Heart of the Lonely Exile (37 page)

In the middle of the night, Evan came fully awake. Since the news had come about Fitzgerald, every night had been long and anxious, filled with fitful, worrisome dreams and abrupt awakenings, leaving him exhausted and on edge all the next day.

Fumbling for his dressing gown, then his eyeglasses, he got up. He lit a candle and sat down on the edge of the bed. Wearily, he raked his hand down the side of his face, thinking.

He was sick at heart about what had happened to Fitzgerald. But he was every bit as distressed about what was happening to
Nora.
Day after day he watched her grieve, helpless to ease her sadness. He prayed it was only his imagination, but he sensed that in her sorrow, she was slipping away from him, a little at a time.

He thought he would die if he lost her. Yet, he also understood her despair. She had loved Morgan Fitzgerald with a great love, he knew. He had seen for himself the bond between the two of them. An entire ocean and months of change separated them, but that bond had not been altogether broken.

He felt that Nora was torn between sorrow for the tragedy that had befallen Fitzgerald and a feeling of helplessness that she could not do something for him. Evan understood the helplessness, for he, too, wished there were something he could do for the man.

The big Irish poet would always have a special place in Evan's heart. Never had he encountered such a heroic spirit, never had he admired the courage of another human being as he had Fitzgerald's.

But his respect and admiration for the man did nothing to ease the
anxiety that now plagued him relentlessly, night and day. He was terrified that Nora's memory of Fitzgerald—and her pity for him—might pull her away, might even destroy their love.

It was nothing she said, nothing she did. It was more what she did
not
say or do that struck fear in his heart. She was still sweet and gentle with him, but distracted; still thoughtful of him, but distant. She still touched his hand when she spoke his name, kissed him goodnight at day's end. But Morgan Fitzgerald had become a silent intruder in their relationship.

Evan had not even attempted to discuss the wedding since the news about Fitzgerald arrived, telling himself that Nora was too preoccupied to do much in the way of planning. The truth was, he worried that if he tried to push her, he might somehow trigger doubts, or even cause her to abandon their plans altogether.

Thus he prayed continually for the trust and the patience to give her time, the time she needed to heal and regain her affection for him.

You've already lost her.
…

Out of nowhere came the ugly whisper of doubt, lodging itself in his thoughts with a cold, brutal thud. Evan swallowed, bracing himself against the shudder that wracked his entire body.

Did you really think you had a chance against a man like Fitzgerald? You, with your missing arm and your weak eyes and your foolish stammer? Even with worthless legs, he's more man than you.…

Evan gripped his forehead, trying to force the dread whisper from his mind. Since childhood, he had been tormented with these debilitating bouts of self-disgust and insecurity. He had believed he'd fought the final battle not long after losing his arm, going on to survive both the physical and emotional anguish that followed.

Yet here it was again, the creeping doubt, as vile and torturous as ever.

With an angry cry, he twisted off the bed and dropped to his knees. Taking off his glasses, he propped his arm on the bed to brace himself, then rested his head on his hand and sought the Quiet.

“Oh, Lord, p-please…I have been w-waiting for her all my life! P-Please, don't let me lose her…not now, Lord, p-please…not now…not ever.…”

Nora doesn't love you, poor fool. She never did. She only feels sorry for you
….

Evan groaned, squeezing his eyes shut until they hurt.

“Lord, I t-t-trust Your love…and I t-trust Nora's love.”

Waiting, scarcely breathing, Evan felt the cold, depraved whisper
reluctantly leave him. Cleansed, he murmured the Name he had clung to since childhood: “Jesus…Jesus.…”

Unexpectedly, the thought of Abraham, great but imperfect saint of old, came rushing into his thoughts. Abraham who was asked to sacrifice the dearest thing in the world to him.

Be willing to give up everything…
A new whisper filled Evan's spirit, penetrating the darkness.

Abraham lifted the knife in his own hand, ready to plunge it into the child he cherished.

Even those you love best…

Abraham would have delivered his own son into the sovereign arms of God.

Trust Me…and be obedient…I will not fail you….
The voice grew stronger in Evan's spirit, and he breathed a deep sigh.

Abraham's faith was proved. He was blessed; his descendants were multiplied; he became the father of all nations.

Because he trusted, and was willing to sacrifice…because he obeyed. Evan, trust Me…trust My love
…

Evan laid his head upon his arm and sobbed weakly. “I
do,
Lord! I do t-trust You! Help me to t-trust You
more.
M-make me strong enough to give her up…if I m-must. Make me w-willing…and able to obey You, no m-matter what.”

In the silence, still on his knees, for a fleeting moment Evan felt the soft, warm light of his Father's smile rest upon him.

