by BJ Hoff
Tierney let out a muffled sound of scorn. So what good now were Astor’s twenty million dollars? Everyone knew his eldest son had been a mental incompetent for years, and his second son was supposedly indifferent to his father’s enormous wealth.
Da had seen the old man once or twice, when he’d pulled special duty for some big to-do. His description of Astor as an addlepated, drooling old man was enough to turn the stomach.
The entire city was in awe of Astor’s wealth, his mansion at Lafayette Place, his vast holdings. Yet, apparently the old man, at least in his later years, had not been able to enjoy a bit of the money for which he’d grubbed all his life. Rumor had it that for the last few years he’d been too weak to even feed himself, yet so fat that his worn-out skin drooped like melting wax.
By his own admission, old Astor had loved money more than anything else in life. Da thought it was sad, and found the stories about the old millionaire pathetic; Tierney thought them revolting. One of the reporters at the Herald had said it best, calling Astor a “money-making machine,” and declaring that half the millionaire’s fortune rightfully belonged to the people of New York.
To Tierney’s way of thinking, amassing money just to get rich was a disgustingly futile preoccupation. He’d made the mistake once of comparing Lewis Farmington with old Astor, and Da had hit the ceiling.
“There is no shame in a Christian man also being a wealthy man, Tierney!” he insisted, jabbing his finger in the air as was his way when exasperated. “Lewis Farmington uses his money for the good of others. Why, he and his daughter have done more for the underprivileged in New York City than we will ever be knowing, I’m sure.”
It struck Tierney that the Farmingtons couldn’t have done all that much, or they wouldn’t be as rich as they obviously were. But he kept his feelings to himself, for Da, like Daniel, had a definite soft spot for the Farmingtons.
So far as Tierney was concerned, money was fine, and he intended to have some of it. But he would use his for setting things right where they had gone wrong; for bringing justice out of tyranny; for setting Ireland free.
That was one of the reasons he held Morgan Fitzgerald, Da’s old friend back in Ireland, in such high esteem. Morgan and his lads had simply taken a share from those who had more than they needed and used it for those who had none—just like the Robin Hood legends. Of course, the English had been all set to hang Morgan for his shenanigans. But at least he had shown his contempt for the idle rich—and managed to accomplish a bit of good with their money before they stopped him.
The thought of Morgan Fitzgerald and what had been done to him in Belfast sparked a fresh blaze of anger in Tierney. Da was still grieving, too, from the news about his friend. And Daniel was taking it hard. He’d scarcely talked at all for days, just sat around as if he were numb, occasionally picking at the harp, but more often staring into space. More than once, Tierney had heard him weeping quietly in the night, when he thought everybody else was asleep.
The high, unpleasant voice of Hubert Rossiter, the bookkeeper, jarred Tierney rudely out of his thoughts.
He glanced up. “Mr. Walsh has some extra work he’d like you to do tomorrow night,” said the bookkeeper. “A special job.”
Tierney took his time replying. “I’m on the desk tomorrow night,” he answered distractedly, glancing back down at the Tribune.
“Barry will cover for you. Mr. Walsh would rather you took care of the other job.”
Slowly Tierney raised his eyes from the newspaper to Rossiter. “What sort of job might it be?”
The dome-headed bookkeeper adjusted his thick round eyeglasses, settling them more securely on his nose. “It shouldn’t take long. Mr. Walsh thought you might like to get away from the desk for a bit.”
The man’s habit of not looking at a person when he spoke never failed to irritate Tierney. Deliberately, he leaned farther over the desk, bringing his face closer to Rossiter’s.
“How far away from the desk…sir?”
Tierney had no respect at all for the simpering bookkeeper. He knew Rossiter for what he was—a middleman, a glorified go-between for Patrick Walsh and his varied and numerous “businesses.” Nor had he missed the fact that he made the man uncomfortable.
Rossiter glued his gaze to the open ledger in front of him. “I believe it simply involves two or three pickups and then a delivery. Shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half or so.”
