Heart of the Lonely Exile

by BJ Hoff

  Jess slanted a look at the ashen-faced groom to make certain he was still on his feet. With both Lewis Farmington and Daniel Kavanagh flanking him, he appeared reasonably secure. At least for the time being.

  The processional music swelled from the organ, and the guests drew a collective breath of excitement.

  Jess turned his gaze to the back of the chapel, where the beginning of the procession was now in view. Sara Farmington, elegant and quite lovely in the softest of blues, approached, her slight limp somehow giving her all the more charm.

  Behind her came a smiling Johanna Fitzgerald, sweetly young and pretty in cream and blue lace, her dark red hair falling in soft curls around her shoulders. Wee Tom, as they called him, bounced cheerfully along behind his sister, quite the little man in suit coat and breeches—Sara Farmington’s doing, no doubt.

  Another swell and salute of the organ, a rustling of the guests, and the bride herself at last appeared. Nora Kavanagh was a vision in ice-blue silk and pearls, the veil scarcely concealing her enormous, anxious eyes.

  Escorting her was the brawny, strong-featured Michael Burke. Straight and proud in a dark suit and starched linen, the policeman beamed a thoroughly Irish smile as he delivered the bride safely to her white-faced groom.

  Nora managed surprisingly well throughout most of the ceremony, hardly stumbling over her vows at all.

  She did not even weep until toward the end, when Daniel John stepped out from Evan’s side and retrieved the Kavanagh harp from a small alcove near the front. Touching her arm, then Evan’s, the boy murmured, “This is Morgan’s gift, sent with his love. I will present it to you as he requested.”

  Nora’s eyes filled even as her son shouldered the harp and began to strum it softly. Evan’s hand gripped hers as Daniel John first read Morgan’s words in the Irish, then began to sing them in English:

  For love and love alone will ever be the vow that joins you…. Hold the gift with reverent hands, for it is holy…. Be so much one you taste the tears and breathe the fragrant joy of living from a single cup, a golden chalice overflowing…

  At last Michael handed her over into Evan’s keeping. For an instant, his strong hand lingered on her arm, and their eyes met. In that moment the miracle of friendship spanned an ocean as three hearts touched, joined by memory and an enduring legacy of love.

  Outside the mansion, the sun was a golden lamp. The warm spring afternoon was quiet and sweetly scented. Sara Farmington stood at the shoulder of Michael Burke, waiting for the first appearance of the new Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker.

  As the doors to the chapel were flung open, Nora and Evan came forth for all eyes to behold, resplendent in their happiness. They stepped onto the brick walkway just outside the chapel. Then, bathed in the golden warmth of the sun and their newly found joy, they stood, smiling shyly at their well-wishers.

  Suddenly, from a gentle rise on the east grounds, a low hum sounded. The hum deepened to a drone, rising up, spreading and flowering into a joyous Celtic wail. Everyone, including the newlyweds, turned to look.

  Across the green lawn of the Farmington estate came a fully kilted piper, strutting, head high and proud. He stopped a short distance from the mansion, piping an ancient tribute to the new bride and groom.

  Sara’s gaze traveled from the piper to Nora, whose face was a shining wonder, stunned and tearful, as she clung to the arm of her smiling groom.

  Overwhelmed with the glory of the moment, Sara watched as Nora turned her shining but questioning eyes on Michael Burke. He met her look with a slow, pleased grin and a jaunty wink.

  As the wail of the pipes died away into the hush of the gentle spring afternoon, Sara felt Michael’s eyes on her and turned to meet his gaze.

  “However did you manage—” She stopped. “Of course! He’s a policeman, isn’t he? The piper?”

  “Aye, just another Irish cop,” admitted Michael, studying her with a most peculiar smile.

  “That was really quite wonderful,” Sara stammered awkwardly.

  Michael Burke turned the full power of his Celtic smile on her—a dangerous smile, beneath that dark, rich mustache. “Sara, lass,” he said softly, “there is little an Irishman cannot manage, once he sets his mind to it.” He paused, studying her for another moment. “You’d do well to remember that in the days ahead.”

  Taking her arm, he tucked it firmly inside his own. Then, together, they went to congratulate the bride and groom.

