Sons of an Ancient Glory (55 page)

The frigid November wind seemed to go right to the bone as soon as she stepped out of the wagon. Her thin sweater was next to useless, and she couldn't keep from shaking. Even her teeth were chattering.

The captain opened a sturdy iron gate, and they started up the walkway. Quinn gaped at the place, wondering what madness had made her insist on coming here. What sort of a reception could she expect from someone living in such grandeur as this?

She stumbled, and the captain caught her elbow to steady her. For an instant she wondered if she had the slightest chance of outrunning him. As if he'd read her thoughts, he frowned at her, then gestured toward the front door.

Quinn hurried along beside him, bitterly regretting her folly in coming here. But she had brought it on herself, and it would seem she had no choice but to see it through.

Johanna struggled to stay awake. The room was warm, the oil lamp dim, and she couldn't seem to keep from nodding off. Glancing over at the bed, she saw that Aunt Nora was still sound asleep. Teddy, however, was wide awake and playful. Every time he managed to catch her eye, he would flail his fists in the air and grin at her, as if for approval.

Finally she got up and walked to the window. There was just enough light from the moon to see Dulcie's house next door through the trees. As she watched, the tree branches, now stripped of their leaves, bent and swayed with the wind. She hugged her arms to herself, relishing the bedroom's warmth.

The cabin in Killala had always been cold. There had never been enough firewood, and sometimes, especially at night, the wind off the ocean seemed to blow right through the rooms.

One of the things she liked most about America was the warm houses. She had seldom been cold since they arrived. In truth, she liked a great deal about her new country, but she sometimes felt guilty for acknowledging the fact. Both of her parents had died in Ireland, her sister and little brother here in America. She must be wicked entirely, to feel so grateful for her new life. It didn't seem right, somehow, that a new country, a new home—no matter how warm—could even in part make up for all she had lost.

For a long time she stood staring out into the night, thinking about her family. Then a shadow on the drapes caught her eye, and she turned around. The mischievous cat, Finbar, was crouched on top of the lamp table near the crib, vying for Teddy's attention.

Obviously, Teddy found the cat's mischief great fun. His round cheeks were pink, his small fists and feet pummeling the air as Finbar traced a path about the base of the lamp.

Johanna watched them for a moment. She liked to see Teddy laugh. Even if she couldn't hear him, she liked to imagine what he must sound like when he wrinkled his tiny nose and opened his mouth until his eyes almost disappeared.

In truth, she also enjoyed the cat's naughty capers. But Aunt Nora didn't like Finbar about the crib. She had best call a halt to their fun.

Finbar slanted a look at her, and, as if encouraged by her smile, cocked his head to one side, then the other.

Johanna started toward him, wagging her finger. At the same instant, Teddy pushed a hand through the crib, reaching for the cat's tail. Finbar lurched, bumped the oil lamp, and sent it toppling.

Johanna saw it all like a dizzying dream. The cat bolted wildly from the room. The lamp crashed to the floor. The oil flamed. And Teddy's round little face went strangely sober.

The tablecloth ignited instantly, the flames lapping up the material. The fire spread out over the oil like deadly tentacles stealing across the floor—toward the bed on one side, Teddy's crib on the other.

Panic struck her, and Johanna opened her mouth to scream. But no sound came.

She
had
to wake Aunt Nora! She started for the bed, then stopped. A thin finger of flame was already creeping up one leg of the crib.

Without another thought, she lunged toward the crib, grabbing Teddy up into her arms. As she pulled him against her, she turned back toward the bed and saw Nora shift as if she were coming awake.

A ribbon of fire slithered between Johanna and the bed. Smoke burned her eyes, filled her lungs. The baby's small fists clutched at her dress as he stared at the flames in obvious terror.

In desperation, Johanna threw back her head and squeezed her eyes shut, straining, pleading, for the voice to come.

A shuddering vibration ripped from her throat. Her eyes snapped open, and she saw Nora bolt upright in bed, gaping at the scene around her in horror.

Sara was in the sitting room, reading by the fire, when she heard Michael's voice. Surprised but pleased, she jumped up from her chair, calling out to him as she hurried from the room.

“Michael? I thought you said you wouldn't be home until late—”

She stopped dead at the sight of her husband and the young girl at his side. Her mind instantly registered the fact that Michael looked strained and slightly harried, while the girl appeared resentful and even a little frightened. “Michael?”

His expression momentarily brightened at the sight of her. “Sara, I've brought you a visitor.”

It took only a moment for recognition to dawn. “Good heavens—it's…Quinn, isn't it? Quinn O'Shea, from the Shelter! Why, my dear, how good to see you! But how did you ever manage to find me?”

