Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  In truth, he was entirely capable of handling this mundane procedure himself, but he wouldn’t for the world have let on. Always, she would stay awhile. They would talk, or play long games of chess. Sometimes she would ask him to play the harp while she sat listening. Occasionally, he managed to coax her into singing, but she was still obviously shy about doing so.

  The thought that tonight she would not come to him was almost more than he could endure. Feeling infinitely weary and seized with an aching coldness, he wheeled himself back to the table. Spying Finola’s delicate lace handkerchief on her chair, he picked it up. With a sad smile, he brought it to his cheek, savoring her faint scent before tucking the delicate item into his shirt pocket, next to his heart.

  Later that night, after nursing Gabriel and leaving him to Lucy’s attentions, Finola went through the motions of changing into her nightdress and dressing gown, scarcely aware of what she was doing.

  She was appalled at the way she had spoken to Morgan. That she had dared to admonish him still dismayed her. It wasn’t so much that she feared his displeasure. He hadn’t seemed in the least angry with her for speaking her mind—indeed, had encouraged her to do so.

  What troubled her most was the pain she had seen in his eyes when he turned to look at her. She had wounded him. She would rather drive a dagger through her own heart than hurt him, but there had been no mistaking the anguish that had looked out at her. In her attempt to save Tierney Burke from banishment, she had hurt Morgan!

  She sank down on the side of the bed, hugging her arms to herself. She could not forget the way he had looked at her, the way his voice had faltered when he spoke.

  “You’re my wife.…”

  With a broken sob, she threw herself across the bed and let the tears come. All these months of living under the same roof…coming to love him more and more…listening for the sound of his voice…cherishing the smallest things—the touch of his hand on hers, the low sound in his throat that marked the beginning of his wonderful laugh, the lilt and cadence of his speech…the smile that drew her into his eyes—oh, how she loved him, yearned to belong to him, dreamed of being a real wife to him!

  The past few weeks had been like a banquet to her starving heart. The time alone with him morning and evening, helping him with the small, ordinary, yet intimate, things…putting on his shoes for him, laying out his clothing, trimming his hair…she had clung to every moment like a gift. A part of her had even begun to hope…

  What had she hoped? That he would begin to think of her as a woman, rather than a simple-minded younger sister? That he would finally respond to her love for him and love her in return? That the world would stop its turning and the sky would fall? What?

  When he had turned the chair about to face her, his wounded eyes accusing her as he called her his wife, something inside her had shattered. She had known at that instant that if she did not turn and run, she would disgrace herself entirely, would fling herself into his arms and beg him…to love her!

  She felt as if all her dreams had broken to pieces, and each shard was driving itself slowly into her heart.

  What else had she expected, with her mad, foolish longing for the impossible?

  She had actually begun to pretend that he needed her, that he might even be falling in love with her a little. In her delusions about him, she had almost been able to believe that she could be good for him…could make him happy and fulfilled, could even help him not to mind so much the loss of his legs.

  Yet in all her longing to help him and make him happy, she had only managed to offend him and hurt him. The sobs rose up in her—harder, more intense. Rolling onto her side, Finola pressed a fist to her mouth to silence the sounds of her loneliness, and wept.

  45

  The Glory of Love

  This is the mystery, the glory of love:

  That in bringing our hearts to each other,

  We gain more than we thought to give.…

  And in giving ourselves to each other,

  We become more than we hoped to be.

  MORGAN FITZGERALD (1849)

  Sister Louisa knocked softly once, then again. When no one answered, she put an ear to the door, listening. At the sound of muffled weeping, she took it upon herself to enter.

  She stopped just inside the door, stunned by the sight of Finola, curled up in the middle of the bed like a child, sobbing her heart out.

  “Faith, child, what is it?” Louisa thought at once of the baby, and the thought struck fear in her. “Finola—is it Gabriel? Has something happened to the babe?”

  The girl shook her head, her shoulders still heaving.

