by BJ Hoff
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with a frown. “I have no intention of avoiding the difficult calls because I’m a woman. I thought you knew me better than that by now.”
Andrew took her hand. “It has nothing to do with your being a woman. But I couldn’t help seeing how it distressed you, and I could have handled the call on my own. Asking you to come was pure selfishness on my part. I simply wanted you with me.”
She glanced down at their clasped hands but made no attempt to pull away. “You said you’d read my grandfather’s papers on narcotic addiction?”
Andrew nodded.
“Well, so did I. But since much of his research concentrated on the War years and the soldiers who became addicted to painkillers after being injured, I suppose I’ve assumed that addiction was mostly confined to men. Seeing Mary Lambert and what the opium has done to her disturbed me. It seemed worse, somehow, to encounter a woman—a mother with obviously neglected children—in that awful condition.”
Something dark and troubling squeezed Andrew’s chest, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to reply, not just yet.
“No doubt you think I’m naive,” she went on, “and perhaps I am.”
“No,” Andrew said. “Not at all. We don’t hear very much about women becoming addicted to liquor or narcotics,” he said. “Nevertheless, it’s all too common. Especially in the slum districts. I’ve seen it time and time again. Women or men—it’s a vicious, devastating evil.”
He should tell her. He should tell her now. This was as good a time as any, and eventually she would have to know. She had confided in him, after all. She’d been open and candid with him about many things in her life. The longer they were together, the more she seemed to open her thoughts, her memories, her feelings to him. But how did he begin? And how could he face what he would surely see in her eyes once she knew the truth?
He pulled in a deep breath. On impulse, he squeezed her hand, saying, “It’s late, and neither of us has eaten since noon. Why don’t we stop at Upton’s and have a late supper?”
“Oh, you read my mind! A decent meal and a cup of tea will go far to lift my spirits; I’m sure of it.”
Andrew forced a smile to mask the sick awareness that what he planned to tell her over supper would almost certainly do anything but lift her spirits.
“Andrew, you’ve scarcely eaten at all. I thought you were hungry.”
They were midway through a late dinner at Upton’s, and Andrew still hadn’t initiated the conversation he’d been dreading. He pushed his food around on his plate, not answering her.
Bethany gave a long sigh and put her own fork down. “I can’t get them out of my mind either,” she said. “And do you know what I find myself thinking, Andrew?”
He looked up.
“I can’t help but wonder about the church.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I see a case like Mary Lambert—and when I realize that there must be tragedies like this all throughout the city—I have to question how it happened, how it came to this. There are also churches throughout the city, filled with people who claim to abhor poverty and neglected children and godless parents. How does an entire family come to utter ruin without the church doing something about it?”
She clenched one hand into a fist. “Worse still, if the Lambert boy was right, it was Robert Warburton—a clergyman—who led Mary Lambert into this appalling state! How could a man—a pastor—do such a thing and live with himself? With his wife?”
“Don’t you think we are the church?”
She frowned and leaned forward a little. “What?”
“You and I. And anyone else who’s willing to take Christ’s mercy to the world.” Andrew pushed his plate away. “People make up the church, Bethany, and people are inclined to forget about the Mary Lamberts of this world. The problems seem so overwhelming that even people who do care feel as if they can’t do anything to change the situation. They forget that one person can make a difference. That’s where it has to begin: with one person.”
He stopped, raking a hand over the back of his neck. A fiery shaft of pain shot up his arm, and he caught his breath before going on. “For the most part, we assume that one person can’t make a difference, and so we leave it up to ‘other people’—those who are ‘in charge’ of that sort of thing: the clergy, the benevolent societies, the physicians. But the truth is, there aren’t nearly enough ‘other people’ to do the job. And for those of us who do try to help, there’s never enough time or energy to do as much as we’d like.”
Again he paused and leaned back with a sigh. “Sooner or later, fatigue and discouragement set in. At least that’s how it is for me. At times, when I think about all the poverty and illness and hopelessness in this city, I can’t help but become frustrated with my limitations. And my own self-centeredness.”
Bethany leaned forward. “If there’s anything you’re not, Andrew Carmichael, it’s self-centered. You’re the most selfless person I’ve ever known.”
Andrew cringed inwardly at the compliment, especially since he had vowed to set the record straight tonight. He braced himself to change the subject.
As it happened, she did it for him.
“I need you to teach me all you know about addiction, Andrew,” she said. “I want to learn as much as I can.”
Andrew knotted his hands together. “Surely, with your grandfather’s studies and expertise in that area—”
She interrupted with a shake of her head. “I’m not talking about what I’ve learned from books and papers. Yes, I’ve read as much as I could about various addictions, but I’ve had no real experience in treating them. Obviously, you have. After tonight, I can see that I need to know more.”
Andrew swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. She had opened the door to the very subject he’d intended to raise—and now he wanted nothing so much as a way to avoid it.
