Dawn of the Golden Promise (10 page)

Evan shook his head. Nora's reasoning—any woman's reasoning, for that matter, when it came to love—was a formidable challenge.

Finally Nora sank back against the pillows with a sigh. “You do like Quinn, don't you, Evan? I didn't mean to imply that she's anything but a decent girl, and her living right here in the house with us.”

“I like Quinn very m-much,” he said quickly. “And I'm sure she's a fine girl. But…”

When he hesitated, Nora frowned at him. “But what?” she prompted.

“Well, she does have a certain reticence about her that sometimes puzzles me.”

The truth was, he sometimes thought the girl was downright strange. He had to admit that he, too, would much rather see her take up with Sergeant Price than with Daniel. He doubted there was much of anything the good sergeant could not handle—including the mysterious Quinn O'Shea.

Releasing Nora's hand, Evan leaned to brush a light kiss over her forehead, then straightened. “We must simply pray that when the time comes, Daniel will find someone who will m-make him as happy as you've made me.”

Her expression clouded. “Please, God, let her not be the
burden
I've been to you,” she said, her voice low.

Dismayed, Evan hurried to reassure her. Bringing his face close to hers, he cupped her chin in his hand. “Oh, my beloved, never…
never…
say such a thing again! Why, m-most men go to their graves without ever knowing even a
taste
of the joy you've given me! I could never want anything m-more than your love, Nora. If you believe nothing else I've ever said to you, believe that.”

She gave him a weak smile. “I don't deserve you, Evan Whittaker. I don't deserve you at all. But I thank God every day of my life for you, and that's the truth.”

He touched a finger to her lips. “Then let us both thank Him for
this
day, beloved…and for every day He allows us to spend together. And then—you really m-must go to sleep.”

Still clinging to Evan's hand, Nora fell asleep even before they finished praying together.

5

Her hair was a waving bronze and her eyes
Deep wells that might cover a brooding soul;
And who, till he weighed it, could ever surmise
That her heart was a cinder instead of a coal?

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY (1844–1890)

O
n Wednesday night Quinn settled herself at the kitchen table, book in hand. It was almost eight-thirty, and she was exhausted from yet another long day. All evening she had been looking forward to this time, when she could finally pamper herself by reading a book and indulging in her favorite snack of bread and cheese.

Tonight's book was one of the newer additions to the library: a volume of essays by the contemporary Irish poet and storyteller, Morgan Fitzgerald.

Although she was intrigued by the idea that Mrs. Whittaker had been a childhood friend of the legendary Fitzgerald—in fact, the Whittakers still maintained a friendship with him by way of correspondence—Quinn didn't idolize the rebel poet as many of her countrymen did. She didn't share Fitzgerald's devotion for the struggling, starving island of her birth, had never been able to see much of the ancient beauty and compelling secrets he attributed to it.

Certainly, she harbored no desire to return to the place. Not that she could return, even if she had a mind to—not, that is, unless she wanted to spend the rest of her life in gaol or end it with a noose about her neck.

There was no mercy in Ireland for an impoverished felon, man or woman. From the moment she boarded the ship to America, Quinn had determined to put all memory of her country behind her. Other than the aching reminders of her mother and her sister, Molly, she seldom allowed her thoughts to turn homeward…and never her heart.

Still, she was drawn by the power of Fitzgerald's writing. In Ireland, they said the Fitzgerald could make the angels weep or lure the faeries out of their hidey-holes with the music of his words. Despite her resistance to his nationalism, she found herself quickly caught up in the man's magic.

As eagerly as she savored the poet's rich imagery, so did she also relish the calm of the house this time of night. There was little enough peace and quiet at Whittaker House throughout the day; wee Teddy and a swarm of noisy little boys made the stillness of nighttime even more welcome.

Unfortunately, she usually nodded off to sleep soon after sitting down, too weary to really enjoy the time to herself. Tonight was no exception. She had put the book aside and was resting her head on top of her arms when a knock came at the back door.

She started awake, sitting bolt upright in the chair. She knew who it was even before she got up. Only one sturdy fist pounded with such uninhibited force at this time of night.

Yawning, she stumbled to the door, opening it with no real enthusiasm. “You're a bit late,” she said dryly, taking in Sergeant Price's broad, good-natured features.

He looked at her. “Late?”

“Aye. 'Tis Wednesday. On Wednesday, you usually arrive by seven-thirty.”

He grinned. “Ah. And can it be you were anxiously awaiting me, then?”

Quinn ignored the question, stepping aside as he walked in without being invited. The fact was, Sergeant Denny Price had an open invitation from the Whittakers to drop by at any time. It wasn't her place to object, though at the moment she was tempted.

He stopped in the middle of the kitchen. “And how are you keeping, Quinn O'Shea?”

