Land of a Thousand Dreams (56 page)

Annie began to rack her brain. Had she overlooked an event of some sort? Neglected a birth date or an anniversary? An important guest?

By the time the dessert was served—her favorite, cream custard—she was fairly wild with curiosity and pent-up excitement. Finally the
Seanchai
tapped his goblet lightly with a spoon. Annie had all she could do to stay in her chair. Obviously he was about to make a statement of some importance!

At first, she could not take in what he was saying. “A momentous occasion,” he declared. He had been given “a gift…and a precious responsibility”…it had taken “long months,” but now “all was prepared,” and it was time…“time to make known…time to declare…

“Time to formally acknowledge…my new daughter. The papers have been finalized, and all that awaits is the addition of your new name—or your present name, as you so choose. Annie?” He extended his hand. “Come here, lass.”

Annie's eyes bugged. Her mouth went slack. She looked from the
Seanchai
to Finola, at his left…then to Sister, bright-eyed and smiling beside Finola…then to Sandemon, whose face seemed about to crack as he lifted his eyebrows at her, beamed, then rose to his feet and gave a grand, low bow.

Annie went round the table, approaching the
Seanchai
with stiff, slow steps, determined not to bounce and run, as she would have liked. He took her hand and coaxed her to his side, searching her eyes for a very long moment. Then, releasing her hand, he reached into the pocket of his fawn-colored vest and produced a small velvet box of forest green.

“This is for you,
alannah
,” he said quietly, handing her the velvet box. “To remember this day. I commissioned it weeks ago to make certain it would be ready for this occasion.”

Annie's hands shook as if she had the palsy, but at last she managed to tip the lid of the box and peek inside. She gasped, her eyes locked on the treasure within: a brooch, made in replica of the
Seanchai
's own minstrel's harp, set in what appeared to be purest gold, the neck studded with three small emeralds.

“Oohh…my…you don't mean it's for me!”

The
Seanchai
laughed softly. “Take it out, child. Turn it over.”

With trembling fingers, Annie freed the wondrous treasure, turning it over in the palm of her hand. Engraved on the back, in the Irish, were the words: “To the daughter of my heart.”

Annie stared. Bit her lip. Sniffed. Swallowed hard.

“Here, child,” the
Seanchai
instructed gently. “Stoop down here and let me pin it on you.”

Immediately, Annie dropped to her knees beside him, waiting. His big hands fumbled, his smiling gaze held hers as he pinned the brooch carefully in place at her throat. Then he took her by the shoulders, saying, “What name shall we sign to the papers,
alannah?
Will you take my name, then?”

Annie nodded fiercely, then managed to choke out, “Aine Fitzgerald shall be my name…if you please, sir.”

His slow smile drew her into his heart, even as his sturdy arms drew her into his embrace. “Tonight,” he whispered against her temple, “I am a proud man, Aine Fitzgerald. A man blessed, to have you as my daughter.”

36

Distant Dreams and Ancient Burdens

I will my heavy story tell
Till my own words,
re-echoing, shall send
Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart;
And my own tale again for me shall sing,
And my own whispering words be comforting,
And lo! my ancient burden may depart.

W.B. YEATS (1865–1939)

L
ate that night, after Sandemon had helped him into bed, Morgan settled back against his two massive pillows, gesturing that the other should stay.

After Sandemon had pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down, Morgan said, “I've heard from Joseph. He sent his regrets, but will not be able to officiate at the wedding. He didn't admit it, of course—I have never known Joseph to complain—but I think he's ill. Perhaps gravely ill. The letter was brief, and his hand was nearly illegible.”

Sandemon nodded, his expression sad. “Father Joseph has exhausted himself for his people. And he is no longer a young man, after all.”

“Aye, I'm worried for him,” Morgan said with a sigh. “And disappointed. I had hoped he would offer the wedding mass. It would have meant a great deal to have him here.”

Again the black man gave a nod. “Would you like me to speak with one of the priests from the cathedral? They were most kind about coming here when you didn't feel up to attending.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Morgan studied him for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said vaguely. “The young Father Hugh—the one who looks to have stuffed walnuts in his cheeks—has been most agreeable.” He paused. “There is something I would ask of you.”

“Of course,
Seanchai.”

“I'd like you to assist the priest and perhaps offer the benediction.”

The instant the words were out of his mouth, he saw the black man tense. The broad shoulders stiffened, and his expression went bleak. “You know that I cannot do that,
Seanchai
,” he said, his voice low.

“I know no such thing,” Morgan said evenly, his eyes meeting Sandemon's midnight gaze. “Perhaps I understand why you
think
you cannot, but I disagree. And I very much want you to do this for me. You will be my one close friend in attendance. Joseph cannot come; Smith O'Brien still languishes in gaol. It would mean much to me if you would take part in the ceremony.”

He had not anticipated the look of pain that crossed the black man's features. Immediately, Morgan regretted asking. He would not intentionally cause this good man pain for any reason.

