to stand between him and Sandemon any longer. Tomorrow they would talk, and he would set things right between them.

  For now, though, his body craved sleep. But as he reached to extinguish the oil lamp beside the bed, a sharp rap on the door made him halt with his hand in midair.

  At his “Come,” Sandemon appeared in the doorway. He entered, quietly closing the door before turning to Morgan. His expression was drawn, his eyes troubled, and Morgan knew at once he had brought bad news. Dragging in a long breath, he held it, waiting.

  Rarely did the big black man remove his well-worn seaman’s cap, but now he stood, holding it against his heart as he absently fingered its brim. “The little Gypsy boy was just at the kitchen door,” he said, his tone heavy. “He came to tell us that his cousin—Jan Martova—has been stricken with the cholera. It seems that he, too, is now seriously ill.”

  When Morgan made no reply, he went on. “Nanosh—the Gypsy boy—said his cousin was so weak, he was barely able to make himself heard when he came to the stream.” He paused. “What are we to do, Seanchai? We can no longer leave them to themselves. They must have help.”

  For a moment Morgan felt as if he himself had been stricken. A grinding dread seized him, clutching his chest, wreathing his head. He felt something ominous hanging over the room. He twisted, pushing himself over onto his side. Looking into Sandemon’s dark, worried eyes, he saw his own apprehension reflected there.

  “Seanchai?”

  Sandemon’s soft prompting reminded him of the need to think, to reason, in the face of this latest dilemma. Their eyes met and held, until at last Morgan shook his head in despair. “I cannot think what to do,” he admitted heavily, slumping back against the pillows. “I simply do not know.”

  28

  A Reluctant Parting

  I it is who shall depart,

  Though I leave with heavy heart.

  GEORGE SIGERSON (1836-1925)

  Morgan raked a hand down one side of his face, trying to think. In truth, he felt little sympathy for Jan Martova. For all he knew, the Gypsy might have been the one who infected Tierney in the first place! But there was nothing to be gained by wasting time on accusations. For Tierney’s sake—indeed, for everyone’s sake—they must figure a way to help them both. The question was how.

  “Seanchai?”

  Morgan turned, watching Sandemon as he approached the bed.

  “I think I should go and help them. I think that is the only thing to do,” the black man said calmly, adding, “If you can manage without me for a time.”

  “Well, I cannot!” Morgan burst out, twisting onto his side and pushing himself up on one arm. “It’s out of the question! I need you here, and that is that.”

  More to the point, he would not put him in such danger. Even if he could get along on his own…which he could not, of course…he was not willing to put Sandemon at risk.

  “No,” he said again. “We will find another way. I cannot manage without you.”

  Sandemon’s expression was unreadable, and after a moment he looked away. In spite of his silence, Morgan imagined he could feel the other’s disapproval.

  “Sister Louisa has had much nursing experience,” Morgan said carelessly. “She would be willing.”

  Sandemon raised his face, looking directly into Morgan’s eyes. “Please, no, Seanchai. Do not put the Sister at risk. She is greatly needed here. Mistress Finola and young Annie—and the scholars—depend on her. Surely you would not endanger her so.”

  “She is needed no more than you are,” Morgan said sourly. But Sandemon’s words left him torn and confused. Naturally, he didn’t want to assign Sister Louisa to such a dreadful task, though he knew without asking she would accept. But what were the alternatives?

  “Someone in the city, then,” he said uncertainly. “We will find a nurse—”

  “No one from the city will come, Seanchai.” Sandemon’s voice was quiet, but firm, his words clipped and precise. “You must allow me to go. There is no one else. I will prepare Lucy Hoy to help you. I will make certain she knows everything that must be done in my absence.”

  “Indeed, no!” Morgan pushed himself up, his face flaming. “I’ll not have a woman attending me! Besides,” he quickly pointed out, “she is Gabriel’s nurse—and indispensable to Finola. No, not Lucy.”

  Silence hung between them as Morgan considered the possibilities, all unfeasible. Utter frustration gripped him as he realized the hopelessness of their dilemma. Who would knowingly submit to such a task, to nurse, not one, but two victims of the deadly cholera?

  Hearing Sandemon’s long sigh, Morgan cut a glance at him.

  “Seanchai,” the black man said, “I am obviously not eager to do this thing or to leave you on your own. But I submit that it would be far easier to find someone to assist you than someone willing to face the cholera. And we do not have the luxury of time in this matter.”

  “Don’t you understand, man?” Morgan burst out. “I am not willing to risk your life for a heathen Gypsy and an ungrateful gorsoon! I should think you would thank me!” Suddenly exhausted, his skin clammy with perspiration, he again sank back against the pillows.

  For a long time, neither spoke. Morgan felt the dark-eyed scrutiny but deliberately avoided it by fixing his gaze on the ceiling.

  Finally, Sandemon broke the silence. Softly clearing his throat, he said, “Thank you, Seanchai, for…your concern. Please know I am moved by it, and very grateful. But let me explain that I survived the cholera once—and more than likely would do so again.”

