Heart of the Lonely Exile

by BJ Hoff

  “Help him?” Sara repeated. “You don’t mean she’d consider going back to Ireland?”

  One eye narrowed, and he nodded slowly. “It’s occurred to me,” he said, his expression grim.

  Sara stared at him in horror. “Oh, Michael, no! She can’t! Why, she’s only recently regained her health.” She paused, then added carefully, “She and Evan were so happy…until this. I know Nora’s feelings for him are genuine!”

  To her great relief, the mention of Evan didn’t seem to disturb Michael. He simply nodded, saying, “Aye, that’s the truth. I fear she may be thinking foolish things.”

  “Would it help if you talked with her?”

  He shrugged. “I could try, I suppose.”

  “Please do! If Nora will listen to anyone, it’s you.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Don’t be counting too much on that, Sara. Pity’s a strong force in itself—one to be reckoned with. And it’s not pity alone binding Nora to Morgan, that’s the thing.”

  “But love is stronger than pity,” Sara said firmly. “And Nora loves Evan Whittaker—I know she does.”

  “She also loved Morgan Fitzgerald,” he said quietly.

  “But that was a long time ago,” Sara insisted. “And I can’t believe his memory means more to her than Evan. Nora’s not the sort of woman to be in love with more than one man at a time!”

  His slow, wry smile brought a flush to Sara’s face. “Aye, and don’t I know that well enough?”

  Sara bit her lip. “I’m sorry—”

  He waved off her attempt to apologize. “No, you’re right. If Morgan is the problem, it’s more the memory of the man, I should think. Memory and pity. Morgan is not the best thing for Nora now. I doubt that he ever was. Theirs was a destructive kind of love, I always felt.”

  Vastly relieved, Sara pressed. “Then you will talk with her?” At his nod, Sara thought for a moment. “I have an idea: Why don’t you come to dinner one night soon? We could make an opportunity sometime during the evening for you to speak alone with Nora—without being too obvious.”

  He regarded her with a curious smile. “I expect my coming to dinner might be more than obvious.”

  “What do you mean?” Sara asked, genuinely puzzled.

  He tilted his head slightly, still smiling. “Do the Farmingtons make a practice of inviting Irish cops for dinner, then?”

  Sara stared at him with growing irritation. “No,” she countered acidly, “as a matter of fact, we don’t. But we do make a practice of inviting our friends to dinner on occasion—and I thought that’s what I was doing.”

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he said nothing.

  “If you’d be more comfortable,” Sara went in a tone slightly less caustic, “bring the boys—your son and Daniel. That way no one could possibly misunderstand. It would give Daniel an opportunity to spend some time with his mother, and I’m sure we’d all like to get to know Tierney better.”

  “That’s kind of you. But I doubt that Tierney would—”

  His eyes left her as her father came walking up and touched her arm. “Sara, my dear, I’m sorry you had to wait. Captain Burke,” he said jovially, extending his hand to Michael. “Good to see you again.”

  Growing increasingly uncomfortable as the two men exchanged pleasantries, Sara took her father by the arm. “We really should be going, Father. I have a mission committee meeting later this afternoon, and I’m afraid we’re keeping Captain Burke from his duty.”

  Her father darted a look from one to the other.

  “A moment, Miss Farmington…Sara?”

  Sara shot a wary look at Michael.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t catch the day or time.”

  At Sara’s blank stare, the policeman turned to her father. “Your daughter was just inviting me to dinner, sir. If you’ve no objection?”

  Sara swallowed with great difficulty as her father responded with cheerful approval. “Excellent! Soon, I hope? What about tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Sara choked out.

  “Why not? Didn’t you tell Mrs. Buckley this morning I wanted roast chicken this evening?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Well, then?” He went on, his words, as always, spilling out like marbles from an open bag. “There’ll be more than enough—and food fit for a man’s appetite at that, none of that abominable stew she tries to sneak past us every now and then.” He stopped. “Seven should be fine, eh, Sara?”

