by BJ Hoff
Finola screamed and Morgan released her, his heart pounding. She gazed up at him with a wide, vacant expression, her eyes darting nervously about the room.
“It’s all right, macushla,” Morgan said gently.
Finola jerked her head around and cast a frightened glance at the bedroom door. Morgan’s eyes followed hers, and with startling clarity, he understood. “The door is locked,” he reassured her in a quiet voice. “No one can get to you, my Finola. You are safe.”
At the word safe, Finola heaved a shuddering sigh and moved toward him again, burrowing her head against his shoulder. “I remember—” she began. Then the tears came once more, and she was unable to speak.
When at last her weeping had subsided, Morgan lifted her face to his and looked into her eyes. What he saw there shook him to the very core: raw terror, and a pain so deep he could not even imagine it. He could not bear to see her so hurt, so devastated. And yet instinctively he knew that they could not go around this mountain of pain and heartache. If they did, it would stand between them forever, would stand between Finola and the final healing of her soul and mind. They would have to go through this terrible darkness, and pray for light on the other side.
Morgan swallowed hard. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her suffer still more, but he must.
“Can you talk about it?” he asked quietly.
Finola nodded—a stiff, childlike motion against his shoulder. She took a few gasping breaths and then began:
“Garonne was my tutor—a Frenchman. He was…I thought he was…a wonderful man. Encouraging, affectionate—” She gave an involuntary shudder. “I was young—only fourteen—and innocent in the ways of the world. If I had known, I could have—” An onrush of tears choked the words back.
Morgan pulled her close, and his own heart squeezed with her pain. “You were but a child, macushla. A child, do you hear? You could not have stopped him. He did a terrible thing to you, and it was not your fault.” Finola looked up at him with a pleading, desperate expression. “It was not your fault,” he repeated.
She sank back into his arms. “We were walking by the lake. We often studied outside when the weather was fine, and I loved being down by the water. I had taken along a tin whistle—a gift from Garonne.” A shadow flitted across her face, and she winced slightly.
“I remember I was singing,” she went on in a tight, strangled voice. “Sometimes, when I felt so, I would sing for hours. I was happy. Filled up with summer and music and young girl dreams. I felt light-headed and alive and utterly carefree. It was such a glorious feeling, it was almost painful….”
Morgan nodded. It was a particularly apt description of youth. Her words brought to mind summer days of his own, days when he had literally ached with the sheer joy of the world all around him and the life yet to be lived.
But Finola’s youth, at least a great part of it, had been stolen from her—ripped away by a man twice her age.
“Garonne led me to a secluded place by a large oak on the bank of the lake,” Finola continued. “I sat beside him next to the tree, and then—”
She broke off suddenly, and Morgan looked down at her. Her eyes were tightly shut, and her whole body tensed, shuddering, as if she were reliving the moment even as she spoke.
“He…he assaulted me!” she burst out. Tears streamed down her face, and her breath came in gasps, but she went on in a rush. “He pushed me down…I remember the tin whistle went flying out of my hand. He tore at my clothes, pressed himself on top of me…I was screaming. It was as if he had been transformed, mutated into someone else—or something else—entirely. Not the gentle tutor I had loved and trusted, but a madman, an animal.”
Rage welled up in Morgan. How could anyone—anyone—do such a thing? How could any man take advantage of the trust of a young girl…a girl no older than his own Aine—
Annie! At the thought of his daughter, Morgan’s fury crested. He would go mad if any man dared to assault his child as Finola had been assaulted. He would want to kill such a man—yes, he would—strangle him with his own bare hands, as he wanted now to strangle the Frenchman Garonne.
“My father came running,” Finola was saying. “Someone must have heard my screams. Suddenly Garonne stopped, and turned…and there was my father, pointing the gun at him.” She put her hands to her face as if to shut out the sight. “Garonne—panicked, I think. He lunged for my father and knocked him down—”
Sobs choked back the rest of Finola’s words. Her whole body shook as she remembered that terrible day. “I was on the ground,” she went on at last. “My clothes…my clothes were ripped. I got up and ran toward Father, but Garonne shoved me away. I fell on the bank of the lake…nearly fell in the water. And then—”
She took a deep breath. “Garonne and Father wrestled for the gun, and then…Garonne shot my father! He just stood up, pointed the pistol at Father’s head, and fired!
“I was screaming, crying…Garonne turned the gun on me, staring at me, and for a moment I thought he would shoot me, too. Then he ran off, into the woods. I went to Father, but he wasn’t breathing…”
Finola looked up at Morgan. His face was hard, set like stone. Was he angry with her? Disappointed? Would he reject her outright, now that he knew the truth…now that she knew? Her heart sank, but she would finish…no matter what it cost.
“I think…I think I must have gone mad then,” she whispered. “I ran into the woods…I remember screaming, over and over again…”
She paused for a moment, gasping for breath. Outside, beyond the window, a faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and Finola shivered.
“I don’t remember anything else,” she said. “I might have gone on running through the woods—I don’t know how long I wandered. It could have been several days. The next thing I remember, I was in Dublin, at Gemma’s Place. Lucy found me in the street and took me in. She and the other women at Gemma’s looked after me.”
