Dawn of the Golden Promise (5 page)

2

I see in a vision the shadowy portal…

LADY WILDE (1824–1896)

“S
PERANZA
”—F
ROM
T
HE
N
ATION
, 1849

A
nnie Fitzgerald had held her tongue an excessively long time—certainly longer than was her custom—but on Saturday she decided that she had had enough.

Tierney Burke and the Gypsy seemed intent on ignoring her, but she would show them she could not be ignored. Not this morning.

She had learned from experience that the best way to get Tierney Burke's attention was to annoy him. To do that, all she needed to do was behave like the troublesome child he frequently accused her of being.

For close on half an hour now, while Jan Martova looked on, Annie had been watching Tierney shuffle an assortment of tools, all the while frowning and pretending to know exactly what he was doing—which, Annie suspected, was not the case at all. To her inquiries about the nature of his activities, she received only a muttered response to the effect that “as anyone should be able to tell,” he was building a wagon.

“But
you
already have a wagon,” she pointed out to the Gypsy.

Admittedly, Jan Martova was far more polite than his surly cohort. He at least acknowledged her presence with a smile before he replied. “We are building the wagon for Tierney, not for me.”

Annie looked at him, then turned to Tierney. He had opened the storage chest at the back of the wagon and was rummaging through it. Fergus, the wolfhound, stood nearby, sniffing the chest's contents.

“And why would you be building a wagon for yourself?” Annie asked, directing her question to Tierney. “You're not a Romany.”

Tierney Burke eyed the wolfhound at his side, then raised his head. Annie received a certain puckish pleasure from the impatient glare he turned on her.

“You and your hound are getting on my nerves. Don't you have chores to do inside the house?”

“I've already finished my chores, as it happens.”

“Then why don't you run along and practice your sewing?”

He was deliberately goading her, of course; he delighted in it. He would provoke her until she either lost her temper and stamped off or else turned on him with a blistering tirade. Either way, he would pretend to find her amusing.

But not this time. The matter of a wagon for Tierney was peculiar enough that Annie's pride took second place to her curiosity. Although she called the wolfhound away from the wagon, she made no move to return to the house.

“Why would you be wanting a wagon?” she pressed, watching Tierney Burke put a drawknife to a piece of ash wood. “It isn't as if you need a wagon, after all. You're not a traveling person. And you already have two homes—one here at Nelson Hall and one in America.”

He went on to split the wood, then reached for another. “You're making a nuisance of yourself, squirt,” he said without looking at her.

Annie glared at him. It rankled her in the worst way when he called her
squirt
, and he knew it.

Because she could not voice the question at the back of her mind without being obvious, she merely continued to harangue him. “Planning a trip, are we?”

He shrugged. “I'm not planning anything as yet. I just want a wagon of my own.” He glanced up. “Perhaps for a measure of privacy.”

“But you
might
be planning a trip?”

“Did I say that, squirt?”

Annie studied him, looking intently at the handsome face, the rakish scar that made him look slightly dangerous. She felt an unexpected tightening in her throat.
Why else would he want a wagon for himself unless he was thinking of leaving Nelson Hall?

Abruptly, before he could see her agitation, she turned away and started for the footbridge. Despite his incessant needling, Annie could not imagine Nelson Hall without Tierney Burke. She knew that at his advanced age of eighteen, he looked upon her as nothing more than an exasperating child. But without examining her feelings too closely, she also understood that she would rather suffer the worst of Tierney's condescension than be denied his presence altogether.

After all, at close on thirteen years, she was
not
the child he seemed to think her. He would have to notice that fact sooner or later, wouldn't he? Until then, she had resolved simply to ignore his constant teasing and his occasional impatience with her.

As they stepped off the footbridge, Fergus bounded toward the house. Annie made no attempt to call him back, but walked slowly, thinking.

Perhaps she should apply herself to behaving in a more mature manner. And to
looking
more grown-up, as well.

Although the idea didn't altogether appeal to her, it might have some merit. To begin with, she could ask Finola's help in dressing her hair more stylishly. But it was so infernally stubborn! Like a horse's tail, it was!

She frowned. Although she didn't much like getting all decked out in ribbons and laces, she supposed she could speak to the
Seanchai
about having new dresses made. Perhaps one of the more sophisticated French styles, something that would make her appear to have a bosom.

If only she were less of a stick! She had no curves as yet, none at all. And sometimes she despaired of ever growing taller. She still scarcely reached Finola's shoulder.

Finola insisted that Annie was going to be a “glory of a girl” someday. But Finola often said such things—almost certainly, Annie suspected, to make her feel better about herself.

What if she stayed just as she was now…forever? What if, ten years hence, she still looked like a chicken-breasted twelve-year-old, with the same awful horsetail braids and the despised gap between her front teeth? Not to mention the same ungainly legs as a new foal.