  Sara opened her mouth on a word but swallowed it whole as her father, ignoring her, added, “And bring those boys along, why don’t you, Captain? We’d love to have them!”

  Michael Burke gave Sara a slow smile, his eyes glinting. “Seven will be grand, thank you, sir.”

  Lewis Farmington didn’t know quite what to make of his daughter and Assistant Captain Burke.

  The tension between the two had been unmistakable. And the attraction between them was undeniable.

  As he helped Sara into the carriage, Farmington studied the broad back of the Irish policeman, who had crossed the street and was conversing with two of his men. Burke was a sturdy kind of man, one not easily swayed, he would imagine—a man who had taken his blows over the years, no doubt, but rallied nicely. Decent and sensible, he was a strong man who more than likely would prove a good husband, if somewhat immovable at times. No harm in that, though. Clarissa had often accused him of being somewhat obstinate, but she always seemed to like him well enough, nevertheless.

  He turned back to his daughter, who sat waiting for him with a questioning smile. Straight back, firm jaw, clear eyes—wonderful girl. A bit too hardheaded for her own good, perhaps. Definitely too strong-willed to be considered a good catch by the few remaining bachelors in their own set.

  Lewis had once held hopes for Judge Worthington’s son, Isaac—a big, strapping blond with a good head for law and what Lewis had always thought to be a finely developed sense of morality. One night, however, in Sara’s hearing, the young fool had offhandedly referred to New York’s immigrant population as “filthy disease breeders.” The look Sara turned on him would have withered a cactus.

  But this Michael Burke now, this brawny Celt—Lewis suspected he would not be so easily dismissed. Whether or not Sara realized it, she might well have met her match in the Irish policeman. The exasperating thing about it all was that both of them seemed determined to deny their interest in each other.

  Ah, well. Time and God’s will had a way of taking care of human foolishness. It would be interesting to watch events unfold. Curious, how he wasn’t in the least bothered that his only daughter might take a shine to a fellow like Burke—common, their acquaintances would call him.

  Lewis supposed his own feelings about Burke had to do with what he sensed about the man. He had pretty good instincts most of the time about people—men, at least. No man with half a brain would try to figure a woman. Their mystery was part of their appeal, after all.

  At any rate, he felt he could trust his instincts about the Irish policeman. And so far, his instincts seemed to be cheering the man on.

  Tierney was dumbfounded by the realization that Da was actually going through with this fiasco tonight. Furious, he made no attempt to curb his temper.

  They had been arguing for ten minutes or more, Tierney contending that the evening was nothing more than a tasteless joke to the Farmingtons.

  “Why would you set yourself up for this? I never thought you’d actually go!”

  He was standing just inside the door of his father’s bedroom, watching him iron his one good white shirt. “Can’t you see they’re simply playing you for the fool?”

  Da straightened, setting the iron down on the board with a hard thump. Shirtless, his Sunday suspenders hanging loose at his waist, he stared at Tierney with burning eyes. “That will do, Tierney!” The words exploded like pistol shots.

  For an instant Tierney felt almost ashamed. With his thick dark hair uncombed and tousled, and the angry scar from his wound still blazing a
cross his chest, Da looked at that moment more boy than man. The hurt in his eyes belied the anger in his voice, and Tierney knew he had wounded him with his words.

  But it was true, all the same, and why couldn’t the man see it? Inviting him to dinner at their grand mansion—as if Da were to be treated like one of their own kind! And him too gullible to see what was behind it all!

  Well, he saw the way things were, all right! It was that ridiculous old maid, Sara Farmington! It was perfectly obvious to Tierney: She fancied Da and would amuse herself by playing the fine lady to this dumb Irisher. Even with all her money, she had obviously not been able to snare a man. So she had decided to dally with the poor, unsuspecting Irish cop.

  And Da was falling for it!

  “I told you,” his father said with exaggerated patience, “that the three of us were all invited this evening—you, as well as Daniel and myself. The entire affair is mostly to give me an opportunity to speak with Nora. Sara is worried for her.”

