Dawn of the Golden Promise (11 page)

Her eyes went cold, but she merely shrugged off his question. “'Tis what I am.”

“Aye,” he said softly. “'Tis. And I for one do find it an acceptable thing to be.”

“That's for you,” she shot back. “There are some who might say there are better things.”

Seeing the shutters draw down over her eyes, Denny moved to change tacks. He was reluctant to let her go after so brief an hour with her. “Have you heard from your little sister recently? Molly, is it?”

Her face softened almost instantly. “Aye. She writes often. I taught her to read and write before I left, you see.”

Denny smiled at her. “And did she ever receive the letters you had to write the second time—the ones you lost in the river at Tompkinsville?”

She nodded. “She says she has them all, and will keep them. She even used some of my own words from the letters when she wrote back. Molly was always a clever girl.”

“You're still planning to bring her across, I expect.”

Her chin went up. “I am. I will.”

Denny liked watching her when she talked of her young sister. It was the same as when he observed her with the wee orphan boys of Whittaker House: her features would brighten, and the wall of self-protection she seemed to live her life behind would slip, at least a little. At those moments, like now, she looked young and small and hopeful—almost happy.

She was good with those homeless little boys. They tagged along after her like shadows trailing the sun, and she seemed to have infinite patience with every wee one of them. There was no mistaking the look of affection in her eyes when she was bandaging a knee or wiping a nose.

Unwilling to part with her just yet, Denny kept up his attempts at conversation. “What of your mother, then? I expect she will be making the crossing with your little sister?”

As if snuffed out by a sudden gust of wind, the light in Quinn's eyes suddenly died. “No,” was all she said, averting her gaze. “She wouldn't leave Athlone.”

Denny frowned. “Not even for her daughters?”

“Not for this daughter anyhow.” Abruptly, she turned away from him. “I must be going in now.”

Impulsively, Denny caught her arm. “Stay a minute, won't you?”

She yanked her arm away as if a serpent had fallen upon it.

Taken aback—and sensing that she was about to bolt—Denny blurted out the first thing that came into his mind. “There's something I've been wanting to ask you, if I might.”

Still shrinking back from him, she stared at Denny in a way that made him feel like a crude, clumsy bully-boy.

Was she really that revolted by him?

This was a new experience for Denny. Not that he hadn't been rejected once or twice by a woman, but so far as he could remember, none had ever looked at him with such disgust. For an instant he almost thought it might be fear in her eyes.

This unexpected response from her shook his confidence entirely. He groped for words. “The thing is…you may have been wondering about my coming by so uncommonly often…”

Seeing no sign of encouragement from her, merely the same steady look, a look bordering on hostility, Denny faltered. His mouth dry, he deliberately avoided meeting her eyes as he hurried on. “In case you haven't realized, I…ah…I enjoy your company very much, lass.”

Those few words out, he continued, but with even less confidence. “What I'm trying to say is that I'd like to see you on a more…regular basis.” He paused. “I'd like to come calling, is what I mean.”

Something flared in her eyes, then turned frigid. A hand went to the braid falling over one shoulder. “I don't keep company with men,” she said.

She looked directly at him. Denny felt as if she were looking right
through
him.

He tried for a lighthearted tone. “I can't think why. Sure, you must have more than your share of lads coming about.” A thought struck him. “If it's because of the years between us, I can understand—”

“The years having nothing to do with it,” she interrupted.

Denny pulled in a long breath. A stab of disappointment shook him crown to toe. Obviously, she wanted nothing to do with him, whatever her reasons.

“Well, that's clear enough, then, isn't it? I'll just be on my way.”

He swung around, anxious to escape before she could witness his humiliation.

Her voice stopped him. “Sergeant?”

Denny turned back reluctantly, waiting.

“It's…nothing to do with you, don't you see,” she said in that same peculiar, dull tone of voice. She stared just past Denny's shoulder as she continued. “It's simply that I'm not…in a position to keep company with anyone just now. I've no time for it, for one thing. But—” She stopped, biting at her lip as if uncertain how to go on. “I'd want you to feel free to come by whenever you wish, though. To see the Whittakers and the boys,” she quickly added.

Denny nodded but said nothing. He was suddenly bent on getting away, putting as much distance as possible between himself and those somber, watchful eyes.

He berated himself all the way down the darkened street. Why had he even thought the girl would welcome his attentions? She hadn't given him the slightest hint of encouragement. Why, her treatment of him had never been anything but indifferent politeness.

What had he been thinking of, playing the fool, mooning about like a schoolboy, then working himself into a state when she gave him the mitten?

She was hardhearted, that one. It was just as well she had no interest in “keeping company with men.” No man with a grain of self-respect would keep company with
her
, and that was the truth! Why, he was a sight better off without her. There was no misery like a hardhearted woman, his da had always said.

