Dawn of the Golden Promise

by BJ Hoff

  Less than an hour later, the wolfhound had been ordered away from his kill. He lay panting near the back door, removed from, but keenly mindful of, the shrouded body nearby. The great beast’s eyes were solemn but alert as he kept watch.

  Only Sandemon and Sister Louisa remained in the stables. Tierney Burke and Jan Martova had been sent to fetch the law and a death cart. Lucy Hoy had taken the Seanchai’s daughter and small son to the house, where they would receive the care they needed.

  After recovering from the shock, the Seanchai had insisted on taking the mistress Finola to the house. Although she had obviously suffered a cruel battering and appeared to be nearly prostrate with exhaustion, she remained adamant in her insistence that she did not need medical attention; only with great reluctance and to ease her husband’s concern did she finally agree to summon the surgeon.

  Sandemon held a lantern aloft as he stood looking down over the covered body at his feet. Across from him, Sister Louisa clutched her hands at her waist.

  Her wimple was askew, her habit rumpled and dusty. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded uncommonly thin and tremulous to her ears. “Is it sinful, do you think, to feel nothing but relief at the death of a man like this? I should feel despair at the loss of his soul, but I find myself consumed with relief instead.”

  Sandemon considered her words in silence, his eyes still downcast. “Even an evil man,” he finally said, his voice quiet, “is not without choices. A man chooses the way he will walk, whether the way of life, or the way of death. This man chose death.”

  Sister Louisa shuddered. “I cannot help but think there has been a terrible…justice done this night.”

  Sandemon nodded, saying nothing. But knowing the taciturn man as she did, Louisa was fairly certain he had already had the same thought.

  “He would have silenced our Finola for all time,” she said, not without anger.

  “Instead, it is he who has been silenced,” Sandemon completed her thought. “We do not always see justice done this side of heaven,” he went on, his expression thoughtful. “Much tragedy and horror seem to go unpunished, and we question why. Yet God has promised that evil will not go unavenged forever, and we know He is true to His Word.”

  Slowly, he raised his eyes to hers. “Tonight, in this place, I think justice has been done: delivered, it would seem, by a wolfhound.”

  Inexplicably, Louisa felt that something was still unfinished, undone. Words remained unsaid, questions unanswered. But there were no answers, no final words at such a time. Why, then, did she feel so unsettled, so…dissatisfied?

  “I will not pretend to be sorry, you know,” she said to Sandemon. “I don’t believe for a moment that our Finola would have lived had he not died.”

  Again the black man inclined his head in agreement. “I have no real sorrow for him either, I confess. Only for our Lord, whose heart must grieve that one of His creation, intended for love and a life of faith, should choose wickedness and destruction instead. And yet…”

  Louisa looked at him sharply, ready to rebuff any attempt on his part to wax philosophical or inject a note of compassion into the situation. She was depleted entirely, incapable of rational thought, and she was not feeling the least bit charitable.

  The black man lowered his eyes to the lifeless form on the ground between them. In the flickering light of the lantern Louisa saw that the night’s ordeal had also taken its toll on Sandemon. The strong features, the regal bearing, showed telltale signs of strain and fatigue.

  “One cannot help but wonder,” he said, “what sort of torment or evil, what nightmares of his own, he might have endured that had a part in making him…what he was.”

  Louisa stared at him, resisting the unbidden, unwelcome emotion she sensed pressing in on her. But despite her restraint, another feeling now threatened her grim satisfaction that justice had been served. It was something more than understanding, yet less than genuine mercy, and she would fling it away…if only she could.

  “As you said,” she pointed out, thinking to extinguish the unwanted stirring of emotion by ignoring it, “even a wicked man has choices. This man clearly made the wrong ones.”

  Sandemon lowered the lantern slightly. “But are not some of us blessed with loving people in our lives to help us make our choices? People who teach us how to choose what is good, what is best?” He stopped. His eyes took on a distant expression, as if he had retreated to another time or another place.

