Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  But even as her heart hummed with the joy of the hour, a shadow fell over her thoughts. For one still, bittersweet moment, she remembered three children in an Irish village…three friends, joined by bonds of loneliness and love and need.

  She looked at Michael, saw his happiness, looked at her own hand clasped securely in Evan’s, then looked at the harp her son had propped at the end of the altar. And she remembered…remembered the one whose dreams had always been bigger and grander and nobler than hers and Michael’s added together. The one whose spirit had always seemed to soar, to fly, beyond the village, beyond what was, to reach for what could be.

  The one who had risked his life to make all this possible for her. The one who had stayed behind…but urged her to go.

  She tried not to think of the wheelchair, tried not to wonder what it must be like for him. Instead, she closed her eyes just for a moment…and prayed for him—prayed for a special gift of love and happiness for Morgan…and thanked God for the special gift of love He had given her and Evan.

  Later that night—much later—Evan and Nora sat, side by side, contentedly watching the fire.

  Daniel John and the children, after opening one small gift each, declared they would save the “large gifts” for Christmas morning. Exhausted from the long day, they had gone on to bed without complaining.

  “This is so fine, isn’t it, Evan?” Nora didn’t take her eyes away from the fire. “Sitting here, by the fire, knowing the children are safe and healthy—knowing that Michael and Sara are as happy as we are, if that’s at all possible. This is truly a gift in itself, isn’t it?”

  His arm around her shoulder, Evan pulled her close. “A v-very precious gift. No m-man could ask for more, not at Christmas or ever.”

  Nora turned to look at him. “Truly, Evan? There is nothing else you would ask for, nothing more than what we have?”

  Her gaze went over his face. As always, Evan felt himself loved. And counted himself blessed. “Nothing,” he choked out, touching his lips to hers. “I have everything a m-man could possibly want—and more.”

  After they kissed, Nora smiled. A peculiar smile, Evan thought. Almost secretive.

  “Ah, that’s too bad, then,” she said, her expression strangely cryptic, but tender. “Because I have another gift for you, you see—a very special gift indeed—but if you’d rather not know about it—”

  “B-but I thought we agreed to wait until morning and open our gifts with the children.”

  “We did, yes, but…I don’t believe I can wait that long. Besides, I’d like us to be alone…just for this one gift.” She went on smiling, more mysterious now than ever. “We can share it with the children in the morning.”

  Evan forced a stern frown. “Are you g-going to tell me what this secret is all about, Mrs. Whittaker?”

  The woman looked as if she simply couldn’t stop smiling. “Here is my gift to you, Evan,” she said. Taking his hand, she placed it gently over her abdomen.

  Evan stared at her hand, then slowly raised his head to study her face. “Nora?”

  She increased the pressure on his hand, just slightly. “I am with child, Evan,” she said, her voice soft. “Before next Christmas comes, I will give you the gift of a child…a child of our own.”

  Stunned, Evan could only sit, gaping at her still slim waist, his trembling hand, her shining eyes.

  “A…child?” he echoed shakily, trying to put down the panic he felt and show the pleasure she obviously expected from him. “A ch-child of our own?”

  Nora now took his hand, brought it to her lips. “Happy Christmas, beloved,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving his. “Oh, Evan—happy, happy Christmas!”

  “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Burke.”

  In the dimly lighted cottage at the rear of the Farmington mansion, Michael Burke smiled and watched his bride open the small package he had just presented her.

  “Michael! Oh—how very lovely!” As she lifted the blue satin ribbon from the tissue, Sara’s face glowed more brightly than the candles that had been placed all about the room.

  “It’s for your hair,” Michael said softly. He couldn’t take his eyes from her, this woman who had tonight become his wife. This woman who counted herself plain, yet had a beauty that glowed from within, a beauty that could light an entire room. Certainly, she lighted his entire world.

  “You are lovely, Sara a gra,” he said thickly, meaning it. “I think you are quite the loveliest thing I have ever seen.”

  She blushed furiously beneath his scrutiny, just as she always did. She stood there before him, obviously ill at ease in her bridal nightdress, looking as if she could not quite decide whether to fall into his arms—or bolt from the room.

  “Lovely,” he repeated, holding out his arms.

  She took a step—a small, uncertain step—toward him. “Am I? Am I really, Michael?”

  She held the blue satin ribbon from trembling fingers. Michael caught one end of it, pulling her a little closer. “You are,” he said, his voice low and somewhat unsteady, “the most beautiful thing in my world. And I am a fortunate man, indeed, to have you as my wife.”

  With one hand, he tugged a pin from her hair, then another. Smiling, he held up the blue satin ribbon, dangling it in front of her. “Tonight,” he said gently, pulling yet another pin free, “I will take the pins from your hair…just as I told you I would. Tonight, Sara a gra, we will take down your hair, and you will wear a blue satin ribbon in it…just for me, for your husband.”

  With the next pin, Sara’s hair tumbled free, falling almost to her waist as she took the last remaining step into his arms.

  PART TWO

  DREAMS ABANDONED

  Night Shadows

  Let him who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God.

