Land of a Thousand Dreams (22 page)

The entire time Louisa was explaining, she could almost feel the sinking of the big man's heart. But she must finish. He must know. “The surgeon isn't quite easy about her mind. He—”

“What
about
her mind?” Her employer's hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair as he sat forward. “What about her mind?” he repeated, his voice deadly quiet.

Louisa cringed inwardly, but she met the pain in his eyes straight on. “No one escapes violence unscathed, Master Fitzgerald. But it has been my experience that the innocent—those who seem to have an essential goodness, a purity to their spirit—most times suffer the most severely.”

His gaze never wavered as Louisa went on. “Finola is the victim of a particularly vicious, savage attack. And Finola,” she said, her voice faltering for an instant, “is a very gentle, sweet, trusting young woman. She has been plunged into a nightmare, and, as yet, is quite…unable to deal with it. At present, she is in a state of hysteria—she is not herself. Dr. Fielding strongly recommends that as long as this is the case, it would be better if you don't try to see her. She won't even allow
him
near her. Obviously, the girl is terrified.”

The man looked so stricken that Louisa longed to find some word of comfort to offer. “It may not last very long at all,” she added. “I'm sure that the moment she starts feeling…better…she'll want to see you. It's just that, for now…”

She let her words drift off, unfinished. It was obvious the
Seanchai
was no longer listening.

13

The Folly of Delay

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.

W.B. YEATS (1865–1939)

New York City
Mid-November

W
hen Sara realized that the incident with Tierney was not going to change Michael's mind about a Christmas wedding, she hardly knew whether to feel disturbed or relieved.

She didn't
want
to delay the wedding. The very thought cast a pall of gloom over her days, made her heartsick. Yet given the seriousness of Tierney's injuries—and his unrelenting opposition to the marriage—she could only believe that to push ahead with their plans might serve to increase the boy's antagonism.

Even now, a week after Tierney's beating, she continued to argue that perhaps they should postpone their plans. Yet every time she broached the subject, Michael remained adamant in his refusal even to consider a delay.

This evening he had stopped by after dinner with the news that he'd be taking Tierney home on Friday. As they stood talking in front of the low-burning fire in the parlor, he pulled Sara to him, smiling a little. “The doctor says Tierney should be entirely recovered before the holidays. So you see, there's no need for any further talk of delaying the wedding.”

Sara allowed herself to be held for a moment. “You're sure he's strong enough to handle the ferry ride? It's been only a few days, after all.”

Michael nodded distractedly. “He's on the mend, right enough. He's been wanting to get out of Walsh's house since the first day, of course, but the doctor wouldn't give his approval until now.”

Neither the note of cheerfulness in his tone nor the reassurance of his strong embrace helped to ease Sara's nagging doubts. She was convinced that Tierney would resent her all the more for intruding upon his relationship with his father at such a crucial time.

She confided these concerns to Michael, adding, “I can't help but wonder if we wouldn't be wise to wait.”

Michael clasped her firmly by the forearms and pulled away just enough so that he could study her face. “Sara,” he said, his impatience not quite concealed, “you
know
that my relationship with Tierney is already strained to the breaking point. More and more we are like two strangers.”

The pain in his eyes belied the hard edge to his tone. Sara tried to interrupt, but he shook his head and went on. “The boy has virtually shut me out of his life. He makes no secret of the fact that he resents me, wants no part of what he calls ‘my kind of life.' So tell me, then, Sara, what, exactly, do you think we could accomplish by delaying our marriage?”

Sara drew in a long, shaky breath. “I just don't want to make things any worse than they already are,” she said softly. “Tierney is your
son,
Michael!”

His expression of pain gave way to a smoldering anger. “And you will be my
wife
! Even my son will not rob me of that!”

His hands tightened with such force that Sara winced. Immediately, he gentled his touch. “I'm sorry, Sara! I'm sorry,” he said again, his features softening to a look of remorse. “But don't you see,
asthore,
there is nothing you can do—nothing
we
can do! If Tierney is bent on turning away from me, and from everything that matters to me, there will be no stopping him.”

The hurt in his eyes made Sara want to weep. “Oh, Michael, I'm
sorry
! I hate it that Tierney dislikes me so much, but I could bear
that
! What I
can't
bear is the thought that I might come between you and your son.”

Again his hands tightened on her. “Sara, listen to me: God knows I'd do almost anything to change things between me and Tierney. But one thing I will
not
do: I will not give you up for his foolishness! I will not lose you—not even for my son!”

The intensity of his love hit Sara like a blow. If she had ever before this moment doubted the depth of Michael's feeling for her, she knew she never would again.

He gathered her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. Sara felt as if she would melt into his strength, be absorbed by the exquisite tenderness in his eyes as he lifted her face to his and kissed her.