“What kind of pickups?”
The bookkeeper finally lifted his pale hazel eyes to Tierney. “All you need to do is stop at the addresses I give you on Water Street and take the… materials…you pick up where you’re told to take them.”
Tierney studied the man for a moment. Water Street. No doubt he was to pick up some of the take at the brothels and deliver it—where?
“I think not,” he said bluntly. Ignoring the flush that spread over Rossiter’s polished oval of a face, Tierney dropped back to his original slouch and continued to read.
“You’re saying you won’t do it?” The bookkeeper’s tone was incredulous.
Tierney looked up. “Aye. That’s what I’m saying.”
The bookkeeper sputtered something about Tierney’s not valuing his job, then disappeared into the hotel vault.
Tierney had already lost interest in the Tribune article. Leaning on his elbows, he pondered what his crafty employer might be up to. Walsh had plenty of delivery boys without recruiting him—especially when it would mean taking him away from his regular job.
Of course, these “go-between deliveries,” as Tierney thought of them, most likely paid the boys a great deal more than working the hotel desk.
He was tempted. The faster he could make the money he needed, the sooner he could get out of New York. He had it in mind to leave for Ireland by the time he was sixteen—another year. Da would press him to go on with his schooling, of course, but who in Ireland would care if he wasn’t a scholar?
Yet he balked at involving himself in the illegal side of Walsh’s enterprises. Da was a policeman, after all—and an honest one. If he were ever to learn that his own son was working the wrong side of the law, there was no telling what he would do.
Or what it would do to him.
They were at odds most of the time, but a part of Tierney clung to a grudging respect for his straitlaced father. It was known throughout the force—to Da’s disadvantage at times—that Assistant Captain Burke was not on the take and held nothing but contempt for any officer who was.
Tierney did not like the idea that the same contempt might at some point be leveled at him. If indeed he ever did depart from his da’s unyielding code, it would not be to risk landing in trouble—or hurting his da—for a few extra bucks as a delivery boy.
Besides, he wasn’t so certain but that Patrick Walsh might merely be testing him—hanging out a carrot to see if Tierney would bite at it. Walsh had a way about him that Tierney suspected bordered on game-playing: baiting a person simply as a means to test his mettle.
If that were the case, the man might just as well learn right now that Tierney Burke did not play games.
Unless, of course, he happened to be dead-sure of winning.
It was the middle of the night. Lying sleepless in his bed, Daniel stared into the darkness, thinking.
He was sure his heart had not been so heavy since the night Katie died, late last summer.
In school, at home, even on calls with Dr. Grafton, he could not seem to think of anything else but Morgan. Morgan in a wheelchair. Morgan with paralyzed legs.
He had asked Dr. Grafton endless questions, and the kindly physician did his best to answer. What he learned was anything but encouraging.
If the bullet were lodged near the spine, the doctor said, it might well be inoperable—and exceedingly painful.
If the damage to his spinal cord were permanent, then Morgan had no hopes of ever walking again. In his letter, the priest had indicated this was the case.
The image of Morgan confined to
a wheelchair was almost beyond bearing. One of Daniel’s clearest memories of his friend and mentor was of walking together with Morgan to the pier in the village, Morgan striding along on those great sturdy legs—like tree trunks, they were—with his harp slung over his back, as Daniel hurried along to keep up with him.
He wanted desperately to write to Morgan, but he had delayed thus far, not knowing what to say. Indeed, what could he say?
His thoughts went to his mother, and the ache in his heart deepened. The news about Morgan seemed to be stealing all her newfound joy with Evan. Oh, she still spoke of the wedding, and her eyes still softened when Evan was near or whenever she spoke his name. But most of the time, she seemed terribly sad, quiet and withdrawn and distant.
Daniel thought he understood what must be going through her mind. Like himself, she was no doubt wishing there were something she could do. He had even thought of going back to Ireland, simply to be with Morgan. He was going to need a great deal of help, and where would it come from? Shouldn’t the people who cared most about him be the ones to help him?
