Land of a Thousand Dreams (68 page)

Sandemon was right beside him, lending confidence to his racing heart, his trembling arms. Although they had rehearsed this over and over, until late into the night, he had not realized…could not have imagined until this moment…the dizzying, overwhelming sensation of standing upright once again, like a man.

Even with his legs devoid of feeling and wholly confined in the iron braces, he fancied he could feel the floor beneath his feet, could almost believe that he might step out at any moment and walk. It was exhilarating—and terrifying.

As he watched, Annie appeared in the doorway, and with a stirring of great excitement, the congregation stood.

Morgan gaped at his new daughter.

Was it possible? Could this delicate young beauty in green satin truly be the imp with the smudged face and gap-toothed grin who had haunted his hospital room in Belfast, following him all the way to Dublin City?

With her cheeks flushed from excitement, her riot of dark hair caught up in an emerald-green bow and the elegant harp brooch at her throat, Annie…his Aine…was nothing short of lovely!

A wonder, and no small one at that!

He saw her smile falter for only an instant as her black eyes anxiously scanned the congregation, then came to rest on him. Her smile strengthened, and she stepped out, head up and eyes shining. Down the aisle she glided—another wonder…Annie gliding!

And behind her…Finola.

She followed Annie, her eyes downcast, a pale vision in delicate ivory lace and satin. She took the aisle with hesitant steps, and Morgan could almost feel the trembling of her heart as she approached.

His eyes locked on her loveliness, the breathtaking gown, carefully draped to conceal any evidence of her condition, the swan pendant at her breast, the flower-trimmed veil. For a moment he knew a sharp pang of sadness for his young bride. He was painfully aware that this day fell far short of the wedding she must have dreamed of as a young girl. It grieved his heart that this occasion, which should have been, at the very least, a continuous joy, had been clouded by a tragedy beyond all understanding, marred by the fact that, at best, it was only an arrangement.

Then, during that brief instant of regret, she raised her head. Despite the veil, Morgan felt her startled gaze lock on him. He saw her stumble, sway slightly, then recover.

Suddenly, he forgot the braces on his legs, forgot the crutches that held him upright. He forgot the gathering in the chapel and even his friend at his side. He forgot the reality that within a short time he would return to the wheelchair, that this was but a momentary grace and could not last.

He forgot everything…everything except the wonder of Finola…the most splendid wonder of all.

At last she was at the altar, by his side, touching his arm with a trembling hand. Even the veil could not conceal her glistening eyes, her incredible smile, her radiance.

As they stood before the priest, Morgan silently thanked God for this wondrous shining moment, when he once again could stand upright like a man, his bride beside him.

Then, in glorious fulfillment of his old, recurring dream, he heard her whisper his name….

“Morgan…”
she breathed, lifting her face to meet his eyes. Her hand tightened on his arm, and Morgan vowed to himself…and to his God…that, somehow, he would love her enough to make up for her own lost dreams and abandoned hopes.

E
PILOGUE

A Family Portrait

Come to this hallowed place
Where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon;
Ireland's history in their lineaments trace;
Think where man's glory most begins and ends,
And say my glory was I had such friends.

W.B. YEATS (1865–1939)

T
he wedding banquet was a gala affair, with the entire household invited. Mindful of the famine conditions throughout the country, the
Seanchai
had chosen not to spread an extravagant feast at table, but instead had ordered distributions of food to numerous poorhouses and famine hospitals in several counties.

Nevertheless, there was a generous meal for all, and the servants were invited to attend the opening of the gifts that had been arriving for days.

Now relaxed in the wheelchair at table, his legs freed of the iron braces, the
Seanchai
laughed a great deal and smiled often at his bride, who everyone agreed, was quite the loveliest young woman in three counties.

One gift after another was presented to the bride and groom, each receiving keen attention and vigorous applause. At the very end, Sister Louisa stood to present her gift to the happy couple.

With uncharacteristic hesitancy, she brought forward a large canvas completely draped with a dark cloth.

“I thought this might be appropriate for the occasion,” she said, her eyes averted.

A hush fell over the room as she pulled back the covering to reveal a portrait…a
family
portrait, exquisitely rendered and striking in each likeness. In the center sat the
Seanchai
himself, holding his minstrel's harp and looking altogether pleased and quite proud. Behind him, at his left, was his new bride. She stood with one hand on her husband's shoulder, a small black-and-white cat tucked in her other arm.

Behind the
Seanchai,
to his right, towered Sandemon, the West Indies Wonder. Regal in purple shirt with flowing sleeves, the black man's expression was both affectionate and serene.

Perched on the floor beside the
Seanchai
sat his young daughter, Annie—Aine. One hand clasped her father's as she beamed her newly found happiness for all eyes to behold.

And at the very front, at the
Seanchai
's feet, sat the great wolfhound, a magnanimous smile on his friendly face as if to indicate how pleased he was with them all.

The
Seanchai,
visibly moved, admired the portrait for a long time, proclaiming it a wonder and a most splendid gift. His bride agreed, and went to embrace the smiling Sister Louisa.

In the midst of all the admiring comments, however, the
Seanchai
loudly cleared his throat, saying, “Sister Louisa? There is one thing I would point out to you, if I may.” His face solemn, he went on. “I fear there is a serious omission in the portrait.”

Sister Louisa's eyes widened, then narrowed, and she flushed slightly. “An omission?” she repeated, her voice somewhat strained.

“Aye,” said the
Seanchai,
watching her carefully. “You seem to have forgotten a member of the family—a most important member, at that.”

Clearly flustered, the nun lifted a hand to her throat as she peered at the portrait. “I'm afraid I don't—”

“Yourself,
Sister!” put in Annie Fitzgerald gleefully, bouncing from one foot to the other. “Don't you see—you forgot to include
yourself
!”

With a glint in his eye, the
Seanchai
laughed and nodded, “Indeed, Sister,” he said. “The portrait is splendid, but hardly complete without you.”

A Note from the Author

When I first began to research the idea for the first book in this series,
Song of the Silent Harp,
I discovered a strong religious thread throughout the history of Ireland. I hope I have communicated to my readers a clearer understanding of how Christianity influenced the lives of some of America's Irish ancestors.

During those years of study and writing, I became aware that it is virtually impossible to separate the past from the present. The struggles and successes, the trials and triumphs of our forebears, make up not only a rich heritage but also contribute in immeasurable ways to what we—and our world—are today. Like young Daniel Kavanagh, I believe that, from God's perspective, yesterday, today, and tomorrow are one vast
panorama,
a continuing epic that our Creator views in its entirety, from the dawn of time through the present to eternity.

Further, history
does,
indeed, repeat itself. Most experiences of the past continue to happen. The horrors of famine and hopelessness that surround many characters in The Emerald Ballad still exist. Month after month, year after year, the innocent victims of war, disaster, political indifference, and oppression go on suffering and dying, just as they did in Ireland during the Great Famine.

Government programs and private charities cannot begin to meet the escalating demand for worldwide assistance. I believe the Christian church should be at the very front of international rescue operations, for it is the
church
that bears the responsibility—and the privilege—of giving love to a world that needs it.

I invite you to join me in finding practical ways to help. There are many organizations that provide an opportunity to put faith and love into action. One person
does
make a difference.

BJ Hoff

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THER FINE
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ARVEST
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UBLISHERS

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ACHEL'S
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ECRET

Bestselling author BJ Hoff delights with her compelling series, The Riverhaven Years. With the first book,
Rachel's Secret,
you'll discover a community of unforgettable characters, a tender love story, the faith journeys of people you'll grow to know and love, and enough suspense to keep the pages turning quickly.