Heart of the Lonely Exile (41 page)

The silent Finola. A princess with no voice.

What, Lord
? Sandemon questioned.
What of the lovely Finola?

As he waited, listening, expecting, Sandemon felt a gentle warmth and light settle over him, draping his spirit with insight and assurance. At that instant he lifted the mute young woman with the golden hair before the throne, convinced beyond all doubt that in a way as yet unseen she, like Annie Delaney, would be an instrument of healing in the life of Morgan Fitzgerald.

40

His
songs were a little phrase
Of eternal song,
Drowned in the harping of lays
More loud and long.
His deed was a single word,
Called out alone
In a night when no echo stirred
To laughter or moan.

THOMAS MACDONAGH (1878–1916)

T
he next few days were happy days for Annie Delaney. She spent her mornings in the stables, tending to Pilgrim or helping Sandemon with the wondrous birthday gift for the
Seanchai.
She labored hard alongside the black man, for now that she had caught his vision of the gift, she could not wait to see it done and presented.

Afternoons were spent at inside chores, which, to Annie's relief, were few—both because of her clumsiness and because she was busy elsewhere, usually at her lessons with the
Seanchai.

In the evening, she was mostly on her own, unless there were stories to be told in the library.

Sure, and if she could have ordered up the routine of her days, she would not have asked for more. Best of all, even more than the time spent with Pilgrim, she loved her studies. Having the full attention of the
Seanchai
as he instructed her, receiving a rare word of praise from him when she excelled, had quickly come to be the brightest part of her day. A word
of encouragement from the
Seanchai
or a smile that clearly said he was pleased with her progress would send Annie flying to her room afterward, where she would immediately set to poring over her lessons with more fervor than ever.

Sandemon teased her, saying that she would turn into a bookworm and get lost wiggling through a hole in the stable. But Annie could tell he was pleased with things as they were. In fact, he seemed as happy with all the attention the
Seanchai
paid her as he was with the reports of what a good scholar she was becoming.

Annie would not have thought she could bear more joy. But this morning Sandemon had made a suggestion that had her jumping out of her skin with delight.

“A
birthday party
! Truly, Sand-Man? A real
party
?”

He lifted a hand to caution her. “A very
small
party. The
Seanchai,
as you well know, has little patience with crowds or clamor. We will prepare a simple event for the three of us—a special time to acknowledge his birth date and to give him his gift.”

“But you're supposed to invite guests to a party, aren't you? Even a small one?”

He shook his head. “Not this time, child. We must respect the
Seanchai's
feelings. Unless Mr. Smith O'Brien should happen to return from Paris before then, it will be only the three of us.”

Annie pursed her lips, thinking. “I know someone else we could invite. Someone I expect the
Seanchai
would like to have at his party.”

Sandemon frowned, but before he could protest Annie went on. “Sure, and Finola would come, were we to ask! And don't you think the
Seanchai
would want to see her again? He seemed to like her fine, as I recollect.”

Sandemon was quiet for a moment. Despite her excitement, Annie forced herself to hold her tongue. She was learning not to press when the black man was thinking.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he seemed to consider her suggestion. Finally, he offered a faint smile. “Could be you're right, child,” he said slowly. After another moment, he gave a small nod. “Yes, perhaps your idea is good. Here's what we will do, then. This afternoon, while you and the
Seanchai
are busy with your studies, I will go into the city and pay a call on Miss Finola.”

Annie scowled at him fiercely. “I'd thought to go with you.”

“You have your studies,” he said firmly. “Besides, it wouldn't do for both of us to leave the
Seanchai
alone for too long a time. What if he needed help and neither of us were here? And,” he added, cutting short Annie's objection, “the area in which Miss Finola lives is not a proper place for a child.”

“I'm not a child!” Annie retorted. But she knew from the raised eyebrows and the slight tightening around his mouth that further argument would be a total waste of time.

The more Sandemon thought about Annie's suggestion to invite Finola back to Nelson Hall, the more the idea took on merit. On the way into Dublin, he considered the consequences, and could think of only one unpleasant possibility: What if the
Seanchai
felt they were interfering in his life and grew angry?

