Dawn of the Golden Promise (30 page)

By late afternoon, Morgan's head was swimming, and he wheeled himself outside in search of some peace and quiet. He had scarcely reached the west lawn when Annie, tight-lipped and fiery-eyed, came charging up like a young warhorse and planted herself in front of him, arms locked across her chest.

So much for peace and quiet.

“They think themselves such
men
!”

Morgan sighed. It was a perfect summer's day, resplendent with sunshine and vibrant with the lush, late-blooming flowers and greenery of the season. He wanted nothing more than to sit quietly and bask in the lazy peace of the afternoon.

Instead, he squeezed out a smile, bracing himself for the expected stream of complaints. “You refer to Tierney Burke and Jan Martova, no doubt?”

“Indeed. One would think the fate of all Ireland were hinged upon the door of a Gypsy wagon!”

Now Morgan found himself wanting to smile in earnest, but he suppressed the urge when her frown darkened. “'Tis only natural they would be excited about the journey,” he said reasonably. “Surely you can understand.”

“I am that tired of hearing about their
tour of Ireland
! They can speak of nothing else.”

She stopped, as if expecting a response from him. When there was none, she went on. “The entire household grows weary of their endless blather. I for one will be glad when they are finally on their way tomorrow!”

Morgan recognized her frustration for what it was. Only this morning Finola had alluded to the girl's resentment. “'Tis disappointment, don't you see? Aine had hoped we would all take such a journey, as we discussed. Because we can't, she thinks the boys should have waited.”

Morgan understood the girl's disappointment. He had felt no small measure of regret himself, although he chose not to voice it. He had looked forward to taking the family on an excursion across the country—in truth, he had wanted to be the one to acquaint Michael's son with Ireland. But circumstances had intervened to make it impractical, if not impossible.

Gabriel's arrival, for one thing. Still, the tyke was old enough now, and given his genial disposition, he would present no real problem on a journey. But there had also been Finola to consider; she had not been strong to begin with, and the boy's birth and her emotional struggles had weakened her still more.

More to the point was the possibility of another, even more extensive journey: the anticipated voyage to the United States. Annie knew nothing of the trip, of course—nor did anyone else except Sandemon. Morgan and Finola had only just come to the decision themselves, on their last day at Glendalough. But once the lass knew, he felt certain her disappointment would be appeased.

For now, however, he supposed the best he could do was to allow her to vent her frustration.

To his surprise, however, his daughter's stormy expression turned contemplative. “Sometimes,
Seanchai
, I wish I had been born a boy.”

Never knowing what to expect from this mercurial child, Morgan remained silent, regarding her with a certain caution, still poised for another volley of resentment.

Instead, she gave a somewhat dramatic sigh and shook her head. “I expect that I shall never have an adventure of my own.”

With that she turned and started up the pathway toward the house. The thin shoulders seemed to slump as he watched. Even the dark braids appeared to hang more heavily than usual, rather than swinging from side to side as they usually did when she flounced off.

He called after her, but she went on, and Morgan decided to let her go. He could not fathom these flashes of mood the girl exhibited, and when he spoke of it to Finola or Sister, he received nothing more than a look that said of course he did not understand—how could he?

The
Seanchai
did not understand, Annie knew. He cared about her feelings, of course. But he did not understand.

How could he, being a man?

Upstairs in her bedroom she stood peering out the window, watching the two boys hoist yet more boxes into the back of the wagon. Under her breath, she repeated the same statement she had made to the
Seanchai
only moments before. At times she
did
wish she had been born a boy!

Only boys, it seemed, could have
true adventures
, while girls, on the other hand, were left to keep the fire and tend to the babes. Boys could simply go off on a trek across the entire countryside, had they a mind to do so, but girls must dress like uncomfortable ninnies and sit at home, pricking their fingers with the endless darning or boring themselves witless as they learned to
manage the home.

It wasn't a bit fair. Tomorrow Tierney Burke and Jan Martova would rise before dawn, turn their selfish backs on Nelson Hall, and depart upon their journey.

They might have waited until the
Seanchai
and the other family members could be included in their expedition. But no. They would go
now
, or be bound.

And didn't they presume to justify their behavior with pointless statements such as, “We must set out before the weather turns,” or, “We shall
all
go later, of course, when the
Seanchai
can get away. This is just a short jaunt to have a look at the island.”

Annie was quite sure neither cared a stitch about whether the
Seanchai
and the rest of them ever managed such a journey. They were selfish boys entirely, taking on airs, pretending to be worldly men of consequence.

She would ignore them from now on.

