by BJ Hoff
Healy’s Inn was at the fringe of the Liberties and easy to find. As the street girl had said, it wasn’t far from St. Patrick’s, the twelfth-century cathedral dedicated to Ireland’s patron saint.
Sandemon was surprised to find the ancient cathedral located in the midst of low streets and narrow, squalid alleys. As for the inn, it was actually a run-down pub—dim interior, dilapidated stools, two or three worn-looking women drinking at a table near the bar.
Sandemon asked for the woman named Finola and was met with a hostile glare from the middle-aged man keeping bar. Thinking the fellow’s unfriendliness was due to his black skin, Sandemon quickly explained that his business was on behalf of his employer. “I assure you he means only to thank the young woman,” he said with a deferential smile. “Did I mention that he is the grandson of Sir Richard Nelson?”
“Aye, and the Queen is me godmother,” the barman sneered.
Sandemon had not come into the Liberties entirely unprepared. He withdrew two calling cards from his shirt pocket, one with Morgan’s name imprinted on it, the other bearing Sir Richard’s. Extending the cards to the barman, he said quietly but emphatically, “It could be important to the young woman that she meet with my employer. He would like to thank her for a kindness.”
The red-faced barman was clearly unimpressed. Picking up a used tumbler off the bar, he wiped it dry and replaced it for the next customer. “Then tell your employer,” he said, turning back to Sandemon, “that he should come here.”
Gathering his patience, Sandemon attempted to explain. “I fear that is not a possibility at the present time. The young master is confined to a wheelchair while he recovers from a most serious injury.”
The Irishman studied Sandemon another moment. Finally, without turning, he barked an order over his shoulder. “Lucy—go fetch Finola downstairs! Tell her I said she should come.”
A small, round woman with a heavily made-up face hauled herself up from her chair and started for the stairs at the side of the bar. When she returned, Sandemon recognized the tall young woman with her at once.
Today there was no shawl covering her hair, which fell in graceful, shining waves down her back, like fine spun gold. Her brightly painted face seemed a cruel mockery of her beauty and otherwise demure appearance. Clinging to the hand of the woman named Lucy, she struck Sandemon as being very shy—or very frightened.
He saw a glint of recognition in her eyes when she looked at him. Inclining his head, he straightened and repeated his explanation for coming. When he had finished, the fair-haired young woman merely stood there, holding Lucy’s hand, regarding Sandemon with a clear blue gaze that reflected an unexpected innocence.
“She can’t answer you!” snapped the barman.
Sandemon looked at him, and the man tapped his head with a grimy forefinger. “She’s a bit slow, Finola is. She can hear you well enough, but she can’t talk a bit.”
Sandemon turned back to the golden young woman with the startling blue eyes. He looked at her for a moment, then said, “Please, Miss. If you will come with me, the carriage will bring you back later this afternoon. Mr. Fitzgerald is a kind man, and the little girl you helped is most eager to see you again. You will be made welcome at Nelson Hall, I promise you.”
Like a child, Finola first looked at the woman, Lucy, then to Healy before turning back to Sandemon. Then, releasing Lucy’s protective hand, she nodded that she would accompany Sandemon to Nelson Hall.
But the barman was having none of it. “If it’s a woman your employer wants, he can have his choice upstairs! Our Finola isn’t for sale!”
Drawing himself up to his full height, which was considerable, Sandemon fixed the sputtering barman with an unwavering stare. “My employer,” he said slowly and distinctly, “is not looking for an upstairs kind of woman. As I have attempted to explain, he merely wants to speak with the young woman who did a kindness for…a member of his household. Perhaps,” he added patiently, “both you and Miss Finola would be more at ease if one of these…ladies…accompanied us to Nelson Hall?”
“She can’t speak at all, you say?” Morgan repeated, staring at Sandemon with exasperation.
At his companion’s brief shake of the head, he slammed one hand down hard against the armrest of the wheelchair. “Then why, pray, did you bring her here? The only reason I wished to find her was to verify the girl’s story!”
