Dawn of the Golden Promise

by BJ Hoff

  With a deep breath, she stood to hand Finola the portrait, wrapped in plain paper. She saw almost immediately that all her fretting had been for nothing.

  After studying the sketch in silence for a moment, Finola turned to her with a brilliant smile and held out her arms. “Such a wonderful gift, Aine,” she said, drawing Annie into a vigorous embrace. “I shall treasure it always!”

  Pleased beyond words, Annie was content to watch as Finola opened Tierney Burke’s gift—an imported silk fan. It occurred to her that he must have spent the better part of his stable wages on such a treasure. Perhaps this would show Sister Louisa, who had once deemed their American guest a “thoughtless, undisciplined gorsoon,” that Tierney did have generous instincts after all—when he thought to reveal them.

  While Finola was still admiring the fan, Jan Martova approached her chair. “I, too, have a gift for you,” he said quietly. As was his custom when in Finola’s presence, he bowed his head in what appeared to be an instinctive gesture of respect.

  Clearly surprised, Finola smiled at him as she accepted the gift. Still smiling, she drew back the folds of a brightly colored silk scarf to reveal a small penny whistle.

  For a moment she simply sat staring at the tin whistle, almost as if she had never seen such a thing before. Suddenly she seemed to stiffen and go pale. Gasping for breath, she jumped to her feet and shook off the instrument as if a serpent had been tossed into her lap.

  Then she screamed—a long, terrible wail that rent the room with anguish. Her eyes rolled back, and she went limp.

  Annie leaped from her chair. At the same time the Seanchai flung out his arm in an attempt to hold Finola as she swayed. But it was Tierney Burke, still standing near Finola’s chair, who caught her just before she crumpled to the floor.

  10

  The Storm Closes In

  Woe to us, woe! the thunders have spoken…

  Through the cleft thundercloud the weird coursers are rushing—

  Their hoofs will strike deep in the hearts they are crushing…

  LADY WILDE (1824–1896)

  “SPERANZA”—FROM THE NATION, 1849

  For a moment Morgan couldn’t take in what had happened. He froze as he saw Tierney sweep Finola into his arms, not an instant too late. His eyes darted to the tin whistle flung onto the floor, the bright silk scarf discarded nearby.

  Finally the sight of Finola, limp as a rag doll in Tierney’s arms, roused him, and he whipped the wheelchair out from behind the table. “Over there,” he said. He motioned Tierney to the rug in front of the hearth, and followed him to the fireplace.

  The moment the boy lowered Finola gently to the floor, both Sandemon and Sister Louisa knelt beside her. “A dead faint,” Sister said, looking up at Morgan. “I’d best get the smelling salts.”

  Morgan blinked, his mind scrambling to understand what had happened. “Lay a fire, if you will,” he said to Sandemon, without taking his eyes from Finola. “The room is cold.”

  “Seanchai?”

  The soft entreaty from behind him made Morgan turn and stare. The Gypsy stood in the shadows near the sideboard. His dark eyes were troubled, his hands clenched. “Is it…something I did? She loves the music so, I thought only to give…I meant no harm…”

  He let his words drift off, unfinished.

  Morgan stared at him. For an instant, he felt his anger at the Gypsy boil up and threaten to explode. The feeling was irrational, he knew. Whatever had triggered Finola’s bewildering behavior, obviously it had not been prompted by any malice on the part of Jan Martova. The Romany’s confusion and misery were written all over his face.

  “No blame is due you,” he managed to concede. “Who can say what brought this on?”

  Yet it was obvious that the penny whistle had in some way triggered the fainting spell. Morgan’s mind raced. What had Frank said? Something about a tin whistle being found by the lake, near the body of Finola’s father…

  Suddenly the rest of Cassidy’s words came with dreadful clarity: “The Kelly lad said she often walked along the lake, playing the penny whistle. Seems the music teacher—the Frenchman—gave it to her…”

  Morgan felt a tremor of dread. The rain that had been falling throughout the evening now flung itself in wild torrents against the house. The wind was up, wailing and gusting through the dense fortress of trees all about the estate. Chilled, he crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed his shoulders as he studied Finola’s still form.