  Morgan shot him a skeptical look, but the black man pretended not to notice. “It is believed in the islands,” he said, “that to have the cholera once is to be protected from having it a second time. All the more reason, I think, why I must be the one who—”

  He broke off at the sound of a light knock on the connecting door leading to Finola’s bedchamber. Both of them turned to look, and after another soft rapping, the door opened.

  Clad in her dressing gown, Finola stepped inside the room. Her hair was unbound, her features soft with sleep, her eyes wide and questioning as she looked from one to the other.

  “I…I’m sorry to interrupt, but I heard voices. I thought something must have happened.”

  Morgan quickly reached to toss the quilt over his legs, bare below the hem of his nightshirt. “Forgive us, Finola. I didn’t realize we were talking so loudly.”

  Sandemon, too, inclined his head in a gesture of regret.

  A flourish of her hands indicated they need not apologize. “What is it?” she asked, her gaze again traveling from one to the other. “Is something wrong?”

  Sandemon turned, exchanging a look with Morgan.

  “Nothing that need worry you,” Morgan said, unwilling to alarm her. When he saw that she was waiting for an explanation, he added, reluctantly, “It seems that the Gypsy boy has also been taken with the cholera. We were just discussing what should be done.”

  Her hand went to her throat. “Both of them are ill? But…how will they manage, then? Who will care for them?”

  Morgan gla
nced at Sandemon, then looked away. “That’s the very thing we were discussing,” he muttered. “We have no solution as yet.”

  But Sandemon was not so easily deterred. “I was hoping the Seanchai might allow me to go to help the young men,” he said quietly. “There is no one else.”

  Finola went pale, staring at him with dismay. “Oh, Sandemon! You would be placing yourself in great danger—”

  Seeing her distress, Morgan immediately moved to reassure her. “He knows I won’t allow it,” he said, glaring at Sandemon, who appeared not to notice. “I cannot have him going off to play nursemaid when I need him here.”

  Sandemon turned, regarding him with a searching look. He seemed uncertain as to whether or not he should speak. Clutching his cap closer to his chest, he cast another brief glance in Finola’s direction.

  “Forgive me, Seanchai” he finally said, turning back to Morgan, “I would not offend you, but I can’t help observing that you have come to manage very well on your own. Indeed, you have attained a great deal of independence. Surely those few things for which you still require assistance could be assumed by someone else, at least for a short time.”

  Morgan stiffened, vaguely aware that he was being deliberately stubborn, yet unwilling to give over. Before he could comment, Sandemon went on. “I do not mean to be impertinent, Seanchai, but the lives of those two young men out there may very well depend upon their receiving whatever care I can provide. That much, at least, I can do.” He paused, then added firmly, “And while I would not lightly ignore your wishes, that much I intend to do.”

  Morgan’s temper flared. “You would defy me?”

  “I would prefer not to. That is why I am asking your approval.”

  Morgan glared at him, all the while uncomfortable in the awareness that Finola was taking in every word of their conversation, her troubled gaze darting from one to the other.

  She could not know, of course, that his heavy-handed tactics were due as much to fear for Sandemon as to simple obstinacy.

  Sandemon caught him off guard with his next words. “Seanchai,” he said gently, “I believe you are afraid for me, and I am truly touched by your concern.”

  Morgan shot him a look of surprise. Sandemon smiled a little as he said, “It is a fine thing for a man to have such a loyal friend, and I am thankful.”

  “Aye…well…I was beginning to think I would need to paint you a picture,” Morgan said gruffly.

  “Nevertheless,” Sandemon went on, still smiling, “I would remind you once more that I have already had the cholera…and survived. It is highly unlikely it would strike me again. Taking that into account, Seanchai, may I please, then, have your permission to go to the Gypsy wagon?”

  Still determined to stop him, Morgan scowled and replied, “And what about me, then? Shall I employ a stranger in your absence?”

  “That will be quite unnecessary,” Finola said, her tone uncharacteristically assured. “I will assume Sandemon’s duties in your behalf until he returns.”

  Her quiet announcement struck the room like a thunderbolt. Morgan nearly choked on his own breath, and even Sandemon’s stoic calm appeared to falter ever so slightly.

  As if entirely unaware of their astonishment, Finola crossed the room and came to stand beside the bed. Clasping her hands at her waist, she gave Sandemon a shy smile before turning an unsettlingly clear blue gaze on Morgan.

  “If Sandemon truly feels he must do this, then you need not concern yourself any further about managing without him. I am quite capable of assisting you in his absence, and will be more than happy to do so.”

  For a moment Morgan could do nothing but stare at her in disbelief. Something in her obviously well-intentioned proposal set his heart to racing like a wild thing, even though he quickly reminded himself that she was simply trying to be helpful.

  “That’s…very kind of you, Finola,” he managed to say in a reasonably controlled tone of voice, “but entirely unnecessary. If Sandemon has set his head to this, I will call upon one of the stable grooms to attend me.”

  He felt painfully awkward under her searching look. “I will…manage,” he added inanely.

  She continued to study him for another moment, then unexpectedly turned and said, “Sandemon, would you mind if I spoke to Morgan alone, please?”

