Heart of the Lonely Exile (43 page)

“She will be. She was almost asleep when I left her.” Sandemon's voice was muffled by a drumroll of thunder.

Lightning streaked over the stables and bounced toward the stream. Morgan wheeled the chair around from the window and sat watching Sandemon.

“What happened—why did she tear out of here as she did? She seemed frightened out of her wits!”

Sandemon, poised on one knee with rag in hand, looked up. Finally, he gave a weary sigh and got to his feet. “This will wait, I suppose. First I will tell you about Annie. I should have told you sooner.” He paused,
giving Morgan a hard look. “Perhaps then you will tell me why you threw the whiskey across the room instead of drinking it, hmm?”

They talked for a long time. After Morgan had heard the story about Annie's drunken stepfather and uncaring mother, he held his head between his hands, grieved beyond words.

“No wonder she ran…no wonder.” He looked up at the black man, who now sat at the desk across from him. “I have been the great fool, Sandemon. And not for the first time in my life.”

Sandemon stood and walked to the window. With his back to Morgan, he stared out on the night. Outside, the storm had subsided, but a steady rain continued to fall. “All men are fools at times,
Seanchai,”
he said quietly. “There is no escaping that part of our nature, I think.”

Morgan looked at the broad back, the regal head. “I can't imagine you ever playing the fool, my friend.”

The black man turned, regarding Morgan with a look of great sadness. “I was the greatest fool of all,
Seanchai.
I confess to you that no greater fool ever walked.”

Morgan regarded him with curiosity. “What is your story, Sandemon?” he asked softly. “You involve yourself in the lives of others—and I mean that kindly—you live out your days
doing
for others, taking care of them. But you speak not at all of yourself. Why is that?”

“Perhaps my past is a hurtful thing,
Seanchai.
More to the point, it would serve no purpose to share it.”

Unwilling to infringe upon the solitary man's privacy, Morgan remained silent. But he wondered. He knew he would always wonder.

“I want to see the child,” he said. “Will you go with me?”

“She may be sleeping,” Sandemon cautioned.

Morgan gave a nod. “It doesn't matter. I need to be with her. But I don't want to frighten her again. You'd best go with me.”

“It was only a momentary thing,
Seanchai,”
Sandemon offered. “It will be forgotten by the morning sun.”

“Not by me,” Morgan said, his voice low. “I will not forget this night, I promise you.”

When they entered the bedroom, they found the child sleeping.
Wheeling up beside her, the
Seanchai
sat staring at the thin, elfin face, the thatch of dark, tousled hair, the long eyelashes brushing her cheeks as she slept.

For an instant, the man in the wheelchair met Sandemon's eyes across the bed. Carefully, then, he took the child's hand, enfolded it in his own much larger one, and brought it to his lips.

“I will make it up to you, Annie,” he murmured. “If you will but forgive me for my foolishness, I promise I will make it up to you. The pain of your past…my neglect…everything. You will never have to be afraid—not of this great fool, not of anything. You have my word, child.”

The girl sighed in her sleep, and the
Seanchai
leaned over to brush an unruly strand of dark hair away from her forehead.

Still holding her hand, he leaned back in the wheelchair and looked at Sandemon. “I am going to need your help,” he said wearily. “Giving up the drink—and becoming a father for the first time: a formidable task for any man.”

Sandemon gave a wry smile. “I will count it all joy,
Seanchai.”

He left the two of them alone then. Closing the door quietly behind him, he paused in the hallway. After a moment the
Seanchai's
soft voice could be heard, singing gently in the language of the Irish.

Sandemon smiled and went on. He did not have to speak the tongue to recognize a lullaby when he heard it.

42

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet.

W. B. YEATS (1865–1939)

New York City
May

E
van's father and aunt did not arrive in New York until the day before the wedding.

Waiting on the dock with Evan and Lewis Farmington, Nora could not say what rattled her more—the thought that today she would meet Evan's family or the fact that tomorrow she would be his wife.