  He watched as Sister Louisa returned with the smelling salts and dropped down to administer them. Finola stirred slightly, moaning, then murmured something too soft to understand.

  Morgan leaned forward. “What did she say?”

  Sandemon had returned to kneel between Morgan and the prostrate Finola. Without turning, he shook his head. “A name, perhaps? I’m not sure.”

  Again Finola twisted in resistance to the smelling salts. She whimpered as if in pain, her head thrashing from side to side.

  Sister Louisa withdrew the stimulant, but Finola continued to writhe and utter soft sounds of protest.

  Her moaning grew louder. “Father! Oh, no, Father!” She flailed her arms, crying out as if in agony. “Garonne!”

  Garonne…

  The word struck Morgan like a hammer blow. A French name…the music teacher had been a Frenchman…

  Suddenly, Finola gasped. Her eyes came open, and horror filled her gaze. The scream that ripped from her throat made Morgan draw back, startled.

  “Father! No. Father—No!”

  She looked to be in the throes of some sort of attack. Morgan stared at her, his muscles locked in anguish. He leaned forward, meaning to touch her, then drew his hand back.

  Softly, he called her name, then again. “Finola…Finola, macushla. ’ Tis all right. All is well. You are safe, Finola.” Bracing one hand on the kneeling Sandemon’s shoulders, he continued to lean toward Finola, calling her name quietly but firmly.

  Slowly she turned her gaze on him, her features frozen in what appeared to be mortal terror. She began to tremble, slightly at first, then more violently. “Garonne…” she choked out.

  “No, ’tis Morgan, macushla. Only Morgan.”

  A glazed look of confusion washed over her features. Morgan waited, saying nothing. Finally, he saw the trembling subside a little. She struggled to sit up, and Sandemon hurried to help her. Immediately she reached for Morgan.

  “Shh, now, macushla,” he murmured, taking both her hands in his. He sensed that she was badly disoriented and would be distressed by all the attention turned upon her.

  “Help us upstairs,” he said to Sandemon, his voice low. “We would be alone.”

  With a nod, Sandemon lifted Finola gently into his arms and carried her from the room.

  Behind them, Morgan stopped only long enough to press Annie’s hand and look into the girl’s frightened eyes.

  “Seanchai? What is it? Is Finola all right?”

  He squeezed her fingers. “She will be, alannah. She needs some quiet now, and rest, that’s the thing. You will look in on Gabriel?”

  Annie nodded, jumping at a loud crash of thunder. Again Morgan pressed her hand in his, sensing the fear she was trying to suppress. “Perhaps you should come up, too? No doubt the storm has made your little brother and Lucy anxious. It might be well if you would stay with them until it passes.”

  As his gaze scanned the room, he noted that Tierney and Jan Martova were nowhere in sight.

  That night, Morgan left Finola alone only long enough to speak with the doctor, who had come when summoned. “You’re sure she will be all right?”

  “She should be perfectly fine after she has a rest,” Dr. Dunne said. He hesitated. “You’re quite certain it was the penny whistle that brought this on?” Morgan nodded. Even in the dimly lighted hallway he could see the bafflement in the surgeon’s eyes.

  “I can’t think it was anything else. Had you been here, you would understand. It was as if the thing had attacked her.�
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  “And she has told you nothing since?”

  Morgan hesitated, undecided as to how much he wanted to explain just yet, even to the physician. “Only one word…a name. Someone who…once caused her great distress, I think.”

  The doctor looked at him. “The man who attacked her?”

  Morgan felt the old, bitter anger break over him. “There is reason to believe,” he said tightly, looking away, “that she might have been assaulted…more than once. The first time…when she was quite young. Little more than a child.”

  The surgeon uttered a sound of dismay. “And you believe she has begun to remember?”

  “I think it is a possibility, yes.”

