Dawn of the Golden Promise (14 page)

“Our young people would do far better to devote more time to their own language,” he had argued with the nun. “The Irish is a sturdy, lively language. It has
spirit.
Latin is weak broth in comparison.”

“
Latin
is the language of the
Church
,” the nun returned pointedly. “A language of tradition and dignity. It also teaches one to think in a precise and orderly fashion, as well as providing—”

“—an understanding of all other grammatical relationships,” Morgan finished for her. He knew her rebuttal by heart.

The woman could ever make him feel like an ignorant
bostoon
!

Glaring at Barry O'Higgins—or was this one Barnaby?—he offered no mercy as the boy ended yet another pathetic rendering of the daily assignment.

“Perhaps by now you have come to realize that one cannot conjugate
esse
in the passive voice, Mr. O'Higgins,” he said, leveling a withering glare on the round, freckled face. “Would I be safe in assuming you did not bother to
read
the assignment before presenting it?”

Despite the flush that crept over his features, the lad's expression appeared entirely unrepentant. The quick downward glance didn't deceive Morgan for a moment. The O'Higgins twins took nothing seriously until threatened with corporal punishment.

He sighed, wishing not for the first time that he had followed his earlier instincts and sent the both of them packing long ago. In truth, they owed their status as students to Sister Louisa, who insisted that even the O'Higgins twins could be both tamed and taught.

When the devil takes a holiday
, Morgan thought, eyeing the difficult scholar. “Well, then, Barry—”

“—Barnaby, sir—”

“Very well, Barnaby—you may add to today's exercises the three sets in the appendix for chapter five, to be recited tomorrow.”

“But you said no assignments today, sir!” the boy burst out. “It being the mistress's birthday and all.”

Morgan lowered his eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose and stared at the boy. Finally he sighed. “So I did. Very well, then.”

The boy beamed at him.

“But you will be prepared by Saturday morning,” Morgan cautioned.

“Oh, I will, sir!”

“And you'd best set your mind on taking a more serious attitude toward your studies, else—”

A knock on the door interrupted him. Morgan motioned the boy back to his chair as Sandemon entered the room.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but there is a gentleman to see you.”

Morgan frowned. It was only midmorning, early for a caller.

“A gentleman?”

“Mr. Cassidy, sir,” replied the black man.

“Cassidy?”
Morgan caught his breath, then tossed his grade book into the top drawer of the desk. “Show him into the library. I'll see him at once!”

As he propelled his chair into the library, Morgan fought down a wave of excitement and apprehension.

Something in the confident way Cassidy was standing—even though his smile appeared somewhat guarded—made Morgan's heart jump with anticipation.

They shook hands, and Morgan wheeled himself behind the desk. For a moment he studied the big white-haired man across from him. “So, Frank—” He motioned Cassidy to take a chair. “What news do you bring me?”

“I do have news at last,” Cassidy said, lowering himself into the chair. “Though it's taken a terrible long time, I know.”

Morgan swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “Tell me,” he said, his voice strained.

Cassidy knotted his big hands together on his knees as he leaned forward. Never one to dissemble, he started in right away. “It seems her name was Moran. The family was from Drogheda, but there would appear to be a distant blood-tie with Michael Moran.”

Morgan gaped at him. “Zozimus?” Michael Moran, the blind street musician and legendary patriarch of the itinerant ballad singers, was better known by his nickname,
Zozimus.
So great was his fame that his reputation had spawned countless numbers of imitators.

Cassidy nodded. “Finola Moran is your wife's name, right enough.”

Finola. So, then, her name really was Finola, after all.

Morgan fought to control the conflicting passions that warred within him. Hadn't he
wanted
to discover Finola's past and help her come through the darkness she battled? Yet now, selfish man that he was, all he could think of was the possibility that someone else, someone with a greater claim to her, might try to take her from him. He wanted what was best for Finola, of course, but…by all the saints, he couldn't face the possibility of losing her!

Trying to check the trembling of his hands, Morgan clenched them on the desk in front of him. “And…did you find…the family?”

Cassidy shook his head. “There was only herself and the father. And the old man is dead.” He paused. “Murdered, 'tis said, in a shooting incident. He was a widower, and the girl—Finola—his only child.”

Relief poured over Morgan like a river, only to be replaced by a wave of guilt. Was he really so selfish that he could take comfort from Finola's loss?