  By choice, Evan and Nora spent their wedding night in the cottage. Perhaps one day they would accept Lewis Farmington’s offer of a wedding trip. But for now they felt they should stay close to the children, to reassure them that they were family and would not be separated.

  They approached the cottage still enfolded in the excited happiness of the day. Someone had been there before them, had made of the small rooms a warm and inviting hideaway for love. Candles glowed beside the bed, which had been turned down to reveal soft quilts and plump pillows. Through an open window, the mellow spring night bathed the room with gentle fragrance.

  Standing at the threshold in the open doorway, Evan stared inside, then at Nora, hoping she could not sense his growing anxiety. “I…I’m sorry, I c-can’t carry you across the threshold, Mrs. Whittaker,” he said, searching her face.

  Nora smiled into his eyes, then took his arm. “Sure, and you’re not superstitious, are you, Evan? And yourself not even Irish!”

  Inside the room, Evan took her veil and placed it carefully on the coat tree. When he turned back to her, Nora had gone to stand at the open window. The curtains billowed about her with the breeze, casting shadows in the path of the flickering candlelight.

  “’Tis a beautiful night,” Nora said softly.

  “A beautiful day,” Evan put in inanely. He was suddenly gripped with terror, seized with fear that he would prove a disappointment to her.

  What if she could not bear the sight of him? The missing arm, the angry scar—what if he repulsed her?

  As if she had heard the panic in his voice, Nora turned about to face him. Avoiding her eyes, Evan went to the desk and removed a small package.

  When he straightened, she had come to stand beside him.

  “Evan?” Her voice was soft, questioning.

  Still avoiding her gaze, Evan pressed the package into her hand. “I… this is for yo-you…a wedding gift,” he stammered.

  Nora looked from him to the package in her hand. “What is it, then, Evan?”

  “Open it,” he said, motioning to the package. “Please.”

  Keeping her eyes on his face another moment, Nora slid the paper away to reveal a small jewelry box. Staring down at it, she lifted its lid with a soft cry. Ever so carefully, she removed the delicate pearl brooch. “Oh, Evan, isn’t it lovely!”

  “It was…my m-mother’s,” Evan explained. “Father brought it with him. For you.”

  “Help me,” she said, placing the brooch at the throat of her wedding gown. With fumbling fingers, Evan held the material in place with his one hand while Nora pinned the brooch.

  “I feel so grand,” she said, again smiling into his eyes.

  “You’re…ex-exquisite, Nora,” Evan choked out, unable to take his eyes from her. He wanted desperately to touch her, yet he was afraid to move. She came to him and caressed his soft bearded cheek with her hand, leaning against him.

  “Nora—”

  Nora lifted her face to his, and his world spun. Lost in her eyes, he pulled her closer. “Nora…d-dearest…”

  Nora searched his gaze, all the while tracing the line of his lips with her fingertips. Evan thought his heart would explode from the nearness of her, the fragrance of her hair, the warm sweetness of her breath on his cheek. “Oh, Nora…I th-think I shall d-die for the love of you!”

  She lifted her face and met his lips. His mind exploded, and he went on kissing her until he lost his breath.

  “I love you, Evan,” she whispered at last. “I will always love you.” With one hand on his forearm, she
eased out of his embrace. “I will draw the curtains,” she said quietly.

  Evan moved to snuff out one of the candles on the bedside table, then went around to extinguish the other one.

  “No, Evan,” Nora said softly, turning from the window to face him.

  He stared at her. “I thought…I thought you wo-wouldn’t want the light…that you’d rather not see…”

  Miserable, he let his words die away as he stood with downcast eyes.

  “Oh, Evan…Evan, you foolish man.” Nora came to him, again melting into his embrace, clinging to his shoulders. “Did you think your arm would make a difference, and me loving you as I do?”

  He lifted his gaze, captured by the warm tenderness in her magnificent eyes. “I was afraid you’d simply n-not tell me. I can keep it covered, Nora…I understand—”

  She placed one hand over his mouth. “Hush, now, my dear, foolish husband! Hush…” Her lips replaced her hand, and they kissed again.