  Sister Louisa sat down beside her, reaching to pat her awkwardly on the back. “Here, now.…surely nothing can be so terrible as this!”

  Gently, she raised the girl, gathering her close and trying to soothe her with one hand, wiping away the torrent of tears with the other.

  “Our Gabriel is quite all right, then?” Louisa asked again.

  Finola nodded between sobs.

  “Well…are you ill, child?”

  Finola shook her head.

  “Then, what, alannah? Please, tell me what it is.”

  After a moment, Finola managed a strangled whisper. “Morgan…“

  Louisa’s mouth thinned, and she gathered the girl still closer. “What has the man done now? I suppose he’s still determined to throw young Tierney to the wolves, not that the thoughtless gorsoon doesn’t deserve whatever he gets. Oh, I shouldn’t fret about it, dear. Once he has time to think things through, perhaps he’ll have a change of heart.”

  “It’s not that.”

  Louisa lifted an eyebrow, and sighed—a thoroughly Irish, long-suffering sigh. “I suppose he’s said something or done something harsh, and you’ve been hurt. Is that it, dear?”

  Finola pulled away, frowning. “Oh…no. No, that’s not it at all. I think…I hurt him. I disagreed with him about Tierney Burke, don’t you see? He said I had a right, that I was his wife, but—”

  She broke off, looking at Louisa as if she could not go on.

  Louisa studied her. “I see,” she said quietly. “I expect what you mean is that you…ah…love him as a woman loves a man.”

  Finola nodded, still looking perfectly miserable.

  “And you would like to be his wife…in the, ah, truest sense of the word.”

  Finola nodded again, attempting to blink away the tears. “I could be a comfort to him, Sister. I could at least help to ease his loneliness. He’s had so much pain…and sometimes he seems so alone, and unhappy.”

  Louisa’s mind raced. “He doesn’t know how you feel, however, does he?”

  Finola shook her head. “Of course not.”

  “Well, then—perhaps you should tell him,” Louisa said practically.

  Finola stared at her as if she’d taken leave of her senses. “I could never do that!”

  “Why not?” Louisa asked patiently. “He is your husband, after all.”

  One trembling hand moved to wipe her eyes. “But he doesn’t think of me as his wife. Not really. He regards me only as a rather dim-witted little sister, don’t you see?”

  Struggling to keep a straight face, Louisa replied, “That has not been my observation, I confess.”

  “He doesn’t want me,” Finola said dejectedly.

  “Doesn’t want you?” Louisa reared back in astonishment. “Good heavens, child, the man adores you!”

  Finola’s chin came up. Ignoring the girl’s stunned expression, Louisa groped for the wisdom the situation seemed to call for. Given the poor child’s state, there seemed nothing for it but to be direct.

  She had seen how things were for quite some time now, of course: the furtive glances that passed between them, the longing gazes when one thought the other wasn’t looking, the way his entire countenance brightened when she entered a room, and the way his smile could reduce the girl to utter speechlessness.

  Louisa drew a long breath, thinking, not for the fir
st time, that convent life did not always adequately prepare one for dealing with the real world.

  Louisa took one of the girl’s hands, enfolding it between both her own. “I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m going to tell you, Finola. In a way, I’m breaking a confidence, but I believe the moment calls for it. I think you have a right to know about a conversation that took place between the Seanchai and me before you were married.”

  Finola’s eyes grew wider and more incredulous by the minute as Louisa, mincing no words, recounted the discussion that had occurred between her and Morgan Fitzgerald the night he had asked Finola to marry him.

  Louisa couldn’t quite suppress a smile as she recalled how she had brashly challenged the Seanchai’s motives that night. Still clear in her memory was the fiery response her forwardness had evoked.

  “Not that it’s any of your affair,” he had raged, “but I happen to love Finola…very much!”

  Upon hearing of this exchange, Finola clamped a hand to her mouth. Thinking she finally detected a faint glimmer of hope in those marvelous blue eyes, Louisa pressed on.

