Heart of the Lonely Exile (36 page)

The young master leveled a long, scathing look on Sandemon. “I said
in any way,
didn't I? Find out what her circumstances are.” He paused. “And we'll be making her a gift for rescuing that little heathen down the hall,” he said dryly. “You can deliver it tomorrow.”

Sandemon considered him for a moment. “Perhaps you would like to go with me? We can manage the carriage with no difficulty, I'm sure.”

Suddenly gone was the note of wit, the glint of wry amusement in the eye. The reply was weary, almost sullen. “I don't feel up to leaving the house just yet.”

His tone allowed for no argument. Sandemon hesitated, wanting to press the matter, yet sensing it was not yet the time. At last he inclined his head, saying, “Do you need anything else before I retire,
Seanchai?
If not, I will bid you goodnight.”

Morgan dismissed him with a gesture, and Sandemon left the room. Heading toward his own bedroom, he felt vaguely disturbed at the quicksilver change in his young employer's mood. Yet he was encouraged, too, by the interest the young giant had shown in the lovely Finola.

Perhaps…just perhaps…there would be more than one young—
lass,
as the Irish would say—to aid in the sad
Seanchai's
healing.

Morgan could not stop thinking about the unusual—and achingly lovely—young woman he had met only hours before.

Finola.
Certainly she was one of the most beautiful creations he had ever laid eyes on. And that filthy barman who had told Sandemon she was slow—he was the one who was daft! It had taken the girl virtually no time at all to catch on to his abbreviated, somewhat primitive form of signing. She had all her wits and some extra, that was clear enough!

Those eyes were going to haunt him the rest of the night, he knew. The clearest blue he'd ever seen, and with a depth of innocence that could not possibly have been feigned. He sensed Sandemon was right about her not being a street girl. Yet he could not figure how she had come to her present circumstances.

About all he'd been able to learn from her was a sketchy version of Annie's story about her “robbers.” Finola had heard the girl's cry when she'd stepped out onto the second-floor porch of the inn to feed the cat, had seen her running down the alley toward St. Patrick's. She had raced down the steps and tugged Annie back up to the porch, where they had waited until the girl's pursuers finally gave up and went away. Then she had led Annie to Nelson Hall.

She knew Dublin well, Finola had conveyed to Morgan. Unfortunately—and to her possible danger—the fair Finola seemed to have no fear of wandering about the city on her own. That bunch she lived with more than likely had no inkling of her whereabouts most of the time.

He had been unable to learn much more about her. She didn't even seem to have a last name, nor did she appear to know her own age. Yet he was convinced she was anything but slow.

The memory of the golden-haired young woman made him smile. The thought of her was a far more pleasant diversion than the ideas that usually occupied his mind this time of night.

He yawned and stretched, feeling somewhat drowsy. He decided to forego the whiskey tonight. The nightly drink was quickly becoming a habit. He had been without pain most of the day; perhaps if he would read for a while, he would be able to sleep uninterrupted.

At Morgan's urging, Joseph Mahon had been sending him portions of the journal he was keeping. Morgan would read each segment, making minor editorial notes in the margins. He had not said as much to Joseph yet, but he had every intention of seeing the journal published. It was a starkly truthful, agonizing account of Ireland's misery—and it demanded to be read.

Remembering that he had left the most recent packet downstairs in the library, Morgan scowled. He hadn't the energy to go back down tonight.

Instead, he opted for a book, starting the chair toward the table by the bed. Stopping abruptly, he wheeled around to the small stand by the door and began to riffle idly through the correspondence Sandemon had left there. An envelope from the States caught his eye, and he plucked it up.

He recognized Michael's handwriting right away. Anxious for news from them all, Morgan ripped the envelope open and began to read. A faint, nagging guilt passed through his mind as he scanned the opening lines. He had not written Michael or Daniel for months. They would not know of the shooting or the fix he was in.

He pushed the thought aside. Eventually he would have to write. He could not avoid it forever. But as yet he was not ready to put his misery into words.

He skimmed rapidly down the page, smiling a bit at Michael's scrawled words about the friendship of his son and Daniel John. Moving on, his eyes locked on the first paragraph of the next page. He felt a burning in his eyes and a knife at his heart as he read the words over again. And again.

Stunned, Morgan wet his lips and tried to swallow. His throat felt dry and swollen, and he could taste nothing other than bitterness as he read on.

Morgan's own heart had begun to pound with wild fury. A dull ache at the back of his neck rapidly threatened to turn into a fullblown riot of a headache.

Who, indeed?
Morgan clenched his teeth against Michael's weak attempt at humor.

He read no more. Flinging the pages to the floor, he sat staring across the room into the fire.

Finally he roused. So, then, what of it? She would have married
someone
eventually. So it was not to be Michael, after all, but the Englishman. What real difference did it make in any event?

She was not his. It was not for him to question her choice. And didn't Michael himself grudgingly admit to her happiness?

Nora's happiness. That was the thing that mattered now, he told himself firmly. The
only
thing that mattered.

