Dawn of the Golden Promise (12 page)

Later that night, Jess Dalton sat at his desk in the library, pretending to work on his most recent book, a collection of writings taken from former slaves who had escaped to the North. But he had accomplished little so far this evening. He was more intent on watching his wife entertain their son and little Amanda.

The door was open, and he could see directly across the hall into the parlor, where Kerry, Casey-Fitz, and the little girl they hoped to make their legal daughter were enjoying their evening story hour.

Amanda, not quite two, was perched on Kerry's lap, her curly blond head bobbing up and down as if she knew exactly what was coming next. Casey-Fitz was sprawled at his mother's feet. From the rapt look on the boy's face, Jess was certain that he was listening to one of Kerry's lively retellings of an Irish legend.

Tapping his pen, Jess studied the scene across the hall with a contented smile. It was difficult to realize that the fiery-haired little boy they had adopted a few years ago was now twelve. From all signs, Casey-Fitz would fulfill the promise of his childhood. He was fast maturing into an intelligent, sensitive lad who seemed destined to do something fine, something noble, with his life. He often spoke of becoming a physician, or perhaps a medical researcher.

Jess wondered again at how the boy, though adopted, resembled Kerry so closely in physical appearance. He no longer found the resemblance as surprising as he once had; the years had convinced him that the Lord must have handpicked Casey-Fitz especially for them—and particularly for Kerry.

Kerry.
What a gift she was to him! He could still remember the first time he had seen her, when she stepped off the steamer at West Point: a feisty, achingly lovely, petite waif, with one copper curl escaping from the hood of her cloak and a look in her eye that plainly said she would rather be anywhere else than where she was.

She had come to him, reluctantly, as his ward, an arrangement accomplished by their fathers years before. When Kerry's father passed away she was still in her teens. Andrew Dalton—Jess's father, was also gone, leaving Jess to assume the responsibilities of Kerry's guardianship.

Already in his early thirties at the time, Jess was serving as chaplain at the U.S. Military Academy. For the most part, he had resigned himself to bachelorhood. But a lightning bolt struck him the day Kerry O'Neill stepped off the steamboat, and from that moment on his life was changed.

Smiling, he traced the memories as they unfolded through his mind: their courtship, after Kerry finally managed to convince him that the years between them didn't matter…their marriage in the academy chapel…their honeymoon in the Adirondacks….

But his smile faded at the thought of their subsequent move to Washington, where Kerry had almost lost her life—along with that of their stillborn son—and where Jess himself had been shot by a fanatical politician with a virulent hatred for all abolitionists. The incident had left Kerry barren and bereft, and for a long time, Jess had questioned the Lord's call on his life.

Yet out of the ashes of their anguish had come the unexpected, shining gift of an adopted son: Casey-Fitz. Then a small seven-year-old Irish orphan with ears too big for his face and eyes too old for his years, the boy had helped rescue Kerry from a fire. Eventually he also rescued her from the grief of her childlessness.

And now…Amanda.

Jess looked at the tiny girl snuggled close to Kerry's heart. She was little more than a baby. He had brought her home after promising her dying mother that he would look after the child. His original intention had simply been to give Amanda a temporary place to live until her grandfather in England sent someone to claim her. But a few weeks after the death of the child's mother, word arrived that her grandfather had also passed on—without ever seeing Amanda.

By then, Jess and Kerry had taken the little girl to their hearts and could no longer imagine giving her up. Even Casey-Fitz had quickly “adopted” Amanda as his little sister.

So Amanda had stayed, and now they were in the process of adopting her. Although Jess feared the process might not be without complications, he had been careful to hide his concern from Kerry. Ever since they had begun the legal proceedings, she could scarcely contain her excitement. She was like a child herself. She and Molly, the housekeeper who had been in Jess's family for years, had already made elaborate plans to redecorate the nursery. In the meantime, they spent hours each day sewing all sorts of dainty little-girl things, while Molly's husband, Mack, set his hand to building a rocking horse and a toy chest.

Resolved that Casey-Fitz should not feel left out of all the excitement going on around him, Kerry made a practice of telling him stories about his own adoption. “Why, it was even more of a rush with you,” she would say, eyes sparkling. “We brought you home at practically a moment's notice! But Grandma Molly and Grandpa Mack had a fine new suit waiting for you when we arrived—and shiny black shoes as well! And weren't you proud of those new clothes! I suppose your father's told you that we didn't sleep for nights afterward—he says I talked his ear off with all my plans for you.”