  “Leave the candle burning,” she whispered against his cheek. After a moment, she gently freed herself from his embrace and helped him slip out of his suit coat, then his shirt.

  When she pressed her lips with infinite gentleness to the dread scar, Evan squeezed his eyes shut to absorb the healing warmth of her love.

  As his wife removed the brooch and began to undo the myriad tiny pearl buttons at the front of her wedding dress, Evan reached for her. Lifting her hand to his lips, he brushed a gentle kiss over her fingertips.

  “I’m not…entirely helpless,” he said softly, unfastening first one button, then another with a surprisingly steady, if somewhat clumsy, hand. Nora smiled, and he could see his love and desire reflected in her eyes.

  For the first time since the surgery that had claimed his injured arm—perhaps for the first time in his life—Evan Whittaker knew himself to be a whole man.

  EPILOGUE

  Ride with the Wind

  To him who is able to keep you from falling

  And to present you before his glorious presence

  Without fault and with great joy—

  To the only God our Savior

  Be glory, majesty, power and authority,

  Through Jesus Christ our Lord,

  Before all ages, now and forevermore!

  Amen.

  JUDE 24-25

  Dublin

  Morgan hurried through the rest of the papers, signing his name with a flourish—using the new pen Smith O’Brien had presented him for his birthday.

  Gathering up the sheaf of papers in front of him, he stacked them, glancing over the two at the top of the heap. Authorization for Cusack, a Dublin barrister, to pursue legal steps for Annie’s adoption. The final bid from O’Toole Bros, to start the necessary renovation on the east wing next month—for the school.

  At the moment, he would complete only those matters requiring immediate attention. At Sandemon’s and Annie’s insistence, he would be at leisure for the rest of the day; apparently the two had planned some sort of a surprise for his birthday.

  Hearing a door slam somewhere in the house, then the sound of running footsteps, he replaced his pen on its brass stand, waiting. As he had anticipated, Annie came crashing into the room, out of breath and somewhat wild-eyed.

  “It’s time, Seanchai! Can you come now?”

  “Is this a safe venture?” Morgan queried, smiling at the excited child.

  “Oh, it’s grand!” she exclaimed, still winded from whatever exertion she’d been up to. Running around behind him, she grabbed hold of the wheelchair. “We can go faster if I push you!”

  Morgan knew better than to protest. Gritting his teeth, he held on and suffered a frenzied exit from the library, shaking his head as they streaked down the hall to the dining room.

  They screeched to a halt just inside the door. Sandemon stood smiling near the food-laden table. At his side stood the lovely young woman named Finola. Although he had not seen her for nearly two months, Morgan had not forgotten the golden-haired beauty. He found himself inordinately pleased that she would be present for his birthday.

  Amid Annie’s ravings, Sandemon’s laughter, and Finola’s shy smile, Morgan leaned back and prepared to enjoy the fact that he was growing older.

  Much later, feeling, in his own words, “fattened for the kill,” Morgan was taken for another ride by the highly excited Annie Delaney. By God’s grace, Sandemon saw fit to take control of the chair before the child had a chance to hurl him down the ramp off the back stoop.

  Annie ran on ahead, quickly disappearing. Part of the surprise apparently included a visit to Pilgrim, for they were headed in the direction of the stables. Pleased, Morgan sat up a bit straighter in the chair, watching for Annie to lead the stallion out to meet them, as she usually did.

  He stole a glance at Finola, walking alongside him. What is her story? he wondered. What lies behind that unfathomable blue gaze? What took her voice, yet left her with a smile that could charm the bees or melt a man’s heart?

  As if sensing his eyes on her, she looked back at Morgan with a questioning expression. Caught gawking at her, he would have looked away. But Finola smiled, catching him up in the warmth and quiet glow that seemed to radiate from her.

  Inside the stable, Morgan turned toward the stallion’s stall, only to find it empty. “Where is he?” he asked Sandemon. “Where’s Pilgrim?”

  “Waiting for you, Seanchai.”

  Sandemon stopped the chair. “A moment, Seanchai, if you please,” he said, disappearing around the center row of stalls.

  “What are they up to, do you know?” Morgan asked Finola.

  She shrugged, turned both hands palm up, and smiled.

