Sons of an Ancient Glory (63 page)

Morgan nodded. “Aye, he did. I didn't even know I
had
a grandfather until Joseph went searching for him.”

As the silence stretched out between them, Morgan's thoughts roamed to the priest who had played such a significant role in his life. “I don't suppose a day ever passes,” he said, more to himself than to Finola, “that I don't give thanks for Joseph Mahon.”

Her voice was infinitely soft behind him. “And do you ever wonder where you would be now, had it not been for Father Mahon's presence in your life?”

Her quiet words jolted Morgan. He sat, numbed by the significance of her question.

“I expect your life might have been much different if your compassionate priest had denounced you, rather than forgiven you.” The gentleness of her tone in no way lessened the impact of her words. “How many times have we heard Sister Louisa say that ‘grace begets grace'? It almost sounds as if the forgiveness Father Mahon demonstrated to you…might have helped you to extend forgiveness to your grandfather.”

Morgan felt as if a burning coal had been dropped into his heart. Silence hung between them, a silence so intense Morgan could hear her soft breathing in counterpoint to the loud hammering of his heart.

“I'm sorry, Morgan.” He heard the note of dismay in her voice. Her hands left his shoulders, and Morgan felt suddenly chilled. “I had no right to say that to you. I'm sorry…”

Morgan shook his head, trying to dispel the thunderous pounding in his ears. “No…no, don't apologize,” he said, lifting a hand. “I asked you to have your say.”

“No, it's not my place—”

He wheeled the chair around to face her. “Of course, it is your place, Finola,” he said, wishing she could accept the fact that he welcomed her candor, even if he did find himself temporarily taken aback by it. “You're my wife, after all.”

Silence fell. As Morgan watched, a look of despair came over her features. Concerned, he reached for her, but she stepped back, then turned and fled the room.

He watched the empty doorway for a long time, trying to understand what he had said or done to cause her to run away from him. He had been about to tell her that she had reached him, after all, with her painfully accurate insights about Joseph Mahon and his grandfather. He wanted to tell her that he would always listen to what she had to say, that indeed he thought she, more than anyone else in his world, would always be able to reach inside him and touch his soul and turn him toward light instead of darkness.

For a moment, before she left him, he had come within a heartbeat of pulling her into his arms and begging her to love him. And for one wild, irrational instant, he had almost thought she would welcome him.

Madness
.

He had almost forgotten all the promises he had made to himself about her: promises to cherish her, to protect her—and to expect nothing from her. In his loneliness, he would have made the great fool of himself, possibly creating an irreparable breach in their already fragile relationship.

He could not remember when he had felt so lonely, so isolated. He had somehow managed to drive them all away from him: Annie and Sister Louisa…and, God help him, Finola. With his hardheaded tactics and utter lack of sensitivity, he had alienated himself from those he needed most.

At least tomorrow Sandemon would return. But in the meantime, he faced another long night; he could hardly expect Finola to make her usual appearance after putting Gabriel to bed. Disappointment swept over him at the thought, for he had come to anticipate with great eagerness her nightly visits to help him lay out his clothing for the following day.

In truth, he was entirely capable of handling this mundane procedure himself, but he wouldn't for the world have let on. Always, she would stay awhile. They would talk, or play long games of chess. Sometimes she would ask him to play the harp while she sat listening. Occasionally, he managed to coax her into singing, but she was still obviously shy about doing so.

The thought that tonight she would not come to him was almost more than he could endure. Feeling infinitely weary and seized with an aching coldness, he wheeled himself back to the table. Spying Finola's delicate lace handkerchief on her chair, he picked it up. With a sad smile, he brought it to his cheek, savoring her faint scent before tucking the delicate item into his shirt pocket, next to his heart.

Later that night, after nursing Gabriel and leaving him to Lucy's attentions, Finola went through the motions of changing into her nightdress and dressing gown, scarcely aware of what she was doing.

She was appalled at the way she had spoken to Morgan. That she had dared to admonish him still dismayed her. It wasn't so much that she feared his displeasure. He hadn't seemed in the least angry with her for speaking her mind—indeed, had encouraged her to do so.

What troubled her most was the pain she had seen in his eyes when he turned to look at her. She had wounded him. She would rather drive a dagger through her own heart than hurt him, but there had been no mistaking the anguish that had looked out at her. In her attempt to save Tierney Burke from banishment, she had hurt
Morgan
!

She sank down on the side of the bed, hugging her arms to herself. She could not forget the way he had looked at her, the way his voice had faltered when he spoke.