  Finola waited until Sandemon had slipped quietly from the room, then turned back to Morgan.

  Moving closer to the bed, she studied him for a moment. “You are distressed about what Sandemon intends to do,” she said softly. “You are afraid for him.”

  He nodded. “I expect what distresses me most is knowing he’s right—there seems to be no alternative.”

  “You must try not to worry about him,” Finola said, touching his hand. “I somehow think Sandemon is invincible.”

  He glanced at her hand, then caught it in his. “Let us hope. I confess I cannot bear to think of Nelson Hall without his presence.” He paused. “I am sorry we woke you. You’re troubled enough without our adding to it.”

  There was no denying that she was troubled. The very idea of cholera terrified her, especially when she allowed herself to think about Gabriel…or Morgan…being stricken. But she sensed this was not the time to admit her own terrors.

  “I try not to dwell on it,” she said, forcing a note of cheerfulness into her voice. “Sometimes I feel as if I have lived my entire life in fear. I don’t want to be that way any longer. I’ll not spoil the peace God has given me in this place.”

  He squeezed her hand, a look of pleasure crossing his features. “It means a great deal to me to hear you say that you’ve found peace here. It’s what I’ve wanted for you from the beginning…that, and your happiness.”

  Finola felt her heart swell with love for him, for his sweet and unfailing concern, his thoughtfulness, his gentleness. It was all she could do not to blurt out her feelings. Instead, she managed to smile and say lightly, “Then you will not argue with me further. You will allow me to assist you while Sandemon is away, for it will make me very unhappy if you refuse.”

  He avoided meeting her gaze as he spoke, but his face betrayed his pain. “Finola, I can’t expect you to understand. But it’s…difficult, being as I am. Even with Sandemon, it’s sometimes a struggle. But with you, mavourneen…”

  He looked at her, and Finola’s throat tightened at the torment in his eyes.

  “With you,” he went on after a ragged breath, “I find it much more difficult. For the most part, I can toss my pride to the wind with Sandemon. But I find myself fighting for every last shred of it where you’re concerned.”

  Determined that he would see no pity in her eyes, Finola fought down the rush of dismay his words evoked. “Morgan…”

  He shook his head, bringing her hand to his lips for a moment. “It’s a bitter thing entirely for me to appear weak and dependent—helpless—in your eyes,” he said softly, lowering her hand but not releasing it. “I would have you see me as invincible, like Sandemon—a tall and mighty warrior.”

  He gave her a faint, self-mocking smile that nearly broke Finola’s heart. Oh, my love…you could never imagine how I think of you…you are my prince, my brave, bronze prince who makes my heart soar and my senses sing with joy…I think of you only with love…always with love.…

  Somehow she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Morgan, there is something I must say to you,” she said, drawing in a steadying breath. “It is important to me, and I ask you to please hear me. Up until now, you have done everything for me, while I…I have done nothing for you in return.”

  When he would have protested, Finola silenced him by hurrying on. “No, let me say this, please. Don’t you see, Morgan, for such a long time, I have felt as you say you feel—weak and dependent and helpless. Yet, I have longed to be more than that…in your eyes.”

  “Finola—” With a stricken look, he clasped her hand more tightly.

  She shook her head and went on, her voice stronger now. “You have grown used to thinki
ng of me…almost as a child—a sick child who must be sheltered and protected. And I am infinitely grateful for your protection, Morgan—why, I can’t think what might have happened to me without you! I doubt that I would have survived at all. But…I’m not sure you realize that I’ve changed. I am no longer ill, don’t you see? I’m no longer weak or helpless. Indeed, I am quite healthy. I would even say I’m strong. And, Morgan—Morgan, I am a woman.”

  She stopped, but did not look away. Leaning closer to him, she forced herself to finish what she had begun. “I am a woman…and a mother. I am also your wife, Morgan, and it would please me no end if you would treat me as such. I am asking that you allow me to help you, just as you have helped me. That would please me, Morgan, truly it would.”

  His eyes searched hers. Slowly he nodded, a token of assent. Finola squeezed his hand and smiled. “Good. I will go and tell Sandemon to prepare a brief list for me, so I will know exactly what you require in his absence. You rest now, Morgan. I won’t be long.”

  Within the hour, they bade Sandemon farewell. Only Morgan and Finola were there, in the privacy of Morgan’s bedroom, to send him off with their wishes and prayers.

  Still somewhat dazed by Finola’s assertiveness, Morgan was finding it difficult to take in this sudden, unanticipated change and what it would mean in his life. At the moment, he could concentrate on little else than Sandemon’s departure for the Gypsy wagon.

  With his usual efficiency, the black man had taken time to gather a number of supplies he thought he might need: a roll of flannel, some laudanum and camphor, a lantern, a box of candles, and other small items.

  “I will send word by the Gypsy boy as to what foods we need prepared,” he told Morgan. “If they are able to take nourishment, that is.” He paused, looking from Morgan to Finola. “You do understand that it may be weeks before I can return to the house. We will have to make absolutely certain all danger of contagion has passed.”