Dawn of the Golden Promise

by BJ Hoff

  He smiled a little. “She’s suited for Morgan, right enough. The lass looks like something right out of the storybooks. Like one of the enchanted princesses from the old legends.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Sara mused. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more beautiful woman than Finola Fitzgerald.”

  He looked at her, then moved to gather her closer. “As I said, she suits Morgan. For myself, though, I am a man who has always been partial to a dark-haired woman with great, soft eyes.” He brought his face closer to hers. “A woman like yourself, Mrs. Burke, now that’s the kind of woman that suits me.”

  Tenderly, he kissed her. When he drew back, he smoothed her hair away from her face and searched her eyes, smiling at the flush she could feel creeping over her skin. Sara wanted to tell him she would be endlessly thankful that she suited him, but she could find no words to say what was in her heart.

  Which was just as well, for Michael did not seem to want to talk.

  Later that morning, as Finola put up her hair, she watched Morgan in the mirror. He sat propped up in bed, reading yet another of the American newspapers Michael had given him the night before.

  He was totally engrossed. His eyeglasses had slipped a little down the bridge of his nose, and his brow was furrowed in concentration. Occasionally he would chuckle or give a sharp sound of surprise; once or twice he muttered in disagreement.

  “I think I will like this man, Greeley,” he said, exchanging one paper for another. “His editorials demonstrate great sympathy for the black slaves and Irish emigrants. I may be meeting him soon, did I tell you? Michael says Pastor Dalton thinks Greeley might consider serializing the journal in his newspaper—” He waved the paper in his hand. “The Tribune.”

  With a smile, Finola turned to face him. “I think much ground has already been broken for you, before we ever arrived.”

  Morgan laid the newspaper aside. His face was animated, and as he told her about his hopes for the coming days, he worked his hands as if he could not contain his energy.

  Fascinated, Finola studied him. She had grown used to his intensity by now, the almost feverish way he pursued whatever he believed in. But she did not think she had ever seen him quite so spirited as at this moment.

  Later, when he had finished relating his prospects for their American visit, she carefully broached the subject on her mind.

  “Morgan…when will you see Dr. Gunther?”

  His reply was immediate. “When I have all things in order for Joseph’s journal.” As if he sensed that she was less than satisfied with his answer, he hurried to reassure her. “It shouldn’t take long, you know. As you said, Lewis Farmington and Pastor Dalton seem to have already set things in motion.”

  Suddenly it occurred to Finola that Morgan’s eyes almost always caressed her face when he spoke to her. But now, she sensed that he was deliberately avoiding her gaze.

  Troubled by his evasion, she rose and went to sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. When she reached to take both his hands in hers, he finally met her eyes.

  “Morgan, I know Father Joseph’s journal is very important to you. And I know one of your reasons for making the crossing was to see the work published.”

  He didn’t answer, but his expression was wary, as if he suspected the direction her words might take.

  “I must say this to you, Morgan. Please have patience with me. As much as I believe, just as you do, that the journal should indeed be published and widely distributed, I will admit that is not the concern uppermost in my mind. Morgan, please…promise me you won’t delay the examination with Dr. Gunther.”

  His glance darted to their clasped hands, and Finola realized only then how tightly she was clinging to him. Still, she made no move to let him go.

  “You’re not afraid I’ll change my mind, macushla? I’d not do that, you know.”

  “Not that you might change your mind, but that in your determination to publish the journal, you will neglect yourself. I warn you, Morgan, I will not let you do so!”

  His gaze went over her face, and he smiled. “If you are not careful, Finola aroon, you will become a terrible scold.”

  “A good Irish wife, you mean,” she countered, trying to match his lightness of tone.

  “You are already that,” he said, lifting her hands to brush his lips over them. “No man could hope for a finer wife.”

  “Then promise me,” she demanded, unable to sustain the lighthearted tone of a moment before. “Promise me that you will see the surgeon soon, without delay, no matter what you accomplish—or do not accomplish—with the journal.”

