Heart of the Lonely Exile (31 page)

With Smith O'Brien's help, Morgan had employed the footman a week after his grandfather's death. The man's previous service included two MPs and a lawyer. He spoke of the lawyer only when questioned, and then with thinly veiled contempt. A man of indeterminate age, Artegal claimed both English and Irish blood—admitting the Irish strain only when pressed. Apparently Smith O'Brien had thought the footman's Irish blood would give him and Morgan immediate rapport—a grave error in judgment on his part.

While willing to concede his new employee's good points—the footman was indeed efficient, quiet, and conscientious—Morgan was keenly aware of the man's less endearing qualities.

Artegal was, in Morgan's estimation, a somewhat anemic rope of a man who had never discovered that it was perfectly acceptable behavior to change the inflection of his voice now and then or even, heaven forbid, offer a civil smile.

A white specter was Artegal, with straight white hair, startling white linen, ashen skin, and pale, rather delicate hands. A ghost, though admittedly an efficient one.

The man irritated Morgan. But, then, what did
not
irritate him these days? It seemed the smallest thing could set him off. Morgan had wits enough to know his constant annoyance was merely the symptom of something else, something that burned just beneath the surface of his perilous self-control.

It was a bitter thing, admitting his own helplessness. Yet admit it he must. Even the most basic physical needs were now either difficult or impossible for him without assistance. Bathing, getting dressed, going in and out of the house—he could as yet accomplish none of these alone.

Certainly, the slender, fine-boned Artegal was no help at all in moving Morgan's bulk about. Smith O'Brien offered his services each time he called, but in spite of their friendship, Morgan could not bring himself to accept.

Fortunately, his grandfather, because of his own encroaching weakness and fear of falling, had ordered a lift installed on both stairways several weeks before his death. At least Morgan could make his way to the bedroom unassisted.

The thought of his dependency made his frown deepen. What had happened, he wondered, to the man Joseph Mahon had supposedly employed for him from Castlebar—
Sandemon?

Just yesterday he had scrawled an impatient note to Joseph, inquiring as to this Sandemon's whereabouts. Faith, the man should have been here by now, even if he had come by way of Rome!

Artegal stole out of the dining room. Sighing, Morgan pushed away from the table and wheeled himself over to the window. In the early morning mist, the view outside was as bleak as his spirits. As far as he could see, the grounds were barren and stark, the trees stripped of all color and foliage. From this side of the house, there was nothing remotely of interest to be seen. Only winter, which showed no sign of coming to an end.

A sad smile touched his lips as he thought of the Young Irelanders
recently brought down for their thievery. He missed the lads, missed the camaraderie, the laughter, the bond of purpose that joined them—and, yes, even the sense of danger and adventure.

He still had a few friends, of course. Smith O'Brien and some of the others came regularly to make sure he wasn't turning into a mad recluse. But a number of the more militant lads had disavowed him even before the shooting, put off by his increasing protests against their talk of a rebellion and his call for common sense.

He did not blame them. Perhaps the answer
was
for the people to rise—if they could muster the strength, starving as they were. Could dying in defeat be any worse than living in despair? Perhaps all that mattered was to do
something
—anything—rather than simply give up and do nothing. As he had.

Uselessness—that was the real killer of a man, Morgan thought. That and loneliness. Odd, how he had never thought of being lonely before the shooting. He had always valued his solitude, never cared much for crowds or noise, liked to go his own way as he chose. Yet now—now there were times when he felt he would surely die from the pain of his unwelcome isolation.

He sighed and stretched his arms above his head. Joseph Mahon the priest would more than likely accuse him of self-pity.

But then Joseph Mahon the priest did not have to face his future in a wheelchair.

At Artegal's discreet throat-clearing, Morgan turned. The footman stood just inside the doorway, his pallid face set in its customary unreadable mask.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you
did
say we should be expecting a… ah…a person of
color
?”
The man's thin nostrils flared slightly as if offended by an unpleasant odor.

Morgan glared at him, then gave an impatient nod, waiting.

“Yes. Well…ah…it would seem that he has arrived.” Artegal made this announcement with an ominous frown—the first change of expression Morgan had detected in the man since hiring him.

“So—and about time! Well, send him in!”