37

So did she your strength renew,
A dream that a lion had dreamed
Till the wilderness cried aloud,
A secret between you two,
Between the proud and the proud.

W. B. YEATS (1865–1939)

S
ara had not seen Michael Burke since Nora's bout with scarlet fever—just long enough to make her feel ill at ease when they finally met again, the day of the Astor funeral.

Having just parted company with Kerry and Jess Dalton, she stood outside the church, waiting for her father to finish his conversation with Horace Greeley, publisher of the
Tribune.
Knowing Mr. Greeley's fondness for lengthy discussions, Sara sighed; she would likely still be waiting long past the time when the other mourners had dispersed.

“Sara?”

Sara jumped, whipping around at the sound of her name just behind her. “Sergeant Burke! I mean…
Captain
—” Flustered, Sara automatically backed a step away.

He was studying her with a glint of amusement. “Has it been so long, then, that you no longer remember my first name?”

“Oh…no…of course not!” As always, Sara felt clumsy and foolish in his presence. Exasperated with herself, she forced a smile. “How are you, Michael?”

He had grown a dark mustache, Sara noted, trying not to stare. Always handsome, he now looked even more dangerous.

“Better than when we last met,” he said, smiling easily. “And yourself?”

They made pointless small talk for a few more minutes; then he inquired after Nora.

Sara frowned. “I'm not quite sure, to tell you the truth. I'm somewhat worried about her.”

Immediately, his expression sobered. “She's not ill again?”

“Oh no!” Sara quickly assured him. “Nothing like that. It's just that Nora doesn't seem herself lately. For a time, she was so happy, planning for the wedding and—” She broke off, not wanting to distress him by mentioning Nora and Evan's engagement. “And what?” he prompted her, frowning.

Sara bit her lip. “It's just that ever since the news came about your friend in Ireland, the one who was wounded in Belfast—”

He nodded. “Morgan.”

“Yes. Ever since then, Nora seems so distracted. Worried. It's almost as if she were…grieving.”

When he made no reply but simply nodded as if he understood, Sara went on. “Nora told me a little about your life in the village. The three of you must have been very close.”

A muscle at the side of his mouth tightened, and he glanced down at the cobbled street for a moment. “Aye, we were. And it's no surprise that she would still be upset about Morgan's troubles. I've had the time dealing with it myself.”

He looked up, meeting her eyes with a frank, steady gaze. “They were sweethearts for a long time. And they were friends as well. There was a bond between the two that was like nothing I have ever seen, and that's the truth. As for Morgan—” A hint of a sad smile touched his lips. “You would have to know him to understand why he is not easily forgotten. No doubt you are right; I expect Nora is grieving for the man. Knowing her as I do, I fear she may also have some wild notion of trying to help him.”

“Help him?” Sara repeated. “You don't mean she'd consider going back to Ireland?”

One eye narrowed, and he nodded slowly. “It's occurred to me,” he said, his expression grim.

Sara stared at him in horror. “Oh, Michael,
no!
She can't! Why, she's
only recently regained her health.” She paused, then added carefully, “She and Evan were so happy…until this. I
know
Nora's feelings for him are genuine!”

To her great relief, the mention of Evan didn't seem to disturb Michael. He simply nodded, saying, “Aye, that's the truth. I fear she may be thinking foolish things.”

“Would it help if you talked with her?”

He shrugged. “I could try, I suppose.”

“Please do! If Nora will listen to anyone, it's you.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Don't be counting too much on that, Sara. Pity's a strong force in itself—one to be reckoned with. And it's not pity alone binding Nora to Morgan, that's the thing.”

“But love is stronger than pity,” Sara said firmly. “And Nora
loves
Evan Whittaker—I know she does.”

“She also loved Morgan Fitzgerald,” he said quietly.

“But that was a long time ago,” Sara insisted. “And I can't believe his memory means more to her than Evan. Nora's not the sort of woman to be in love with more than one man at a time!”

His slow, wry smile brought a flush to Sara's face. “Aye, and don't I know
that
well
enough?”

Sara bit her lip. “I'm sorry—”

He waved off her attempt to apologize. “No, you're right. If Morgan
is
the problem, it's more the memory of the man, I should think. Memory and pity. Morgan is not the best thing for Nora now. I doubt that he ever was. Theirs was a destructive kind of love, I always felt.”

Vastly relieved, Sara pressed. “Then you
will
talk with her?” At his nod, Sara thought for a moment. “I have an idea: Why don't you come to dinner one night soon? We could make an opportunity sometime during the evening for you to speak alone with Nora—without being too obvious.”

He regarded her with a curious smile. “I expect my coming to dinner might be
more
than obvious.”

“What do you mean?” Sara asked, genuinely puzzled.

He tilted his head slightly, still smiling. “Do the Farmingtons make a practice of inviting Irish cops for dinner, then?”

