Land of a Thousand Dreams (28 page)

Or did he only fear such a possibility because of his own dark yesterdays?

Later that morning, Morgan Fitzgerald sat hunched over his desk in the library, working through the considerable volume of correspondence that required his attention.

These days he had to force himself to give any real thought to matters that weren't of the utmost importance. Anything pertaining to Annie's adoption received highest priority, of course, but to date there had been no new developments. An excessive amount of money—and a not-so-veiled threat—had been hung out to the child's mother. He believed—and the attorneys concurred—that if the threat of legal charges to the woman and her drunken, abusive husband did not bring the desired response, the exorbitant amount of money
would.

Not for the first time, Morgan wished he might have the use of his legs again—if only for the time required for a trip to Belfast. He was sure if he could get his hands on that soak of a stepfather—Tully—he could successfully convince both him and the mother to relinquish all claim on Annie.

Sighing, he turned his attention to a more cheerful task, that of replying to Evan Whittaker's most recent letter. Picking up his pen, he sat thinking about the Englishman who continued to amaze him. Somehow, Whittaker had landed himself what, to most, would seem the unenviable task of directing a singing group composed of both Irish and black youths—and this in the midst of a New York slum.

As if that weren't challenge enough, he had also involved himself in arranging music for them. His recent letter was by way of enlisting Morgan's help in acquiring some Irish songs—simple melodies, he stressed—which could be incorporated into his American arrangements. These, as well as some of the music of the Negro slaves, would constitute Whittaker's first attempts to create what he referred to as “ethnic-American” songs.

Daniel John, Whittaker remarked, was helping him as best he could, but hadn't enough musical notation to supply detailed scores.

I am teaching him the basics, however, and daily thank God for the surprisingly thorough musical education I received at university some years ago. Daniel quite enjoys the irony in an Englishman teaching him the rudiments of harmony, so that he can arrange his Irish melodies.

Morgan smiled a little at that, and read on. Whittaker hoped to eventually integrate a variety of music of other races and nationalities into his own arrangements. The man seemed convinced that a new kind of American song was beginning to emerge, one containing a mixture of ethnic melody and American form. Ultimately, he believed it would represent the true spirit of America, the “land of a thousand dreams,” as he called his newly adopted country.

I hope to encourage this new music among the youth in the slums. In some small way, I believe it can help to bridge at least a part of the divisions that now exist.

An ambitious undertaking. Morgan shook his head at the idealism of the man, but he had to admire him. Removing his reading glasses, he propped his elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his folded hands.

What a marvel the Englishman had turned out to be. A memory of the slight, almost timid Whittaker, with his poor eyesight and fierce stammer, brought a wry smile. This same timid, stammering Britisher had gone and married Morgan's own childhood sweetheart, winning her away from both himself and Michael Burke—and then proceeded to take in Morgan's niece and nephew to raise as his own. At the same time, he'd managed to make a place for himself in the employ of one of the wealthiest men in America.

Timid, indeed!

Morgan could only cheer him on. Many men strived for nobility of soul, but Evan Whittaker was one of the few he had known who seemed to have attained it.

The thought of his niece and nephew made Morgan again ponder the question of whether or not he should bring Tom and Johanna back to Ireland. He was providing for them financially, of course, had settled a generous sum of money on them under the supervision of Evan Whittaker. He wrote to them, and, with Nora and Evan's help, they sent him messages in response.

But was it enough? They were his brother's children, after all; he had always been more than fond of them. Yet he could not see uprooting them again, at least not at the present.

He could offer them a fine home, see to their education, provide security. But with Ireland in such dire straits, he was convinced that America could offer them far more.

He wished only to do what was best for them. Whittaker had assured him time and again that he and Nora loved both the children as their own and wanted them in their home, and Morgan did not doubt their sincerity. Still, at some point in time, the question would more than likely have to be posed to the children themselves.

With a heavy sigh, he deliberately set the problem aside for the time being. He was too preoccupied to make an objective decision about even the most inconsequential things these days, much less something as important as the future of his brother's children.

Putting on his glasses again, he laid Whittaker's letter aside; he would collect the melodies he'd requested, perhaps even provide some original songs of his own. But for now, he should answer Michael's letter.

This missive, too, was, for the most part, filled with good news. News of the coming wedding between Michael and his Sara, his promotion to police captain, his appointment to a special subcommission on crime.

At least two of their circle of three had found happiness…
.

The thought was without envy, though not without a certain regret for the course his own life had taken. He had given little heed to the idea of home and family when he'd still been a young man…and whole. For most of his life, Ireland had been his love, his consuming passion. Any notion of becoming a husband and father had been, at best, only a vague, distant possibility.

