by BJ Hoff
He could not bear the sorrow that seemed to hover over her of late, would have done most anything to restore her spirit. And indeed, though she couldn’t know, he had tried to do something about it. Still, one thing he would not tolerate, no matter what Vangie had to say: no daughter of his was going to have any truck with a useless fellow like that cousin of Mr. Emmanuel’s.
Nell Grace deserved better than a great gorsoon who was so unmanly as to be afraid of the horses.
24
QUESTIONS OF THE HEART
So simple is the heart of man,
So ready for new hope and joy…
STOPFORD A. BROOKE
The morning was raw and blustery, and the wind stung Michael’s cheeks as he cantered across the rolling fields surrounding Bantry Hill, but he didn’t mind the cold.
Today he was on Mehab, the Arabian he had bought from Rosa Navaro after her husband’s death. At his side, Conn MacGovern rode Yasmin, a mare the trainer favored.
Michael had promised himself that by Christmas he would be riding Amerigo, the contentious stallion he had imported from Ireland, but that remained to be seen. MacGovern had worked wonders in gentling the horse and building his trust, but the stallion was still unpredictable, and seemed to enjoy trying to outwit both his trainer and his owner when they least expected it.
Mehab, on the other hand, responded instantly to the slightest pressure of rein or knee, the subtlest shifting of Michael’s weight. MacGovern kept to his left, and although Michael sensed his presence, the trainer’s comfortable silence allowed Michael the illusion of riding alone, just himself and the magnificent Arabian.
He threw his head back and breathed in the chill morning air, mixed with a faint scent of horseflesh and leather. Downhill and back up again, his body became one with the horse. He leaned into the reins, urging Mehab into full gallop, his heart beating in time with the drumming cadence of the horse’s movement.
A fire blew to life in Michael’s veins, a passion much like the rush he felt when he stood onstage and conducted his orchestra. Riding was music—the singing of the wind, the percussion of hoof on turf, the pounding tempo of nature in all its glory. He could feel the Arabian’s muscles flowing beneath him like a swiftly running stream, and together they cut a path through the frosty morning as if they were flying.
At last, at the top of a high hill, he reined in and stood waiting for Conn MacGovern to catch up. Mehab snorted and pranced, then quieted as MacGovern cantered the mare up the hill to Michael’s side.
Michael had quickly come to respect his new employee, especially MacGovern’s love of the land and his willingness to undertake even the meanest of jobs. He sensed in the sturdy Irish immigrant a rock-solid integrity, coupled with a lively bent toward humor. Moreover, the man never seemed the least uncomfortable with Michael’s blindness.
Now MacGovern drew his horse to a stop and let out a laugh. “It’d be a great amadan indeed who’d wager against you, now wouldn’t it, sir? Remind me never to bet my week’s wage on any race you’d run.”
Michael grinned in MacGovern’s direction. “Ah, but if you had been on Amerigo—”
“If I’d been on Amerigo, Mr. Emmanuel, I’d be lying dead in a ditch by now, and that’s the truth. But he’s coming right along, and you’ll be riding him yourself soon.”
“Thanks to your training.” Michael reached down to slap Mehab’s neck. “I’m very pleased to have you and your family here at Bantry Hill, MacGovern.”
“No more pleased than we are, sir.”
“And your wife and children are settling in well? The house is suitable?”
“Faith, sir, it’s much more than suitable. It’s a palace compared to that dismal shack we had in the city.”
“Good,” Michael said. “If you need anything, be sure and let me know.”
They turned and started back, trotting side by side. Silence stretched between them for a time, broken only by the clopping of hooves on the turf and the snorting and blowing of the horses.
Then MacGovern cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, it’s… well, it’s uncommon to see a blind man such as yourself daring to ride. Especially when—”
“Especially when I lost my sight in a riding accident?” Michael turned toward MacGovern and chuckled. “News travels quickly at Bantry Hill, I see.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, I didn’t mean to—”
Michael dismissed his apology with the wave of a hand. “It’s all right. No doubt some think I’m completely mad to keep riding. But my passion for horses came early, when I was a boy in Tuscany. A man doesn’t give up a thing like that easily.”
