Heart of the Lonely Exile (32 page)

32

Though you are in your shining days,
Voices among the crowd
And new friends busy with your praise,
Be not unkind or proud,
But think about old friends the most:
Time's bitter flood will rise,
Your beauty perish and be lost
For all eyes but these eyes.

W. B. YEATS (1865–1939)

New York City

A
s soon as they separated from the other boys after school, Tierney started in on Daniel about the wedding.

It was the same almost every afternoon. Daniel spent most of the walk home warding off questions for which he had no answers—or which he would rather not answer at all, because of Tierney's manner, which if not exactly spiteful was unpleasant all the same.

“If they're going to be living in that caretaker's cottage, I can't see how there will be room for you.”

Tierney had raised this same subject before. Daniel wasn't sure what he wanted from him. He understood that more than likely he and Uncle Mike would no longer want him living with them, once his mother and Evan were wed. So why didn't Tierney just come right out and say so?

“They insist they'll make room,” he answered shortly. Head down, Daniel hugged his schoolbooks to his chest and began walking a bit faster.

It was a blustery February day, as cold as it had been in December before the big snowstorm. But today there was no snow. Only gray, heavy skies that threatened more winter in one form or another.

Neither of them spoke until they reached the storefront where old John Jacob Astor had once worked as a baker's helper. Then Tierney broke the silence between them. “Is that what
you
want?” he asked abruptly.

“What
I
want?” Avoiding the other's probing gaze, Daniel kicked a rock and sent it skipping over the remains of a broken milk bottle. One of two pigs in the middle of the street gave him a blank stare, then went on with its mate to the next pile of garbage.

Tierney, too, kept his eyes straight ahead. “I mean, do you want to live there with
them,
in that cramped little cottage?”

They had reached O'Rourke's Saloon on Pearl Street. Inside, someone was banging out a raucous song on the out-of-tune piano. The boys stopped in front to listen.

Daniel groped for the right words to answer Tierney's question. The truth was, he thought it would be best if Mother and Evan could be alone for a time—without him, and without the Fitzgerald children, whom they planned to eventually make a part of their household.

Tierney said something else, which Daniel couldn't hear over the noise from the saloon. “What?”

They started walking again, slower than before. “I said, you don't
have
to, you know. You don't have to live with them. At least not yet. Da and I talked. And we'd like you to stay. If you want.”

Daniel held his breath. Moistening his lips, he replied, “Are you sure, then?”

“Aye, we're sure.” Suddenly Tierney stopped and turned to face him. “Look—there's something I want to say.”

Daniel waited, praying this wouldn't be the start of another argument between them. They were standing in the middle of Pearl Street, amid the busy dry-goods stores and importing buildings. Businessmen and trades-people milled about, hurrying toward their shops and offices. But Daniel paid scant heed to the impatient pedestrians jostling by. He sensed that this was an important moment between him and Tierney, a moment that could mean a great deal to the both of them, depending on what was said.

“I'll not beat around the bush,” said Tierney, his mouth set in a stubborn
line. “All along I'd hoped that my da and your mother would marry—you already know that.”

Nodding, Daniel said, “It was what I wanted, too.”

“I don't like that Englishman,” Tierney bit out, as if he hadn't heard Daniel. “Not a bit. And it baffles me what your mother sees in the likes of him.”

When Daniel would have interrupted, Tierney simply raised his voice and pressed on. “I know you think he's a grand fellow—and it's probably best that you do. What counts is, your mother has made her choice. And the way I see it, that has nothing to do with you and me.”

His expression relaxed and his tone softened somewhat as he went on. “What I guess I want to say is, I don't see why their marriage should spoil things for us. Why shouldn't you go on living with me and Da? You're my best friend, after all—and Da thinks you're swell.” He paused, then shot Daniel a cocky grin. “Of course, he doesn't know you as I do.”

This had to be the longest speech Tierney had ever made. Daniel was aware of how difficult it was for his friend to say such things; Tierney's blunt way of saying what he thought seldom went beyond the superficial. By expressing himself as he just had, he was allowing Daniel a rare glimpse into his true feelings. It was not to be taken lightly.

He met Tierney's gaze. “You're my best friend, too. And I'd hate it if things were any other way,” he said earnestly. “I want to stay with you and Uncle Mike. But you're sure it's truly all right with him?”

“All
right
with him?” Tierney burst out. “Why, if Da had his way, he'd rope us together!” Giving Daniel's shoulder a quick jab, he added, “He has this daft notion that you're a good influence on me. As I said, he doesn't know you as I do.”

In the kitchen of the Farmington mansion that same evening, Evan Whittaker and Nora Kavanagh sat holding hands and making attempts to do some sensible planning for their future.

