Song of Erin

by BJ Hoff

  “About Mrs. Harte, lad—are you still taken with her?”

  Cavan Sheridan shot him a startled look. “Sir?”

  “Oh, you know good and well what I mean, Sheridan! You were positively besotted with the woman some months back. Have you gotten past all that by now or not?”

  Jack watched him. Even in the dark, he could see Sheridan color, then swallow with apparent difficulty.

  He sighed, thinking he had probably insulted the lad or at least embarrassed him, though neither had been his intention. Jack knew all too well how it felt to make a fool of himself over a woman who wanted nothing to do with him.

  Sheridan’s reply was a long time coming, but not a surprise. “I think Mrs. Harte is the finest woman I’ve ever met.”

  Again Jack sighed.

  “But in reply to your question—” Sheridan cleared his throat before going on. “I suppose I’ve managed to lay any other feelings to rest. Though it was a grievous disappointment.”

  It struck Jack that his driver’s solemn statement sounded almost funereal, and at another time he might have been mildly amused by the young man’s flair for the dramatic. But not tonight. He understood the lad’s despondency too well to take it lightly.

  “You regard her highly, do you, sir?”

  Jack stared at him. He would have been perfectly within his rights had he chosen to give the boy a scathing rebuke. A man’s driver was in no position to question his employer on personal matters.

  Instead, he merely lifted an eyebrow in grim self-mockery. “It’s that obvious, is it?”

  Sheridan kept his eyes straight ahead. “Well, sir…it seems to me that only a blind man or a fool wouldn’t be drawn to a woman like Mrs. Harte. And certainly you’re neither…” He let his words drift off, unfinished.

  Jack tried for the proper level of indignation but couldn’t quite suppress a rueful smile. “I’m not blind; that’s true. As for the fool, I’m beginning to wonder.” He paused. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me how you managed to bury your unrequited affections, Sheridan.”

  The boy shrugged. “I suppose I finally came to realize how hopeless it was. I knew nothing could come of it. Mrs. Harte was very firm in her rejection. In truth, I think it was a case of her simply not being…attracted to me. She tried to make me believe it was the difference in our ages, that the years between us were too great—”

  “There are as many years between her and me,” Jack grumbled, “as there are between the two of you. Though the difference is turned the other way around.”

  Sheridan glanced over at him, frowning. Clearly, he’d been about to make a reply but changed his mind.

  “What?” Jack said.

  A muscle at the corner of the lad’s mouth jerked. “ ’Tis not for me to say, sir.”

  “It is for you to say, if I give you leave to say it!” Jack snapped. “You needn’t always be so provokingly correct, Sheridan, at least not at the moment. Now, what were you about to say?”

  Sheridan regarded Jack with a long look before turning his attention back to the street. “Only that it seems to me that Mrs. Harte might not mind the years between yourself and her, that’s all.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate?” Jack said through clenched teeth.

  Sheridan gave a shrug, saying, “I don’t know a great deal about such matters, but I’d have to say that Mrs. Harte looks at you very differently than she ever looked at me.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the youth for any evidence of rancor. But Sheridan’s expression appeared temperate and totally without guile as he added, “At least that’s how it seems to me, sir.”

  Completely indifferent to the rain by now, Jack crossed his arms over his chest and sat staring straight ahead. “It is, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And just how would you describe the way Mrs. Harte looks at me, then?”

  Jack deliberately kept his gaze locked on the rain-veiled street ahead as he awaited the reply.

  “Well, sir,” Sheridan finally said, “I’d say she might be a bit intimidated by you.” He paused, then quickly added, “But I think she also finds you…very interesting.”

  “‘Very interesting,’” Jack repeated. There was no question that Sheridan was right about the intimidating part, he thought sourly, remembering the look of horror that had crossed Samantha’s features earlier.

  “Actually, sir, I think it’s fairly obvious that Mrs. Harte likes you.”

