Sons of an Ancient Glory (35 page)

Sometime…somewhere, in the dark, unknown chamber of her past, Finola's voice had been trained. Someone had coached her, taught her how to use that splendid instrument to perfection.

The door to the bedroom was partly ajar, and he turned the wheelchair just enough so that he could see inside. She was there, sitting by the window in the dim glow of candlelight, her back to him, her head bent low over the child. She was singing to Gabriel, her voice low and tender and caressing. A mother singing a lullaby to her babe.

Morgan could tell by her pose that she was nursing the baby, and for a moment he felt embarrassed, almost like a voyeur. But as quickly as it came, the awkwardness passed, and he allowed himself the luxury of watching that golden head bent over her child as she sang her tender songs of love to her son.

As he sat there, drinking in the sight of her, his heart melting, his head swimming, an awareness of something different about her slowly dawned inside him. For the first time he saw Finola as more than the lovely, enigmatic girl with wounded eyes, whom he had grown to cherish with a fiercely protective kind of love. He saw her as an infinitely lovely, mature young woman. A woman, a mother…and his wife. In his house, under his eyes…Finola had gently passed from girl to woman. A mystery!

They made such a beautiful picture, the two of them, that he wished he could have a painting of the scene.

The thought of a portrait nagged at him, teased his mind, as if there were something he was not seeing, something important.…

It hit him so suddenly he almost gasped aloud. If he had a portrait to send to Frank Cassidy, surely it would aid him in his search! Cassidy had been frustrated at every turn in his quest to uncover Finola's background. Every attempt to locate her family had been futile.

But a likeness of Finola—it might make all the difference! And even if he couldn't locate a trace of her family, there must be others—others who would recognize that unforgettable face! If he were right about her having been trained in the singing, then somewhere there must be a vocal coach, an instructor.

A portrait was what was needed, right enough!

But there
was
no portrait, nothing at all except for the large family portrait Sister Louisa had painted as a wedding gift.

Sister Louisa!
Whipping the wheelchair around, Morgan sped down the hall toward the nun's room, almost ramming the chair against the door when he reached it.

“A portrait of Finola?” Sister Louisa stared at the
Seanchai
, his face eager and expectant in the open doorway. “Why, yes…I expect I could. But—”

“I would need it as soon as possible, that's the thing.”

Sister Louisa had been altogether startled by the fierce pounding on her door, more startled yet when she opened it to find the
Seanchai
, looking somewhat wild-eyed and impatient.

Her first thought had been of Finola and the child, or young Annie. Panic had gripped her, but the
Seanchai
quickly assured her that nothing was wrong. “But I would ask a favor of you, Sister, if I might impose.”

His request made, he still seemed quite agitated. The urgency behind his words made Sister Louisa more than a little curious. But clearly, he was not going to explain.

“I shouldn't imagine it would take long.” She paused, still hoping for an explanation. “Is it to be a surprise?” she asked. “Should I not mention it to Finola?”

“That's right. I'd rather you say nothing about it. It can be small, Sister, as long as it's a fair likeness. And…quickly rendered.”

Sister Louisa nodded, still bemused by his behavior as she watched him wheel himself off down the hall toward his bedroom.

The
Seanchai
could really be quite strange at times, in a rather endearing manner.

Closing the door, she crossed the room and set a clean sheet of drawing paper on the small easel that Sandemon had made for her as a gift. Within moments, she had the beginnings of what she considered an attractive—and highly realistic—portrait of Finola Fitzgerald.

Oh! thou, who comest, like a midnight thief,
Uncounted, seeking whom thou may'st destroy;
Rupturing anew the half-closed wounds of grief,
And sealing up each new-born spring of joy.…

J
OHN
K
EEGAN
(1809-1849)

(V
ICTIM OF THE
D
UBLIN
C
HOLERA
E
PIDEMIC OF
1849)

I
t was one of those clear, piquant autumn nights that seemed made for music and merrymaking. In the Gypsy camp there was always plenty of both.

The
Romany
caravan might have been in the middle of a country meadow instead of on the fringes of a Dublin slum, for all the attention the traveling people paid to those around them. About a dozen painted wagons were spread out to form a wide half circle, which gave a measure of privacy to the Gypsies. In the camp, children whooped and played outside until all hours, subdued only when their parents grew tired of the din. The men drank and laughed and made music late into the night, until they either fell asleep by the dying campfires or the weather turned bitter enough to drive them inside the wagons.

If other denizens of the Liberties objected to the noise, they grumbled mostly to themselves. To approach the camp of the
Rom
with a complaint, no matter how legitimate, would be foolhardy. And for an inhabitant of such a notorious, crime-ridden slum to carry a grievance to the law would be more foolhardy still.

Everyone knew that the Gypsies were quick to exact their revenge. The wisest course was to tolerate them from a distance.