She took a deep breath. “And then, after nearly four years at Gemma’s, I found myself here…at Nelson Hall….”
Finola kept her head lowered. She could not look at Morgan, could not bear to know what he was thinking, and yet she had to know. At last she raised her eyes slowly to his.
A look of infinite love filled his face. Tears tracked down his cheeks into his beard, and his eyes held an expression of pain and thankfulness. “And for that, macushla, I will be forever grateful.” His voice was husky with emotion, and he pulled her even closer. “You are a strong, courageous woman, Finola aroon,” he murmured, brushing a kiss over her hair. “And I am a blessed man entirely to have you for my wife.”
Relief flooded through Finola as she saw Morgan smile at her through his tears.
“We have come to the truth at last,” he whispered. “You now know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”
Finola leaned against him and savored the warmth of his strong arms around her. At last, she was beginning to feel safe—safe, and free, and loved. And as she drifted to sleep in Morgan’s embrace, she heard his voice, as from a great distance: “The worst is over, macushla…truly it is.”
And her heart responded, Please, God, let it be so….
12
Brady of Broadway
Like a spirit land of shadows
They in silence on me gaze,
And I feel my heart is beating
With the pulse of other days;
And I ask what great magician
Conjured forms like these afar?
Echo answers, ’tis the sunshine,
By its alchemist Daguerre.
CALEB LYON (1850, AFTER A VISIT TO BRADY’S PORTRAIT GALLERY)
New York City
In the waiting room of Mathew Brady’s gallery, Michael Burke sat on a straight-backed chair like a figure of doom. Not for the first time over the past hour, he silently railed at himself for his folly. It had been a weak moment indeed when he allowed his father-in-law and his wife to talk him into this daft idea.
Looking up, he glared at Sara, sitting across from him. She smiled sweetly in return, as if altogether unaware of his foul humor.
He could not help but notice that she was looking especially lovely today, decked out in the new blue suit that she’d had tailored for the portrait. For a moment he almost forgot to scowl. But only for a moment.
The waiting room of Brady’s Gallery at Broadway and Fulton was an unpretentious place, not at all in keeping with the showy painting on the wall downstairs—a great, gaudy hand with one finger pointing to the stairway and the legend “THREE FLIGHTS UP.”
Michael had expected something more on the order of Barnum’s Museum across the street. But this plain and modest studio had little to distinguish it, other than the compelling portraits that lined the walls—and its owner’s reputation.
Most of the portraits were of famous American citizens: politicians, inventors, showmen, and other notable personalities. As for Mathew Brady’s reputation, it was equalled by none of the other daguerreotypists whose galleries lined Broadway.
Almost all photographers called themselves “artists,” but Brady seemed to be one of the few who gave credence to the word. Brady’s celebrated artistry brought the public scurrying to his door with more business than he could handle.
No doubt, Michael speculated sourly, the man’s popularity accounted for his not being able to keep his appointments on time.
He looked up as one of Brady’s assistants, a long-faced youth with rumpled linen and a slight tic, appeared in the doorway—for the third time—to announce rather timidly that “Mr. Brady will be ready for you soon, I’m sure.”
“Would that be this afternoon or tomorrow, do you think?” Michael said evenly.
The boy twitched, then hurriedly retreated.
With a grunt of disgust, Michael again faced his wife. “I could have sworn your father said this would take only moments.”
Sara’s smile never wavered. “Try to be patient, darling. Mr. Brady is doing separate sittings of Father and Winnie, after all. And don’t forget what a compliment it is, having Mathew Brady himself request an appointment.”
“You know very well,” Michael pointed out, “that the only reason we’re here is because Brady wanted to photograph Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Farmington.”
She merely shrugged, holding out one gloved hand to inspect it. “Mr. Brady requested that we sit for a portrait, too. He made his intentions very clear.”
“The intentions were those of your wily father, I’m thinking.”
After inspecting the other glove, Sara looked at him. “My father is not wily.”
Michael quirked an eyebrow at her.
“Well…” Her mouth twitched. “I suppose he is a bit devious at times. Still, I think this is all very exciting. Pout if you must, but I intend to enjoy it. Besides, just imagine how splendid we will look to our grandchildren someday. You are wickedly handsome in your new suit, you know.”
Michael relaxed a bit in spite of himself. “A lot of fuss for nothing, all the same.”
At that moment Brady himself walked into the waiting room. “Captain. Mrs. Burke,” he said. “I apologize for the delay. If you’d like to join Mr. and Mrs. Farmington now, we’ll do the group portrait first. Then another of the two of you.”
Following him into the other room, Michael was struck by Brady’s youthful appearance. He might be one of the most famous photographers in the country, but even with a full beard he didn’t look to be thirty as yet. He was a small man, his head barely reaching Michael’s shoulder. His black broadcloth suit hung loosely on his slender frame, and a full head of curly dark hair diminished his stature even further. Even his thick-lensed spectacles seemed too large for the rest of him.
Mathew Brady was something of a mystery to New Yorkers. In spite of his phenomenal success and prosperity, he and his wife apparently lived a quiet, private life with virtually no involvement in New York’s society.