If these were his feelings, could his mother’s be much different, after all?
For Mother loved Morgan, too.
Daniel had known how things were between them for a long time, knew that the affection between his mother and Morgan went beyond a special childhood friendship.
Yet it would be impossible to go back. There was no money, no work to be had even if they should find a way—
He had to stop thinking about it. To return to Ireland was not even a remote possibility. Not now, at least. Perhaps not ever.
He would do what he could. He would write to Morgan, and write often, to reassure him that they still cared for him and remembered him. And he would pray for him.
He would also pray for his mother…and for Evan.
In the middle of the night, Evan came fully awake. Since the news had come about Fitzgerald, every night had been long and anxious, filled with fitful, worrisome dreams and abrupt awakenings, leaving him exhausted and on edge all the next day.
Fumbling for his dressing gown, then his eyeglasses, he got up. He lit a candle and sat down on the edge of the bed. Wearily, he raked his hand down the side of his face, thinking.
He was sick at heart about what had happened to Fitzgerald. But he was every bit as distressed about what was happening to Nora. Day after day he watched her grieve, helpless to ease her sadness. He prayed it was only his imagination, but he sensed that in her sorrow, she was slipping away from him, a little at a time.
He thought he would die if he lost her. Yet, he also understood her despair. She had loved Morgan Fitzgerald with a great love, he knew. He had seen for himself the bond between the two of them. An entire ocean and months of change separated them, but that bond had not been altogether broken.
He felt that Nora was torn between sorrow for the tragedy that had befallen Fitzgerald and a feeling of helplessness that she could not do something for him. Evan understood the helplessness, for he, too, wished there were something he could do for the man.
The big Irish poet would always have a special place in Evan’s heart. Never had he encountered such a heroic spirit, never had he admired the courage of another human being as he had Fitzgerald’s.
But his respect and admiration for the man did nothing to ease the anxiety that now plagued him relentlessly, night and day. He was terrified that Nora’s memory of Fitzgerald—and her pity for him—might pull her away, might even destroy their love.
It was nothing she said, nothing she did. It was more what she did not say or do that struck fear in his heart. She was still sweet and gentle with him, but distracted; still thoughtful of him, but distant. She still touched his hand when she spoke his name, kissed him goodnight at day’s end. But Morgan Fitzgerald had become a silent intruder in their relationship.
Evan had not even attempted to discuss the wedding since the news about Fitzgerald arrived, telling himself that Nora was too preoccupied to do much in the way of planning. The truth was, he worried that if he tried to push her, he might somehow trigger doubts, or even cause her to abandon their plans altogether.
Thus he prayed continually for the trust and the patience to give her time, the time she needed to heal and regain her affection for him.
You’ve already lost her.…
Out of nowhere came the ugly whisper of doubt, lodging itself in his thoughts with a cold, brutal thud. Evan swallowed, bracing himself against the shudder that wracked his entire body.
Did you really think you had a chance against a man like Fitzgerald? You, with your missing arm and your weak eyes and your foolish stammer? Even with worthless legs, he’s more man than you.…
Evan gripped his forehead, trying to force the dread whisper from his mind. Since childhood, he had been tormented with these debilitating bouts of self-disgust and insecurity. He had believed he’d fought the final battle not long after losing his arm, going on to survive both the physical and emotional anguish that followed.
Yet here it was again, the creeping doubt, as vile and torturous as ever.
With an angry cry, he twisted off the bed and dropped to his knees. Taking off his glasses, he propped his arm on the bed to brace himself, then rested his head on his hand and sought the Quiet.
“Oh, Lord, p-please…I have been w-waiting for her all my life! P-Please, don’t let me lose her…not now, Lord, p-please…not now…not ever.…”
Nora doesn’t love you, poor fool. She never did. She only feels sorry for you….
Evan groaned, squeezing his eyes shut until they hurt.
“Lord, I t-t-trust Your love…and I t-trust Nora’s love.”