  Still he teased. “Listen to the woman, with her ferocious demands.”

  “Morgan—promise me.”

  Again he brought her hands to his lips. “Ah, Finola, do you not realize by now I would promise you the world and the stars above it, if you but asked?”

  “I am not asking for the world or the stars, but only for a promise.”

  He acquiesced with a nod and a kiss, then told her, “Have Sandemon come and help me out of bed, if you will. I must get dressed for the day.”

  “We can manage without Sandemon,” Finola said, getting to her feet.

  “I expect you’re right,” Morgan said dryly as she walked to the window and looked out. “But do not ever let him hear you say as much.”

  “Besides, Sandemon seems to be occupied. He is with your friend Michael, in the garden.”

  “Ah. Good. I had hoped those two would come to know each other better. Michael grieves so for his son. Perhaps Sandemon will ease his mind a bit.

  “Well, woman,” he said after a moment, “will I lie here all day like a great lump, or will you be helping me?”

  She turned and smiled, aching with the sweetness of her love for him.

  He met her smile with a rakish grin of his own. “Unless, that is, you would care to join me?” He patted the space beside him, then removed his eyeglasses. “I am not in such a great hurry, after all.”

  Michael had been on his way out back for his early morning walk in the garden when he spotted Morgan’s man, Sandemon—the “West Indies Wonder” as Morgan was wont to call him—and went to join him.

  Though the morning was cool, Sandemon was in his shirtsleeves, walking among Grandy’s tidy row of herb plants, his face lifted slightly as if to savor the fragrance. At Michael’s approach, he smiled politely and gave a brief nod.

  “I had hoped for a chance to thank you,” Michael said without preamble. “Morgan told me my son owes you his life.”

  Sandemon shook his head, not looking directly at Michael. “Your son owes his life only to God,” he said, still smiling. “I merely waited on the boy and his friend during the cholera, as best I could.”

  “Still, I am indebted to you for your kindness to Tierney. I do thank you.” Michael paused, uncertain as to how to pose the question on his mind. “About this friend of his—Morgan says he’s a Romany. A Gypsy.”

  “Jan Martova. Yes, he is from the Romany tribe.”

  “And the two of them have gone off together on a trip across the country. In a Gypsy wagon.” Michael heard the edge in his voice, but he felt he had reason to be concerned. Of all the things he might have expected of his rebel son, taking up with a Gypsy would not have been one of them.

  “Yes, young Tierney seems to have great passion for the land of his father. He wanted to see it for himself.”

  “A good deal more passion than his father ever had for it, I expect,” Michael said dryly.

  Sandemon started to walk, and Michael joined him. “What sort is he, this Gypsy?”

  “Jan Martova is a fine young man with a tender heart. And he loves God. He is a believer.”

  Michael looked at him. “A Romany with the Christian faith? I would not have thought that possible.”

  “His faith came to him during the attack of cholera. I can assure you it is genuine.”

  The black man stopped and turned, looking Michael in the eye for the fi
rst time. “Perhaps you are aware that the Gypsy youth was banished from his tribe for choosing to help your son when he was ill?”

  Michael nodded. Morgan had told him as much in one of his letters.

  “Although Jan Martova is of the Romany tribe, he no longer practices their beliefs,” Sandemon went on. “He has great affection for his family, and I’m sure he misses them very much, but he is not welcome at their campfire. Even if he were, I am convinced his Christian faith would prevent him from falling back into the old ways.” He stopped, his dark eyes studying Michael. “You have a great burden for your son, Captain, do you not?”

  Michael swallowed and looked away. He was not altogether comfortable with discussing his son with a total stranger. Still, Morgan did think the world of this man. And in spite of Sandemon’s protests, Morgan had been adamant in his assertion that, had it not been for Sandemon’s round-the-clock attentions, both boys—Tierney and the Gypsy—might not have survived the cholera.