Sandemon inclined his head as if to acknowledge the legitimacy of Morgan’s question. “Knowing your skill at communication, sir, I thought you might find another way to converse with her. She is, as I explained, able to hear you.”
Morgan shot him a dubious look. Still, there was the rudimentary set of hand signals he’d devised to communicate with his niece, Johanna, who could neither hear nor speak. But that had worked only because he’d spent the required time to teach her the gestures.
“Besides, Seanchai,” Sandemon put in, “I thought the child should have the opportunity of seeing her mysterious rescuer once more. She was, as you know, quite taken with the young woman.”
“Ah, yes,” Morgan grated, mimicking Annie as he added, “ ‘Like a princess, she was. Came right out of nowhere!’”
Sandemon merely smiled.
“Oh, bring her in, then! And fetch the girl as well!” Watching Sandemon nod, then exit with a flourish, Morgan wondered sourly if it was the purple shirt that gave the black man his air of royalty or the ever-present cap he wore as proudly as a crown.
Seated in one of the two fireside chairs, Annie watched the peculiar exchange taking place between the Fitzgerald and Finola with great delight and utter fascination.
Finola’s friend, Lucy, perched on the edge of a chair near the door, observing the scene with suspicious eyes. In front of the fireplace, near Annie, stood Sandemon, hands clasped behind his back, watching with discreet interest.
Annie was pleased to see that the golden-haired Finola—who looked like a princess, and that was the truth—seemed to have gotten over her initial shyness with the Fitzgerald. And while he still appeared somewhat stunned by Finola’s beauty, he was no longer gaping, but instead making the effort to communicate with her.
Indeed, the two of them seemed to have devised some odd method of talking with each other, in spite of poor Finola’s inability to speak aloud. They had reached the point that, when the Seanchai—Annie was beginning to think of him in Sandemon’s term—enacted one of those funny little hand signs of his, the lovely Finola would either smile or shake her head vigorously, then proceed to wiggle her hands and fingers much as he had.
It was a grand display to watch, and Annie was particularly satisfied to see that the Seanchai’s eyes held a smile when he looked at the Princess Finola.
Catching Sandemon’s eyes, Annie winked and grinned. He settled a mildly reproving look on her, then winked back.
Later that night, after Finola and Lucy had been safely returned to the inn, Sandemon took a tray of correspondence upstairs to his employer, who waved it aside, saying, “I get nothing but appeals for donations. I’ll look at it later. But stay—I want to talk with you.”
No longer requiring Sandemon’s assistance in getting dressed, he had already changed into his nightclothes. He wheeled himself over to the fire. “What they’ve done to that girl is a crime!” he blurted out, turning the chair around to face Sandemon.
Genuinely puzzled, Sandemon frowned. “A crime, Seanchai?”
“Yes, a crime! She’s little more than a child, after all, and mute at that! This Healy—he must be as low as they come, to turn an innocent like that into a prostitute!”
Sandemon considered his outburst for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think that’s the case, Seanchai.”
“What do you mean, you ‘don’t think that’s the case’?” the young master snapped, his face flushed. “The girl lives with strumpets, she’s painted like a strumpet—and didn’t they send her here with you, a total stranger? To the house of another strang
er?”
“They sent a friend to look after her,” Sandemon reminded him mildly.
“Also a strumpet!”
“I was informed that Miss Finola was…not for sale,” said Sandemon. “I am convinced the young woman is no strumpet.”
And so he was. There was a virtue in those clear blue eyes, a purity about the girl that clearly marked her as an innocent.
His employer fell silent for a moment. “I’ll admit I find it difficult to see her in such a role. But what else could it be, then, with her living in their midst? And painted like a doxy as she was,” he added, his mouth twisting with disgust.
Sandemon remained silent, for he had no explanation. “You seemed to make good progress in communicating with the young woman. Were you able to verify our Annie’s account of the night in question?”
