Heart of the Lonely Exile (13 page)

Kerry laughed softly in the darkness and buried her face against his neck. Then, abruptly, she pushed herself up on one arm to look at him. “I almost
forgot!
Tell me about your talk with Arthur! What did you find out about the boy?”

Flinging one forearm up over his head, Jess groaned. “Oh no! Not now!”

“Yes, now! I want to know everything!”

He laughed at her. Plumping two pillows against the head of the bed, he propped himself up, then pulled her back into his arms. “Stay close, and I'll tell you.”

“Everything,” she reminded him, settling back into the warmth of his embrace.

“There's not that much to tell, actually.” He kept his voice low as he talked. “The boy's a runaway, just as we figured. But a runaway with his father's blessing.”

“What do you mean?”

As Jess explained, he stroked her hair with gentle fingers. “He said his daddy and an uncle made a few dollars for themselves by hiring on at a nearby plantation for night work. About two months ago they gave Arthur the money and told him to make his way north. He didn't want to leave—he was afraid to come alone. But his father is lame, and the uncle wouldn't leave. Anyway,” he went on, “he had quite a time of it, getting here.”

“A bad time, d'you mean, Jess? What happened?” Kerry shifted in his arms so that she could look at him. His bearded face was haloed in the faint wash of moonlight filtering through the drapes, and she smiled a little as she looked at him.

“Well, he almost got caught first thing, before he ever got out of Mississippi. A neighbor's overseer spotted him and set the dogs on him. He spent one entire night bobbing in and out of logs in a mill pond to keep from being caught.” Tracing the line of her cheek, then her chin with one finger, he went on. “He said he came close to getting shot more than once before he reached Ohio. Some people in Cincinnati gave him food and helped him across the river.”

“To think of going through such a thing alone—and he's so young! Why, he's only a child, Jess!”

“Black children grow up fast in the South, Kerry.” Jess's voice was grim as he tightened his embrace. “They don't really have a choice.”

Kerry understood the truth in his words. She had read a number of Jess's own writings, as well as the works of others, about the plight of black slaves in the South. The horror-filled stories, especially of the women and children, broke her heart every time she thought of them.

“What about his mother?” she asked quietly. “He had to leave his mother, too?”

“She's dead. The boy doesn't remember her at all.”

“No wonder the poor child seems so lost and alone! And to be injured and laid up as well.”

Jess's voice in the darkness was strained and quiet. “One thing he said to me, I can't forget.”

“What, Jess?”

“When I was explaining to him that he could stay here for as long as he needed to, he asked me right out why we were doing all this for him. I told him we tried to do the things we thought Jesus would do.”

He stopped, saying nothing for a moment.

“And?” Kerry prompted. “What did he say to that?”

“He asked me,” Jess said, drawing a long breath, “if I really believed Jesus would do such things for a
black boy.”

Kerry swallowed against the knot in her throat, then lay thinking in silence for a long time. When she spoke again, it was a near-whisper. “You know, I can remember, back in Ireland, thinking nobody had ever suffered as much as the Irish. But I know better now. Sometimes it did seem that we were slaves of the English, but in truth we were only slaves of their political system. But the black folk—why, they're bought and sold as if they were no more than
animals!
”

“It won't always be that way, love,” Jess said quietly, his voice growing thick with sleep. “The day will come when they will break their chains. God never intended any man to live enslaved.”

“And men like you will help them break those chains,” Kerry whispered, mostly to herself. “Then frightened young boys like Arthur Jackson won't have to run away any longer to find their freedom.”

His breathing had grown even and shallow. He was asleep. Kerry kissed his cheek ever so gently, then nestled more snugly into the safe, warm haven of his arms.

In the quiet peace of the bedroom, she breathed her last prayer of the day for this big, godly man who, when she was still little more than a child herself, had taken her in, given her a home, and made her his legal ward.

Eventually, thanks be to God, he had also made her his wife.

13

Love tender, true I gave to you,
And secret sighs….

F
ROM
WALSH'S
I
RISH
P
OPULAR
S
ONGS
(1847)

I
t took Evan three days to muster the nerve to speak with Nora about the opera—three days of talking himself into the idea, then out of it; three days of convincing himself she would enjoy the evening, then agonizing with himself that she would rather stay home alone than spend it with
him.

One evening, before going to his cottage, he stopped in the library on the first floor. He was leaving the room when Nora appeared in the doorway. “Evan? You're home early today. There's nothing wrong?”

Evan shook his head. “Mr. Farmington had a b-board meeting in Manhattan and insisted on d-dropping me off early b-before he went. I was just p-putting some designs on his d-desk that he wants to review later this evening.”