“ ’Tis true, sir,” MacGovern said. “I know for myself, I rarely feel so much a man as when I’m sitting a fine horse.”
Michael nodded. “After the accident, a number of well-meaning people tried to convince me not to ride again. Even Paul questioned my judgment. I had a difficult time explaining to him why riding was so important to me.”
MacGovern did not reply to this, but Michael heard him take in a deep breath and exhale it heavily. At last he spoke again. “Speaking of that young helper of yours—he’s your cousin, is he?”
“Paul? Sì, Pauli is my cousin—and my assistant. He is also concertmaster with the orchestra.”
“Concertmaster, eh?”
Michael heard the lack of understanding in MacGovern’s tone.
“That sounds like an important job for such a young fellow.”
“It is a most important position, yes, and he is very young for so much responsibility—only twenty-seven. But Paul is an excellent musician. In many ways, he is invaluable to me. He is—how do you say it—my ‘right arm.’”
“Twenty-seven? Is that a fact now? I wouldn’t have thought it.” He paused. “He’s not a married man?”
“Married? No, Paul is not married.”
“I’ve noticed the lad seems…a bit shy of the horses. Unlike yourself, sir.”
“That’s true. Pauli does not share my love of riding.”
MacGovern said nothing, but Michael heard him mutter something under his breath. They urged the horses forward in an easy canter, and did not speak again until they reined to a stop near the stables.
Michael dismounted, gave Mehab an affectionate pat, and handed the reins over to MacGovern.
“It is because of me that Paul has no love of the horses,” he offered.
“Sir?”
“Because of the accident,” Michael said. “Pauli never had any real interest in riding, even before then. But the accident only made things worse. Since then, he cannot bring himself to trust a horse. Any horse.”
“I see.”
Michael thought he detected a kind of grudging understanding in MacGovern’s voice, and perhaps a trace of awkwardness as well, for having raised the subject of the accident at all. The exchange seemed peculiar, to say the least, and he wondered where it was leading.
Apparently, he wasn’t to know.
“Well, then, here comes the lad now, sir,” MacGovern said abruptly. “I’d best be on my way and tend to the horses.”
Michael frowned. Why had MacGovern taken off in such a rush, as if he was deliberately avoiding Paul?
Perhaps Paul had done something to provoke the man, although given Paul’s diligent avoidance of the stables, he couldn’t think how.
Michael didn’t raise the subject of MacGovern right away. Paul was getting ready to leave for the ferry, but first had some questions about the evening’s rehearsal. He was standing in as conductor tonight, as he did on occasion, to give Michael a break.
Only after they’d gone to Michael’s office and discussed the selections that still needed the most work did Michael make an attempt to satisfy his curiosity.
“Is there a problem between you and MacGovern that I should know about?”
There was a distinct delay in his cousin’s reply. “MacGovern? No, not at all. Why—should there be a problem between MacGovern and me?”
The
hesitation only made Michael more curious. “He was asking about you this morning, that’s all.”
“MacGovern was asking about me? Why?”
Michael shrugged. “I have no idea. He seemed very interested in you for some reason.”
There was a long silence. “He…he did see me talking with his daughter this morning. Perhaps he does not approve?”
“Ah. His daughter.” So that was it. Michael smiled to himself. “And is she pretty, Signorina MacGovern? Hmm?”
“Em bella! She is—beyond description!”
Michael’s interest sharpened. “And how old is this young lady?”
“How old? I have no idea. What—does that matter?”
Michael shrugged. “I was just wondering why MacGovern asked your age.”
“My age? What did you tell him?”
“I told him the truth, of course. You are twenty-seven, are you not?”
“Sì. But did he mind that I am so old?”
“Old?” Michael laughed. “I should be so old, cugino!”
