Sons of an Ancient Glory (58 page)

The boy turned his face up toward Evan, but his eyes remained closed. “Da…is it you, Da?”

Over Billy Hogan's small body, Evan looked up and met the gaze of Sergeant Price. Shaken, he saw that the eyes of the big, rugged police sergeant were glazed with tears, as were his own.

“He thinks you're his daddy, Mr. Whittaker,” said the policeman with a faint, sad smile for Evan. “His real da died some years back, before they came across.”

Looking down at the boy Evan murmured, “Your…your Father is here, B-Billy. He's right here with you.”
Oh, Lord, You are here…You've been here all along, haven't You?

With a last look at the boy, the sergeant said, “I'd best be going after the doc and my men, Mr. Whittaker. You'll be all right till I get back?”

Evan nodded, never taking his eyes off the small, battered face. His hand trembled as he continued to stroke and smooth the boy's hair. Again Billy twisted and moaned. “Da? Is it morning yet?”

Evan's breath caught in his throat. He nearly strangled on his words as he strained to answer. “Soon, B-Billy. Soon, it will be…m-morning.…”

Slowly, as if the very act were an agony, Billy opened his eyes. He stared up at Evan through narrow slits. “Mr. Evan? Is that you?”

Somehow Evan found the strength to smile. “Yes, Billy. It's…M-Mr. Evan.”

The child's swollen mouth actually curved in a vain attempt at a smile. “You were right…about the singing, Mr. Evan.”

Evan leaned closer. “What's that, son? What about the singing?”

Billy's eyes closed again, but the ghost of a smile remained. “I remembered what you told us, Mr. Evan…about the singing…how it would build a fort round about us to keep away the things of the darkness—”

Billy gave a gasp beneath the sergeant's heavy coat. “It worked, Mr. Evan. It worked…just like you said it would. Did you hear me? Did you hear me singing?”

The tears Evan had struggled to control now fell free, streaming down his face. “Oh, yes, Billy…I heard you singing,” he choked out. “I heard you, son…and so did your heavenly Father and all His angels.”

May God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind.

W.B. Y
EATS
(1865-1939)

N
ot long before midnight, Evan finally arrived home. Two of Sergeant Price's men brought him across from the hospital on a small boat sometimes used for searching the harbor.

He practically stumbled the last few steps up the walk. He could not remember ever being this weary in his life. But at least he had the comfort of knowing that Billy Hogan was safe in a hospital bed at Bellevue, and he expected that by now the brute responsible for his injuries was in a cell. There had been no mistaking Sergeant Price's resolve to lock up Sorley Dolan before the night was over.

Aunt Winnie opened the door before he could insert his key in the lock. “Evan…dear boy, you look absolutely exhausted!”

Inside, he allowed her to take his coat for him. His weary mind reached to identify the odor in the house. “Aunt Winnie? Is something b-burning?”

She turned to face him, and he saw for the first time that she looked uncharacteristically disheveled. Her hair was mussed; her dress appeared wrinkled and—stained. He stared at her, feeling the beginning of alarm. “Aunt Winnie, is something wrong?”

She took him by the arm. “Everything is under control, dear. You needn't worry. We had a minor fire, but no one was hurt.”

“A
fire
!” His stomach knotted with dread. “Nora—”

Holding him firmly in tow, Aunt Winnie steered him toward the parlor. “Now, dear, everything is perfectly all right, I promise you. Nora is fine. So are Teddy and Johanna. Come along, you can see for yourself.”

As she led him across the hall, Evan knew one irrational instant of denial. He was exhausted, famished, and slightly ill. He simply could not deal with another crisis yet tonight.

“In here, dear. We'll explain.”

He stopped just inside the doorway of the parlor, vastly relieved to see Nora on the small settee in front of the fireplace, smiling rather wanly at him. A thrill of surprise shot through him at the sight of Johanna in the rocking chair by the window, with Teddy sound asleep in her arms! She, too, looked up and smiled as he entered.

For a moment Evan simply stood, staring at the scene in front of him. But his relief and pleasure quickly gave way to renewed concern as he became even more keenly aware of the smell of smoke.

Before he could ask anything else, Aunt Winnie urged him into the room. “I must warn you, dear, that the bedroom is a bit of a disaster. I've tidied up as best I can, but we'll have to replace the drapes and the bedding.”

Evan gawked. “Whatever are you t-talking about? What happened?”

Aunt Winnie shushed him. “The baby's sleeping, dear. Do keep your voice down.” Leading him over to the settee, she went on, her tone characteristically cheerful. “There. You just sit right here with Nora, and I'll explain. Then we'll get you something to eat. A cold supper will have to do, though, dear. I forgot all about your dinner while we were putting out the fire in the bedroom.” She paused, catching a breath. “I'm afraid I burned the ham.”

It was nearly midnight by the time Sara had seen Quinn O'Shea safely to bed, then sat listening in dismay to Michael's bleak news about Nora.

