Land of a Thousand Dreams (27 page)

“Evan!”
Nora flew at him as soon as he was inside the door. “What on earth kept you? I was that worried—you're always home long before dark! Is something wrong?”

Evan kissed her and apologized profusely. “N-nothing is wrong! Nothing at all. And you m-mustn't fuss over me so.” He smiled at his own duplicity. He would be altogether devastated if she didn't fuss over him.

“But—”

He shushed her with another kiss, then stepped back. “Where are the children?”

“Johanna is helping Little Tom get ready for bed; then they'll be down,” she said distractedly “I promised they could stay up for prayers with you. But you'll have your supper first.”

She moved toward him. “Here, let me take your coat—”

“No!” Evan jumped back as if he had been struck. “I…I c-can manage.”

“Evan, whatever is the matter? Sure, and you're acting strange tonight,” Nora said, giving him a puzzled look. “Did something go wrong at rehearsal?”

Evan suppressed a smile, keeping his empty sleeve turned away. “Wrong? N-no, of course not. What c-could possibly go wrong at rehearsal?”

Nora narrowed her eyes at him, her frown deepening. “Evan? Are you quite certain you're well? You seem—peculiar.”

“Peculiar?” he repeated evasively. “No, I'm fine, just—OW!” He grabbed at his empty sleeve.

“Evan? What is it?”

Nora ran to him, taking him by the shoulders. When Evan averted his eyes, she insisted, “There
is
something wrong! I knew it, you—” she broke off, looking down at Evan's empty sleeve as it began to move.

The sleeve jerked hard, then again. From within the folds came a high-pitched, indignant screech. Grimacing, Evan yanked at the pin holding the material in place. At last the sleeve came loose, and the small, bewildered-looking kitten emerged.

For a moment it simply dangled at Evan's side, its tiny, needlelike claws embedded in the fabric of his sleeve. Suddenly, it let go, racing down his leg and tearing about his feet in a frenzy. Spying Nora, it stopped. In one furious sweep, it climbed her dress, attaching itself to her and burrowing its small head close to her heart.

“N-Nora,” Evan said with a shaky smile as he rubbed his throbbing shoulder, “I'd like you to m-meet Finbar.”

That night, after Evan had fallen asleep, Nora lay studying his shadowed profile in the weak ribbon of light drifting in from the hallway.

Without his glasses, he looked younger. Younger and sweet and so very, very vulnerable.

As always when she looked at him, her heart swelled with love for this gentle, unassuming man who daily poured himself out for her happiness. He was a slender man, her Evan, not large or especially muscular. Yet his body housed a heart big beyond all measuring.

She smiled as she remembered his expression when the kitten had tumbled out from his empty sleeve. So pleased, so eager. Eager to make her happy, to see her smile.

She understood what he was about, of course. He was far too sensitive, too attuned to her moods, not to sense that she had been less than happy lately. Guilt ate at her for worrying him so, for the shadow she knew she had cast on his own happiness by her incessant brooding about a baby.

Somehow she must stop. It was unfair, so unfair, to wound him like this. He deserved more, much more. He deserved only joy.

She touched his bearded cheek with her fingertips. He sighed in his sleep, and she smiled. How precious she counted these quiet times, these warm, tender times of closeness when something as simple as a sigh, as gentle as a touch, could affirm the bond of their love.

And she
did
love Evan. She loved him for his gentleness, his quiet kindness, his goodness, his godliness. She loved him for his shy, unassuming manner, for the way he never took anything for granted, but was always grateful for even the smallest deed done for him.

And she loved him for loving
her.
For loving her enough that he would take in a stranger's children and make them his own—and tuck a wee cross-eyed kitten into his sleeve because he had known it would make her smile.

In the darkness, her smile widened. Finbar had been almost immediately taken over by the children—indeed, now lay sleeping on Tom's bed. But not before he had entertained them all with a variety of shenanigans.

She had been aware of Evan's watching her, his delighted smile when she responded to the kitten.

I must stop brooding,
she told herself again.
I must bring no more gloom into his life. Whatever God gives…even if it's only a stray kitten…I will take it and rejoice in it and cherish it. For Evan. For our love.

“I love you, Evan…I do love you so…
.”

She didn't realize she had spoken aloud until he reached for her. His eyes fluttered, unfocused, heavy with sleep. Then, as if the very intensity of her love had wrapped itself around him and awakened him, he smiled and gathered her closer.

16

Dublin Vigil

And oft her wasted fingers
Beating time upon the bed:
O'er some old tune she lingers,
And she bows her golden head….

RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS (1822–1862)

Dublin
December

I
n the weeks since the attack, Nelson Hall had come to be an unnaturally silent, somber place. Christmas was coming, and yet it approached almost unacknowledged, as if the entire season itself was overshadowed by a dreadful foreboding.