Sandemon was used to the young giant's temper, and routinely ignored it. But nothing must be allowed to halt the growing relationship between the
Seanchai
and the child. There was no telling who would ultimately benefit most from it, but that both would be greatly blessed, he had no doubt.

Somehow, though, Sandemon did not think the
Seanchai
would
mind their inviting Miss Finola. In fact, recalling the uncommon warmth that had filled the young master's eyes during that first encounter with the mysterious young woman—and remembering his own recent inclination to pray for her—Sandemon began to wonder if the child's idea might not be truly inspired.

Annie had hoped the
Seanchai
would be in the mood for storytelling after dinner. Ever since Sandemon returned with the news that Finola had accepted their invitation to the party, she'd been far too restless and excited to think of much else. Perhaps one of the
Seanchai's
stories might help to take her mind off the party—and the wondrous gift she and Sandemon were making.

Her hopes were dashed, however, not long into the meal. In fact, she didn't even suggest a story, seeing the way things were with the
Seanchai.
He was irritable and short all through dinner, scarcely finishing his tea before muttering an excuse and wheeling himself out of the room.

Sandemon helped him onto the lift, then took Annie to one side in the library. “He has asked to be left alone,” he told her. “I'll check on him once more, and if he still doesn't want me the rest of the evening, I'm going to go out to the stable and work on the gift.”

“I'll go with you, then.”

He shook his head. “No, child,” he said. “He might become suspicious if he should discover both of us gone this time of night. I won't work long—perhaps another hour or two. I want you in the house so you could fetch me if he should call. Stay in your room where you can hear him.”

At Annie's nod of assent, Sandemon followed her from the library. “Stay upstairs now, mind,” he cautioned her again before starting toward the back of the house.

In his bedroom, Morgan wheeled himself toward the desk where Joseph Mahon's journal lay open, its pages in disarray, accusing him.

He had neglected his usual reading for some nights now, unable—or unwilling—to steep himself any further with Mayo's misery. Tonight, however, he knew himself to be too restless for sleep. A storm was brewing; in the distance he could hear the approaching thunder. His skin seemed to crawl with an energy for which there was no outlet. Every nerve in his body screamed for release. If he went to bed, he would do nothing but thrash about, so he might just as well return to the priest's dolorous writings.

He had the monster of all needs for the whiskey tonight. Before he started in on the journal, he set out his flask and tumbler at the ready. He would wait another half hour or so, he told himself. He would read for at least that long without the drink.

It had occurred to him only a few nights past that he was starting his drinking earlier each night, consuming more and more all the time. Last night he had promised himself with fierce resolve to cut back.

He was growing dependent on the stuff, just like his father.

The ugly truth was that he was gradually becoming a drunk—a secret drunk, but a drunk all the same.

It was no secret from Sandemon, of course; the black man knew, had
to know from the smell on him every morning. But he said nothing, gave no indication that he noticed. Morgan could not help but wonder why.

Before he began to read, Morgan braced his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair, half-rising to stretch the muscles of his body. Too soon, his legs collapsed, sending a wave of familiar frustration crashing over him.

His back was aching tonight—not bad, but enough to justify taking a drop right away.

No. He would wait.

His eyes slid to the flask near the journal. At the same time, he noted with distaste the trembling of his hands on the pages. How many times had he seen his father's hands tremble in just the same way?

His mouth was dry, his throat hot, but he forced himself to ignore the flask.

He could easily envision Joseph Mahon the priest, his silver head bent over the pages, the pen propped in his frail, unsteady hand, writing laboriously, painstakingly, late at night.

When else would the man find time? He spent his days and most of his nights with “his people,” the villagers of Killala.

The priest continued to pour out his life for them, as if he hoped by killing himself he might make a difference.

Yet Morgan knew in his heart that indeed Joseph
had
made a difference—in some instances, the difference of life or death. In truth, if ever a body of men had showed themselves heroes, sure, and countless priests and Protestant clergy throughout Ireland had done so. Many had given up their own lives in the act of caring for the sick, feeding the hungry, and ministering to the dying. Morgan had heard of case after case where the priest or pastor was all that stood between the people and the graveyard.

In his own experience, he had never known such an utterly selfless human being as Joseph Mahon, whose words as he read them played sorrowfully upon his heart: