by BJ Hoff
Fergus whimpered, but Annie ignored him as she resumed her study of the portrait. The sketch portrayed Finola, seated by the fire in the great room, with baby Gabriel on her lap and Small One, the cat, at her feet.
The sketch was quite good, if she did say so herself. Sister had promised to help her mat it later, which would make it even more presentable.
Annie did hope Finola would be pleased. From the beginning, she had determined to make her gift, wanting to give Finola something personal, something that would reflect a measure of effort and affection.
Propping one elbow on the desk, she rested her chin on her hand. “Finola doesn’t seem altogether happy these days,” she observed to Fergus, who cocked his head as if waiting for an explanation.
But Annie had no explanation. She only knew that there were times when Finola’s lovely face grew sad and troubled, times when she seemed oblivious to conversation taking place all about her—even when the Seanchai was speaking.
Perhaps, Annie thought unhappily, Finola still fretted over a past she could not remember—where she had come from, who she had been, what she might have left behind. Wouldn’t it be the natural thing, to puzzle over whether she had family somewhere, missing her, searching for her?
She put a hand to Fergus’s head and began to stroke his ears. “I expect she would feel sad sometimes,” she said to the wolfhound. “It would be a terrible thing entirely not to know where you came from or who your people are. Even though my mum gave me up, at least I arrived with a name. But Finola doesn’t even have that. She can’t recall her mother or father, or sisters or brothers—no one.”
Annie’s heart wrenched. She wouldn’t be so selfish as to hope that Finola had no other family outside Nelson Hall. Nor would she wish that Finola’s memory of that family might never return. That would be a wicked thought altogether. But if such a family did indeed exist, would it be too cruel, she wondered, to hope that there was no younger sister?
By late afternoon, Morgan was so consumed by Cassidy’s incredible tale that his head felt dangerously near to exploding. He had all he could do to keep from spoiling Finola’s birthday celebration.
Now that at least some of the questions seemed to have been answered, he could not make up his mind what to do with the information. His first inclination had been to tell Finola the entire story at once. She had a right to know, after all, a right to have the missing pieces of her past finally set aright.
But what would it do to her?
Already her emotions were fragile. What if this new revelation proved to be more than she could bear? Was there a possibility it could damage the progress she had made, the healing she seemed to have gained since Gabriel’s birth?
What if it turned out that she could not cope with the shock of such a disclosure? To learn that she had apparently been the victim of a savage assault not once, but twice—an assault that may well have cost her father his life—could such a horror really be borne without further devastation?
Just see what the truth had done to him. Even now, hours after listening to Cassidy’s interpretation of the tale, he was still badly shaken, still half ill with the despair of knowing what Finola must have endured. He knew very well it would take a long, long time before he would be able to think on the entire story without a murderous rage or sick anguish. He could not fathom what this would mean to Finola, who had been the victim of the ugliness.
Besides, what possible good would be served by telling her? It was not as if there were a loving family out there, missing her. Evidently there was no one.
Did she really need to know? Might it not be the best thing—indeed, the loving thing—simply to bury the past?
He shook his head as if to dispel the temptation. It would be unforgivable to let her go on anguishing over her identity when all the while he could provide her with the truth. Surely that would be the crudest sort of deception, a virtual betrayal.
But how to tell her?
And when?
At the end of his wits he went at last in search of Sister Louisa. Perhaps the nun’s unwavering good sense would help him to decide.
He found her upstairs in the sewing room with Annie and the wolfhound. Together they were matting the pencil portrait Annie had sketched for Finola’s birthday gift.
“I would speak with Sister alone, Aine, if you don’t mind,” Morgan told her. “Perhaps you and Fergus could look in on Gabriel in the nursery.”
The girl darted a curious glance from him to Sister, hesitating before leaving the room with the wolfhound at her feet.
Sister Louisa did not react as Morgan might have expected. After hearing the story, she sank down in the chair by the window, wringing her hands. She was, Morgan noted, frightfully pale.
“Oh, the poor lass,” she said, her voice infinitely soft. She said it again, framing her face with trembling hands. “How could she survive such wickedness…such tragedy…more than once?”
Unnerved by the nun’s rare display of agitation, Morgan wheeled his chair close to her. “Are you all right, Sister?”
She dropped her hands away from her face and looked at him. “Yes. Yes, of course.” She said nothing more for a moment. When she finally did speak, her voice was still far from confident. “What will you do, Seanchai?”
Morgan shook his head. “I can’t think what to do. I know I have no right to withhold the truth from her. She is tormented by the unknown secrets of her past, I think. But can she bear such ugliness, Sister?”
Sister Louisa frowned, then shook her head. “Finola is not strong. True, she has come a long way,” she hastened to add. “There has been much healing. But…”
She did not need to finish. Morgan understood what was left unsaid. Finola was still wounded; she could, perhaps, still be broken,
“She still has nightmares.” He spoke aloud, but more to himself than to the nun. “At night she dreams and cries out—sometimes she awakens in such terror, the demons of hell would seem to be hounding her!”
The nun looked at him, her expression sorrowful. “I know, Seanchai,” she said softly. “Sandemon has heard.”
