Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  Evan’s savings in London were as good as lost to him. In order to prevent that terrible employer of his—Roger Gilpin—from learning his whereabouts, he had found it necessary to forfeit his bank account and leave all his personal belongings behind when he came to the States.

  But Winifred had plenty of money, more than she’d ever spend, even if she lived to be a doddering old fool. Besides, as Lewis Farmington’s wife, she wouldn’t exactly be indigent.

  She smiled to herself. Lewis’s shrewd financial advice was largely responsible for the investments that were even now fattening her bank account. At least, she thought wryly, no one could accuse her of marrying the man for his money. Of all the reasons she could think of for falling in love with Lewis Farmington, money did not even make the list.

  Oh, she did hope she would hear from Jeremy Cole soon! If he’d managed to do what she asked, it could make a wonderful difference for Evan and Nora, especially now. She had great faith in Jeremy; there was no more clever solicitor in London. More to the point, however, he had been a good friend to Winifred for years.

  Emptying the dishwater, she dried her hands. Jeremy was clever all right, but she could hardly expect him to break the law on her account. Still, if there were any way under God’s heaven to free Evan’s savings without that awful Roger Gilpin finding out, she knew Jeremy would figure a way to manage it.

  She had given him strict instructions that no one—absolutely no one—must ever learn of Evan’s whereabouts. And that, of course, was what complicated the whole affair.

  Winifred had deliberately kept Evan in the dark about her attempts on his behalf. If Jeremy were successful, it would be a delightful surprise for her troubled nephew. If Jeremy failed, then she intended to transfer a sum from her own funds into an account in Evan’s name.

  Either way, Evan must be allowed to believe that it was his money. She had already stipulated in her newly drawn will—with Lewis’s approval—that Evan receive her entire estate. If he happened to receive a share of it while she was still alive, so much the better—she would enjoy watching him use it.

  When the dishes were done, she went into the small adjoining dining room to check the place settings and candles. Just inside the door, she stopped. The trouble-making cat—Finbar, of all the presumptuous names!—was perched on Evan’s empty chair, eyeing the table.

  Winifred flew at him with a hiss, flapping her apron. He leaped screeching from the chair and bolted from the room.

  Shaking her head, she dusted off the chair with her hand. She continued to be appalled that Evan, otherwise such a sensible man, actually tolerated that bothersome little creature inside the house. There was no accounting for the way the entire family put up with the cat’s mischief.

  After straightening the tablecloth, Winifred went to the window and looked out. It was dark outside, but with enough moonlight that she could make out the distant outline of the park. Arms folded, she hugged her body, shuddering. She could scarcely bear the sight of the place, a bleak reminder of Little Tom’s untimely death.

  In the daylight, she actually avoided looking out this particular window, which faced the park. It was enough to live with the effects of tragedy without being constantly reminded of it. Yet the sorrowful eyes of poor, tragic Johanna never quite allowed anyone to forget what had happened last spring.

  Johanna. Whatever was to become of the girl? The death of her little brother seemed to have isolated her even more than her inability to hear or speak. Nora and Evan—and that wonderful boy, Daniel John—had tried everything to break through the wall of silent grief that seemed to surround her. They had all been so hopeful the baby might make a difference, but Johanna continued to avoid little Teddy.

  It was no exaggeration to say that everyone in the family had labored in prayer for Johanna, herself included. What Winifred confessed to no one was that it was becoming more and more difficult to pray with any real hope, just as it was increasingly difficult to imagine what kind of future might lie in store for the girl.

  Unexpectedly, almost as if in response to her troubled thoughts, one of her favorite portions of Scripture settled over her heart: “For I know the plans I have for you,” says the LORD, “plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.”

  Winifred held her breath, a sense of wonder sweeping through her. For the first time in a very long time, she felt her shadowy concerns and dark dreads about Johanna…and Evan and Nora…begin to recede behind a slowly rising light of divine promise.

