Heart of the Lonely Exile

by BJ Hoff

  Morgan had deliberately foregone the laudanum with the intention of being alert enough to catch his devious wee phantom. And, sure enough, there she was! A glimpse of shaggy dark hair and odd clothes—and she whisked out of sight!

  “You! Come back here!” he ordered, leaning forward in the wheelchair.

  He waited. When the doorway remained empty, he called again, this time more loudly. “I know you heard me! Stop your skulking about and come here at once!”

  After a moment a face came into view, then the body attached to it—a small body, small and pathetically thin.

  She was a disreputable-looking little creature—dust smudges on her chin, a scrape over the bridge of her nose.

  “In here!” Morgan ordered.

  She made no move, but simply stood staring at him with those bottomless black eyes.

  “You’re the imp my grandfather told me about. The one who saw me shot.”

  At last there was a sign of life. A stiff little nod of the head, a quirk of the mouth.

  “I haven’t the strength to shout at you from across the room. Come closer,” Morgan commanded.

  There was a long hesitation. Finally, hugging her arms tightly across her chest, she entered. In the middle of the room, she stood staring at him.

  “So, then. Are you going to tell me your name?”

  For a moment she seemed to consider his question.

  “Annie Delaney. Annie Delaney is me name, sir.”

  Twisting his mouth at the grating Ulster accent, Morgan appraised her. Not quite clean, but more raggedy than dirty. She reminded him a bit of a hungry kitten.

  How old? Eight? Nine? Perhaps older. “Well, Annie Delaney, I’m Morgan Fitzgerald. Should I be pleased to meet you at last?”

  A grin broke across her face then, revealing a noticeable gap between her two front teeth. “Aye, sir, I should hope so.”

  Brazen little thing. “So—I am told you’ve been haunting my room, Annie Delaney. Would you be wanting to explain why?”

  “Why…just to make certain you’re getting better, sir. Sure, and didn’t everyone think you were going to die?” Her eyes widened. Clearly, she had not meant to be quite so blunt.

  Bemused by the gamin face and the bold air of assurance about the waif, Morgan lifted a questioning eyebrow. “And now that you know I will live, Annie Delaney, why do you still plague the nurses with your presence?”

  Again came the grin, wider this time. “Your grandfather told them to let me be. So long as I didn’t bother you, that is. Besides,” she added saucily, “they can’t catch me at all, don’t you know?”

  More than her share of brass. Morgan almost smiled back at her. “No, I don’t imagine they could.”

  After another long pause, the lass’s expression sobered. “In truth, I’ve been waiting for a proper time to speak with your grandfather. But today I decided I would talk with your friend the priest instead.”

  With the battered boy’s cap perched jauntily atop the tousled hair and her hands thrust into the pockets of that abominable coat, she looked for all the world like a Punch caricature of the vulgar Irish street-child. All she needed was a broom.

  “And what kind of important business would you be needing to discuss with my friend the priest?”

  She considered him for a moment. The thin shoulders stiffened slightly, and Morgan realized Annie Delaney was not quite so confident as she would have him believe.

  But by the time she gave her reply, the impudent tilt of the head and the cheeky grin were back in place. “Why, to tell you the truth, sir, I was hoping he could convince your grandfather to take me along to Dublin City with you, once you’re feeling up to going home.”

  Morgan stared at the scrawny lass with a mixture of disbelief and growing sympathy. Obviously, she was somewhat daft. Just as obvious was the fact that she was looking for a home. It made him sad to realize there was nothing he could do about either of Annie Delaney’s predicaments.

  25

  Whisper of Hope, Sigh of Regret

  Come! Come to us, Angels of Hope and of Healing,

  With chaplet of snowdrop and plumes of the dove…

  RICHARD D’ALTON WILLIAMS (1822–1862)

  New York City

  Toward evening on the third day after Christmas, Daniel’s condition seemed to take a turn for the worse. Lewis Farmington sent word by Uriah to Dr. Grafton, while Evan stayed at Nora’s side.

