Heart of the Lonely Exile (12 page)

“Good heavens, man—there's nothing wrong with being smitten over a fine young woman like Nora Kavanagh! What I'm wondering is why, if you're taken with her, you don't
do
something about it?”

Stunned, Evan could do nothing but sit and gape at his employer. Had he made such an obvious spectacle of himself that even Lewis Farmington had seen his feelings for Nora?

“Well?” His employer looked at him with an openly quizzical expression.

Feeling more foolish by the moment, Evan groped for a reply. “I…I'm n-not sure I understand, sir.”

Farmington's dark brows shot up. “Why, what is there to understand, son? Why don't you
court
the woman?”

His pulse thundering in his ears, Evan moistened his lips and managed only,
“C-Court
her?
Nora?”

“Yes, yes, court her!” Farmington said, nodding impatiently. “Haven't you ever courted a woman, Evan?”

Evan's mortified silence was his only reply.

His employer searched his face. “Good heavens,” he said slowly, “you haven't, have you?” Leaning back still more, he crossed his arms over his chest as he studied Evan. “Well, perhaps it's high time you did. Court a woman, that is.”

Miserable, Evan turned away, toward the window, where only moments before the view had held such promise. “I…I c-couldn't do that, sir.”

Farmington's response came after a long moment. “Because of your arm, I suppose?”

Turning, Evan met the older man's gaze. “Yes,” he choked out, feeling as if he were about to strangle. “B-Because of my arm.” He paused, pulling in a ragged breath before he could go on. “And also b-because of M-Michael Burke. Even if—if I were…whole…I c-could never have the conceit to think N-Nora would prefer me to—to him. They were childhood friends, they're both Irish—and Sergeant B-Burke is…well, he's an impressive k-kind of man. B-Besides,” he hastened to add, “there's the fact that they're…practically b-betrothed, after all.”

Evan did not—would not—mention the other reason that Nora might be hesitant to accept Michael Burke's proposal.

Mr. Farmington did not know about the bond that had apparently existed between Nora and Morgan Fitzgerald, the Irish patriot-poet who had helped to save them all from utter destruction. But Evan secretly wondered if Fitzgerald wasn't the reason Nora had not yet agreed to marry Michael Burke.

Lewis Farmington regarded him with a measuring look. “I know it's been assumed Nora and the sergeant would marry,” he said. “But I see no evidence of any real affection between the two. And I'm not at all convinced there ever will be.”

Surprised, Evan asked, “B-But why? I happen to know Sergeant Burke stands r-ready to m-marry Nora—all she has to d-do is say the word.”

Farmington nodded agreement. “But she
hasn't
said
the word, has she?” He continued to scrutinize Evan with an unreadable expression. “I don't pretend to be an expert in these matters, but it seems to me that if Nora had the kind of feelings for the sergeant that lead to marriage, she'd have acted on them by now. At least, she'd be a bit more enthusiastic about spending
time
with the man. No,” he said, getting to his feet, “I may be middle-aged and absentminded, but my instincts are still sound enough. And my instincts tell me that Nora is not in love with the sergeant.”

He raised a finger as if to emphasize his point. “Therefore,” he said with a meaningful look, “you have just as good a chance as the next fellow. And one thing more: My observation is that Nora is not the sort of woman to mind a missing limb. Surely you know that much about her by now, son?”

Evan wasn't sure which unsettled him more, his employer's awareness of his true feelings for Nora or the man's kind gaze and his use of the word
son.
“Mr. Farmington, I d-don't know quite what to say,” he began. “I feel—”

“Oh, pshaw! You feel embarrassed that I've noticed you're sweet on Nora. Why, that's nothing to be embarrassed about!” Again he wagged a finger at Evan. “The only thing you should be concerned about is the fact you aren't taking steps to win her! Let me tell you, if I were a few years younger, I'd give it a go myself. She's a delightful woman!”

“Why, y-yes, she is…b-but…”

“Tell me something, Evan—how, exactly, do you see yourself?”

Puzzled, Evan frowned. “Sir?”

“How do you
see
yourself?” Farmington repeated. “As a
man
who has only one arm? Or as
only
a one-armed man? It will make all the difference, you know. Let me tell you what I think, Evan: I think
Nora
sees you as a
man,
and that the fact you're without an arm is only incidental to her. I believe Nora is already very fond of you, and you'd do well to press your advantage while you still have it!” He paused, smiling brightly. “That's what I think! If you want the woman, Evan—then
court her!”

Evan stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Say, do you want these tickets or not?” Mr. Farmington asked, again extending his hand.

As if in a dream, Evan accepted the two tickets, then stood staring down at them.

