by BJ Hoff
Unwilling to forsake the comforting warmth of Morgan’s embrace, Finola lay, unmoving. Gradually she felt her own pulse slow to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “I’m sorry I woke you,” she whispered.
He silenced her with a finger on her lips. “There is nothing to be sorry for. Hush, now, and let me hold you.”
Something was coming. Something dark. Something cold and dark and sinister…
Thunder boomed like distant cannon, and Finola shivered. Wrapped safely in Morgan’s arms, she struggled to resist the dark weight of foreboding that threatened to smother her.
It was always like this after the nightmare, as if the black wind in the dream still hovered oppressively near, waiting to overtake her after she was fully awake. Sometimes hours passed before she could completely banish the nightmare’s terror.
Were it not for the safe wall of Morgan’s presence to soothe and shield her, she thought she might go mad in the aftermath of the horror. But always he was there, his sturdy arms and quiet voice her stronghold of protection. Her haven.
“Better now, macushla?” he murmured against her hair.
Finola nodded, and he gently eased her back against the pillows, settling her snugly beside him, her head on his shoulder.
“Try to sleep,” he said, brushing a kiss over the top of her head. “Nothing will hurt you this night. Nothing will ever hurt you again, I promise you.”
Finola closed her eyes and forced herself to lie still. She knew Morgan would not allow himself to sleep until she did, so after a few moments she pretended to drift off; in a short while, she heard his breathing grow even and shallow.
After he fell asleep, she lay staring at the window, trying not to jump when lightning streaked and sliced the night. She hugged her arms to herself as the thunder groaned. In the shelter of Morgan’s embrace, it was almost possible to believe that he was right, that nothing would hurt her ever again. She knew that with the first light of the morning, the nightmare would seem far distant, almost as if it had never happened.
But just as surely, she knew night would come again, and with the night would come the dream, with its dark wind and evil hidden somewhere deep within.
After a long time, Finola began to doze. But just as she sank toward the edge of unconsciousness, the wind shrieked. Like the sudden convulsion of a wren’s wings, panic shook her and she jolted awake.
Feeling irrationally exposed and vulnerable, she listened to the storm play out its fury. Thunder hammered with such force that the great house seemed to shudder and groan, while the wind went howling as if demanding entrance.
Again she closed her eyes, this time to pray.
2
Foreshadowings
I see in a vision the shadowy portal…
LADY WILDE (1824–1896)
“SPERANZA”—FROM THE NATION, 1849
Annie Fitzgerald had held her tongue an excessively long time—certainly longer than was her custom—but on Saturday she decided that she had had enough.
Tierney Burke and the Gypsy seemed intent on ignoring her, but she would show them she could not be ignored. Not this morning.
She had learned from experience that the best way to get Tierney Burke’s attention was to annoy him. To do that, all she needed to do was behave like the troublesome child he frequently accused her of being.
For close on half an hour now, while Jan Martova looked on, Annie had been watching Tierney shuffle an assortment of tools, all the while frowning and pretending to know exactly what he was doing—which, Annie suspected, was not the case at all. To her inquiries about the nature of his activities, she received only a muttered response to the effect that “as anyone should be able to tell,” he was building a wagon.
“But you already have a wagon,” she pointed out to the Gypsy.
Admittedly, Jan Martova was far more polite than his surly cohort. He at least acknowledged her presence with a smile before he replied. “We are building the wagon for Tierney, not for me.”
Annie looked at him, then turned to Tierney. He had opened the storage chest at the back of the wagon and was rummaging through it. Fergus, the wolfhound, stood nearby, sniffing the chest’s contents.
“And why would you be building a wagon for yourself?” Annie asked, directing her question to Tierney. “You’re not a Romany.”
Tierney Burke eyed the wolfhound at his side, then raised his head. Annie received a certain puckish pleasure from the impatient glare he turned on her.