Added to the turbulence of her emotions were the memories called up by New York Harbor. It was largely as she remembered it from her own arrival—teeming with immigrants, clamoring with the press of bodies. A veritable riot of alien languages, a profusion of color, the flags of nations. Ships disembarking or setting sail. Crying children, frightened mothers, the bewildered elderly. Laughter and wailing, terror and confusion.

It had been almost a year since she had first stepped off the
Green Flag
to be met by Sara Farmington, then a stranger to them all. The thought of everything that had happened since then set Nora's mind to spinning.
Illness and death. Tragedy and happiness. New friends. Love. And soon—a marriage!

Many a change had awaited them in this new land, yet today Nora could say in all truth,
“Thanks be to God, for He is good.”
In the midst of it all, He had been there, loving them through the worst and the best of it.

Now she stood bracing herself for yet another new experience—meeting Evan's family. She prayed they would not despise her entirely. What must they think, after all, of his marrying an Irish widow he'd met aboard ship?

Even with her future husband on one side of her and Mr. Farmington on the other, Nora felt fearfully exposed, vulnerable. Nervously she smoothed her hair, then fidgeted with the bow at her throat.

“Nora? Why, you're t-trembling!”

She looked at Evan to find him watching her with a concerned frown.

“You mustn't be f-frightened, dear! I've t-told you, my father is a kind, quiet m-man. And you'll love Aunt Winnie—everyone d-does.”

Nora managed a weak smile. How many times during the past week had poor Evan attempted to soothe her nerves? “I'm sorry,” she said, her voice low. “I simply can't help it, Evan! I want them to like me!”

“Of c-course, they'll
like
you, N-Nora! They will
love
you—how can they h-help themselves? Now then,” he said firmly, “I insist you stop f-fretting. You'll m-make yourself ill.”

“He's quite right, you know, Nora,” Lewis Farmington put in from her other side. “You'll charm them at once! Just see if you don't.”

“Here they are now!” Evan cried, urging Nora forward, through the teeming crowds on the dock.
“F-Father! Aunt Winnie! Over here!”

Swallowing down her apprehension, Nora allowed Evan and Mr. Farmington to draw her through the crush of people milling about the dock, near the gangplank. At the sound of Evan's voice, an elderly silver-haired man lifted a hand, while the extraordinarily attractive woman at his side broke into a near run, tugging the man along with one hand while she waved broadly with the other.

Evan gave a strangled cry. Nora stopped, tears burning her eyes, as she watched him close the distance between him and his family. His aunt, a diminutive flurry of pink and white, came flying, flinging her arms around Evan, sobbing and laughing all at the same time. Then Evan turned to his father, and Nora lost her breath at the look that passed between them.

Evan's father, a slight, slender man much like Evan, looked a good deal
older than his sixty-nine years. As he stood staring at his son with tear-glazed eyes, a tide of emotion seemed to flood his thin, deeply lined features. His gaze rested only briefly on Evan's empty sleeve before he opened his arms to his son with a choked cry.

Lewis Farmington took Nora's arm, and they stood watching the two men embrace. Again, Nora whispered,
“Thanks be to God.”

Beside her, her employer added a quiet,
“Amen.”

By now Evan's aunt was fairly dancing about the two men as they continued to cling fiercely to each other. After a moment, Evan turned, his eyes searching for Nora. By the time she and Mr. Farmington joined the others, there was scarcely a dry eye among them.

Except for Lewis Farmington's gaze, which, Nora noted, seemed fixed in place on the petite and vivacious Aunt Winifred.

That evening, Lewis Farmington hosted a lavish dinner for the wedding party at the mansion. Sara observed with interest that, while she was at one side of her father, Winifred Whittaker Coates had been conveniently seated at the other. With even greater interest, she observed the almost instant rapport between her father and Evan's aunt.

Considering the attractive widow more closely, Sara was impressed. Evan had indicated that his aunt was in her late fifties, but she could have easily passed for a much younger woman, with her dancing blue eyes, blonde coiffure gently threaded with silver, and an almost maidenly figure. At the moment, she and Sara's father were debating the comforts and discomforts of shipboard travel. Father's intent expression, Sara thought with amusement, seemed to indicate he found the widow's every word a veritable treasure.