Indifferent to the chill in the air and the noise in the camp, Tierney Burke lay propped up on one elbow beside the fire. He felt sluggish and idle, but supremely content. The cheap wine he'd been drinking for well over an hour had thickened his blood, and the festive mood of the Romany camp had infected him with a kind of drowsy euphoria.

Across from him, Jan Martova perched on a rock, cleaning a piece of harness. Each family shared their own campfire, although a great deal of intermingling went on. At the moment, Tierney and Jan were alone at the fire, the elder Martova brother and other relatives having gone to care for the horses.

Someone across the camp was softly playing a squeeze-box. On the outer fringes of the wagons, the Gypsy dogs—fierce, wild things that seemed to growl with every breath—took up an eerie howling as if to echo the music. Children raced in and out between the wagons, shouting and laughing as they played their games.

Tierney was no longer a stranger to the tribe. Tonight marked the third time he had managed to slip away from Nelson Hall to visit the Gypsies. Although the cholera epidemic had long since ebbed, Morgan had as yet refused to lift his ban on entering Dublin. He made no exceptions, not even when Annie had begged to go and see the Queen ride through the city.

What Annie did not know was that Tierney
had
sneaked off for a look at the royal procession. Just as he would have expected, the “Little Queen” was not much to see, nor was the rest of the royal family. He had thought the entire show in abominable taste and obscenely extravagant. Worse yet were the Dublin fools who stood in the streets and cheered the English queen, as if she were not responsible for shoveling dirt on countless Irish graves.

The Gypsy camp was one of the first places Tierney sought out when he began slipping off at night. In the beginning, he had been welcomed with only a sullen courtesy by the
Rom
, especially in the case of Jan's older brother, Greco. As a
Gorgio
—an outsider—Tierney was automatically suspect by the Gypsies, even though they acknowledged that he had helped to save the life of one of their own.

By his second visit, however, the story of the experience at the jail and the subsequent hospitality extended to Jan at Nelson Hall had circulated the caravan, gaining Tierney a warmer reception. Even Greco, though still somewhat gruff in his demeanor, no longer behaved as if the young American might be carrying the plague.

Having been exposed to all the prejudices against Gypsies in America, Tierney had acquired no small contempt for them. Yet he found himself drawn to the Martova camp more and more often. Here there was always food and drink, stories of faraway places, tales of ancient mysteries—and beautiful, exotic girls who seemed to find him dangerously intriguing.

One of those girls was Jan's sister, Zia. Only fourteen, she looked more like eighteen, with black, almond-shaped eyes, flashing white teeth, and skin the color of honey. An immense mass of dark hair flew about her face, and her slightest movement seemed imbued with the lithe grace of a young wildcat. She was a stunner, the kind of girl Da would call
trouble.

Never one to shun trouble, Tierney would have liked nothing more than to get to know Zia a great deal better. But he was no fool. Early in their friendship, Jan had explained the way of things with Gypsy women, warning Tierney that any man foolish enough not to heed the law of the
Rom
in this regard might very well end up with a knife in his back.

Tierney had been surprised to learn that the Gypsies lived by a rigid code of laws, a code which apparently combined ancient decrees with strict morals and a confusing mix of customs—some religious, some distinctly pagan. For the women, the code required chastity and modesty. For the men, it occasioned a surprising lack of emphasis on sexual prowess and a serious, almost businesslike approach to marriage. Most marriages were arranged by the couple's families. Infidelity brought a variety of harsh punishments, especially for women, for whom banishment from the tribe was not uncommon.

While not exactly warning him to stay away from his sister in particular, Jan Martova had conveyed to Tierney the importance of keeping his distance from Gypsy girls in general.

Still, he could not resist an occasional question about the alluring Zia. Glancing at Jan across the low burning campfire, he stretched to hand him the nearly empty wine bottle. “The last is yours,” he said magnanimously, feeling the effects of the wine and the heat from the fire.

Jan smiled and shook his head. “Thank you, but I have had enough.”

Tierney shrugged and casually drained the rest of the bottle. “What were you talking about, last time I was here, when you said a match would soon be made for your sister?”

Jan didn't reply right away, but went on carefully cleaning the harness. “Zia is promised to Tenca, the leader of another
kumpania,”
he finally said.

“Kumpania?”

“A tribe of families, like my own,” Jan explained.

“But you said your sister is only fourteen years old! She's just a kid.”

Jan looked up with an expression of mild rebuke. “Gypsy girls are pledged at a very young age, sometimes when they're no more than eight or nine years old. They don't always marry until much later, but the match is arranged in their early years.”

Tierney found himself strangely repulsed by the idea. “How old is this man they're making her marry?”

Again the look of faint censure. “Gypsies do not measure years as the
Gorgio
do. Tenca is well past his thirtieth year, like my brother, Greco. But understand that Zia will not be forced to marry him. The arrangement can still be canceled, if Greco agrees. My brother is a reasonable man. He will not bully our sister. Our women are not slaves.”