Land of a Thousand Dreams (14 page)

Nothing in the man's sleek sophistication betrayed a hint of his Irish roots. Just as nothing, Michael thought sourly, gave away the scoundrel's true character. Unless, of course, one considered his eyes.

Small and pale, they seemed almost fixed in place, like cold, pale marbles. Neither blinking nor squinting, they were merciless eyes—empty and unfeeling.

Like the eyes of a snake….

Without warning, a shudder seized Michael, leaving him chilled. Once more, he confronted that reptilian stare. He felt something—a shot of malice, an arrow of enmity—arc between them.

Without the slightest shifting of expressions, Walsh said, “You have a fine son, Captain. He's one of my most dependable boys.”

Michael acknowledged the man's words with only a short nod.

“I know you're distraught over what's happened,” Walsh went on, ignoring Michael's silence. “You can be sure I'll do all I can to find out who was behind this. Those responsible will pay.”

The man was a consummate liar. An actor and a fraud.

A swell of aversion rose up in Michael. He deliberately avoided clenching his fists, for fear he would strike Walsh in his lying face.

Rigid with anger, he met the other's impassive gaze. “Aye,” he said tersely, “they will indeed. They will pay.”

Then he turned away, anxious beyond reason to make his escape from Walsh and his cold, graceless house.

8

The Dreams of a Child

My Life is like a dream,
I do not know
How it began, nor yet
How it will go.

MONK GIBBON

Dublin

C
lad in her shift, Finola stood, brushing her hair and smiling to herself. Small One, the black and white cat that had come to her as a stray, sat on the bed, watching her every move with solemn green eyes.

Eyes as green as the
Seanchai's…

Finola's hand stayed the brush in midair at the thought of the great poet who had become her friend. Her heart skipped in anticipation of the hours ahead. Sandemon would be coming for her soon to take her to Nelson Hall for the evening. Would the
Seanchai
accompany him today? Of late, he was often in the carriage when it arrived for her, despite the effort required for him to get in and out of the wheelchair.

It pleased Finola no end that he would trouble himself so in her behalf. But, then, it did seem the man's kindnesses knew no limit. Always, he went to great effort to prepare a surprise for her visits; sometimes a small but
special gift awaited her, occasionally, a significant event—but, always, something meant to delight.

Once there had been a mime, hired to entertain. Another time, a sisters' duo who sang most sweetly in different languages! But the most recent surprise had been the best of all. The
Seanchai
himself had written a poem about the princess Finola, daughter of the mythical King Lir, set it to music—and he sang it for her!

The memory of his rich, lulling voice, his large hands on the ancient harp, the soft smile in his eyes as he had sung to her made Finola squeeze her eyes shut and hug her arms to herself just to keep the joy from overflowing. He had been kindness itself to her, this big, gruff man with the tender heart. Befriending her over the months since she had first brought Annie Delaney to his door, Morgan Fitzgerald had made her a welcome guest in his grand home. He deferred to her as if she were a noble lady instead of a homeless mute with no memory—and no name.

Replacing the brush on the vanity, Finola went to don the new blue gown that Lucy had bought for her. Small One mewed, and Finola went to sit beside her on the bed. Immediately, the cat settled herself into Finola's lap with an expectant rumble of a purr.

Finola finished buttoning the bodice of her gown, then began to stroke Small One's velvet fur. Soon her thoughts drifted off to the ways her life had changed since her first meeting with Annie Delaney. She could not have known then that a frightened child's cry in the street would eventually open to her a new world.

God had been so good, leading her to Nelson Hall, to these generous new friends who had taken such an interest in her. At times Finola could almost pretend that at last she had a family—a family of her own!

Gemma and the other women had certainly been kind to her over the years. They had taken her in when she was lost and ill, nursed her back to health, given her clothing and a room of her own—sure, they had indulged her and pampered her as if she were a younger sister, rather than the stranger she was.

Yet, with the
Seanchai
and his household, Finola felt a different kind of belonging. A unity, as if they were each a part of something larger. The
Seanchai
himself, Annie, Sandemon—and now Sister Louisa, the vinegary nun for whom Finola had quickly come to feel affection and great respect—each was a part of God's family. They loved Him and endeavored to serve Him—and that, according to the
Seanchai,
made them family in the truest sense of the word.

One day early in their friendship, Finola had attempted to refuse yet another invitation, feeling shy and uncertain—afraid she might impose. The
Seanchai
had touched her hand in the brief, hesitant way he had, saying, “Finola, you do not presume. You are one of us, not a guest. A member of our family. God has made us one,” he'd gone on to explain, including Annie and the sister and the smiling Sandemon with a sweeping gesture of his hand. “We are His children. United, with God…and, so, with you.”

Still stroking the little cat, Finola closed her eyes and gave a sigh. Of late, she found herself wishing more and more that she had an identity to bring to her new family. A name, a past—at least a remnant of memory of who she was and where she had come from.