The footman turned to go, but at the same time a large, dark figure stepped into view, blocking the doorway. Glancing uncertainly back at Morgan, Artegal sniffed, lifted his chin, and carefully slipped sideways past the black man.

Wheeling the chair the rest of the way around, Morgan's eyes widened at the sight in the doorway. The man was big, as Joseph had claimed—tall, with shoulders that very nearly brushed both sides of the door frame. His face, long and broad, seemed carefully molded: high cheekbones firmly sculpted, broad nose, and a generous mouth. His mustache and beard were closely trimmed and streaked with gray. Draping his shoulders was a gray frieze cape, revealing a vivid purple shirt with flowing sleeves. As he stepped the rest of the way into the room, he removed a black felt cap with a visor.

Morgan stared. It would seem that Joseph Mahon the priest had hired a tribal chieftain as his new companion!

“I am Sandemon, sir.” The final syllable came dancing off his lips. “Sanda-
mohn,”
he pronounced it. The black man had a big, rich voice threaded with a subtle hint of refinement—a mixture of British preciseness and West Indies lilt.

The deep brown eyes were pools of calm as they met Morgan's gaze. Then, abruptly, Sandemon smiled. A brilliant white crescent, a flash of gold, against the dark satin sheen of his skin.

“It is a pleasure to meet Ireland's greatest poet.”

Morgan did not return the smile or acknowledge the compliment. “What, exactly, was your hurry getting here…
Sandemon
?”
he snapped, scowling. “Or did Joseph Mahon not make you aware of the fact that you were needed right away?”

The black man's gaze remained steady as his expression sobered. “He did that, sir. But there was an unavoidable delay.”

“Indeed?”

Sandemon inclined his head, holding his cap against his broad chest. “Yes, sir. Unfortunately, I was needed in Castlebar for longer than I had thought.”

“Doing
what
?
I've been expecting you for more than three weeks!”

The black man lifted one well-shaped brow as if to question Morgan's rudeness. “And for that I am truly sorry, sir. But I did come just as quickly as I could.”

“What was so urgent that you couldn't keep your commitment to me?” Morgan pressed.

“I was needed to help tend the sick and bury the dead. Your friend, Father Joseph, said you would understand.”

Morgan uttered a grunt of disgust, which Sandemon appeared to ignore. “Have Artegal show you your room and get settled in. I'll be needing you soon.”

“Of course, sir. But first, I'm afraid there is a matter requiring your attention.”

Morgan glared at him. “I thought Joseph explained the salary arrangements. You'll be generously paid, you needn't fret—”

“No, sir,” Sandemon said, lifting a large, long-fingered hand to interrupt. “It has nothing to do with my pay.”

“What,
then?” snapped Morgan. He had been awake since long before dawn, his head pounding with a vengeance. The dread weakness was on him already, and it was not even midmorning.

“There is a…woman outside, sir,” said Sandemon. “She has with her a girl-child whom the woman claims to have found near the cathedral of St. Patrick late last night.” Sandemon paused. “It seems the child insists on speaking with you.”

As Morgan stared, the black man added, “The child said I should tell you that Annie Delaney is here. Annie Delaney from Belfast.”

31

I wish you friends whose wisdom makes them kind,
Well-leisured friends to share your evening's peace,
Friends who can season knowledge with a laugh…
Children, no matter whose, to watch for you
With flower faces at your garden gate,
And one to watch the clock with eager eyes,
Saying: “He's late—he's late.”

WINIFRED M. LETTS (c. 1882)

M
organ did not wait for Annie Delaney to be ushered in. Waving off Sandemon's attempt to help, he wheeled himself out of the dining room and took off in a fury down the marble entryway.

Artegal was standing guard at the front door, open to reveal the wan, bedraggled form of Annie Delaney. The girl was filthy: muddy shoes, limp socks, grimy coat, and smudged face. Her hair, beneath the boy's cap, resembled a destroyed bird's nest.

Morgan managed to stop the chair just short of the door. When Annie Delaney saw him, her black-marble eyes brightened with a mixture of eagerness and apprehension.

Speechless, Morgan sat staring at the girl, who now lifted a begrimed hand and wiped it across her even dirtier face with a jerky motion, as if to tidy herself.