  Throughout the day, the boy had refused all nourishment, except for an occasional sip of lime water. His entire body was raw with the scarlet rash, and his skin felt moist and sticky. Apparently, his swollen throat gave him the most distress; at times he seemed near tears with the pain. Yet the fever itself had abated somewhat.

  Nora was frantic with worry and reeling from exhaustion. Each time she tried to stand, Evan hovered near in case she should swoon. She had had precious little sleep for three days, had eaten only a few bites of the meals Ginger insisted on bringing to the cottage. She looked ghastly, and Evan found himself praying as fervently for her as for Daniel.

  He drew a long sigh of relief when Dr. Grafton finally arrived, stamping his feet and apologizing for not coming sooner.

  The snow that had begun Christmas night had turned into a major storm, virtually paralyzing the city. “I did my best to get here yesterday,” the doctor explained, “but it was hopeless. The streets were simply impassable. Not that they’re much better today.”

  Evan stood at Nora’s elbow throughout the examination, half-fearing what they might hear. But when Dr. Grafton turned back to them, he gave an unexpected nod of satisfaction. “He’s not out of the woods yet, but I’d say the worst is over. The fever is breaking. His throat is still badly inflamed,” the physician cautioned, closing his medical case, “but I see no signs of ulcers on the tonsils. And his ears are clear.” Again he nodded reassuringly. “Yes, I think we can be encouraged. He’s finally showing some signs of real progress.”

  “Oh, thanks be to God!” Nora’s voice was hoarse, her entire body trembling, as she caught Evan’s arm.

  “N-Nora, come, sit down,” Evan urged her, helping her to a chair.

  As soon as he touched her, fear gripped his heart. Her dress was warm and damp with perspiration; he could feel the heat of her skin through the fabric. “Nora?”

  She sank down onto the chair without answering.

  “Nora—are you all r-right?”

  She looked up at him slowly. Apprehension knotted in Evan’s stomach. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face swollen. She made a weak gesture of protest with one hand, shaking her head. “It’s nothing,” she said thickly. “I’m…tired is all.”

  Evan glanced at Dr. Grafton, who quickly came around the bed. Frowning, he stood studying Nora. “Mrs. Kavanagh?”

  As if deliberately evading his gaze, Nora stared down at the floor. The doctor’s frown deepened. He took her pulse, then raised her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

  In that moment Evan saw for himself the flush of fever on her damp skin.

  Bending over her, Dr. Grafton traced both sides of Nora’s neck with his fingertips. “Sore?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, then gave a reluctant nod.

  The doctor shot a significant glance at Evan. “I’m afraid Mrs. Kavanagh also has scarlet fever.”

  Evan shut his eyes and heaved a ragged sigh. His own throat felt swollen; his stomach lurched.

  But in his case it wasn’t the fever. It was fear.

  Ever since the message had come Christmas night that Daniel was stricken with scarlet fever, guilt had stalked Tierney like a hungry wolf.

  Things had not been right between him and Daniel for weeks, not since Da’s encounter with Nora and the Englishman at the Opera House. Oh, they got along well enough on the surface, all right. But his own resentment had hung between them, creating an awkwardness, a tension that had not been there before. Hunched over a kitchen chair as he pulled on his boots, Tierney brooded about his surliness and wished he could u
ndo it.

  The kitchen was dim and shadowed. Outside, heavy clouds were drawing together across the winter sky, spreading a blanket of gloom over the city that matched his mood.

  He had intended to visit Daniel the day after Christmas, but what with the fierce snowstorm and working double holiday shifts at the hotel, this was the first chance he’d had. He desperately wanted to see his friend, but at the same time he dreaded their meeting. He had tried to use his Christmas gift to set things right between them, but all the while he had clung to his anger. Daniel’s feelings had been hurt, and it was Tierney’s fault.

  But Da’s feelings had been hurt, too. A bewildered air of rejection had hung about the man for days, making it impossible for Tierney to put out of his mind what had happened.