Nora's eventual marriage to Owen Kavanagh had jolted him to the realization that the one woman who might have loved him enough to forgive him his faults, even share his divided devotion, was lost to him. The door to love had been closed with a resounding finality. From that time on, Morgan never seriously considered taking a wife.

And now…now, he was no longer young. No longer whole. Certainly, no longer of any interest to women. Yet only now did he think that he might finally have matured enough to be an adequate husband. Now, when the very possibility seemed the remotest star in the heavens.

Raking a hand through the hair at the back of his neck, he forced himself to pen a letter of congratulations and good wishes to Michael. He found himself somewhat amused at the thought of Michael's taking on a society wife—a wife who apparently had a mind of her own. A
fine
mind—and a decidedly strong will, according to her husband-to-be.

Fair enough. Perhaps she'd prove a match for her strong-hearted and often hardheaded husband, he thought with a wry smile.

Evidently, the disapproval of Michael's son lent the one gloomy note to the romance. It would seem that the boy was being deliberately difficult.

He stopped writing for a moment and sat tapping the end of his pen on the desk. The more Michael told him of his boy, the more Morgan found himself drawn to young Tierney. His affinity for the lad might be nothing more than the fact that he was the son of his best friend. On the other hand, he conceded with the ghost of a smile, it might just be that he recognized a great deal of himself in Tierney Burke's feckless, rebellious nature.

Poor Michael. Practical, sensible, straight-ahead Michael. No doubt he would find such a son a great challenge.

The thought of his friend's difficulties with his son made Morgan stop and realize again just how much he appreciated Annie. The child might not be of his own blood, but she was unquestionably of his heart—her quicksilver mind, her insatiable curiosity and love of the books, her generosity of affection.

Her penchant for mischief and mixups…

Ah, but she was a gift, for all her scalawag ways. A gift for which he was daily grateful. He did cherish the lass, surely more than she could know.

Putting down his pen, Morgan flexed his fingers, then leaned back a bit from the desk, giving a deep sigh. The child might not feel all that cherished of late, he worried. He had tried not to let his distress for Finola interfere in his relationship with Annie, but of course it did.

Annie's energy exhausted him, and her transparent attempts to brighten his spirits fell flat. Somehow, when this was over, he must make it up to her. He would reassure her that she was as dear to him as if she had been his own. Whatever it took, Annie must never, never feel unwanted again.

In the meantime, he wished the child and Sister Louisa could make it up. The sister was more than willing, of course, but Annie had at some point decided “the Nun” had it in for her.

The situation sorely grieved Morgan, for he had hoped Sister Louisa would be good for the child. He had noted her attempts at friendship, but Annie obviously had other ideas. And Annie, he knew, did not easily change her ideas.

He simply could not deal with any of it at present. He had neither the heart nor the strength. Perhaps that's why he spent so much of his time writing letters. It required little concentration and a minimum of energy. With a pen in his hand, his mind remained free to dwell on Finola.

It was still a source of great pain, the surgeon's admonition to keep his distance. It pierced his heart every time he stopped at the door of her room. To see her lying there, eyes open without really seeing, occasionally moaning or sobbing in pain—and not go to her—took every shred of self-control he could summon.

He
ached
to gather her in his arms, to hold her…gently, carefully…close to him. Involuntarily, he winced at the thought. It was scarcely conceivable that Finola would allow herself to be held by a man—
any
man—ever again.

But it would be enough for him to sit beside the bed, just to look at her, talk with her.
Be
with her.

At times, he secretly questioned the surgeon's instructions. But just as quickly, he dismissed his doubts as nothing more than his own selfish need to be close to her. He must do what was best for Finola, and if staying away from her was what it took—then that is what he would do, and without complaint.

Lacking human companionship, Annie went looking for Fergus. What a fix to be in, to have no one with whom she could share her deepest feelings, except for a scruffy old dog!

She stopped where she was, hunching her shoulders and squeezing her eyes shut. “Sorry, Lord…again. Sure, and I know I can always share my deepest,
deepest
feelings with You. It's just that there are times of late when I might get to feeling a bit lonely, don't You see, and even though Fergus isn't human—he only
thinks
he is—there's no one else, besides Yourself, of course, with the time to listen to the likes of me!”

These days, Annie frequently found herself turning to the wolfhound for companionship. The
Seanchai
was naturally distracted by his worry for Finola. And Sandemon—well, he was busier than ever.

“You understand, don't You, Lord? I mean, the two people I count on most simply can't be bothered with me right now. I'm not complaining, mind,” she quickly added, starting on down the hallway in search of Fergus. “I'm not blaming the
Seanchai
at all for being worried to distraction for Finola. We all are, and that's the truth! And Sand-Man is that busy, what with his own responsibilities and some of the tasks the
Seanchai
tends to neglect lately.”