Morgan gave Sandemon a sharp look, then made a dismissing motion with his hand. “Apparently, our Annie told the truth,” he said shortly. “No doubt that pleases you.”
Sandemon could not stop a faint smile. “No doubt, young master.”
“Don’t call me that, I’ve told you! You’re a free man, not a slave!”
“But a black man, nevertheless,” Sandemon offered, still smiling.
“A fact duly noted and of no particular interest to me. Hear me, now: I want you to see what you can learn about the girl.”
“Which girl is that, sir?”
“Finola, of course! I already know more than I care to know about that demented child from Belfast! I want you to find out if they’re abusing her in any way—”
“By that you mean are they prostituting her?”
The young master leveled a long, scathing look on Sandemon. “I said in any way, didn’t I? Find out what her circumstances are.” He paused. “And we’ll be making her a gift for rescuing that little heathen down the hall,” he said dryly. “You can deliver it tomorrow.”
Sandemon considered him for a moment. “Perhaps you would like to go with me? We can manage the carriage with no difficulty, I’m sure.”
Suddenly gone was the note of wit, the glint of wry amusement in the eye. The reply was weary, almost sullen. “I don’t feel up to leaving the house just yet.”
His tone allowed for no argument. Sandemon hesitated, wanting to press the matter, yet sensing it was not yet the time. At last he inclined his head, saying, “Do you need anything else before I retire, Seanchai? If not, I will bid you goodnight.”
Morgan dismissed him with a gesture, and Sandemon left the room. Heading toward his own bedroom, he felt vaguely disturbed at the quicksilver change in his young employer’s mood. Yet he was encouraged, too, by the interest the young giant had shown in the lovely Finola.
Perhaps…just perhaps…there would be more than one young—lass, as the Irish would say—to aid in the sad Seanchai’s healing.
Morgan could not stop thinking about the unusual—and achingly lovely—young woman he had met only hours before.
Finola. Certainly she was one of the most beautiful creations he had ever laid eyes on. And that filthy barman who had told Sandemon she was slow—he was the one who was daft! It had taken the girl virtually no time at all to catch on to his abbreviated, somewhat primitive form of signing. She had all her wits and some extra, that was clear enough!
Those eyes were going to haunt him the rest of the night, he knew. The clearest blue he’d ever seen, and with a depth of innocence that could not possibly have been feigned. He sensed Sandemon was right about her not being a street girl. Yet he could not figure how she had come to her present circumstances.
About all he’d been able to learn from her was a sketchy version of Annie’s story about her “robbers.” Finola had heard the girl’s cry when she’d stepped out onto the second-floor porch of the inn to feed the cat, had seen her running down the alley toward St. Patrick’s. She had raced down the steps and tugged Annie back up to the porch, where they had waited until the girl’s pursuers finally gave up and went away. Then she had led Annie to Nelson Hall.
She knew Dublin well, Finola had conveyed to Morgan. Unfortunately—and to her possible danger—the fair Finola seemed to have no fear of wandering about the city on her own. That bunch she lived with more than likely had no inkling of her whereabouts most of the time.
He had been unable to learn much more about her. She didn’t even seem to have a last name, nor did she appear to know her own age. Yet he was convinced she was anything but slow.
The memory of the golden-haired young woman made him smile. The thought of her was a far more pleasant diversion than the ideas that usually occupied his mind this time of night.
He yawned and stretched, feeling somewhat drowsy. He decided to forego the whiskey tonight. The nightly drink was quickly becoming a habit. He had been without pain most of the day; perhaps if he would read for a while, he would be able to sleep uninterrupted.
At Morgan’s urging, Joseph Mahon had been sending him portions of the journal he was keeping. Morgan would read each segment, making minor editorial notes in the margins. He had not said as much to Joseph yet, but he had every intention of seeing the journal published. It was a starkly truthful, agonizing account of Ireland’s misery—and it demanded to be read.