  Yet Da’s attitude had been far more charitable than his own. As Tierney might have predicted, his father had defended the Farmingtons, insisting they were good people who were only being kind to the strangers they had taken into their home. To Tierney’s barbed remarks about Nora’s involvement with the Englishman, his da had merely given a small shrug and a weak defense.

  Wasn’t it understandable, he said, that Nora and Evan Whittaker might become friends? The man seemed a decent sort, after all, and they were practically living under the same roof—working for the same people, taking most of their meals together, going to the same church. Why wouldn’t they be drawn to each other?

  While his father’s tolerance exasperated Tierney, it shouldn’t have surprised him in the least. Da held no real grudge against the British, not like most of the Irish in New York. He was always one to allow others the benefit of the doubt—even the English.

  Tierney would never understand his father. He was not a man to be shamed by his Irishness or to disavow it, as did some—like Patrick Walsh. Indeed, Da did seem thoroughly comfortable with what he was and where he came from.

  But just as he was not troubled in the least by being Irish, neither did he seem to possess any real nationalistic pride or patriotic fervor for Ireland. As he explained it himself, he was both an Irishman and an American and did not know that he wished to be more one than the other.

  That was the part Tierney could not accept. For himself, being an American was something that had happened to him by sheer circumstance. As long as he could remember, he had known he would one day leave America for Ireland. He might be, as his father periodically reminded him, an Irish American, but in his heart he was far more Irish than American.

  Da did not understand his feelings, not at all. Nor did Daniel, although he had been born and raised in Ireland.

  Reaching for his coat and cap, Tierney wished Daniel’s understanding did not matter so much. He had grown used to his father’s resistance; he was older and set in his ways, after all. But Daniel, more than anybody else, ought to understand.

  The fact that he didn’t brought Tierney more pain than he liked to admit, even to himself.

  The steps and walk around the Farmington mansion had been cleared. There was a carriage hitched in front, and Tierney stopped for a moment to admire the small chestnut mare.

  At the front door, he lifted the heavy brass knocker and rapped sharply.

  The stiff-necked old black man—Uriah—opened the door after a long delay. He smiled in recognition, quickly sobering when Tierney inquired about Daniel.

  “Why, the young sir is still ill with the fever, I’m afraid. He’s been awful sick.”

  Tierney shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. “D’you think I could see him? Just for a bit?”

  The black man’s grizzled face creased to a deep frown. “Well now, Mr. Tierney, have you had the fever yourself?”

  Tierney stalled. He had not had the fever; that’s why Da had insisted he stay away from the Farmington mansion.

  His hesitation was enough to put the elderly servant on guard. His eyes narrowed as he studied Tierney. “Mr. Daniel is confined to the cottage in back. And Dr. Grafton, he said nobody could go in who hadn’t had the fever.”

  “The cottage in back? You mean where the Englishman stays?”

  Uriah nodded. “That’s right. Mr. Whittaker’s rooms. The doctor is there now.”

  Tierney considered the old man’s words for only a moment before stepping away from the door. “I’ll just go around back, then,” he said, turning away from Uriah. “Perhaps I can at least get some news from the doctor.”

  Without giving the old man time to protest, Tierney tore around the side of the mansion. He slipped on a patch of ice and almost fell. Regaining his balance, he went on, slowing his pace only a little.

  Sara Farmington opened the cottage door. Her eyes widened with surprise when she saw him. “Why—Tierney Burke! Whatever are you doing here? You do know that Daniel is in bed with scarlet fever?”

  Impatient with the delay, Tierney gave a brusque nod. “I’d like to see him, please.”

  He stepped forward, trying to peer around her into the cottage. Sara Farmington moved to block him from entering. “Tierney, have you had scarlet fever?” she asked skeptically.

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t remember if I had. But I’m only wanting to say hello, not to be staying.”

  She didn’t budge. “The doctor is with Daniel just now, Tierney. I’m afraid you can’t go in.”

  “I should be allowed to see him, I think!” Tierney snapped, irked with her unyielding composure. He did not like this woman, or anything she stood for. In his opinion, Sara Farmington represented the coddled society class of New Yorkers who could view the Irish from only one perspective: looking down their noses. She was a do-gooder old maid who compensated for her dullness by running around the city performing “good deeds.” She might impress everybody else—his da included—but she did not impress him. Her friendliness was an act, just like everything else about her.