  “ ‘Sara is worried for her,’ ” Tierney mimicked. “Sara has a yen for you, is more to the point!”

  Da’s mouth thinned to a slash, and his hand on the iron tightened to a white-knuckled grip. “Tierney, I’m warning you,” he grated out in a deadly hard voice, “you may be my son, and you may think you’re the man grown. But if you don’t stop with your disgusting accusations and your spiteful tongue, I will show you what a gorsoon you really are!”

  Tierney stood, legs apart, hands clenched, glaring at his father with a mixture of rage and frustration.

  “I think,” his da went on, white-faced but making an evident attempt to control his anger, “it would be best if neither of us said anything more for the time being. Perhaps you should just…leave me alone for now.”

  “You bet I will.” Tierney shot back in a savage voice. “I wouldn’t want to keep your fancy lady friend waiting.” Turning, he charged out of the room.

  “Are you working tonight, then?” his da called behind him.

  Tierney hesitated, then said in a bitter tone, “Aye, I’m working tonight, sure enough!”

  In the kitchen Daniel was bent over a chair, shining his shoes. He straightened, his face pinched in a troubled frown. “What are you so riled about anyway?”

  Tierney scowled at him. “You’re going, of course.”

  “Why shouldn’t I go?”

  Tierney’s jaw tightened. “Aye,” he grated out, “why shouldn’t you, indeed?”

  Crossing the room, he flung open the door so hard it slammed into the wall and bounced back. He took the steps two at a time without so much as a glance behind him.

  38

  The Wounds of a Friend

  Thank God for one dear friend,

  With face still radiant with the light of truth.

  JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY (1844–1890)

  When Michael and Daniel arrived, each with bouquet in hand, Sara was moved beyond all reason. That a boy of Daniel’s age would bring his mother flowers—and for no special occasion—she found quite wonderful.

  Michael’s bouquet was for her, he explained, appearing stiff and uncomfortable in his starched white shirt and slightly worn suit. It was not that a man had never brought Sara flowers before tonight. She had received a few bouquets over the years.

  But not recently.

  Perhaps it was the sight of the two that moved her: the fresh-faced Daniel, eager to see his mother; a carefully groomed Michael, obviously ill at ease, yet just as obviously pleased with himself that he had thought of flowers. In any event, never had Sara made such a fuss over a man’s thoughtfulness. And never had she been so pleased by it.

  Dinner was a pleasant success, once it recovered from a somewhat strained beginning. Father, bless his heart, was at his gregarious, jovial best, regaling them with stories about his first attempts at shipbuilding—especially some of the more hilarious failures. Somehow he also managed to find just the right questions to entice Michael to talk about his work.

  Sara noticed with relief that Evan and Michael seemed to grow increasingly comfortable with each other as the evening progressed. They even laughed together once or twice.

  Nora was the quiet one at the table, Sara observed with some concern. Of course, Nora was always quiet, especially in the presence of more than one or two people. Tonight, though, her silence seemed born of bafflement rather than shyness or melancholy. She followed the banter between Sara and her father, the exchange about immigrant problems in which Evan and Michael eventually involved themselves, with watchful attention and a slightly bewildered look.

  But other than an occasional soft word to her son, she merely listened from the outer fringes without participating.

  When the moment presented itself to cast Nora and Michael together, Lewis Farmington did his part—as previously coached by his daughter.

  “Evan, I won’t keep you long, but I’m afraid I do need you for just a few moments in the library, if you don’t mind,” he said, getting up from the table. “Abraham Ware will be at the yards first thing in the morning, if he’s true to form, and I still have to dictate the last part of our bid. Would you mind terribly?”

  Even as Lewis spoke, Evan rose from his chair. The consummate assistant, he never failed to anticipate his employer’s needs. “I rather expected you’d want to finish up after dinner, sir.”