“His daughter is…very young, I think,” Paul said, a touch of uncertainty in his voice. “Perhaps MacGovern thinks I am too old for her.”
“Very possibly,” Michael said, poker-faced. He enjoyed needling his cousin almost as much as Paul enjoyed teasing him. “But it seemed to me that he was more concerned about your lack of affection for the horses.”
“The horses?” Paul sighed. “Of course. MacGovern has seen that I do not like the horses. No doubt he holds that against me.”
“Mm. Perhaps you should spend more time in the stables, Pauli.”
“I will do whatever it takes,” the younger man said solemnly. “Anything at all.”
Michael leaned forward across the desk. “Paul? You’re serious?”
Again Paul sighed. “It is the thunderbolt, Michael,” he said, his voice grave and heavy with significance.
Relief coiled through Michael. If Paul’s affections ever had been directed toward Susanna, that was clearly no longer the case.
“Paul, how well do you know this girl?”
“We met only this morning,” his cousin said, his voice dreamy. “But I know, Michael. I know!” He stopped. “It is the thunderbolt, I tell you. You will pray for me, yes?”
“To be sure,” Michael said dryly.
He heard Paul rise from his chair. “Thank you, Michael!” he burst out, grasping Michael’s hand across the desk. “You understand that this is difficult for me. I know nothing about women! I have never been in love. Not until now.”
“Paul,” Michael cautioned, “you only spoke to the girl this morning—”
“That is true, but as I told you—”
“Sì. The thunderbolt. It would seem that I must begin to pray at once.”
“I knew you would understand, cugino!” Paul paused, and when he resumed, his voice held an edge of sly humor. “But of course, you would understand. It is the same for you and Susanna, no?”
Michael frowned. “Che cosa?”
“Oh…nothing. I meant nothing.” He sounded even more cagey.
“I think you meant something.”
Paul remained silent, but Michael could feel his scrutiny. “Out with it, Pauli.”
“With you, Michael, one is never certain. But with Susanna, one can tell…”
Michael lifted an eyebrow. “Must you speak in riddles always, Pauli? One can tell what?”
“You know. That she cares for you.”
Michael swallowed. “Clearly, the thunderbolt has struck your brain as well as your heart.”
There was a long silence. When Paul spoke again, the teasing note had left his voice. “You cannot see the way Susanna looks at you, Michael. But I have seen.”
An unbidden rush of hope swept over Michael, so strong he very nearly gave himself away. He quickly reminded himself that Paul was caught up in the throes of a romantic seizure and might well be seeing his own infatuation in everyone else.
Paul came around the desk and put a hand to Michael’s arm. “Michael—forgive me if I speak out of turn. I know I often do. But I also know what I see. With Susanna, there is much feeling for you. And I think it is the same with you, but for some reason the two of you are determined to fight against it.”
“Susanna still doesn’t trust me,” Michael ventured quietly. “Have you forgotten the incident at rehearsal, how quickly she suspected the worst when she thought I had conspired against her?”
“No, I have not forgotten. But I think perhaps you make too much of what was nothing more than a bad coincidence.”
Michael started to interrupt, but Paul stopped him. “Listen to me, Michael. Susanna may have jumped to conclusions, but you told me yourself that she apologized. Or at least attempted to, once she realized that she had misunderstood. She admitted her mistake. Why can you not simply accept the incident for what it was? It was not that important, Michael, except in your mind. You are so… thin-skinned…where Susanna is concerned.”
Michael weighed Paul’s words, and something in him resonated to his cousin’s defense of Susanna. No doubt he had made too much of what had merely been a misunderstanding. But it had been such a painful misunderstanding…
He heard Paul mutter a sound of frustration, though when he spoke his words were conciliatory. “I apologize if I have made you angry, Michael.”
Distracted by the confusion simmering in him, Michael waved off his cousin’s apology. “I’m not angry.”
And he wasn’t. At least, not with Paul.
