Sons of an Ancient Glory (40 page)

He felt painfully awkward under her searching look. “I will…manage,” he added inanely.

She continued to study him for another moment, then unexpectedly turned and said, “Sandemon, would you mind if I spoke to Morgan alone, please?”

Finola waited until Sandemon had slipped quietly from the room, then turned back to Morgan.

Moving closer to the bed, she studied him for a moment. “You are distressed about what Sandemon intends to do,” she said softly. “You are afraid for him.”

He nodded. “I expect what distresses me most is knowing he's right—there seems to be no alternative.”

“You must try not to worry about him,” Finola said, touching his hand. “I somehow think Sandemon is invincible.”

He glanced at her hand, then caught it in his. “Let us hope. I confess I cannot bear to think of Nelson Hall without his presence.” He paused. “I am sorry we woke you. You're troubled enough without our adding to it.”

There was no denying that she was troubled. The very idea of cholera terrified her, especially when she allowed herself to think about Gabriel…or Morgan…being stricken. But she sensed this was not the time to admit her own terrors.

“I try not to dwell on it,” she said, forcing a note of cheerfulness into her voice. “Sometimes I feel as if I have lived my entire life in fear. I don't want to be that way any longer. I'll not spoil the peace God has given me in this place.”

He squeezed her hand, a look of pleasure crossing his features. “It means a great deal to me to hear you say that you've found peace here. It's what I've wanted for you from the beginning…that, and your happiness.”

Finola felt her heart swell with love for him, for his sweet and unfailing concern, his thoughtfulness, his gentleness. It was all she could do not to blurt out her feelings. Instead, she managed to smile and say lightly, “Then you will not argue with me further. You will allow me to assist you while Sandemon is away, for it will make me very unhappy if you refuse.”

He avoided meeting her gaze as he spoke, but his face betrayed his pain. “Finola, I can't expect you to understand. But it's…difficult, being as I am. Even with Sandemon, it's sometimes a struggle. But with you,
mavourneen…”

He looked at her, and Finola's throat tightened at the torment in his eyes.

“With you,” he went on after a ragged breath, “I find it much more difficult. For the most part, I can toss my pride to the wind with Sandemon. But I find myself fighting for every last shred of it where you're concerned.”

Determined that he would see no pity in her eyes, Finola fought down the rush of dismay his words evoked. “Morgan…”

He shook his head, bringing her hand to his lips for a moment. “It's a bitter thing entirely for me to appear weak and dependent—helpless—in your eyes,” he said softly, lowering her hand but not releasing it. “I would have you see me as invincible, like Sandemon—a tall and mighty warrior.”

He gave her a faint, self-mocking smile that nearly broke Finola's heart.
Oh, my love…you could never imagine how I think of you…you are my prince, my brave, bronze prince who makes my heart soar and my senses sing with joy…I think of you only with love…always with love.…

Somehow she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Morgan, there is something I must say to you,” she said, drawing in a steadying breath. “It is important to me, and I ask you to please hear me. Up until now, you have done everything for me, while I…I have done nothing for you in return.”

When he would have protested, Finola silenced him by hurrying on. “No, let me say this, please. Don't you see, Morgan, for such a long time, I have felt as you
say you
feel—weak and dependent and helpless. Yet, I have longed to be more than that…in your eyes.”

“Finola—” With a stricken look, he clasped her hand more tightly.

She shook her head and went on, her voice stronger now. “You have grown used to thinking of me…almost as a child—a sick child who must be sheltered and protected. And I am infinitely grateful for your protection, Morgan—why, I can't think what might have happened to me without you! I doubt that I would have survived at all. But…I'm not sure you realize that I've changed. I am no longer ill, don't you see? I'm no longer weak or helpless. Indeed, I am quite healthy. I would even say I'm strong. And, Morgan—Morgan, I am a
woman
.”

She stopped, but did not look away. Leaning closer to him, she forced herself to finish what she had begun. “I am a woman…and a mother. I am also your wife, Morgan, and it would please me no end if you would treat me as such. I am asking that you allow me to help
you
, just as you have helped
me
. That would please me, Morgan, truly it would.”

His eyes searched hers. Slowly he nodded, a token of assent. Finola squeezed his hand and smiled. “Good. I will go and tell Sandemon to prepare a brief list for me, so I will know exactly what you require in his absence. You rest now, Morgan. I won't be long.”

Within the hour, they bade Sandemon farewell. Only Morgan and Finola were there, in the privacy of Morgan's bedroom, to send him off with their wishes and prayers.