Waiting, scarcely breathing, Evan felt the cold, depraved whisper reluctantly leave him. Cleansed, he murmured the Name he had clung to since childhood: “Jesus…Jesus.…”
Unexpectedly, the thought of Abraham, great but imperfect saint of old, came rushing into his thoughts. Abraham who was asked to sacrifice the dearest thing in the world to him.
Be willing to give up everything…A new whisper filled Evan’s spirit, penetrating the darkness.
Abraham lifted the knife in his own hand, ready to plunge it into the child he cherished.
Even those you love best…
Abraham would have delivered his own son into the sovereign arms of God.
Trust Me…and be obedient…I will not fail you…. The voice grew stronger in Evan’s spirit, and he breathed a deep sigh.
Abraham’s faith was proved. He was blessed; his descendants were multiplied; he became the father of all nations.
Because he trusted, and was willing to sacrifice…because he obeyed. Evan, trust Me…trust My love…
Evan laid his head upon his arm and sobbed weakly. “I do, Lord! I do t-trust You! Help me to t-trust You more. M-make me strong enough to give her up…if I m-must. Make me w-willing…and able to obey You, no m-matter what.”
In the silence, still on his knees, for a fleeting moment Evan felt the soft, warm light of his Father’s smile rest upon him.
37
A Conspiracy of Love
So did she your strength renew,
A dream that a lion had dreamed
Till the wilderness cried aloud,
A secret between you two,
Between the proud and the proud.
W. B. YEATS (1865–1939)
Sara had not seen Michael Burke since Nora’s bout with scarlet fever—just long enough to make her feel ill at ease when they finally met again, the day of the Astor funeral.
Having just parted company with Kerry and Jess Dalton, she stood outside the church, waiting for her father to finish his conversation with Horace Greeley, publisher of the Tribune. Knowing Mr. Greeley’s fondness for lengthy discussions, Sara sighed; she would likely still be waiting long past the time when the other mourners had dispersed.
“Sara?”
Sara jumped, whipping around at the sound of her name just behind her. “Sergeant Burke
! I mean…Captain—” Flustered, Sara automatically backed a step away.
He was studying her with a glint of amusement. “Has it been so long, then, that you no longer remember my first name?”
“Oh…no…of course not!” As always, Sara felt clumsy and foolish in his presence. Exasperated with herself, she forced a smile. “How are you, Michael?”
He had grown a dark mustache, Sara noted, trying not to stare. Always handsome, he now looked even more dangerous.
“Better than when we last met,” he said, smiling easily. “And yourself?”
They made pointless small talk for a few more minutes; then he inquired after Nora.
Sara frowned. “I’m not quite sure, to tell you the truth. I’m somewhat worried about her.”
Immediately, his expression sobered. “She’s not ill again?”
“Oh no!” Sara quickly assured him. “Nothing like that. It’s just that Nora doesn’t seem herself lately. For a time, she was so happy, planning for the wedding and—” She broke off, not wanting to distress him by mentioning Nora and Evan’s engagement. “And what?” he prompted her, frowning.
Sara bit her lip. “It’s just that ever since the news came about your friend in Ireland, the one who was wounded in Belfast—”
He nodded. “Morgan.”
“Yes. Ever since then, Nora seems so distracted. Worried. It’s almost as if she were…grieving.”
When he made no reply but simply nodded as if he understood, Sara went on. “Nora told me a little about your life in the village. The three of you must have been very close.”
A muscle at the side of his mouth tightened, and he glanced down at the cobbled street for a moment. “Aye, we were. And it’s no surprise that she would still be upset about Morgan’s troubles. I’ve had the time dealing with it myself.”
He looked up, meeting her eyes with a frank, steady gaze. “They were sweethearts for a long time. And they were friends as well. There was a bond between the two that was like nothing I have ever seen, and that’s the truth. As for Morgan—” A hint of a sad smile touched his lips. “You would have to know him to understand why he is not easily forgotten. No doubt you are right; I expect Nora is grieving for the man. Knowing her as I do, I fear she may also have some wild notion of trying to help him.”
