Sons of an Ancient Glory (14 page)

By now Morgan was at the end of his patience. “That is altogether up to you,” he said caustically. “But if he suffers any ill consequences from your foolishness, that will also be your doing.”

He paused. “You might want to have a look at him, in the stables—to satisfy yourself that he is quite all right and is comfortable. Perhaps then you could let
him
decide whether he feels strong enough to leave in the middle of the night.”

The Gypsy seemed to consider Morgan's suggestion for a moment, then shook his head. “He will do as I say. He is my brother. I will take him back to the camp with me tonight.”

Galled by the man's stubborn resistance to reason, Morgan snapped, “As you wish, then! Sandemon—show him to the stables.”

Back upstairs in his bedroom, Morgan sat seething. He had had quite enough for one day of gaols and Gypsies and hotheaded boys!

Just then, the clock in the downstairs entryway chimed three. Morgan groaned. In less than five hours, he would be expected in the classroom to hear sleepy recitations and stumbling theorems. Any man with half his wits knew that such a task could not be borne with so little sleep.

He was beginning to question the wisdom of agreeing to take in an old friend's son. There was a great deal to be said, after all, for leading a quiet, uncomplicated life—especially if this night were any example of things to come.

Our friends go with us as we go
Down the long path where Beauty wends.

O
LIVER
S
T.
J
OHN
G
OGARTY
(1878-1957)

I
n the morning, the Gypsy boy was gone. Sandemon reported to Morgan at breakfast that there was no sign of Jan Martova in the stables, indeed no sign that he had ever been at Nelson Hall.

His thoughts elsewhere, Morgan nodded distractedly. “I expected as much. That brother of his no doubt hauled him out in short order.”

Alone at the long dining room table, he glanced up from his coffee. “Finola did not come down this morning. I wish you would go up and inquire, make certain she is all right. And
where
is Annie? This is the second time this week she's been late to breakfast.”

“I am here,
Seanchai
!”

As always, the girl did not so much enter the room as
explode
into it. Out of breath, she gave Sandemon a sheepish grin as she squeezed by him through the door.

With weary eyes, Morgan took in his adopted daughter's uncommonly neat appearance. The heavy dark hair, which ordinarily began its escape from confinement well before breakfast, seemed to have been restrained by extreme force into two thick, heavy braids. The elfin face had been scrubbed to a polish, and the always alert black eyes fairly snapped with restless energy.

He offered his cheek for her quick kiss. “I was beginning to think I was the only one astir this morning.”

“But I would have thought you'd have all sorts of company.” Annie blurted out, her gaze sweeping the room. “Where are the others?”

“The others?”

“Aye, Tierney Burke from America—and the Gypsy.”

She stopped suddenly, biting at her lower lip.

Morgan lifted one eyebrow, exasperated but not surprised that she had evidently been doing a bit of snooping in the night. The imp missed very little. “And how is it that you know about Tierney Burke and the Gypsy?”

Chin up, she thrust her hands behind her back and locked eyes with him. “And wasn't there enough commotion to rouse the dead? A body could scarcely sleep with such a fuss.”

“Your curiosity will cost you yet,” Morgan said, lacing his words with a perfunctory note of sternness. “I'll expect you to be alert during recitation today, despite your late-hour eavesdropping.”

“Aren't they coming down?” she asked bluntly, pulling her chair up to the table. “Tierney Burke and the Gypsy?”

“The Gypsy,” Morgan replied, “has already gone. And Tierney Burke will be abed for a day or so, at Dr. Dunne's advice. As for you, lassie, you had best be having your pottage.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Pottage
again
? I'm bored with pottage!”

“You will eat it and be thankful!” Morgan snapped, the previous long night and scant sleep making him unduly short. “There are thousands all across the land who would bless God for even a spoonful!”

Her startled look made him instantly contrite, but he would not have the girl given to whining, and her having so much.

No words were exchanged as she ate. Finally, in a milder tone of voice, Morgan broke the silence between them. “No doubt you will meet Tierney Burke later today, perhaps this evening. But he will be weak, mind you, from his ordeal, so you must not weary him with your chatter.”

She delayed a spoonful of pottage in midair. “Oh, I
shan't
! I'm hoping he will tell us all about America, though, when he's strong enough.” She paused. “And where did the Gypsy go, then,
Seanchai
? Back to his tribe, I imagine.”

Morgan nodded. “His brother came for him,” he said sourly, recalling the elder Martova's demands.

Annie suffered one last spoon of pottage, then bounced up from her chair. “More's the pity,” she said, swiping her mouth with the table napkin. “I had hoped to meet him as well. I've never had conversation with a real Gypsy before.”

Morgan looked at her. “Your education will not suffer from the lack, I'll warrant.”