Still somewhat dazed by Finola's assertiveness, Morgan was finding it difficult to take in this sudden, unanticipated change and what it would mean in his life. At the moment, he could concentrate on little else than Sandemon's departure for the Gypsy wagon.

With his usual efficiency, the black man had taken time to gather a number of supplies he thought he might need: a roll of flannel, some laudanum and camphor, a lantern, a box of candles, and other small items.

“I will send word by the Gypsy boy as to what foods we need prepared,” he told Morgan. “If they are able to take nourishment, that is.” He paused, looking from Morgan to Finola. “You do understand that it may be weeks before I can return to the house. We will have to make absolutely certain all danger of contagion has passed.”

Morgan nodded briefly, not eager to consider such an extended absence. “Just know that you will be sorely missed.” His voice sounded gruff, even to his own ears, but this was difficult, after all—so difficult!

“Thank you,
Seanchai
.” Sandemon paused, again letting his dark gaze rest on both of them for an instant. “But I am grateful that now I can go with peace in my heart, knowing you will be taken care of with competence and affection.”

Morgan glanced at Finola and saw a faint blush spread over her face. But she smiled at Sandemon, saying, “I shall do my best. But no doubt he will be beside himself with relief when you return.”

“Don't be so sure,” Morgan said dryly. “Your face is far easier to look at than his.”

He saw the corners of Sandemon's mouth twitch. Though they were all obviously trying for lightness, the mood quickly turned somber once again.

“You will take every caution with yourself,” Morgan reminded him.

“I will,
Seanchai.
Of course, I will.”

“And you'll send us a report by the Gypsy boy at least three times a day.”

“I will, yes.”

“We'll be worried for you, mind.”

“Please pray for me and the young men.”

“Aye. You know we will.”

“We will
all
be praying, Sandemon,” Finola put in. “Morgan and I—and Sister Louisa and Annie—all of us.” Her voice no longer sounded quite so confident, and Morgan did not miss the way she was wringing her hands together at her waist.

“I will find great strength in knowing that, Mistress Finola.”

There was an awkward silence. Morgan's chest felt excessively heavy, as if it might sink at any instant. He cleared his throat. “You're certain you have everything you need? Of course, we can always get additional supplies to you—you've only to send word by Nanosh. Anything you need,” he emphasized, wincing at the tremor in his voice. “Anything.”

Sandemon nodded, saying, “I will be fine. All will be well. Please try not to worry. I will take good care of the young men—and myself.”

The black man's calm was impressive. Yet, at the moment there was a look about him—a certain tightness to the mouth, a missing glint in the eye—that spoke, if not of actual apprehension, at least of reluctance.

Morgan thought he might have made it through the next few moments without losing his own composure had it not been for Finola. Without warning, she stepped forward and caught both of Sandemon's hands in hers. “We will miss you so much, dear Sandemon! You must come back to us, safe and well. And very soon!”

She dropped his hands and moved back to stand beside the bed, but the look of startled pleasure on Sandemon's face lingered.

For a moment, he stood looking at the two of them. Then he crossed to the bed, his eyes locking with Morgan's. “I will miss you,
Seanchai
, do you realize that? I will miss you grievously.”

Morgan thought he would strangle. A thousand memories flashed before him, and his throat ached with the unspoken words of affection crowding his heart. All he could do was open his arms and pull the big black man into a quick embrace. “Come back as soon as you possibly can,
mo chara…
my friend,” he choked out, unable to go any further.

They released each other with awkward smiles and a long last look. Then, with a quick nod to Finola, Sandemon started for the door. Abruptly, he turned back. “You will tell Miss Annie goodbye for me?”

Morgan nodded. Then Sandemon was gone.

Morgan stared at the closed door in silence. He felt bereft and heavy-hearted, already missing the steady presence, the indomitable strength and solid wisdom he had come to count on.

He felt Finola slip her hand in his and gently squeeze his fingers. Looking up at her, he saw his own sense of bereavement reflected in her eyes. Somehow it helped, knowing she understood and even shared his feelings of loss.

She stayed for nearly an hour, sitting in the chair beside the bed, allowing him to hold her hand as he told her of Sandemon's first days at Nelson Hall, how he had arrived on the very day that Finola had first brought Annie safely to the front door, then disappeared. He told her of the difference the former West Indies slave had made in his life, the enormous debt of gratitude he felt he owed him. He told her many things about the man he now called
friend
, until at last he relaxed enough to doze.

Sometime late in the night he awoke to find her gone. He imagined her slender hand still clasped in his, even lifted his own palm to his lips as if to recapture her closeness. The faint, sun-touched scent of her hair lingered near, seeming to warm the bleakness of the lonely bedroom…and his heart.