by BJ Hoff
“How can you be so unfeeling about him?” she cried, twisting her hand free. “Sure, and the two of you were like brothers!”
His eyes went over her face—so fine, so delicate. So haunted. “And so we will ever be, in our heart of hearts. But I cannot go back to Ireland to prove it so, to Morgan, or to myself. Nor can you, lass.”
“I could get the money to go, if that’s what you’re thinking!”
He wanted to shake her. “This has nothing to do with money. Of course, you could get it. Sara Farmington would give you whatever you asked. She’s your friend, too, Nora, in case you haven’t seen.” Michael stopped, pulled in another steadying breath, then pressed on. “You cannot go back, Nora Ellen, because the man you love is here, in New York City. And you are promised to him. To Evan Whittaker. Or have you forgotten so soon why you turned me down?”
He saw tears form in her eyes and felt a pang of self-disgust that he had been so rough with her. But he would finish what he’d begun. “You refused to marry me because of Whittaker. Now I am reminding you that you have no call to reject his love for a man who never wanted you! You cannot do such a thing, Nora!”
Unable to bear the stricken expression in her eyes, Michael looked away.
“What did you say?” The words came as a choked whisper, and Michael despised himself even more.
But he turned back to her, forcing himself to ignore the trembling lip, the shimmering tears spilling down her lovely face.
“I said that Morgan never wanted you, Nora. And he does not want you now. Nor does he need you. That is the truth, and I believe that in your heart you have always known it. Morgan has ever been wed to Ireland—a fierce, jealous woman who will tolerate no other claim on a man’s affections. You knew the way it was with him years ago, and you know it now. But pity has fooled you into thinking things are different. I am telling you that things are no different at all—and never will be.”
Stumbling to her feet, she stood over him, eyes blazing. “You have no right to say such a thing to me!” she cried fiercely.
Tossing his napkin onto the table, Michael shot to his feet and faced her. “I have every right, woman! I know Morgan Fitzgerald as well as you ever did, perhaps even better. He sliced a piece from my heart now and again—not only yours! And he’d do it again, to either one of us, don’t you doubt it for a minute!”
Eyes wide, Nora backed away and would have fled the room. But Michael grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to stand and listen to him.
“You’ll not run from this, Nora; you will hear me! Because of what has happened to Morgan, you’ve somehow romanticized him in your memories until you’ve lost sight of the way things really were—the way things still are! Well, it’s no different now than it ever was. Morgan being Morgan, he will somehow overcome his trouble. You wait and see if he doesn’t. But in the meantime, you must face the truth: If the man had ever wanted you in his life, he could have had you, long before now. The truth is that he never loved you quite enough to give up his heart’s greatest passion, his Dark Rosaleen—his Ireland! And,” Michael pressed brutally on, ignoring her sob of protest, “he still doesn’t.
“Open your eyes, woman! You have the love of a good man now, a man who would give up his very life for you! Don’t be so foolish as to cast that love away. Leave Morgan to Ireland and the Lord, and get on with the new life God has granted you.”
Spent, he dropped his hands from her shoulders and stood watching her. Nora hugged her arms to her body as if to keep herself from shattering, but she did not weep. Instead, she stood, trembling, staring at him as though he had struck her.
Michael knew he had done all he could. Perhaps he had thrown away their friendship forever for the sake of the truth. He could no longer bear the raw look of betrayal in her eyes. “Make our excuses to the Farmingtons, if you will,” he said shortly. “Tell Daniel I will wait for him outside. We must be leaving.”
Turning, Michael left the dining room without looking back. But the memory of Nora’s stricken face was engraved upon his heart.
Tierney Burke found Rossiter soon after he arrived at the hotel. The bookkeeper sat hunched over his ledgers in the back office, leafing through the pages as carefully as if the answers to life’s greatest mysteries were at his very fingertips.
Rossiter looked up with annoyance when Tierney entered. “You’re late. There’s been nobody at the desk for more than ten minutes.”
“And there is no one in the lobby to need a clerk at the desk,” Tierney countered.
“Mr. Walsh expects his employees to be prompt.”
“I’ll work late. I wanted to ask if you still need a boy for those deliveries tonight.”
Rossiter frowned. “Deliveries?”
“The pickups on Water Street you asked me to do,” Tierney reminded him impatiently.
The bookkeeper looked him over. “As it happens, we do. But why would you care?”
Tierney shrugged. “I can do the job, after all,” he said casually. “If you want.”
Rossiter’s eyes narrowed. “Why the change of heart?”
Tierney leveled a cold stare on the man. “Why not?”
Michael retreated to the quiet of his bedroom as soon as he and Daniel returned home. Weary and drained from his row with Tierney and the confrontation with Nora, he sank down into the rocking chair and closed his eyes.
Still troubled by Nora’s resistance to his words, he was more troubled yet by Tierney. He could only pray that the boy’s bitterness and streak of rebellion would not be his undoing.
Tierney had accused him more than once of not understanding him. Tonight, for the first time, Michael admitted to himself that the lad was probably right.