  “I want only what’s best for my son,” Michael said with a sigh. “Naturally, I would like him to be a decent man. A good man.”

  “Of course. And I believe young Tierney will eventually live up to your hopes for him, Captain.”

  Michael looked at him.

  “Your son is brave, if a bit reckless at times—a common trait among the young, I have observed. He is also loyal and has a generous heart. Certainly traits of a good man, wouldn’t you say?”

  Michael looked into the man’s face and felt himself drawn to the gentle kindness reflected there. “How is he? In his heart of hearts, how is he?”

  Sandemon seemed to consider the question. “Your son is struggling to find the truth, Captain,” he said, his voice quiet and thoughtful. “He is confused about many things, but courageous enough to explore. You may be surprised at my saying so, but I do believe this trip about the island with his friend will be good for him. Very good indeed. Jan Martova has a pure soul and a keen instinct for what is right and true. Your son could do worse in his choice of friends. I think the weeks or months they spend together will be time well spent.”

  Michael felt his heart unclench, just a little. “I’d like to believe that.”

  Sandemon regarded Michael with a look of gentle understanding. “Captain, I believe that most men, in their deepest souls, want to know the truth—and to be strong enough to live their lives by that truth. It seems to me that your son is fortunate, in that he has had people throughout his life—both family and friends—who love him enough to encourage him, to stand by him, to pray for him. I think Jan Martova will prove to be such a friend, and I believe our all-wise heavenly Father will be at work among the two of them as they make their journey.” He ended with a faint smile. “And, one thing more, Captain. If you will permit me, I would like to say that, like the Seanchai, I have grown quite fond of your son over the past months. Indeed, Tierney is an easy young man to like.”

  Warmed by the man’s simple, direct words, Michael suddenly felt better about Tierney than he had for a long time. Somehow, without really knowing Morgan’s West Indies Wonder, he thought it must be a genuine compliment, a true honor, to gain the favor of such a man. For his son’s sake, he was pleased; for his own, he was grateful.

  Impulsively, he reached to shake Sandemon’s hand. Afterward, as he walked back to the house, he felt encouraged and cheered, excessively pleased that God had allowed this reunion of friends. More than ever he was hopeful that much good would result from it, a good that would eventually bless them all.

  37

  Letters

  Seek out reality, leave things that seem.

  W. B. YEATS (1865–1939)

  On Thursday afternoon of that same week, Quinn O’Shea was enjoying a rare hour to herself when she found another envelope slipped beneath the front door.

  Instead of hurrying upstairs to her bedroom, as she usually did, she scooped up the letter and ducked inside the library. Mrs. Whittaker and wee Teddy were having a rest, and Mr. Whittaker was teaching his last class of the day before the boys’ choir rehearsal. With Johanna at the academy and Daniel off to the Five Points with the visiting poet, Fitzgerald, Quinn felt reasonably sure she would not be interrupted.

  Inside the library, she went to the tall window behind Mr. Whittaker’s desk. The light filtering into the room was dim, all but blocked by the enormous old oak tree right outside the window. She held the envelope to the light, staring at the name for a moment, swallowing down a stream of emotions that ranged from anticipation to dread.

  A part of her had hoped that no more letters would come. She knew she had to put a stop to Daniel’s dreaming. There could never be anything between them, even if she had felt something more than friendship for the lad—which she did not. Besides, his sort deserved as good as himself; a pure girl, unsullied and unused—not one jaded and left hard by life’s cruel twists and abuses.

  Yet there was another part, a hidden part which she had tried to ignore, but could not quite silence—a part of her that cried out to the soul behind the pen from which the shy and gentle love poetry continued to flow. That timorous, yet somehow hopeful, shadow-part of Quinn was loathe to relinquish the sweet, if transitory, touch of healing the poetry had brought her.

  Finally, with trembling hands, she opened the envelope. She ignored the painful tightness in her chest as she withdrew the single page and brought it close enough to her face that she could read the words.

