Land of a Thousand Dreams (55 page)

“The master instructs that you…dress…for dinner,” he announced stiffly. “And that you assist Miss Finola, if she, ah…is able to come downstairs.”

Strengthened by her new resolve to be good at all times, Annie actually managed to smile. A foolish, ladylike smile, she expected. Not that she cared. “Why, thank you very much, Artegal,” she said sweetly, pleased when he shot her a suspicious look.

After whisking herself into the only dress she really favored—a vivid, green-striped tarlatan—Annie hurried to Finola's room, only to find that Lucy had already helped Finola complete her toilette.

Somewhat impatient with the round-faced Lucy—who was, Annie had privately declared to Sandemon, a bit shifty-eyed—she insisted on dressing Finola's hair by herself. This was another of her “Favorite Things to Do,” for Finola's hair was a glory, and that was the truth.

With Lucy dismissed to take her meal in the kitchen, Annie had Finola to herself, except for Small One, who lay on the bed eyeing Fergus with a suspicious stare. Poor Fergus, as usual, was made to wait just outside the door, looking in; he and the cat simply could not agree, and had to keep their distance from each other.

“You look beautiful, Finola.” Annie stood behind her at the vanity, brushing the heavy, flaxen waves into spun gold. “Like a princess.”

Their eyes met in the reflection of the mirror, and Finola smiled at her. “I think you've been reading the faery stories again, Aine,” she said softly. “Sure, I'm no princess.”

Finola was the only one who seemed to consider Annie grown up enough to be called by her birth-name,
Aine,
and she preened at the sound of it.

Finola had a voice like rarest silk, she did. A voice as golden as her hair, sweet and flowing. Annie felt, when she opened her own mouth, like a squawking bird in comparison. Indeed, looking at herself and the fair Finola in the mirror, it was like gazing on an ungainly blackbird and a swan.

“You are a princess to me, Finola!” she blurted out. “And to the
Seanchai
! He is the prince of Nelson Hall, and you are his princess!'' She stopped, the brush suspended in her hand. “Sure, he treats you like one, and that's the truth!”

The reflection in the mirror sobered as the faintest hint of pink touched Finola's cheeks. “He is…kindness itself to me. I…I can't think how I shall ever repay him for all he is doing.”

Surprised, Annie stared at her. “Why, Finola—the
Seanchai
wouldn't expect you to
repay
him! He does what he does because—” Annie stopped, not wanting to embarrass Finola. “Well, because he cares for you.”

The flush on Finola's pale skin deepened still more. “His heart is large,” she said. “It holds much compassion. Perhaps too much.”

Annie studied the lovely, troubled face in the mirror. “What is it, Finola? What makes you so sad?” She blurted out the question before thinking, then wondered if she'd been too forward. Still, they
were
friends; Finola said so herself. Indeed, Finola treated her more as a sister than a bothersome child.

The thin shoulders slumped, and Finola lowered her head as if in dismay. “I never meant to be a burden to him,” she said miserably, the wondrous voice naught but a whisper. Annie had to lean forward to hear. “'Tis the last thing I would be to him. I shouldn't be letting him do this thing…making me his wife, giving my child his name…but I don't know what else to do. He is such a great man, a noble man…and because he is, he has burdened himself with me…and the child…a child he doesn't want, a child that is nothing to him….”

Dismayed, Annie saw tears track slowly down the hollowed cheeks and fall onto the soft blue dress. She put the brush down and gripped Finola's shoulders with both hands.

“Oh, Finola,
no
! You're wrong, you are! Dreadfully wrong! You're not a burden to the
Seanchai!
He truly cares for you…why, he
cherishes
you! Don't you see it, in his eyes? Everybody else sees—don't you?”

Finola began to shake her head in protest, but Annie caught a glimpse of something else, something that made her think Finola
wanted
to believe.

“And as for the babe,” she hurried on, “it isn't true at all, that your babe is nothing to him! The
Seanchai
wants to be the father, he does!”

Still looking at Finola's reflection in the mirror, Annie saw the uncertainty in her eyes. She was being bold, perhaps even offensive, but somehow she had to make her understand! Finola was wrong—ever so wrong—about why the
Seanchai
was marrying her!