  She had no idea as to why she should suddenly feel hopeful. She only knew a subtle brightening of her spirit, as if God’s loving heart had touched her own with a gentle reminder that He was still in control…He still cared…and there was still hope.

  Johanna sat on the chair between the double bed and the crib, keeping watch and occasionally dozing. Aunt Nora was sleeping soundly, but baby Teddy was wide awake. He fidgeted about, shaking his fists with fierce determination or pursing his tiny mouth into a frown, then a grin.

  Johanna watched him out of the corner of her eye, trying not to notice his baby antics. She couldn’t stop a smile. But when a wave of longing to pick him up and cuddle him seized her, she quickly looked away. Resting her head against the back of the chair, she closed her eyes. Soon he renewed his efforts to get her attention, but Johanna forced herself to ignore him.

  In her mind, she began to chant the little nonsense rhyme she had made up, a rhyme Teddy would never hear, but which she had created especially for the angel game:

  Oh, Teddy-Dear, don’t you fear,

  God sent an angel

  To guard and watch over you all through the night.…

  My Teddy-Boy, she’ll stay close by,

  To love and protect you till night becomes day.

  Sometimes Johanna pretended that she was baby Teddy’s guardian angel, sent from heaven to protect him. She hoped it wasn’t a sinful thing, pretending to be an angel. She only did it because she imagined it helped Teddy to understand why she couldn’t pick him up, or tickle him under the chin as Aunt Winnie did, or rock him to sleep—or do any of the things she secretly longed to do.

  Being an angel she couldn’t be an ordinary big sister, as she yearned with all her heart to be. But she could stay near him and watch over him. She could even allow her heart to whisper that she loved him.

  Johanna understood that the angel game was only make-believe. In truth, she wasn’t entirely certain she still believed in angels any longer. If they were real—as Uncle Evan insisted they were—where had they been the day wee Tom drowned in the pond? Why hadn’t the angels saved him?

  And yet she could not quite bring herself to give up the game altogether, for it allowed her to pretend, at least for a time, that she was very important to Teddy, that she had a legitimate reason for staying close to him.

  Besides, not all of the angel game was make-believe: part of it was real. She did love baby Teddy. That much, at least, was entirely true, no matter that it was a secret.

  Johanna had another secret, one she didn’t quite know what to do with. She had told no one about it, for if anyone knew, she wasn’t sure what it might mean to her.

  She could make sounds…sounds in her throat. She remembered the night she first discovered the secret. It had been late, long past midnight, on one of the nights after Little Tom’s death. She had been lying face-down on her bed, crying for her brother, crying for her loss. Those nights following the drowning, she often wept until daybreak—hard, wracking cries that left her limp as a rag doll afterward.

  On this night, she had been seized with an unusually violent fit of weeping. Earlier, she had fallen into an uneasy sleep, only to be startled awake by the memory of seeing wee Tom carried, lifeless, from the pond. Newly assaulted by a vicious storm of guilt and grief, she had felt herself trapped behind a steadily rising wall of stone and mortar. One by one the huge stones hemmed her in, building her prison higher and higher, the dense walls crowding in on her by degrees
until she could see no daylight, could breathe in no fresh air, only the cold, dank stench that often came from a dry well.

  Wild with terror and anguish, she clutched her head with both hands, burying her face in the pillow. A torrent of violent sobs ripped from her throat, while her mind screamed in agony for release.

  Then she had felt the peculiar sensation in her ears, the hot tickling in her throat, like a vibration. She screamed into the pillow again…and grabbed her throat as something seemed to explode from deep inside her.

  She had known then that there was sound…a voice…somewhere deep within her, trying to break out.

  She had never experienced it again, had deliberately checked any impulse to allow the sound to escape. What had happened that night months ago still frightened her, in some way even threatened her, and so she had kept it secret all this time.

  Sometimes Johanna felt as if her entire life was a secret…as if the wall of terrors that had surrounded her that night had finally become a reality, and no one could see her trapped behind it.