  She knew, all right. Morgan was sure of it.

  “Can you wheel yourself over here, Seanchai?” Sandemon called.

  “Of course I can wheel myself over there!” Morgan snapped. “I only require help when a devious companion or a demented child intends to have some mischief at my expense.”

  Followed by Finola, Morgan stopped the chair as soon as he turned the corner. In front of him, in an empty space where there was no stall, stood Sandemon, looking mightily pleased with himself. Above him, bolted onto the rafter, was a block and tackle, threaded with heavy rope. The entire apparatus included two pulley wheels and a wide leather seat attached to two ends of rope—something that looked like a child’s tree swing, only sturdier.

  Only now did Morgan see Annie. Wearing a face-splitting grin, she was standing off to the side, holding Pilgrim’s reins. Catching sight of Morgan, the big stallion tossed his head and gave a welcoming snort.

  Morgan sat staring at the lot of them—the horse, the child, and Sandemon. “You are having great sport, I can see. Am I to simply sit here, then, like a great lump, or will you be telling me what you are about?”

  Bouncing from one foot to the other, Annie giggled. Sandemon and Finola smiled broadly.

  Feeling greatly disadvantaged, Morgan cast a withering glare on them all.

  “This is our gift to you, Seanchai,” Sandemon finally said, gesturing to the contraption.

  Did they think he knew what it was, then? Not wanting to hurt their feelings, Morgan managed a smile. “It seems a fine gift,” he said uncertainly. “You made it, did you?”

  “Sand-Man and I!” Annie cried out. “We’ve been working on it for weeks!”

  Morgan gave a wise nod. “I’ve no doubt. Well, I am—impressed. And grateful, of course.”

  Annie giggled again, louder this time. “He doesn’t know what it is, Sand-Man,” she said. Sandemon nodded, smiling.

  Morgan shot a wary look from one to the other. “Now that’s the truth,” he admitted. “I don’t know what it is.”

  Nobody offered to enlighten him. At last Sandemon stepped up, bending forward from the waist and looking directly into Morgan’s eyes. “What it is, Seanchai,” he said softly, “is a means of putting legs beneath you again.”

  Morgan narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin. “Legs?” he
repeated skeptically.

  “Four of them,” Sandemon said, straightening. With no further explanation, he wheeled Morgan up to the seat of the swing. Then, stooping, he slid a rock under one wheel of the chair to brace it.

  Now he turned and held out his arms to Morgan. “If you trust me, Seanchai, you can ride your fine stallion again,” he said quietly.

  Astounded, Morgan stared at the black man’s arms extended toward him, then transferred his gaze to Sandemon’s face. The dark eyes regarded him with a watchful expression.

  “If I trust you?” Morgan repeated softly.

  Sandemon nodded, waiting.

  Morgan moistened his lips, then held out his hands to Sandemon, like a child.

  A slow smile broke across Sandemon’s face. With strong arms, he lifted Morgan up, out of the wheelchair, into the leather seat of the swinglike contraption. “Hold the ropes tightly, Seanchai. We are going to lift you up, just high enough so that Annie can lead Pilgrim underneath you. Then I will lower you into the saddle. See, he is ready and waiting for his master.”

  His throat swollen, Morgan looked at the wide-eyed Annie, then Pilgrim, then back to Sandemon. “Aye,” he said, gripping the ropes. “This might work.”

  The sleeves of Sandemon’s purple shirt billowed out, as slowly, carefully, he pulled at the rope, hand over hand. Morgan felt himself rising, looked nervously down at his limp legs swinging uselessly over the stable floor. At the same time, Annie began to move, her eyes on Morgan, suspended above the ground.

  Looking down, Morgan swallowed hard. “Sure, and there are those who have always said I would swing one day,” he cracked weakly.

  Sandemon now secured the rope around a pole and held it, waiting until Annie brought the stallion to a halt, directly beneath Morgan.

  Once the horse was in place, Sandemon slowly, ever so slowly, lowered Morgan down into the saddle.

  Morgan’s arms trembled as he touched the leather saddle, felt the strong, hard-muscled back beneath him. Pilgrim gave a small puff of pleasure, as if to welcome him.