She was the picture of the scrubby orphan girl, soiled and tattered and disheveled. Yet when she lifted her chin and addressed him, an odd touch of dignity redeemed her appearance.

“Good mornin', Your Honor,” she said with only the slightest hesitancy. “I'm sorry to be bursting in on you so suddenlike.”

Gaping at her, Morgan was only dimly aware of Artegal's disapproving frown and Sandemon's curious smile. The disreputable child might have crawled right out of a chimney, so foul was her appearance, yet she took on the airs of a duchess!

“I hope you're feelin' some better, sir, now that you're at home,” she said. Her wide-eyed, artless expression didn't fool Morgan, not for a moment. This black-eyed scamp, like most ragamuffins on their own keeping, was more than likely a consummate little chiseler.

Morgan drew in a deep breath, then leveled his most baleful glare on her. “What are you
doing
here?” Not giving her time to reply, he added, “And how, exactly, did you
get
here?”

Annie Delaney met his fierce gaze straight on, without so much as the blink of an eye. “Well, you see, sir, I thought by now you'd had the time to reconsider our discussion in Belfast, and perhaps had come to see that I can be of service to you, after all.” She gulped in a hasty breath. “As to how I got here, sir—why, I walked, of course!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Morgan saw Sandemon's smile widen. At the same time, Artegal's delicate pallor turned an angry red.

“You're daft,” Morgan said, not even trying to soften his tone. “You are a demented child.”

“Please, sir, might I come in?”

The rascal had more nerve than wits! “No, and you may
not
come in.” Morgan snapped, his hands tightening on the armrests of the wheelchair. “What you may do is to get your wily little hide back to Belfast!”

“Please, sir—” The child bit her lip, then shifted from one foot to the other.

“No!”

Startled, Morgan saw the black-marble eyes go moist. Oh, she was good, this one! Now they were in for a weeping spell.

Instead of tears, however, a stream of words came spilling out of the demented child's mouth like an unexpected hailstorm on a summer's day.
“Please, sir, may I come in for only a moment? I have to use the facilities, and I simply can't wait a bit longer!”

After instructing Mrs. Ryan, the cook, to direct Annie Delaney to “the facilities,” Morgan dismissed Artegal to his regular duties.

Then he turned to Sandemon. “I thought you said there was a woman with her.”

The black man nodded. “There was, sir. Indeed, in the words of the child, it was this same woman who ‘saved her from a terrible fate' and led her safely here, to you.”

“And did the
child
happen to explain what she meant by this tale?”

Sandemon did not react in any noticeable manner to Morgan's sarcasm. Instead, the soft brown eyes held a faint smile as he replied. “Again, in the little girl's words, she was about to be abducted by ‘three dastardly attackers—robbers, and perhaps worse.'”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “She
is
daft.” He looked at Sandemon. “So, then—what happened to the woman?”

The black man looked toward the door. “She hurried off as soon as she deposited the girl at the door. She seemed…anxious to be gone.”

“I should think so, trying to foist an orphan girl off onto a total stranger. What sort of woman did she look to be?”

Sandemon crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his head as if deep in thought. “She seemed a very young woman, sir. She had a shawl draped over her head, but I could see her hair was quite pale in color. And she was…heavily painted. Much like those referred to as ‘street girls'.”

“A
prostitute?”

Sandemon nodded, frowning. “Yet she did not bear the harshness of appearance one tends to expect from that profession.”

“Did she say anything to you? About the child?”

Sandemon shook his head. “Not a word. The child did all the talking.”

Ignoring Morgan's muttered interruption, he went on. “The child seems to have been lost and badly frightened by some disreputable men. Apparently the young woman gave her refuge until the child's pursuers gave up the chase. She kept her there, in her flat, until dawn, then led her here.” He paused. “The child insists that this woman saved her life.”

“Indeed.” Morgan thought for a moment. “And why, do you suppose, was this guardian angel so eager to get away?” He didn't believe the tale for a moment, but in spite of himself the scamp's ingenuity intrigued him.

Sandemon merely shrugged. “I'm afraid I couldn't say, sir.”

Morgan started to make a testy reply, but wrenched in the chair when a spasm of pain seized him.