  “Likes me?” As a means of counteracting any false hopes raised by Sheridan’s observation, Jack reminded himself of the way Samantha had visibly shrunk from his touch. Still, hadn’t he himself commented on more than one occasion about the lad’s keen instincts? Even so, it would be folly itself to make too much of this.

  He thought for a moment. “Have you ever heard Mrs. Harte speak of her husband?” he said.

  Sheridan shook his head. “Strange, isn’t it, but I don’t recall her ever mentioning him in any way.”

  It did seem strange, Jack thought. “Still, he must have been a good man. I can’t imagine Sa—Mrs. Harte married to any other kind.”

  “I expect you’re right,” Sheridan agreed. “But I’ve often wondered. She has such a great sorrow in her eyes.”

  “Aye, she does,” Jack said softly. “Indeed she does.”

  “Mr. Kane?”

  “Hm?” Jack’s thoughts had returned to the disturbing scene with Samantha, and he had to force his attention back to his surroundings.

  “Did I speak out of turn, about Mrs. Harte’s…‘interest’ in you?”

  Jack waved off his concern. “No, it’s all right. Though I expect I’d be wise to discount the notion. It’s not likely that Mrs. Harte will ever bear me any affection other than friendship. That much, at least, might be a possibility. But as for anything else—” Jack gave a heavy shrug, as if to throw off a burden. “Her kind of woman doesn’t take up with a man like me. If she ever decides to marry again, she’ll be wanting a good man.”

  “I’m thinking there’s no such thing,” Sheridan said quietly.

  Jack looked at him. “You are far too cynical for your tender age, lad. Best to leave such jaded opinions to someone like myself.”

  “No, it’s true,” said Sheridan. “Mrs. Harte gave me a copy of the Scriptures—I had none of my own, you see—and I’ve been reading them straight through. What I’m coming to realize is that there’s no such thing as a truly good man—except for the Savior, of course—God’s Son. The rest of us—even the best of us—we’re not good at all, not really. We don’t even have the hope of being good unless we put on the new life offered us by the cross of Christ.”

  Jack was in no mood for a theological discussion. He’d been down that road already tonight, thanks to Amelia. “If you don’t mind, lad, I’d just as soon not pursue the subject.”

  “You don’t believe in Christ’s redemption, Mr. Kane?”

  Jack turned a black look on him. “Do you really consider that any of your affair, Cavan Sheridan?”

  The boy didn’t look at him, but his reply couldn’t have been firmer. “As a matter of fact, I do, sir. I’d be fearful for your soul if I thought you didn’t believe.”

  “Well, I’d prefer that you tend to your own soul, Sheridan. And your driving as well, if you don’t mind.”

  The boy actually smiled! “Sorry, sir. It’s just what you said about Mrs. Harte’s deserving only a ‘good’ man. It made me think that you might not even consider yourself in the running.”

  Jack stared at him. “Sheridan,” he finally said, “has it ever occurred to you that you are occasionally downright insolent?”

  “I don’t mean to be, sir. Would you prefer I not mention Mrs. Harte again?”

  “I didn’t say that. Although I expect you resent my…interest in her, in any event.”

  “I do not, sir. Not a bit. Nor hers in you.”

  “She has no interest in me, Sheridan!”

  “Whatever yo
u say, Mr. Kane.”

  Jack brooded for another moment or two. “What did you mean back there—what you said about ‘putting on the new life’? You make it sound like a wardrobe—take off the old suit and put on a new one. Is that really in the Bible?”

  Jack had never liked admitting ignorance on any subject, but his knowledge of the Scriptures was sketchy at best. His mother had taught him some of the old stories, and Martha had been a great one for reading the Bible, had read it faithfully each night. But while Jack had always admired her devotion, he hadn’t shared it. On those times when she read aloud to him, he hadn’t liked the way the words made him feel. Uncomfortable. Uneasy. And, at times, inexplicably lonely.

  Oddly enough, that hymn Amelia liked to sing—“Amazing Grace”—invariably seemed to affect him in the same way.

