American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  3

  AN EXCITING MORNING AT BANTRY HILL

  There are gains for all our losses.

  There are balms for all our pain.

  RICHARD HENRY STODDARD

  The last person Paul Santi expected to see when he opened the back door off the kitchen on Friday morning was Conn MacGovern’s daughter, Nell Grace.

  He gaped at the vision she made, standing there in the doorway, a basket in her arms, the morning sun behind her gilding her auburn hair. She was like a painting. A poem. A song!

  How fortunate for him that Moira Dempsey was occupied upstairs. Otherwise the housekeeper would have opened the door.

  Finally, he realized he was staring. “Signorina—Miss MacGovern! Buon giorno! Come in, come in!”

  He held the door, allowing her entrance. Once inside, she smiled at him, then quickly lowered her gaze. “I brought a gift for the poor wee girl. The one that’s ill,” she said, lifting a cloth from the basket so Paul could see.

  He found himself peering into the amber eyes of a white-and-apricot spotted kitten. The creature’s stare was surprisingly direct, seemingly unafraid, and openly curious.

  Paul glanced up to find Nell Grace MacGovern studying him. “For Maylee?” he said.

  She nodded. “ ’Tis one of the barn kits. We—Mum and I—thought perhaps she’d be good company for the child. Little girls almost always take to kittens, it seems.”

  Paul couldn’t take his eyes off her face. Bella!

  “Will she be allowed, do you think?”

  “Allowed?”

  The girl invariably had this effect on him. All she had to do was come near and he immediately became—how to say it?—“tongue-tied.” His wits seemed to escape him. Either he stood mute and dry-mouthed or else he babbled like a great stupido.

  “To have the kitten,” the MacGovern girl prompted.

  He did love to hear her speak! Truly, that Irish lilt was lyrical. Like a crystal stream splashing over small stones. Si, like music.

  Again, her expression told Paul he was staring.

  “Ah! The kitten. Sì—”

  He stopped. Could Maylee keep the kitten? He remembered Dr. Carmichael saying the child’s resistance to illness was not as strong as that of a healthy child due to the cruel affliction that wasted her. Did cats carry germs? He had no idea.

  The MacGovern girl looked so hopeful. He hated to disappoint her. Yet, the doctor had insisted that they must be very careful.

  “We will speak with Miss Susanna,” he finally said. “She takes charge of Maylee’s care. She will know. And she will most likely be delighted with your thoughtfulness. We will go right now and find her.”

  The girl’s face brightened.

  He took the basket from her and gestured toward the door.

  She smiled at him, and for a moment Paul felt like dancing. But he could only smile in return—the foolish, vacant smile, he feared, of one who had taken leave of his senses.

  It was as he had told Michael some months ago: the thunderbolt had struck him at last. He could only hope it would not leave him such a fool forever. To be in love was a wonderful thing. He knew this, even though he had never been in love before. Love was supposed to be a grand adventure, a wondrous, exciting thing. He knew this as well.

  What he had not known was that love might also render him a man without his wits.

  At that moment Gus the wolfhound poked his head through the partially open door, then lumbered the rest of the way into the room, no doubt in search of Caterina. The big, fawn-colored hound—easily as tall as a grown man when he reared on his hind legs—started toward them, his tail whipping in circles. The kitten mewed, and the wolfhound stopped, his attention caught by the basket dangling from Paul’s arm. He took a step back, then loped forward.

  Paul tried to stop him, but Gus poked his big head into the basket, eliciting a demonic shriek from the small creature inside.

  “Gus, get away—” Paul started to caution.

  The kitten shot out of the basket, skidded across the slippery surface of Moira Dempsey’s recently mopped floor, and hurled herself against the base of the pie safe before leaping onto the baking table.

  The wolfhound charged in pursuit, barking as if he’d treed a squirrel.

  Paul shouted a retreat, but Gus merely tossed him a look over his shoulder and continued to circle the table where the kitten crouched, back arched, claws digging into the wood as she hissed and spat at the dog.

