Heart of the Lonely Exile (35 page)

Only in recent months had the prodigal returned to his heavenly Father. But the homecoming celebration was short-lived, brutally interrupted by the shooting in Belfast that had left him as he was now—a bitter man in a wheelchair, feeling abandoned and utterly useless.

There was abundant hope for the
Seanchai,
of course. He was God's child, and he had friends standing in prayer for him. Yet Sandemon could not ignore a growing fear for the anguished young poet, who was attempting to numb his pain with the lie of whiskey.

He thought he was deceiving those around him by drinking alone in his room at night. But he was deluding only himself. Most likely he was using the lingering pain of his injury to justify his dependence on the bottle.
Sandemon sensed, however, that the young master's spiritual torment far exceeded his physical pain. Such an agony would not be quenched by drinking from anything other than the Water of Life.

Sighing, Sandemon turned his thoughts from Morgan Fitzgerald to look around him. It seemed this entire country was in agony. Here, spread out on the docks beneath a dull, heavy sky, hundreds of people waited for ships to take them away from Ireland.

The depths of misery and neglect seemed no different here in the city than in the remote villages of County Mayo. Starving and ill, devastated by fever and the harsh elements, the poor souls camped on and around the docks, praying they would survive long enough to board their ship of rescue.

Sandemon wept in his spirit for the nearly naked, starving children, the bewildered, diseased elderly, the gaunt young mothers with hollow eyes. For a time he abandoned his mission of locating Annie Delaney's rescuer and joined three priests in moving through the crowds, attempting to soothe and console the suffering all around him. He prayed for the living and grieved for the dying, sorrowful but not surprised at what man's inhumanity had once more wrought in God's world.

For three days Sandemon returned to question pub owners and innkeepers along the docks, as well as numerous poor wretches throughout the disreputable area known as the Liberties. He had only the sketchiest of memories of the woman he had seen with Annie, in addition to the child's dramatic description: “Sure, and wasn't she a great, tall lady, with glorious golden hair? She had a grand cloak, remember? And she was beautiful, like a stage actress! But she didn't talk—she didn't talk at all, Sand-Man!”

On the fourth day, Sandemon felt his search might have proved fruitful. A young strumpet in the slums had reacted at once to the description the black man gave her. Suspicious and openly hostile, she proceeded to rake Sandemon from head to toe with cold eyes. “What's it to the likes of
you?
A good way to get your throat slit, in case you didn't know it, asking after a white woman in a place such as this!”

Adopting an air of exaggerated humility, Sandemon stretched the reason for his questions as far as he could without actually lying. “She did a
kind thing for a child who is—important to my young master,” he told the prostitute. “He is eager to find her, that he might—acknowledge her bravery.”

“Bravery?” The young woman's hard eyes narrowed in speculation. “Is it a reward he's talking, then?”

Sandemon merely shrugged and gave a noncommittal smile.

She studied him for another moment. “Could be he's looking for Finola. I'm not saying it's her, mind—just that it might be.”

“And could you tell me where to find this…Finola?”

The woman shrugged. “She stays at Gemma's mostly.”

“Gemma's?”

She gave him an impatient look. “Gemma Malone's. She has a place with some girls upstairs at Healy's Inn. Not far from St. Paddy's—the cathedral. This time of day,” she added with a sneer, “you'd find most of them at home, likely.”

This one was little more than a child, Sandemon observed sadly, wondering how one so young had come to such a place. What tragedy had driven her to the streets? What lonely desperation lay behind the painted mask?

Sandemon met her gaze, and for a moment something flickered behind the hard exterior. With a courteous bow, he then raised his eyes and smiled directly into hers. “God loves you, child,” he said gently.

Then he turned and walked away to continue his search.

35

Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream,
He should try to forget what he never can heal.

THOMAS MOORE (1779–1852)

H
ealy's Inn was at the fringe of the Liberties and easy to find. As the street girl had said, it wasn't far from St. Patrick's, the twelfth-century cathedral dedicated to Ireland's patron saint.