  Jack had long ago written off religion as something for women, certainly something that children ought to be taught as well. But it wasn’t for him.

  Yet Sheridan had sparked his curiosity with his talk about good men and “putting on a new life.” It somehow reminded him of what Amelia had said about her vests.

  “It’s in the Bible, all right, sir. In numerous places.”

  It took Jack a second or two to realize that Sheridan was answering his question of a moment before.

  “Do you know the story of the Prodigal Son, Mr. Kane?”

  Jack nodded guardedly.

  “So perhaps you recall that after the son had squandered his inheritance, he came crawling back home, and his father put a fine new robe and sandals on him. Well,” Sheridan went on, “Mrs. Harte says that the robe is like the new life we put on in Christ. She says all we have to do is turn away from our old life, and God will give us a new robe—the robe of his forgiveness and redemption.”

  He paused, then added, “In truth, sir, the Bible is filled with passages about that very thing—‘putting off the old,’ and ‘putting on the new.’ If you like, I’d be glad to show you sometime, Mr. Kane.”

  “That’s all right,” Jack said dryly, trying to stem the tide of unsettling emotions coursing through him. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “ ’Tis God’s Word, not mine,” Sheridan countered.

  “Shut up and drive, boy. You’re beginning to annoy me.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” A silence. Then, “Mr. Kane?”

  “What now, Sheridan?” Jack said wearily.

  “I’d like to say that, as men go, I happen to think you’re one to admire. I expect Mrs. Harte does, too, given the way she looks at you.”

  “Sheridan—”

  “I know you might not see yourself quite in that light, but Mrs. Harte says that we ought not to pay much heed to how we see ourselves, or how others see us.” The lad seemed in such a fierce rush to get his words out that they fairly spilled from him as he continued. “She says it’s how God sees us that matters, and that he doesn’t see us at all the way others do. Everyone else judges us by the way we act or what they’ve heard about us, but God looks at the heart.”

  It occurred to Jack that he wouldn’t be comfortable with anyone seeing his heart—especially the Almighty—for surely by now it was as black as the coal mines in which the youth beside him had once labored.

  “Mrs. Harte says,” Sheridan went on, “that once we put on the robe of God’s redemption, he doesn’t see our old life anymore.”

  Something tightened in Jack. Sheridan’s final words settled over him, sinking so far into the recesses of his being that they seemed to touch the very depths of his soul. He turned to study the strong, lean profile of his young driver, but Sheridan’s gaze was fixed resolutely on the darkened street.

  “It would seem,” Jack said, still watching him, “that Mrs. Harte has been teaching you something more than grammar and history.”

  A slow smile broke over Sheridan’s features. “I expect it would be no exaggeration to say that Mrs. Harte has changed my life, sir.”

  Jack studied him for a moment more, then leaned back a little and lifted his face to the cleansing rain. And mine as well, he thought with a touch of heaviness and solemn wonder. And mine as well…

  Inside the carriage, Samantha’s thoughts were troubled.

  The memory of what had happened earlier between her and Jack Kane would undoubtedly plague her the rest of the night. It had been a humiliating, shattering experience. Perhaps she should have been prepared for it, given the agonizing memories—and the fears—she still harbored. On the other hand, Jack was the first man with whom she had allowed any sort of closeness since Bronson. She couldn’t have known what to expect and had been caught wildly off guard by the encounter.

  Yet, the raw, undisguised hurt she had seen in Jack’s eyes continued to torment her, even though to her vast relief he had shown no sign of resenting her for the experience. In fact, he had actually assumed a somewhat lighthearted tone with her there at the last.

  It had taken all the control Samantha could muster not to tell him what lay behind her behavior. The plea—and the pain—in his eyes had almost been her undoing. For one of the few times since Bronson’s death, she had been seized by a yearning to bare her soul, to pour out the entire hideous truth to another human being.

  But what would it have accomplished? Did she really think that the simple act of confiding in someone else would free her from the curse of her marriage? Was she so naive as to hope that purging her soul would somehow bring her healing?