Spinning the chair, he circled the room once, then again. At last he wheeled himself over to the high, massive chiffonnier, where he retrieved the bottle of whiskey and a tumbler.

He poured himself a generous drink. For a moment his gaze went from the full tumbler to the scattered pages of Michael's letter on the floor across the room.

Then, lifting his glass in a bitter, silent toast, he drank to Nora's memory—and to her marriage.

His own reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall caught his eye, and he hurled his glass at the ruined man in the wheelchair. The tumbler shattered and the mirror cracked, leaving a crazed spider-web pattern across the silvered glass. Morgan watched the distorted vision of himself, caught in the web, and lifted another toast—only this time he raised the entire bottle.

36

Solomon! where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
All that the genius of man hath achieved or designed
Waits but its hour to be dealt with as dust by the wind….
Who is the Fortunate? He who in anguish hath pined!
He shall rejoice when his relics are dust in the wind….
Happy in death are they only whose hearts have consigned
All Earth's affections and longings and cares to the wind….

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803–1849)

H
unched over the hotel desk after school, Tierney Burke was reading the
Tribune
's account of the death of John Jacob Astor, dead at eighty-four years of age.

Astor was to be buried the next day—no doubt, thought Tierney with disgust, in a style that befitted the “richest man in America.” It was said that six clergymen would participate in the funeral service, and policemen from all over the city would be in attendance to provide security. He figured his da might be one of them.

Tierney let out a muffled sound of scorn. So what good now were Astor's twenty million dollars? Everyone knew his eldest son had been a mental incompetent for years, and his second son was supposedly indifferent to his father's enormous wealth.

Da had seen the old man once or twice, when he'd pulled special duty for some big to-do. His description of Astor as an addlepated, drooling old man was enough to turn the stomach.

The entire city was in awe of Astor's wealth, his mansion at Lafayette Place, his vast holdings. Yet, apparently the old man, at least in his later years, had not been able to enjoy a bit of the money for which he'd grubbed all his life. Rumor had it that for the last few years he'd been too weak to even feed himself, yet so fat that his worn-out skin drooped like melting wax.

By his own admission, old Astor had loved money more than anything else in life. Da thought it was sad, and found the stories about the old millionaire pathetic; Tierney thought them revolting. One of the reporters at the
Herald
had said it best, calling Astor a “money-making machine,” and declaring that half the millionaire's fortune rightfully belonged to the people of New York.

To Tierney's way of thinking, amassing money just to get rich was a disgustingly futile preoccupation. He'd made the mistake once of comparing Lewis Farmington with old Astor, and Da had hit the ceiling.

“There is no shame in a Christian man also being a
wealthy
man, Tierney!” he insisted, jabbing his finger in the air as was his way when exasperated. “Lewis Farmington uses his money for the good of others. Why, he and his daughter have done more for the underprivileged in New York City than we will ever be knowing, I'm sure.”

It struck Tierney that the Farmingtons couldn't have done all that much, or they wouldn't be as rich as they obviously were. But he kept his feelings to himself, for Da, like Daniel, had a definite soft spot for the Farmingtons.

So far as Tierney was concerned, money was fine, and he intended to have some of it. But he would
use
his for setting things right where they had gone wrong; for bringing justice out of tyranny; for setting Ireland free.

That was one of the reasons he held Morgan Fitzgerald, Da's old friend back in Ireland, in such high esteem. Morgan and his lads had simply taken a share from those who had more than they needed and used it for those who had none—just like the Robin Hood legends. Of course, the English had been all set to hang Morgan for his shenanigans. But at least he had shown his contempt for the idle rich—and managed to accomplish a bit of good with their money before they stopped him.

The thought of Morgan Fitzgerald and what had been done to him in Belfast sparked a fresh blaze of anger in Tierney. Da was still grieving, too, from the news about his friend. And Daniel was taking it hard. He'd scarcely
talked at all for days, just sat around as if he were numb, occasionally picking at the harp, but more often staring into space. More than once, Tierney had heard him weeping quietly in the night, when he thought everybody else was asleep.

The high, unpleasant voice of Hubert Rossiter, the bookkeeper, jarred Tierney rudely out of his thoughts.

He glanced up. “Mr. Walsh has some extra work he'd like you to do tomorrow night,” said the bookkeeper. “A special job.”

Tierney took his time replying. “I'm on the desk tomorrow night,” he answered distractedly, glancing back down at the
Tribune.

“Barry will cover for you. Mr. Walsh would rather you took care of the other job.”

Slowly Tierney raised his eyes from the newspaper to Rossiter. “What sort of job might it be?”

The dome-headed bookkeeper adjusted his thick round eyeglasses, settling them more securely on his nose. “It shouldn't take long. Mr. Walsh thought you might like to get away from the desk for a bit.”

The man's habit of not looking at a person when he spoke never failed to irritate Tierney. Deliberately, he leaned farther over the desk, bringing his face closer to Rossiter's.