There was an anger, a deep-seated resentment in the boy that both baffled and frightened him for his son. Try as he would, he could not understand Tierney’s volatile temper, his unreasonable bitterness. Nor could he fathom his undisguised hatred of people like the Farmingtons.
It was not merely the fact of their wealth, Michael sensed, although that was a part of it. More to the point, he believed it was what the Farmingtons represented. To Tierney’s way of thinking, Lewis Farmington—and even Sara—had somehow attained their success, their status in society, at the expense of the less privileged.
The boy had created a simplistic formula—and a dangerously faulty one, Michael believed—equating wealth with the evil oppressor, and poverty with the innocent victim. Michael had been a policeman long enough to know that Tierney’s view was extremely naive. Evil abounded on both sides of the dollar, and he for one would not want to try to figure where it thrived best.
Rocking slowly back and forth, he sighed. He did not know what to make of Tierney. The boy had more than his share of good points. Hadn’t the teachers at school often commented on the lad’s sharp wits, his natural leadership ability, his protective instincts for the younger, less confident boys?
But he had his faults, too, and some were more prominent than others. His unpredictable fits of temper, a strain of spitefulness—even a trace of bigotry, Michael thought with despair.
In addition, Tierney’s opinions were often unfair and shortsighted—like his contempt for the Farmingtons. Yet Lewis Farmington’s works of Christian charity were widely known, even in the recesses of the Five Points slums. And as for Sara—she was a woman deserving of respect.
For the first time since their meeting, Michael allowed himself to think freely and honestly about Sara Farmington. For months, he had been committed to marrying Nora, to giving her a home and his name, just as he’d promised Morgan he would. But by Nora’s choice, he was now free of that commitment.
Thinking about it, he had to admit that Sara Farmington had intrigued him from their very first meeting. In the grime and dust of a tenement hallway, he had watched her stoop down to offer kindness to a filthy, neglected child. The months of getting to know her better had only increased his admiration for her.
There was a strength about Sara, coupled
with an unexpected gentleness, that appealed to him. In addition, he knew her to possess a seemingly unshakable faith—and an indomitable will. Yet she was never less than delightfully feminine. Her grace of figure was not one bit marred by her slight limp, any more than her allure was weakened by her wit. She was womanly, bright, interesting—and more than a little attractive.
Suddenly, Michael found himself thinking about Tierney’s accusation—that Sara had a…a yen for him. As infuriating as he found the boy’s insinuations, he could not deny half wishing his son were right.
Getting up from his rocking chair, he stretched and gave a small, self-mocking laugh at his foolishness. Lewis Farmington would more than likely have a stroke at the thought of an Irish cop taking a fancy to his only daughter. Still, the man was never anything but cordial when they met, and he had been downright friendly throughout dinner tonight. In truth, Michael liked the millionaire shipbuilder a great deal—and he sensed he had Farmington’s respect as well.
That doesn’t mean he’d take kindly to your courting his only daughter.…
Michael twisted his mouth at the thought. Sure, and what did it matter what Farmington might think? To court a millionaire’s daughter was a luxury hardly covered by the wages of an immigrant policeman. Besides, what gave him the cheek to think Sara herself would welcome his attentions? She was an heiress, after all, living on a level of society an Irish cop could never aspire to.
Besides, didn’t the woman freeze in her shoes every time he came near? It seemed he had only to call her name and she lost her powers of speech. Still, there had been a time or two when she’d colored so prettily in his presence, he’d half thought—
He was being a great fool, and that was the truth. Disgusted with himself, Michael jerked down his bed linens with a fury. Straightening, he shook his head at the reflection in the mirror.
Later that night, after Michael and Daniel had gone and Nora had made her weak excuses to the Farmingtons, she lay in a crumpled heap atop her bed.
She could not rid her mind of Michael’s words. They had pierced to her heart, where they continued to stab at her with what he had called the truth.
Evan had come to the door at least twice, knocking and calling out to her, but had finally gone away when she begged him to leave her alone. Later, she had sensed Sara’s presence outside the room, but finally her footsteps, too, moved on down the hall.
Nora lay there for what seemed an interminable time. As she heard Michael’s words sound over and over again in her mind, her anger and shock began to fade. In their place came a gradual, painful awareness of the validity of what he had said. It was a truth she had long known, had even faced, years ago. But as Michael had said, Morgan’s tragedy had somehow distorted reality for her. She had idealized and romanticized their old friendship and the love they had once shared into something it never was, and could never be.
And by doing so, she had risked the gift of Evan’s love.
Slowly Nora sat up, rubbed her face between her hands, then reached for a handkerchief to wipe away the tears that remained. Suddenly she realized what a hard thing Michael had done for her this night—a thing only a true friend could bring himself to do.
He had freed her, Michael had. Brave enough to make her face a painful truth she had almost forgotten, he had risked losing their friendship in an attempt to free her from a deadly trap of her own making.
And, she thought ruefully, it wasn’t the first time, now, was it?
How often, when they were growing up together in the village, had Michael rescued her from some danger of her own doing, then shaken her by the shoulders and rebuked her for her foolishness?
Even then, young as they were, Nora had sensed that Michael’s fierce reprimands were born of his concern, his affection, for her. And so it was now. No one but Michael could speak to her so, could pass beyond her wounded anger to reach her heart.