But try as he would, Denny could not entirely shake off the memory of the night when he had first seen her—a half-starved, wee stray of a thing, frightened and lost-looking. Even then, something about Quinn O'Shea had gone straight to his heart. And although it had been months before he saw her again, he never forgot her.

It was pity, no doubt. He had ever been the fool for the abandoned children of the city—even the stray animals. Didn't the other boyos on the force sometimes needle him about being soft for strays?

He felt sorry for the girl, that was all, and he had let his sympathy get out of hand.

But even as Denny turned the corner onto Hester Street, he knew that the feeling which had been growing inside him for Quinn O'Shea had little to do with pity. It was a different kind of feeling, unlike anything he had ever felt before…a feeling he couldn't begin to define, but not at all what he would feel for an orphaned child or a stray kitten.

Even though the wounded look in her eyes was much the same.

6

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be ador'd, as this moment thou art.
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

THOMAS MOORE (1779–1852)

O
n Sunday, Sara and Michael Burke attended evening services at Jess Dalton's small church on the edge of the Bowery.

They found themselves visiting the new congregation more and more frequently, for they had never stopped missing the big pastor's presence at their own Fifth Avenue church. Although the pulpit had been quickly filled after Dalton's resignation, the new minister's influence seemed pitifully weak by comparison. Privately, Sara suspected that their distinguished new pastor, Dr. Stockley, was far more likely to bore the congregation to death than to off end or disturb them.

It was nearly dark when they started home in the buggy. With a sigh, she took Michael's hand. “Wasn't it good to hear a sermon with real substance?”

He grinned at her. “You mean a sermon with some real controversy, don't you?”

Sara shrugged. “I don't think Jess Dalton intends to be controversial. He simply attempts to preach the truth, and the truth often makes us uncomfortable. That's not the pastor's fault.”

“Still, you're a bit hard on Dr. Stockley, now, aren't you?” Michael said, still smiling. “I've seen you biting your lip behind your white gloves. Your father would tell you—and not for the first time, I'm sure—that you'd best guard against a critical spirit.”

“Really? Perhaps you didn't notice that Father himself nodded off more than once this morning.”

“Understandable, after the first hour,” Michael replied dryly.

Sara leaned her head back against the seat. “Anyway, it was good to see the Daltons. I miss them terribly. Did you see how little Amanda is growing? They've started the paperwork on her adoption, you know. But Father says there may be complications, with her parents having been immigrants.”

“What isn't complicated where immigrants are concerned?” Michael muttered. “Nobody seems to know quite what to do about them.”

“Well, I hope for Kerry's sake everything goes smoothly—and quickly. She's absolutely devoted to that little girl—they both are, of course. Amanda will have a wonderful home.”

Michael nodded absently, and Sara could tell he was thinking of something else. Well, she had something more on
her
mind, too. She squeezed his hand. “I hope
we
have a child soon, Michael.”

His surprise was obvious. “No doubt we will, sweetheart.” He paused, searching her eyes. “Sure, you're not fretting about that already?”

Sara looked away. “We've been married over a year and a half, Michael. I
had
hoped that by now…”

She let her words drift off, incomplete.

After a moment, Sara felt his arm go around her. With his free hand, he turned her face toward his. “Ah, Sara,” he said softly, shaking his head, “ever in a hurry. Even for a babe.”

Sara tried to smile, but as always he saw past her pretense.

“We have time, sweetheart. Plenty of time.”

“But you want children, too, Michael! You have Tierney, of course, but even before we were married, you admitted you wanted other children…our children.”

He moved to take her by the shoulders. “I do, Sara
a gra.
As many as the good Lord sees fit to give us. But if either of us should be in a hurry, it ought to be me. I'm the one with silver in my hair, not you.”

“It's different for a man,” she said, brushing off his reference to the difference in their ages. “A woman has only so many child-bearing years. If we want a large family, we need to get started.”

“Right now?”

At the glint of amusement in his eye, Sara gave him a look.

His expression sobered. “Sara, I understand. I do, sweetheart,” he insisted when Sara moved to protest. “And, yes, I want children with you. But do
you
understand that even if by some chance we
don't
have a child right away, it will make no difference to me? None at all. You are enough family for me, Sara—you and Tierney. You will
always
be enough for me.”

The tenderness in his eyes melted Sara's heart. “Oh, Michael! You're enough for me, too. I'm awful to want anything more than I already have, I know! It's just that seeing Kerry tonight with little Amanda…somehow it made me want a baby right
now
!”

He gave a soft laugh, then dipped his head to kiss her. “Well, then,” he said, still holding her, “I suppose there's nothing for it but to get started on the nursery, for when you set your head to something, it's as good as done.”