Heart of the Lonely Exile (5 page)

“Nora?”

She gave him a hard look.

“Perhaps you'd like me to stay with you this afternoon?”

Hesitating, Nora realized that what she wanted most was to be alone. “No, thank you, Michael,” she said. “I have much to do. Things are in a shambles, with all the confusion of the past few days.”

“They won't be expecting you to work about the house
today
,” he persisted. “Sure, and you must realize by now that you're much more than just a servant to the Farmingtons. Sara counts you as a friend. She'll understand if you need some time.”

Nora gave a quick nod. “Aye, Sara has been more than kind to me. As has her father. But I
need
to be busy, Michael, don't you see? It
helps
me. I cannot bring myself to sit and brood on Katie.” She paused and looked away. “'Tis not that I don't mourn the lass, for, sure, I do,” she went on to explain. “Katie was as dear to me as blood-kin. But now her suffering is done, and she's at home with our Lord.”

Sadness gripped Nora, a sorrow multiplied by the memory of all the brutal deaths she'd seen in recent months. Life had to go on, certainly, but her life—and Daniel John's—would never be the same again. Katie, dear Katie, was dead and buried, and Nora was left with an empty numbness, a bone-deep weariness. Mourning would come later, perhaps—or perhaps not. She could not help but wonder if she had spent all her grief, burying the last of her feelings with those she had loved so dearly in life.

Michael had not seen it—the hollow-eyed Hunger, the fever, the despair, the hopelessness. Perhaps he would never understand. And she hadn't the energy to explain it all to him. Instead, she simply said, “The time for grieving is past, Michael. I need to get back to work.”

Michael looked at her intently. “It's just that I want to help, Nora.”

Immediately she regretted her sharpness with him. “Oh, I know you do, Michael!” she said quickly, squeezing his hand. “You're a grand friend, and what I'd ever do without you, I don't know!”

Inexplicably, his expression darkened, and he turned away, leaving Nora to wonder what she had said to put him off.

Neither Evan nor Daniel spoke most of the way back to the Farmingtons'. As they walked along in silence, Evan savored the warm droplets of
rain that had begun to fall, lifting his hand to touch the moisture on his face. The day had been sultry and oppressively close; even this brief respite was welcome.

Concerned for Daniel, who was obviously agonizing, Evan moved to break the silence between them. “D-Daniel—I know Katie was very… special to you. P-Perhaps it would help,” he suggested cautiously, “if we t-talked about…what's happened?”

The boy merely shook his head, making no reply as they walked on.

Groping for just the right words, Evan stopped and put his hand to Daniel's arm. When the boy turned and faced him, the misery in his eyes tore at Evan's heart.

“D-Daniel,” he ventured again, dropping his hand, “D-Daniel, there is something I would say to you.”

The boy stood without moving, his pain-filled gaze polite but distant. At almost fourteen, he already topped Evan by two or three inches. Distressed by the depth of suffering that emanated from the youth, Evan hesitated, glancing around at their surroundings.

There was a quiet along this lonely road, so near and yet so removed from the noise of the city. With the rain gently stirring the trees and the sounds of New York subdued to a murmur, Evan felt a comforting kind of peace enfold both him and the boy.

“You have had m-much more than your share of sorrow, D-Daniel,” he said at last. “And I wonder if, right at this moment, it doesn't seem as if there m-may never again be anything else in your life
but
sorrow.”

Evan stopped, feeling a knot of despair clench at his own chest as he searched the boy's wounded eyes. Yet he felt the need to reach beyond Daniel's pain, his thin mask of composure. “I sense, too, son, that you are feeling somewhat…g-guilty…because there was n-nothing you could do to save your friend.”

Daniel blinked and seemed to stiffen.

Sensing he had struck a chord at last, Evan went on. “Daniel, you've had a t-terrible loss, and you m-must grieve. It's all right to grieve, son,” he said softly. “There is no shame in grief. But in the m-midst of your grief, you m-must also accept the fact that there was nothing you c-could have done for Katie.
Nothing
,” Evan repeated.

An old, raw agony rose in the boy's eyes, and Evan winced at the pain staring out at him.

“She always counted on me,” Daniel choked out. “She thought—she thought I could fix anything, make everything all right—”

Again Evan took the boy's arm. “Yes, I know. And with g-good reason, I'm sure. You were a wonderful friend to her, D-Daniel. Your m-mother has told me all about you and Katie.”

The boy blinked, then turned his face away. “We would have married… someday,” he said quietly. “We had already promised each other.”

