by BJ Hoff
He looked up, studying the tiers of seats that rose to a ceiling of remarkable height, then scanned the crowds throughout the building. As he sat there, waiting for the concert to begin, he contemplated the extremes of the day, from the squalor and misery of the Five Points slum, to the grandeur and gaiety of this packed, glittering concert hall. Yet from one place to the other, and all along the random sites he had seen in between, he thought he could detect the pulse of the city, indeed the very heart of the nation.
Someone had said that the key to America’s strength lay in her diversity. Perhaps, he thought, but only if that diversity were respected.
It had been his experience that too often oppression was employed as the only workable approach to dealing with differences or divisions. In his own country, the English, in their attempts to conquer and colonize the land, had from the beginning adopted a policy of tyranny and virtual enslavement of the Irish people, rather than one of tolerance and respect. What might have been the consequences to both Ireland and Britain, he wondered, if the English had chosen to encourage Ireland’s rich and ancient culture, rather than to pillage her lands and attempt to destroy her language, her history, and her economy?
If England had even guaranteed the most basic freedom to the Irish people, there might have been a chance for something more than conflict and hatred, and, eventually, war.
Morgan wondered whether America’s future would turn out to be so very different. From what he had gleaned from the newspapers and his talks with Michael and others, the issue of racial and ethnic division was a gathering storm upon the country’s horizon.
Jess Dalton, for one, firmly believed that a divided nation might emerge from the burgeoning controversy surrounding the slavery issue. The abolitionist preacher, with what might well be prophetic sight, feared a great battle looming in the near future, a war between North and South. Such a war—one which turned the nation against itself—would surely prove to be nothing less than cataclysmic.
Before he could descend deeper into his brooding, Morgan was jarred back to his surroundings by the orchestra striking up. After the overture, a baritone named Belletti came on stage and sang a brief solo. Afterward there was more stirring among the crowd, then a salvo of thunderous applause as the Swedish Nightingale—Jenny Lind—finally appeared on stage. The audience rose to its feet, quieting only when the conductor rapped his baton.
Morgan had heard the “Casta Diva” from Bellini’s Norma sung before—but never like this. The famed soprano, while in truth a rather ordinary-looking young woman with strong but irregular features, possessed a voice that was anything but ordinary. As she stood there in her white dress, her pale hair coiled in a thick roll over each ear, she seemed to transcend the concert hall, the crowds, even the orchestra, with the purity and perfection of a voice that defied all description.
At Morgan’s side, Finola drew in a shuddering breath of admiration, then turned to smile at him. Her eyes were misted with emotion, and Morgan could not deny the thrill that seized his own soul. He squeezed Finola’s hand, gratified by her pleasure in the event, fortified by her presence beside him.
As the night deepened, and the Swedish songbird went on to captivate the thousands in Castle Garden, Morgan finally forgot his thoughts of divisions and conflicts, oppression and war. He even managed, at least for those few fleeting hours, to allay his apprehension about his next day’s meeting with Jakob Gunther.
For a time, albeit all too brief, it did not matter that his legs would not support him. He was utterly caught up, transported beyond himself, by the wonder and the magic of the music.
The twilight had brought with it a cool, damp mist, lending its autumn melancholy to the gas-lighted streets and deserted park. Quinn’s mood, earlier brightened by the encouragement from Alice Walsh, now grew somber as she steeled herself to confront Daniel Kavanagh.
She dreaded the encounter. Yet another part of her soul swelled with the newly acquired assurance that, whatever might lie ahead for her after this night, she would somehow learn to live again—without shame and self-abasement, without the terrifying, desolate feeling of being entirely on her own. For the first time in years, she had even made a halting attempt to learn to pray again, with at least a seed of faith that God would hear her.
For all that, she could thank Alice Walsh. She would, no doubt, thank that good woman every day of her life for years to come. But for now—she must get the immediate ordeal over with.
Quinn started up the gentle swell of land which eventually dropped off to the bandstand just below. As she walked, she filled her lungs with the autumn smells of woodsmoke and dying leaves and the faint, yeasty odor of the day’s offerings from Gartner’s bakery.
Something about the everyday, familiar scents brought a rush of sadness sweeping over her. Once Daniel knew the truth, she could lose it all—this place, her position in service, the people she had come to care for. Especially if he chose to tell his family.
Whittaker House was the first home Quinn had ever had—in reality the only home she had ever had. There she was accepted for what she was, appreciated for what she could do. She had enough to eat and a bit of peace for herself at sundown. She had grown fond of the people, especially the little boys, had even come to care about the neighborhood; its familiarity made her feel safe, gave her an odd sense of proprietorship.
In truth, she could scarcely bear the thought of losing all this after having it so brief a time. But she would do what she had to do, and take the consequences.
From the top of the rise Quinn looked down and saw a figure standing in the center of the darkened bandstand just below. She took a deep breath, pulled her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, then went on.
Her vision was even poorer than usual in the gloaming. She was almost at the steps of the bandstand before she realized her mistake.