  39

  Acts of Desperation

  The winter is cold, the wind is risen.…

  FROM THE “COLLOQUY OF THE ANCIENTS,”

  THE FENIAN CYCLE

  Quinn was disgusted with herself for feeling so intimidated. Sitting beside the grim-featured police captain, she set her face straight ahead, avoiding even a sideways glance in his direction. She was determined not to let him see how rattled she was in his presence.

  Quinn was realistic enough to concede that she would be fidgety in the company of any policeman. Even the younger, good-natured Sergeant Price put her on edge. There was no denying that she had her people’s innate distrust of the Law. She also had reasons of her own to avoid the Law.

  She told herself it was the police wagon that unnerved her so, not the man. A “Black Maria,” he had called it, explaining that it was used for transporting prisoners.

  That was exactly what she felt like—a prisoner. In the course of the evening she had escaped her cell at the Women’s Shelter only to find herself strong-armed by Sergeant Price. In short order the sergeant had handed her off to the custody of his captain, a black Irish warrior-type, who, to Quinn’s amazement, turned out to be the husband of Mrs. Burke!

  After listening to her initial explanation about the Shelter, the captain had proceeded to question Quinn in a blunt, but not unkind, manner about her “business” with his wife. Still somewhat dazed by the reality that the granite-jawed captain was indeed married to Mrs. Burke, Quinn had found herself tongue-tied for one of the few times in her life.

  To give the man his due, Sergeant Price had stepped in to help inject some order into her story. Apparently, his interpretation had sounded more plausible, for the captain wasted no time in changing tactics. After sending Sergeant Price off with the one-armed Britisher—something to do with a missing little boy—he then informed Quinn that he, and not the sergeant, would be escorting her to his wife.

  Quinn could tell he was suspicious of her—and clearly impatient. However, her hopes were somewhat buoyed when he mentioned something to the sergeant about a “subcommission” and the likelihood of an “immediate investigation of the Shelter.”

  Stealing a glance at his stern profile beside her, she wondered what her situation actually was. What would they do with her, once she had spoken with Mrs. Burke? The captain seemed a hard man, and she wouldn’t put it past him to try to cart her off to another “shelter” of some sort. Or a cell.

  Quinn dug at her skirts with both hands. No matter how the captain planned to dispose of her, she would be one step ahead of him. For the first time in months, she was inhaling the air of freedom. It might bear the stench of garbage and animal droppings, but it smelled of heaven itself after her lengthy confinement.

  “You needn’t be afraid, girl,” the captain said unexpectedly.

  Quinn jumped, snapping her head up to look at him.

  “If you’re telling the truth,” he said, looking over at her, “you’ve nothing to fear.”

  “’Tis the truth,” she said, out of sorts at the way he continued to question her story. He had already challenged her more than once before they ever left the police station. “Is that why you’re arresting me? Because you don’t think I’m telling the truth?”

  He swung around to look at her. “I’m not arresting you, girl! Unless I’m mistaken, you’re the one who insisted on speaking with my wife!”

  Stubbornly, Quinn didn’t answer, but kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him finally turn his attention back to the street, his jaw set tighter than ever.

  Silence hung between them for a long time. As they drove, Quinn became aware of the gradual change in their surroundings. They had left behind the rutted streets, the pigs, the ramshackle taverns, and turned onto a broad, tree-lined avenue, cobbled and well-lighted. Gas lamps flickered on the corners, and the lace-curtained windows of the stately houses glowed from within. The odors were different, too. The sour, yeasty smells and the stench of garbage had been exchanged for the scent of woodsmoke and late-falling leaves.

  “We’re almost there,” the captain said, turning a corner. Quinn took in their surroundings with surprise. Although she remembered Mrs. Burke as being a finely dressed, soft-voiced lady, she would never have thought to find an Irish policeman living in such a grand setting.