Evan released his grip on the boy's arm but continued to watch him, his mind reaching for wisdom, for some word that would help. He again felt the youth's pain, heard the ache in his voice.

“Daniel,” he said hoarsely, “you are very young. Too young, perhaps, to h-hope for heaven—and yet I sense that is exactly what you m-must do.”

“What do you mean?”

Touching him lightly on the shoulder, Evan managed a faint smile. “Heaven seems…so far away when you're young. Almost…a-a dream. But as young as you are, D-Daniel, you
must
hold the hope of heaven in your soul, to guard against d-despair and disillusionment.”

Daniel's frown deepened. “I don't understand. I want to,” he added, “but I don't.”

Even glazed with sadness, the boy's eyes were true and noble. For an instant, Evan caught a glimpse of the godly man Daniel Kavanagh would grow to be, and he thought it would be a fine thing indeed to watch him age and mature.

“God has given you a-a pilgrim soul, D-Daniel,” he said softly, momentarily tightening his grip on the boy's shoulder. “Today you feel yourself to be an exile, a stranger in this n-new land. Someday, p-perhaps, you will return to visit Ireland, and when you d-do, I fear you will be all the more aware of your state of exile. Even Ireland will n-no longer be home to you, n-not really.”

God had given him the words he sought, and Evan went on with conviction. “Oh, Daniel, I p-pray that you—and I, as well—will grow to love this new land, this America! Yet I know in my heart that n-neither America nor your Ireland—nor m-my England—will ever really b-be home for us. We are p-pilgrims, you and I, Daniel.
All
of us are pilgrims, leaving our c-countries, crossing the ocean, journeying from one c-continent to another, as we m-make our way to our real home in heaven.

“Now, can you see m-more clearly how it is with Katie, son? She is at
home
—in her
real
home. Your Katie's exile is finally ended. She is at home with her Savior. No d-doubt she has already m-moved into her very own mansion—one of the mansions the Lord promised to prepare especially for her.

“And one d-day, Daniel, you—and I—we will go home, too. Although it m-may not seem so, at your age, son, the time passes far more quickly than we can imagine. This life—why, it's n-nothing but a fleeting whisper, compared to eternity. So hold your hope of heaven, son…and k-keep a pilgrim soul. Katie has gone home. But you and I—we, too, are on our way.”

Silence hung between them for a moment. Then, with a tortured sob, Daniel took a step toward Evan. A tear spilled over from one eye, then another, until an entire trail of tears ran unheeded down the boy's cheeks.

With his one arm, Evan drew the boy against him, feeling the thin shoulders give a shudder, then begin to heave.

“That's it, son,” he soothed, his own eyes burning with unshed tears as he held the boy close. “You go right ahead and c-cry. Weep for your Katie now, but only for a time. One d-day soon the two of you will laugh and rejoice again together.”

No longer able to contain his own tears, Evan wept with Daniel Kavanagh for all that had been lost…and all that would be gained, in God's time.

5

Fell are thy tall trees that erst branched so boldly,
Hushed thy sweet singers that once warbled free;
O the bleak fortune that now clasps thee coldly,
When, Isle of Ruin, shall it pass from thee?

JOHN SWANWICK DRENNAN (1809–1893)

Dublin
October

W
illiam Smith O'Brien's arrival at Nelson Hall was the one bright spot in an otherwise dismal month for Morgan Fitzgerald. He welcomed his old friend into his grandfather's spacious library with an enthusiasm he felt for few others.

As always, the handsome, elegantly attired O'Brien looked as if he might have stepped straight off the pages of Burke's
Landed Gentry
. In his mid-forties, the leader of the Young Ireland movement was still lithe and incredibly youthful in appearance.

Smith O'Brien was a Protestant landlord who had sat in Parliament for more than fifteen years, pleading Ireland's cause. Second son of the wealthy Sir Edward O'Brien, he claimed descent from the high kings—in particular, Brian Boru, supreme Monarch of Ireland in the early eleventh century. Educated in England at Harrow and Trinity, O'Brien was a gentleman, an aristocrat, and a patriot.

Although many of O'Brien's critics thought him cold and arrogant, Morgan Fitzgerald knew better. Oh, the man was somewhat vain, he supposed, and his mannerisms might be a bit stiff-necked at times. But to Morgan's
way of thinking, these were minor flaws in a man so fiercely devoted to his family, his friends, and his country. While it could be argued that his personality inspired more respect than affection, his friendship for Morgan, from the beginning, had been warm, undemanding, and constant.