  The wolfhound howled back at her, then thumped one mighty paw onto the table, dangerously close to the small creature’s neck. In a whoosh, the kitten catapulted from the table, over the wolfhound’s back, and fused herself to the doors of the cupboard, where she clung, glaring behind her at the wolfhound.

  The MacGovern girl hurried to retrieve her, but the kitten simply scaled the cupboard until she reached the very top, where she began to skulk from one end to the other, gloating down at the frustrated wolfhound.

  Moira Dempsey chose that instant to come clomping through the door, fire in her eyes and a blistering stream of Gaelic on her tongue.

  Paul groaned. Nell Grace MacGovern’s face froze in terror. The wolfhound barked at the kitten, then turned to snap at Moira Dempsey, whom he had never much liked. The kitten hurtled from the top of the cupboard to the sideboard of the sink, landing smack in the middle of the crock of bread dough Moira had set out to rise.

  Susanna got to the kitchen as quickly as she could when she heard the commotion. Her first thought had been that Caterina and the wolfhound had been up to mischief again. As a pair, they could be counted on to deliver trouble wherever they went—and Moira Dempsey typically blamed Susanna for any disruption. But Caterina had stayed the night with Rosa Navaro, her godmother, and was nowhere on the premises.

  The scene that greeted her was such that she could only stand and stare. Across the room a small, yowling creature rose out of the bread dough, kicking and flailing the air with its paws. Like a miniature golem from the Hebrew legends, formed of clay and a secret spell, it struggled to free itself from its glutinous prison.

  Gus the wolfhound yelped and snarled, jabbing his big head toward the sticky little creature as if to thwart its escape. Nell Grace MacGovern stood wringing her hands and gaping at the bread dough, with Paul pivoting from her to the hound, clearly stymied as to what to do.

  Meanwhile, Moira Dempsey splayed her hands on her hips, scolding them all as only Moira could, the Irish shooting from her mouth like a barrage of hot coals.

  Susanna turned to look as Michael entered, holding a sheaf of papers in one hand, raking his hair with the other hand as he added a spiel of Italian to Moira’s run of Gaelic. Something to do with trying to work in a lunatic asylum.

  It occurred to Susanna to be grateful that Papa Emmanuel had taken the buggy to collect Caterina from Rosa’s house. One more agitated Italian male in the house right now might be one too many.

  She put a hand to her fiancé’s arm. “ ’Tis all right, Michael. Really. Just a small…incident with—I think it’s a kitten.”

  “A kitten? All this noise from a kitten?” He paused. “What kitten? We have no kitten.”

  Susanna shooed him out of the kitchen, promising to get the situation under control “in no time,” breathing a sigh as he went.

  Moira seemed to have turned the full blast of her fury on the kitten itself for the moment, shaking her apron at it and screeching like a demented harpy. As if the housekeeper’s harangue had sounded a clarion call, the poor creature suddenly gave a bloodcurdling wail and launched itself from the sideboard onto Moira’s shoulder, from where it slid effortlessly down the gaping front of the woman’s apron.

  The MacGovern girl brought her hands to her face in a look of sheer horror. Paul had gone quite pale, his eyeglasses slipping almost all the way down his nose, no doubt from the perspiration dampening his face.

  Moira whirled around in a mad little dance, trying to shake the kitten loose. But the creature apparently fe
lt protected at last, even playful, as it began to pitch from side to side beneath the bodice of the woman’s apron, eliciting a series of squeals and shrieks from the Irish housekeeper.

  Good sense overcame a sense of hilarity as Susanna moved to loosen the ties of Moira’s apron and in the same motion catch the kitten as it tumbled free. Taking the indignant little creature to the sink, she began to sponge it with a damp towel.

  It took some doing, but Paul managed to coax Moira out of the kitchen, then came back to remove the reluctant wolfhound, leaving Susanna and Nell Grace to cope with the kitten and restore order to Moira’s kitchen.

  Susanna could not help but wonder what it would take to restore a measure of calm to Moira.