Morgan felt sick. Sick and frightened and bewildered. “What shall I do, Sister? I don’t know what to do!”
Again the nun remained silent for a time. Finally, she met his gaze. “This is what I think, Seanchai,” she said, her tone once more strong, if quiet. “Today is our Finola’s birthday. A day for celebration. We should allow nothing to cast a shadow on her joy. We must be very careful not to act in haste. Later, we will pray and see how God leads. But for today…tonight…let us celebrate Finola.”
Rook Mooney trudged up the rain-slicked hillside to the place called Nelson Hall, silently congratulating himself on finding her so quickly.
It had taken scarcely any effort at all. A few pints with some of the wagging tongues on the docks, and within hours he had learned all he needed to know.
He had been outraged to hear that she was safely ensconced with the Big Lord on the hill. The Seanchai, they called him. A poet. And rich—rich as a king, they said.
A cripple! A cripple in a wheelchair!
A fresh surge of anger boiled through Mooney. He would have thought that he had spoiled her for any other man, especially gentry. Instead, the great fool had married her! Married her, and taken her to live among his own!
Women. They would stop at nothing to live the life of comfort—even bed with a cripple!
With the rain splattering his face, he stood staring at the immense ugly structure looming on the crest of the hill above him. Like an ancient castle, it was. Hulking and forbidding. What with its endless towers and battlements, the tall hedges and giant trees growing up all around it, it seemed to warn off any who would intrude.
Well, it would not stop him. He had come for her, and he would have her.
It took him the better part of an hour to cross the grounds. A bank sloped down toward a stream on the west side of the house, with woods rising tall and dense behind the property.
Several buildings ringed the mansion—horse barns and storage sheds, a smith’s stall, and a bakery.
His boots made a soft squashing sound in the mud around the stables as he moved quickly but stealthily toward the rear of the house.
By the time he finally settled on his hiding place—a large coach house with empty stables at the side—the heavens had opened, hurling torrents of rain down upon him in a fury. Lightning flashed, and the sky cracked with thunder as, cursing, Mooney ducked inside the coach house.
With one drenched sleeve, he caught the water pouring down his face. Wet all through and chilled, he traipsed the length of the building, carefully taking its measure.
It was just what he needed. The outside had a look of abandon. Inside, there were only two carriages—one a large and obviously well-maintained coach, the other smaller and dust-covered, as if it had not been used in some time.
The stables off to the right were deserted. Climbing up to the loft, he found nothing but hay and discarded harnesses. There was no sign that anyone had been in the upper reaches for a long time.
Mooney rooted about in the hay until he had himself a good view of the back of the house. Burrowing down for warmth, he lay watching the lighted windows.
She was in there, no doubt dressed in finery the cripple had bought for her, warm and safe and comfortable, while he hunkered in a hayloft, drenched and shivering.
It wasn’t right. She didn’t belong here, passing herself off as the grand lady, a respectable woman.
Didn’t the great fool in the wheelchair know what had been done to her, that she was ruined? Didn’t he realize he had married something despoiled, a simpleton with the body of a harlot?
But then, a cripple would have no pickings when it came to women, he supposed. The leavings of another man would be the best his kind could hope for.
Mooney ran a finger over the split at the corner of his mouth. No matter why the man endured her. He would soon have to find another baggage to warm his bed.
9
A Birthday at Nelson Hall
The radiance of Heaven illumines her features,
Where the Snows and the Rose have erected their throne;
It would seem that the sun had forgotten all creatures
To shine on the Geraldine’s Daughter alone!
EGAN O’RAHILLY (1670–1728)
TRANSLATION BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
Annie was pleased to see such happiness evident in Finola throughout the birthday festivities. The entire family was in attendance for the event. The scholars had also been invited, including, to her chagrin, the horrible O’Higgins twins.
Scrubbed and polished for the occasion, both Barry and Barnaby—Beastly and Barbaric, as she privately thought of them—were presently absorbed in stuffing their faces with Mrs. Ryan’s apple cake. Obviously, Annie thought with disgust, neither troublemaker had the slightest interest in the celebration apart from the food.
The unveiling of the prayer closet had been a great success, so much so that Finola could not stop talking of it during the meal. Indeed, she had been highly animated throughout the evening, praising Sandemon’s ingenuity and the clever efforts of all involved, at the same time laughing into the Seanchai’s eyes each time their glances happened to meet.
Annie’s own happiness was sharpened by Finola’s obvious delight in the evening. When the Seanchai called upon Jan Martova to take up his fiddle, the girl’s anticipation heightened still more.
The Romany’s music was a rare treat. Jan Martova seldom took his meals with the family. To Annie’s indignation, both he and Tierney seemed to prefer fending for themselves outside, over an open fire, at least when weather permitted.
But tonight both of them had deigned to join the family. Annie watched the Gypsy as he went to stand in front of the vast stone fireplace at the end of the room. Eyes closed, he began to coax from the violin a slow, achingly sweet melody.