  ISAIAH 50:10

  20

  The Start of a Quiet Rebellion

  The best lack all conviction, while the worst

  Are full of passionate intensity.

  W.B. YEATS (1865–1939)

  Staten Island, New York

  February 1849

  Seated at the piano at ten o’clock in the morning, Alice Walsh willfully ignored the stab of guilt that almost always accompanied these early-morning music sessions.

  Just the thought of her mother was usually enough to make her get up and leave the room. Mama would be absolutely aghast if she could see her daughter perched on a piano stool this time of day. A good German housewife had countless other things—important things—to occupy her mornings.

  Today, however, Alice did not get up. When the blade of guilt began to twist a little deeper, she simply began to play a little louder. And much faster.

  Equally adept at Mozart or Bach, Alice nursed a secret penchant for the “new” American music, music which, according to Mama, was “frivolous,” “inferior,” and, in some cases, even “pagan.”

  Alice harbored her own private collection of it in the very back of the music cabinet. Her most recent favorite, and the one now open in front of her, was an admittedly frivolous little number entitled “Oh! Susanna.” Mr. E.P. Christy of the Christy Minstrel shows credited himself as composer of the piece, which by now had become wildly popular among the gold miners out West. Rumors continued to circulate, however, that the song had actually been penned by a young, heretofore unknown composer named Stephen Foster. Mr. Foster, it was whispered, drank.

  Alice knew nothing about the rightful composer, but at times like this, when the house was empty of everyone but the servants, she did love to gallop though the spirited little song. At present, she was on her third frenzied run through the number, as if to give vent to the nagging unrest that seemed to plague her more and more often of late.

  Up until recently, Alice had known nothing about restlessness, indeed scarcely knew what it meant. The product of staunch, practical German upbringing, she lived a life in keeping with the standards of her parents, the tenets of her church, and the demand
s of her husband and children.

  She had always considered her life full and immensely satisfying. Although she had married late and, according to some, beneath her station—Patrick was Irish and five years younger—she adored her husband. He was handsome, intelligent, and enterprising, and a devoted, if often distracted, husband. If he wasn’t the most attentive or thoughtful of men, he still treated her with respect and sometimes even waxed romantic, occasionally bringing her flowers, and, more rarely, spending the night in her bedroom.

  Alice had fallen in love with Patrick Walsh the first time he sat across from her at the dinner table in her parents’ home. After fifteen years of marriage, she only loved him more. Their two children were clever and healthy, if somewhat indulged; their home was lavish and comfortable. All in all, Alice considered herself a thoroughly happy, remarkably fortunate woman.

  If her days were somewhat predicable, what of it? Excitement was a distasteful word, almost an obscenity to people like her parents, and variety applied only to the dinner menu. No, Alice preferred the orderly progression of her life and had never felt a desire or a need, for anything other than what she already had.

  Until recently. Of late, mostly in the mornings, after Patrick had gone off to his work and the children had left for school, she had begun to find herself feeling…restless. Restless and somewhat at loose ends.

  She had little to do around the house; the servants took care of everything, with only minimal supervision. Mrs. Cooper, the cook, viewed the kitchen as her own private domain and managed to make Alice feel like a virtual intruder whenever she dared to enter. She did her own mending, but was always caught up. She detested knitting and tatting, and disliked flower arranging even more.

  Her one indulgence was her music. Even so, she deliberately limited the time spent at the piano or organ, feeling too many hours squandered in self-entertainment must surely be hedonistic, and therefore wicked.

  Over the past few weeks, however, she had found herself giving in more and more to the enjoyment of the keyboard. The excellent upright piano in the parlor was the same one she had grown up with. The ornate, hand-carved organ across the room had been a surprise birthday present from Patrick some years ago. She had an extensive collection of music, and her tastes were varied enough to keep her interested.

  Lately, though, she seemed to have trouble concentrating, even on the music. At the oddest moments, she caught herself feeling idle and useless. These feelings of worthlessness only served to strengthen a growing burden of guilt and stir all sorts of alien, disturbing emotions in her.

  It would have made all the difference, she thought as the last notes of “Oh! Susanna” died away, if someone needed her. These days, Patrick was seldom at home for more than an hour or two in the evening, was often gone for days on end, attending to “business.” Since he had made it a policy never to discuss “business” at home, Alice hadn’t the faintest idea what, exactly, he did. She knew only that he owned some hotels and boardinghouses and invested in other properties throughout the city. Obviously, he was successful.

  Even the children had reached an age where they were rapidly growing more resourceful and independent of her. At thirteen, Isabel was quite the little woman; indeed, she had a way of treating Alice like a child. And Henry, already nine, disappeared most evenings after dinner to his room, where he presumedly studied and looked out the window through his telescope. Henry, Alice thought with no lack of affection for her youngest, might be just a bit odd.

  The past weeks of restlessness had spurred her to do some serious self-examination and thinking about her life. In the process, she had discovered two significant facts about herself that were not altogether comfortable.

  Alice had come to realize that she was almost entirely captivated by the needs of others. She had to be needed—indeed, she existed to be needed.