They talked quietly in the sitting room, Sara curled up in the armchair by the hearth, while Michael stood with his back to the fire, warming his hands.

Still shaken by the events of the evening and her fear for Nora, Sara was beginning to feel the effects of the long day. She could think of little to say, other than the question that had lodged in her mind since first hearing about the seriousness of Nora's condition. “She
will
be all right?” she asked anxiously. “With proper treatment and the right care…she can get well?”

“I'm not…certain that's the case,” Michael said after a noticeable hesitation. “But if not altogether well, at least she should see some improvement. That's how Evan put it.”

“Poor Evan. How is he?”

Michael shrugged. “Pretty much as you'd expect. Frightened. Distressed. But…managing, I'd say. You know how he is.”

Sara nodded, her heart aching for the steadfast, devoted Englishman they had all grown to love and admire. “We must help them, Michael. However we can. I'm sure Father…and Grandy…will want to help, too.”

He nodded. “Of course, we'll help. Apparently, Evan and Dr. Grafton intend to explain things to Nora the first of the week. Once Nora knows, we'll talk with them and see just what we can do.”

After a moment, he came to her and, lifting her out of the chair, took her place, then settled her onto his lap. “In the meantime, though, Sara
a gra,”
he said, wrapping her tightly in his arms, “what, exactly, are you intending to do with your wayward girl upstairs? Hmm?”

“I don't quite know,” Sara admitted with a sigh. “She can stay here for the time being, until we think of something.”

He stroked her hair, saying nothing for a moment. “Sara, I hope you won't be too hasty in involving yourself with this girl. We don't know her at all, remember.”

Sara pulled back enough to look at him. “We know she needs help. And we know she's bright and brave and seems quite resourceful.” She paused, then added almost angrily, “And we know a terrible injustice has been done to her.”

“Indeed. But I still think you need to be cautious. It's my observation that Quinn O'Shea might be running from more than Ethelda Crane.”

She frowned. “I suppose you can't help thinking like a policeman, Michael, but do keep in mind that the girl has only come across recently. Obviously, she's frightened and unsure of herself. But that doesn't have to mean she's
running
from something, does it?”

He studied her for a moment. “Perhaps not. But there's a look about her I've seen too many times before, Sara. If you asked me to define it, I'd not know how. But—”

He broke off, and Sara knew she hadn't convinced him.

“Surely you've noticed how skittish she is around me?” he said. “She acts as if she half expects me to haul her off to jail at any moment.”

Sara shrugged off his skepticism. “You've told me yourself the Irish are often suspicious of policemen. And the truth is, darling,” she added, “that you
can
be rather intimidating. Especially when you're wearing your grim expression.”

“Indeed?” He cuffed her lightly on the chin, then pulled her back into his arms. “Well, at any rate, we'll have to be making some arrangements for her soon. She seems willing enough to work, but she's had no chance to go looking for a position as yet. Being Irish is going to severely limit her chances. You'd best warn her about the way things are for the Irish in New York.”

“I'll help her find something,” Sara said, brushing off his concern. “Michael,” she said, burying her head against his shoulder, “you
are
going to launch an investigation of that dreadful Women's Shelter, aren't you?”

“Oh, you can count on it. I'll set my best men to it, first thing Monday. And I intend to ask for a subcommission investigation as well. We'll do whatever it takes to clean house at that place, including closing it down, if need be.”

“I want to help,” Sara announced, again rearing back to look at him.

“I think the police can handle it, love,” Michael said teasingly.

“But I
want
to help,” she repeated, all seriousness. “And I think I can. Ethelda Crane is used to members of the mission societies visiting the Shelter now and then. She'd have no reason to be suspicious if I made an unexpected call.” She paused, then added, “Michael, I mean it. Please, let me have a part in this.”

Taking her by the shoulders, he searched her eyes. “The woman really got to you, didn't she?”

Sara bristled. “I sensed Ethelda Crane was an unqualified phony the day I met her. Not to mention the fact that she's a bigot.”

Even now, months later, Sara became incensed at the memory. She could still see the pious Ethelda Crane, standing in the midst of the group of women from the church, her tight, thin lips wagging on and on about the “filthy, diseased” Irish.

She should have confronted the woman right then and there, Sara thought, still angry with herself for walking away. And she should have demanded a thorough investigation of the Shelter—and its administrator—at the same time. There was no telling how much grief she might have spared Quinn O'Shea and the other residents if she had only followed her instincts.

With a long sigh, she sank against Michael, grateful for his warm strength and his patience. “I'm so thankful for you, Michael. You can't imagine.”

He brushed his chin over the top of her head. “Because I tolerate your propensity for stray animals and wandering girls?”

She heard the smile in his voice, knew he was trying to lighten her mood. “That, too. But mostly for being yourself…for being all the things I'm not.”