If he was angry with anyone, it was with himself, for the morass of his emotions, the uncertainty of his judgment. And he was also angry with Deirdre. It was a futile, misdirected, and wholly irrational anger, he knew, but at times he felt as if his dead wife would always be a barrier between him and any possible chance to love again. Because of Deirdre, Susanna would never fully trust him. And because of Deirdre, his own capacity for trust had been so badly fractured he wasn’t sure that even love would ever be enough to heal the breach.
He clenched his hands at his side, then reached for the back of the chair, swaying a little on his feet. Since the accident, he was occasionally plagued by vertigo, and now it swept over him.
“Michael—”
He heard the alarm in Paul’s voice and lifted a hand. “It’s nothing. I’m all right.” He sank down onto the chair, waiting for his head to clear. “You should go now or you’ll miss the ferry.”
“But—”
“I’m fine, Pauli. A little dizzy, that’s all. It will pass in a moment. Go on now.”
After Paul left, Michael sat, not moving, with his head in his hands. In spite of his best intentions, his mind wandered back to Paul’s words about Susanna: “…you have not seen the way Susanna looks at you…but I have seen…she cares for you…”
And what if Paul was right? What then?
He sighed. He, too, had been struck by the thunderbolt.
But in his case, the lightning had brought not only the revelation of love, but the recognition of its futility as well.
25
A PUNISHING SILENCE
I was mute with silence,
I held my peace even from good;
And my sorrow was stirred up…
PSALM 39:2 (NKJV)
When Conn returned to the house for the midday meal, he found only Nell Grace and Baby Emma in the kitchen. Nell Grace was stirring something on the stove—cabbage soup, from the smell of it—while the tyke played near her feet. There was no sign of Vangie.
“Where’s your mother?”
Even before he asked, he knew something was amiss. At this time of day, he never walked into the kitchen but what Vangie wasn’t either at the stove or the sink, putting the finishing touches to their meal.
Nell Grace’s expression was troubled as she inclined her head toward the rear of the house. “Out back,” she said. “I think she’s sick, Da.”
Conn immediately started for the outhouse, only to find Vangie a few feet from t
he back door, crouched on her haunches, head down, her hair hanging in her face.
“Vangie!” He hurried to her, dropped down at her side, and put his arms around her. In spite of the cold, she wore only a shawl, and he could feel her trembling.
“What is it, love? What’s wrong?”
She shook her head as if too weak to reply.
“Let me get you inside. It’s too cold for you to be out here like this.”
He drew her up, alarmed when her hair fell away from her face and he saw how pale she was. She looked as if she might faint at any instant. Suddenly a spasm shook her, and she wrenched herself from his arms to go to her knees again. She gagged, but nothing came up. She moaned, but it was more a sob.
As Conn stood there, watching her and feeling helpless entirely, it struck him that this was familiar. He had seen Vangie like this before—many times, in fact. His mind registered the memory, and a thrill of excitement shot through him, only to give way to a pang of hurt pride. If he was right, then why wouldn’t she have told him by now?
But this wasn’t the time for questions. He bent to steady her. “Better now, love?”
She nodded and let him raise her to her feet and help her inside. In the kitchen, Nell Grace followed their movement with worried eyes, while little Emma whimpered for her mama.
“Your mother will be all right,” Conn told them. “She just needs to lie down for a bit. She’s feeling poorly.”
In the bedroom, he lifted her onto the bed, covered her, and then sat down beside her. She was still shaking, but when Conn reached to pull an extra quilt up from the foot of the bed and tuck it around her shoulders, she turned her face away, saying nothing.
He watched her for a long time, wanting to touch her but sensing her withdrawal from him. “Why haven’t you told me, Vangie?” he said quietly.
She turned a dull look on him, then shrugged and quickly glanced away. “I was waiting…to be sure.”
Conn studied her. “As I recall, with the others you knew quite some time before ever the sickness set in.”
She didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. He took the hand clutching the bed linens and found it limp and cold.