  Yet her importance to her family was definitely on the decline. That was a situation not likely to change. As Patrick became more and more involved in his business interests, and the children grew older, they would need her less and less.

  The other discovery Alice had made was that she had been given a great deal, and, up until now, had taken much of it for granted in the most shameful way. The only child of prosperous, middle-aged parents, she had lacked for nothing. She had known only comfort for all of her thirty-nine years, had been somewhat pampered, if carefully disciplined, by her parents, and had then gone on to wed a man who denied her nothing, indeed almost encouraged her to be extravagant.

  Lately, these discoveries had begun to provoke her into serious questions. What, exactly, did she intend to do as her children grew older—and even more independent of her nurturing—and as Patrick grew more involved than ever with his business concerns? And how might she give back at least a portion of what she had been given?

  She thought perhaps the time had come to involve herself in the church’s charity outreach. As one of the member churches in a city-wide organization, Alice’s church was perpetually in need of volunteers to aid in the extensive mission program.

  Because her time had been so taken up with her family, up until now Alice had paid little attention to how the organization functioned. She had simply given money when a need was expressed. Recently, however, she had decided to learn more about this particular venture. And next week would provide the ideal opportunity.

  Sara Farmington Burke was serving as hostess at an ambitious bazaar being held to bring together volunteers from all the member congregations throughout the city. The event would take place at the Farmington mansion on Fifth Avenue. The Reverend Jess Dalton, a vital force behind the mission effort, and one of its primary organizers, was to speak; and during the afternoon there would be an opportunity for new volunteers to become acquainted with the various slum mission programs.

  Alice intended to go. She had sensed a kindness, a genuine warmth in Miss Farmington—Mrs. Burke, she corrected herself—when the young socialite had come to visit the injured Tierney Burke some months past. Although she’d seemed ill at ease, she had been cordial. She hadn’t affected to patronize Alice or, even worse, ignore her—as did many among Alice’s church acquaintances.

  Alice had tried not to mind the social rejection she faced after her marriage. Patrick had risen above his Irish roots long ago, and there were as many who seemed to respect him for it as those who did not. At the same time, there were others who deliberately ostracized them. Such treatment both wounded and puzzled Alice. Occasionally, she even felt persecuted, as if she were the victim of something far more vicious than ethnic prejudice. At times, it was as if they were outcasts—despised outcasts, almost like criminals, though she supposed she might be exaggerating the situation.

  At least, she reminded herself hopefully as she rose from the piano stool, she would not receive such shabby treatment from Sara Farmington Burke. The Farmington heiress had, like Alice, married “beneath her station.”

  Somehow, Alice found great comfort in that fact. If a woman of Sara Burke’s standing could face the often cruel and painful consequences of following her heart, it made Alice feel somewhat proud that she had done likewise.

  Patrick Walsh was beginning to sense the screws tightening against him, thanks to that sanctimonious, self-serving police captain—Burke.

  He stood, one hand in his pocket, the other knotted at his side, looking out the window of his Pearl Street office. A light snow had been falling since early morning and was now being whipped about the streets by a bitter February wind. Pedestrians hurried along, hats pulled down, mufflers slung over their faces, in their haste to take refuge indoors.

  Angry, Walsh frowned as the thought of the new Subcommission on Immigrant Crime—and Michael Burke—again intruded on his peace of mind. There were a number of politicos and do-gooders on the subcommission, but from what he was hearing, it was Burke and his father-in-law, Lewis Farmington, who were stirring up most of the trouble. No doubt Farmington, as the chairman, had given his obnoxious son-in-
law a free hand.

  Apparently, that included a personal strike at him. According to one of Patrick’s men on the force, Burke was out for his hide. To Patrick, that meant the policeman must have sniffed out his involvement with the runners. No doubt some misplaced sense of loyalty to the Irish—Burke was an immigrant himself—lay behind his tactics.

  Had it been another cop besides Burke on the prowl, Patrick would have simply paid him off. But the word on the hard-nosed captain was that he couldn’t be bought, and Patrick was inclined to agree. He’d seen enough of the man to suspect that money wasn’t his weakness.

  It was a fact that some men—though they were few—could not be bought with money. But it was also a fact, Walsh was convinced, that every man had a price of some kind.

  Somehow, he was determined to make it his business to find out what the honorable Captain Burke’s price happened to be.

  21

  Pharisees and Sinners

  The lawyers have sat in council,

  The men with the keen, long faces,

  And said, “This man is a fool….”

  PADRAIC PEARSE (1879–1916)

  Michael, you are going to be at the bazaar next week, aren’t you?”

  It was early Sunday morning. Sara sat across from her husband at breakfast, who, for the most part, seemed to have forgotten she was in the room.

  “Michael?”

  Finally, his dark eyes met hers across the top of the newspaper. “You’re joking, of course.”

  “I’m not. But I am counting on your help.”

  “My help?” The paper slipped another notch, down to his nose. “What sort of help would that be?”

  “I had hoped you might speak about Five Points—from a policeman’s perspective.” Ignoring the strangled sound that bounced off the paper, Sara went on. “You can explain better than anyone else about the illegal boardinghouses—and what happens to the immigrants who end up in them.”