“You and your hound are getting on my nerves. Don’t you have chores to do inside the house?”
“I’ve already finished my chores, as it happens.”
“Then why don’t you run along and practice your sewing?”
He was deliberately goading her, of course; he delighted in it. He would provoke her until she either lost her temper and stamped off or else turned on him with a blistering tirade. Either way, he would pretend to find her amusing.
But not this time. The matter of a wagon for Tierney was peculiar enough that Annie’s pride took second place to her curiosity. Although she called the wolfhound away from the wagon, she made no move to return to the house.
“Why would you be wanting a wagon?” she pressed, watching Tierney Burke put a drawknife to a piece of ash wood. “It isn’t as if you need a wagon, after all. You’re not a traveling person. And you already have two homes—one here at Nelson Hall and one in America.”
He went on to split the wood, then reached for another. “You’re making a nuisance of yourself, squirt,” he said without looking at her.
Annie glared at him. It rankled her in the worst way when he called her squirt, and he knew it.
Because she could not voice the question at the back of her mind without being obvious, she merely continued to harangue him. “Planning a trip, are we?”
He shrugged. “I’m not planning anything as yet. I just want a wagon of my own.” He glanced up. “Perhaps for a measure of privacy.”
“But you might be planning a trip?”
“Did I say that, squirt?”
Annie studied him, looking intently at the handsome face, the rakish scar that made him look slightly dangerous. She felt an unexpected tightening in her throat. Why else would he want a wagon for himself unless he was thinking of leaving Nelson Hall?
Abruptly, before he could see her agitation, she turned away and started for the footbridge. Despite his incessant needling, Annie could not imagine Nelson Hall without Tierney Burke. She knew that at his advanced age of eighteen, he looked upon her as nothing more than an exasperating child. But without examining her feelings too closely, she also understood that she would rather suffer the worst of Tierney’s condescension than be denied his presence altogether.
After all, at close on thirteen years, she was not the child he seemed to think her. He would have to notice that fact sooner or later, wouldn’t he? Until then, she had resolved simply to ignore his constant teasing and his occasional impatience with her.
As they stepped off the footbridge, Fergus bounded toward the house. Annie made no attempt to call him back, but walked slowly, thinking.
Perhaps she should apply herself to behaving in a more mature manner. And to looking more grown-up, as well.
Although the idea didn’t altogether appeal to her, it might have some merit. To begin with, she could ask Finola’s help in dressing her hair more stylishly. But it was so infernally stubborn! Like a horse’s tail, it was!
She frowned. Although she didn’t much like getting all decked out in ribbons and laces, she supposed she could speak to the Seanchai about having new dresses made. Perhaps one of the more sophisticated French styles, something that would make her appear to have a bosom.
If only she were less of a stick! She had no curves as yet, none at all. And sometimes she despaired of ever growing taller. She still scarcely reached Finola’s shoulder.
Finola insisted that Annie was going to be a “glory of a girl” someday. But Finola often said such
things—almost certainly, Annie suspected, to make her feel better about herself.
What if she stayed just as she was now…forever? What if, ten years hence, she still looked like a chicken-breasted twelve-year-old, with the same awful horsetail braids and the despised gap between her front teeth? Not to mention the same ungainly legs as a new foal.
After a moment, she gave an enormous sigh and stopped to watch Fergus dash across the field in pursuit of a hare. The small creature escaped into a stand of young oak trees, and the wolfhound, as if he hadn’t been serious about the chase from the start, reversed his direction and trotted back toward Annie.
Again she sighed. Even the lumbering wolfhound, great lanky beast that he was, appeared more graceful than she.
Louisa stood at her bedroom window, watching young Annie and the faithful wolfhound as they sauntered toward the house. As always, the dog appeared extraordinarily pleased with himself. Perhaps the great beast was as simpleminded as she frequently accused him of being, for he did seem to wear a continual smile.