  There was no reason to think that any purpose would be served by telling Jack about her past. If he cared for her at all…and she believed now that he did…wouldn’t the truth only turn his caring to pity—or, worse still, revulsion? Samantha thought she could more easily bear his rejection than his pity or disgust.

  How could she possibly reveal to Jack what she could never even bring herself to tell her own mother? How could she tell anyone about Bronson—the ways he had humiliated her, degraded her, brutalized her? How could she ever make anyone understand what she had endured as his mind became unhinged and sent him spiralling on a terrifying descent into madness?

  To this day, Samantha did not understand how he had managed to deceive so many or how she could have been so pathetically naive and trusting.

  No, Jack Kane could not heal her. No one could. A part of her—perhaps the very essence of her womanhood—had been defiled and ruined for any man.

  And even if that were not the case, there was still the fact that she and Jack lived in two different worlds, that their differences still stood between them like an impenetrable bulwark. She lived her life based upon a faith and a code of values that she was fairly certain Jack neither accepted nor understood, any more than she could hope to accept or understand whatever it was that drove him.

  And yet when he had asked if she would let him be her friend, Samantha had found herself unable to refuse, indeed had eagerly reached out for that much, at least, if nothing else. She needed a friend, and there was something in Jack that seemed to promise that she could trust him.

  How long had it been since she had trusted a man…since she had trusted anyone?

  It had shaken her to realize that she thought she could trust Jack even with the truth about her marriage, though it was doubtful that she ever would. Out of deference to Bronson’s family and the people who had trusted him and believed the best of him—and perhaps for her own self-protection as well—she would continue to keep her silence.

  Besides, even if she did finally reveal the truth, no one would ever believe her. In the eyes of all who knew him, Bronson Harte had been a good man, a godly man. There wasn’t one among them all who would ever believe anything else.

  Finally, lulled by the sound of the light rain splashing against the carriage, the horse’s steady clopping along the street, and an almost comforting sense of isolation, Samantha felt the turmoil, if not the pain, inside her begin to ebb.

  She was only vaguely aware of the men’s voices above her, was even growing slightly drowsy, when suddenly she
felt the carriage skid and careen sideways, tossing her hard against the door. Someone shouted. Cavan, she thought. She heard a sharp crack, followed by another, and with a stunning, dreadful clarity Samantha recognized the sound of gunfire!

  Clinging to the door, she tried to see out the window. Without warning, the carriage lurched, gathering speed before finally slamming to a stop, throwing her forward.

  Samantha cried out Jack’s name, but there was no reply.

  41

  INTO THE NIGHT

  What brings death to one brings life to another.

  IRISH PROVERB

  The carriage had just turned the corner at Houston and Sullivan. The streets were quiet, no doubt because of the rainstorm. Even at this hour, there would normally have been a few peddlers with their pushcarts, hoping to make an extra penny or two before calling it a night. Two or three streetwalkers—the older ones, whose slatternly features fared better in the darkness—lurked in the shadows as a small crew of factory workers trudged past on their way home. But for the most part, the street was deserted.

  It was a black, bitter night. Rain was falling heavily again, as if the storm had changed its mind and turned back for yet another go at the city. The wind had taken on a definite chill, and Jack, now thoroughly drenched, shivered beneath his dripping suit coat. Sheridan fared no better in his thin jacket, and Jack made a mental note to have the lad pick up a raincoat for himself.

  Not that he would be driving much longer, of course. Jack had every intention of putting him on the paper full-time soon. But even there, he would find need for a raincoat.

  He was beginning to tire, his senses dulled, his thoughts rambling over nothing in particular, when he saw a figure emerge from the alley to his right, just ahead. Whoever it was came to a dead stop, as if waiting for the carriage to pass before crossing the street.

  The figure was almost completely concealed in a long, flapping coat, with some sort of soft, wide hat pulled well down over his forehead. But something about the stance, the slight bend of the widespread legs and the rigid set to the shoulders, triggered an alarm in Jack.