by BJ Hoff
But not for a moment would she allow him to think that she needed him. She realized now that her only hope of binding Brady to her was to make him believe that none of the need was hers—but his alone.
The door to his room was ajar. Terese rapped softly once. When there was no response, she walked in.
“Brady?”
There was still no reply. Terese’s gaze swept the small sitting room, and the first prickle of apprehension skated down her spine. The room looked dusty and unexpectedly vacant. No books or papers lay strewn about; there was not so much as a teacup on the table, and the drapes had not been opened.
Her mouth dry, she went on to the bedroom. “Brady?” she said again, her voice echoing in the silence of the flat.
Her earlier uneasiness intensified to a wave of dismay as she saw the evidence of his departure. The bedding had been randomly tossed, and the clothes press stood gaping and empty. No luggage rested near the door, no toiletries lined the dressing table.
There was no sign of him, no indication that he had ever inhabited the premises. The room had suddenly turned into a hollow shell, devoid of anything to give it warmth and life. The light that issued from the window was weak and gray, for in here, too, the drapes remained closed.
The morning suddenly seemed to take on a chill. Dazed, Terese tried to swallow against the tightness of her throat, but instead nearly gagged on a knot of despair.
She should have come earlier. She shouldn’t have left him last night, should never have flung the angry words at him. Now he was gone, and even though he had insisted he would return in mere weeks, that had been before the bitterness of their parting. She couldn’t count on his promise now, couldn’t count on anything.
Devastated, she stood there in the gloom, scarcely breathing. After a moment, a violent torrent of shivering gripped her, and she began to quake as if a giant claw had plucked her off her feet and was shaking her in a rage.
When the seizure had finally passed, she stood there, looking about the bedroom where only two nights past she had lain with him. Loneliness fell over her like a shroud. Once again she knew herself to be left behind. Not for the first time, someone who was supposed to care about her had instead forsaken her. It made no difference at all that she had brought this latest abandonment on herself. All she could think of was that Brady had left her, and she was alone.
Again.
—BOOK ONE—
Cloth of Heaven
PART THREE
THE STORM’S EDGE
He calmed the storm to a whisper and stilled the waves. What a blessing was that stillness as he brought them safely into harbor!
PSALM 107:29-30
31
PRICE OF DREAMS, PENANCE OF FOLLY
I am worn out with dreams.
W. B. YEATS
IRELAND, JULY 1839
Brady Kane stood looking east, across the river, to the turrets and towers of King John’s Castle. The setting was both splendid and bleak. Limerick itself was laid out on an extensive plain, watered by the majestic Shannon—the “King” of Ireland’s rivers. The old city was divided into an “English Town” and an “Irish Town,” with a more recent third division called Newton Pery. Brady preferred the old districts and had grown especially fond of the castle that stood frowning down on the main approach to “English Town.”
This warm summer’s evening would be his last in Limerick, at least for a time, as well as his last opportunity to finish his painting of the castle.
He had quickly come to appreciate Limerick’s charm and particular advantages. He had purchased several pairs—some for gifts—of fine Limerick gloves, supposedly unrivaled in quality anywhere in the world. He had also studied and sketched a variety of Limerick laces, famed even in the States for their delicate perfection. And, of course, he had given careful attention to Limerick’s lasses. The women of Limerick, after all, were said to be among the most beautiful in Ireland, if not the world. Comely as they were, however, Brady had been frustrated to find that they couldn’t seem to distract his thoughts from Terese’s fire or Roweena’s gentle loveliness—at least not for long.
There he went again. He shook his head, as if by the mere physical gesture he could dismiss the two sylphs who had staked a claim on far too many of his waking hours—and more than a few of his dreams.
As his return to Galway neared, he found himself often brooding over what sort of reception he might expect from Terese. Surely she would have gotten over her pique by now, although the fact that she hadn’t answered his letter did not bode well.
He had written to her a month ago. His intention had been not to take back anything he’d said that last night they were together, but to try to explain that his resistance to a permanent sort of commitment had nothing to do with the way he felt about her.
He did care about Terese, Brady told himself as he put the finishing touches on the painting. She was beautiful, passionate, sharp-witted, and, although she could be something of a shrew when in a temper, most of the time she was great fun to be with.
But he also cared about Roweena, though in a different way. Whereas Terese was fire and fury, Roweena was like a fine piece of Limerick lace—exquisitely lovely, but perhaps dangerously fragile. His feelings toward her were puzzling, ranging from protectiveness to a sweet, aching kind of desire—not the tempestuous, raging need he felt for Terese, but more a tender yearning for something as elusive as the morning mist.
Of course, he thought ruefully, there was also the fact that the mighty Gabriel stood as solidly as a mountain between Roweena and any man who dared approach. No insignificant barrier, that, by any means. Brady couldn’t stop himself from conjecturing what it would mean if by some unimaginable circumstance the Big Fella were to step aside, leaving Roweena more…accessible. Would he still be so averse to a permanent commitment?
Brush suspended in midair, he paused, then shook his head again. Best not to go down that road. As appealing as the prospect might be, it was about as likely as the fall of the British Empire.