  As she had expected, it was another poem, this one slightly different. More intense, hinting of a growing impatience, it was neither demanding nor angry, but lacked the gentleness of those that had gone before.

  She read the last few lines, then read them over again, her eyes straining in the pale light…

  “I have no fabric wove with golden threads,

  No silk upon which starlight gleams,

  No velvet trimmed with satin ribbons—

  Woman, will you wear my dreams?”

  A sob caught in Quinn’s throat, and her eyes misted. For a moment she could not read the note’s closing. When she did, the thin page shook in her hand:

  If you have a heart at all, please meet me at half-past seven tonight at the band pavilion in Schedlen Park. We must talk. Or, at the least, I must speak what I can no longer hide.

  A draft seeped through the window casing, and the paper in Quinn’s hand fluttered slightly. Yet cool as it was in the shadowed room, perspiration traced her hairline and moved down the back of her neck. With a heavy sigh, she sank down onto the window seat and sat staring outside, to the park just a ways up the street, on the other side.

  She sat there for a long time, the note dangling from her fingers, her heart aching, tears collecting in her eyes. Never before had she admitted to herself that, had she known the shame and guilt that would hound her every day since her last encounter with Millen Jupe, she would simply have allowed him to beat her to death without raising a hand to stop him.

  Her life since that night had not been worth the price she had paid. And if she told Daniel Kavanagh the truth—and she would, if it took the truth in all its ugliness to discourage him—her life thereafter would be worth even less.

  It would be her first time to attend a rehearsal since Patrick’s death, and Alice Walsh felt a certain edge of nervousness as she walked up the steps to Whittaker House. She had talked with Evan Whittaker and his wife twice after the hearing, but she had seen none of the boys in the choir for several weeks. Still, if she were ever to reclaim any semblance of a normal life, she had to make a start—and very soon. Waiting would only make everything more difficult.

  For her own sake and that of her children, she had to face reality, a reality affirmed by the court hearing: Patrick’s death had been ruled as an accidental shooting. Alice’s part in the incident, according to the court’s decision, had been a natural act of self-defense, as well as an attempt to save the life of Ruth Marriott—who in fact had died instantly from the fall down the stairway, although Alice could not h
ave known this for certain at the time. She had been summarily pronounced innocent of any wrongdoing.

  Innocent of any wrongdoing. What was she guilty of, then? Blind faith? Misplaced trust? An obsessive love for a man who had never deserved it, never returned it?

  Perhaps she was guilty of all that, but she was also, she reminded herself firmly, forgiven. At least by her God.

  Still, she struggled with remorse, with grief over the loss of her dreams and the loss of her husband. Even if he had pretended to be something he was not, Patrick had still been her husband, the one she had vowed to love and honor until death.

  And now death had parted them—death by her own hand. The court had ruled her innocent. God had forgiven her. But it would take longer to forgive herself.

  At the top of the steps she stopped to catch her breath. She tired easily these days, more than likely from the weeks of lost sleep and no appetite. For the first time since she could remember, she was losing weight, would actually have to have her wardrobe altered in the near future if she continued at this rate. There had been a time when that necessity would have brought her a great deal of pleasure; now it served only to remind her of the pain.

  Her eyes stung from unshed tears as she entered the cool, dim hallway of Whittaker House. She knew the anguish of the past would be with her for a long, long time to come—perhaps forever. But she also knew it did not have to dominate her life, not unless she allowed it to control her.

  Today was intended as her first step in putting the pain of yesterday behind her. Her mother had reminded her just yesterday, not for the first time, that Alice could either drown in her misery or gain healing in ministry.

  Dear Mama! Alice had once resented her mother’s stoicism, her insistence on good deeds as the cure for all malaise. She still didn’t entirely agree with Ula Braun’s regimented, Teutonic approach to life in general. But she would concede that, for the present at least, there was considerable wisdom in her mother’s advice to keep busy, preferably by doing for others. After praying for the strength and the fortitude to do just that, Alice had made the decision to attend rehearsal today.