“How
far
away from the desk…sir?”

Tierney had no respect at all for the simpering bookkeeper. He knew Rossiter for what he was—a middleman, a glorified go-between for Patrick Walsh and his varied and numerous “businesses.” Nor had he missed the fact that he made the man uncomfortable.

Rossiter glued his gaze to the open ledger in front of him. “I believe it simply involves two or three pickups and then a delivery. Shouldn't take more than an hour and a half or so.”

“What kind of pickups?”

The bookkeeper finally lifted his pale hazel eyes to Tierney. “All you need to do is stop at the addresses I give you on Water Street and take the… materials…you pick up where you're told to take them.”

Tierney studied the man for a moment.
Water Street.
No doubt he was to pick up some of the take at the brothels and deliver it—where?

“I think not,” he said bluntly. Ignoring the flush that spread over Rossiter's polished oval of a face, Tierney dropped back to his original slouch and continued to read.

“You're saying you won't do it?” The bookkeeper's tone was incredulous.

Tierney looked up. “Aye. That's what I'm saying.”

The bookkeeper sputtered something about Tierney's not valuing his job, then disappeared into the hotel vault.

Tierney had already lost interest in the
Tribune
article. Leaning on his elbows, he pondered what his crafty employer might be up to. Walsh had plenty of delivery boys without recruiting
him
—especially when it would mean taking him away from his regular job.

Of course, these “go-between deliveries,” as Tierney thought of them, most likely paid the boys a great deal more than working the hotel desk.

He was tempted. The faster he could make the money he needed, the sooner he could get out of New York. He had it in mind to leave for Ireland by the time he was sixteen—another year. Da would press him to go on with his schooling, of course, but who in Ireland would care if he wasn't a scholar?

Yet he balked at involving himself in the illegal side of Walsh's enterprises. Da was a policeman, after all—and an honest one. If he were ever to learn that his own son was working the wrong side of the law, there was no telling what he would do.

Or what it would do to him.

They were at odds most of the time, but a part of Tierney clung to a grudging respect for his straitlaced father. It was known throughout the force—to Da's disadvantage at times—that Assistant Captain Burke was not on the take and held nothing but contempt for any officer who was.

Tierney did not like the idea that the same contempt might at some point be leveled at
him.
If indeed he ever did depart from his da's unyielding code, it would not be to risk landing in trouble—or hurting his da—for a few extra bucks as a delivery boy.

Besides, he wasn't so certain but that Patrick Walsh might merely be testing him—hanging out a carrot to see if Tierney would bite at it. Walsh had a way about him that Tierney suspected bordered on game-playing: baiting a person simply as a means to test his mettle.

If that were the case, the man might just as well learn right now that Tierney Burke did not play games.

Unless, of course, he happened to be dead-sure of winning.

It was the middle of the night. Lying sleepless in his bed, Daniel stared into the darkness, thinking.

He was sure his heart had not been so heavy since the night Katie died, late last summer.

In school, at home, even on calls with Dr. Grafton, he could not seem to think of anything else but Morgan. Morgan in a wheelchair. Morgan with paralyzed legs.

He had asked Dr. Grafton endless questions, and the kindly physician did his best to answer. What he learned was anything but encouraging.

If the bullet were lodged near the spine, the doctor said, it might well be inoperable—and exceedingly painful.

If the damage to his spinal cord were permanent, then Morgan had no hopes of ever walking again. In his letter, the priest had indicated this was the case.

The image of Morgan confined to a wheelchair was almost beyond bearing. One of Daniel's clearest memories of his friend and mentor was of walking together with Morgan to the pier in the village, Morgan striding along on those great sturdy legs—like tree trunks, they were—with his harp slung over his back, as Daniel hurried along to keep up with him.

He wanted desperately to write to Morgan, but he had delayed thus far, not knowing what to say. Indeed, what
could
he
say?

His thoughts went to his mother, and the ache in his heart deepened. The news about Morgan seemed to be stealing all her newfound joy with Evan. Oh, she still spoke of the wedding, and her eyes still softened when Evan was near or whenever she spoke his name. But most of the time, she seemed terribly sad, quiet and withdrawn and distant.

Daniel thought he understood what must be going through her mind. Like himself, she was no doubt wishing there were something she could do. He had even thought of going back to Ireland, simply to
be
with Morgan. He was going to need a great deal of help, and where would it come from? Shouldn't the people who cared most about him be the ones to help him?

If these were
his
feelings, could his mother's be much different, after all?

For Mother loved Morgan, too.

Daniel had known how things were between them for a long time, knew that the affection between his mother and Morgan went beyond a special childhood friendship.

Yet it would be impossible to go back. There was no money, no work to be had even if they should find a way—

He had to stop thinking about it. To return to Ireland was not even a remote possibility. Not now, at least. Perhaps not ever.

He would do what he could. He would write to Morgan, and write often, to reassure him that they still cared for him and remembered him. And he would pray for him.

He would also pray for his mother…and for Evan.