Farmington beamed. “Good for you! Now, then, if you'll just fetch me those drawings from Donaldson, we'll get to work.”

Evan finally managed to swallow, though his mouth still felt like cotton batting and his heart was hammering like thunder.

Lewis Farmington's dark brows quirked impishly. “By the way, if you decide to explore the subject further—the subject of
courting,
that is—I'd be happy to give you the benefit of my experience. My courting of Sara's mother was quite successful, as you may have gathered.”

Dazed as he was from the entire conversation, Evan could not suppress a smile. “Th-Thank y-you, sir. Perhaps I'll…just take you up on that.”

After his assistant left the office, Lewis Farmington continued to stare after him.

Leaning back in his chair, he stroked his chin and reflected on Evan Whittaker. Solid gold, that one. Even minus an arm, and despite that plaguing stutter, the slender, fair-haired Englishman was unmistakably a man of honor and real strength of character.

Too bad Evan didn't see the attraction he obviously held for Nora Kavanagh. Now,
he
had seen the magic between the two more than once, had just as quickly seen that each was unaware of the other's feelings.

One thing he was convinced of: If Nora held an affection of any kind for Sergeant Burke, it was of the sort that good friendships are made of—not marriages. With Evan, on the other hand, she lighted up like a shooting star. Why, her entire countenance changed when the man walked into a room! Those large sad eyes of hers would suddenly go all soft with a smile, and she'd actually turn pink if he drew near her.

But Evan was just too unassuming, entirely too self-effacing to notice.
Even if he should become aware of Nora's interest,
Lewis Farmington wondered,
will he have the cheek to respond?

And what was his
own
interest in things between the two? He was
fond of them both, of course. He'd like nothing better than to see them together—if the Lord willed it so.

Still, he wasn't certain his motives were entirely unselfish. There was Sara to consider. His daughter had more than a passing fondness for Michael Burke; he had seen it months ago. The girl could deny it all she would—and deny it she did, every time he attempted to broach the subject. But he knew his daughter, and he knew beyond all doubt that she was enamored with that Irish policeman. Moreover, he wasn't at all convinced the sergeant wasn't somewhat taken with
Sara,
in spite of his professed commitment to Nora Kavanagh.

Going to the window, he stood staring out at the ships in the harbor—many of them built by Farmington Shipyards. Lewis wasn't certain he liked the idea of his only daughter being sweet on an Irish policeman, although Burke did seem a good man. Certainly, he was handsome enough to turn a girl's head. More importantly, however, he sensed an unshakable integrity about the policeman. Burke seemed clever, too—clever and ambitious. With the right contacts and a measure of opportunity, even an Irish policeman could advance himself.

Farmington sighed. Irish was Irish—no two ways about it—and a large part of the city despised them. For Sara to involve herself with an Irish policeman would mean immediate and total rejection by her contemporaries.

A scandal, that's what it would be. Lewis Farmington frowned at the thought. Then his features smoothed, and he relaxed. After still another moment, he smiled.

Sara was not a girl to back down in the face of scandal. As long as she believed herself to be in the right, she would not budge.

He turned and went back to his desk, perching on the edge of it instead of taking the chair. He had to laugh at his own foolishness. Here he was, wasting valuable time speculating about other people's romances, when he had a mountain of work waiting for his attention.

What he ought to do, he supposed, was to put some energy behind his
own
personal life. From time to time he had thought about remarrying, but courting was such a bothersome business. Once had been enough. His marriage to Clarissa had been a good one. Sometimes he missed her desperately.

But to go about wooing a woman again?

He grimaced. No, indeed. It was one thing to scheme about Evan's love life—and even his daughter's—but he would be content with that. For all the encouragement he'd been so quick to lavish on Evan, he personally found the idea of courting a woman entirely too much trouble.

No, he would stick to his ships. At this stage in his life, he liked things to be predictable. And romancing a woman, he thought dryly, was
anything
but
predictable.

12

The children with whom I have played,
The men and women with whom I have eaten,
Have had masters over them,
They have been under the lash of masters….
Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it,
Reddened for that they have gone in want,
While others have been full.

PADRAIC PEARSE (1879–1916)

A
rthur Jackson woke up trapped in a dream.

He knew he was awake because the pain racking his body was too excruciating to be anything but real. Yet the room in which he found himself was like no room he had ever seen.

It was big, with a high cream-colored ceiling. Almost one entire side of the room was glass—tall windows framed by ivory, drawn-back drapes. Obviously, the room belonged to somebody rich. Yet somehow the room seemed
friendly.
The wallpaper was all soft-colored roses. A big padded rocking chair sat by the window, as if inviting somebody to come rock in it. A fire burned low in the fireplace, and there were lots of books, some lying open around the room.