  “I had questioned him, you see, on his right to bind you to a marriage in which there could be no real union. With his customary forthrightness,” Louisa said dryly, “he gave me to understand that he was indeed altogether capable of a real union. I believe his exact words were: ‘My legs may be paralyzed, but I am still a man.’“

  Finola’s hand slipped away from her mouth. Her eyes were enormous. “Then it’s not that he can’t…I wasn’t sure…” She turned crimson and quickly looked away.

  “Oh, he was quite…assertive about that particular point,” Louisa said, her mouth quirking. Then she grew serious, for she knew the rest of her story was of the utmost importance to the girl. Gently, she explained how the Seanchai had assured her that he would never “force himself” on Finola, that he would expect nothing from the marriage: He only wanted to protect her and take care of her.

  Gripping Finola’s hand even more tightly, Louisa’s eyes met hers. “I shall never forget the way he looked at me at the end, or what he said: ‘In my mind, Sister Louisa, this is not a marriage of convenience, nor is it a lie or a sham. I will be a true husband to her, as long as I live—or as long as she desires it.’”

  Louisa paused, expelling a long breath. “Oh, child—your husband loves you with all his huge heart! But he will never, never touch you unless you let him know it’s what you want. It’s up to you, don’t you see? Beyond all doubt, the man will open his arms to you in a moment, once he knows how you really feel.”

  Louisa stopped. Suddenly she realized that she might be encouraging this fragile young creature to bolt headlong into a relationship she was ill prepared for. What if Finola was not yet strong enough to handle all the implications and demands of marriage—especially marriage to a man as complex as Morgan Fitzgerald?

  Louisa sighed, reluctant to voice her doubts, yet for Finola’s sake, unwilling to ignore them. “Certainly, you can rest assured he loves you. But, Finola…alannah… you have been through a great deal in your young life. You say the Seanchai has had much pain…but so have you, dear. And although I have witnessed enormous healing and great strength in you these past months, I can’t help but wonder—”

  Louisa broke off. Did she really have the right to try to influence Finola’s judgment? Although she often thought of her as a child, she was not. She was a woman, had given birth to a son—and she loved a man. Loved him deeply, so it would seem.

  “Finola…are you quite sure that you are ready…that you are able…to give yourself to a man, even the Seanchai? Oh, child, be sure! Be sure that you are prepared to give your all, for I suspect a man like Morgan Fitzgerald will settle for nothing less than everything.”

  For a long time they sat, Louisa holding Finola’s hand, as the girl stared down at the bed, scarcely breathing. When she finally looked up, Louisa saw there were new tears glistening in her eyes.

  “Can we ever truly be sure of anything, Sister?” she asked softly. “I know only this: that I love Morgan more than everything, more than life itself. I know that I want to be so close with him that we are as one person. I want to spend the rest of my life in his presence, if possible. I want to take away his loneliness, and make him laugh, and give him back as much of his manhood as a woman can ever give a man.”

  For an instant her voice faltered. But her face was radiant in the candlelight as she seemed to gather the strength to go on. “I want to have Morgan’s children. I want to make a home for him, a home of peace and light and love. And, yes, I believe I am able to give whatever may be required of me in order to be the wife he needs and deserves.”

  Louisa struggled to still the trembling of her lip. Unable to restrain herself, she clasped Finola by the shoulders. Through her own tears, she studied the clear, blue gaze that seemed to reflect a new strength and assurance.

  “Then go to him,” she said, her voice none too steady as she once more gathered Finola into her embrace. “And tell him how you feel.”

  Finola’s heart hammered with a mixture of hope and dread as she stood at the closed door that connected her bedroom with Morgan’s. With her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated, suddenly seized by uncertainty.

  What if Sister Louisa were mistaken? What if she had read something into Morgan’s feelings that wasn’t there at all?

  She stood very still, scarcely able to breathe with the tension. Her hand gripped, then released, the doorknob, then grasped it again. Rapping lightly on the door, she waited. When there was no response, she turned the knob and stepped cautiously into the room.