The room was hushed, as if in reverence, until the end of the selection. But then the dark eyes snapped open and the fiddle came to life with a rousing Romany tune, followed by a country reel. Soon all the guests were clapping their hands to the music. Annie had all she could do to stay in her chair as the Gypsy fiddled his way through one lively, impassioned tune after another.
When the music ended, it was time for the birthday gifts to be presented. Now that the moment had actually arrived, Annie grew anxious, closely gauging Finola’s response to each gift. She worried that perhaps she should have spent some of her weekly allotment on a more sophisticated present, rather than fashioning one entirely with her own efforts. What if Finola merely thought her too tightfisted to purchase a proper gift?
She squirmed on her chair, closely observing Finola’s exclamations of pleasure as she opened each gift placed within her hands. The Seanchai’s gift, announced earlier, had been a surprise to everyone. Whereas they might have expected a piece of fine jewelry or an exotic scent, instead a generous donation had been made—at Finola’s request and in her name—for the establishment of a new poor hospital near the docks.
To supplement that gift, however, the Seanchai now produced a newly published copy of his own poetry. The publication had been dedicated to Finola, who held the small book to her heart, eyes shining with love for her husband.
Annie sighed at the look that passed between them, and a feeling of restlessness stirred within her. She wondered if anyone would ever look at her in such a way. Her, with her scrawny legs and horsetail hair…would a man ever gaze at her as if the stars rose in her eyes, as if the world itself existed in her smile?
She sighed again, this time with real regret. She could not imagine how her thin face with its gap-toothed smile and hawkish nose could ever melt a manly heart. Perhaps she would eventually join a religious order, like Sister Louisa. She would live a holy life for the Lord and the Church.
Or perhaps she would become an actress and make the stage her One True Love.
But she decided it would be best not to let Sister in on that possibility. Nuns, no doubt, considered the stage little more than a paid arena for wickedness.
Morgan studied Jan Martova through narrowed eyes, unsettled by the way the boy was watching Annie. After a moment, he transferred his attention to the girl, who was obviously unaware of her admirer’s scrutiny.
Admirer? The instinctive use of the word made his own appraisal of Annie turn yet more intense.
When had she changed so?
She was growing up, this adopted daughter of his.
Though the face was still a shade too thin, the black-marble eyes too large by far, there was a softness to her features he had not noticed before tonight. It was still a child’s face, with a wide mouth and saucy nose, but someday soon, Morgan realized with a jolt, his Aine would be a startlingly beautiful young woman. Already the milk-white complexion had taken on a becoming flush, and the unruly mane of midnight hair seemed to be touched with bronze highlights; highlights which, he was quite certain, had not been there before.
She would not be a tall woman, like Finola, but no doubt what she lacked in height she would make up for in spirit.
Where had the time gone?
As if sensing his gaze on her, the girl turned and grinned at him. Morgan managed only the weakest of smiles in return. He was absurdly relieved to see that the gap between her two front teeth was still there.
Remembering what had set him off to begin with, he returned his attention to Jan Martova. His jaw tightened. Had the object of the Romany’s interest been anyone other than his thirteen-year-old daughter, he might have felt a touch of amusement at the furtive glances arcing in her direction. Young Martova had all the recognizable symptoms of hopeless adoration that Morgan recalled from his own youthful experiences with matters of the heart.
But Annie?
Unthinkable! She was a child still, for all the promise of approaching womanhood.
As for the Gypsy…
Morgan’s mind touched on, then skittered past, the
reminder of the youth’s Romany blood. He refused to confront his feelings toward the Gypsies in general. If he were to be wholly honest, he would have to admit to at least some degree of prejudice.
Besides, there was more at issue here than a difference in blood or culture. Jan Martova must have passed his twentieth year by now. Despite Morgan’s own tendency to think of him as a boy, the Gypsy was in fact a man, albeit a young one. Why, there were years between him and Annie!
Just as there were years between himself and Finola…
He jerked as if he had taken a blow. He glanced at Finola, reminding himself that the gap between their ages was different. Finola had not been a mere child when she came to him, but a woman.
Besides, he was not a Gypsy.
Again the unpleasant hint of intolerance rose to the surface of his mind. Everyone knew that Gypsy men often took young girls in marriage, or at the least negotiated nuptial contracts with their parents. Even if these arranged marriages were delayed until the prospective brides were older—and Morgan wasn’t so sure that was always the case—he found the prospect of a Romany ogling his daughter nothing less than outrageous.
Still young Martova was a believer, a Christian. And to his credit, he did seem devout, intent on living a decent life. Morgan had seen no sign of backsliding in the Gypsy.
Abruptly, he chastised himself for his own foolishness. Whatever was he thinking? Not only had he fallen into comparing the Gypsy and Annie with himself and Finola—had he taken to evaluating the youth’s spiritual condition as well?
Preposterous!
He straightened in the wheelchair. Deliberately, he stared at the Gypsy youth until he caught his eye, then leveled his fiercest glare on him. The boy’s dark skin flamed, as if Morgan had found him out, and he quickly looked away.
Across the table, Annie roused herself to attention. She watched as Finola carefully placed the sky-blue shawl, knitted by Sister Louisa from the softest wool, alongside the small woven mat that Lucy had presented for the new prayer closet.