One thing could be said for the Young Ireland leader: he had the courage to stand for his convictions. Only last year, his refusal to serve on a committee to which he'd been appointed had earned him a month's imprisonment in a cellar beneath the clock tower of Westminster—and the dubious distinction of being the first MP to be imprisoned by the House of Commons in over two hundred years. The man's loyalty was beyond reproach; he was unswervingly committed to Ireland's good and the country's ultimate freedom from British rule.

“Fitzgerald, I must admit that until now I found it near impossible to imagine you in such opulent surroundings. Yet seeing you here, like this—” His gaze swept the room in appreciation. “I declare you almost look to the manor born.”

Morgan curled his lip, waiting until Smith O'Brien sat down before lowering his own long frame into the chair across from him. “Hideous, isn't it?” he said, giving a disparaging lift of one hand. “This is the only room in the entire mausoleum that doesn't cause my nerves to rise up and scream in protest.”

O'Brien smiled. “You're just missing the open road, you old tinker.” He smoothed the front of his waistcoat, settling himself into the chair. “How's your grandfather, Morgan? I haven't seen him in weeks.”

“He's off to London at present. Making what he refers to as his ‘last visit.'”

O'Brien frowned. “Has he failed so much, then?”

“Aye, he grows dangerously frail these days,” Morgan answered. In truth, he was greatly worried about his English grandfather—the old man had been looking pale and drawn and even slightly ill just before he left for London. “I did my best to dissuade him from leaving, but he insisted he had affairs that must be settled.”

“If you don't mind my asking, how are the two of you getting on by now?”

Morgan waited until an elderly male servant had laid out tea and left the room before replying. “The old man is a tolerant sort,” he said. “I'm sure I try his patience to the limit with my restlessness, but he continues
to urge me to stay on. This is
his
idea, as you know,” he added sourly, “not mine. Although I'll admit I've grown fond of him. In truth, I find myself missing him—a fact that would surprise him very much, I'm sure.”

“Your staying here must mean a great deal to Sir Richard,” O'Brien responded. Stirring his tea in thoughtful silence, he darted an uncertain glance at Morgan. “I was sorry to hear about your niece. That was a hard thing.”

Morgan gave a short nod, swallowing against the knot that rose in his throat. He had received Daniel John's letter only a few weeks past, notifying him that Katie Frances had died in New York City. He had been partial to the wee, frail lass, and it still pained him to think of her gone.

“You've suffered great loss over the past months,” O'Brien remarked, his expression solemn.

Morgan glanced away. “No more so than others in Ireland,” he replied. “Less than many. It has been a year of terrible loss for the entire country.”

Staring into the fire, O'Brien nodded. “And only God knows when it will end—or if it ever will.”

For a long time they didn't speak, but simply sat drinking their tea and watching the flames leap and dance over the logs. Finally O'Brien broke the silence. “I trust your writing goes well,” he said, watching Morgan refill their cups with fresh tea. “Your last piece for
The Nation
was excellent.”

Morgan gave a short laugh and helped himself to a biscuit. “Mitchel hated it. I think he fears I've turned traitor with my recent insistence on caution.”

O'Brien's patrician mouth turned down. “Mitchel is wasting himself with his obsessive attachment to Lalor and his erratic visions of sweeping England into the sea.”

Morgan shrugged, swallowing the last bit of biscuit. “Mitchel's convinced the country must rise. Some are listening. He's greatly admired, you know. There's no denying his good intentions, that's certain. Mitchel is a patriot to the death.”

“He's also wildly impractical,” O'Brien pointed out, placing his cup carefully on the table. “He's become a fanatic, and the both of us know where that can lead.”

Again there was silence. Morgan did not want to follow this path in the conversation. More and more lately he sensed the approach of yet another cataclysm for Ireland. His country was dying, his people starving to death by the thousands. Yet in the midst of the horror, certain voices demanded
rebellion.
“The people must rise,”
they were saying.
“They must defy their English landlords and reclaim the land for Ireland.”

As Morgan saw it, the first job of the people was to
survive.
At this moment in Ireland's tragedy, the best they could hope for was life itself. Food was far more vital to a starving people than ideology, jobs and education more important than political rhetoric. Perhaps freedom from England's iron boot would come, one day. But for now it was little more than a wild-eyed patriot's dream.

He looked over at O'Brien. “You're still going to Belfast, I assume?” he asked bluntly, knowing the answer.

Smith O'Brien nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable. “And you?”

Morgan shrugged. “I told you I would go. I think it's a daft idea, but I will go.”

O'Brien eyed him with dry amusement. “You really do detest Belfast, don't you?”

Morgan leaned back in his chair. “It is a terrible, grim city, you must admit.”

