Heart of the Lonely Exile

by BJ Hoff

  “Oh, of course, I am!” Nora assured her without hesitation.

  But even as she spoke, something altered in her expression that made Sara frown and touch her arm. “What is it?”

  Nora’s answering smile was weak and self-conscious. “It’s foolish entirely. I don’t think I could explain.” She glanced away, then turned back with a short, unconvincing laugh. “Sure, it’s nothing more than Irish superstition. It’s just that at times, when I’m feeling happiest, it’s as if a cold, dark shadow passes over my heart. Almost as if…to warn me I mustn’t be too happy.”

  Again she laughed. “As I said—’tis nothing more than superstitious nonsense. ‘Too much joy makes the devil jealous,’ Old Dan used to say.” Her expression turned somber. “It might be I’m afraid of too much joy, Sara.”

  Nora sat silent for a moment, her eyes averted. Then, with obvious effort, she forced a more cheerful expression. “Now,” she said, “there was something you wanted to talk about?”

  Sara searched Nora’s face briefly, then withdrew the guest list from her skirt pocket. “I have just a few questions. I want to be sure I don’t neglect anyone you want invited to the wedding.”

  “Oh, Sara, you needn’t do this!” Nora protested. “We really don’t want anyone here but the children and you and your father—”

  “Evan’s father, if he comes—”

  “Yes, of course. And his aunt.”

  “What about Michael Burke and Tierney?”

  The light faded from Nora’s eyes. “I—I don’t know that either will come.”

  “Nora, have you talked with Michael? I mean, really talked with him, since your illness?”

  Nora shook her head and looked away.

  “Shouldn’t you?”

  When Nora looked at her, Sara hastily said, “I don’t mean to interfere. But I think Michael would want to come. And I’m certain that Daniel would want him and Tierney to be there.”

  “I did try to talk with Michael,” Nora said, “once, while I was still in the hospital, and again later. He was—he seemed in a fierce hurry to leave me. I don’t think he heard anything I said. I don’t think he wanted to.”

  “He was still hurting,” Sara said gently. “Perhaps you could try again, now that he’s had time to accept things.”

  Nora raised her eyes from her hands. “Do you truly think so? I’m not sure…and Tierney—”

  “It may take longer for Tierney. But perhaps Michael could at least convince him to come to the wedding. I think it’s important for Daniel.”

  Nodding slowly, Nora said, “Yes, you’re right. Daniel would want him there. They’re such good friends.”

  “So are you and Michael,” Sara reminded her gently.

  Nora looked at her with a thoughtful smile. “Yes. And you are a good friend, too, Sara. A very good friend, indeed.” She paused. “You’re right about Michael. I’ll try to talk with him again soon.”

  “Is there anyone else at all you’d like invited, Nora? What about family or friends still in Ireland?”

  The last remaining light of happiness faded from Nora’s eyes as she turned her face away from Sara. “There are no family or friends left in Ireland,” she said quietly. “Only one. But…he would not be wanting to come to my wedding.”

  33

  Keen for a Fallen Friend

  The valley lay smiling before me,

  Where lately I left her behind,

  Yet I trembled, and something hung o’er me,

  That saddened the joy of my mind.

  THOMAS MOORE (1779–1852)

  New York City

  Early March

  As she dressed for her visit to Michael, Nora’s hands shook so badly she could scarcely button her shirtwaist. It took her several minutes simply to get the hairpins in her hair, because she kept dropping each one she picked up.

  Smoothing her collar with trembling fingers, she remained standing in front of the mirror without really seeing herself. She knew her apprehension was foolish. This was Michael, after all. He would not strike her or insult her. More than likely, she would be met by the same fixed, inscrutable expression that had greeted her two previous efforts to put things right between them.

  But this time, she must find a way to break through his unyielding coldness. She must, for the sake of their friendship—and for the sake of Daniel John, who had finally admitted his desire to go on living with Michael and Tierney. She prayed the Lord would open Michael’s heart to her this evening, that he would be receptive and at least try to understand.

