Dawn of the Golden Promise (33 page)

But she was a faithful soul, an excellent nurse for their Gabriel, and the sort who did not grumble about tasks that others might find demeaning. She had accompanied Louisa today simply because she worried over “Sister being on the road alone,” and Louisa was glad of her concern.

Reflecting on her companion's good heart, Louisa now softened and let down her own defenses. Slowing her stride, she said, “In truth, Lucy,
my
feet are hurting, too, as is my back. I'd rather not stop, though, or everyone will be fretting about us.”

With a sigh of relief, Lucy slowed her steps to match Louisa's, and for a time they walked along in comfortable silence. After a few moments, Louisa offered a rare glimpse into her private thoughts. “You know, Lucy, I am beginning to feel my age, and I must confess that I don't like the idea all that much.”

“Oh, Sister, you're not a bit old!” Lucy protested. “Not you! Why, you could outrun the wolfhound, if you'd a mind to, I'll warrant.”

“Humph! You have obviously not seen him go flying after the poor hares in the meadow. He fancies himself still a pup, that one.”

The great shaggy beast trotted on, a spirited wave of the tail the only indication that he was not deaf entirely to these personal remarks. Louisa suspected that at least in the years of a dog's life, even the wolfhound was much younger than she.

But then, these days it did seem as if everyone was.

Morgan was surprised and touched by the makeshift ramp the two lads had provided for their wheelchair-bound passenger, as well as the way they insisted on securing him to the wheelchair with a belt—“in case of sudden stops.” But he was equally impressed with the wagon's workmanship. The boys had worked hard, and their attention to detail was evident throughout.

Although Tierney had opted for slightly less garish colors than those of a typical Gypsy wagon, overall the finished product could easily have passed for a Romany
vardo.
The inside was comfort itself, with gaily printed cushions and rugs, a small table with two chairs, and new pallets with heavy ticking. An array of copper and tin utensils hung on hooks from the ceiling, giving the interior an unexpected homelike atmosphere.

Tierney gave full credit for the superior craftsmanship to Jan Martova, but Morgan knew the lad had learned a great deal from his Gypsy friend and had worked every bit as diligently. The American scamp might have his faults, but indolence was not one of them.

It was a little after eight when they started back to Nelson Hall. Jan Martova and Sandemon shared the driving, leaving Morgan and Tierney to ride together inside the wagon. Morgan had welcomed the arrangement, wanting to talk with the boy alone about the prospects of a crossing to America.

He was surprised and a bit disappointed to learn that the lad had no intention of accompanying the family to the States. Tierney insisted that his troubles with the New York crime lord, Patrick Walsh, made his return well nigh impossible.

As he talked, the lad absently fingered the scar that ran from his left eye down the side of his cheek—a visible reminder of Walsh's intentions to silence him. No doubt Patrick Walsh and his henchmen were a threat to the boy, Morgan conceded. But he thought he detected something else in the lad's excuses, some underlying indifference that was as surprising as it was puzzling.

“But surely you miss your family,” he said, not yet willing to drop the subject.

With his eyes averted, the boy merely shrugged. “There's only Da.”

“And his wife—Sara,” Morgan pointed out. “You said she was good to you. And our lad, Daniel John.”

Still not looking at Morgan, Tierney nodded. “Sara's a good enough sort, I suppose. But I'd not pretend to be fond of her. I scarcely know her. As for Daniel, he's hardly ever about. He stays busy working for the doctor.”

“Your father would be expecting you to accompany us, don't you think? It's more than a year now since you left home. Once he knows we're coming, his hopes will be set on seeing you.”

Finally the boy turned his gaze to Morgan. “It's as I told you. I can't go back. Not now. I'm eager for this trip with Jan. But even if I were willing to give it up, I couldn't go back to the States. Walsh would have his hatchet men on me in a shake. I'd be a goner before I ever stepped off the docks.”

“You don't think there's a possibility all that has been settled by now?”

Tierney shook his head. “Da would have written. He'll get the word to me as soon as it's safe to go back.”

Morgan had to agree. He was sure Michael would waste no time letting his son know that he could come home.

He studied the boy for a moment. “Do you ever miss the States at all?”

Tierney glanced out the window, delaying his answer. “I miss home sometimes, sure. Da, my friends. But I don't miss the crowds and the noise and the stink, I can tell you. Not a bit.”

He turned to look at Morgan. “I'm living my dream, don't you see? How many people can say as much? This is what I've wanted ever since I was just a tyke. To come here, to Ireland. Even if I could go back,” he added, “I wouldn't just now. Not yet.”

Morgan made no reply, but merely nodded. The truth was, he did understand. He understood all too well.

Ireland was not the boy's dream. It was his obsession, and had been for years, doubtless. Tierney's imagination had made the island his mistress, if a remote one. And now that he was here at last, he was determined to claim her as his own, to fuse his soul with hers.