The bed in which Arthur lay was immense, with four high posts and a plump, lavender-scented comforter. It was the kind of bed he might have imagined for a king.
For sure,
he thought,
not many black boys had ever woke up in such a bed!

His eyes didn't want to stay open and kept fluttering shut when he
tried to focus them. When he was finally able to fix his gaze in one direction, it came to rest on a thin-faced, redheaded boy sitting close to the bed.

Arthur blinked. The boy was just a kid, probably no more than nine or ten. But his big green eyes held a sober expression that made Arthur wonder if he might not be older than he looked.

Arthur wanted to sit up for a better look at the room, but as bad as it hurt to take a deep breath, he thought he would surely pass out if he moved.

The boy stood, but kept his distance. “I'll get my mother,” he said. His words sounded peculiar, but he talked so quietlike that Arthur couldn't tell what was different about him. “She said I should come for her the very minute you woke up. Don't be trying to move, though—you're bandaged all the way around. I expect it hurts.” He caught a breath, still peering closely at Arthur. “Just…just you be lying real still until I can get my mother.”

“Who you?” Arthur was surprised at the sound of his own voice. He sounded weak and raspy, like his daddy sounded after working all day in the hot fields.

The boy had started for the door but stopped, turning around at Arthur's question. “I'm Casey. Casey-Fitz, my family calls me. Casey-Fitz Dalton.” Again he moved to go, but hesitated. “What's
your
name?”

“Arthur. Arthur Jackson.” An unexpected pain seized his back, then shot upward into his chest. Arthur gritted his teeth.

The redheaded boy frowned. “You shouldn't be talking if it hurts. The doctor said you might be having a terrible fierce pain for several days. He sent some medicine for Mother to give you when you need it.”

At that, the boy lifted his hand, as if to caution Arthur. “Just…wait right here, now. I'd best be getting my mother. She'll be cross if she finds out I didn't come right away.”

Before Arthur could ask him anything else, the boy dashed out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Arthur pondered his situation with growing uneasiness. He had heard something in the boy's voice he didn't like. A certain way he worked his tongue, a kind of sing-songy sound.

Irish.
The boy was
Irish!
Irish, like the strikers in Five Points.

The memories churned up in him, spilling over and flailing out at him
with dizzying force.
The strikers yelling. Then the riot. Clubs and guns. The big curly headed preacher-man who had tried to help. The policemen who came running. And then a gunshot.

The pain was no memory. It was still inside him—maybe not as hot and as shattering as when it had first roared through him in the street, but still bad enough that he couldn't draw an easy breath.

The man who had shot him had been Irish. The Irish seemed to hate all black people.

The Irish said the black boys were taking jobs from decent
white folks.
Especially
Irish
white folks.

Arthur didn't know about that. He hadn't thought to take anybody's job, not on purpose. He was just trying to make enough money to keep from starving to death.

When the laborers at the pipe factory struck for better wages, there was no lack of black boys like himself eager to take advantage of the situation. All he wanted was a job—
any
job. Some of the older Negroes had warned the younger boys to stay clear of the picket line. But most of the Irishmen walking the line had appeared so drunk that Arthur thought he could just skedaddle right through their midst without being stopped.

He'd done just that for three days, but then he'd got caught, along with three other boys. The strikers had been mean drunk and after blood. Even the coppers had their hands full trying to beat them back.

He knew he had been shot; he remembered waking up, just once, and only for a minute or two. A gray-haired man who said he was a doctor was bending over him.

But how had he ended up here, in a fancy bedroom he'd never seen before, being stared at by a boy who surely looked and sounded like an Irisher?

Again, he made an attempt to move, to push himself up. This time the pain made him cry aloud. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling sick to his stomach.

The door opened. Arthur looked up to see the redheaded boy come walking quietly into the room. With him was a woman who Arthur reckoned to be the boy's mother, though she didn't hardly look old enough to be
anyone's
mother.

She had red hair, too, darker than her son's. She was just a little woman, not a whole lot bigger than the boy, but dressed nice—like a lady.

Seeing her frown, Arthur swallowed. His heart skipped and raced as he wondered what to expect.

But when the woman reached the bed, she smiled at him. “Hello, Arthur. Casey-Fitz told me your name. How are you feeling? It's good seeing you awake at last.”

Arthur drew as deep a breath as he could manage, relieved that the woman didn't seem about to throw him out of bed. Still, he couldn't find his voice to answer her.

Her smile faded, and the frown returned. “If you're in pain, Arthur, I have some medicine I can give you.”

Arthur
was
hurting, but at the moment he was a lot more interested in finding out where he was and who these people were—and what he was doing here. “It's not too bad, ma'am,” he said, watching her closely.