As long as she was…incomplete…she was different from the others. No matter what the
Seanchai
said, she could not be like them. Even Annie, rejected and unwanted, had a name, remembered her beginnings, her yesterdays. Would an unhappy past not be better than no past at all? Yet, no matter how hard she tried to remember, the DARK TIME remained closed to her. A black, empty cavern, barred and unsearchable.

A torrent of emotions warred within her as she sat there thinking. At times like these, when she tried to remember, a strong pall of dread would invariably sweep over her, warning her off, holding her back.

Yet in spite of the sense of foreboding, an urgency was growing deep within Finola—a need to
know.
She yearned to have a name like others, a full, complete name that would identify her as a
person.
And she yearned for a past, not only a present.

She spent most of her days feeling somewhat bewildered, as if she lived suspended between the real world as she knew it and a dream she could not recall. She longed to be whole, not only for herself, but for the others. For her new family. Especially for the
Seanchai.

She was coming to know him, the great and small things, the subtle and distinct things, that made him so completely, uniquely himself. He seemed to want to know
her
as well, and Finola
wanted
him to know her, wanted it with a desperation she did not understand.

But how could he come to know her when she did not know herself?

Small One's wee, rough tongue lapped at Finola's wrist once, then again. She glanced down at her little friend. The cat was almost asleep, curled into a warm, trusting ball of contentment. Finola went on stroking her, half envying such innocent peace and tranquility.

Was this what it was like, then, to be a child? To be held close, in a mother's lap, warm and wanted, protected and cherished?

She thought of Annie—wonderful Annie, with her huge zest for life and her bursting love for the
Seanchai.
Annie had been rejected, the
Seanchai
said, mistreated and cast out. An unwanted thing. A stray.

Ah, but no longer. For the
Seanchai
had taken her in, given her a fine home—indeed, he was now working to make Annie his own child, to give her his name and the legal right of inheritance. Annie was a fortunate child indeed!

A thought of the
Seanchai'
s face came unexpectedly, his strong, craggy features and wounded eyes. As she had in the past, Finola wondered why such a generous, kindhearted man had no wife, no children.

His injury was recent, according to Sandemon. But what about
before
the injury? Finola wondered. Had there never been a special woman who shared his life? The wheelchair would surely make no difference to a woman who knew his great heart! Such a man should have a wife—and children, to warm his world, to fill the spacious empty rooms of Nelson Hall with happy laughter and contentment.

Children. A great, aching sorrow swept over Finola. She wished she had the memory of being a child, the recollection of having a father and a mother. Her childhood—however happy or miserable it might have been—seemed forever lost to her. She did not know what it was like to be a child. She could not remember…and she feared she never would.

That evening, in the marble-tiled entryway of Nelson Hall, Annie Delaney confronted Sandemon with her most recent complaint.

“Is the sister to be taking all her meals with us, then? I thought she was to be an
em-ploy-ee,
not a member of the family.”

“The sister,” replied Sandemon, “will dine with the scholars more often than not, just as soon as we have others besides the O'Higgins twins. For now, however, she will dine with us.”

He ignored her mutter of annoyance, studying her. The child wore a presentable dark wool and an even darker frown. Her unruly black hair had grown long and was forced into thick braids in an attempt to make it appear less unkempt. Despite all efforts, however, a number of stubborn, wiry strands invariably managed to escape their confines and stick out at ridiculous angles about her face. Somehow, it did seem that every endeavor to turn this one into a young lady met with failure.

By now he had grown accustomed to the child's sly digs at Sister Louisa. She seldom missed an opportunity to make known her antagonism to the nun, even to cast some veiled, incredible allusion on the sister's character. The truth was, of course, that the child did not so much dislike Sister Louisa as she resented the discipline that the nun had readily enforced upon Nelson Hall and its inhabitants.

The sister had made quick work of establishing herself as headmistress, if not of the entire estate, certainly of the Academy itself. Even Sandemon found the woman's relentless standards somewhat tiring on occasion. Yet, her unyielding insistence on adherence to the rules would doubtless prove good for the scholars—certainly for young Annie.

Admittedly, he and the
Seanchai
might have been somewhat lax in matters of discipline, perhaps had indulged the child to a fault. She had quickly become precious to them, this fey Belfast street urchin. Abused by her stepfather and rejected by her mother, she had made her way to Dublin in search of Ireland's rebel poet and her childhood hero—Morgan Fitzgerald.

In short order, Annie Delaney had stolen the great man's heart—and Sandemon's as well. So taken with the girl was the
Seanchai
that even now he was preparing to battle the courts for the right to adopt her as his daughter. For his part, Sandemon did try to keep a firm hand, but it took little more than a trembling lip or a gap-toothed smile to melt his heart. Small wonder the child had soon come to recognize her power over them both!