Sandemon stepped forward, but made no move to touch him. “Can I do anything, sir?”

Morgan shook his head, grimacing. “It will pass,” he muttered shortly.

After a moment, the pain eased. Pulling in a deep breath, Morgan knotted his hands into fists to hide their trembling. “I don't know what to say to this demented child,” he told Sandemon. “She pays no heed to reason. None at all.”

The black man regarded Morgan with a considering gaze. “You have met the child before, sir?”

“Aye, in Belfast. You might say she came to visit me while I was in the hospital. She tried to convince me to bring her back to Dublin with me.” Morgan smiled grimly in remembrance. “The little imp even talked to the priest, tried to convince him to intercede on her behalf.”

“A clever child,” Sandemon commented.

“A
devious
child,” corrected Morgan.

“Do you know what the child wants from you, sir?”

Morgan looked at him. “The
child
,” he said with a wicked smile, “would seem to want your job, Sandemon.”

When the black man did not react—Morgan was beginning to wonder what, exactly, it would take to
make
him react—he explained Annie Delaney's insistence that she could be of “real service” to him.

“She's just peculiar enough to intrigue me,” Morgan admitted. “But, of course, I cannot have her here.”

“Perhaps she
would
be
of some help,” Sandemon offered carefully, “to you and your grandfather. If nothing else, I imagine she would provide occasional entertainment. And certainly, the child must be in sore need of a home, to make such an outrageous proposal to you.”

“My grandfather is dead,” Morgan said flatly, disregarding the black man's attempted expression of sympathy. “And as you can see, I cannot manage
myself,
much less take responsibility for a child—no matter how…
entertaining
she
might be. Or,” he added pointedly, “no matter how much she might happen to need a home.”

“Of course,
Seanchai.
Still, if you are interested in showing mercy to the child, I would be glad to take responsibility for her. At least until your health has returned.”

“My health will more than likely not be returning, Sandemon,” Morgan grated. “And you'll be busy enough as it is without taking on a demented child.” He stopped abruptly. “What did you call me?”

“Sir?”

“Just now. You called me
Seanchai.”

“I did not mean to offend, sir. I understood it to be a term of respect, and that's how I intended it, I assure you.”

Morgan waved off his apology. “You didn't
offend
me—I simply hadn't realized that your vast education included a study of the Irish language.”

Sandemon smiled. “Indeed not, although I find it a most pleasing language to the ear. The word is used by many of the people in Castlebar and throughout County Mayo when they speak of you with affection. Especially it is heard on the lips of the children. Fitzgerald the Poet and the
Seanchai
—the Storyteller—they call you.”

Morgan blinked in surprise. “I have written only a few stories. Most of the children's tales are simple retellings of the ancient myths.”

“Ah, but they are noble, heroic stories,” Sandemon pointed out. “And the people need to believe in heroes, wouldn't you say so,
Seanchai?
Especially in times like these?”

Morgan looked away, saying nothing. In truth, the black man's use of the name pleased him. Even more did it move him to hear that the children of Mayo spoke of him with affection.

“What shall I tell the child, sir?”

Morgan let out a long breath. Raising a fist to his chin, he thought for a moment. “She would be your charge altogether, your responsibility—and it would only be until we can find a proper place for her.”

Sandemon inclined his head to indicate acceptance of the terms, but Morgan did not miss the slight glint in his eye. “You understand you're taking on a great burden—and more than likely a great grief. The child is demented.”

Sandemon raised his head to look Morgan directly in the eye. “The child,” he said softly, “is God's,
Seanchai.
That makes her our responsibility. And who can say,” he added quickly before Morgan could interrupt, “but what this…demented child may not just turn out to be more gift than grief to us? Hmm?”

Staring at him, Morgan wondered if he had perhaps lamented his
loneliness a bit too soon. Might not even loneliness be preferable to the company of a mad mystic and a demented child?

Sighing, he started to wheel himself to the library, then stopped. “The woman,” he said thoughtfully. “See that she's found.”

Sandemon looked at him, then nodded. “You wish to thank her for rescuing the child,
Seanchai?”

“No,” Morgan said with a thin smile. “I want to hear her side of the child's story. Somehow, I think it might prove very interesting.”