He smiled at her. No doubt she was wholly unaware of how lovely she looked. She was wearing his favorite dress, a soft blue wool that deepened the gray of her eyes to dark smoke and heightened the faint blush of her fair skin. It pleased him to see how healthy she looked! Despite her slenderness and the air of fragility that seemed to continually hover about her, she appeared entirely recovered from the worst ravages of the famine.

Evan knew he should take this opportunity to ask Nora about the opera. He was keenly aware of the tickets in his suit pocket; he had carried them next to his heart since Monday. Yet he couldn't quite bring himself
to approach the subject. In an effort to ignore the tickets, he groped for a less threatening topic of conversation. “The house s-seems awfully quiet. Where is everyone?”

“Sara went off to the church building to help set up a mission display for the weekend. And Ginger is in the kitchen, helping Cook.”

Evan chuckled. “You mean
annoying
Cook, d-don't you?” The friction between Mrs. Buckley, the Farmingtons' cook, and Ginger, their West Indies housekeeper, was an acknowledged fact throughout the household. Theirs was an ongoing but harmless sort of rivalry; Evan suspected it had more to do with the stark contrasts in their natures than any real antagonism between the two. The mild-mannered, self-assured Ginger had a way of ignoring whatever she chose, while the hot-tempered Mrs. Buckley liked a good argument every chance she could find.

She already had it in for
him,
Evan knew. He had been relegated to her bad graces the moment his British accent first landed upon her ears. Evan believed the Irish cook's attitude reflected the enduring Anglo-Irish enmity rather than any personal hostility. In fact, he had come to find Cook's rancor a somewhat amusing challenge, and enjoyed baiting her by employing the most excessive of British mannerisms in her presence.

He suddenly realized that Nora was regarding him with a quizzical stare. “Are you quite well, Evan?”

Distracted, Evan traced his mustache with one finger. “Well? Oh—yes. Yes, of c-course.”

Should he ask her now? Was this the right time? Was there a right time? Should he ask her at all?

“Nora—”

Nora tilted her head, waiting, still peering at him with worried eyes.

“I…I was won-wondering—” Evan stopped, shrinking inwardly at the sound of his inane stammering.

“What is it, then, Evan? You
aren't
well, after all, are you now?” Nora insisted, her frown deepening as she leaned closer.

Her closeness only flustered him all the more.

“Oh, I'm f-fine—r-really!” he assured her. “It's just that…I've b-been wanting to ask you…something…” As usual, when he was under pressure, the dreaded stutter exploded full-blown. “The th-thing…is, M-Mr. Farmington was k-kind enough to offer t-tickets to the op-opera, and I…I won-wondered if p-p-p-perhaps…you would allow m-me to…escort you.”

There! It was done, and as he'd feared, she was staring at him with a look of dismay. More than likely, she was stunned by his presumption and struggling for a tactful way to refuse.

“Opera tickets? What sort of tickets would that be, Evan?”

“What sort—oh…well, the opera is
Ernani.
It's to b-be the opening p-production for the n-new Astor P-Place Opera House. In two weeks.”

“I see. And these are Mr. Farmington's tickets, you say?”

Evan nodded, not trusting his voice.

After a moment of hesitation, Nora turned her face away. “I—I don't believe I know what an
opera
is, Evan, that's the thing.”

Evan instinctively put his hand to her shoulder, appalled that he might have embarrassed her. “Why, an opera is—is n-nothing but a musical stage p-play, Nora. I think you'd enjoy it, I really do.”

Nora turned back to him. “A play, is it? A
musical
play?”

Evan nodded, reluctantly dropping his hand away from her shoulder. “That's right. The story is often a somewhat w-weak little plot about d-doomed lovers with actors and actresses who sing a great deal, but the m-music is usually quite b-beautiful.”

“Well…I do like music,” Nora said uncertainly, reaching a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair back in place.

Evan's gaze followed the movement of her hand, intrigued by its smallness. “Mr. F-Farmington even offered the k-kid gloves required for admittance,” he said, smiling.

Nora's eyes widened, and Evan chuckled, explaining about the outlandish admission requirement.

A doubtful expression crossed her features, and he quickly reassured her. “It's just p-pretentiousness on the part of the management. You mustn't m-mind that sort of foolishness, Nora.”

“But I'd have no dress fine enough, I'm sure, if it's as grand an occasion as all that.”

“N-No matter
what
you
wear, you'll b-be the loveliest woman there, I can promise you that!” Mortified by his unexpected outburst, Evan immediately turned away.

After an awkward moment of silence, during which he braced himself for Nora's refusal, he felt a light touch on his arm. “Thank you, Evan,” Nora said with quiet dignity. “It's kind of you to be asking me, and I—I would be more than happy to go to the opera with you.”

At his quick intake of breath, she hurried to add, “If Sara will help me manage a suitable gown, that is.”

Overcome, Evan fought to contain his monumental relief and delight. “Oh—I'm
sure
she will, Nora! M-Miss Sara obviously enjoys making other people happy—especially you! Indeed, I wonder if she ever thinks of herself at all.”