  Their eyes met. For a moment neither spoke. “Will the laudanum help her to sleep?” Morgan finally asked.

  “It will. And I’ve left more with Sister Louisa, should there be a need. She knows the dosage. I’m afraid there’s really nothing else to do just now, except to keep a close watch. I will stop by again tomorrow to see how she’s doing.” He paused. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Morgan…”

  Morgan looked up. The doctor was eyeing him with the appraising look of a medical man.

  “I don’t like your color. You look quite exhausted.”

  Morgan waved off his concern. “I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for coming out on such a mean night, James. I appreciate it.”

  “I hope you’ve given some thought to the surgeon in America?” the physician ventured.

  “This is hardly the time to be planning a crossing,” Morgan snapped.

  Immediately he regretted the sharpness of his tone. “I’m sorry, James. I didn’t mean to be short. But it’s not the time.”

  “Quite right.” The doctor stepped back, although he continued to study Morgan a moment longer. “Send for me if you need me,” he said gently, then turned to go.

  After the doctor left, Morgan lay unmoving, holding Finola in his arms. At times she seemed to doze, fitfully. More often she sobbed or flailed her fists, as if warding off a blow. Once or twice she murmured something incomprehensible, then grew still.

  He could almost feel the conflict raging inside her, as if she were fighting to remember. Or was she trying not to remember?

  There was little he could do for her, other than to hold her close and attempt to comfort her as best he could. James had said it would be better if she remembered only a little at a time, but she seemed to be overwhelmed by an entire tide of memories.

  Morgan felt the struggle draining her strength, both physically and emotionally. Yet now that the memories had finally come, he was reluctant to try to stem the flow. As he held her, he battled his own torrent of conflicting emotions.

  Tonight he had finally caught a glimpse of just how devastating the return of her memories could be. Even with his lack of medical expertise, he sensed it could be dangerous for her to remember too much too soon. How much should he—could he—tell her of what Cassidy had uncovered in Drogheda?

  Morgan found himself gripped by the same dread, the same dark apprehension, as before. It was fear. Fear for Finola, and for himself.

  Beyond what all this might mean to her emotional health, he could not deny a very real fear for its effect on their marriage, their love. Already there were times when he sensed her pulling away from him. He tried not to believe that his physical condition could be responsible for her occasional restraint, tried not to dwell on the reality that Finola was a beautiful young woman tied to an older man in a wheelchair. He tried not to wonder if her passion for him had begun to wane.

  Perhaps it was, indeed, only the pain, the memories that had haunted and yet evaded her, that sometimes made her withdraw. Surely the violence inflicted upon her body and soul might cause some reluctance, if not actual aversion to intimacy, even with a man she loved.

  And he did not doubt that Finola loved him.

  But now…now he knew the hideous truth. Could he really bring himself to risk damaging what he held precious beyond all price…Finola’s love? Could he tell her?

  She stirred restlessly in his arms, and Morgan studied the exquisite face he had come to love more than life—a face now contorted with some silent anguish, some lonely struggle he found himself helpless to ease.

  He drew her even closer, pressing her face against his shoulder, concealing the pain that threatened to obscure her loveliness. Outside, the rain continued to pelt the house, but the wind had diminished to a steady moan. Remembering many a night from his own troubled past when he had shivered beneath a cold rain on a lonely road, Morgan buried his face in the spun gold of Finola’s hair and gave thanks for the shelter of her love…and the divine love that had brought them together.

  Yet somehow he did not feel sheltered, not even with Finola’s sweet warmth in his arms and a fire burning low across the room. Instead, he felt inexplicably chilled, his nerves drawn taut, his pulse too erratic by far.

  “Garonne…”

  Morgan started at the sound of the French name on her lips. He eased back to look at her. Her eyes were open, her expression stricken as she met his gaze.

  “What is it, macushla?” he whispered, gently brushing a strand of hair away from her temple. “Who is this ‘Garonne’?”

  Her nails dug into his shoulders as she clung to him, but she made no reply.