Everyone who walked the vast, dim hallways seemed keenly aware that quiet was imperative. It was, thought Sandemon, as if all who dwelled within feared that even the everyday, commonplace sounds of the household might somehow snap the fragile thread of the
Seanchai's
control.

A routine had been established almost immediately after the tragedy. The servants glided in and out of the rooms as quietly as cats in the night, whispering or murmuring only when required. Even in the classrooms, there was total discipline, with instruction given in quiet tones and voices held low during recitations.

The entire household seemed poised upon a precipice, hushed and uncertain and apprehensive. The domestic routine went on, but now there seemed little difference in day from night. Days were for working and waiting. Nights were for
praying
and waiting.

Sandemon had begun his morning as always, on his knees beside the bed, with a hymn of praise—a quiet, restrained hymn, for he sensed that even the Lord God desired stillness in these days. For a long time, his spirit bowed before the Glory in adoration. Today, more than ever, he felt a desperate need for closeness, for refreshing from the Spirit. For light.

Finally, he began to lift before the throne those who had become dear to him, those for whom the Lord would have him intercede, with love….

The child, young Annie, whose adoption proceedings had become snagged in the unlikely hands of the mother who had rejected her and the stepfather who had abused her. Two of the finest attorneys in all Ireland—and who, according to the
Seanchai,
were also among the most ruthless—had been employed to pursue matters in Belfast. As yet the child did not know of the delay. The attorneys were convinced that enough money would bring results, and the
Seanchai
had authorized them to offer whatever it took.

Sandemon gave a deep sigh, pausing in his prayer to think on the situation. Sadly, he wondered if young Annie might not be surprised to learn how vigorously the
Seanchai
was pursuing the adoption. The child was obviously feeling somewhat adrift, perhaps even a bit neglected. The
Seanchai,
indeed the entire household, had been so distracted by the attack on Miss Finola that there was little time or energy for one precocious child.

Finola….

Even as Sandemon held the name of the stricken young woman on his lips, the thought of her anguish wrenched his heart. It had been weeks since the Almighty had returned her from the chasm that lay between Today and God's Forever. Yet she continued to show no real awareness of her surroundings. She scarcely responded to whatever distress she might be feeling, although surely her pain must be excruciating.

Sandemon saw her only from a distance, of course; the surgeon was still insisting that all male members of the household avoid close contact. But even a glimpse of her brought a terrible sorrow to his spirit. She lay limp and unmoving in the tall, spacious bed, her eyes fixed in an unfocused, unseeing stare. Her friend, Lucy, said she responded to touch, but only when it seemed to evoke pain—and, even then, she merely sobbed or gave a muffled sound of distress. She ate negligible portions of food, and only when assisted, with much coaxing.

She could not speak, of course, but now, in addition to the muteness, there was a kind of silence in her eyes. It was as Lucy said: a light had gone out somewhere inside Finola.

The same could be said of the unhappy
Seanchai,
Sandemon thought, frowning as he mused over the young master's heartache. Every day the sad-eyed poet would bring his wheelchair to a stop just outside the sickroom, where he would sit, staring with eyes that willed the young woman within to revive, to be herself once again.

Gone was the anger—at least all outward evidence of it—which had threatened to explode during those first dark days after the savage attack. Gone, too, was the restlessness, the abundance of energy that had once made the
Seanchai
's confinement to the wheelchair such a rigorous trial. Now there was a stillness in the young giant, a sense of quiet restraint that did not seem so much born of despondency or despair, but of waiting. Waiting, and standing guard.

He spent his days, those times when he did not wait outside her door, at his desk in the library among his many books and correspondence. Sandemon had posted numerous letters for him: to the adoption attorneys, to his friend Mr. Smith O'Brien in gaol, to his friends in America—and to a man who was unknown to all but the
Seanchai
himself, and to Sandemon.

Concerned that Miss Finola might have family who were, even now, attempting to locate her, the
Seanchai
had retained a person to investigate her past. To Sandemon, he had confided his fears about such a search. He was aware, he admitted, that danger might lie in discovery. Yet he felt convicted to try.

“If there's a chance at all that someone out there might be able to help Finola through this time, we have to find him,” he had said to Sandemon only days ago. “The man I've retained is entirely reliable—I trust him as I trust few men. He'll use discretion. Should he learn anything that could prove harmful for Finola, it will remain a secret.”

Finally rising from his knees, Sandemon felt the same prickling of dread he had experienced when he'd first learned of the investigation. He trusted the
Seanchai
's judgment in such matters, understood his desperation to help the stricken young woman. Yet it was a chilling thought, that whatever, or
whoever,
had been responsible for Miss Finola's lonely silence—a silence devoid of memories and even her own identity—might at last become known. And with what consequence?

Perhaps the
Seanchai
would not agree, but Sandemon could not help but wonder if there might not be some things best left untouched and unknown. Could not too much probing of the past rouse old demons, once imprisoned, perhaps even set them loose on the present?