“Aye, and isn't that the truth,” Nora said, smiling. “But Evan,” she said, suddenly serious as she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial undertone, “about the kid gloves: does it strike you now and then that rich people have no end of cracked notions about the most unimportant things?”

As always, her ingenuousness delighted him. “Why, y-yes,” Evan agreed soberly, “it has occurred to me from t-time to time.”

In another impulsive gesture that was quite unlike him, he suddenly gave in to the desire to take Nora's hand. When she made no pull to move away, but rather stood smiling shyly at him, Evan felt as if the dawn of a high summer morning had risen in his heart. Just for a moment, he almost felt a whole man once again—indeed, he somehow felt
more
a whole man than he ever had in the past, even in the time before he had lost his arm.

It was as if Nora somehow…completed him, filled the empty spaces in his heart and made him whole. She could not replace his missing arm, of course, could not change the fact that he was maimed. But what she
did
do
,
without her ever realizing it, was to
add
something to him—something new and wonderfully fulfilling.

It was a gift only Nora could give.

In her room later that night, after most of the household had retired, Nora sat in the small rocking chair by the fire, thinking.

Inside, the house was quiet, but outside, the cold November wind whipped a fury about the mansion, whistling through the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the grounds, rattling a loose pane of glass somewhere in back.

The moan of the wind made Nora think of their final winter in Ireland—the relentless storms off the Atlantic; the cold, damp cottage; the lack of food. Shivering at the memory, she glanced about her cozy little bedroom, snug and warm with its honey-colored furniture and creamy
silk walls, the soft rose carpet and the black marble fireplace where a fire always burned.

She was struck anew with amazement at all that had happened to them in a matter of months. Even now, it took her breath to consider the things the Lord had done for them.

From the moment of their rescue from the coffin ship by the kindhearted Farmington family, her life had seemed more dream than reality. Not only had Lewis Farmington and his daughter, Sara, given her a position in service and the shelter of their luxurious home, but hadn't they offered their friendship as well?

This in itself never ceased to overwhelm Nora, that these two people, who socialized with the cream of New York, would deign to befriend a group of raggedy Irish immigrants!

And just see what they had done for the Fitzgerald children! Why, they pampered wee Tom like the pet of the family, and Sara had even hired a private tutor for the deaf Johanna.

And Evan—they had taken him to their hearts as well, seeing to it he received the very finest in medical attention, then giving him employment as Mr. Farmington's own personal assistant at the shipyards.

She smiled at the thought of Evan. Indeed, lately it seemed she could scarcely think of him
without
a smile. Nora wondered if the man had even a thought of how much she cherished his friendship, how greatly she treasured his kindness to her and the children.

Her smile softened as she recalled Evan's stumbling attempt to invite her to the opera. Here she was, an uneducated Irish woman who did not even know what an opera
was,
and he treated her as if she were royalty, as if her presence was a gift he could never deserve. Dear man! Dear, dear Evan, who offered her so much without ever being aware of it.

Guiltily, she realized that she thought of
Evan
more often these days than she did Michael. But wasn't it only natural, with both of them living in such close quarters and being employed by the same family? And they
were
friends, after all, good friends.

You're supposed to be friends with Michael, too…more than friends, if truth were told….

Nora rose from the rocking chair with a jerk, uncomfortable with the direction her thoughts were taking. Sure, and no decent woman—especially a widow-woman with a son almost grown—should be entertaining
thoughts of more than one man; yet of late it seemed that hers insisted on roaming among
three.

Evan had come to mean more to her than she would have ever believed possible. Michael, of course, continued to offer
his
friendship—and his name, should she agree to marry him.

And, always, like an undercurrent beneath a deceptively calm lake, ran the memory of Morgan Fitzgerald—a memory that, to Nora's great surprise, seemed to be ebbing and drifting further away with time.

He had not hanged after all, thanks be to God. Indeed, he was out of gaol and had astounded them by discovering an English grandfather with whom he was living in Dublin—a grandfather who had immediately set about making Morgan his sole heir!

She was relieved that Morgan was safe, thankful that his neck had been spared—but in some inexplicable fashion, the very fact that he was now out of harm's way had served to push him to the back of her memories. Perhaps because she no longer spent so much effort fearing for his life, so much energy in prayer that God would spare him—perhaps that was why she had finally been released from her obsession for the man.

When the letter had come telling them of his pardon, her first foolish thought had been that now…perhaps now, he would come to her. Just as quickly, she had dismissed the wild notion. Nothing had changed with Morgan, except that he was in a better position than ever to spend his life and his passion for Ireland. He had made his choice long ago, had wed an island rather than a woman, and there would be no separating them—now, or in the future. Morgan belonged to Ireland. He always had. He always would.