Perhaps she wouldn't even say goodbye when they departed in the morning. Certainly she would not stoop to tagging along this evening, although they had invited her. They would be taking the
Seanchai
and Sandemon for a brief turn in the wagon before dinner—“to give it a try before setting out in the morning.”

Well, she guessed she had made it clear enough that she wasn't at all interested in having a ride in their bumpy old wagon. Besides, Tierney Burke had spoiled the gesture by making it clear that it had been Jan Martova's idea, not his, for her to come along.

Jan was nice enough, Annie had to admit, and she would miss him. For a Gypsy, he was extraordinarily well-mannered: quiet-spoken, always polite and sensitive to others. He treated her with the utmost respect—not as if she were a mindless child. His dark eyes held nothing but kindness and a sort of awkward uncertainty she found rather sweet, though why he should feel awkward she could not fathom.

Tierney Burke, on the other hand, when he condescended to pay her any attention at all, either teased her unmercifully or else relegated her to the role of a bothersome child. It seemed to Annie that
he
was the childish one, with his boorish teasing and thoughtless remarks.

Annie sighed, aware that she was feeling unduly irritable. The truth was that she would miss
both
of them, annoying as they often were. Things would not be the same without them. Although to some extent they kept themselves removed from the rest of the household, the days would not seem complete when they were gone.

She carefully kept such feelings to herself, as well as the notion that of the two, she would miss Tierney Burke most. Why that should be, she could not say. She only knew that she would prefer his exasperating joke-playing and taunts to his absence, and she found the knowledge unsettling.

She turned away from the window, unwilling to watch them any longer. More restless now than ever, she considered going in search of company, then remembered there was no one to seek out.

Gabriel and Finola were napping. She thought of Sister Louisa, but the nun and Lucy Hoy had set out for the city earlier in the afternoon, intending to visit the homeless on the docks. More than likely they wouldn't be back much before dusk, since they'd insisted on walking.

Sister seemed to have some sort of fixation about matters such as walking and eating healthy food:
keeping fit
, she called it. It was Annie's observation that nuns tended to be somewhat obsessed about matters such as healthiness and holiness.

Even Fergus the wolfhound was unavailable. He had whined like a pup to accompany Sister and Lucy, and they had given in and allowed him to go along.

There was Small One, but Finola's cat wasn't at all friendly. She was a lazy creature, wanting to do nothing more taxing than sleep in the sun or groom her coat with halfhearted licks.

With a long sigh, Annie plopped down in the middle of the bed. She might just as well have a rest. Perhaps later she would go and visit the stables.

At least the horses seemed to enjoy her company.

Not long after Annie went into the house, Morgan followed. He could do with something to eat. Tea had been early, and now he regretted it. They would not dine until later tonight, after the wagon ride with the lads.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Ryan, busy with the preliminaries for the evening meal, made it clear that his foraging expedition was unwelcome. Morgan ignored her glare just long enough to spoon a ladle of savory broth over a wedge of bread, immediately wheeling himself into the pantry to enjoy it in private.

A few minutes later he left for the library, where he sat at his desk for a long time, considering the two letters that lay open in front of him.

James Dunne had persisted in making inquiries of American surgeons. His queries had resulted in correspondence from two physicians, one in Philadelphia, the other in New York.

Morgan had read both letters numerous times before the trip to Glendalough, but it was the response from the New York surgeon, Jakob Gunther, that interested him most—though it was anything but encouraging. According to James Dunne, this Dr. Gunther had trained under some of the finest physicians in Vienna before emigrating to the United States. Apparently he was doing a great deal of “experimental” surgery with some success.

It was the
experimental
aspects of the man's work that concerned Morgan. He was not inclined to present himself as a laboratory rat for some eccentric surgeon's experiments. And Gunther sounded more than a little eccentric, not to mention insufferably arrogant.

Yet there was something in the barely legible scrawl—a kind of confidence that seemed to burn from the words themselves—that drew him in spite of his reservations.

With a long breath, he put on his eyeglasses and began to read the last part of the letter again…

…As I wrote to your Dr. Dunne, I could not speculate on the possibilities of a surgical procedure for you without a thorough examination. Even then, should I be willing to discuss surgery, you must understand that my methods are quite new, considered highly experimental, and not without significant risk. While I am admittedly a surgeon
non pareil,
I can make you no guarantees, no promises.

Morgan smiled grimly. With such persuasion, he scarcely could restrain his eagerness to proceed.

Gunther
did
condescend to grant him an examination, after which he would render a decision about the advisability of surgery.

…I must tell you that, based on Dr. Dunne's information, I believe time to be your enemy. There may already be extensive nerve damage, and if the bullet should reposition itself, paralysis might also extend to your upper extremities. That you submit to an evaluation as soon as possible is imperative, but you should hold no unrealistic expectations.