She had done exactly that, Jess remembered with a fond smile, and he had loved every minute of it. Nothing made him any happier than seeing Kerry happy. For that reason alone—aside from his own affection for Amanda—he would do whatever it took to make the child their own.

Later, in their bedroom, Jess sat down behind his wife at the vanity. Smiling at her reflection, he took the hairbrush from her hand and began to brush the copper curls he loved so well into a fiery cloud that fell halfway down her back.

She was unusually quiet for a time, and he knew her mind was racing. “What's going on in there?” he teased, dropping a light kiss on the crown of her head. “Planning Amanda's marriage? Or Casey's career? Which is it tonight?”

She wrinkled her nose at his reflection. “Actually, I was thinking about Sara.”

Surprised, he slowed the brush strokes. “Sara? What about Sara?”

“She wants a baby, you know.”

Jess lifted an eyebrow, then resumed brushing. “You have that for a fact, I suppose.”

Kerry nodded. “She confided in me a few weeks ago. She feels somewhat…in a hurry, I think, because of her age. And Michael's.”

Again he halted the brush. “Good heavens, Sara is little more than a girl herself! And Michael can't be all that old, surely.”

She looked at him, all seriousness now. “No, Jess. Sara is older than I am—she's twenty-eight. And Michael is thirty-nine.”

Jess considered her words, making an effort not to dwell on the fact that he had recently turned forty.

“Still, they're young,” he said, half hoping she would agree with him.

She did, and he resumed brushing a little more cheerfully.

“Sara will make a wonderful mother, don't you think, Jess?”

He nodded. “Like you.”

She smiled at him in the mirror. “We must pray for them. For a baby. I want everyone to be as happy as we are, don't you see?”

He smiled back, pulling the brush with great care through a particularly stubborn lock of hair. “Impossible,” he said. “But I'm glad you and Sara are friends. At least you're not alone in being married to a patriarch.”

She glared at him in the mirror. “Don't you
dare
start that nonsense again, Jess Dalton! You know it makes me angry. As if a few years makes the slightest bit of difference to you and me.”

He grinned, amused at her scolding. “You truly don't mind, then, being married to a man in his dotage?”

One eyebrow arched. “You don't exactly behave like a man in his dotage, Mr. Dalton. Especially when we're alone.”

Jess grinned. He laid the brush down on the vanity so he could turn her around to face him. “Is that a fact, Mrs. Dalton?” he said, drawing her into his arms.

7

Night grows uneasy near the dawn…

W. B. YEATS (1865–1939)

Dublin
Late July

D
ublin moved more slowly in the summer.

Her people strolled rather than rushed, talking and tending to their business in a more leisurely fashion. Visitors to the city took their time, viewing the Four Courts, the Custom House, and Dublin Castle with a slightly slower step than their cousins who came in the spring. Even the ragged children of the streets seemed to find less mischief in which to involve themselves. Some who traversed the Halfpenny Bridge said the River Liffey actually slowed its journey from the Wicklow Mountains to the Irish sea during summertime.

It wasn't that the temperature rose to any significant degree. Unlike the Irish themselves, the island's climate seldom climbed or dipped to extremes. More likely it was the sweetness of the season that accounted for the less frenzied behavior, the more relaxed pace of the entire city.

Summer was a winsome time. The breeze coming down from the mountains was gentle, almost intoxicating with fragrance; the hills seemed to beckon the city people to come away to a simpler life. At night, especially, the wind was easy, the voices of the city were carefree, the music sweet.

To the north of the city, however, at Nelson Hall, movement on this fine summer's night was brisk, even frantic. An event of great significance was approaching, and the household of Morgan Fitzgerald—the
Seanchai
—was deep in preparation.

The family had agreed that some sort of birthday celebration for Finola was long past due. The problem had been how to schedule such an event.

Because there was no way of knowing the actual date of her birth, Finola had been asked to choose a day to her liking. She in turn requested that her husband select a date. After some consideration, the
Seanchai
had chosen August 1, explaining that this had been his mother's birth date and he would be pleased if Finola would take it as her own.

And so, two nights before the birthday celebration, Sandemon and Sister Louisa were rushing to complete what was meant to be a very special gift for the occasion. A small linen press at the end of the hall had been converted to a prayer closet. Sandemon had done most of the pounding and scraping in one afternoon, while the
Seanchai
, who by this time had been let in on the secret, occupied Finola with a picnic by the stream.

After numerous late nights, and with considerable help from Sister Louisa and Annie, Sandemon had almost finished the task. Tonight they would complete the closet's furnishings.