“There is no one else, then?” he managed to ask, gripping his hands even tighter. “No one at all?”

Cassidy shook his head. “Only the two of them, the girl and the father—and him gone. James Moran owned an apothecary and raised some crops on a patch of land outside the city. A respected man, it would seem. 'Twas the son of his housekeeper from whom I finally heard the story—and a sad story it is.”

Morgan squeezed his eyes shut.

There was no one out there waiting to take her away from him, no one else with a claim to her affection. Another stab of guilt, this time even sharper, pierced through him.

For so long he had dreaded the truth….

Suddenly it struck him that Cassidy had mentioned a murder. “What's this about the father being murdered?” he managed to ask, opening his eyes. “Tell me everything you've learned.”

In her bedroom, Annie sat at the small desk in the corner. She had completed her recitations with Sister Louisa and was now studying what she considered her most skillful piece of artwork to date.

She touched the tip of her sketching pencil to her lower lip, then gave a nod of satisfaction. At her side, Fergus uttered a soft bark, obviously intent on having a look for himself.

Annie glanced at the wolfhound. “Very well,” she said, replacing the pencil in its box. “You may look at it. But you must be very careful not to drool. I'll not be giving Finola a portrait smudged by your great tongue.”

She held up the sketch at a considerable distance from the wolfhound's huge head. He studied it, his expression sober. At last he gave a short bark.

“Don't be such a pup,” Annie scolded. “Didn't I tell you the cat would be included in the portrait? 'Tis only right, her being Finola's special pet.”

Fergus whimpered, but Annie ignored him as she resumed her study of the portrait. The sketch portrayed Finola, seated by the fire in the great room, with baby Gabriel on her lap and Small One, the cat, at her feet.

The sketch was quite good, if she did say so herself. Sister had promised to help her mat it later, which would make it even more presentable.

Annie did hope Finola would be pleased. From the beginning, she had determined to
make
her gift, wanting to give Finola something personal, something that would reflect a measure of effort and affection.

Propping one elbow on the desk, she rested her chin on her hand. “Finola doesn't seem altogether happy these days,” she observed to Fergus, who cocked his head as if waiting for an explanation.

But Annie had no explanation. She only knew that there were times when Finola's lovely face grew sad and troubled, times when she seemed oblivious to conversation taking place all about her—even when the
Seanchai
was speaking.

Perhaps, Annie thought unhappily, Finola still fretted over a past she could not remember—where she had come from, who she had been, what she might have left behind. Wouldn't it be the natural thing, to puzzle over whether she had family somewhere, missing her, searching for her?

She put a hand to Fergus's head and began to stroke his ears. “I expect she
would
feel sad sometimes,” she said to the wolfhound. “It would be a terrible thing entirely not to know where you came from or who your people are. Even though my mum gave me up, at least I arrived with a
name.
But Finola doesn't even have that. She can't recall her mother or father, or sisters or brothers—no one.”

Annie's heart wrenched. She wouldn't be so selfish as to hope that Finola had no other family outside Nelson Hall. Nor would she wish that Finola's memory of that family might never return. That would be a wicked thought altogether. But if such a family did indeed exist, would it be too cruel, she wondered, to hope that there was no younger sister?

By late afternoon, Morgan was so consumed by Cassidy's incredible tale that his head felt dangerously near to exploding. He had all he could do to keep from spoiling Finola's birthday celebration.

Now that at least some of the questions seemed to have been answered, he could not make up his mind what to do with the information. His first inclination had been to tell Finola the entire story at once. She had a right to know, after all, a right to have the missing pieces of her past finally set aright.

But what would it do to her?

Already her emotions were fragile. What if this new revelation proved to be more than she could bear? Was there a possibility it could damage the progress she had made, the healing she seemed to have gained since Gabriel's birth?

What if it turned out that she could not cope with the shock of such a disclosure? To learn that she had apparently been the victim of a savage assault not once, but
twice
—an assault that may well have cost her father his life—could such a horror really be borne without further devastation?

Just see what the truth had done to
him.
Even now, hours after listening to Cassidy's interpretation of the tale, he was still badly shaken, still half ill with the despair of knowing what Finola must have endured. He knew very well it would take a long, long time before he would be able to think on the entire story without a murderous rage or sick anguish. He could not fathom what this would mean to Finola, who had been the victim of the ugliness.