Song of the Silent Harp (50 page)

Later, they sat on the side of his bed—he was unable to stand yet for any length of time—and talked.

She told him about Tahg and wee Ellie and Owen, then about Thomas Fitzgerald and Morgan.

He told her about his wife and Tierney and his job.

She told him about Evan Whittaker, how he had saved them and looked after them so faithfully. She told him about the voyage, the evil captain, the poor little Chinese girls, and about the tragic surgeon who had shot himself.

She gave him the surgeon's letter, and he read it aloud, pausing in places when Nora would make a strangled cry of dismay.

“He murdered his own
wife?”
she cried, once Michael finished reading.

He nodded. “She was dying in agony. He couldn't bear to see her suffer, so he got drunk and gave her an injection to end the pain—to end her
life
—not knowing her brother saw the whole thing.”

“And the captain…Schell. He was her brother?”

Again Michael nodded, folding the letter and laying it on the table beside the bed. “Schell was already involved in white slaving and opium running. He started blackmailing the doctor then and there, and it never stopped. Threatened to tell the medical authorities, the surgeon's son—”

“And after all those years the son died, too!” Nora cried. “Oh, that poor, doomed man!”

“Don't feel too sorry for him,” Michael said grimly. “He was the one who acted as go-between for Schell and a number of brokers, selling out entire steerage lists. Apparently that's what happened when Morgan's men arranged your passage. They thought they were dealing through a reliable Irish surgeon!”

They both remained silent for a long time. At last, clearing his throat, Michael took her hand.

Nora looked down, then glanced back at his face. “Can we talk about a more cheerful letter now?” he said with just the ghost of a smile.

“Michael—you needn't say anything more,” Nora put in quickly. “I know this was Morgan's idea, that he arranged everything—”

Frowning, he lifted a hand to quiet her. “I don't know what you
think
you know, Nora Ellen, but I can tell you I only wrote the truth in my letter. I want to marry you, lass. I want that very much.”

Averting her eyes Nora shook her head. “Michael, you don't want to marry me! We haven't seen each other in all these years, why—you can't possibly take on such a responsibility!”

He stared at her for a moment, then reached for her other hand, holding both firmly in his. “Listen to me, Nora. Listen to the truth. I
do
want to marry you. It's all I've thought about for weeks now.”

He paused, still gripping her hands. “Nora, I am a lonely man. I want you in my life. I want to make a home with you. I know we have much to learn about each other, that it will take time. If you're not ready to be a wife to me in the…intimate…sense, I will wait. Even if you never want anything more than friendship and companionship from our marriage, I will accept that. But you must know the truth, lass, and the truth is that I want your presence in my life.

“We were good friends once—we still are, I hope.” He paused. “Can you think of a better foundation for a good marriage?”

“Michael—”

“Say yes, Nora. This is what is best for both of us, for our children.”

“How can you be sure of that, Michael? After all these years—”

“Nora,” he interrupted, “you once told me, when you were still a wee, scrawny thing, that I had a way of always making things come out right. Do you remember?”

She did.

“Nora…don't you see, lass? Some things simply don't change.”

She stared at him, watching the old confident grin spread across his good-natured face.

“Now, Nora, before you say anthing more, I have a favor to ask,” he said, still smiling.

“What sort of a favor would that be, Michael?”

“Seventeen years ago I asked you to marry me and come to America. You turned me down, and I kissed you goodbye with a great sorrow.”

She nodded, acknowledging the memory.

His eyes went soft as he moved to pull her into his arms. “Now, lass, seventeen years later, you are in America, and I am again asking you to marry me. I would also like to kiss you hello.”

Nora made no protest when he leaned toward her. His lips touched hers, gently…so gently. A brief, unsettling memory flashed across Nora's mind—a memory of Morgan Fitzgerald, his fierce embrace, his urgent last kiss, his eyes filled with love…

“Nora?” Michael's voice called her back, and she shuddered.

His eyes probed hers, questioning. “Is something wrong?”

“No—no, Michael, of course not,” she stammered. And then another memory invaded her mind: Evan Whittaker, hovering over her in the midst of his own terrible pain, offering to be her protector during the horrifying voyage to America.

And suddenly, in the deepest part of Nora's spirit, a light began to dawn. Hadn't she prayed, while still aboard the
Green Flag,
that God would give her the strength to be dependent only on
Him?
Hadn't she pleaded with Him to change her, to make her adequate for whatever might lie ahead?

She turned her eyes on Michael's face. There was a nobility there, a goodness and strength of character. This man would never renege on his promises, never leave her, as Morgan had. This man would remain true to his word. She could
trust him,
and he was waiting.

But there was another who would always be true to His Word. He would never leave her either. She could trust Him. And He was waiting…

At that moment, a strange, unfamiliar warmth rose up inside Nora, and she knew the Lord's presence as she had never known it before. He was waiting…waiting to answer her prayer…but waiting for her to take one step of faith before He answered…

And suddenly Nora knew what that step had to be. Before she could ever place her trust in, or offer her heart to, another man, she must first learn to lean on her Savior. She must learn to trust His love, His will for her life.