  The rainstorm had passed, leaving only a gentle dripping from the eaves and an occasional distant groan of thunder. But Morgan remained vigilant, his nerves on edge. He almost felt as if another storm were approaching, coming from a distant place…but coming quickly.

  Sandemon stood staring out into the rainy night, becoming more unsettled with every hour that dragged on.

  Not once this night had his mind grown still enough to sleep. There was no peace in his spirit, no quiet in his soul.

  Part of his agitation, he knew, was due to the mysterious seizure of Mistress Finola. He had heard her broken sobs and moans of distress coming from the bedchamber, had heard as well the muffled efforts of the Seanchai to comfort her. So intense was his concern that it had been all he could do to leave them to themselves and not interfere.

  Concern for the young mistress, however, was not the only burden on his spirit, nor was the rainstorm entirely to blame for his sleeplessness. Indeed, the rain had slackened, easing to a slow and steady pattering as the storm moved on.

  But outside Nelson Hall something else—something dark and cold and threatening—rode the night wind. Something lurked in the darkness. Sandemon could feel it—palpable and foreboding.

  Suddenly he shivered, then moved even closer to the window, straining to see outside. But the moon and stars were hidden, the night dense and black. Nothing moved in the darkness.

  Turning, he looked around the room. The cold was pervasive, drawing in on him. Again he shivered. The need for warmth and light seized him, and he crossed the room to stoke the fire, then lit a second lamp.

  It wasn’t enough. Going to stand in front of the fire, Sandemon gripped his hands together, waiting for the heat to warm his bones, waiting for the Light to banish his sense of encroaching dread.

  Finally, after a long time, he began to pray.

  11

  Long-Buried Secrets

  But when the days of gold dreams had perished,

  And even Despair was powerless to destroy,

  Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,

  Strengthened, and fed, without the aid of joy.

  EMILY BRONTE (1818–1848)

  Morgan’s heart nearly broke as he lay holding Finola, watching her by the dim light of the candle next to the bed. Her anguished sobs came from deep within, as if her very soul were rising up in torment.

  How long could she go on like this? She was obviously exhausted, and yet the weeping continued, the deep, heartrending groans of a spirit in the throes of a mighty battle.

  He desperately wanted to comfort her, to soothe and calm her, to still the inner storm that buffeted her fragile body and racked her
mind. But he could do nothing.

  All he could do was wait and stay beside her during this dark night of the soul, praying that somehow his presence would give her the strength to endure this torture.

  Morgan had never felt so utterly helpless. He feared for Finola, and for himself. What would this revelation do to her…her mind…to her life…to them?

  “Garonne…” As she called the Frenchman’s name again, her entire frame shuddered in a convulsion that shook the great bed where they lay.

  Morgan’s arms tightened about her, and tears streamed down his face into his beard. “Finola, aroon,” he whispered fiercely. “’Tis Morgan. I am here, macushla…I will not let you go.”

  “I will not let you go…”

  The words pierced into Finola’s soul like a hot knife. Garonne! Those were his words when she began to resist him. “NO!” she screamed.

  Still he came after her—this mentor turned monster. And suddenly, as she saw his obscene face looming above her, she remembered it all…everything….

  She remembered Henri Garonne, who had taken rooms with the Morans in the winter. He had been employed to tutor her, not only in the classical subjects, but in the musical arts as well.

  Finola could not have been more pleased. Garonne represented a curiosity, a departure from the dry, monotonous teaching of her previous tutor, the middle-aged Dr. Jennings, who had surprised everyone in Drogheda by marrying the Widow Browne and retiring to the country.

  Garonne quickly became a familiar figure in the Moran household. Jocular and quick-witted, he entertained both Finola and her father with his stories of life in Paris. He praised her effusively for her accomplishments, especially in her musical pursuits. She was a wonder and a joy, he would say, patting her hand or squeezing her shoulder.

  Finola blossomed under his tutorage, responding readily to his affectionate nature. Both she and her father trusted him completely, until that terrible day beside the lake…