  “Others,” he went on, his voice lower still, “are not so fortunate, I fear. They spend their lives unwanted and unloved, stumbling along life’s pathways, often ending up on the road that leads to destruction—because there is no one who cares enough to show them a better way.”

  He gave Louisa a long, searching look. “I have told you of my own life, and its turning point. I can only believe that, had it not been for the patient, unconditional love of that godly man—my friend, Father Ben—in all likelihood I, too, would have taken the road to eternal damnation. It seems to me that with enough love and guidance, the lives of those we count as lost might take drastically different turns.

  “Above all else,” he went on, his voice stronger and more confident now, “we must remember that our God can turn to good even that which is meant for evil. Think of our Gabriel, the golden child of sun and light who now brightens the rooms of Nelson Hall. He was born out of the violence of this doomed man, yet created as a wondrous gift, a miracle. When I think of him, I stand in awe of our God and His working in our lives.”

  Louisa shivered, and not from the night air. She looked from Sandemon, who, even in the shadows, seemed to radiate a nobility of spirit, a steady goodness and strength of soul…then to the shrouded corpse between them.

  Shaken, she felt herself seized by a totally unexpected impulse to weep—in sorrow, for the senseless waste of a life, and at the same time in relief, for the lives that had been saved.

  Her legs ached as she dropped to her knees in the dust. She had never been one for praying for the dead, though of course the Church sanctioned it. The time to intercede, it seemed to her, was when the living still had breath and their wits about them, when prayer could still make a difference.

  The best she could do, she decided, staring with dry eyes at the blanketed body in front of her, was to offer a prayer of thanksgiving for the beautiful, precious lives that had been spared—and a prayer of supplication that she would not take her own life for granted. For she was one of the fortunate ones Sandemon had spoken of, whose family had nurtured and protected her, loved her and guided her into choosing the Light rather than the darkness.

  For the immeasurable gift of people who loved her, she would be eternally grateful…even more so, she was sure, after this night.

  She also found herself moved to pray that their Lord might raise up more of the faithful to love and protect, to teach and guide. Many young, unfortunate souls were alone this night throughout the world, frightened and in desperate need of someone to care…someone who would care enough to make a difference. She prayed that these little ones might not end up wasted and doomed, like the unknown, lifeless body beneath the shroud.

  She opened her eyes for an instant and saw that Sandemon, too, was on his knees before the Throne.

  29

  Secret Pursuits

  I had a thought for no one’s but your ears…

  W. B. YEATS (1865–1939)

  New York City

  Late August

  Billy Hogan stopped in front of the Old Brewery building, looking at his surroundings. His stomach knotted as he stood amid the filth and squalor of Paradise Square. Leprous tenements, garbage-littered streets, raggedy children sifting through the barrels in search of food, their eyes as hungry as their bellies.

  A flood of memories, all of them unhappy, came rushing at him. Tears stung his eyes, and for a moment he wished with all his heart he hadn’t come.

  It made it worse that he was here against Mister Evan’s wishes. He wasn’t supposed to
come anywhere near the Five Points, although he hadn’t actually promised he would not.

  Mister Evan had said it would be “wiser” if he weren’t to visit his mother and brothers just now, what with Sorley being out of jail.

  Billy no longer called him Uncle Sorley. They had never been blood anyway, and now that Mister Evan had helped him to understand that he hadn’t done anything to deserve the beatings and mistreatment Sorley had inflicted upon him, the word Uncle would have stuck in his throat.

  Still, he couldn’t stay away from his family forever, though he wasn’t at all sure it would matter to his mother if he did. The last time he had stopped by, she seemed too worn out and downhearted to even take notice of him.

  It was different with Liam and Patrick, his little brothers. They were half brothers, in fact, what with them and Billy having different fathers—but he never thought of them that way. Those two always looked forward to his visits, and they let him know it. No doubt part of their excitement had to do with the treats he usually took along; Miss Nora always saw to it that he had some cookies or other sweets to share when he went for a visit. Doubtless, it was the only time the wee wanes tasted anything besides potatoes or stirabout.