Sandemon was surprised to find the ancient cathedral located in the midst of low streets and narrow, squalid alleys. As for the inn, it was actually a run-down pub—dim interior, dilapidated stools, two or three worn-looking women drinking at a table near the bar.

Sandemon asked for the woman named Finola and was met with a hostile glare from the middle-aged man keeping bar. Thinking the fellow's unfriendliness was due to his black skin, Sandemon quickly explained that his business was on behalf of his employer. “I assure you he means only to thank the young woman,” he said with a deferential smile. “Did I mention that he is the grandson of Sir Richard Nelson?”

“Aye, and the Queen is me godmother,” the barman sneered.

Sandemon had not come into the Liberties entirely unprepared. He withdrew two calling cards from his shirt pocket, one with Morgan's name imprinted on it, the other bearing Sir Richard's. Extending the cards to the barman, he said quietly but emphatically, “It could be important to the young woman that she meet with my employer. He would like to thank her for a kindness.”

The red-faced barman was clearly unimpressed. Picking up a used
tumbler off the bar, he wiped it dry and replaced it for the next customer. “Then tell your employer,” he said, turning back to Sandemon, “that
he
should come
here.”

Gathering his patience, Sandemon attempted to explain. “I fear that is not a possibility at the present time. The young master is confined to a wheelchair while he recovers from a most serious injury.”

The Irishman studied Sandemon another moment. Finally, without turning, he barked an order over his shoulder. “Lucy—go fetch Finola downstairs! Tell her I said she should come.”

A small, round woman with a heavily made-up face hauled herself up from her chair and started for the stairs at the side of the bar. When she returned, Sandemon recognized the tall young woman with her at once.

Today there was no shawl covering her hair, which fell in graceful, shining waves down her back, like fine spun gold. Her brightly painted face seemed a cruel mockery of her beauty and otherwise demure appearance. Clinging to the hand of the woman named Lucy, she struck Sandemon as being very shy—or very frightened.

He saw a glint of recognition in her eyes when she looked at him. Inclining his head, he straightened and repeated his explanation for coming. When he had finished, the fair-haired young woman merely stood there, holding Lucy's hand, regarding Sandemon with a clear blue gaze that reflected an unexpected innocence.

“She can't answer you!” snapped the barman.

Sandemon looked at him, and the man tapped his head with a grimy forefinger. “She's a bit slow, Finola is. She can hear you well enough, but she can't talk a bit.”

Sandemon turned back to the golden young woman with the startling blue eyes. He looked at her for a moment, then said, “Please, Miss. If you will come with me, the carriage will bring you back later this afternoon. Mr. Fitzgerald is a kind man, and the little girl you helped is most eager to see you again. You will be made welcome at Nelson Hall, I promise you.”

Like a child, Finola first looked at the woman, Lucy, then to Healy before turning back to Sandemon. Then, releasing Lucy's protective hand, she nodded that she would accompany Sandemon to Nelson Hall.

But the barman was having none of it. “If it's a woman your employer wants, he can have his choice upstairs! Our Finola isn't for sale!”

Drawing himself up to his full height, which was considerable,
Sandemon fixed the sputtering barman with an unwavering stare. “My employer,” he said slowly and distinctly, “is not looking for an upstairs kind of woman. As I have attempted to explain, he merely wants to speak with the young woman who did a kindness for…a member of his household. Perhaps,” he added patiently, “both you and Miss Finola would be more at ease if one of these…ladies…accompanied us to Nelson Hall?”

“She can't speak at all, you say?” Morgan repeated, staring at Sandemon with exasperation.

At his companion's brief shake of the head, he slammed one hand down hard against the armrest of the wheelchair. “Then why, pray, did you
bring
her here? The only reason I wished to find her was to verify the girl's story!”

Sandemon inclined his head as if to acknowledge the legitimacy of Morgan's question. “Knowing your skill at communication, sir, I thought you might find another way to converse with her. She is, as I explained, able to hear you.”

Morgan shot him a dubious look. Still, there
was
the rudimentary set of hand signals he'd devised to communicate with his niece, Johanna, who could neither hear nor speak. But that had worked only because he'd spent the required time to teach her the gestures.

