by BJ Hoff
Alice watched in disbelief as he began shaking Ruth like a worthless doll. She tried to wrest free of him, but he yanked her around, forcing her out the door and into the hall.
Alice ran after them. At the landing, Patrick pushed Ruth Marriott backward toward the staircase. With one hand locked about her throat he held her captive, while with the other hand he leveled a gun at her head.
The terrified woman was trying to free herself, flailing her arms, pounding him with her fists as she gasped for breath. But Patrick seemed possessed. Livid in his fury, he bent over her, and Alice suddenly realized what he intended.
She clutched the banister and screamed at him, “Dear Lord—Patrick, no! You can’t!”
If he heard her choked cry, he ignored it.
Ruth Marriott’s eyes, filled with horror, locked on Patrick’s. Her skin had faded to a deathly gray, and all at once her body seemed to fold. Her knees buckled, and she went limp.
Alice forgot her own fear, her trembling legs, her heart which threatened to explode at any instant. Pushing away from the banister, she charged at Patrick.
But she was too late. Even as she reached him, he shoved Ruth Marriott hard. The woman tumbled backward, crashing down one step after another until she hit the bottom and lay like a broken doll, sprawled and silent.
Crying out, Alice started down the steps after her. But Patrick caught her arm in a viselike grip, yanking her back and holding her fast with his left hand.
Then with his right hand, he raised the pistol and aimed it at the woman at the bottom of the steps.
“Oh, dear God no, Patrick! No!”
“Shut up! Stay out of this!”
His grip on her arm tightened. “I intend to make sure she can’t cause any more trouble!”
“You can’t do this! I won’t let you!”
Alice seized his right arm, clinging to him, trying to force him to lower the gun.
Patrick turned on her, his face distorted. His eyes were savage, the eyes of a wild animal out of control. Alice knew in a white hot instant of clarity that something had been unleashed in him, something that had always been there, lurking just below the surface. Something cruel and corrupt…and utterly evil.
Suddenly she saw the truth—he would murder her if she persisted. She mattered little more to him than Ruth Marriott—if indeed she had ever mattered at all.
The realization hit her like a blow, and she faltered. Alice’s senses took in everything at once…the still form of Ruth Marriott, surely dead, at the bottom of the stairway…the maid, Nancy, appearing in the hallway below, shrieking hysterically…Patrick pushing at her, trying to throw her off him…her own weakness, the awful sickness welling up in her…
Pure instinct made her grapple for the gun. She pulled at his arm with all her strength and felt cold steel under her fingers. Patrick roared in fury and gave one last violent shove. The gun exploded.
He uttered a hoarse cry of surprise, and the pistol clattered to the floor.
Patrick looked at her, his eyes wide with shock. “Alice?” he gasped.
Then he doubled over, sinking to his knees, clutching his chest. With a shudder, he collapsed.
Alice stared at him. Somewhere she heard someone screaming, and as darkness closed around her, she realized the tortured cries were her own.
PART TWO
THE PROMISE FULFILLED
Hope for the Helpless
Be sure of this: The wicked will not go unpunished,
but those who are righteous will go free.
PROVERBS 11:21
20
Dark Corner of the Mind
Why do those eyes lie open in sleep,
What’s hid in the black of his mind?
F. R. HIGGINS (1896–1941)
Dublin, Ireland
August
Rook Mooney turned over, still wide awake, though it was long after midnight. The mattress on the sagging bed was nothing but straw, thin and ridged.
Like sleeping on a washboard.
The bed went with the rest of the room—a cramped, dingy pesthole with one window and a broken-down washstand as the only furnishing besides the bed. The place was little more than a pantry, hot and filthy, but it was all he could afford; he had left most of his money in the gambling pits in Lisbon.
Sprawled on his back, he stared up at the ceiling, its mottled layers revealed by the faint wedge of moonlight filtering through the grime-encrusted window. After a moment he raised himself up on one elbow to swill from the bottle of whiskey he had brought to bed with him.
This would be his last night in this hellhole, and good riddance. Tomorrow he would go back to the big house on the hill.
Nelson Hall, it was called. As if a house merited a name. As if it was gentry like those who lived inside.
Curse them all! They’d not be so uppity when he was done.
He had stayed two days up there the first time, holed up like a rat. It hadn’t stopped raining the whole time. Finally, hungry and cold, he had given it over and come back to the city.
But he had seen her. Seen her at the window upstairs, peering out. Looking straight at the coach house, as if she knew he was there, waiting for her.
Maybe she did know. Maybe she felt his closeness, smelled his rage. Knew he was coming after her.
He hoped so. He wanted her afraid. Scared out of her wits. Just like before.
He remembered how she had tried to scream, the choking sound that had come out instead.
He scowled and took another swig of whiskey. Just the sight of him had scared her plenty.
Well, she’d be scared this time too. More than before, and not just because of his face. One look at the knife would set her off good. He’d teach her.
He’d have to be careful of that big black, though.
The cripple in the wheelchair would be no problem. No more trouble than a flea on a dog. But that black devil was something else. Maybe he ought to get rid of him first thing.