As for the girl, as always the braids were shaggy and askew, the hemline uneven, the gait that of a spindly legged colt. Louisa shook her head and smiled. She knew that it would not be long before a miracle of transformation would occur. The awkward foal would disappear, and the spirited thoroughbred would emerge. She had seen it time and time again, in countless classrooms over the years. Leggy girls with knobby elbows and too many teeth, girls who could not manage to enter a room without stumbling, would suddenly take on an unaccustomed grace, a new aura of loveliness. Freckles faded, hair tamed, angles became curves, and giggles turned into sighs.
From girl to woman: an amazing and wondrous thing entirely, yet as painful and frightening a process as it was splendid.
Already the first signs were apparent in the Seanchai’s precocious daughter. Studying looks in the mirror, impatient frowns with her appearance, experimental posturing. Covert glances across the table at the handsome—but surely treacherous—American boy. Temper tantrums and daydreaming. And, most telling of all, unaccountable spasms of weeping.
In young Annie’s case, Louisa knew, the weeping went on behind closed doors, where she thought no one could hear. This one would not be caught unawares in a moment of weakness. Aine Fitzgerald would allow no one, except possibly Finola, a glimpse of her secret fears, her silent longings, her heart’s whispered dreams.
Louisa expelled a long breath. Soon their girl would change, that much was certain. And if she were not sorely mistaken, the change would be momentous. More than once she had discussed with Finola their Aine’s potential, and both agreed that she would one day be a beauty.
Blessedly, Annie seemed as yet to have no indication of the grand metamorphosis awaiting her. Indeed, the girl’s conversation often contained veiled hints to the effect that she was certain she would never be anything other than the gangly yearling she was today.
Louisa smiled a little to herself. It was just as well that their Maker chose to keep such things well-hidden. The girl was difficult enough. Who could say what mischief she might wreak were she allowed a hint of what was ahead for her.
She lingered at the window for another moment, contemplating the Almighty’s wisdom in concealing future events. She knew people who seemed eager to divine the days, as if knowing what lay ahead would give them some sort of power over it. For her part, she believed that wishing for the knowledge of one’s fate was nothing less than madness itself.
Indeed, for many, she thought with a shudder, madness might well be the inevitable consequence of such knowledge.
In his bedchamber, Morgan Fitzgerald buttoned his shirt, then propped himself up in bed.
“You are displeased with the examination?” he said, watching the physician at the foot of the bed. The young doctor’s chin was a fair barometer of his disposition on any given day. The lower the chin, the blacker the surgeon’s mood. At the moment the chin sagged like the wattle of an aging turkey. Not a good sign.
The surgeon glanced up from closing his medical case. “Displeased? Oh—no, nothing of the sort. To the contrary, you seem remarkably fit. Your man Sandemon’s regime has accomplished wonders.”
“But?” Morgan pressed.
The doctor looked at him, delaying his answer. “I’m concerned,” he finally said.
“About the shaking,” Morgan said, knowing the answer.
Dr. Dunne came around the side of the bed to stand beside him. “There’s that. But even without the tremors, I would urge you once again to seek the opinion of a specialist. I simply am not qualified in this area.”
“Tell me what you think,” Morgan said, as if he had not heard the surgeon’s opinion before.
“And haven’t I already done so?” The doctor sighed. “I wish I had more expertise. I can only repeat my concern that the paralysis could eventually expand—move upward.”
Morgan cringed inwardly, trying to ignore the familiar swell of panic that rose in his throat at the physician’s words.
“It would be to your benefit to seek the counsel of one far more qualified in this field than I. There is so much unknown in cases like yours.”
In spite of the warmth of the room, Morgan shivered. “And what, exactly, do you think a specialist might do for me that you cannot?”
The physician met his eyes. Morgan did not miss the fleeting glint of sympathy in his gaze.
When Dunne replied, he was once more the consummate professional. “For one thing, he could give you a precise accounting of your condition and your options.”