At Sara's left sat Michael Burke, a surprise guest. Invited only the day before by her father—at both Nora and Evan's request—he seemed tense and jumpy, although disconcertingly attentive throughout the meal.

Sara was glad she had worn her blue satin, for Michael had complimented her at least three times throughout the evening. Still, she could not ignore the fact that he seemed far more intent on watching her father than in talking with
her.

In the library, Lewis Farmington felt as if he were holding court. Not that he minded, of course. The fact was, he was enjoying himself immensely!

First he met with Nora and Evan—a brief meeting, but one that gave him enormous pleasure. “A wedding gift,” he said, handing Evan an envelope. “From Sara and me.”

When the two lovebirds tried to express their thanks, he waved them off. Clearing his throat loudly, he said, “The two of you—and the children, of course—have become very special to us. Naturally, we wanted to make you a gift of some sort.”

He gestured toward the envelope in Evan's hand. “You can open it later, when you're alone. But it takes a bit of explaining, and that's why I wanted to see you for a moment. You'll find a deed in there,” he said, again pointing to the envelope. “A deed to a house I used to own in Brooklyn. It's not a large place, but it's had good maintenance and it's in a respectable neighborhood. It's yours. I want you to have it.”

Good heavens, Nora looked about to faint! And Evan looked little better.

“Now don't take on! I understand that you're not quite ready to assume the financial burden of a home and the support of the children just yet. You're welcome to use the cottage just as long as you like, and we want to continue helping with the children, if you'll allow it. The deed is simply your assurance that, when the time comes, and you're ready for a place of your own, there will be one waiting for you. There's a nice quiet fellow who works at the yards living in it just now; he'll take good care of it until you move in.”

He stopped for a breath, and both Nora and Evan began protesting in unison. He ignored them. “Now see here,” he said firmly, “if you're serious about providing a home for Little Tom and Johanna, you'll need a bit more room than what you have in the cottage. This is our wedding gift to you—Sara's and mine—and you'll insult us greatly if you refuse it. It's no mansion, after all—just a nice clean little house, where you'll have a bit of room and some privacy. It's for the children, too, you understand.”

He stopped, and to his dismay felt tears rising to his eyes.
Good heavens, he was taking on like a father!

Clearing his throat again, Lewis squared his shoulders. “I want you to know…that I wish you both the very best, and that Sara and I will be always here for you if there's ever anything you need. Anything. We'd be proud if you'd consider us your family, here in America.”

Bless them both, he had to get them out of the room before he started weeping in earnest!

Next to enter the library was Michael Burke. Lewis hadn't been the least surprised when Burke caught him alone after dinner and requested a private audience. He'd been expecting it. The last two times he had seen Sara and the Irish policeman together, the sparks flying between the two would have set an iceberg ablaze!

Ushering Burke into the library, he motioned him to take a seat. When the younger man declined, Lewis chose to remain standing also. Backing up to the cold fireplace, he gave Burke an encouraging smile. “Well, then, Captain—tomorrow is the big day! I trust you and your son will be here.”

Burke stood near the desk, back straight, hands clasped behind him. “I'll be here, of course. As for Tierney—I don't believe he can make it.”

“Too bad. Daniel will miss him, I'm sure.” Noting the other's strained expression, Lewis moved to change the subject. “I believe you mentioned wanting to speak with me about a matter of some importance, Michael—you don't mind if I call you
Michael?”

For an instant Burke's eyes lit up with what almost appeared to be gratitude. Immediately, however, his expression sobered. “I'd be pleased if you would, sir.”

Waiting, Lewis sensed the enormous stress the policeman seemed to be under. “Well, then—what can I do for you…Michael?”

Burke's prominent Adam's apple worked up and down with difficulty as he cleared his throat. “When you hear what I am about to ask, no doubt you will think I have colossal gall, sir.”