And those Gypsy dogs on the other side of the stream. They could be trouble, too.
He caught the sweat on his face with his sleeve and took another drink. What kind of people were they anyhow, letting those filthy Gypsies squat on their land?
Even his Aunt Fee wouldn’t have taken up with a Gypsy. The old witch had hauled just about everything else into her bed, but never a Gypsy.
He twisted his face at the memory of his aunt, one finger going to the split lip she had given him. If the old hag hadn’t gone after him with a knife, he would have had himself a decent job. The women wouldn’t get wild-eyed at the sight of him. He wouldn’t have to pay to get them to be nice to him, or else beat it out of them.
His mind went back to his plans. The black, that was the one he’d have to be careful of. Him and the dog.
Cussed wolfhound. Devil’s own, that’s what they were. More wolf than dog, and that was the truth. And this was a big one. The biggest he’d ever seen.
He glanced at the half-empty bottle in his hand, then tipped it again. No use saving it. He had another to take with him.
He ought to get some sleep. Needed to be fit tomorrow.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about her. It had been almost two weeks since he had hidden in the coach house the first time, since he’d seen her at the window. Long enough to stoke his rage and his need.
Soon. It oughtn’t to take long, but this time he was going prepared to stay as long as need be. He had spent the last of his coins on some bread and cheese—and a spare bottle.
He had everything he needed to wait it out.
Until he got what he came for.
He reached underneath the bed, drew out the knife, and ran his thumb along the sharp steel of the blade. This time, she wouldn’t get off so easy.
21
In the Vale of Love
Your love creates for me
a haven, a holy place,
where we abide.
MORGAN FITZGERALD (1850)
Glendalough, Ireland
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Morgan Fitzgerald no longer remembered when the idea of a brief retreat for himself and Finola had first occurred to him. He only knew he would always be grateful for these past three days.
Basking in utter contentment, he sat in his wheelchair in a clearing near the round tower, watching a Wicklow sunset. Finola, lounging on the grass beside him, leaned against the chair.
He felt inordinately pleased to have been the one to introduce her to the Vale of Glendalough—the Valley of Two Lakes. The isolated mountain setting, so rich in natural beauty and ancient history, had long been special to him. One of the loveliest spots in Ireland, Glendalough was a place where the past, with all its romance and legend, seemed to reign untouched, unmarred by the Island’s troubles and tragedy. Even the famine’s devastation could almost be forgotten amid the serenity and beauty of this secluded valley.
He had always found a kind of healing here, as though the site itself held restorative powers. Perhaps the ruins of the Seven Churches, those antiquities scattered throughout the valley, were responsible for giving the area a sense of time forgotten. Possibly the mystique of the place centered about Saint Kevin, the sixth-century Celtic mystic who had lived a hermit’s existence here. Certainly, those legends played a part in the mood of reverence and sanctuary that seemed to engulf the entire locale.
Or perhaps it was simply the valley’s remoteness, its solitude, which Morgan found renewing. Whatever it was, there was nowhere he would rather be at this moment—and no one he would rather share it with than Finola.
If she had ever been here before, she had no memory of it. And because it was all new for her, Morgan almost felt as if he were seeing it for the first time as well, through her eyes.
He sighed a great sigh, and felt her hand tighten on his.
“Are you tiring, Morgan?”
He turned to look at her. With her hair tied back in a blue ribbon and a faint blush of color on her face from their hours in the sun, she looked wonderfully young and healthy.
And happy?
“I have never felt better in my life, macushla, and that is the truth.”
She smiled and again pressed his hand. “This was a fine idea you had for us. I will always be glad we came.”
“Truly? I had hoped it would be special for you.”
“Oh, it has been, Morgan. I can’t tell you how special! Why, if I weren’t eager to get back to our Gabriel and Aine, it would make me sad to think of leaving.”
He nodded, sharing her feelings. Despite missing the children, this trip had been a kind of gift. As brief as it had been, it was in fact their wedding journey at last—their first time to go away by themselves.
Sad to say, he had never had the opportunity to court his wife, never played the suitor, never wooed her. He had been her friend and her husband, her companion, and her lover. But he had never been Romeo to his Juliet, never really pursued her or romanced her.
Circumstances had forced them to forgo the traditional courtship. Because they had moved—leaped, actually—from friendship to marriage, Finola had missed much that other young women took for granted.
Even now, as husband and wife, they found precious little time to be alone. They lived in a large household, and a busy one. Because of his own physical limitations, Morgan needed to have Sandemon nearby most of the time. As for Finola, wee Gabriel shadowed her everywhere. Precious few were the moments she had alone, except for those times when the wee one slept or when she managed to slip away to her prayer closet.
Even Annie tagged after her relentlessly, for Finola seemed to have become to the lass a combination of mother, older sister, and best friend.
Predictably, Finola insisted that she did not mind. “Aine is the sister of my heart, don’t you see, Morgan?” she would say. “I delight in her.”