Perhaps she
would
marry Michael…someday. But not now, not so soon. Not yet.

“Michael,” she said softly, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, “I cannot marry you.”

“Now, Nora, just—”

She hushed his protests by touching a finger to his lips. “Listen to me, Michael,” she urged him. “I want you to understand. I
need
you to understand.”

And so he listened as Nora revealed her heart. She confessed her shame and her terror, her doubt and her despair. She admitted her need for healing, explained her need to learn to trust, to try on this new strength she believed the Lord wanted to give to her.

Little by little, as she spoke, Michael's expression began to change. Confusion gave place to understanding, frustration to acceptance. Friendship deepened, made room for respect.

“Michael,” she finished, “I
do
love you. I have always loved you…in a very special way…and I do not doubt that I always will. But before I can love you—or any other man—with the fullness of a woman's heart, I have another journey to make.”

He frowned, and she hurried to reassure him. “Oh, this is a different kind of journey, Michael. It's a journey…of faith. And today right now, at this moment…I'm taking the first step.”

Before Nora left the hospital, Michael asked another favor…and a promise.

“If he's willing…let your son come and stay with Tierney and me for a while,” he urged her. “Just for a time. Until you're settled. I'd like the boys to become friends, and Tierney was so looking forward to having another lad about the house. I'll make sure he gets good schooling, and you'll see him often, whenever you want. Would you think about it, at least, Nora? For me, and for my son?”

The promise was more a puzzle, and yet Nora was inclined to grant it.

“I want your word,” Michael said, gripping both her hands in his and searching her gaze, “that you will obey your heart. When the time comes that your heart sings love for a man, Nora, promise me you'll not let it be silenced by uncertainty or foolish pride. Promise me, lass, that, whether the song is for me…or for another…that you will give love's song a voice.”

After a long silence, Nora leaned to kiss him gently on the cheek. “Aye, Michael…dear friend…I do promise.”

Dublin
Late June

M
organ Fitzgerald had located this fine shop during his first month's stay at his grandfather's estate. The blind shopkeeper was a reputed master at fixing broken instruments, especially fiddles and harps.

While he waited for Mr. Higgins, the shopkeeper, to go in the back and have the wife tally his bill, Morgan pulled out one of the letters he'd been carrying in his shirt pocket more than a week now.

Unfolding it, it occurred to him that he was even able to smile a bit when he read the words these days. There was still some pain behind the smile, but it was not nearly so sharp as it had once been.

Daniel John had penned a message of his own, tucking it in with a more detailed letter from Michael. They had posted the letters to Joseph Mahon, in hopes the priest would see that they reached Morgan, if indeed he still lived.

He read them both regularly, but it was the lad's to which he most often returned. Leaning up against a broad, double-door cabinet, his eyes again scanned the last page, which was mostly about Whittaker.

The enterprising Englishman seemed to have landed himself a job with Lewis Farmington, the wealthy shipbuilder who had not only helped to rescue them all, but had even taken Nora and the children into his home for the time being.

…Whittaker says his new position is a great improvement over his old job, because Mr. Farmington is such a fine man. He also says he is thankful that he is right-handed.

I like Tierney a lot, and although I miss being with Mother and the Fitzgeralds every day, I have to admit it was a better idea, my staying with Uncle Mike and Tierney for now. There is no room here for all of us, and the Fitzgerald children need Mother with them.

Johanna is like a shadow to Tierney when we're all together; can you imagine that? It's odd, how he seems to understand exactly what she means, though she can't speak a word. He's more than kind to her, and very patient.

Sure, and you were right about Uncle Mike, Morgan—he is a grand fellow! He is very kind to all of us and treats Mother with great gentleness and consideration…

Morgan glanced up, rubbing a hand over his eyes. How long would it be before the thought of Nora would no longer wring his heart dry?

“Well, then, sir, here is your instrument.”

The shopkeeper's voice brought Morgan back to his surroundings. “I hope you will be pleased with it.”

Returning the letter to his shirt pocket, Morgan turned and smiled at the man before remembering Higgins' blindness. “I've no doubt but what I will.”

“That is a fine harp, sir,” said the shopkeeper, “a very fine harp, indeed. I was pleased to repair one of such antiquity. You play it often, do you?”

Morgan laid the requested sum and an extra sovereign on top of the counter. “Aye, she has been a grand friend to me,” he replied, examining the harp before tucking it under his arm.

With a word of thanks to the shopkeeper, he turned to go.

“Is it a minstrel boy you are then, sir?”

Morgan stopped, glancing back over his shoulder as he considered the question.

At last he nodded and smiled. “Aye, Mr. Higgins. That is exactly what I am. A minstrel boy.”

Caressing the harp with a reassuring touch, he flung open the door and walked outside.

It was a fine afternoon in Dublin, and the Irish sunshine set the big man's copper hair ablaze as he slung his harp over his back and stepped into the street.