Sons of an Ancient Glory (21 page)

She had seen this hostility between her husband and the police captain before, yet she had no inkling as to what was responsible for their antagonism toward each other. She would have thought that Patrick's treatment of the Burke boy when he was so badly injured the past year—taking him into their home and seeing that he had the best of care—would have formed a bond between them. Yet, the bad feeling between the two men was so obvious as to be almost a tangible presence.

It hurt, this mysterious enmity between her husband and the husband of a woman for whom she held only the highest of respect and admiration. With all her heart, Alice wished it could have been different. She had even daydreamed about becoming good friends, close friends, with Sara Burke—not just social acquaintances.

Again her gaze went to the granite-faced Captain Burke. With a sharp pang of regret, she now realized how terribly hopeless her daydreams had been.

I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams.

W.B. Y
EATS
(1865-1939)

M
ichael had excused himself just long enough to say hello to Chief Matsell and his wife. On his way back to the table, Simon Dabney stopped him.

“So glad you and your lovely wife could make it tonight, Captain. I hope you're enjoying yourselves.”

“It's a grand evening, Mr. Dabney. You were kind to invite us.”

Simon Dabney was a big, pleasant-faced man with an impressive mane of silver hair. Sara had commented that “Simon looks like everybody's favorite uncle—not the sly fox he really is.”

Michael thought “sly” a good word for the smooth-voiced lawyer. Dabney struck him as a bit too much the good fellow—too quick with the slap on the back and the ready smile that did not quite meet his eyes, too eager to strike a note of camaraderie, even with those he scarcely knew. In fact, he would be surprised if Simon Dabney were not, at heart, somewhat callous and calculating. A true “sly fox.”

“I confess that I've been hoping for an opportunity to talk with you at more length, Captain, about what we discussed a few weeks ago.”

“The position of alderman, you mean,” Michael said directly.

Dabney smiled. “Exactly. I hope you've had time to think about it.”

“Enough to know I'm not your man.”

Dabney's smile never flickered. “You underestimate yourself, Captain. If the party thinks you're qualified—

Michael shook his head, interrupting Dabney before he could finish. “I wasn't referring to my qualifications. The fact is, I'm simply not interested in leaving the force. Not at this time.”

The lawyer studied him with what was probably meant to be good-natured understanding. But Michael thought he caught a glimpse of something else behind that avuncular expression. “May I be frank, Captain Burke?”

Michael waited, but said nothing.

The big attorney laid one hand on Michael's shoulder. Despite himself, Michael stiffened. “The party is looking for a certain kind of man, Captain. A man of intelligence and integrity—a man who can't be compromised. Because certain leaders in the party know your reputation and think you're just the kind of fellow we're looking for, the decision was made to bypass some of the usual routes and put you directly in place for alderman.”

Dabney stopped, leveling a meaningful look on Michael as he added, “I don't think I'd be presumptuous in suggesting that Congress might be next.”

Michael found himself irritated by the man's assumption that he would be so eager to jump into the political arena, even more by the hand on his shoulder. “I appreciate the interest, Mr. Dabney, but as I said, this isn't the time for me.”

As if he sensed Michael's annoyance, the lawyer dropped his hand away. “May I ask why, Captain?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael could see Patrick Walsh, standing off to one side as if he were surveying the ballroom. His stomach knotted as he turned his attention back to Simon Dabney, but he kept his tone carefully noncommittal. “Let us just say that I have some things I want to accomplish before I leave the force.”

The lawyer studied him for another moment, then inclined his head and shrugged, smiling. “Very well, Captain. But I have to say that I hope you're not making a grave mistake, passing up this opportunity. It would be only the beginning of what I foresee as an extraordinary career for you.”

Michael heard the edge in his own voice when he replied. “Sometimes a man has to finish what he started before he can think about new beginnings.”

Simon Dabney broke into one of his most charming smiles. “I understand, Captain,” he said agreeably. “And I must say, you're to be admired for your dedication to the police department. But we'll talk again, you can be sure of it.”

As Michael threaded his way through the couples on the dance floor, he hoped he wasn't being as rash as Dabney had hinted. It was true that he was passing up a fine opportunity; it wasn't every day that a police captain was solicited to run for alderman. It was also true that he'd had vague political ambitions for a number of years.

But he was convinced that only in the police department would he find the power to topple Patrick Walsh from his evil empire. That being the case, he was prepared to stay right where he was for however long it might take.

With a familiar sense of longing, Sara watched the grandly dressed couples whirl around the ballroom floor. It seemed that everyone was dancing except her and Michael. Winifred had even managed to talk Father into a waltz.