  Both men excused themselves—Evan with a slightly uncertain glance at Nora and Michael.

  “Daniel, I’m going to steal you for a moment if your mother and Michael have no objection,” Sara said. “I’ve changed the trim on the Christmas harp you made and turned it into a decoration I can leave out all year. I want to see what you think of it.”

  The boy gave her a curious look, but followed willingly. On the way out the door, Sara managed to breathe a hasty prayer that the Lord would take control of the situation in the dining room.

  “So, then, Nora—I expect you’ve been busy,” Michael said as soon as they were alone. “Making your plans for the wedding and all, I warrant.”

  Nodding uncertainly, Nora appeared embarrassed by his forthrightness. Michael, sensing he would get nowhere by being less than direct, decided to continue in the same vein.

  “I should hope so,” he said, allowing himself to drink more deeply of his tea, now that the Farmingtons were out of the room. “There’s not much time remaining till May.”

  Still Nora avoided his eyes. Staring down at her half-empty plate, she gave another small nod. “No…I suppose not.”

  “You didn’t eat much tonight, I noticed. Wedding jitters, is it?”

  Her eyes still downcast, she forced a smile. “More than likely.”

  “What is it, Nora Ellen?”

  Finally she raised her eyes to meet his. Her expression was uncertain, guarded. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’re still sorrowing over Morgan,” said Michael, making it a statement, not a question.

  “And you’re not?” she countered sharply. “Doesn’t it trouble you, knowing the state he must be in?”

  Michael nodded slowly. “Aye, of course, it troubles me. Just as it troubles me to see you in such a state.”

  Fixing her eyes on the table once more, she offered no reply.

  Impatient with the woman, Michael got up and went around to her. “The last time we parted,” he said, sitting down beside her, “ ’twas as friends, isn’t that so?”

  She nodded, and he went on. “Then speak to me now as a friend, Nora Ellen. Tell me what’s in your heart, even though I suspect I already know.”

  Her head snapped up, and Michael was almost pleased to see a glint of irritation in her eyes. She would likely be more candid with him if she were a bit fussed.

  “And why wouldn’t I be grieving about Morgan? I can’t believe you’re not distressed for him, as well!” she added accusingly.

  Michael chose his words with care. “I am grieved for the man, sure. But I have also accepted the fact that there is nothing I can do for Morgan, other than t
o pray for him and perhaps write him of my concern. Do you have it in mind that I could do something more—something that has not yet occurred to me, then?”

  Her shoulders slumped, and her face took on a weariness he had not seen there for a long time. “There must be something,” she said dully. “Some way we could help.”

  Michael shook his head, holding her gaze as he took her hand. “There is not, Nora. And I think you know I am right in saying so. You are only hurting yourself by avoiding the truth.”

  Her eyes searched his for a moment. “We could go to him,” she said quietly. “We could do that.”

  It was the very thing he had feared. “Of all the foolish things you have ever said, that is surely the most foolish of them all!” he bit out, his voice hard. “I can’t believe you would even consider such a daft idea.”

  Pulling her hand away, she indicted him with a look. “Are you saying you haven’t thought of it yourself? Sure, and Morgan needs his friends, at such a time as this!”

  This was not going to be easy. Michael drew in a long breath, then reached once more to cover her hand with his, ignoring her attempt to pull away. Pressing his face close to hers, he said firmly, “Morgan has other friends, Nora. Friends right there in Ireland—in Dublin, if you will—who are close enough to be of help to him.”

  “You can’t be knowing that! Besides, Morgan has never been as close to anyone else as he was to us!”

  Michael sighed but did not soften. “Even if that were the truth, lass, it’s over now.”

  The hurt in her eyes made him feel ashamed of what he was about to say. Yet it needed to be said, and there was nobody else to do the job. “What the three of us had, that’s all in the past, Nora,” he said quietly. “There is nothing at all we can do for Morgan now, except to support him with our thoughts and our prayers. He would not be expecting more from us, and we should not expect it from ourselves.”