“Christmas,” he whispered. “You will be mine at Christmas. You promised me.”

Unable to do more than nod her agreement, Sara wrapped her arms tightly around him, pressing her face against his shoulder. Clinging to him, she silently prayed…again…that they were doing the right thing.

The next day, a midmorning summons to her grandmother's house caused Sara to turn her attention, at least temporarily, from the difficulties between Michael and his son to her own family

Robert, the elderly driver who had been in Grandy Clare's employ ever since Sara could remember, came for her just before eleven. Since it was only a short walk to the rambling Gothic mansion on Thirty-fourth Street, Sara was somewhat alarmed to see the carriage pull up.

Her grandmother's recovery from a light stroke the past summer had been slow and not altogether complete. The fact that she still insisted on living alone, with only the aging Robert and a small staff of servants—most of whom were as old as Grandy—was a constant source of concern for the entire family.

Robert, however, relieved Sara's mind by assuring her that her grandmother was not ill. “Nothing like that, Miss Sara. She said I should tell you right away that she's not feeling poorly, just lonesome for your company. It looks like rain, she said, and I should bring the carriage for you.”

As Robert helped her from the carriage, Sara was glad for her grandmother's thoughtfulness. The air had turned bitterly cold overnight, and the first drops of a frigid rain were, indeed, beginning to fall.

Her grandmother was waiting in the tearoom upstairs, Sara's favorite room of the house. The lace curtains had been pulled back to allow entrance to as much light as possible. Grandy Clare, small and erect, sat by the window at a lacquered desk.

As soon as she saw Sara, she replaced her pen and extended her hands. “Ah! You're just what's needed to brighten this dismal morning! Come in, dear—come in! Come, sit close to me.”

Sara bent to kiss her grandmother's scented cheek and squeezed her hands—thin hands, dry and not as strong as they had once been. Sara noted a slight trembling as she clasped them.

Pulling up a rose brocade chair next to the desk, Sara smiled at her. “You're certainly about your correspondence early this morning, Grandy. You're not writing another letter to the
Tribune,
are you?”

With an indignant sniff, her grandmother reared back in her chair. “I'd not waste the ink!”

“Why, Grandy! I thought you
liked
Mr. Greeley.”

“Oh, Horace is all right, I suppose.” Her grandmother gave a small shrug of her shoulders. “If you don't mind the fact that he's pompous, dogmatic, and altogether too emotional. Horace hasn't yet learned to line up his ducks before he starts shooting.”

“But he
does
take a stand,” Sara reminded her, laughing. “He's sympathetic to the Irish, remember.” The colorful editor of the
Tribune
had made a personal contribution to assist Ireland and also printed an appeal for public donations. “And he's virulently opposed to slavery.”

“And women's suffrage,” Grandy Clare pointed out dryly. “If Horace would simply learn to control his temper, he'd sound a great deal more like a crusader and less a fool. At any rate, I'll not bother to write him again. Even though we're friends, he quite obviously thinks me brainless because I'm female. No, what I'm doing this morning is writing out some instructions for Robert and the other servants, just to keep on hand. Things were a shambles when I came home from the hospital. I mean to make certain it doesn't happen again.”

Alarmed, Sara leaned forward to clasp her grandmother's frail wrist. “Grandy! Robert said you were well, but you're
not,
are you?

“I'm
quite
well,” her grandmother countered, her eyes snapping. The small, oval chin—the same chin as Sara's—shot up. “I am, however, eighty-three years old. I have had one stroke and two rather serious bouts with pneumonia. It seems only good sense to take precautions. Good heavens,” she went on briskly, “the last time I had to lie in, nobody could seem to find
anything.
Why, the servants didn't even get their wages on time!”

Sara couldn't suppress a smile. Her grandmother's ruthless household organization was a family joke. “We've told you for years you shouldn't be so efficient, Grandy. Now you see what happens when you're indisposed.”

“Indeed I do, and that's why I don't intend to let it happen again. Such an uproar!” Pushing back from the desk, she turned around to face Sara.

Again, Sara felt a stab of concern at her grandmother's appearance. The silver hair, still remarkably thick, was neatly tucked into its customary knot at the nape of her neck. A hint of pink dusted the frail cheeks, but even the rouge and soft rose of her gown couldn't quite disguise the ashen pallor of her skin. The truth was that this particular morning, Grandy Clare looked every day of her eighty-three years.

Sara loved her small, frail grandmother deeply. When Sara's mother died, Grandy Clare had come to stay with them for several months. During that time of loss and bewilderment, the frightened five-year-old Sara had forged a bond of love with her grandmother, a bond that had only grown stronger through the years. They were more than family; they were friends. To Sara, life without Grandy Clare was inconceivable.

“I don't want to talk about me,” her grandmother said firmly. “I want to talk about
you.
And your young man. How
is
Michael, by the way?”