She stopped, her eyes locking on the shadowed figure of the man who stood, obviously waiting for her. A man too brawny by far, too solid-set, for Daniel Kavanagh.
A chill of terror touched the back of her neck. Then he stepped out of the shadows, and Quinn saw his face.
Sergeant Price!
She should have felt nothing but relief, that the encounter she had been dreading was apparently to be postponed. Instead, she was overwhelmed by a wholly inappropriate feeling of pleasure at the sight of the smiling policeman.
Her pulse bounced like a hare as she stared at him. “What—what are you doing here?”
He took a step toward her, then another, holding out one large hand to help her up into the bandstand.
Quinn merely stared at the proffered hand, then looked back to the now solemn face. With his hair slicked back, he was all spit and polish, in a nicely cut jacket with snow-white linen.
Whatever was he about? What was he doing here?
Finally she allowed him to help her up the steps, where she stood staring at the man as if she had never laid eyes on him before this night.
“What are you doing here, Sergeant?” she asked him again.
“Ah, lass, I have a name, don’t you know? Won’t you please drop the ‘Sergeant’ at last and call me ‘Denny’?”
He was acting very peculiar. Quinn’s mind raced, and she said the first thing that came into her head. “Where is Daniel?”
The sergeant looked at her. “Daniel?”
Quinn nodded. “Daniel Kavanagh.”
“Why…no doubt he is with his family and their visitors from Ireland, at the Castle Garden.”
Quinn shook her head. “No, I was to meet him here.”
The sergeant frowned. “You…were to meet young Daniel here? Tonight?”
“’Tis not what you think!” she hurried to tell him. She would not have the man suspecting what he looked as if he might be suspecting. “I came to…explain some matters to him.”
He was studying her with his policeman’s chicken-hawk eye. It was the look he might have turned on one of his criminal types, and it made Quinn squirm.
“You need not look at me so,” she informed him. “This is none of your affair, after all.”
“The lad asked you to meet him, here, at the bandstand, did he?” His voice was quiet, but Quinn did not like the tone he was taking. It was obvious he doubted her word.
“Isn’t that what I told you?”
The sergeant dug his hands down deep in his pockets, eyeing Quinn as if her face were changing right in front of him. “And did the lad possibly request your attendance by way of a note?”
Quinn gaped at him. How could he possibly know about the note?
He drew a long breath, and a slow smile broke over his insolent features. “’Twasn’t Daniel who sent the note, lass,” he said, his voice ever so soft. “’Twas myself.”
“You did not,” she shot back. Caught off guard, Quinn almost laughed at his nerve. As if a thickheaded Irishman like himself would be caught dead writing love poems and sentimental letters!
“’Twas myself, and that’s the truth,” he said, no longer smiling. “I wrote the note asking you to come here tonight. And I wrote all the poems that went before. They were for telling you my feelings, Quinn O’Shea, so don’t be taking me lightly.”
Quinn opened her mouth, but nothing came, only a choked sound, like a squawk.
“You thought it was young Daniel, did you?” He grinned and shook his head. “Aye. Surely a big oaf like myself wouldn’t be writing such things.” He paused, then began to recite the poems, line by line.
Quinn was astonished. But even more amazing was the natural and easy way the rhythmic words rolled off the man’s tongue, like gentle water lapping the stones in a riverbed.
Her hand flew to her mouth: So it had not been Daniel at all who had gone sweet on her! Not Daniel, but this big square Irishman. Was it possible? Could this rough-hewn, inarticulate policeman really be the poet who had wrenched her heart with his lyrical words, his lovely phrases?
She was stunned entirely, unable to think, shocked into immobility as her mind groped for reason. She could do nothing but stand and gawk at him.
He stopped quoting the poetry long enough to expel a long breath. “I couldn’t think what else to do, lass. You wouldn’t give me a chance to tell you how I felt. You were always so eager to run away from me. And even had you given me the opportunity, I’ve never been the man for flowery speech and fine words…except on paper, perhaps. I had to find a way to make you see what you have come to mean to me.”
For a moment…one bright, poignant, achingly sweet moment…Quinn permitted herself to savor this discovery of his feelings, even as her heart silently acknowledged that she was not without some feelings of her own.
And then she caught herself, the full impact of his confession hitting her like a blow. This was worse, much worse, than she could have imagined, worse by far than if Daniel had been her poet! This Sergeant Price, who seemed to be taking up a great deal of space as he stepped closer to her, was a man, not a boy. A man she could come to care for, Quinn admitted to herself for the first time. This was a man grown, and he apparently thought her a decent lass, a girl worth cherishing.
But he did not know what she was. And, oh, please God, she did not want him to know!
She shook her head, as if to shake off the shame and the disgrace of the past. That was then, this was now. Some things she could change, and some she could not. There was nothing for it but to tell him the truth. The fact that he was not Daniel had no bearing at all on what she had to do. She could not allow him or any other man to think she was something she was not.
She lifted her face to meet his eyes, shrinking inwardly at the unexpected tenderness reflected there. “You are saying, then…that you have feelings for me, that you care for me?”