  Michael did not love her. Nora had known that for a long time. He cared about her, would have done anything in his power to help her—even to the extreme of marrying her. But he did not love her, not as a man should love a wife. Nor could her feelings for him ever be anything more than friendship.

  The Lord had known. More than once, she had sensed His Spirit’s restraint, the caution to make no hasty commitment to Michael.

  And now she knew why. Evan was God’s plan for her, not Michael. In her heart she saw Evan’s dear, kind face that day months ago, aboard the Green Flag, when he had offered her his “protection” during the terrible sea voyage and for as long afterward as she might need it. He had been ill even then, ill and feverish, with the wound in his arm already going bad. Yet he had sat there, pale and miserably shy, but with an unmistakable dignity, asking her to at least consider him a friend.

  She could not say, exactly, when her love for Evan had begun. It had been a subtle, gradual awakening; indeed, it almost seemed to have had no real beginning. But God had known even then that one day He would join their hearts, would allow them to share a very special love. And for that, she would be forever grateful!

  Yet, just as surely as she knew she was to wed Evan, Nora believed that her friendship with Michael was not to be taken lightly, to be cast aside as if it were of no value. Michael was important to her—and important to her son. Surely a friendship such as this was a gift worth preserving. And preserve it, she would, if she could only find the way.

  If her life and Michael’s were to be intertwined, if they were to share her son and sustain the bond of affection that had existed since their youth, she must somehow bridge the gap that lay between them. Much depended on the outcome of this evening, and her own peace of mind was but a small part of it.

  Sighing, she turned away from the mirror and started for the bedroom door. She could not delay it any longer. While she still had no idea what she was going to say to Michael, she was resolved to try, and leave the rest in God’s hands.

  The letter from Joseph Mahon the priest reached Michael two weeks after he had written his own letter to Morgan Fitzgerald in Dublin.

  Standing in the dimness of the kitchen early that evening, Michael had to read the priest’s words over twice before his mind could fully comprehend the tragedy that had befallen his boyhood friend. Even then, a part of him froze in disbelief, unwilling—unable—to take it in.

  Stunned, he sat down at the table, staring at the letter that he held in front of him. He felt faint, as if all the blood in his body had drained away.

  Again, his eyes went over the words. Morgan…paralyzed? Confined to a wheelchair…an invalid—for life?

  Dear God in heaven, how could such a thing happen? And how was it to be borne by a man who had spent most of his life on his legs, roaming an entire country just for the love of it?

  A painful memory flashed before Michael’s mind—a younger Morgan, all long arms and legs, loping down the road with his harp slung over his shoulder and his eyes looking past the town, seeking whatever lay beyond the confines of their small village.

  Another thought struck him now, and he squeezed his eyes shut and moaned aloud. The letter he had written, the letter to Morgan telling him about Nora and Whittaker: Would it make things more difficult still?

  Inexplicably, Morgan had seemed resigned to the idea of Nora marrying his best friend—more than likely because it was a means of saving her
life. But to learn that she was to wed, not Michael, but the English Whittaker—no matter how much he had liked and respected the man—what would such news do to him, coming on the heels of what he had already lost?

  If only he had waited to send the letter. Yet he had believed that he should be the one to tell Morgan. He wanted him to know that he had at least fulfilled his part of his promise, that he had offered marriage to Nora, had waited months for her to decide—only to lose her to another man. There was nothing more he could have done to change things, and he wanted Morgan to hear that from him.

  Now, the thought that his letter might only deepen his friend’s anguish hit Michael like a sickening blow. He wrapped his arms around himself bracing his body against the pain knifing through him.

  Oh, Morgan, you great, grand fool! Didn’t I warn you that terrible, fierce island would one day destroy you? Why couldn’t you have left it with the rest of us? Why couldn’t you have saved yourself while trying to save everyone else?

