Land of a Thousand Dreams (40 page)

Besides, something in his eyes gave Lucy to know that he did not condemn her—indeed, did not condemn anyone. The black man just might be the one person in the household to whom she could turn—if it turned out she was right about Finola.

But not now, at this early hour of the morning. He slept in a connecting room off his employer's bed chamber, so it was likely that to wake him would mean disturbing the Fitzgerald as well.

There was nothing for it but to wake the nun. With a reluctant sigh, Lucy turned and started down the dimly lighted hall.

Sandemon had been half-expecting a summons to send for the surgeon. Something had roused him awake nearly an hour ago. Now, as he lay listening, he identified sounds alien to the usual early morning rumblings of the household. After a moment, he surmised that Miss Finola must be ill again.

Quietly, he slipped from his bed. He dressed quickly, then entered the
Seanchai'
s quarters to check on him. Assured that his employer was still sleeping soundly, he tiptoed from the room.

He stood outside the door for a long moment, listening. The hall was cold and shadowed, lighted only by candles at each end and midway, but there was enough light that he saw Lucy Hoy headed toward Sister Louisa's bedroom.

Taking the hall with quick, light steps, he cleared his throat so as not to startle her. She stopped when she saw him, waiting for him to reach her.

“Miss Finola is ill?” he asked without preamble.

She nodded, and Sandemon saw that the normally suspicious eyes were dark with worry. The woman looked heartsick and worn with fatigue.

“Shall I go for the surgeon?”

Again she nodded. “She's growing worse, I fear. The sickness comes upon her much more frequently now. We'd best not delay.”

The round face had been heavily painted when she first came to Nelson Hall. Now it was always scrubbed clean, and usually appeared years younger. This morning, however, it was lined with weariness and concern.

Sandemon's gaze locked with Lucy's. With a sinking heart, he saw his own fears reflected.

A few moments later, back in Finola's bedroom, Lucy jumped when the door creaked open.

The nun stood just inside the room for a moment, appearing much smaller than usual in the voluminous dressing gown. Lucy tried not to stare. Without the ever-present wimple, the nun's short dark hair was revealed, tossed with curls and lightly streaked with silver.

“I heard you and Sandemon in the hallway,” she whispered. “You've sent for the surgeon, have you?”

Lucy nodded.

Sister Louisa approached the bed, then stood perfectly still, looking from Lucy to Finola, who now lay sleeping. For the first time, Lucy forgot to be ashamed or apprehensive in the nun's presence. So surprised was she by the depth of sadness she saw in the sister's eyes, she did not even think to leave the room in order to spare the nun offense.

Long past the breakfast horn, the household was astir with the sounds of morning. Pans clanged in the kitchen, and the day maids scurried back and forth from room to room. A number of tradesmen had already appeared at the back door.

Morgan sat in the library, a cup of Sandemon's strong hot coffee at his side. Only in the vaguest sense was he aware of the noise elsewhere in the house. Unable to take breakfast, unwilling to endure the mincing of Artegal in and out of the dining room, he had wheeled down the hall to what had become his favorite room of the mansion. His retreat.

Now he sat waiting for the surgeon to come down. When Annie appeared in the doorway instead, he beckoned her inside.

“Sand-Man told me the doctor is here,” she said, her black eyes solemn and watchful.

He nodded. “He's upstairs now. Finola took ill again this morning.”

He sensed the child's uncertainty as she approached the desk. “I thought Finola was gaining.” Still she watched him, as if she feared saying the wrong thing.

Morgan looked at her, then gestured that she should come closer. Her eyes brightened, and she hurried around the desk to stand beside him.

Taking her hand, he managed to smile at her. “You're fond of Finola, aren't you, lass?”

‘“Oh, of
course
I am!” she burst out. “I think she's grand!” With her customary bluntness, she added, “And I'm sure Finola likes me as well. Indeed, we were beginning to be good friends before—”

She broke off, looking at Morgan as if she weren't sure she should finish.

“Would you like to know what Finola thinks of you?” Morgan asked. “It's very complimentary.”

The dark eyes grew wide, and she nodded eagerly.