  Only when Paul explained that the troublesome creature was meant as a gift for Maylee and would, if allowed, be taking up permanent residence did Susanna give way to the simmering amusement that had been threatening to explode almost since she first walked in on the bedlam.

  Her good judgment dictated that under no circumstances should the fierce little feline be allowed to stay. But the thought of the pleasure such a gift would bring the ailing Maylee—instantly followed by the idea of the temperamental Moira Dempsey at the mercy of the small goblin—urged her to abandon, just for this occasion, her more practical nature.

  “I think the kitten will be a lovely gift for Maylee,” she told an incredulous Nell Grace, who stood cuddling the now clean and contented wee creature against her shoulder.

  “She can’t be allowed outdoors, of course—she’ll have to be kept very clean. And we’ll need to keep her claws closely trimmed. But with a little care, I’m sure she won’t be a problem.”

  She smiled to herself as she recalled Moira Dempsey’s demented dance.

  Susanna stood just inside the doorway of Maylee’s room, enjoying the girl’s pleasure and excitement as she sat in the middle of her bed, holding the spotted kitten on her lap. Surely this unusual, delightful child deserved all the happiness available to her.

  Maylee was a tiny, delicate girl who even from this short distance appeared more like a fragile old lady than the eleven-year-old child she actually was. The victim of a bizarre premature-aging disease, Maylee already exhibited the telling signs of the disease’s escalation. Her wispy white hair scarcely covered her scalp. Her skin was dry, wrinkled, and unnaturally mottled in some places with “liver spots.” Her joints were almost always badly swollen these days, and Susanna knew she lived in considerable pain most of the time. Yet when one asked after her health, Maylee invariably replied that she was “feeling very well today.”

  Abandoned by her parents while still a toddler, Maylee had spent almost her entire childhood in one of the city’s institutions until Michael learned of her existence from Dr. Carmichael and eventually arranged to have her moved to Bantry Hill. Susanna liked to think that they were providing Maylee with something she’d never had: a real home. Certainly, the entire household had pitched in to help with the child’s care in an effort to make her remaining time on earth—which according to Andrew Carmichael would almost certainly be brief—as pleasant as possible.

  Even Moira Dempsey seemed to have developed a surprising tenderness for the girl. In spite of a routine that kept her constantly busy, the housekeeper had, from the beginning, taken charge of helping Maylee bathe, as well as seeing to the special diet that Dr. Carmichael had prescribed. More than once, Susanna had marveled at Moira’s uncharacteristic gentleness with the girl; she clearly doted on her.

  For Maylee’s part, she seemed to have no conception of herself as a victim, although Susanna couldn’t help but think of her as such: the victim of a merciless, punishing disease for which there was no known cure, not even medications to alleviate the worst of its plundering. Maylee, however, was unfailingly cheerful, genuinely appreciative of the smallest thing done for her, and, as Michael was quick to point out, an inspiration for them all.

  Indeed, Michael seemed to have formed an uncommon bond with the girl over the past few months. Susanna knew he was determined that the ailing child should not suffer from loneliness in addition to everything else. He took special care to spend time with her each day, and his visits were more than duty calls. Susanna hadn’t missed how pensive he seemed after being with Maylee and how attentive he was when she felt strong enough to take her meals with them.

  It was disappointing that Caterina, at only four, was really too young to be a close friend to the older girl. Not that she didn’t make an effort—she often played board games with Maylee, and sometimes the two enjoyed teatimes together with their dolls. But the age difference was significant, and no matter how conscientious Caterina tried to be, the gap between them most likely would not be breached.

  Maylee had made another friend, however, one closer to her own age. Renny Magee, the young girl who had come over from Ireland with the MacGovern family, was spending more and more time with Maylee, who seemed to find her an entertaining companion. They spent many hours together talking and reading, with Renny almost daily bringing small items from outdoors to amuse Maylee.

  Vangie MacGovern had no idea exactly how old the Magee girl might be—she had been alone, singing for her supper on the streets of Dublin, when Conn MacGovern found her—but both Vangie and Susanna had concluded she couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen. She was slight, exceedingly thin, with an unruly thatch of dark hair, a small space between her two front teeth, and a wiry energy that seemed in direct contrast to Maylee’s gentleness. But unusual as the combination might appear to be, the two were apparently becoming great chums.