  Never before had Michael felt so far away from Ireland. Never before had he sensed so keenly the vast distance that separated him from the one man in his life he had loved as a brother.

  Hugging his arms tightly to his body, he stared at the letter spread out before him. A shattering sob tore from his throat, and for the first time since the death of his wife, Michael wept.

  Asking Uriah to wait with the carriage, Nora started for the front door. She stopped long enough to glance up at the window of Michael’s flat on the second floor, where a faint glow could be seen behind the curtains. Drawing in a long steadying breath, she went inside.

  She was uncomfortably aware that her behavior was improper—a lone woman calling on a man in his home. But she considered her friendship with Michael of more importance than convention. Indeed, she had chosen this evening deliberately, knowing both Daniel John and Tierney would be away. Tierney would be working late at the hotel, as he did every Friday night, and Daniel John had been invited to spend the evening at the Daltons, with Casey-Fitz and Arthur Jackson. Their absence would give her and Michael time alone together to talk.

  Assuming, of course, that he was willing to talk.

  She had to knock twice before he opened the door.

  “Michael, I know you didn’t expect me, but—”

  Nora broke off, staring at him. His eyes were red and shadowed, his face haggard. He looked as if he were either ill or utterly exhausted.

  He stared at her with a vacant gaze for a moment, then stepped aside so she could enter. Slowly, he closed the door, then turned to face her.

  “Nora,” he said dully, “Daniel John is not here.”

  “Yes, I know,” she answered uncertainly. “I—I came to talk with you, Michael. But if this is a bad time—”

  Again he stared at her. Finally, with a stiff, jerky movement, he pulled out a chair from the table and held it for her to sit down.

  What looked to be a letter had been left open, and he reached now to fold it and return it to its envelope.

  “Michael, I—we need desperately to talk. I know you haven’t wanted to up until now, but if you would only listen to me….” Nora’s words drifted off. He seemed strange, distracted; her nerve began to fail her.

  As if he had not heard her at all, Michael went to stand at the window, his back to her.

  Biting her lip, Nora watched him nervously for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Michael—I thought…I know you’re unhappy with me, and I suppose you have a right to be. But I can’t bear having this bitterness between us. I never meant to hurt you, Michael. I would never deliberately hurt you!”

  He turned to look at her, and Nora saw with dismay that there was a great sorrow in his eyes. Dear Lord, it is even worse than I thought!

  “Michael,” she choked out. “Please…come sit down with me. Please, for the sake of our friendship—and our sons—we must talk to each other!”

  At last he nodded and moved away from the window. “Aye,” he said, absently starting for the stove, “you’re right. We must talk. I’ll just fix us some tea.”

  Perhaps he was going to be reasonable, after all. Somewhat relieved, Nora waited until he brought the teakettle and cups to the table and sat down.

  She began by reminding him of how important he had always been to her, from the time they had been childhood friends growing up in the village. His silence encouraged her, and she went on, telling him sincerely how much it had meant to her, his willingness to take Daniel John into his home—and his proposal of marriage upon her arrival in America.

  “But, Michael,” she continued quietly, “I think I knew even then it was not to be. ’Twas not for love that you were wanting to marry me, but for the sake of our old friendship, yours and mine—and your promise to Morgan.”

  Puzzled, Nora saw a look of pain cross his features. But he merely nodded and went on staring at his hands, clasped in front of him on the table.

  “Michael…I did not mean…to fall in love with Evan. In truth, I never thought to love any man again, after Owen. What has happened between Evan and me—I can’t explain it.”

  For the first time since she’d begun her appeal, Michael spoke. Without raising his eyes from his hands, he said quietly, “Nora, you do not owe me an explanation. I know there is no explaining why a woman loves one man instead of another.”

  Nora reached for his hand, and he looked up. His eyes searched hers, but there was no anger in his gaze. Relieved, Nora squeezed his hand. “Michael, that day in the hospital, when I first came to America, and you asked me to marry you—”

  Unbelievably, he smiled a little. A sad, haunted smile. “And you refused me…for the second time?”