Sara broke off, looking at Michael for an explanation, but he merely lifted his brows in an expression of wait-and-see.

Stepping closer, Sara decided she'd been right about the fear in the girl's eyes. Impulsively, she reached for her hand. “Well…it's very nice to see you again, Quinn. I've thought quite a lot about you.”

Something flickered in the gold-flecked brown eyes—whether relief or surprise, Sara couldn't tell.

“You…you do remember me, then, ma'am?”

The girl's voice trembled. Sara studied her, wondering at her obvious distress.

“Why, of course, I remember you! Michael, I told you about meeting Quinn at the Shelter?”

He regarded Sara, then the girl, with a slightly puzzled frown. “I'm not sure I recall—”

“Oh, surely you do!” Sara interrupted, smiling at Quinn. “The day I toured the Chatham Women's Shelter with Helen Preston and the others. I told you about talking with one of the young residents. Remember?”

Michael nodded slowly, finally giving a faint smile of recognition. “Aye…I believe I do at that. I expect I'd forgotten the name.”

Still holding Quinn's hand, Sara studied her. She had wondered from time to time about what might have become of the slight Irish girl, who had so poignantly reminded her of a trapped and helpless animal. Compassion mingled with curiosity at the sight of those wounded eyes and the thin frame beneath that hideous, shapeless dress.

“Would either of you like to tell me what's going on?” Sara asked, trying not to show her impatience.

“Miss O'Shea here has asked to talk with you,” Michael said dryly. “She insists that she will speak with no one else, that it's a matter of some importance.”

A corner of his mouth quirked, and after searching his eyes a moment, Sara turned back to Quinn. “Is something wrong, dear? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

The girl seemed highly agitated. She bit her lower lip as her gaze darted around the room. She looked as if she were tempted to turn and run.

Uncertain as to whether she should press, Sara looked to Michael for help.

He hesitated for a moment, regarding the girl with an unreadable expression. “Sara, why don't you show Miss O'Shea where she can freshen up a bit, and then perhaps we could have some supper while we talk. I could do with a bite, and I imagine she could, too.”

“Oh, of course! I expect neither of you have eaten, have you?” Tugging gently at Quinn's hand—a painfully thin hand, she noted, Sara said, “Come along, dear. Let's you and I go upstairs. Michael, Mary should still be in the kitchen. Why don't you ask her to set out another meal for you and Quinn? There's potato soup and roast beef—and fresh bread. We won't be long.”

Winifred had her head halfway in the oven, checking the ham, when she heard the scream—a primal sound, like that of a wild animal. Straightening, she raced to the door to see the troublesome cat go tearing down the hallway, screeching like a wild thing. She leaned against the doorpost and sighed. How could one tiny cat make such a hideous noise?

And what had the little goblin gotten into now? She wiped her hands on her apron, preparing to do battle with the cat, children's pet or not.

She was on her way down the hall when she heard the baby shriek and begin to cry. She wrinkled her nose against the acrid smell of…
smoke
! Her heart in her throat, she took off running.

At the bedroom door, one sweeping glance took in the terrifying scene: the blazing tablecloth, the flames lapping at one leg of the crib, the fire spreading over the floor. And in the midst of the nightmare—
Johanna
!

With one arm the girl held Teddy tightly to her, while with her free hand she lifted her skirts to avoid the flames snaking past her as she jumped. And Nora—
oh, Lord have mercy
—Nora was stumbling from the bed, trying, in all her weakness, to yank the blankets off, no doubt to cover the fire!

Flying into the room, Winifred grabbed Johanna and pushed her and the baby safely out into the hallway. Then she went back for Nora.

Nora, dazed, was struggling to breathe. Winifred half-carried her from the room, entrusting her to Johanna's care. Running back into the bedroom, she hauled the blankets from the bed in one sweep and began to throw them on the flames.

After a moment, Johanna appeared next to her. They fought the fire side by side, using blankets, then pulling the drapes from the windows for good measure. Though it seemed an eternity, they finally brought the flames under control.

Other than a room filled with smoke and some ruined drapes and bedding, there was little damage. Exhausted, Winifred wiped a hand over her eyes and stood looking at Johanna. The girl's thin, lightly freckled face was smudged, her eyes red-rimmed from the smoke. They were both coughing, and Winifred knew if her hair was even half as smoke-dusted as Johanna's, she was a sight.

But they were safe.

Putting an arm around the girl's slender shoulders, Winifred led her from the room, where Nora stood with the baby whimpering in her arms.