“Please,
Seanchai
—please do not ask me again.” Sandemon's tone seemed strangled on a note of sorrow, and Morgan chose not to press.

With a slight wave of his hand, he gave over. “All right. All right, then. But you will at least do me the honor of standing with me as my man?”

With a look of great relief, the black man quickly nodded. “1 would be most proud.”

Morgan raked one hand down the side of his beard. “I want this day to be perfect for Finola,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Sandemon. “But it seems that each idea I've had for the wedding turns out to be as unlikely as my foolish dream.”

“What dream is that,
Seanchai
?”

Morgan hesitated, then repeated with some embarrassment his recurring dream of standing like a man to meet Finola at the altar. It had plagued him almost nightly of late. He realized that it undoubtedly reflected an entire multitude of hopeless longings, yet the dream never moved past the elation of Finola's smile as, approaching, she saw him free of the wheelchair, standing tall as he awaited her.

Almost immediately, Morgan regretted his candor and tried to make light of it. “Ah, well,” he cracked, “at least the dream enables me to stretch my legs now and again.”

Sandemon smiled in exchange, but Morgan did not miss his thoughtful scrutiny.

Silence hung between them for a moment. Then Sandemon asked, “What else can I do for you,
Seanchai?
For the wedding day, I mean?”

Morgan shrugged. “Thanks to your usual efficiency, I can think of nothing.”

The black man glanced away for just an instant. “What about Miss Finola's rooms? Shall I move…her things?”

Heat stole over Morgan's face. “I believe I explained the…arrangements of the marriage to you,” he said, his tone sharper than he'd intended. “Finola will not be sharing my rooms. I thought you understood.”

At once, Sandemon shook his head, lifting one hand. “Forgive me,
Seanchai.
Of course, I understand. I only meant to suggest that you might want her belongings moved to the other connecting room. Because of the delicateness of her…condition, I thought you might want her as close to you as possible.”

Morgan frowned briefly. “A sensible idea.”

“Then I will see to it,” said Sandemon.

Sister Louisa finally had to apply great firmness to remove Annie from Finola's bedroom. The child had followed Finola upstairs and, even at this late hour, continued to bombard her with a running stream of excited chatter.

Fearful that she would exhaust Finola, Louisa stepped in. “The seamstress is coming first thing in the morning for a fitting of your gown—and Finola's. Now, then, no more delays, young
Aine
—to your bedroom at once.”

The child scowled. “I
detest
dress fittings! There's nothing more boring than being prodded and probed and pricked! And Mrs. Dowling is rough and heavy-handed entirely!”

Sister Louisa turned a long, warning look on her. “And will you disappoint Finola, then, and not participate in the wedding?”

The child darted a glance at Finola, who was sitting silently on the side of the bed, looking extremely weary. “Of course, I won't disappoint Finola,” she muttered, stalking off to the door. “But that doesn't mean I will enjoy the fitting.”

“Such a stubborn child,” Louisa said, watching her stamp on down the hall, the faithful wolfhound trotting along beside her. Turning, she studied Finola, who still sat, her gaze downcast, her hands clenched in her lap.

Louisa went to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Lucy should be right up with your warm milk. Aren't you feeling well, child?”

The girl looked up. As always, the clarity and depth of those wounded blue eyes caught Louisa off guard, piercing her own heart. “What is it, then?”

Finola pulled at the material of her nightdress, and as Louisa met her gaze she felt as if she were staring into a vale of despair.

“The wedding gown,” murmured Finola. “I know you and the
Seanchai…
that you insisted it should be of white satin, but…”

Wringing her hands, she again looked away. Sympathy, raw and painful, twisted through Louisa. The poor, lovely child, so wan and thin in the voluminous blue nightdress, her expression embarrassed and despondent, seemed scarcely older than Annie.

Sitting down beside her on the bed, Louisa pried one white-knuckled hand free of the other and enfolded it gently inside her own. “Why don't you tell me about it?”

“The white dress…I don't think…I should wear white….”

Louisa had to lean closer to make out the whispered words. Appalled, she put both hands to Finola's shoulders, turning her about and making the girl face her. “But, of
course,
you should wear white!” she said. “Why would you think otherwise?”

Finola shook her head slowly, with a look of great sadness. “I am not pure,” came the faint reply.

Louisa was suddenly angry—not at Finola, but at the terrible injustice that had been wreaked upon her. She chose her words carefully. “Finola, what happened to you is not your fault—you must believe that. In God's eyes, you are chaste—as pure as if it had never happened at all.”

The girl looked at her in surprise.

She truly did not understand, Louisa realized with dismay. “Oh, child, child—listen to me! Purity is a matter of the
heart
—a heart in right relationship to our Lord! His love wasn't changed or diminished by the awful wrong inflicted upon you! You are not…stained or unclean in His sight.”