“He adores you!” she burst out. “He has, from the very first! It's the truth, Finola, and you must mind it! And as for the babe—” Annie stopped, her mind fumbling wildly for a flash of inspiration that seemed just out of reach. “It's—it's just as Sister told me, once, when I was fretting about not being the
Seanchai
's real daughter.

“‘Annie Delaney,' Sister said, ‘a man is not a father because of a legal document, or even because of the blood tie. A man is a father by a choice of the will and a…a commitment of the heart.'” Gulping in a huge breath, Annie rushed on to finish what she felt an urgency to say. “Don't you see, Finola? The
Seanchai
has made a choice of the will and a commitment of his heart—to you, and to your babe. He wants you
both,
now that's the truth!”

Their eyes met and held in the mirror's reflection. And as Annie looked into Finola's startled blue gaze and thought about the words she had spoken so boldly, the first light of morning began to dawn, somewhere in the very deepest part of her. A warm, comforting awareness washed over her, and she knew, in her heart of hearts, that, even if life should take a cruel turn and somehow prevent her from being adopted by the
Seanchai,
nothing—
nothing
would ever prevent her from being his daughter, from belonging to him.

In his heart. And in her own.

Waiting for the others to come down to dinner, Morgan read Frank Cassidy's letter again. He found it as intriguing the second time through as the first—intriguing, and, in some respects, maddening.

Frank was, of course, doing his utmost to carry out the burdensome task with which Morgan had entrusted him. Cassidy was as faithful as the sunrise and loyal to the death. If the truth of Finola's past could be found, then he would find it.

But he was having the time of it getting started, or so it seemed. It had been a month now since Morgan had set him to the search, a search that had begun right here in the streets of Dublin. Early on, however, after just coming upon a possible source of information, he'd been forced to abandon his assignment and leave for Galway, where his recently widowed daughter was having landlord problems.

At last he was back on the job, which, according to his letter, had taken him to Drogheda:

Although the information given me by the gleeman—Christy Whistle—could only be, at best, considered questionable, I'm inclined to follow it through. This is going to take some digging and some wandering about, I fear. I know you are anxious, but try to be easy, for you've my word that I'll not quit on you. I do think I may at last have found the beginning of a worthwhile trail to pursue.

Drogheda. He couldn't imagine what Cassidy had learned from the street minstrel that had led him to the old city, but the mere fact that he had gone there was enough to make Morgan hope something would come of it.

Yet, perhaps it was best that it was going to take some time, as Cassidy had indicated. Determined as he was to uncover anything in Finola's past that might help her, Morgan uneasily acknowledged that whatever lay buried among her forgotten memories was more than likely unpleasant, possibly harmful. She had enough—more than enough—to deal with for now. Anything else might turn out to be too much. What was important for her now was a time of healing.

Hearing voices on the stairs, Morgan glanced up, then folded the letter and put it back in the desk. Quickly, he wheeled himself across the room and out into the hallway.

Looking thin and too pale by far—but with a faint smile for him—Finola stood at the bottom of the stairway, Annie and Sister Louisa on either side of her. Morgan's heart gave a great leap: now the evening would be even more special than ever.

It was a fine evening, and that was the truth—the finest Morgan could remember in a very long time. Although Finola had come down for meals three or four times before tonight, this was the first time she had taken more than a few indifferent bites, the first time she did not seem to distance herself from the rest of them.

He found it difficult to keep his eyes from her. Her flaxen hair was shining, her eyes more alight than he had seen them for months. It was, of course, impossible not to notice the slight trembling of the hand when she lifted her cup, the occasional sadness that darkened her gaze when she thought no one saw, the faint color that crept across her face when he happened to catch her eye.

But she was here. She would sit at his table, eat at his side. She would share in this happy time for him and Annie, and he would be blessed by her nearness, her grace, her golden hair, her gentle smile. It was more than enough.

Annie had known from the moment she saw the vast dining room table, lavishly spread as if for a banquet, that something was afoot. Something was different. Something special.

The table was set with the best crystal goblets, the most delicate of the china, the silver all polished and gleaming in the candlelight. Sister Louisa, who usually took her meals with the students in the Academy, was seated at the table, smiling at Annie as she walked in.