“You're my wife.…”

With a broken sob, she threw herself across the bed and let the tears come. All these months of living under the same roof…coming to love him more and more…listening for the sound of his voice…cherishing the smallest things—the touch of his hand on hers, the low sound in his throat that marked the beginning of his wonderful laugh, the lilt and cadence of his speech…the smile that drew her into his eyes—oh, how she loved him, yearned to belong to him, dreamed of being a
real
wife to him!

The past few weeks had been like a banquet to her starving heart. The time alone with him morning and evening, helping him with the small, ordinary, yet intimate, things…putting on his shoes for him, laying out his clothing, trimming his hair…she had clung to every moment like a gift. A part of her had even begun to hope…

What had she hoped?
That he would begin to think of her as a woman, rather than a simple-minded younger sister? That he would finally respond to her love for him and love her in return? That the world would stop its turning and the sky would fall? What?

When he had turned the chair about to face her, his wounded eyes accusing her as he called her his wife, something inside her had shattered. She had known at that instant that if she did not turn and run, she would disgrace herself entirely, would fling herself into his arms and
beg
him…to love her!

She felt as if all her dreams had broken to pieces, and each shard was driving itself slowly into her heart.

What else had she expected, with her mad, foolish longing for the impossible?

She had actually begun to pretend that he needed her, that he might even be falling in love with her a little. In her delusions about him, she had almost been able to believe that she could be
good
for him…could make him happy and fulfilled, could even help him not to mind so much the loss of his legs.

Yet in all her longing to help him and make him happy, she had only managed to offend him and hurt him. The sobs rose up in her—harder, more intense. Rolling onto her side, Finola pressed a fist to her mouth to silence the sounds of her loneliness, and wept.

This is the mystery, the glory of love:
That in bringing our hearts to each other,
We gain more than we thought to give.…
And in giving ourselves to each other,
We become more than we hoped to be.

M
ORGAN
F
ITZGERALD
(1849)

S
ister Louisa knocked softly once, then again. When no one answered, she put an ear to the door, listening. At the sound of muffled weeping, she took it upon herself to enter.

She stopped just inside the door, stunned by the sight of Finola, curled up in the middle of the bed like a child, sobbing her heart out.

“Faith, child, what is it?” Louisa thought at once of the baby, and the thought struck fear in her. “Finola—is it Gabriel? Has something happened to the babe?”

The girl shook her head, her shoulders still heaving.

Sister Louisa sat down beside her, reaching to pat her awkwardly on the back. “Here, now.…surely nothing can be so terrible as this!”

Gently, she raised the girl, gathering her close and trying to soothe her with one hand, wiping away the torrent of tears with the other.

“Our Gabriel is quite all right, then?” Louisa asked again.

Finola nodded between sobs.

“Well…are you ill, child?”

Finola shook her head.

“Then, what,
alannah
? Please, tell me what it is.”

After a moment, Finola managed a strangled whisper. “Morgan…“

Louisa's mouth thinned, and she gathered the girl still closer. “What
has
the man done now? I suppose he's still determined to throw young Tierney to the wolves, not that the thoughtless
gorsoon
doesn't deserve whatever he gets. Oh, I shouldn't fret about it, dear. Once he has time to think things through, perhaps he'll have a change of heart.”

“It's not that.”

Louisa lifted an eyebrow, and sighed—a thoroughly Irish, long-suffering sigh. “I suppose he's said something or done something harsh, and you've been hurt. Is that it, dear?”

Finola pulled away, frowning. “Oh…no. No, that's not it at all. I think…I hurt
him.
I disagreed with him about Tierney Burke, don't you see? He said I had a right, that I was his
wife
, but—”

She broke off, looking at Louisa as if she could not go on.

Louisa studied her. “I see,” she said quietly. “I expect what you mean is that you…ah…love him as a woman loves a man.”

Finola nodded, still looking perfectly miserable.

“And you would like to be his wife…in the, ah, truest sense of the word.”

Finola nodded again, attempting to blink away the tears. “I could be a comfort to him, Sister. I could at least help to ease his loneliness. He's had so much pain…and sometimes he seems so alone, and unhappy.”

Louisa's mind raced. “He doesn't know how you feel, however, does he?”

Finola shook her head. “Of course not.”

“Well, then—perhaps you should tell him,” Louisa said practically.

Finola stared at her as if she'd taken leave of her senses. “I could never do that!”

“Why not?” Louisa asked patiently. “He is your husband, after all.”

One trembling hand moved to wipe her eyes. “But he doesn't think of me as his
wife.
Not really. He regards me only as a rather dim-witted little sister, don't you see?”

Struggling to keep a straight face, Louisa replied, “That has not been my observation, I confess.”

“He doesn't want me,” Finola said dejectedly.

“Doesn't
want
you?” Louisa reared back in astonishment. “Good heavens, child, the man
adores
you!”