Remembering that he had left the most recent packet downstairs in the library, Morgan scowled. He hadn’t the energy to go back down tonight.
Instead, he opted for a book, starting the chair toward the table by the bed. Stopping abruptly, he wheeled around to the small stand by the door and began to riffle idly through the correspondence Sandemon had left there. An envelope from the States caught his eye, and he plucked it up.
He recognized Michael’s handwriting right away. Anxious for news from them all, Morgan ripped the envelope open and began to read. A faint, nagging guilt passed through his mind as he scanned the opening lines. He had not written Michael or Daniel for months. They would not know of the shooting or the fix he was in.
He pushed the thought aside. Eventually he would have to write. He could not avoid it forever. But as yet he was not ready to put his misery into words.
He skimmed rapidly down the page, smiling a bit at Michael’s scrawled words about the friendship of his son and Daniel John. Moving on, his eyes locked on the first paragraph of the next page. He felt a burning in his eyes and a knife at his heart as he read the words over again. And again.
…Perhaps you have been expecting at some point to hear of an impending marriage between Nora and me. I’m sure you will be surprised—just as I was—to learn that, although Nora is indeed soon to be wed, it will be to Evan Whittaker, not to me.
Stunned, Morgan wet his lips and tried to swallow. His throat felt dry and swollen, and he could taste nothing other than bitterness as he read on.
I hope this change in what we both expected will not be a source of too much disappointment, old friend. I suppose there is no figuring why a heart feels affection for one instead of another. It was a hard thing at first for me to accept, but accept it I must, it seems. I’m afraid I haven’t been too charitable about it all, for I did have my heart set on the lass, and that’s the truth.
Morgan’s own heart had begun to pound with wild fury. A dull ache at the back of his neck rapidly threatened to turn into a fullblown riot of a headache.
The consolation for us both would seem to be that she is happy, and that Whittaker, by your own admission, is a fine fellow—a decent man. Who would have thought she would decide for an Englishman, when she could have had the likes of us, eh?
Who, indeed? Morgan clenched his teeth against Michael’s weak attempt at humor.
He read no more. Flinging the pages to the floor, he sat staring across the room into the fire.
Finally he roused. So, then, what of it? She would have married someone eventually. So it was not to be Michael, after all, but the Englishman. What real difference did it make in any event?
She was not his. It was not for him to question her choice. And didn’t Michael himself
grudgingly admit to her happiness?
Nora’s happiness. That was the thing that mattered now, he told himself firmly. The only thing that mattered.
Spinning the chair, he circled the room once, then again. At last he wheeled himself over to the high, massive chiffonnier, where he retrieved the bottle of whiskey and a tumbler.
He poured himself a generous drink. For a moment his gaze went from the full tumbler to the scattered pages of Michael’s letter on the floor across the room.
Then, lifting his glass in a bitter, silent toast, he drank to Nora’s memory—and to her marriage.
His own reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall caught his eye, and he hurled his glass at the ruined man in the wheelchair. The tumbler shattered and the mirror cracked, leaving a crazed spider-web pattern across the silvered glass. Morgan watched the distorted vision of himself, caught in the web, and lifted another toast—only this time he raised the entire bottle.
36
Night Winds
Solomon! where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
All that the genius of man hath achieved or designed
Waits but its hour to be dealt with as dust by the wind….
Who is the Fortunate? He who in anguish hath pined!
He shall rejoice when his relics are dust in the wind….
Happy in death are they only whose hearts have consigned
All Earth’s affections and longings and cares to the wind….
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803–1849)
Hunched over the hotel desk after school, Tierney Burke was reading the Tribune’s account of the death of John Jacob Astor, dead at eighty-four years of age.
Astor was to be buried the next day—no doubt, thought Tierney with disgust, in a style that befitted the “richest man in America.” It was said that six clergymen would participate in the funeral service, and policemen from all over the city would be in attendance to provide security. He figured his da might be one of them.