“Morgan, I know you're only going to watch my back—”

“Now that's the truth.”

O'Brien shot a quick glance at Morgan. “But I think these meetings are important to the movement, and in spite of your reservations, I believe you'll agree, once we're there. I
do
wish you'd plan to speak, along with the rest of us.”

Nobody in Belfast has a mind to listen to a gentleman like O'Brien,
Morgan thought testily. Much less would they heed a redheaded poet's plea for peace and reason. He already knew he would not open his mouth in Belfast, but it seemed important to O'Brien that he go, so he said only, “We will see once we're there.”

As if he realized the subject was distasteful to Morgan, Smith O'Brien moved to break the tension. “Good enough.” He smiled and shifted in his chair. “Tell me, have you given any thought to what you'll do once your grandfather is gone? Will you stay here, at Nelson Hall, do you think?”

Stirred from his disgruntled mood, Morgan looked at him. “Stay?” He shook his head. “No, I'll not stay. At least, not year-round. The place annoys me. I'd soon grow soft and lazy here. No,” he said again, this time even more firmly, “this life is not for me. You know I must be on the road, at least a part of the time.”

“But you
are
Sir Richard's heir,” O'Brien pointed out. “He means for you to have his entire estate, isn't that so?”

“Aye, he does, and I already have plans for this place,” Morgan said, locking his hands behind his head. “I haven't discussed my ideas with the old man yet, but I suppose in good conscience I should, and soon.”

Smith O'Brien looked interested. “Ideas? What sort of ideas?”

“I'm thinking of turning the place into a school,” Morgan replied, smiling. The simple act of voicing his plan made his blood run a little faster with excitement.

“A
school
!” O'Brien repeated, leaning forward. “Nelson Hall?”

“Aye,” said Morgan, his smile widening as he savored the thought anew. “It's ideal for it, don't you see? All those moldy old rooms above, the rambling hallways, the excellent grounds—think of the scholars it would hold!”

“A classical academy, then—is that what you're planning?”

“In a way. I intend it to be an academy for all ages,” Morgan explained, perching forward on his chair and gripping his knees. “Perhaps even for older lads who might not have been able to manage much education. I want to open doors to those who sincerely crave an education but haven't the means to get into one of the established academies. And there will be no restrictions based on religion,” he added emphatically. “It will be a school where both Catholic and Protestant can come and learn together. And
live
together.”

O'Brien stared at him. “What an
extraordinary
idea! But a quite wonderful one,” he added quickly. “You'll serve as the master yourself, of course?”

Giving full vent to his enthusiasm, Morgan rose and went to stand with his back to the fire. “When I'm here. But I'm committed to the writing, you know—and to do it justice, I must have the freedom to travel, to keep in touch with the country. I hope to find one or two scholars to do the job when I'm away.”

O'Brien laced his fingers together, nodding thoughtfully. “I think it's an absolutely splendid plan! You don't think Sir Richard will object, do you?”

“No, not at all,” Morgan said with a faint smile. “As a matter of fact, I think he'll be every bit as enthusiastic about it as I am.” His expression sobered for a moment. “I'm just a bit hesitant to bring it up, you see, since it would involve a mention of his passing.”

“You could wait,” O'Brien said. “After all, if you intend nothing until he's gone—”

Morgan shook his head. “I can't do that. I know he's made me his heir, but none of this is mine, don't you see? I feel a stranger to it all. No,” he repeated, turning to face the fire, “I will tell him what I plan. It just seems a bit awkward, that's the thing.”

For a moment he stood, relishing the heat from the flames. Too many winters spent on the road in years past had left him with a chronic ache that plagued his legs and his shoulders without mercy. He almost dreaded the thought of November coming on. An open fire in every room was a continual delight for him, one of the few features at Nelson Hall that gave him any real pleasure.

Turning to face Smith O'Brien, he said, “You will stay the night, I hope? I've been planning an evening of chess ever since I learned you were coming.”

“Ah, yes, I'm looking forward to it!” Smith O'Brien got to his feet and joined Morgan in front of the fire. “Who knows when we'll next find time for a quiet evening such as this.”

Morgan searched his old friend's features. “Aye, and that's the truth, William. From what I am hearing, things may not be quiet with you much longer.”

O'Brien met his eyes, but said nothing. Morgan puzzled over the expression he encountered there, convinced it couldn't be fear he was seeing. In all the years they had been friends, he had never seen a glimmer of panic in Smith O'Brien's steady, piercing gaze. Yet tonight he could swear that an unfamiliar look akin to dread lurked behind that carefully controlled expression.