In any event, he had a few other things to do yet tonight besides indulging in boyish fantasies. For one thing, he had to finish packing. But before that he needed to make a last brief visit to the orphanage, just to make certain all the details regarding the Madden children were in order.
As he packed away his brushes and paints, his thoughts went to young Shona and Tully Madden. Finally, he had set in motion Jack’s plan. After receiving his brother’s scrawl of approval for the first story, Brady had moved quickly to draft what he deemed a passably adequate article on the two Madden orphans, at the same time initiating preliminary arrangements for their passage to the States.
As per Jack’s instructions, he had gone in search of only those stories with “irresistible” appeal—stories that would “wring tears out of the Cliffs of Moher,” as Jack so colorfully put it. Thanks to the local Orphan Friends Society, Brady was fairly certain he had found just the story for his first effort.
Shona and Tully Madden had been orphaned three years ago in an occurrence that was apparently all too common in Ireland. A landlord had set a consumptive widow and her two children out of the house in the dead of winter—for rent in arrears or some such offense. Within a month the mother was dead, leaving the children entirely on their own.
By the grace of God and the intervention of the Orphan Friends Society, the two had managed to stay alive. Shona was now a frail ten-year-old with the sorrows of the world looking out from behind her haunted eyes. Her brother, Tully, was a surprisingly good-natured child with a quick, ingenuous smile that inspired thoughts of the angels.
Poor little tykes, Brady thought, closing his paint case. Tully had lost most of his toes to frostbite and would always be lame, while Shona seemed to live in constant fear of the cold, quaking like a palsied old woman every time a door was opened and she felt a draft. Still, they had survived—no small feat, given all they had endured.
The two made Brady ashamed of every luxu
ry he had ever enjoyed, every indulgence he had granted himself, and he sincerely longed to better their circumstances. Thanks to Jack, it would seem that he could do just that. As it stood now, Shona and Tully Madden would be the first two beneficiaries of his brother’s recent, and to Brady’s thinking, somewhat uncharacteristic, magnanimity.
He left the bridge, mentally ticking off the tasks remaining before he could grab some sleep. It was going to be a long night, but he felt no hint of fatigue. To the contrary, the thought that he would soon see Terese—and Roweena—infused him with energy and a rush of eagerness to be on his way. He quickened his step, not even taking the time to enjoy one last glorious sunset over the Shannon.
Gabriel waited until the Sheridan girl left the cottage to feed the chickens before turning back to Jane Connolly, who sat in her chair by the window, looking out. He drew an arm over his forehead to blot the perspiration. The day had been uncommonly warm, even for July, and there was still no breeze to relieve the sultry evening.
Jane seemed more uncomfortable than usual. Hot, humid days like this always aggravated her painful joints. Gabriel deliberated over whether or not to even ask the question on his mind, but he wouldn’t want Jane unaware of what he suspected.
“Does she know, do you think?” he said bluntly, watching Jane closely to gauge her reaction.
She turned to look at him. He took in the exaggerated puffiness about her eyes, the angry red flush across her cheeks. As he had countless times before, he wished he could find a way to relieve her misery.
“Know what?” she said irritably.
Gabriel drew a long breath. So she hadn’t noticed.
“I believe the girl is with child, Jane. Has she said nothing about it, then?”
For a moment she simply stared at him, her hands like claws on the chair arms. She glanced once to the door, still standing open. When she turned back to Gabriel, her features were drawn in a taut mask, as if she was making an effort to conceal her pain. “Are you sure?”
“I can’t be certain, of course. But she’s not nearly so lean, and she has the look about her.”
Jane’s shoulders slumped, and she looked away. “Aye, you would know,” she said simply. “And since you mention it, I’ve seen it, too.” She paused. “I doubt that she’s even aware, though she’s clever enough about everything else.”
Again she raised her eyes to Gabriel. “Will you speak to her, then?”
Gabriel shook his head. “ ’Tis for you to do that, it seems to me.”
Jane’s face creased to a sour look. “She’ll not be thanking me for it.”
Gabriel lifted an eyebrow. “Nor will she be thanking Brady Kane, I expect. But she needs to know her condition, if she doesn’t as yet.”
“You believe it’s him, then?”
“Who else would it be? Of course it’s him. We should have seen it coming.” He paused. “And so should she.”
“She’s very young. And raised without a mother, for the most part.”
The softness of her tone surprised Gabriel. “All the more reason for you to speak to her,” he said carefully. “She will hear it better from you than from anyone else, I’m thinking.”
He started for the door, then turned back. “It would be best not to wait too long, Jane.”
She gave a nod, a weary gesture. “I’ll see to it.”
Gabriel studied her for another moment. She looked sad, he realized. Like a mother who has been given sorrowful news and can’t quite take it in.
He turned then and left the cottage. Poor Jane. For some time now, he had seen her growing fondness for the girl, had seen as well her attempts to conceal it. This would be a hard thing for Jane, and the Lord knew she had already endured more than her share of troubles. She had cared deeply for her husband, but he had died. She had doted on her only daughter, who had gone to live in a far country.