As he watched her tear out of the room, he could not restrain a fleeting smile. It was a bittersweet feeling this, watching her bloom so quickly from child to young woman. She would be thirteen soon. A little girl no longer.

At times he felt an almost overwhelming urge to stop the clock so that he might have more time to savor her childhood. Admittedly, he entertained a great curiosity about the sort of woman Annie would become, but he cherished these years of her youth, when he could still be a father to the child in her.

She had come to him so late…and had quickly become so dear. It never failed to shake him, the realization that he was, at last, a father. Father to a fey, star-chasing child with a quicksilver mind, a child who viewed life as one vast wonder after another and had not allowed even the agony of abuse to dim the light of her soaring spirit.

He reminded himself that soon…frighteningly soon…he would also be father to
another
child. A wee babe.

Finola's child. As her time drew near, Morgan grew both eager and anxious. Eager for the waiting to be done, for the child to arrive, but anxious, too, for Finola, for her well-being.

He found himself increasingly fearful that the birthing itself—an act he found nothing short of terrifying—might somehow cause her harm, might even take away from the progress she had made since the attack, the attack which had left her both physically and emotionally shattered.

At times he even worried that the
babe
might prove harmful to Finola, simply by being an inescapable reminder of the violent assault that had brought her such anguish. And yet she seemed, if not entirely content with her condition, at least accepting of it. She sewed with Sister Louisa and Annie, took part in the planning of the nursery, appeared conscientious of her health. If she seemed reluctant to speak of the impending birth, whether out of respect for convention or her natural shyness, he thought it only to be expected—although in truth he would have welcomed more candor from her.

The candor of a wife who shared her deepest secrets with her husband.…

He forced the thought aside. He already had far more than he could have hoped for. For the first time in his life, he had a home and family: a daughter he cherished, a babe to anticipate, and Finola as his wife.

True, she was his wife in name only, but at least she was
here
, under his roof. She was close by, ate at his table, shared his hearthfire. And they had become friends—no small blessing in itself.

Aye, he had far more than any man in his condition could dare to hope for, especially in these troubled times. It would behoove him to simply maintain a thankful heart and live one day at a time.

For now, he decided, wheeling the chair out from behind the table, he would go upstairs and make certain that she was all right. He still had time to treat himself to her smile before starting the day in the classroom.

“Sandemon was just here to inquire about you,” Lucy told Finola. “The
Seanchai
was concerned.”

Finola glanced up from her rocking chair by the window. Small One, her black and white cat, stirred impatiently in her lap and then turned once, settling back into the crook of Finola's arm. “I hope you told him I was well?”

“I did.” Lucy closed the door to the bedchamber as she entered. “I explained that you simply did not feel up to breakfast yet this morning. But I'm thinking you might expect a knock on the door any moment now. The
Seanchai
will not rest until he sees for himself that all is well with you.”

Finola frowned. “Perhaps I should go down. But he frets so when I don't eat…”

“Because he wants what is best for you and the child.”

“I know.” Finola scratched the cat's ear thoughtfully. “It's just that I feel so…dull this morning. So huge. Everything seems such an effort, I can't think I would be able to swallow a bite. It would stick in my throat, sure.”

Lucy stood looking at her, shaking her head. “It's anything but huge you are, child! You are still too thin, in spite of the babe's weight. Far too thin, I'm thinking. You need every bite you can take in.”

Finola managed a smile. What a turn Lucy's feelings had taken since she'd found the Savior! Whereas she had once dared to suggest that the child be aborted, now she hovered like a mother herself, intent that both Finola and the babe should thrive.

And they
did
thrive. Until a few days ago, she had almost begun to feel strong again. Recently, however, the burden of extra weight had begun to tell on her in terms of discomfort and sheer ungainliness.

It embarrassed her these days to be seen at all, especially by Morgan, although he was kindness itself and pretended not to notice her awkward girth. He remained ever the gentleman, unfailingly attentive and concerned.

At the thought of him, a swell of love rose in her, almost dizzying in its intensity. Her arms tightened around Small One until the cat squawked indignantly and jumped to the floor. Finola looked up, surprised, when Small One landed with a loud
thump
. She had been very far away…far away with Morgan. At times she thought she could not bear the sweet ache of gladness the very thought of him evoked.

Her feelings for this man who was her husband—and her dearest friend—both frightened and bewildered her, for she did not understand the painful yearning in her heart to simply be near him. Even less did she understand the agonizing emptiness when they were apart.

She fervently hoped he did not sense her confusion, her unaccountable foolishness. How humiliating it would be if he were ever to discover that, even in the throes of her disgrace and ungainly condition, she harbored such an affection for him—the one who knew more than most about her shame.