“Besides,
Seanchai,”
Sandemon put in, “I thought the child should have the opportunity of seeing her mysterious rescuer once more. She was, as you know, quite taken with the young woman.”

“Ah, yes,” Morgan grated, mimicking Annie as he added, “
‘Like a princess, she was. Came right out of nowhere!'”

Sandemon merely smiled.

“Oh, bring her in, then! And fetch the girl as well!” Watching Sandemon nod, then exit with a flourish, Morgan wondered sourly if it was the purple shirt that gave the black man his air of royalty or the ever-present cap he wore as proudly as a crown.

Seated in one of the two fireside chairs, Annie watched the peculiar
exchange taking place between the Fitzgerald and Finola with great delight and utter fascination.

Finola's friend, Lucy, perched on the edge of a chair near the door, observing the scene with suspicious eyes. In front of the fireplace, near Annie, stood Sandemon, hands clasped behind his back, watching with discreet interest.

Annie was pleased to see that the golden-haired Finola—who looked like a princess, and that was the truth—seemed to have gotten over her initial shyness with the Fitzgerald. And while he still appeared somewhat stunned by Finola's beauty, he was no longer gaping, but instead making the effort to communicate with her.

Indeed, the two of them seemed to have devised some odd method of talking with each other, in spite of poor Finola's inability to speak aloud. They had reached the point that, when the
Seanchai
—Annie was beginning to think of him in Sandemon's term—enacted one of those funny little hand signs of his, the lovely Finola would either smile or shake her head vigorously, then proceed to wiggle her hands and fingers much as he had.

It was a grand display to watch, and Annie was particularly satisfied to see that the
Seanchai's
eyes held a smile when he looked at the Princess Finola.

Catching Sandemon's eyes, Annie winked and grinned. He settled a mildly reproving look on her, then winked back.

Later that night, after Finola and Lucy had been safely returned to the inn, Sandemon took a tray of correspondence upstairs to his employer, who waved it aside, saying, “I get nothing but appeals for donations. I'll look at it later. But stay—I want to talk with you.”

No longer requiring Sandemon's assistance in getting dressed, he had already changed into his nightclothes. He wheeled himself over to the fire. “What they've done to that girl is a crime!” he blurted out, turning the chair around to face Sandemon.

Genuinely puzzled, Sandemon frowned. “A crime,
Seanchai?”

“Yes, a
crime!
She's little more than a child, after all, and mute at that! This Healy—he must be as low as they come, to turn an innocent like that into a prostitute!”

Sandemon considered his outburst for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said slowly, “I don't think that's the case,
Seanchai.”

“What do you mean, you ‘don't think that's the case'?” the young master snapped, his face flushed. “The girl lives with strumpets, she's painted like a strumpet—and didn't they send her here with you, a total stranger? To the house of another stranger?”

“They sent a friend to look after her,” Sandemon reminded him mildly.

“Also a strumpet!”

“I was informed that Miss Finola was…not for sale,” said Sandemon. “I am convinced the young woman is no strumpet.”

And so he was. There was a virtue in those clear blue eyes, a purity about the girl that clearly marked her as an innocent.

His employer fell silent for a moment. “I'll admit I find it difficult to see her in such a role. But what else could it be, then, with her living in their midst? And painted like a doxy as she was,” he added, his mouth twisting with disgust.

Sandemon remained silent, for he had no explanation. “You seemed to make good progress in communicating with the young woman. Were you able to verify our Annie's account of the night in question?”

Morgan gave Sandemon a sharp look, then made a dismissing motion with his hand. “Apparently,
our
Annie told the truth,” he said shortly. “No doubt that pleases you.”

Sandemon could not stop a faint smile. “No doubt, young master.”

“Don't
call
me
that, I've told you! You're a free man, not a slave!”

“But a black man, nevertheless,” Sandemon offered, still smiling.

“A fact duly noted and of no particular interest to me. Hear me, now: I want you to see what you can learn about the girl.”

“Which girl is that, sir?”

“Finola, of course! I already know more than I care to know about that demented child from Belfast! I want you to find out if they're abusing her in any way—”

“By that you mean are they prostituting her?”