No doubt she had tried to guard her heart against caring for yet another, but Jane’s heart was not the stone she would have others believe it to be. Still, she had to have known that Terese Sheridan would not stay. The island girl had made no secret of her intentions, telling anyone who would listen that she was bound for America as soon as she could pay her passage.
And where would she be bound for now? Gabriel wondered. Brady Kane had left Galway insisting that he would return in only a few weeks, but two months had come and gone, and there was still no sign of him. There had been a letter, Jane said. But only one.
Gabriel sighed, and a heaviness settled over his heart like lowering clouds. It seemed that a part of Jane’s sadness had attached itself to him. His own dolor was not for Jane alone, however, not even for the foolish, impetuous girl, although his concern for both was deep. Somewhere in his spirit he also grieved for the child—the unborn, unwanted child who would almost certainly prove to be a burden.
The thought brought wee Evie and Roweena to mind, and his heart wrenched in silent protest. In such cases as this, it was always the child who suffered most. The innocent paid the price for the sins of others, and more often than not it was a dear price indeed.
As he reached the lane that turned home, the Galway sun slipped down behind the horizon, leaving the Claddagh in near total darkness. But in the window of his cottage, a light flickered. Roweena and the little one had instituted the custom, which by now Gabriel had come to count on. No matter where he went, or how late the hour of his return, he knew a candle would be burning in the window until he reached home safe.
He started up the walk, smiling a little as the glow reached out to light his spirit even as it rent the shadows of the night.
Alone with Jane in the dimly lighted cottage later that night, Terese silently massaged her employer’s hands with the new supply of oil that Gabriel had brought. Next she would do Jane’s ankles and feet, a task that some might find demeaning. Terese, however, didn’t really mind; she viewed it as merely a part of her job.
Of late, she thought she had seen some slight improvement in Jane and wondered if the massage sessions might be providing a bit of relief, albeit temporary, from the pain. Terese had even suggested that they increase the frequency of the ministrations, but Jane insisted she could not afford the additional purchases of oil.
She glanced at the older woman and saw that her eyes were closed, the lines of her face smoothed in a rare look of peace. Terese was caught off guard by the quick warmth that poured over her. That she could help to ease her pain-ridden employer’s distress gave her an unaccountable feeling of satisfaction.
She had been with Jane some months now, long enough to witness firsthand the extent of the woman’s misery. So far as Terese could tell, Jane Connolly was never without pain or, even at her better moments, acute discomfort.
There seemed to be little in the way of any real relief for her suffering. Gabriel often brought herbs in addition to the oil Jane sent for, but many times he left the cottage with a look of utter frustration on his face. His desire to help was obvious; his disappointment that he could not, just as evident.
Terese hadn’t realized that she had ceased her movements until Jane’s sharp rebuke jerked her out of her thoughts. “You might just as well stop mooning about the Yank. He will be back when he’s good and ready and not a day before.”
Terese looked at her. “What? Oh—I wasn’t thinking about Brady at all, as it happens.”
Jane sniffed and rolled her eyes.
“I wasn’t, I tell you.”
Terese refused to let herself be goaded. Jane dearly loved a match of wits, and Terese was usually quick to oblige. But it was getting late, and she was bone tired. “Here, now,” she said briskly, standing to adjust the wheelchair. “Let’s have your feet.”
She snapped the footrest up too sharply, and Jane cried out.
“I’m sorry, Jane! The rod slipped! I am sorry. Are you all right, then?”
Jane glared at her but said nothing.
“I need to be greasing your chair, I’m thinking,” Terese offered. “Your righ
t wheel is sticking, and so is that pesky rod. I’ll see to it tomorrow.”
“You’ll have to be getting some grease first. Gabriel used the last of it a week ago when he fixed the gate.”
Terese was careful to keep her touch firm but not too heavy as she began to knead the swollen ankles. “Gabriel’s very good to you, isn’t he? Were he and your husband friends?”
Jane nodded. “As much as Gabriel would be a friend to any man, I suppose.”
Terese glanced up. It was an uncommon thing for Jane to respond to even a casual question without a sharp-tongued remark or an attempt at mocking humor. “He’s a peculiar sort of man, Gabriel is. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Some might think so. But there’s not much strangeness about Gabriel except his habit of minding his own business. There are those who don’t understand the practice and so might think him odd.” She fixed Terese with a pointed look.
Terese still refused to rise to the bait. “I’m not meaning to pry,” she said lightly. “ ’Tis just that he seems such a…different sort of man. He’s obviously had a grand education—he speaks like a scholar at times. And doesn’t he seem to know something about almost everything—even doctoring?” She glanced up. “And why is it I’ve never heard his last name? He does have a family name, now doesn’t he?”
Jane lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve an itchy nose this evening, it seems. But since you’ve asked, of course he has a family name, and a fine one, at that. He is a Vaughan. Gabriel Vaughan, son of Martin. An old family and a much esteemed one.”
“Are you related, the two of you?” Terese asked.
Jane looked down her nose and frowned. “Related? No, not a bit. Why would you ask?”
Terese shrugged. “He’s very kind to you,” she said, continuing the massage.
“Gabriel is kind to everyone,” Jane said tightly. “ ’Tis his way. Though the Lord knows there are those who take advantage.”