There were any number of conflicting stories about the young photographer, some outrageously farfetched. Supposedly, his parents had been impoverished Irish immigrants, yet Brady claimed otherwise. He had been raised, he maintained, on a farm in eastern New York State, where his mother and father had been born.
Gossip also hinted that Brady could neither read nor write. Yet since entering the studio, Michael had seen the photographer scan his appointment register with his nearsighted gaze, then scrawl a message for one of his assistants to deliver.
Brady’s failing eyesight, however, was obviously more than a rumor. The man seemed to have difficulty in making out his register entries, and he pressed his face almost to the page before writing. Apparently the problem had become so acute that he no longer operated his own cameras, relying instead on his assistants for the technical aspects of the business.
Still, there was no question that Brady was the real artist behind the gallery’s success. Michael noted with interest the deft movements, the attention to detail, the quiet confidence that marked him as a master of his profession.
He also recognized something else about the renowned Brady of Broadway: the man clearly possessed the Irishman’s traditional gift of storytelling. All through the sitting, the slight-figured photographer rattled off one anecdote after another, pausing between tales only long enough for a quick smile.
Brady took shots of both couples together, then of Michael and Sara, and finally individual portraits. When at last the click of the drop shutter proclaimed an end to the final sitting, Michael let out a relieved sigh.
“Excellent,” Brady announced. “I personally guarantee portraits you will be pleased to pass down to future generations.” The photographer looked at Michael, then broke into a boyish smile.
After the sitting, Sara waited with Winnie while the men exchanged small talk. Watching Michael, she was fairly certain he hadn’t actually minded sitting for the daguerreotype as much as he’d previously let on. Both he and her father were laughing heartily as Mr. Brady led them through the door off the studio.
“I’ve only recently purchased a copy of your new book,” her father was saying to the photographer. “I must say, I’m impressed with your portraiture, Brady. Fine work.”
The book he referred to, Sara knew, was Brady’s Gallery of Illustrious Americans. A massive work, the book was a collection of splendid portraits of eminent American citizens. It was said to weigh at least five pounds and sold for the exorbitant price of thirty dollars a copy.
“Well, Mr. Farmington, after today you can be sure that your own portrait will grace my next collection,” Brady replied. Turning then to Michael, he peered at him closely through his thick eyeglasses. “You know, Captain, I’ve been entertaining the idea of doing a collection of our city officials, including the police force. But I must say the captains to whom I’ve broached the subject have been anything but enthusiastic.”
Michael’s dark eyes glinted with amusement. “I expect a number of the men might be as reluctant as I was to have their faces frozen for posterity. You might get further if you’d speak to Chief Matsell about the idea.”
“Ah, I see. Thank you for the advice, Captain. Once I return from Europe, I’ll do just that. I’m planning some rather extensive collections,” Brady went on, stroking his beard. “Professional people. Stage stars. Public officials—the police force, the fire department. And political figures, of course. The mayor has already sat for me, as well as the governor. And some of our aldermen.” He paused. “I’ve ah…heard tell that you might be considering a future in politics, Captain.”
Michael merely smiled, not rising to the photographer’s bait.
“If the rumor is true,” Brady went on, “one of your future competitors is scheduled for a sitting next week. Perhaps you know Mr. Patrick Walsh?”
Michael reacted exactly as Sara would have expected. His features went rigid, his mouth tightening to a thin line below his moustache. He stood unmoving, both fists clenched at his side.
“Walsh?” he said,
his voice as hard as his eyes.
Obviously unaware of the response he had provoked, Brady went on in a genial tone of voice. “Yes, in addition to his business connections, he’s apparently planning a political career as well.”
Sara watched Michael closely. His self-control was ordinarily impressive, but she had learned that when it came to Patrick Walsh, her husband could be highly unpredictable, even volatile.
“Politics, is it?” Michael’s voice was edged with a mixture of disbelief and anger. “I wasn’t aware that Walsh had any particular aspirations in that direction.”
“Oh yes,” Brady said, cheerfully rambling on. “He seems very enthusiastic about his prospects. Apparently he thinks his Tammany connections and business dealings will serve him well in the political arena.”
“No doubt he’s right,” Michael said.
Although his expression never altered, Sara saw the flint in his eyes, heard the barely controlled contempt in his tone. Her mind raced for a way to end the exchange between the photographer and her husband before Michael’s temper got in the way of his customary good manners. He could be a veritable bear when angered.
She drew a discreet sigh of relief when her father moved to intervene.
“If you’re interested in politicians as subjects,” he offered, “you might want to contact Simon Dabney.” Sara’s father spoke directly to the photographer, but his eyes were fixed on Michael. “Not only would Simon himself make a worthy subject for one of your collections, but he could bring you any number of other prospects as well. Do you know him?”
When Brady admitted that he had not had the pleasure, Sara’s father offered to arrange an introduction. “For now, however, we probably should be on our way. Michael and I promised these lovely ladies dinner at the Astor House.”
Sara didn’t miss the firm grip her father applied to Michael’s arm as he turned toward the door, then stopped. “You won’t forget about the portraits of Sara’s grandmother, will you, Brady?”