Dawn of the Golden Promise

by BJ Hoff

  Yet, as much as he feared learning the truth about her background, if she had family somewhere who cared about her, who grieved for her absence, it could only be in Finola’s best interests to locate them. Not only did she deserve to be reunited with the ones who loved her, but finding her family would also mean she wouldn’t be left totally on her own if something should happen to him.

  Morgan could not bear to think of her being alone, defenseless, with both Gabriel and Annie to look after. He could ensure her financial security, of course—indeed, he had already seen to it. Most of his grandfather’s considerable fortune would be at Finola’s disposal in the event of his own death. But he wanted more than wealth for her. Her emotional turmoil still troubled him. She was still vulnerable in that regard. Her reluctance to appear in public, her sometimes irrational caution where the children were concerned, the ongoing nightmares—were these not indications that her wounds had yet to heal?

  So in spite of his own misgivings as to what such a discovery might lead to, he continued to pray that Cassidy would somehow come upon the truth about Finola’s past. At the same time, he could not help but implore the Almighty to allow nothing…not even the truth…to come between him and his beloved or bring still more grief to her already burdened spirit.

  Just then she rapped lightly on his door and stepped inside. As always, the sight of her golden loveliness brought a breath-stealing wave of tenderness and love to his heart.

  In spite of his somber thoughts of a moment ago, his smile for her required no effort. “Ah—and I thought the day was cloudy,” he said, extending his hands to her. “But ’tis only that the sun has moved indoors.”

  She hesitated, and her inquisitive look turned to amusement. “Don’t think to distract me by your blarney, sir,” she said, crossing the room to catch his hands in hers. “I came to hear the surgeon’s full report.”

  “He says I am an outrageous man.”

  She arched a brow. “How very perceptive our Dr. Dunne is.”

  “He also says I will continue to require a great deal of affection and attention from my beautiful wife. You may begin.”

  “You are an outrageous man.”

  Her bell-like laugh was delightful. Morgan never missed the slightest opportunity to coax the sound from her. He sometimes thought he could exist on nothing but the warmth of her smile and the music of her laughter.

  3

  House of Hope

  The hope lives on, age after age…

  GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL (AE) (1867–1935)

  Washington, D.C.

  In the White House, which steamed with summer heat, President Zachary Taylor drew his last breath. It was an abrupt end to a brief term in office.

  The President had fallen ill some days before, at the Independence Day cornerstone ceremony of the Washington Monument. He had served only a year and four months of his term.

  His passing left a country enmeshed in a storm of bitter controversy over the issue of slavery. A country in turmoil because of the thousands of immigrants now swarming its shores—immigrants who filled the cities with strange speech, strange clothing, and even stranger customs. A country in conflict over the question of freedom, on which the young nation of America had allegedly been founded.

  Freedom for all, the founding fathers had proclaimed.

  Freedom for a few, the new, increasingly ugly voices of power demanded.

  The concept of America as a refuge for those fleeing the tyranny and devastation of foreign nations suddenly seemed to be up for debate. To some, this aspect of America’s image had always been dubious. To others, it was a sacred and unchallengeable ideal—to hold up the banner of hope to every refugee who stepped onto the shores of the United States.

  In those cities whose ports now teemed with immigrants, a few courageous visionaries—themselves descended from immigrants—struggled to keep that banner of hope aloft.

  New York City

  It was a testament to the influence—and energy—of millionaire shipbuilder Lewis Farmington. Today, less than six months from the time the idea was first conceived and presented to him, Whittaker House would officially open its doors.

  Already the city’s newest children’s home was licensed, at least partially renovated and furnished, and well on its way to being populated with its first young residents.

  Farmington was also responsible for the dedication service, at which Pastor Jess Dalton officiated. The ceremony was held outdoors, on the wide front porch of the building. Despite the sweltering heat, an impressive number of philanthropists, clergy, and other notable dignitaries were in attendance.

  When the speeches finally concluded and the benediction had been intoned, Evan Whittaker, the new establishment’s superintendent, was presented with a sizable donation collected from various churches and private organizations throughout the city.

  This, too, had been the doing of Lewis Farmington.

  The new superintendent accepted the contribution with his customary British dignity and aplomb. Only the six small boys standing behind him—the first residents of the new children’s home—detected the slight shaking of Evan Whittaker’s legs.

  Those in the crowd who knew him best, however—including his frail but beaming wife—could not help but note the slender Englishman’s flush of embarrassment. But although he stuttered rather badly over his speech of acceptance, his final words came as a prayer, clear and unwavering:

  “It is my deepest hope that God will make this place a house of refuge, where all His children, regardless of color or creed, may find safe shelter and nurture in His love.”

  Michael and Sara Burke were the first to shake Evan’s hand after the ceremony, although Sara hung back for a moment before adding her good wishes to Michael’s. For her, the proceedings had been fraught with emotion. In fact, the intensity of her response surprised her.

  She had witnessed such incredible change in the lives of Evan and Nora Whittaker since that day on the Manhattan docks when they first arrived in New York—frightened, ailing immigrants who had left home and country for the promise of America. In scarcely more than three years, the two had endured illness and tragedy, broken dreams and grievous loss. Struggle and suffering had marked their experience of the United States in ways no one could have foreseen.