Standing beside the woman, the Irish boy stared at Arthur. He, too, was frowning. “This is my mother,” he said. “Mrs. Dalton. She's been taking care of you—with Molly's help, of course.”

Arthur looked from the boy to his mother.

“Molly is our housekeeper,” she said. “And a grand nurse as well. I'm not very good at taking care of sick people, I'm afraid, but Molly is the best. And she says you're doing just fine, Arthur, so you're not to worry at all.”

“Where—” Arthur wet his lips. “Could ya tell me where—”

Mrs. Dalton looked at him, then put a hand to her mouth. “My goodness! Of course, you want to know where you are! I should have thought of that first thing! Well, now, would you be remembering Mr. Dalton, Arthur? The preacher who helped get you to the doctor after…” She paused. “After the shooting?”

Arthur nodded at the thought of the big black-suited preacher-man who had used his own body like a human shield in the thick of the riot.

“This is his house. I'm his wife, and Casey-Fitz here is his son. Jess—Mr. Dalton—made arrangements for you to stay with us until you recover.”

Arthur's eyes widened. “Stay
here?”

The woman smiled. She regarded him almost as if she sensed his suspicion. “That's right,” she said quietly. “Don't you remember telling the doctor you had no place to go, Arthur?”

Arthur shook his head. “Don't remember nothin'.”

The woman's cheerful expression sobered. “No, I expect you don't recall very much at all about what happened to you. Well, that's perfectly
all right, Arthur. You're quite safe here with us, and more than welcome to stay as long as necessary.”

Arthur stared at her. Every reply he could think of stuck in his throat. His gaze went to the boy, who was watching him with undisguised curiosity.

Was this really happening? Arthur couldn't remember anybody in his entire life speaking as kindly to him as this woman had. 'Course, he didn't remember his mama—she'd been dead too many years. But he was sure if she had ever talked to him so sweetly his brain would have somehow stored it up for keeps. Daddy—well, Daddy had always treated him fair, but he was a gruff man, all the same.

But this woman, this
Mrs. Dalton
—she made him feel as if she actually
cared
about him. As if he were worth something.

He blinked, realizing she was talking to him. “We mustn't be tiring you any more,” she said. “Molly will want to fix you some warm broth, now that you're awake. I'll just go down and let her know.” She started to turn, then hesitated. “You rest, Arthur. I'll send Mr. Dalton in the moment he gets home. He'll be wanting to say hello, I'm sure.”

The boy hesitated after his mother left the room, although she called him to follow.

“She meant what she said, you know,” he told Arthur. “You can stay as long as you like. Da's forever bringing home company to stay the night or even a few days. They like having people in, you see.” He paused, cocking his head a bit. “So do I. It'll be swell, having another boy around for a change.”

Arthur reached up slowly and ran his hand through his hair. He blinked in surprise. It felt clean and cotton-smooth. How long had it been since his hair had been clean? He'd had no way to wash it since leaving the river.

Who had done such a thing for him?

He stared at the redheaded boy. Casey Dalton was obviously hoping for more conversation.

“How—how old you be?” Arthur asked, clearing his throat.

“Nine. Almost ten,” the Dalton boy added quickly. “You're older.”

Arthur nodded. “Near 'bout thirteen.”

Casey Dalton considered Arthur for another moment. “Everybody is always saying I seem older. Maybe we could be friends.”

Arthur stared at him, not trying to hide his skepticism. “I'm a Negro.”

The younger boy met his eyes with a steady look. “I'm Irish.”

Arthur glanced away, fixing his attention on a framed picture of a green-covered hillside on the opposite wall. “I don't reckon I mind that you're Irish,” he said, slowly turning back to the younger boy.

“Well, then…I don't expect I mind that you're a Negro,” answered Casey Dalton.

Still, Arthur hesitated. “What about your folks?”

The Irish boy considered the question. “That's their bed you're sleeping in.”

Arthur's eyes bugged and his mouth went slack.

“Mother told my da you ought to have the best mattress. The one in the best guest room sags a bit, and we haven't put a bed in the other spare room just yet.”

He paused. “Mother almost always has her way.”

Later that night, when everybody else in the house was asleep, Jess and Kerry Dalton lay talking in what the family referred to as the “best guest bedroom.”

“Now that we know the boy is going to be all right,” Jess said dryly, “do you suppose we could move him in here and reclaim our bed? This mattress was not made to hold a man of my size.”

Resting her head on her husband's big, sturdy shoulder, Kerry smiled contentedly. She was about to drift off to sleep. “Soon,” she murmured. Yawning, she added, “He's still in too much pain to be moving about.”

“Many more nights on this mattress and
I'll
be the one who's in too much pain to move about.”