  Billy hadn’t been to see them since Sorley got out of jail, close on a month ago. Mister Evan was worried about his getting hurt again, Billy knew. He had been uncommonly stern when he told him to “stay closeby” Whittaker House for a spell.

  But he missed his brothers something fierce, and even if Mum didn’t care whether he was there or gone, he still missed her. Besides, the boys wouldn’t understand such a long absence.

  He worried for the little ones, which was another reason he could stay away no longer. Even though they were Sorley’s own natural-born sons, Billy wasn’t convinced they were entirely safe from his meanness.

  He knew Mister Evan would have come with him, had he insisted. But if Billy allowed it and something went wrong—if Sorley should be at the flat and in his cups, for instance—Mister Evan could get hurt. He wasn’t all that strong, and what with his having only the one arm, he would have no chance at all against Sorley’s brutish strength.

  Evan Whittaker was the best man Billy had ever known, aside from his da, who had died before they ever left Ireland. In secret, he sometimes pretended Mister Evan and Miss Nora were his real parents. Perhaps it was wicked to play at such thoughts when his own mother was still alive, but wouldn’t it be a fine thing to have a dad and a mum who loved him proper, who seemed to want his company more often than not?

  In any event, he would not be able to bear it if something bad were to happen to Mister Evan. And what would the other orphan boys at Whittaker House do without him?

  He had a hard time getting away from Finbar. The motley colored, cross-eyed kitten who had once disrupted Mister Evan’s choir rehearsal was now a sleek and powerful mouser—still cross-eyed, but of great service to Whittaker House. Finbar was now Billy’s cat—following him everywhere, sleeping on his bed, sitting on his lap and purring loudly during lessons.

  Finbar had wanted to go with him today. Billy had had to distract him with a stolen bit of fish from the kitchen so that he could slip out the front door. It being a Thursday, there were no late afternoon classes, and he had seen to most of his chores before leaving. All that was left were his after-supper jobs, and he intended to be back well in time for those. So he had sneaked away early in the afternoon, not telling a soul what he was about.

  He smiled at the memory of the wee kitten, tucked inside his jacket, howling off-key during his very first rehearsal with Mister Evan’s choir. Only then did it strike him like a blow—choir rehearsal! He had completely forgotten. Thursday afternoons were reserved for the boys to practice their music. That was the very reason classes were dismissed early.

  He groaned, disgusted with his carelessness. Not only was he missing one of his favorite activities of the week, but by not showing up at the practice, he was ensuring the fact that Mister Evan would know he was gone.

  It couldn’t be helped now, but he fretted all the same. He should have planned more carefully. His only consolation was the thought of his little brothers, how their eyes would light up when they saw him after so long a time.

  With his small sack of treats clutched tightly in his left hand, he started off toward Mulberry Street, trying not to think about Mister Whittaker.

  At Whittaker House, Quinn O’Shea descended the main stairway at a dash. For two Thursdays past now, an envelope had come for her, slipped under the door in the early afternoon, when no one was about. Her first thought when she awoke this morning was to wonder whether another envelope would arrive today.

  She saw it at once, on the floor just past the threshold. After a quick glance around to make sure she was alone, she grabbed it up and hurried upstairs to the privacy of her room.

  With a quickening pulse she inspected the long, slender envelope on which her name had been written in a broad but neat hand: Miss Quinn O’Shea, Whittaker House.

  Quinn’s fingers trembled slightly as she opened the envelope and scanned the lines. The first poem she had received had rhymed; the second had not—instead, had sounded more like a letter, the words respectfully impersonal, yet complimentary, with an allusion to admiring someone from a distance, caring for someone in secret.