The man had been in the States long enough by half to rid himself of his thick Donegal speech. Instead, to Quinn's irritation, he seemed to cherish the brogue as if it were some sort of treasure.

“I'm very well, thank you.” She deliberately made the effort to suppress her own Irish tongue. “And you, Sergeant?”

His grin was infectious, and in spite of her impatience with him, Quinn could not totally check an answering smile.

“Well, now, and wasn't I thinking that it's a splendid night for a stroll?” he said cheerfully. “Perhaps you'd join me?”

Although she would rather have remained in the quiet kitchen with her book, Quinn gave in. He was The Law, after all, and in especially good standing with her employers; they did seem to dote on the man. It might not do to slight him too frequently.

Besides, when he wasn't baiting her or flaunting his Irishness, the sergeant made surprisingly good company. He might be a bit rough, and he seemed altogether uninterested in bettering himself, but something about the thickset policeman made it difficult to actively dislike him.

For one thing, despite his being The Law and bold as a tinker, Quinn felt uncommonly at ease in his presence. He was almost always good-humored and seldom failed to make her laugh—a habit to which she wasn't ordinarily given. Quinn had not found very much in life all that amusing.

She hoped the man had no thought of anything more than a casual acquaintanceship. He had helped her out of a tight place on two occasions now, and for that, Quinn felt a certain amount of gratitude toward him. But that was all. Nothing more.

The last thing she wanted was a man's attention—especially a
policeman's
attention, and especially a policeman like Sergeant Price.

He was everything she did not admire in a man. He was gruff, uneducated, probably penniless—just another thick-necked, hardheaded Irishman. If the time ever came—and she couldn't conceive that it ever would—when she found herself able to tolerate a touch from a man, it most assuredly would not come from a rough Irish policeman. Instead, he would be sensitive, well-educated, ambitious, and considerate. A
gentleman.
In other words, a man who was everything Sergeant Price was
not.

By the time they started back to the house, it was dark, and few people were about. Those who remained outside either sat talking on the front stoops of their houses or went about the evening business of pulling down blinds and locking up their stores.

Denny realized with some frustration that, as always, he and Quinn had exchanged no conversation of any real depth—only the usual superficial blather about the weather and the newest activities taking place at Whittaker House.

He had never had much trouble with the lasses—until this one. He had always had a pretty girl to take on a ferryboat ride or a picnic in the park, always a willing partner for the Saturday night socials at the hall.

Although Denny didn't exactly fancy himself a ladies' man, neither was he entirely unaware that he held a certain appeal for women—both young ones and not-so-young ones.

He had never thought much about this appeal one way or the other. He knew only that he enjoyed the company of women, and most seemed not to mind his. A lass did not have to be especially fair to attract Denny's interest, but he did like a girl with some spirit to her.

This Quinn O'Shea, now, she had more than her share of spirit. So far as her looks went, she was attractive enough, but not a beauty who would turn heads in a crowd—a bit too thin, a mere whippet of a lass, in truth. And those odd catlike eyes of hers could make a man downright uncomfortable. She had a way of peering at him as if he were a
gulpin
and nothing better.

But on those rare occasions when he managed to coax a genuine smile from her, Denny found himself delighted, and every time she laughed aloud, he felt an unaccountable rush of warmth rise up in his heart. He had sensed right from the beginning that Quinn O'Shea was not the sort who laughed easily or foolishly.

Sometimes he chastised himself for trailing after her so. She had a way of making him feel dull-witted and even clumsier than he actually was. No doubt she thought him a blockhead who could neither read nor write; but when he tried to think of a way to let her know he was no imbecile, he couldn't seem to get past that steely look of hers. And despite his strong discomfort in her presence, more often than not the very next evening would find him back on Elizabeth Street, heading for Whittaker House once again.

He simply could not seem to stay away from the girl. He was running out of excuses for calling so often, and he knew that soon he would have to confront her with his reasons for coming by—or else appear even more of a great fool than she already thought him.

But now here they were again, with her about to go inside, and as always they had discussed nothing of any consequence.

At the bottom of the steps, they stopped, and Denny found himself fumbling like a great
glunter
for something to say. “And how is Mrs. Whittaker getting on these days? I thought she was looking a bit brighter last week when I dropped by.”

Quinn nodded. “She seems to be improving some. But she's still poorly. Too weak by far.”

Denny nodded. “I'd hate to see anything happen to her. She's a fine lady.”

She arched an eyebrow. “A lady, is it? I don't know as I've ever heard one of our own called a ‘lady.'”

Denny studied her. “Well, now, it seems to me that being a lady has little to do with where you come from. Any fool can see that Mrs. Whittaker is indeed a lady.”

“She is that,” Quinn agreed. “But I doubt there are many who would acknowledge it, her being Irish.”

Denny noted the tightness about her mouth and eyes, the edge to her voice. “You don't much take to being Irish, do you, lass?”