Sons of an Ancient Glory (15 page)

She could not bear to do anything that might mar the wonder of their friendship. No matter what, she would not risk this precious gift.

Morgan hesitated just inside the threshold, waiting until Lucy left the room. For a moment, he sat transfixed, taking in the sight of her, the golden aura of her loveliness.

Her flaxen hair, almost to her waist, was unbound and fell loosely over the soft cream-colored dressing gown. The morning light seemed a gentle halo encircling her there, in the chair by the window. Never in his wildest imaginings would he have thought that a woman so great with child could wrench his heart with the sheer radiance of her beauty!

Not that he had had all that much experience with women great with child, of course. But who would believe that an old rake like himself would end up playing the consummate fool over a glory of a girl half his age—a girl who undoubtedly had little on her mind but the imminent birth of her babe?

Wheeling himself the rest of the way into the room, he said uncertainly, “I was concerned for you.”

She smiled at him, and the room seemed to brighten still more. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you. I'm afraid I'm feeling somewhat idle this morning. Perhaps I should have come downstairs anyway—”

“No, of course you shouldn't, not if you don't feel up to it,” he said quickly. Taking her hand, he brushed it lightly with his lips, then released it. “I simply needed to reassure myself that you're all right.”

I had to see you…drink in the sight of you before another hour went by, or I would not be able to bear the loneliness.…

“You must not worry so, Morgan. I am quite well. Truly.”

“Still, as your time draws near, I'm afraid I will only fuss more,” he said without thinking. He felt his face heat, for like any Irish male, he was sorely ill at ease in the presence of an expectant mother, more uncomfortable yet at the mention of her condition.

As if embarrassed for him, she looked away. “I will be fine. Please don't worry yourself on my account. You have done enough…more than enough.”

“Impossible!” he blurted out. “I could never do enough for you.”

Immediately awkward at the words that had spilled from him unbidden, Morgan gripped the arms of the wheelchair. What
was
there about the girl that invariably enfeebled his mind and entangled his tongue?

Her startled look only heightened his discomfort. “It's quite a beautiful morning,” he said, attempting to change the subject. “I thought perhaps you might like to enjoy the sunshine with me.”

Up until recently, they had made a practice of spending at least a part of the late morning outside, often doing nothing more than sitting by the small stream that bordered the west side of the estate, where they would watch the swans and talk quietly. Sometimes they visited the stables or merely roamed about the grounds. Of late, however, Morgan was hesitant to suggest an outing, having noticed her shortness of breath and an apparent tendency to tire easily.

For a moment she looked tempted, but just as quickly she shook her head. “I don't think I feel—”

She stopped at the sudden rapping on the bedroom door, followed by a soft query from Sandemon.

An inexplicable coldness touched Morgan's spine the moment the black man entered the room. Something in the midnight eyes put him instantly alert.

“Seanchai
—” Sandemon stopped for a moment, and again Morgan sensed something amiss, as if his usually eloquent West Indies companion could not find the words to say what needed to be said.

Morgan nodded. “What is it?”

“I fear I have bad news for you,
Seanchai
.” The black man paused, his gaze wandering to Finola, then back to Morgan. “It is about Father Joseph. Word has come just this morning. I am sorry to have to tell you this,
Seanchai
… but Father Joseph has passed on to be with the Lord.”

Sandemon's words hit Morgan like a physical blow. The touch of cold dread he had felt only a moment before now slipped over him like a shroud.

As if from a great distance, he heard Finola's soft gasp, felt her hand clutch his arm. He was aware of Sandemon's additional murmurs of sympathy, the black man's own features shadowed with sorrow.

“Joseph?”
he choked out. “Joseph Mahon? Surely not…”

Grief swept over him, and suddenly his hands and arms began to shake erratically.

Morgan clenched his jaw, desperately willing the shaking to stop.
Finola must not see; she must not know.…

Furious at this betrayal of his body, he slammed at the wheels of the chair with his quaking forearms, and whipped himself to the door. He
had
to escape—now, before he was utterly humiliated. “I'm sorry,” he muttered, and scrambled blindly from the room.

Somehow he managed to reach his bedchamber and wheel himself inside, where he sat, mortified and sorrowing. Sandemon knocked just once, but Morgan told him in an unsteady voice that he needed to be alone, instructing him to ask Sister Louisa to take his morning classes. After a moment, he heard the black man's quiet footsteps retreat down the hallway.

Morgan sighed and rested his head against the back of the chair.

This wasn't the first time.…

For several weeks now, the seizures had been coming upon him—gradually, at first, like a muscle tic, then with increasing intensity. There could be no doubt—something was wrong, and getting worse. So far he had managed to hide it from Finola—God knows she had enough to think about with the babe nearly ready to be born. But this time she had seen—he was certain she had seen.