Sara stared at him with growing irritation. “No,” she countered acidly, “as a matter of fact, we don't. But we
do
make a practice of inviting our
friends
to dinner on occasion—and I
thought
that's what I was doing.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he said nothing.

“If you'd be more comfortable,” Sara went in a tone slightly less caustic, “bring the boys—your son and Daniel. That way no one could possibly misunderstand. It would give Daniel an opportunity to spend some time with his mother, and I'm sure we'd all like to get to know Tierney better.”

“That's kind of you. But I doubt that Tierney would—”

His eyes left her as her father came walking up and touched her arm. “Sara, my dear, I'm sorry you had to wait. Captain Burke,” he said jovially, extending his hand to Michael. “Good to see you again.”

Growing increasingly uncomfortable as the two men exchanged pleasantries, Sara took her father by the arm. “We really should be going, Father. I have a mission committee meeting later this afternoon, and I'm afraid we're keeping Captain Burke from his duty.”

Her father darted a look from one to the other.

“A moment, Miss Farmington…Sara?”

Sara shot a wary look at Michael.

“I'm afraid I didn't catch the day or time.”

At Sara's blank stare, the policeman turned to her father. “Your daughter was just inviting me to dinner, sir. If you've no objection?”

Sara swallowed with great difficulty as her father responded with cheerful approval. “Excellent! Soon, I hope? What about tonight?”

“Tonight?” Sara choked out.

“Why not? Didn't you tell Mrs. Buckley this morning I wanted roast chicken this evening?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, then?” He went on, his words, as always, spilling out like marbles from an open bag. “There'll be more than enough—and food fit for a man's appetite at that, none of that abominable stew she tries to sneak past us every now and then.” He stopped. “Seven should be fine, eh, Sara?”

Sara opened her mouth on a word but swallowed it whole as her father, ignoring her, added, “And bring those boys along, why don't you, Captain? We'd love to have them!”

Michael Burke gave Sara a slow smile, his eyes glinting. “Seven will be grand, thank you, sir.”

Lewis Farmington didn't know quite what to make of his daughter and Assistant Captain Burke.

The tension between the two had been unmistakable. And the attraction between them was undeniable.

As he helped Sara into the carriage, Farmington studied the broad back of the Irish policeman, who had crossed the street and was conversing with two of his men. Burke was a sturdy kind of man, one not easily swayed, he would imagine—a man who had taken his blows over the years, no doubt, but rallied nicely. Decent and sensible, he was a strong man who more than likely would prove a good husband, if somewhat immovable at times. No harm in that, though. Clarissa had often accused
him
of being somewhat obstinate, but she always seemed to like him well enough, nevertheless.

He turned back to his daughter, who sat waiting for him with a questioning smile. Straight back, firm jaw, clear eyes—wonderful girl. A bit too hardheaded for her own good, perhaps. Definitely too strong-willed to be considered a good catch by the few remaining bachelors in their own set.

Lewis had once held hopes for Judge Worthington's son, Isaac—a big, strapping blond with a good head for law and what Lewis had always thought to be a finely developed sense of morality. One night, however, in Sara's hearing, the young fool had offhandedly referred to New York's immigrant population as “filthy disease breeders.” The look Sara turned on him would have withered a cactus.

But this Michael Burke now, this brawny Celt—Lewis suspected he would not be so easily dismissed. Whether or not Sara realized it, she might well have met her match in the Irish policeman. The exasperating thing about it all was that both of them seemed determined to deny their interest in each other.

Ah, well. Time and God's will had a way of taking care of human foolishness. It would be interesting to watch events unfold. Curious, how he wasn't in the least bothered that his only daughter might take a shine to a fellow like Burke—
common,
their acquaintances would call him.

Lewis supposed his own feelings about Burke had to do with what he sensed about the man. He had pretty good instincts most of the time about people—men, at least. No man with half a brain would try to figure a woman. Their mystery was part of their appeal, after all.

At any rate, he felt he could trust his instincts about the Irish policeman. And so far, his instincts seemed to be cheering the man on.

Tierney was dumbfounded by the realization that Da was actually going through with this fiasco tonight. Furious, he made no attempt to curb his temper.

They had been arguing for ten minutes or more, Tierney contending that the evening was nothing more than a tasteless joke to the Farmingtons.

“Why would you set yourself up for this? I never thought you'd actually go!”

He was standing just inside the door of his father's bedroom, watching him iron his one good white shirt. “Can't you see they're simply playing you for the fool?”

Da straightened, setting the iron down on the board with a hard thump. Shirtless, his Sunday suspenders hanging loose at his waist, he stared at Tierney with burning eyes. “That will do, Tierney!” The words exploded like pistol shots.