  Yet through it all Evan and Nora had believed in America’s promise, had clung to that dream and to their God’s faithfulness. And today, in spite of overwhelming obstacles and reverses, the promise had been fulfilled beyond their dreams.

  Today Sara realized that the promise had not been for Evan and Nora alone, but for the children of New York City as well. Like a shining, golden gift, Whittaker House held forth the possibility of hope to those who had known little but despair in their young lives. Just as America offered the hope of survival and a better life to untold thousands of immigrants, this large, solid brick building extended the hope of survival and a better life to the unloved, forgotten children of New York.

  Hope. Surely the word itself was one of the loveliest songs of the human heart.

  Blinking back tears, she watched Michael put a hand to Evan’s shoulder. “A grand day, Evan,” he said, grinning broadly. “You and Sara’s father have done a remarkable job.”

  Evan shook his head. “Mr. Farmington has d-done a remarkable job—he and the Lord. I’m still rather stunned b-by it all, I m-must confess.”

  “It’s such a wonderful idea, Evan,” Sara said, smiling at his characteristic self-effacement. “It must give you great joy to see your dream finally become reality.”

  He looked at her. “But it wasn’t m-my dream, you know. Whittaker House was God’s idea, not m-mine. I would never have had the boldness to conceive of anything so m-marvelous.”

  Sara studied the lean-faced Englishman’s honest features and knew he meant what he said. Yet she, like many others, had come to see a facet of Evan’s character that apparently eluded him: a spirit that would always champion those in need, a nobility that, desp
ite impossible odds or self-sacrifice, would somehow manage to persevere.

  Perhaps this very trait made Evan Whittaker such an ideal instrument of God’s grace. For truly, this humble man had become a source of blessing to many—not only his own family and circle of friends, but especially to those young souls who seemed to matter to no one else: the city’s homeless, unwanted children.

  “Well, whoever conceived it, it’s an extraordinary idea,” she said. “And you must know Father believes in this venture with all his heart, the way he’s supported you in it.”

  “Even though he’s still grinding his teeth over losing you from the shipyards,” Michael put in. “He hasn’t quite come to grips with it yet.”

  “Father says that’s his own private sacrifice for the public good,” Sara told Evan, smiling at the faint flush of pleasure that stole over his features. “He also says that Whittaker House will be filled to overflowing in no time, but he’s hoping the idea will catch on throughout the city and lead to the opening of other shelters. Obviously, you can’t begin to meet the demand that already exists.”

  Evan’s eyes clouded. “I know. Why, we’ve taken in five children just this week—and that’s in addition to B-Billy.”

  Sara nodded, glancing at little Billy Hogan, who stood at the bottom of the steps with another small boy. Both were eating cookies as they studied each other with measuring looks.

  “The lad has bloomed under your care,” Michael said. “It’s good to see him looking like a normal little boy instead of a whipped pup.”

  “He’s a wonderful b-boy,” Evan said. “And I think he is happy with us. But he frets in the worst way over his younger b-brothers.”

  “I thought one of the immigrant societies was helping Billy’s family,” Sara said.

  Evan nodded. “They are. And I think for the most part they’re m-managing well. But Billy is concerned about what will happen if Sorley Dolan should be released from prison.”

  Sara shuddered. The memory of the merciless physical abuse Dolan had inflicted on the child was still all too fresh. Dolan, who had passed himself off as Billy’s uncle—though he wasn’t actually related to the boy at all—had almost killed little Billy with his violent beatings and forced starvation.

  “I can’t believe they would even consider letting that barbarian out of jail!” she said, turning to Michael. “Surely he’ll be locked up for a long time.”

  Michael’s expression darkened. “Don’t count on it, Sara. It’s a wonder he’s been held as long as he has. With the jail cells packed as they are these days, there’s many a sentence being cut short.”

  “Well, I should hope Sorley Dolan’s won’t be one of them,” Sara said firmly.

  Evan Whittaker’s gaze went to the boys standing at the bottom of the steps. “Yes,” he said quietly. “So d-do I.”

  Again Sara turned to her husband. “Michael, there must be something you can do to make sure Dolan isn’t set free.”

  He looked at her, then shrugged. “A policeman has no influence in the courts, Sara. You know that. And the truth is, there’s no room for even half the felons we haul in. Why, if we opened ten jails tomorrow, they’d be jammed to the walls in a day, every one of them. The situation is out of control.”

  Sara shook her head in disgust. “It seems to me the entire city is out of control.”

  “Most of the police force would agree,” he admitted.

  Sara saw his eyes suddenly go hard as his attention shifted to the other side of the street. “I expect we can thank the likes of blighters like her husband for much of the madness,” he bit out, jerking his head in the direction of his gaze.

  Frowning, Sara turned to look. On the opposite side of the street stood Alice Walsh, seemingly absorbed in a conversation with her children. Isabel Walsh, a rather thickset girl who looked dreadfully overdressed in a yellow ruffled frock, and Henry, a thin-faced boy with thick spectacles, stood on either side of their mother. Both seemed to be talking at once.