It was a futile effort. Evan, at least, seemed to have lost the ability to concentrate on anything other than Nora's eyes and her soft, shy smile.

Just last week they had finally managed to set the date—May 15. That very night, Evan wrote an eager letter to his father, urging him to come
to New York for the wedding—and to bring Aunt Winnie. He had been writing of Nora all along, of course, but making an effort not to reveal his feelings about her. It was a dizzying thing, finally being able to admit his love—and to write of their wedding!

Since then, however, little had been accomplished in the way of planning. Evan was still too caught up in the incredible realization that Nora loved him and had consented to be his wife. Nothing would have suited him better than to toss convention aside and have the wedding tomorrow. Nora was having none of that, of course, and insisted, red-faced and flustered, that he was disgracing her with his impatience.

“I d-don't agree,” he told her firmly. “This is the f-first time in my entire life that I've ever b-been in love. Why wouldn't I b-be impatient to m-make you my wife? I—I am a man consumed b-by love!”

“Evan, do be serious! We have much to decide, you know.” She lifted a hand to pat the neat, thick bun at the nape of her neck, threaded with a blue satin ribbon. Glancing at Evan, she broke into laughter, delighting him. He leaned closer and kissed her on the cheek.

She was lovely. There was no longer any evidence of the scarlet fever in her creamy white skin, and her dark hair held a high glossy sheen, even where streaked with gray. She was a princess in a prim white blouse, a gift to his heart, a treasure. And she was his!

But Nora was right. They
did
have much to decide, numerous questions to resolve. There was the matter of money, for example. Neither of them really had any. Evan had tucked away the small sum sent by his father in December, but the considerable savings he'd accumulated over the years of working for Roger Gilpin still sat, irretrievable, in a London bank. To attempt to withdraw it might lead his former employer directly to him—he could not risk it! He would do nothing to jeopardize what he had found with Nora.

She agreed, assuring him each time he raised the subject that they would manage nicely on their wages from the Farmingtons. Nevertheless, Evan intended to work toward the day when they could become independent of Lewis Farmington's largess.

Both Mr. Farmington and his daughter, Sara, had been good to them beyond all imagining, and Evan was deeply grateful. But he could not see himself accepting their help indefinitely.

For Nora's sake, he had acquiesced to his employer's insistence that
he be allowed to “help” with the wedding—meaning, of course, that he intended to pay for the entire thing.

Because Evan wanted a proper ceremony for Nora, he had accepted what was obviously a sincere desire on the part of the Farmingtons to make them a gift of the wedding. But both he and Nora had refused the offer of a large, expensive ceremony at the Fifth Avenue church. They asked instead that Pastor Dalton officiate at a small, private wedding in the prayer chapel of the mansion.

Their suggestion seemed to please Sara Farmington to no end. The small chapel had been added to the east wing of the mansion at her mother's request, Sara told them. There could be no more perfect occasion than a wedding, she insisted, for making good use of the little chapel.

Apart from the wedding ceremony, Evan had determined to strive toward financial independence for himself and Nora. He was about to become a husband, after all—perhaps even a father, God willing. He wanted to be the head of his own family, not dependent upon another man's charity.

“Will we have ch-children, Nora?” he blurted out abruptly.

With a startled look, Nora's face flamed. Quickly Evan reached for her hand. “Oh, I'm sorry, d-dear! I k-keep doing it, d-don't I?”

“Doing what, Evan?” she choked out, still looking at him with a slightly stunned expression.

“Embarrassing you with m-my foolishness.”

She smiled into his eyes, melting his heart. “Oh, Evan…I expect
I
would be the foolish one, to be embarrassed by a good man's love.”

Beaming, Evan scooted his chair a bit closer to hers.

“Do you
want
children, Evan?” Nora asked softly, lowering her eyes. “What I mean is, you've already assumed responsibility for wee Tom and Johanna. And there's Daniel John to think of, too, though he will soon be a man grown.”

Evan hesitated, wondering how he should answer. Nora had lost four children, after all—her oldest son and her little girl, plus the two infants who had died at birth. Perhaps she would not want to risk having another.

He waited for her to meet his eyes. When she did, he laid the palm of his hand gently against her cheek. “I w-want…whatever
you
want, Nora. That is all I will
ever
want.”

Nora's gaze searched his, and at last she smiled. “Then we will be a large
family, please, God,” she said quietly. “For I would like to give you sons of your own, Evan Whittaker. The Lord knows this poor world needs more good men like you.”

He leaned close, and—as it often happened these days—their attempts at practicality were forgotten in the sweet magic of a kiss.

Grinning broadly, Sara Farmington backed out of the kitchen before they saw her.

Her intention had been to confer with Nora about a singular problem regarding the guest list. Unwilling to intrude upon their privacy, she tiptoed down the hall in search of her father.