He took a step toward her, but Quinn stopped him with a hand held up as if to ward off a blow.
“I am, lass. And my feelings are ones you need not be fearful of.”
Quinn swallowed and found her throat dry and swollen. “You must not say anything more,” she said dully. “There is much you need to know about me, and once you do, I will walk away, and you can do what you will with the knowledge.”
She pulled in a shuddering breath, struggling to find the way to begin. “What I have to say is…ugly, and it shames me. But I have to say it, and you will understand why, once I tell you.”
“No, lass,” he said quietly, making Quinn flinch in surprise. “You do not have to tell me anything. I know it all.”
Quinn went rigid. Even her heart seemed to stop its beating as she stared at him in disbelief.
He moved as if to close the distance between them, then seemed to think better of it. “I know your story, Quinn O’Shea.”
His voice at that moment seemed the gentlest sound Quinn had ever heard. “I know your story, and other than my grief for your pain, it matters not in the least to me. Your past is of little concern to me, lass. ’Tis your future I would like to have a part in, you see.”
“How?” Quinn finally managed to choke out. “How could you know?”
A look bordering on pain crossed his face, and for an instant he glanced away. When he turned back to her, his expression was one of regret. “I must ask your forgiveness, Quinn O’Shea. The guilt has hounded me like a plague for days now. I can only ask you to try to understand why I acted so. ’Twas only because I hoped to find a way to help you.”
“What are you saying to me, Denny Price? What did you do?” Her words sounded as if they echoed from a great distance.
“I have a friend back home,” he said, looking down at the planked floor on which they stood. “A policeman, like myself. I, ah…what I did, you see, was to write to Niall. He did a bit of asking about, you know, from some of the lads down to Roscommon. The story about what happened to you—to Millen Jupe—is still talked about in your town, in Athlone.”
Still he did not look at her.
“You…know about Millen Jupe?” She stared at him in horror. “You know that I killed him?”
“Aye, I do.” His voice had hardened to flint. “And I know why.”
Quinn was fast losing the battle against the tears burning her eyes. The humiliation flooding over her made her want to turn and run…run away from Denny Price…from New York…from herself. This man knew her shame. He knew.
He made the mistake of reaching for her hand. Quinn jumped back as if his touch would sear her skin, and he quickly raised both hands, palms outward, as if to assure her he would not press.
“How long have you known?”
His answer was slow in coming. “A few weeks. Not long.”
A few weeks…
“The poems…you started sending me the poems…a few weeks ago…”
His gaze was steady, gentle. “That’s right, lass.”
“You knew…and you wrote such poems to me anyway?”
He said nothing, merely nodded, his eyes still holding hers.
Quinn’s chin began to tremble. “How?” she choked out. “How could you write such words…knowing what you knew?”
Again a look of pain swept over his features, then ebbed. “The only thing I knew that mattered at all was the fact that I love you, lass.”
This could not be happening…such a thing could never be. Not for her. Never for the likes of Quinn O’Shea.
He paused, passing a hand over his eyes. “You might want to know, just for the knowing, that the talk about the town was all in your defense, that you acted only to save your life—and that the man had it coming long before. The thought is that it was a miraculous thing entirely that Jupe had not murdered you before that night.” He stopped, then added, “There is no offense on the books for you, lass. No charges against you—none.”
Quinn’s legs shook beneath her. She was chilled and she was on fire, all at the same time. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to weep.
Once more the man held out a hand to her. Quinn stared at it, then searched his eyes.
“Give me your hand, Quinn O ‘Shea.”
He clasped it gently, then just as tenderly drew her closer to him, close enough that she could see more clearly the entire tide of feelings that had risen in his eyes.
“Listen to me now, Quinn,” he told her, still in that same soft voice. “Listen to me closely. I have loved you for a long, long time. I cannot keep it to myself any longer. I am asking you, Quinn O’Shea, to be my wife.”
Quinn gasped. She tried to pull her hand away, but he would not let her go. “Wait, now,” he said. “Wait. I am asking you to marry me…when you are ready. Until then—and forever after—I will be your friend. I am a patient man. I will give you all the time you need, however long it might take, for you to come to love me. And even if you never do—well, then, Quinn O’Shea, I expect I will still be your friend.”
His eyes probed hers, and after a moment, as if he had seen what he was looking for there, he drew her closer, gathering her in his arms and holding her lightly, carefully, much as he might have held…a friend.
With her mind still reeling, her heart racing, Quinn stood very still, scarcely daring to breathe. For the first time, a man’s touch felt almost safe, even welcome.
“I will never hurt you, Quinn O’Shea,” he murmured, smoothing her hair away from her face. “And neither will anyone else. Upon my life, no one will ever hurt you again.”
With only an instant’s hesitation, Quinn pressed her face against the fortress of his sturdy shoulder. At last she allowed the tears to fall free and, as they flowed, to wash away her yesterdays.
41
The Surgeon and the Seanchai
What does he see, this peacock of a man,
when he looks at me through his proud, condescending eye?
Am I flesh and bone, or merely a dot