  For a moment he considered brushing right by her. He was taller than she and a good deal wider through the shoulders. She couldn’t stop him.

  But this was her property, after all. And he didn’t want her blathering to his da that he’d been rude.

  Drawing a deep breath, he flashed her a smile. “Couldn’t I step inside just long enough to give him a wave? So he’d know I was here to ask about him?”

  Seeing her expression soften somewhat, Tierney pressed his advantage. “I won’t go near him at all, I promise I won’t.”

  After another moment, she stepped aside. “Very well,” she said with a rueful smile. “But just for a moment. I’m sorry Tierney—you do understand?”

  He nodded vaguely. Without replying, he stepped across the threshold.

  He saw Nora first, perched stiffly on a straight-backed chair. He knew at once that she was ill. The doctor was standing, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her as he spoke with Evan Whittaker. The Englishman stood close to Nora, his lean bearded face drawn taut with worry.

  Tierney stared at them. For a moment, he seemed to step inside his da’s shoes. As he stood there watching Evan Whittaker and Nora, something deep within him wrenched and caught.

  He liked Nora. Indeed, he liked her a great deal. Seeing her so, looking ill and distraught—with the Englishman standing at her side as if he had every right to be there—he felt a fierce stab of alarm for Nora, then an ever sharper plunge of outrage.

  It should be Da with Nora now. Da should be the one looking after her and Daniel, not Evan Whittaker.

  Forcing himself to look away, Tierney’s gaze found Daniel. He was lying on his side in a big, comfortable-looking bed. The bed linen was tucked snugly under his chin. His eyes were shut.

  He looked dreadful—thin, and ever so ill! His face was ablaze with the strawberry rash, and he didn’t seem to be moving at all.

  But as Tierney stood staring at him, Daniel’s eyes fluttered open. He stared back at Tierney, his gaze slowly registering surprise. Then his mouth went slack with a weak, lopsided grin.

  Relieved, Tierney grinned back and raised a hand in salute. “Well, then, and aren
’t you looking swell, Danny-boy? A bit like a scalded pig.”

  Daniel’s grin tilted even more, but he said nothing.

  Clearly, he was too weak even for jokes. Sara Farmington cleared her throat meaningfully, and Tierney nodded to indicate he understood. With a final wave, he turned and followed her out the door.

  He started to go without saying anything more, then changed his mind. Just outside the door, he turned back.

  “Nora?” he said uncertainly. “Is she—”

  Sara Farmington didn’t wait for him to finish. Her face reflected a weary sadness when she answered. “Yes. It’s scarlet fever. The doctor just ordered her to bed a few moments before you came.” She paused, glanced away, then looked back at him. “Tell your father. He’ll want to know.”

  More troubled now than when he came, Tierney whipped around. Tugging his cap down hard on his head, he hurried down the walk without answering.

  26

  A Heavy Sorrow

  ’Tis hard to see God’s lights above,

  While clouds and darkness bound us;

  ’Tis hard to hear God’s words of love

  With storms like those around us.

  MARY KELLY (1825–1910)

  Sara Farmington sat in a dilapidated wooden rocking chair just inside the door of the hospital room. With a lump in her throat, she observed the two men in Nora’s life. Whether her heart ached more for Evan Whittaker’s desperate watchfulness or Michael Burke’s grim mask of helplessness, she could not have said. Like two sentinels they stood, one on either side of Nora’s bed, each seemingly unaware of the other’s presence as they kept their silent vigil.

  Perhaps the obvious anxiety of the two men only served to intensify her own fear for Nora, who had become a friend. Until taking Nora into their home, Sara had never felt the need for a woman friend. Over the years, Ginger, who had been with their household ever since Sara could remember, had become a kind of older sister and confidant. Yet, there had always been an elusive air about the West Indies housekeeper, a subtle quality of self-containment, that Sara had known, even as a child, would not be breached.