  At the moment, however, a different combination drew her attention. Nell Grace MacGovern—as lovely a young woman as Susanna had ever seen—was sitting on the bed next to Maylee, showing her how the kitten liked to be held and stroked. At the side of the bed, Paul stood watching Nell Grace with an expression that could only be described as adoring.

  Michael had alluded to the fact that Paul had been struck by “the thunderbolt” in regard to Nell Grace. Watching them now, Susanna had to concur. It seemed to her, in fact, that Michael’s gentle cousin had not only been struck, but was still reeling from the impact. His dark eyes, which usually glinted with amusement behind his spectacles, now held a slightly dazed expression, and his slight, youthful body leaned toward the girl like a sunflower toward the light. And when Nell Grace turned to look at him in response to something he’d said, Susanna smiled to herself.

  Clearly, this was a thunderbolt with a double edge.

  4

  AN UNEVEN MEASURE

  That man is great, and he alone,

  Who serves a greatness not his own,

  For neither praise nor pelf:

  Content to know and be unknown:

  Whole in himself.

  OWEN MEREDITH (LORD BULWER-LYTTON)

  The day finally drew to an end, but it seemed to have taken an interminable time getting there.

  Susanna and Michael sat before the fire in the drawing room, even though it was conceivably improper for them to be sitting here by themselves so late at night with everyone else abed—except possibly Paul, who was wont to roam about until all hours. Susanna reasoned that this was the first time today she and Michael had been alone, and they were both too much in need of the quiet and a few precious moments spent together in peace to fret about a proper chaperone.

  Besides, even now they were busy. Michael had offered to help wind several skeins of yarn into balls for the blanket Susanna was knitting as part of a layette for the MacGovern baby, due to arrive near the end of April.

  “There,” she said, inspecting the looped ends of the skein draped over Michael’s hands.

  “This is all I have to do?”

  “Mm. Just keep your hands as they are. Not too far apart. Not too close.”

  She took the loose end of the yarn and wrapped it around four of her fingers several times, then around the middle, and began to work the yarn, keeping a watchful eye on her helper’s hands.
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  “How am I doing?” Michael asked.

  “Wonderfully. Consider this a permanent position from now on.”

  “Ah. I learn quickly, no?”

  “You learn quickly, yes.”

  Amused, she watched him smile as he continued to gently lift and dip his hands in a kind of rhythm while Susanna wrapped the yarn into a ball. In one way or another, it seemed that anything in Michael’s hands turned into music.

  “What color will this blanket be?” he asked.

  “White. Most everything will be white.”

  “Everything? What else are you making?”

  “Hopefully, an entire layette. Don’t let that slip to Mr. MacGovern, though. I want this to be a surprise for Vangie.”

  “Ah. And how is she?”

  Susanna reached to move his hands a little closer together. “Like that, Michael. You have to keep the tension the same.”

  She started winding again. “Nell Grace is concerned. She told me this morning that her mother hasn’t been feeling all that well for days now. Vangie does look tired,” she went on. “And much too pale.”

  Susanna supposed they really shouldn’t be talking about Vangie MacGovern’s condition. In truth, she probably ought to be downright uncomfortable discussing the subject with Michael. And yet it always seemed so uncommonly natural, so easy, to tell him anything. Everything.

  She had never thought about it in quite this way before, but it occurred to her now that Michael had become her closest friend. Odd. She had never had a truly close friend before, not even her sister. And now that she’d finally found such a friend, he turned out to be her future husband. She thought it might be a very good thing indeed to be marrying her best friend. On the other hand, until they were married, it also made it somewhat more difficult to observe the proprieties.

  Observing those proprieties hadn’t been a problem until they fell in love with each other. Indeed, her initial feelings about Michael when she’d first arrived in New York had comprised distrust and suspicion. After all, he was the husband of her late sister, Deirdre, who in her letters had written almost nothing good of the man she’d married.