Michael, her friend and her brother. Her protector. Michael, who at times had served as her conscience.
Getting to her feet, Nora touched the bun at the nape of her neck, wondering if she dared go to Evan so late.
Of course she could. He would be waiting, more than likely. Waiting and wondering. And worrying.
Suddenly, she was desperate to have him hold her, to press his cheek gently against hers and whisper his shy endearments against her hair.
Hurrying from the room, Nora raced down the stairs, grabbing her wrap from the coat tree in the hall. Once outside, she ran the entire distance between the big house and Evan’s cottage.
When he opened the door, his anxious frown gave way to astonishment as Nora flew into his embrace.
39
Wishes of the Heart
The harp that once through Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory’s thrill is o’er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more!
THOMAS MOORE (1779–1852)
Dublin
Early April
From his bedroom window, Morgan watched the scene outside with a glint of amusement.
True to his word, Sandemon had at last found a “service” for their demented child from Belfast. It was an extra grace that this service happened to be safely outside Nelson Hall.
Annie Delaney had been appointed official groom to Morgan’s horse, Pilgrim. This morning, she stood with Sandemon near the stream that flowed along the west side of the grounds. The great red stallion nuzzled the girl’s hand as she stroked his immense head, her expression rapt.
That the cantankerous Pilgrim had taken a liking to the girl was a wonder indeed. Yet, watching them, Morgan could see for himself Sandemon’s claim that the lass could do most anything she liked with the horse.
It could only be, Morgan thought wryly, a friendship made in heaven. The feisty stallion was not one to tolerate authority; besides Morgan and one or two of the lads in Mayo, Pilgrim had suffered few hands at his bridle, even fewer bodies on his back. But for his own mysterious reasons, he seemed to adore Annie Delaney. Sandemon claimed the big brute practically purred like a contented cat at the girl’s slightest touch.
The child suddenly screwed her face into a fierce glare as she peered up at Sandemon. Morgan smiled and shook his head. More than likely, she had been given an instruction not to her liking. As always, the tall black man remained intractable in the face of the girl’s mulishness. He stood as if waiting, one hand extended, until Annie finally relinquished Pilgrim’s reins.
They moved away from the stream, Sandemon leading the stallion in the direction of the stables. Annie ran along behind, scooping up papers and other debris blown onto the grounds during last night’s wind.
Morgan craned his neck to watch until they were out of sight, then leaned back in the wheelchair and closed his eyes. What he would give to feel the power of old Pilgrim beneath him again! How he missed the freedom, the exhilaration of riding the great brute across the mountains of Mayo. Only now, with the experience forbidden to him, did he admit to himself that sitting on that stallion’s broad back had been, in some primitive, inexplicable way, a kind of rite of his manhood. Never did he feel quite so free, so completely and wonderfully a man grown, as when he and Pilgrim went thundering across the countryside, the wind in his face, the sun clinging to his back, and the high hope of living in his spirit. Knowing he would never savor such a feeling again made the memory all the more poignant. And painful.
Opening his eyes, Morgan wiped the back of his hand over his perspiring forehead. The hot pain in his back was on him already, and it was only midmorning. Though it attacked less frequently these days, its force had weakened not at all.
He needed a drink. But it was early yet, too early. If he started in now, he would be useless the rest of the day.
A dry, bitter laugh escap
ed him. As if he could be any more useless than he already was!
What was there to do, in any event? For the most part, he’d lost interest in reading. Aside from Joseph Mahon’s journal, much of what was brought to his attention was the same raving political rhetoric. By now he could recite most of it from memory: The rebellion will come. The people will rise. Young Ireland will lead. Ireland will be free.
He had been a part of all that once. No longer. Smith O’Brien and one or two others among the lads continued to hound him to take up his pen again. He still had a voice, they insisted.
A voice, but no words. They did not understand that he no longer had anything to write. He had nothing to protest, nothing to defend, nothing to say. His journals lay empty, blank pages on a tidy desk. His harp lay silent—a dead, voiceless thing propped up in the corner of the room to accuse him.
The days passed in a meaningless succession of routine. He ate his meals, read his mail, endured the exercises Sandemon forced on him. He sat in the infernal wheelchair, his torso and arms growing stronger and more powerful through Sandemon’s therapy, his legs hanging heavy and useless, his mind as dull as stale soda bread.
If he cared to, he worked a bit on Joseph’s journal or told the girl a story in the library after dinner. She begged for the stories, did Annie. The ancient legends and tales. The adventures of Cuchulain and Finn mac Coul, the heroic exploits of the Fenians, the tragic love story of Deirdre and Naisi. It mattered not how many times she had already heard them told. The child was a sponge, soaking up whatever he was willing to offer.
Which was little enough, Morgan admitted to himself guiltily. Hadn’t he seen her hunger, her yearning for the books, her thirst to learn? That she was clever and quick-witted enough, he had no doubt. But Annie needed more—wanted more, he sensed. The lass hungered for acceptance, for companionship—for involvement. She required more of him than he was able to give, more energy, both physical and emotional, than he could muster. It simply was not within his power to be all the girl needed him to be.