He drew the child closer still. “I know for a fact that Finola thinks you have a beautiful soul, and that you will one day be an extraordinarily lovely young woman.”

Annie gaped, her eyes glistening. “She
doesn't!”

“Ah, but she does. And do you know what I think?”

Beaming, Annie shifted from one foot to the other, obviously impatient to hear.

“I think,” Morgan said soberly, “that Finola is exactly right. I think I shall have to hide you in the cellar once you're past thirteen. Otherwise, I'll spend my days doing nothing but tossing out lovesick
gorsoons!
Perhaps—”

Out of the corner of his eye, Morgan saw the surgeon appear in the doorway, then Sister Louisa.

Still holding Annie's hand, he turned toward them, glancing from one to the other. He observed that the doctor would not quite meet his eyes. It was the nun who spoke first. “Master Fitzgerald—
Seanchai
—we would speak with you, please.”

Morgan stared at her. This was the first time the sister had ever addressed him by the affectionate
Seanchai.
His throat tightened with apprehension as he gestured for them to enter.

Sister Louisa glanced at Annie. “Perhaps we should speak alone.”

Morgan looked at the child. She was unable to conceal her disappointment, but at his nod, she slipped her hand from his and left the room without protest.

When neither the nun nor the doctor made a move to speak first, Morgan deliberately fastened his gaze on his hands, now knotted in fists atop the desk. “Well, then?”

Sister Louisa took a step closer, while the doctor remained a discreet distance from the desk.
“Seanchai,
this is a hard thing. But you must know. Finola…”

Her voice faltered, and Morgan looked up, shaken by the undisguised pain staring back at him.

“Finola is with child,” she finally said in a strangled voice.

For an instant, Morgan felt as if his heart had stopped. What he had feared in the long hours of the night, what he had suspected for days but refused to face—had now become a bleak reality.

Framing his face with his hands, Morgan closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them, Sister Louisa was watching him with knowing concern. Behind her, the surgeon waited with sad eyes.

Thrusting his arms straight out toward the desk, Morgan regarded the sister. “Well, then,” he said in a voice less than steady, “we must take care of her, of course. We must take care of Finola…and her child.”

26

The Vanishing Smoke of Dreams

We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire;
For we can no more than smoke unto the flame return
If our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire,
As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn.

GEORGE W. RUSSELL [“AE”] (1867–1935)

B
y the next afternoon, it had been decided that Lucy should be the one to tell Miss Finola of her condition. Although Sandemon understood the decision, he was not entirely comfortable with it.

He questioned his own uneasiness as he walked along the stream at the west of the house. It was a soft day, as the Irish people called it—cool, but not bitter cold; wet, with a continuous, light rain from a pewter sky that promised still more to come. He was glad of his cape to keep out the wind, yet at the same time he savored the soothing feel of the rain on his face.

He thought of the woman, Lucy Hoy. It was not that he doubted her devotion to Miss Finola. To the contrary, he suspected she would lay her life down for her young friend without protest.

What troubled him more was a certain cynicism he had detected in her, the jaded air of one who has known only life's darkness—and neither believed in nor expected anything else. He would have understood bitterness and resentment from the woman, even anger. She doted on Miss Finola, after all; no doubt the news that there would be a child as a result of the attack was greatly troubling to her, as it was to the entire household.

Yet, she went about in a silent, tight-lipped manner, while something in her eyes implied that she had anticipated the worst all along.

That she was world-weary and hard came as no surprise. The woman
was
a prostitute, after all, and no doubt had lived her demoralizing existence for some years. Yet, there were times when Sandemon caught a sense of softheartedness, a warmth that belied Lucy Hoy's brittle exterior.

He walked on, heading back toward the house now. He tried to persuade himself that he was overly concerned. Certainly, the physician would have cautioned Lucy Hoy to take great care in approaching Miss Finola with this latest shock.

Still, he could not help but wish the
Seanchai
had seen fit to ignore convention and speak with Miss Finola himself. Shaken as he was, the young master would nevertheless have found the strength and necessary wisdom to cast this latest dilemma in the best possible light, leaving the door open for God's grace to redeem the situation.