Morgan shook his head. It was bad enough to be a useless lump of a man confined to this cursed chair…but to be plagued with seizures as well?

He shot a fierce glance into the dark rafters over his head.

“God,” he said in a throaty whisper, “my legs are gone. Must I lose my dignity as well?” He took a deep breath, and the full realization of his losses washed over him. “And
Joseph
,” he breathed. “Ah, Lord…did it have to be Joseph Mahon?”

Weakened by shock and the nervous seizure, Morgan sat sprawled in the chair, trying to absorb the news of this latest loss—a loss as critical to the entire County of Mayo itself as to him personally. Memory after memory slammed through him. At last, unable to still the tides of sorrow cresting in his heart, he wept.

He could scarcely recall the time he had not known Joseph Mahon. The gentle priest had been a vital part of his life, indeed a vital part of the village of Killala, where Morgan had grown to manhood. And although he had not seen his old friend for well over a year, Joseph's thin, ascetic face, lined with years of hardship, came as clearly to his mind now as if he had been with him only yesterday.

The aging priest had been a comforting, familiar presence at most village events, but more to the point for Morgan, he had been an instrumental presence of change in his life. Joseph had prayed for him unceasingly over the years, Morgan knew. And, God be thanked, the good man's prayers had not been entirely in vain!

But the kindly priest, while concerned for Morgan's soul, had been every bit as concerned for his neck. Hadn't he effected the pardon that saved him from the noose at almost the last hour?

It had been Joseph who brought about the reconciliation with Morgan's English grandfather, Richard Nelson. And it had been Joseph who had knelt with the weary prodigal in the dust to lead him back into the arms of a forgiving God.

Of late, Morgan had been working in a fever to edit the failing priest's writings. Joseph's journals of the famine in Mayo would, once published, disclose the truth about Britain's monstrous betrayal of the Irish—and at the same time reveal an inspiring, incredibly courageous account of the Irish people's indomitable spirit. The brutally frank writings of the elderly priest had given Morgan an agonizing glimpse into the heart of his friend—a good, simple man who had remained faithful to his God during an entire lifetime.

Through his tears, Morgan stared out the window onto the gentle, rolling hills, now lush and vibrant with the emerald and rainbow hues of springtime. It seemed to him that there was no calculating the loss of such a man as Joseph Mahon, no counting the souls he had led to the Savior, no measuring the influence of the life he had poured out for others.

And yet there should be something…some acknowledgment…some tribute to such a man.

Oh, Joseph…Joseph…I will do what I can to ensure that your work will be known…and your words will be heard…by our people…perhaps by the people of other nations as well. This much I can do for you, old friend…this much I
will
do for you
…

Finola could bear it no longer. The memory of his pain-filled eyes, his stricken face, when he fled the room would give her no peace until she went to him.

Going to the door that connected their bedchambers, she knocked quietly, then again.

“Come…”

His voice was so low as to be little more than a whisper, but Finola did not hesitate. Stopping just inside the threshold, she stood, studying him with an aching heart.

His back was to her, his massive shoulders slumped, as he sat, looking out the window. The awful trembling seemed to have subsided.

“Morgan,” she said softly, uncertainly. “Morgan, I…I will leave you alone if you want. But I…wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I know Father Joseph meant a great deal to you.”

For a long time he said nothing. Finally he turned, and Finola's breath caught in her throat when she saw his tear-tracked face, ravaged with grief.

“Oh…Morgan…I am sorry!”

His attempted smile failed. He lifted a hand, then dropped it. Finola thought her heart would shatter for the sorrow in his eyes.

Impulsively, she went to him. Awkward with her weight, she nevertheless knelt in front of the wheelchair and clasped both his hands in hers. “Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”

He shook his head, squeezing her hands. “I'm sorry for my behavior,” he said in a strangled voice.

“Don't be foolish!” Aching for the pain she encountered in his eyes, she gripped his hands. “May I stay with you, Morgan? Please?”

A look very much like gratitude went over his face, and he nodded. “Forgive me if I frightened you.”

Finola frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The tremors,” he said, his voice so low she could barely make out his words. “I know you saw them.” He paused. “It doesn't happen often,” he added, “but I expect it's a bit—unsettling to others.”

His face was set in a look of misery. As understanding dawned, Finola could have wept. She had noticed the trembling once before, but they had been outside at the time, and, sensitive to his embarrassment, she had deliberately pretended not to see.

It humiliated him.…

“It bothers me only because I know it troubles you,” Finola said, holding his gaze. “But what does it mean?”

As soon as the question left her lips, she wondered if she should have asked it. But he merely shrugged. “Dr. Dunne isn't certain. It began some weeks back,” he explained, still holding her hands. “He's pressing me to consult with a new physician. But for now, I can't quite face another surgeon prodding at me.”