  “Oh, Michael! Do you remember the promise you asked from me that day?”

  He looked at her blankly.

  “You said if the time ever came when my heart sang love for a man, I mustn’t let the song be silenced by uncertainty or pride. You made me promise to—to ‘give love’s song a voice,’ that’s what you said. Even…” She faltered, then went on. “Even if the song was not for you…but for another.”

  His sad, sad gaze went over her face, and he nodded, smiling that same heartbreaking smile. “Aye, I did say that, didn’t I? More fool, I.”

  “Oh, Michael!” Nora choked out, feeling the tears spill over from her eyes. “I’m sorry, but I do love Evan!”

  He enfolded her hand between both of his. “Ah, Nora, it’s all right, lass. Don’t be crying, now. I’ve been the great fool, and that’s the truth. I saw it coming, I suppose, but simply refused to face it. I was lonely, that was the thing, and I was looking to you to ease the loneliness. I thought you needed me…and I you. But it wouldn’t have been right, not for you…and perhaps not for me, either. It simply wasn’t meant to be, was it? I’m only sorry I hurt you as I did, with my foolish, hardheaded ways.”

  Such a wave of relief swept over Nora that she could no longer control the tears. She sobbed, and Michael moved to pull his chair alongside hers. Gently, he coaxed her head onto his shoulder and began to soothe her. “Ah, don’t, Nora Ellen, don’t be crying over it any longer. We are still the best of friends. We will forget this ever happened, and go on. You will see.”

  “Oh, Michael, I’m so relieved! I hated having you angry with me!”

  “Ah, lass, there must be no more anger between us now. Not now, not ever.”

  Something in his voice made Nora lift her face to look at him through her tears. Amazed, she saw that his own eyes were moist. “Michael?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Michael?” she said again. “What is it?”

  She put a hand to his arm and felt him shudder. He opened his eyes, and they were filled with anguish.

  Still clutching his arm, Nora searched his face. “Tell me.”

  He drew in a long, ragged breath. Then he told her the terrible thing that had been done to Morgan.

  The longer Michael spoke, the louder the roar in Nora’s head became. At times it
almost drowned out what he was saying. But she heard the dreadful words all too clearly: “shot…paralyzed…wheelchair…”

  “For the rest of his life?” she whispered, begging Michael with her eyes to tell her it wasn’t so. “There is nothing that can be done?”

  Michael shook his head, again closing his eyes as if to shut out the sight of her anguish.

  Sick incredulity gave way to a tearing pain that ripped through her entire body. The room reeled as Nora braced both hands on the edge of the table.

  “It will kill him!” she whispered. “He cannot bear such a thing!”

  Nora scarcely heard Michael’s words as he tried to comfort her. The shock had dazed her; the pain was numbing. At some point she realized her head was again pressed against Michael’s shoulder, and she was keening softly as if for one dead.

  She had no awareness of how long they remained that way. Michael went on holding her, the two of them at last weeping together for their old friend…for the long-legged minstrel who would no longer walk the roads of Ireland with his harp slung over his shoulder and the sun shining warm upon his face.

  After hearing the Fitzgerald children’s prayers, Evan worked in the library with Mr. Farmington for another hour.

  Shortly before nine, he went to the kitchen to wait for Nora. When she hadn’t returned by nine thirty, he began to worry. By ten, he was frantic.

  Pacing the kitchen, he imagined the worst. Burke had given her a difficult time of it. They had argued and he’d grown abusive. They hadn’t argued and Nora had changed her mind, had decided to marry the policeman after all. The carriage had been waylaid by thugs and Nora was lying in one of the city streets, hurt and unnoticed.

  When he heard her at the back entrance a few minutes past ten, he flew to the door and flung it open, gathering her inside before she could even speak.

  “Th-thank heaven! I was wo-worried half to death!”