Morgan attempted a laugh. “I expect I can make that assessment on my own without benefit of a specialist.”
“Prognosis isn’t my only concern,” the doctor said, looking directly at him. “What if there’s a chance the bullet could be removed?”
Morgan glared at him. “I have been told by three purported experts that removal of the bullet is out of the question, unless I wish to risk ending up as a vegetable—or a corpse.” He expelled a long breath. “You will understand, I trust, that I prefer my present condition to either alternative.”
The doctor leaned toward him. “Of course I understand,” he said, his gaze intent. “But advances have been made in surgery, even as recently as this past year. I have read papers from Paris, from Great Britain—and from the United States—that speak of exciting new procedures.” He hesitated, as if undecided as to whether he should go on until Morgan nodded his assent.
“If there is even the slightest possibility that the paralysis might spread, surely you are bound to investigate all the possibilities.”
Again Morgan felt chilled. He closed his eyes and attempted to suppress the rush that swept through him—fear mixed with a certain excitement.
He could not bring himself to face the idea that he might end up totally paralyzed. To live with useless legs was bad enough. But at least he still lived as a human being. He could still dress himself and feed himself and move about the house with some freedom. Even with his limited mobility, he could still be an active father to his children, a real husband to Finola. He could still call himself a man.
What if the paralysis should grow worse?
He thought death would be eminently preferable.
But if the bullet could be removed?
He opened his eyes. “So, then—what do you advise?”
Dr. Dunne’s expression brightened. “There are two surgeons whose work would seem particularly promising. Do I have your permission to correspond with them in your behalf?”
Morgan moistened his lips, then nodded. “Where are these miracle workers? Surely not in Ireland.”
“One is in London, actually. The other trained in Vienna, but his practice is in the States.”
“I can’t say I fancy the idea of an Englishmen with a knife to my back,” Morgan said dryly. “But I suppose it will do no harm to write to the both of them.”
The doctor picked up his case and turned to go, but Morgan stopped him. “We will say nothi
ng of this to my wife for now. You are aware of the difficulties she continues to experience.”
Dr. Dunne nodded, waiting.
“The dreams and attacks of panic grow worse,” Morgan went on, his concern for her renewed by each word. “I will do nothing to trouble her further. Whatever I decide will have to wait until she is stronger.”
The surgeon’s expression was skeptical. “I understand, naturally. Nevertheless, I would urge you not to delay. The longer you wait—” He broke off. “About your wife—as I’ve told you, I feel strongly that time will make all the difference for her condition. Time, and a normal, fulfilling life with you and the children.”
After the doctor left the room, Morgan lay staring up at the ceiling, his arms locked behind his head. He tried not to think about paralysis or new surgeons or what might lie ahead for him. Instead, he turned his thoughts to Finola.
Time, Dr. Dunne had said. Time, and a normal, fulfilling life: that had been the physician’s prescription for Finola’s recovery.
But just how normal or fulfilling would life be for Finola if her husband were to end up paralyzed entirely?
Or dead?
If only she had someone besides himself to depend on. On the heels of the thought came the reminder that Finola very well might have someone else. Parents. Siblings. Other relatives. If only he knew where to find them.
He had hoped to hear from Cassidy long before now. At first, Frank had kept in touch fairly often, but of late his letters had grown further and further apart. There was no telling where he was these days. Apparently, he had learned nothing of any consequence, else he would have written.
Morgan’s stomach churned at the prospect of what Cassidy’s search might eventually disclose. There was no knowing, after all, what lay buried in Finola’s past.
When she had first appeared at Nelson Hall, she had been mute and without the slightest memory of who she was or where she had come from. All she knew was her given name—and Morgan had occasionally wondered if even that bit of information was dependable. As time went on, very little in the way of remembrance had been granted her, and she seemed to have made peace with the missing pieces of her past. For her sake, Morgan had also tried to look ahead.