  The farther into the neighborhood they went, the larger and more elegant the homes appeared. Many were mansions, with three, even four stories, wide, rambling porches, and cone-shaped roofs. Most were surrounded by ornamental iron fences and towering trees.

  At the end of the street, they pulled up in front of a sprawling mansion of dark stone, with ivy concealing much of the front. Although there was nothing particularly spectacular about the house, it reminded Quinn for all the world of one of the aging castles back home. Surrounded by enormous old oak trees and gracious landscaping, it looked peaceful and somehow inviting.

  She glanced over at the captain. As if aware of her scrutiny, he motioned toward the house and said, “It belongs to my wife’s grandmother. We live here with her.”

  Without another word, he jumped down from the patrol wagon and surprised Quinn by coming around to her side to help her down.

  The frigid November wind seemed to go right to the bone as soon as she stepped out of the wagon. Her thin sweater was next to useless, and she couldn’t keep from shaking. Even her teeth were chattering.

  The captain opened a sturdy iron gate, and they started up the walkway. Quinn gaped at the place, wondering what madness had made her insist on coming here. What sort of a reception could she expect from someone living in such grandeur as this?

  She stumbled, and the captain caught her elbow to steady her. For an instant she wondered if she had the slightest chance of outrunning him. As if he’d read her thoughts, he frowned at her, then gestured toward the front door.

  Quinn hurried along beside him, bitterly regretting her folly in coming here. But she had brought it on herself, and it would seem she had no choice but to see it through.

  Johanna struggled to stay awake. The room was warm, the oil lamp dim, and she couldn’t seem to keep from nodding off. Glancing over at the bed, she saw that Aunt Nora was still sound asleep. Teddy, however, was wide awake and playful. Every time he managed to catch her eye, he would flail his fists in the air and grin at her, as if for approval.

  Finally she got up and walked to the window. There was just enough light from the moon to see Dulcie’s house next door through the trees. As she watched, the tree branches, now stripped of their leaves, bent and swayed with the wind. She hugged her arms to herself, relishing the bedroom’s warmth.

  The cabin in Killala had always been cold. There had never been enough firewood, and sometimes, especially at night, the wind off the ocean seemed to blow right through the rooms.

  One of the things she liked most about America was the warm houses. She had seldom been
cold since they arrived. In truth, she liked a great deal about her new country, but she sometimes felt guilty for acknowledging the fact. Both of her parents had died in Ireland, her sister and little brother here in America. She must be wicked entirely, to feel so grateful for her new life. It didn’t seem right, somehow, that a new country, a new home—no matter how warm—could even in part make up for all she had lost.

  For a long time she stood staring out into the night, thinking about her family. Then a shadow on the drapes caught her eye, and she turned around. The mischievous cat, Finbar, was crouched on top of the lamp table near the crib, vying for Teddy’s attention.

  Obviously, Teddy found the cat’s mischief great fun. His round cheeks were pink, his small fists and feet pummeling the air as Finbar traced a path about the base of the lamp.

  Johanna watched them for a moment. She liked to see Teddy laugh. Even if she couldn’t hear him, she liked to imagine what he must sound like when he wrinkled his tiny nose and opened his mouth until his eyes almost disappeared.

  In truth, she also enjoyed the cat’s naughty capers. But Aunt Nora didn’t like Finbar about the crib. She had best call a halt to their fun.

  Finbar slanted a look at her, and, as if encouraged by her smile, cocked his head to one side, then the other.

  Johanna started toward him, wagging her finger. At the same instant, Teddy pushed a hand through the crib, reaching for the cat’s tail. Finbar lurched, bumped the oil lamp, and sent it toppling.

  Johanna saw it all like a dizzying dream. The cat bolted wildly from the room. The lamp crashed to the floor. The oil flamed. And Teddy’s round little face went strangely sober.

  The tablecloth ignited instantly, the flames lapping up the material. The fire spread out over the oil like deadly tentacles stealing across the floor—toward the bed on one side, Teddy’s crib on the other.