  Flames dancing in the fireplace and the oil lamp by the bed provided the only light in the room. Morgan was propped up in bed, asleep.

  Finola advanced quietly, on tiptoe, to stand beside the bed. His eyeglasses had slid part of the way down the bridge of his nose. A deep wave of copper hair fell idly across his forehead. In his nightshirt, with one massive fist curled against his chest, the other hand covering the book he’d been reading, he looked years younger, like a boy caught up in his dreams. A very large boy, blessedly unaware of his vulnerability.

  For a moment, Finola stood watching him, listening to his even breathing, savoring this rare opportunity to study him unobserved. His hair and beard were burnished copper in the glow from the firelight. The strong, almost arrogant set of his jaw was softened by sleep, and the faint lines that webbed outward from his eyes were less pronounced than usual.

  Standing there, drinking in the sight of him, Finola could almost catch a glimpse of the boy he might have been. The image was bittersweet and wrenched her heart. She wished she could have known him then, before his tragedy…and her own.

  But she had not come here to mourn the boy she had never known. She had come to offer herself to the man he had become.

  Her heart pounded, her pulse raced. Stepping closer, she gently removed his eyeglasses and placed them on the bedside table. Carefully she slipped the open book from under his hand.

  Then she saw what he had been reading, and she felt as if she would die for the love of him. Her eyes traveled to his face, then back to the Scriptures, marked at the parable of the Prodigal Son.

  Tears rose to her eyes—tears of joy, and love as she placed the Bible next to his eyeglasses. Bending over him, she tenderly brushed the wave of hair off his brow. He flinched, the hand on his chest jerking. His eyes came open slowly, and as Finola watched, his gaze cleared and came to rest on her. He blinked, then again.

  “Finola?” His voice was thick and husky with sleep. “Is something wrong?”

  Finola shook her head, saw his eyes follow the movement of her hair, which she had left unbraided.

  He lifted a hand to his face as if to remove his eyeglasses.

  “I put them on the table,” she told him, smiling.

  He studied her. “Gabriel…is he all right?”

  “He’s been asleep for hours.”

  He nodded, still watchin
g her with an uncertain expression as he pushed himself up a little in the bed. When Finola sat down beside him, he drew back as if he’d been struck.

  “Well,” he finally said, a little too loudly, “this is…a pleasant surprise. I was afraid you wouldn’t visit me tonight, after the great oaf I made of myself in the dining room.”

  “I was lonely,” Finola said quietly. “I wanted to be with you.”

  Something glinted in his eyes, just the flicker of a question.

  “My bedroom is cold,” Finola said with a fleeting glance at the robust fire across the room. “I’m afraid I’ve never quite learned to build a proper fire.”

  His eyes went to the fire, then came back to Finola. She could see the reflection of the flames burning out at her.

  The blood pounded in Finola’s head as she leaned toward him, taking his hand. “May I stay with you tonight, Morgan?” she asked simply, holding his gaze.

  His eyes darkened, lingering for a moment on her face, dropping to the satin ribbon at the throat of her dressing gown. For an instant, he appeared stricken. “I’m not sure I understand…” he said softly, his voice still husky.

  Finola drew in a deep, ragged breath. “Morgan, do you love me?”

  “What?” He sounded as if he were strangling.

  “Do you love me?” Finola repeated, clinging to his hand. “As a woman?”

  He looked everywhere but at her, the fire in his eyes leaping higher. “Must you ask?” He gave a short, choked attempt at a laugh. “I seem unable to appear anything but foolish in your presence. What sort of affliction could it be but that of a man in love?”

  He paused, fixing his gaze upon her. “Yes, Finola aroon, I love you—with all my heart and soul, I do love you.”

  His hand trembled violently in hers. The strength of his emotion startled her. “Morgan…look at me. I want to tell you something, and I want you to look at me when I say it.”