In addition to the immediate family, there were also the scholars drifting in and out of the halls of the academic wing. And Sister Louisa, of course; the incredible nun seemed to be everywhere at once, virtually materializing without warning.
Morgan did not mind for himself. He savored the feeling of family after so many years of the solitary life. To be head of his own household, to be the husband of Finola, to spend his days in the warmth of her love, to fall asleep with her safe in his arms—what more could he ask?
But he did hope to make up for at least a part of what she had missed, especially now that he knew the tragedy of her girlhood. He was determined to give her some of the beauty and carefree moments—and, yes, the romance—she had not known.
So he had persuaded her to come away with him, just the two of them. Alone. He had pushed aside his insecurities about traveling without Sandemon, leaving him in charge of Nelson Hall and its inhabitants. Strict orders were given to Annie and to everyone else—including Tierney Burke and his Gypsy cohort—that whoever displeased Sandemon would be in serious trouble when Morgan returned.
With only a coach and a driver, they had set off for a small, remote inn in the valley of Glendalough. For three glorious days, they had soaked up sunshine and mountain breezes, visited the antiquities of the area, talked, laughed, and even dreamed a little.
It was the best time of their marriage, and especially significant now, in these days when the memories of Finola’s past seemed to be virtually bursting upon them in a great, final rush of clarity.
Now that most of it was out in the open, now that he had seen the strength with which she had confronted the terrors lurking at the edge of her consciousness, he had finally come to believe that she would be all right. She would not only endure: she would overcome.
There had been a number of bad times since that first night when the memories had begun to emerge, times when he could do nothing but hold her and allow her to weep, shuddering against him like an inconsolable child. Later, there had been anger—a fierce, heated anger. Acting on instinct, he had encouraged her to give it rein, had even allowed her to see his own anger, his outrage.
There had also been times of silence. At these moments he could sense she was remembering something more, experiencing it again in her thoughts, in her feelings, and sometimes, later, in her dreams.
But in the midst of it all, he remained hopeful. For at last she had opened her heart to him—her heart and her very soul—drawing him in, letting him share her terror, her pain, her anger, even her nightmares.
He had suffered with her, and in the suffering they had become closer than they had ever been before.
Except in the marriage bed…
He had not attempted to make love to her since the night of her birthday, the night Jan Martova had given her the simple tin whistle that had triggered the return of her memories. He sensed that she was resistant to, perhaps even incapable of physical intimacy just yet.
Not for anything would he risk a setback in her healing process. Somehow he managed to conceal his disappointment and hurt when she flinched at his embrace or merely endured his chaste good-night kisses.
Time, he again reminded himself. Only time would help to restore her passion, only time would free her from the tyranny, the terrors of her past, and allow her to be at ease in his arms again. Until then, he would treasure the emotional intimacy they enjoyed, if not the physical.
“Morgan? What are you thinking about?”
Her soft voice and the tug on his hand brought him back to his surroundings. With his knuckles, he lightly traced the smooth line of her cheek. “I am thinking,” he said, smiling at her, “how very proud I am of you.”
She tilted her head up still more to study him. “Proud of me? Why would you say such a thing?”
Gazing at her for a moment, he felt his heart swell with love. “For many reasons, macushla. But especially because you are so brave. Brave enough to face your fears and strong enough to overcome them. You have survived more horror than most of us can even imagine, yet you have not let that horror defeat you or embitter you. You are a beautiful, strong-hearted woman, and, yes, I am quite proud of you.”
; Her eyes filled. “I am not brave, Morgan, though you are kind to say so. The truth is, if I have been able to ‘face my fears,’ as you believe, it is only because we have faced them together. You are my strength,” she said softly, looking away. “You and our Lord…you are my strength.”
After a moment she turned back to him, her expression grave. “I think there is something you have not shared with me, however, and I cannot help but wonder why.”
Now his smile turned questioning. “What are you talking about? I keep nothing from you, macushla.”
Her eyes searched his. “Then tell me about the doctor in America,” she said softly.
Anger at James Dunne blazed up in him. “You weren’t supposed to know about that yet—”
The words fell between them, ringing with significance. Hadn’t he only seconds ago claimed to keep nothing from her?
For a moment Morgan couldn’t think what to say. Obviously, she expected an explanation, and she had every right to one.
“It was wrong of James to tell you,” he said shortly.
She studied him. “I think it was wrong of you not to tell me, but we will not argue that now. It was an innocent blunder on his part. He meant only to encourage me.
“He was telling me how pleased he was with my progress in recovering from the amnesia,” she went on to explain. “In the course of the conversation, he let it slip that perhaps now he could convince you to see the American surgeon.”
Slightly mollified, but still chagrined to think he had added yet another burden to that which she already bore, Morgan said nothing for a moment.
She moved, just enough to face him more easily, then reached to enfold his hand between both of hers. “Dr. Dunne felt wretched that he had broken your confidence, Morgan, truly he did. I didn’t press him for more, because he clearly thought you should tell me yourself.” She paused. “I’ve been waiting for you to do so ever since.”