But before he could utter a single word, he looked up to see a young patrolman named Liam MacGrath bearing down on their table.
“Evenin’, Dr. Cole,” the policeman said, doffing his hat to Bethany. “Dr. Carmichael. Sergeant Donovan said if you weren’t at your office or at home I might find you here or over to Axel’s. You’re needed down at Paradise Square.”
Andrew scraped his chair back and retrieved his medical case. “What’s happened?”
“Big explosion at the powder factory. We got several with real bad burns.”
“We’ll need transportation,” Bethany said matter-of-factly as she got to her feet, her case in hand. “We took a hack here.”
The young patrolman looked at her. “Well, now, I don’t mind tellin’ you, Dr. Cole, Paradise Square is no place for a lady.”
Bethany fixed a look on him and smiled. “I appreciate your concern, Officer, but I’ve been there before. Will you drive us?”
The policeman darted a glance at Andrew.
One look at Bethany’s face and Andrew knew better than to try to dissuade her. Paradise Square was as foul a place as any city ever harbored, but by now most of the rogues and rabble who peopled the area had come to recognize Bethany and himself—indeed, seemed to hold a grudging respect for them. Besides, it sounded as if they would both be needed.
“She’s right,” he conceded. “We should be on our way.”
Not until they had left the restaurant and were nearing the infamous Five Points district did it strike Andrew that only the most craven of cowards would welcome the squalor of Paradise Square as a means of withholding the truth from the woman he loved.
16
A SORROW SHARED
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
W. B. YEATS
In the snug little caretaker’s house at Bantry Hill, Vangie MacGovern lay beside her husband, watching him as he slept. He was peaceful as a boy, smiling in his dreams.
Here it was, three weeks before Christmas, and Vangie was still hiding his rightful gift from him.
And why hadn’t she told him? With each of the other children, she had been eager to make the announcement. She would have thought she would be even more impatient with this one. This would be their American child after all. Their first child born out from under the English boot of persecution. Their first child born to freedom.
The enormity of her deceit gnawed at her. By not sharing the news with Conn, she was depriving him of the elation he experienced each time he learned that a new babe was on the way. He had every right to share this joy, and she had no right to withhold it.
Yet she continued to keep silent. God forgive her, for some inexplicable and no doubt sinful reason, she did not want to see her husband’s joy, that familiar light of happiness and pride that always accompanied such news.
What kind of wicked, ungrateful woman had she become? It wasn’t that she resented the babe. To the contrary, she had already begun to experience that familiar rush of love and fierce protectiveness for a new life growing inside her. No matter how many times she might give birth, each time was a wonder, an incomparable gift.
No, she could never resent her own child. It was Conn she resented.
The truth had been lurking at the edges of her mind for days, but she had kept it at bay. Now she was confronted with the full force of its shame and fury. How could she possibly resent her husband for loving her and for giving her yet another expression of that love? Hadn’t she been blessed more than any woman had a right to be? To be married to a man who still loved her with all the passion of his manhood and the fullness of his heart after more than twenty years—surely she should be overcome with happiness and gratitude, not filled with resentment and bitterness.
The crux of her mutinous feelings toward her husband was Aidan, of course. She still resented Conn for the way he had set his head—and his heart—against their oldest son. She had begged him to write to the boy and initiate a reconciliation. Surely if Aidan knew of their unexpected good fortune, and if he could be convinced that Conn wanted him here, needed him here, then he would join them. But Conn met her every plea with the same hardheaded refusal. He simply would not take the first step.
And so day after day, week after week, the stone in Vangie’s heart—the stone that stood between her love for her husband and her forgiveness of him—seemed to grow harder and more resistant.
She had written her own letters to Aidan, a number of them. But no reply had come, not so much as a note. And Vangie knew with a sick certainty that a reply would never come unless Conn himself made the first move to break down the wall between himself and their son. And how likely was that, himself the stubborn fool?
Vangie feared she might never see her oldest son again. And for that, she could not bring herself to forgive her husband.
Both the pain and the unforgiveness burned in her day and night. Like a pool of acid eating away at her insides, little by little, joy by joy, dream by dream. She could find little more than drudgery in the very act of living. The anticipation of a new baby couldn’t fill the void of her firstborn’s absence any more than her love for her husband could bridge the widening gap between them.
Conn stirred in his sleep and moved to draw her closer to him. But Vangie resisted, lying still until at last, overcome by the soul sickness dredging up in her with a vengeance, she rose and left their bed.
Renny Magee lay awake on her cot in the narrow loft, listening to the night sounds of the river and the rising wind. She could tell by the draft coming through the window that the air had turned sharply colder.
At first she thought the strange noise below was merely the wind keening through the pine trees at the side of the house. She burrowed deeper under the bed covers. But after a moment more, she heard the sound again and sat up, listening.
It wasn’t the wind. Someone was in the kitchen, directly below her.
Someone weeping.
She hesitated only a minute before flinging the covers aside and, shivering in the cold, tiptoed down the wooden steps from the loft in her stocking feet.