From bitter experience Morgan knew the fascination, the passion, the terrible yearnings that in time could lead a man to madness, even ruin, with such a mistress as Eire. He knew what it was to love this small, suffering island to the very brink of despair, even to the point of his own destruction.

And he knew…ah, how well he knew…that there was nothing he or anyone else could say or do to change the boy's mind, to break the spell. Tierney would follow his own road, just as Morgan himself had. And those who cared about him would be able to do nothing—nothing but pray that somewhere along that road he would find salvation instead of destruction.

They were quiet for a long time, Morgan so caught up in his own thoughts that the boy's next words were almost jarring.

“Morgan—sir—”

Morgan blinked, looking at him, half expecting a request for additional funds for the coming journey. The lad had asked for nothing other than his stable wages since his arrival at Nelson Hall. As matters would have it, Morgan had already planned to make a contribution to the venture, even if no request was forthcoming.

“Since we'll be leaving first thing in the morning,” Tierney said, “and with you now considering a journey of your own, there's something I'd like you to know. I just want to say…”

He hesitated, and Morgan gave an encouraging nod, now even more curious as to the boy's intention.

“I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you've done for me.”

The unexpected words spilled out all in a rush. Morgan could sense the lad's awkwardness as he went on. “You've been swell to me, right from the beginning, even though I haven't always deserved it. I just wanted you to know…I am grateful.”

His voice fell away at the end, and he seemed to be looking everywhere but at Morgan.

“You are more than welcome, I'm sure,” Morgan replied, suppressing a smile. The boy was entirely right. He had
not
always deserved fair treatment, the young rogue.

“I wish you well, lad,” he told him, meaning it. “I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for.”

Tierney met his eyes. “I'm not at all sure I
know
what I'm looking for,” he said frankly. “But I think I'll recognize it when I find it.”

“Let us hope so,” Morgan said, his voice low. He felt strangely unsettled by how much the haunted look in the boy's eyes reminded him of his own yearning soul in times past.

“Do you know what I wish for you, lad?” he asked, surprised by his own question, yet thoroughly convicted by the emotion that prompted it.

Tierney looked at him.

“More than everything, Tierney, son of Michael, I wish you the grace to live at peace with God…and with yourself. That will be my constant prayer for you throughout your journey.”

After an awkward silence between them, Morgan turned to his own thoughts. He felt unaccountably anxious to get back to the house, to Finola and the children. Ever since the American journey had become a real possibility, he had found himself even more intent than usual on spending every possible moment with his family, often growing impatient with those distractions that would take him away from them. He seemed to covet each precious hour that might be spent together.

Perhaps, he admitted somewhat grimly, because he knew those hours might soon be all too few.

Sandemon stared out into the gathering darkness, unsettled by a feeling too vague to identify. For several moments now it had come and gone, a distant tide drifting in and out upon the shore of his emotions.

Twice he had almost taken hold of Jan Martova's arm and urged him to increase the pace of the black mare pulling the wagon. Both times he had checked himself from doing so. The elusive darkness rose and fell within him; perhaps he was simply reacting to the twilight shadows closing in on them.

They were driving through a particularly remote area leading off from the city, a lonely road over which few coaches traveled these days. The only sounds were the sawing of crickets and the click and scrape of the wagon wheels over the rugged road.

He was so caught up in his attempt to distinguish his feelings that the comment from the Gypsy boy at his side almost startled him.

It took him a moment to focus. “Forgive me,” he said. “I must have been wool gathering.”

“I said I am going to miss you. I will miss our talks and your good teaching.”

Sandemon smiled a little. “And I will miss the companionship. But I think this is a good thing you are doing. An adventure such as this can be a learning experience like no other. Still, you will both be missed, you can be sure.”

Jan Martova looked straight ahead. “Much will have changed by the time we return, I expect.”

Sandemon nodded, still smiling. “I shall be older, for one thing.”

The Gypsy looked at him. “Impossible. I think the mighty Sandemon will never age. But others will. The
Seanchai
's little Golden Boy, for one. Just think what a difference even a few months will make in that one.”

“Indeed.” Sandemon studied him. “And in the
Seanchai
's daughter as well, eh?”

The youth blinked but kept his gaze fixed on the road.

“Today she stands upon the bridge between childhood and womanhood,” Sandemon went on. “By the time you return, no doubt she will have crossed over.”

Jan Martova turned his head only slightly, enough to meet Sandemon's eyes. “Is there no hiding anything from you?”

It occurred to Sandemon that only a blind man would have failed to see the youth's infatuation, but he said nothing.

The Gypsy youth, however, seemed to want to pursue the subject further. “So, then…you know I have feelings for the
Seanchai
's daughter?”