  Today’s poem, written in the same precise hand, was gentle, even lyrical. With a strong yet subtle rhyme, it was as if the poet wished to say much in few words, and say it without offending:

  “I cannot pass you by

  with a careless eye,

  Although I try,

  But like a candle’s light

  at dead of night

  you draw me nigh…”

  There were only a few more lines, each carefully worded with the spare, rhythmic flow Quinn had come to recognize. She read them over again, unwillingly stirred, yet disquieted.

  Daniel Kavanagh had penned the poems, of course. It could not be anyone else.

  She had been aware of the boy’s infatuation for months. He had hardly kept it a secret, after all. He was young and patently innocent, unlikely to have had much skill at dissembling, and seemingly not the least bit cunning. In truth, Quinn was almost surprised the boy had mustered the courage to go this far with his attentions.

  It bothered her that she invariably thought of Daniel Kavanagh as a boy, when in actuality he wasn’t even a full year younger than she. She supposed it was his innocence that made him seem ever so green, at least when it came to girls. He was clever enough about everything else, that much was certain.

  He had done wonders, for example, in helping her to improve her grammar during their weekly hour of instruction. In the little extra time they could manage, he had even worked in a smattering of other subjects, including the basics of home nursing, learned from his experience with Dr. Grafton.

  He was ever to be found with his nose in a book, Daniel was. If not a medical book lent to him by the doctor, then a history or geography book from the house library.

  Apparently, he favored poetry as well.

  Despite their time together, he had lost almost none of his shyness around Quinn. He still stumbled over his tongue more often than not, still turned crimson when he entered a room and found her there.

  Obviously the poems represented his attempts to express himself and still protect his anonymity.

  Quinn drew a long sigh. The boy was sweet, really. Sweet and smart and altogether decent. A prince of a young man, and a handsome one at that—one to turn heads, she supposed, with that curly ink-black hair and stunning blue eyes. Why didn’t he realize he could have had his pick of girls, that he needn’t be settling for one he couldn’t have?

  More the pity. Even if she were to find some feeling for the lad, she could never let him suspect as much. A young man like Daniel Kavanagh deserved a fine girl—a girl as decent and innocent as himself. A girl who would make him proud.

  Quinn bit her lip. She would never be one to make a ma
n proud. She was used and spent and ruined, all by one who had been the scum of the earth. Had it not been for the knife, she might still be enslaved to him today.

  Sometimes she felt like an old woman already, not a girl of seventeen years.

  Seventeen…and already a fugitive and a fallen woman. Certainly not a girl for the likes of Daniel Kavanagh, and so she must be careful not to encourage him in his foolishness. The last thing he needed was an entanglement with someone like her. He deserved better, much better. Why, even a rough, bold Irishman like the mulish Sergeant Price would think twice before taking up with someone like Quinn O’Shea, did he but know her for what she was.

  The thought of the burly policeman brought a grim smile to her face. Sure, there was nothing subtle about that one. Sergeant Denny Price would never be the man for keeping his intentions to himself, now that was the truth.

  But even the hardheaded policeman would not be so eager to hang on her sleeve if he knew what lay in the darkness of her past. Not likely.

  She sat there for a long time, staring at the paper in her hand without really seeing the words. Finally, the sound of music from downstairs brought her back to her surroundings. Voices—boys’ voices—coming from the cavernous dayroom on the first floor reminded her that Mr. Whittaker would be rehearsing the singers by now. The younger boys not a part of the group would need attention, and since Johanna was still at school, Mrs. Whittaker would be requiring help with wee Teddy so she could have her afternoon rest.

  She got up, stretching her arms up over her head full length. No more time for lolling about like a great lump of a girl, letting her wits run to mush. Quickly, even a little fiercely, she folded the paper back inside the envelope, then crossed the room to tuck it away with the others.

  What she must do from now on, though carefully, so as not to hurt the lad’s feelings, was to discourage Daniel Kavanagh from his regard. Perhaps she should start by avoiding him as much as possible.

  The grammar lessons should probably cease, though she was reluctant to bring them to an end before she had learned all she could. Still, she wasn’t all that comfortable with Daniel as it was, and lately she had found herself more awkward than ever.