At the doorway to the kitchen, she stopped short. There was no light in the room, save for a candle flickering weakly on the shelf of the cupboard near the window. Still, she could see Vangie, sitting alone at the table, her head resting on her arms, her slender shoulders rising and falling as she wept.
Dread immobilized Renny as she stood watching. What terrible thing had happened? But then it struck her that Vangie would hardly be weeping alone at the kitchen table had some awful event occurred. In times of difficulty, members of the MacGovern family didn’t keep to themselves, but drew together.
The sight of the strong, kindhearted Vangie sorrowing in the lonely silence of the night pierced Renny’s heart like a darning needle. Yet she resisted the fierce desire to cross the room and offer comfort. Vangie would most likely not welcome an intrusion upon her solitude.
And so she backed away, hovering just outside the door where she wouldn’t be seen, half in fear of what had brought Vangie to such a state of despair, half in despondency at the awareness that it was not her place to approach this woman she loved as she might have loved her own mother…had she ever known what it was to have a mother.
Conn woke from a restless sleep to find Vangie gone from their bed.
After another moment he heard her in the kitchen, weeping. He rose to go to her, then stopped, sinking back onto the mattress. This wasn’t the first time she had left their bed in the middle of the night.
And he knew why. She meant to conceal her pain from him.
Apparently, she believed he didn’t hear her sobbing alone in the kitchen, didn’t see the evidence of her sadness in her swollen eyes at the breakfast table. She continued to pretend that all was well, that she was happy and content in their new home. But to his own grief, Conn knew better. For a long time now, Vangie had kept a part of herself closed, shut away from him, even when they made love.
There was a place in her reserved for someone else, he knew. An empty place that not even the depth of his love, the needs of the children, and the richness of their life here on this sprawling, wondrous piece of land could ever fill. It was Aidan’s place, and it was growing inside her, growing to such proportions that Conn feared before long it might shut out all else, including him.
At last he turned and, even though the urge to go to her was almost more than he could bear, he fought against it. He couldn’t bring himself to face her resentment yet again, to see the accusation in her eyes. He knew what she wanted from him, and although he would have moved mountains for her, sure, there would be no moving Aidan. He had seen it in his son’s face that day on the docks, when he’d turned and walked away from them, from all of them, even his mother. The boy had made his choice, and he had chosen Ireland over his own family.
What could be done about such a son?
Besides, did Vangie really think this was easy for him? Didn’t she realize that the knife in her heart sliced as deeply into his own? Aidan was his son, too. Didn’t she understand that the loss of their son was as much his loss as hers?
There was nothing more he could say to her that he hadn’t already said, nothing to ease her pain or purge her resentment toward him. Surely in time, she would come to see that there was nothing either of them could do. Aidan would come to America only if and when he wanted to come, and until then they might just as well let go of the boy.
He considered himself a man, after all, so let him be a man. They had their other children to care for. The good Lord knew that in itself was a full-time job.
Conn sighed. Morning would come soon, and he’d have to be up and ready to work. And so he buried his head in the pillows, trying to drown out the heartbreaking sound of his wife’s unhappiness, even as he attempted to ignore his own.
17
SURPRISES IN THE MORNING
&nbs
p; A little love, a little trust,
A soft impulse, a sudden dream…
STOPFORD A. BROOKE
Christmas was less than three weeks away, and the orchestra would perform its annual holiday concert—the final concert of the year—in just ten days.
Susanna had been seeing evidence of Michael’s usual pre-performance tension for days now. This morning, however, he seemed more energized than edgy, consuming his breakfast in a rush and replying to Caterina’s questions in a vague and disjointed fashion. None of this was like him at all; Michael was a man who typically savored not only his food, but mealtime itself, taking advantage of the time at the table to enjoy Caterina’s chatter.
Come to think of it, Caterina was also acting peculiar. Instead of Susanna having to call her at least twice before she stirred, she had appeared in the hallway a little before seven, still in her nightgown and wrapper, but wide awake and fairly dancing with high spirits.
By the time they were finished with breakfast, Susanna was convinced that both Michael and Caterina were indeed behaving oddly, as if they were conspiring together. Caterina kept darting glances at Susanna with a puckish smile, and several times she left her chair to whisper in her father’s ear, despite Susanna’s pointed remarks about rudeness.
Normally Michael would have reprimanded his daughter for such conduct, but this morning he appeared to be enjoying her mischief. And Caterina, the little minx, was clearly intent on taking full advantage of her father’s indulgence.
They had taken to eating their morning meal in the small breakfast room off the kitchen instead of in the dining room. Susanna herself had suggested the change; both Michael and Caterina seemed less restrained in the small, cheerful setting that looked out onto the gardens. Besides, the vast dining hall was too stuffy a setting for breakfast. Since Paul was almost always up and about before the rest of the household and rarely sat down for the morning meal, it was normally just the three of them at the table.
