Land of a Thousand Dreams (43 page)

Blackness engulfed her. The floor beneath her became a dizzying wave upon which she rode into a sea storm of nightmares.

In the chapel, Morgan roused, jerking himself upright as if someone had called his name.

Somewhat dazed, he glanced around, realized it was late. The tapers had burned low. No light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the chapel.

He yawned and stretched, then for a moment sat pondering the erratic, disjointed thoughts that often dance in the mysterious valley between sleep and wakefulness.

Without warning, he felt the spark of an idea flicker, then begin to rise deep inside him. It was as if a candle had been lighted in his mind.

Slowly, the webs of sleep began to clear, and he felt a kind of peace born of assurance spread over him. There was no thunderbolt of revelation, no brilliant flash of light or sudden seizure—only a gentle, quiet dawning within his spirit.

But as he sat there, unmoving, in the silence of the chapel, he realized with almost blinding certainty what he could do—what God would
have
him do—to help Finola.

A sudden urgency overtook him to go to her. He whipped the chair around, wheeling himself quickly to the doors, and flung them open with such force that they slammed, vibrating, against the wall.

28

For the Victims of Violence

Come, sweetheart, the bright ones would bring you
By the magical meadows and streams,
With the light of your dreaming they build you
A house on the hill of your dreams.

SEUMAS O'SULLIVAN (1879–1958)

T
he door to Finola's room stood slightly ajar. Morgan stopped at the threshold for a moment, suddenly aware that it was late and she might be sleeping.

Was he being foolish? He did not yet even know how to articulate the thoughts that had driven him from the chapel in such a fever. Perhaps, after the emotional turmoil of this day she would not welcome the company of anyone, including him. Perhaps she would prefer to be alone.

No. He would not wait,
could
not wait. Although he did not understand the urgency he was under, not for a moment did he doubt the conviction that had seized him.

Lifting his hand, he tapped lightly on the doorpost. “Finola?” he said softly. “'Tis Morgan. Might I come in for a moment?”

There was no response. He waited for Lucy Hoy to appear; when she didn't, he repeated Finola's name, then put his hand to the door and pushed it open a bit wider. After another moment's hesitation, he wheeled himself into the room.

When he first saw the empty bed he didn't panic. He looked about, surprised but relieved that Finola apparently felt strong enough to be up.

The room was dim and shadowed, lighted by only one candle on the bedside table. Despite the immaculate linen and subtle scent of cloves, the cloying odor of illness hung over the room.

It took him a moment to register the fact that there was no sign of Finola or the woman, Lucy Hoy. His gaze went back to the bed.

Where was she?

He felt suddenly chilled. The only sounds in the room were his own shallow breathing and the wild banging of his heart against his chest.

Spinning the wheels of the chair hard, he whipped the rest of the way into the room, coming to a sharp halt before he reached the bed.

“Finola?” he choked out.

With silence his only reply, he veered the chair around to the other side of the bed, screeching to a stop at the sight of her, lying face down on the floor in her nightdress.

“Merciful Lord—Finola!”

Shaking off the panic clutching at his throat, Morgan raised himself almost out of the chair by the sheer strength of his arms. He caught himself just before he pitched forward.

“
Sandemon
!”

He had no idea where Sandemon might be, where the woman, Lucy Hoy, had gone. Trembling, he leaned over as far as he could, bracing himself with one hand on the arm of the wheelchair. At last he managed to turn Finola over just enough to reassure himself that she had only fainted and did not seem to be otherwise injured.

Letting go the arm of the chair, Morgan attempted to lift the unconscious girl off the floor, but succeeded only in losing his balance and nearly keeling over himself.

Chafing at his own helplessness, he again called out for Sandemon. He leaned forward, more cautiously this time, and shook Finola gently, trying to rouse her. She continued to lie completely still and silent.

Straightening in the chair, Morgan sat staring at the slender, inert form sprawled on the floor. The longer he sat there, the more furious he grew—with the missing Lucy Hoy, with the accursed wheelchair, with his useless legs….

A thought struck him, and his hand went to his belt. Yanking it free of his trousers, he looped it through the slats of the wheelchair, then fastened it snugly about his middle, anchoring himself to the chair.

Morgan wedged the wheelchair firmly against the side of the bed and again leaned forward. The belt served to give him enough leverage that, this time, he was able to turn Finola all the way over. Grasping her under the arms, he began to lift her carefully from the floor.

Lucy panicked when she saw Finola's door standing open. Lifting her skirts, she took off running down the hall and into the bedroom, milk splashing over the sides of the cup as she went.

She stopped just inside the room, gasping at the sight of the Fitzgerald holding Finola in his arms. The girl was draped over his lap like a doll, her long hair nearly touching the floor as it fell free.

He jerked around. Under the burning gaze of those fiery green eyes, Lucy lost her breath.

“Where in blazes have you
been,
woman?” he shouted. “You're supposed to be taking care of her, and I find her on the
floor
!
”

His face was crimson with fury, the muscles in his neck knotted like ropes.

Quaking in terror at his anger and the sight of Finola, lying helpless in his arms, Lucy could only stand and gape.

“She must have tried to get up on her own and fainted!” His eyes, still ablaze with anger and accusation, forced Lucy to squirm with guilt.

“I…I only meant to be a moment. I went to fetch her some warm milk, to help her sleep!”

“Obviously it took you longer than a moment!” he snapped, his voice harsh with censure.

“But, sir, I
wasn't
gone long, truly I—”

“And where is Sandemon?” he railed, ignoring her attempt to explain.

“I am here,
Seanchai
,” announced a quiet, steady voice at the door.

Lucy gulped in a ragged breath of relief at the sight of the black man, hoping his presence would divert the Fitzgerald's attention—and wrath—from her.

Even as he spoke, Sandemon crossed the room and lifted Finola from the Fitzgerald's arms as if she were no more than a young willow branch. With great care, the black man placed her on the bed and covered her.

Glancing down the length of the bed, he met Lucy's eyes. “Some cool cloths, perhaps—”

Lucy jerked to action, hurrying across the room to fetch the basin. But even as she moved, Finola uttered a soft moan and began to stir.

“He will discharge me,” Lucy muttered to the black man in the hall. They had been dismissed once Finola revived, and now stood at the top of the stairs, whispering.

Sandemon shook his head. “No,” he said, “I do not think so. He was only frightened. The
Seanchai
is a reasonable man.”

“He is an
angry
man! Did you see the way he looked daggers at me when he told me he would sit with her
alone
?”

The black man might try to reassure her, but Lucy had seen the fury in those fiery green eyes. The Fitzgerald thought her negligent and worthless.

From the beginning, he had only allowed her to stay because Finola wanted her. True, he had paid her a fair wage in the meantime, but Lucy had known her days at Nelson Hall were numbered. She had thought to stay on only until Finola was well.

Now, it seemed even that was not to be. Not that she blamed him. In truth, she
should
have been with Finola, should never have stayed so long in the kitchen prattling on to Sandemon. She should have gone back upstairs immediately. The girl could have been seriously hurt!

“Whatever possessed her,” said the black man, his tone thoughtful, “to leave her bed, as weak and ill as she is?”