Sons of an Ancient Glory (26 page)

Sister Louisa met them in the entryway. “Ah, thank the Lord, you are back! But where
is
that doctor?”

Beside Morgan, Annie asked, “How long do you think it will take,
Seanchai
?”

Feeling lightheaded, Morgan looked at her. “How long?”

“For the babe to be born!”

“How should I know such a thing?”

He looked to the nun for help, but she merely lifted her eyebrows. “Only our Lord and the babe could be knowing.”

Morgan's hands trembled on the arms of the wheelchair. “How…how is she? How is Finola?”

“She is—anxious, of course,” answered Sister Louisa carefully. “She will feel easier when the doctor arrives, I expect.”

“Where
is
he, anyway?” Morgan muttered. “He could have been here and back by now!”

Upstairs, a cry came from Finola's bedroom. Morgan reared in the chair, his entire body breaking into a tremble to match the shaking of his hands. “She is in pain!”

Sister shot him an impatient glance. “No child is born without pain, sir.” Her look clearly said that men were ever the great fools about such matters.

Morgan started the chair toward the lift. Sister Louisa stepped in front of him. “It would be best for you to wait here for the surgeon, don't you think,
Seanchai
?”

Morgan stared at her, then looked up at the hallway, toward Finola's bedroom door. “Is Lucy—”

“Lucy will not leave her. Nor will I.”

He knew he should not—perhaps
could
not—go into that room. Yet, every part of his being cried out to be with her, to go to her side.

It was unheard of, of course. An Irishman in the birthing room? Unthinkable!

Convention aside, he did not
want
to be in the birthing room, or anywhere near it, for that matter! But the thought struck him that she might be frightened, might want him there, even need him with her. They had grown close, after all, she had come to depend on him, at least in small ways.…

“Seanchai
, I must go back upstairs.” Sister Louisa's voice jarred him from his frantic thoughts. “Send the surgeon up the moment he arrives.” She gave him a sharp look, then turned to Annie. “It would not be a good idea to detain him with questions.”

Morgan's mouth seemed numb. “Do you think I should go up…”

Sister turned an almost pitying glance upon him. “Surely not,” she said evenly. “It's quite late. Why don't you have Mrs. Ryan serve tea?”

Tea—the nun's answer to any and every crisis.

“I do not
want
tea!”

What he wanted, God forgive him, was a drink!
And wasn't the nun glaring at him as if she knew it?

Well, then, but what of it? At such a time as this, could not the strongest man be forgiven a momentary weakness?

Another cry came from Finola's room. This time Morgan nearly catapulted from the wheelchair. “I will go to her—”

Again Sister Louisa blocked his passage, a small but formidable sentry. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped when Lucy Hoy came hurrying down the stairs.

Morgan cast accusing eyes on Sister Louisa. “Didn't you say the woman would not leave Finola's side?”

“Oh, sweet pity—” The nun broke off, rolling her eyes toward heaven as Lucy came to a halt at the landing.

“What is it?” Morgan demanded. “What has happened?”

Lucy stopped, looking from him to Sister Louisa.

“Happened? Oh, nothing, sir! Nothing at all! It's just that Finola asked me to fetch—”

Morgan braced himself, fought down still another attack of panic. “I will go up,” he managed bravely.

Again Lucy looked at him peculiarly. “I—I don't think that would be best, sir. But she did ask—”

“What?” Morgan interrupted, ignoring the relief that washed over him. “What did she ask? She must have anything she wants, anything at all!”

“Aye, sir, thank you, sir. She was wondering if your daughter would come up, sir. She would like Miss Annie to be with her, if she pleases.”

Morgan stared at her. “My daughter? Annie?”

At his side, he heard Annie's sharp intake of breath. He glanced at the girl, now poised like a spring. Her eyes were huge, her mouth agape. “Finola—wants
me
with her?”

“Aye, Miss, she does that. If you're willing, she says.”

“Truly?”

Now
Annie
began to tremble. But though her hands were indeed shaking, her back was straight, her chin high and firm as she turned to Morgan. “It will be well,
Seanchai
. It will almost be the same as if
you
were with Finola, my being your daughter and all.”

She stopped, searching his eyes as if looking for affirmation. “I will be…standing in for you, as it were. In a way, you will be right beside her, isn't that so?”