She caught herself tapping her foot to the beat of the music, stopped, then almost at once began tapping her fingers on the table. The orchestra was particularly fine tonight, she thought, strong and lively and inviting. The ballroom was awash with flowing colors, the women radiant in their ball gowns of summer hues as their partners swept them over the dance floor at a dizzying pace. It was obvious that Simon Dabney's guests were enjoying themselves immensely.

Sara had never danced. Never. She had come out as a debutante, as was expected of Lewis Farmington's only daughter, had attended endless balls when she was younger, both as a guest and as her father's hostess—again, because it was expected of her. But because of her lameness, she had never danced.

Occasionally, a young fortune hunter brash enough to call attention to her handicap had offered to slow his steps to match hers, as if doing her a great favor. Sara most often responded by leveling a withering look and an acid remark on the witless suitor, making it clear that she would not be in the least flattered by the favors of a fool.

What she had never admitted to anyone—not even to her father—was that she had more than once daydreamed about what it might be like to have at least one dance, despite her hateful limp.

Especially appealing to her was the waltz. Apparently tonight's orchestra shared her enthusiasm for the popular dance form, which was literally sweeping Europe and the United States, for they seemed to be playing more waltzes than anything else.

Some were scandalized, of course, by this new ballroom craze, appalled at the idea of partners touching as they glided across the floor. Sara thought such censorship a bit absurd, considering the voluminous gowns and chaste distance between the dancers.

Besides, before now she wouldn't have been much interested in dancing with anyone other than her brother or father—neither of whom ever suggested it, out of respect, she was sure, for her handicap. Most of the fellows who trailed the debutantes about the city were far too clumsy on the dance floor to make it look very appealing.

But she would so love to dance with Michael.…

She had imagined countless times what it would be like to glide over a ballroom floor in his arms to the tune of a stirring waltz. She wondered if it might not be a little like flying.

Of course, she would never know. Years ago, alone in her room, she had attempted to whirl around the floor, to the beat of music that sounded only in her head, pretending. Pretending that she was feather-light, with movements as fluid and graceful as those of a French ballerina. But then she would catch sight of herself in the mirror and, feeling hopelessly awkward and ugly, she would fall across the bed and close her eyes against her own foolishness.

For a moment…only a moment…she would give in to a wave of self-pity. Then, feeling altogether miserable that she had compounded the sin of her wasteful daydreams with the wickedness of regret for the way God had made her, she would jump up from the bed and go storming through the house in search of a more useful—and wholesome—pastime.

Naturally, those occasions had all been before her marriage to Michael. It would be folly indeed for a woman as fortunate as she to continue indulging in idle daydreams. She was married to one of the finest, noblest, handsomest men in New York—
surely he was
—a man who made no secret of the fact that he adored her.

Why should she care about something as frivolous as
dancing
, for goodness' sake?

“Dance with me, Sara.”

Sara whipped around to find Michael rising from his chair, his hand on her arm.

She stared at him as if he'd gone mad.
“Dance
with you? Good heavens, Michael, you know I can't dance!”

He studied her for a moment, then straightened, pulling her up with him. “You've never danced, Sara?” he asked quietly.

Sara felt herself flush. “Certainly not,” she said tightly, avoiding his gaze.

“Sara?” Her name was little more than a whisper on his lips, but his hands on her forearms were unyielding. “You will dance with
me
, then.”

In spite of the way her heart leaped at his words, Sara was still unable to meet his eyes. “I
can't
, Michael! I can't manage—”

“You needn't,” he interrupted, his voice infinitely gentle. “I will manage for the both of us. Come along, now. A man wants to dance with his wife, after all.” With that, he began to lead her around the table.

“I'll embarrass you,” Sara mumbled, looking wildly around for an escape route somewhere among the sea of dancers.

Michael stopped, turning toward her. For an instant something flared in his eyes. Then, very deliberately, he gathered her into his arms, placing one of her hands on his shoulder as he clasped the other in his. “Never, Sara
a gra
,” he said, trapping her in the force of his dark-eyed gaze. “You could never embarrass me. You may mystify me every now and then, even astonish me. Certainly, you
delight
me. But you could never, ever, embarrass me! And now, sweetheart—you will dance with me. Don't mind the others. Just follow my lead. It will be as if I'm carrying you, you'll see. I'll not go any faster than you can follow.”

Suddenly, Sara felt herself swung out into the midst of the other dancers, felt Michael half-lift her from her feet, buoying her along with his strength. For one fleeting instant, her lame leg locked. But, feeling her hesitate, Michael increased the pressure of his hand at her waist and whirled her out still farther onto the floor.

Sara knew an instant of panic, but pushed it aside as the orchestra swung into yet another lilting waltz. The room swayed, her head spun, and now she realized that Michael was sweeping her toward the glass doors opening onto the garden patio.