After a moment, she gave an enormous sigh and stopped to watch Fergus dash across the field in pursuit of a hare. The small creature escaped into a stand of young oak trees, and the wolfhound, as if he hadn't been serious about the chase from the start, reversed his direction and trotted back toward Annie.

Again she sighed. Even the lumbering wolfhound, great lanky beast that he was, appeared more graceful than she.

Louisa stood at her bedroom window, watching young Annie and the faithful wolfhound as they sauntered toward the house. As always, the dog appeared extraordinarily pleased with himself. Perhaps the great beast was as simpleminded as she frequently accused him of being, for he did seem to wear a continual smile.

As for the girl, as always the braids were shaggy and askew, the hemline uneven, the gait that of a spindly legged colt. Louisa shook her head and smiled. She knew that it would not be long before a miracle of transformation would occur. The awkward foal would disappear, and the spirited thoroughbred would emerge. She had seen it time and time again, in countless classrooms over the years. Leggy girls with knobby elbows and too many teeth, girls who could not manage to enter a room without stumbling, would suddenly take on an unaccustomed grace, a new aura of loveliness. Freckles faded, hair tamed, angles became curves, and giggles turned into sighs.

From girl to woman: an amazing and wondrous thing entirely, yet as painful and frightening a process as it was splendid.

Already the first signs were apparent in the
Seanchai
's precocious daughter. Studying looks in the mirror, impatient frowns with her appearance, experimental posturing. Covert glances across the table at the handsome—but surely treacherous—American boy. Temper tantrums and daydreaming. And, most telling of all, unaccountable spasms of weeping.

In young Annie's case, Louisa knew, the weeping went on behind closed doors, where she thought no one could hear. This one would not be caught unawares in a moment of weakness. Aine Fitzgerald would allow no one, except possibly Finola, a glimpse of her secret fears, her silent longings, her heart's whispered dreams.

Louisa expelled a long breath. Soon their girl would change, that much was certain. And if she were not sorely mistaken, the change would be momentous. More than once she had discussed with Finola their Aine's potential, and both agreed that she would one day be a beauty.

Blessedly, Annie seemed as yet to have no indication of the grand metamorphosis awaiting her. Indeed, the girl's conversation often contained veiled hints to the effect that she was certain she would never be anything other than the gangly yearling she was today.

Louisa smiled a little to herself. It was just as well that their Maker chose to keep such things well-hidden. The girl was difficult enough. Who could say what mischief she might wreak were she allowed a hint of what was ahead for her.

She lingered at the window for another moment, contemplating the Almighty's wisdom in concealing future events. She knew people who seemed eager to divine the days, as if knowing what lay ahead would give them some sort of power over it. For her part, she believed that wishing for the knowledge of one's fate was nothing less than madness itself.

Indeed, for many, she thought with a shudder, madness might well be the inevitable consequence of such knowledge.

In his bedchamber, Morgan Fitzgerald buttoned his shirt, then propped himself up in bed.

“You are displeased with the examination?” he said, watching the physician at the foot of the bed. The young doctor's chin was a fair barometer of his disposition on any given day. The lower the chin, the blacker the surgeon's mood. At the moment the chin sagged like the wattle of an aging turkey. Not a good sign.

The surgeon glanced up from closing his medical case. “Displeased? Oh—no, nothing of the sort. To the contrary, you seem remarkably fit. Your man Sandemon's regime has accomplished wonders.”

“But?”
Morgan pressed.

The doctor looked at him, delaying his answer. “I'm concerned,” he finally said.

“About the shaking,” Morgan said, knowing the answer.

Dr. Dunne came around the side of the bed to stand beside him. “There's that. But even without the tremors, I would urge you once again to seek the opinion of a specialist. I simply am not qualified in this area.”

“Tell me what you think,” Morgan said, as if he had not heard the surgeon's opinion before.

“And haven't I already done so?” The doctor sighed. “I wish I had more expertise. I can only repeat my concern that the paralysis could eventually expand—move upward.”

Morgan cringed inwardly, trying to ignore the familiar swell of panic that rose in his throat at the physician's words.

“It would be to your benefit to seek the counsel of one far more qualified in this field than I. There is so much unknown in cases like yours.”

In spite of the warmth of the room, Morgan shivered. “And what, exactly, do you think a specialist might do for me that you cannot?”

The physician met his eyes. Morgan did not miss the fleeting glint of sympathy in his gaze.

When Dunne replied, he was once more the consummate professional. “For one thing, he could give you a precise accounting of your condition and your options.”

Morgan attempted a laugh. “I expect I can make that assessment on my own without benefit of a specialist.”