  Evan, too, looked in Alice Walsh’s direction. “I suppose,” he said, “there is no disputing her husband’s reputation. But as for M-Mrs. Walsh herself—I cannot say enough good things about her.”

  Michael nodded, but his tone was grudging. “Aye, Sara thinks well of the woman, too. She does seem a decent sort, but how do you account for her getting mixed up with an animal like Walsh?”

  Sara heard the old, familiar animosity in his tone. It was always like this. The slightest mention of Patrick Walsh would ignite the spark of anger in his eyes and bring an edge of bitterness to his voice.

  Sometimes she feared Michael had made the destruction of Patrick Walsh his life’s work, to the exclusion of all else. She was convinced that he had even put aside his political ambitions, at least for the time being, because of his obsession with Walsh.

  When she tried to talk to him about it, he only pretended to listen. He evaded her questions, and made light of her misgivings. Even though Walsh had been directly responsible for the brutal attack on Michael’s son, Tierney—and the boy’s forced exile to Ireland—Michael invariably denied Sara’s suggestions that his fixation on Walsh might be excessive.

  Yet Sara knew beyond the slightest doubt that Michael had set the entire force of his will to achieving one goal: to bring Patrick Walsh to justice. And he would not stop until he had accomplished his aim.

  Despite the scorching temperature of the day, Sara shivered. She could not help but wonder whether Patrick Walsh was aware of Michael’s enmity. And if he was, what ends might he go to in order to thwart him?

  Alice Walsh was only half listening to Isabel’s complaints about the heat and Henry’s criticism of the structural design of Whittaker House. Her thoughts kept darting back to the events of the day.

  She was so pleased for Evan Whittaker and what this new venture was going to mean to the homeless children throughout the city. She longed to cross the street and congratulate him, but, seeing him in the company of Sara Burke and her husband, she decided against it.

  Sara would be cordial, of course; she was unfailingly gracious, even friendly, when they met. But the captain…

  Alice bit her lip, all too aware of what to expect from Captain Burke. The forced smile, the grudging concession to a polite greeting, followed by the fixed look that stopped just short of open disdain. It was always the same. She sensed that Captain Burke’s reaction to her was kindled by his hostility toward Patrick, and his silent disapproval hurt.

  She didn’t understand the enmity between the policeman and her husband. Only lately had she begun to suspect that she might not want to understand. She felt a growing apprehension about the cause of the deep-seated animosity between the two men; indeed, she had found herself unwilling to probe too deeply, for fear of what she might discover.

  Worse still, whenever she thought of the situation at all, she automatically blamed her husband, as if the fault were entirely his. There had been a time when it would have been virtually impossible for her to blame Patrick for anything. The fact that she did so now, and did it so readily, troubled her with a sense of guilt she could not easily dismiss.

  In his hotel office nearby, Patrick Walsh glared once more at the letter in his hand, then crumpled it and tossed it into the ashtray on the corner of the desk. He struck a match, and in seconds the letter had burned to ashes.

  The little fool! What in the world was she thinking of, writing him a threatening letter! As if threats from the likes of her would intimidate him.

  He regretted his carelessness, certainly. There had been too many champagne dinners at her flat, too many late nights, entirely too little regard for the usual caution. He had been altogether too nonchalant, and it wouldn’t happen again.

  He should have known the little tramp would try to trap him. She wanted money, of course. That’s what the line about “asking nothing for herself but a secure future for the baby” was all about. Clearly, she was going to try to take him for a bundle.

  Well, she was in for a
big disappointment. She would get nothing from him—only enough to help with the doctor bills. Not a penny more.

  He walked to the window and looked out on the sultry summer afternoon, thinking about the last time they had been together. Ruth had wept violently when he said goodbye. She always did, always begged him to stay longer. Sometimes he gave in, but not that night.

  Even before then, he had been growing impatient with her transparent efforts to ensnare him, to coax some kind of a serious commitment from him. At first he had been merely amused by her feeble attempts at entrapment. Eventually, though, he had wearied of her whining and spent less and less time at her flat when he was in town.

  Once he learned she was pregnant, he ended it. At least he thought he had.

  She had never been important to him in the first place, merely an enjoyable diversion when he was in Chicago on business. The entire affair wouldn’t have rated a second thought, had it not been for this latest ploy. She was actually threatening to come to New York!

  Not that he really believed she would. She was far too timid; he couldn’t imagine her finding the nerve to travel such a long distance alone. She had no self-assurance, no experience in getting along on her own. No, she wouldn’t try anything so daring.

  But what if she did? What if Alice should learn of the affair?

  Worse, yet, what if Alice’s father should find out?

  In spite of the dim coolness of the office, Patrick’s skin felt hot and moist. With his shirt sleeve, he wiped a band of perspiration from his forehead.

  Jacob Braun would never forgive such a flagrant indiscretion on his son-in-law’s part. He would see it as a mortal sin, a deliberate humiliation of his daughter—his adored, pampered, overprotected, only daughter.