Morgan's eyes locked with hers. He felt a sudden surge of pride for her: pride and gratitude for all that she had come to mean to him, for the strength she was now offering him, and for the depth of love that gazed out at him from behind those dark, seeking eyes.

After a moment, he reached for her hand. “You are quite certain about this,
alannah
? It will not be—too difficult for you?”

The pert chin lifted a fraction more. “I am quite certain,
Seanchai
,” she said quietly. “It is what I should do.”

Morgan pressed her hand, studying her. Finally, he nodded. “Aye…I believe you are right. As my daughter, it seems fitting that you should be with Finola at this most important time. You will tell her for me.” he faltered, glancing about at the others, then lowering his voice. “Tell Finola that I am with her.” He put a hand to his heart. “Here, in my heart…I am with her.”

Annie beamed, squeezed his fingers once, then sprinted toward the stairs, taking them two at a time.

When the wolfhound whimpered and would have followed, Morgan put a restraining hand on his great head. “Not this time, old boy,” he soothed. “For now, I fear you have been relegated to the estate of all Irish males. It would seem that it's our lot to feel utterly worthless and quite helpless upon momentous occasions such as this.”

As he spoke, he looked directly at Sister Louisa, who merely gave a brief nod, as if satisfied that at last he understood the way of things.

Thread from silver moon at night,
Dust from evening star's soft light,
Kiss of sun from summer morn—
Angels smile…a child is born.

A
NONYMOUS

I
n his bedchamber, Morgan willed the minutes, then the hours, to pass. He had chosen to wait here, where he might be as close as possible to Finola. He could hear her moans and cries through the thick walls and heavy connecting door, yet this very closeness to her as she labored seemed to make the waiting more bearable.

He felt a small comfort, almost as if he were linked with Finola, what with Annie at her side and himself just on the other side of the door. If he could not share firsthand the actual birthing, perhaps this was the next best thing.

Sandemon had offered to wait with him, but Morgan had declined, asking him instead to go to the chapel. “Do what you do best, my friend. Pray for Finola…and for the child. Pray until all is accomplished, if you will.”

And so now he sat alone, waiting in the silence. He had thought before tonight that Nelson Hall was not an especially quiet place after the sun went down. There were always muffled noises in the night, the reassuring sounds of a large estate being well kept by a competent, if slightly aged, staff. A small retinue of kitchen servants baked and prepared for the day ahead. The classrooms were cleaned and straightened. Minor repairs that might inconvenience the household through the day were carried out quietly in the late night hours. Routine but necessary tasks were performed inconspicuously, with a certain vague hum that indicated an ongoing life in the rambling old dwelling.

This night, however, seemed vastly different. Tonight, it sounded as if all activity in the house had been suspended—indeed, as if the very heartbeat of the house had paused, hushed, to await the birth of the new babe. Finola's child.

And mine
, Morgan reminded himself.
I promised her that, Lord. I promised the child more than my name, now didn't I, more than my protection? I promised my love…my fatherhood.

A shudder seized him, almost overwhelming him with the magnitude of the commitment he had made.

What if the child were not normal?
A shattering rush of dread flooded him, unbidden thoughts of all the pain and torture Finola must have endured during the brutal attack that had left her with child. What if the beating, the savage punishment to her body and her mind—
dear God, the unspeakable evil of her attacker
—what if it had damaged the babe in some hideous way?

What if he could not love the child, after all?

He moaned aloud, furious with his own weakness. Determined to banish from his mind the paralyzing fear, the ominous imaginings, he wheeled the chair over to the corner and retrieved his harp. Going to the window, then, he sat staring into the night, plucking the strings in a quiet, underlying harmony to the desperate prayer of his heart.

In the labor room, each attendant had her own responsibility. Lucy had quite naturally assumed the role of the surgeon's nurse, working side by side with him as he administered what little assistance he could offer Finola. Sister Louisa took charge of supplies and keeping the laboring young mother as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

Annie, with an occasional assist from Sister, provided Finola a strong hand to grip and an ongoing flow of encouragement.

It had been nearly three hours now since Dr. Dunne had arrived, the three longest hours of Annie's life, she was certain. For a panicky few moments at the beginning, she had been tempted to bolt from the room and leave it all up to Sister and Lucy.

The initial sight of Finola lying there, her ashen face, her writhing body, her glorious hair now limp with perspiration, had knocked the breath from Annie. It had taken every bit of courage she could muster to approach the bed and clasp Finola's hand.