Land of a Thousand Dreams (39 page)

“No,
you
see here!” Guinness had had enough. He stepped closer to the woman, close enough to smell the faint bitterness of cheap gin on her. “You'd best mind my words, woman,” he said, his voice low with a deliberate threat. “As Morgan Fitzgerald's attorney, I can tell you that the man is out of patience and about to reconsider his generosity. He has offered your daughter an unheard-of opportunity! But unless you act and act now, that offer will be withdrawn.”

He paused. “You should know, too, that Fitzgerald can be a hard man entirely, if provoked. A
very
hard man, if you take my meaning.”

Guinness stopped, just long enough to let his words sink in before going on. “After today, Mrs. Tully, I will not return. I have one final offer to make you, so you'd do well to listen closely.”

Ignoring the woman's sullen stare, Guinness quoted her the figure Fitzgerald had authorized—a figure of such enormity it had even made Guinness catch his breath. Before she could speak, he added, “Perhaps I should define your choices in this matter in detail, so that you'll have a clearer understanding of what to expect.

“You sign these papers, and you accomplish two things,” Guinness said, managing to restore a note of calm to his tone. “You will ensure a fine home and a promising future for your daughter. At the same time,
you”
—he paused for effect—“will become a woman of means. A woman who will no longer have to work in the mills to eke out a living. You will not need to depend on anyone—
anyone
—for your livelihood.”

Guinness watched her closely. The woman's tongue darted across her lower lip, and her eyes took on a glint. He
had
her! He was sure of it.

“You will, of course, be relinquishing all rights to the child,” he said quickly. “You will not, under any circumstances, have communication with her again or make any attempt to contact her or her new family. You also need to understand,” he added with cutting emphasis, “that, should you refuse Mr. Fitzgerald's offer, he intends to have you and your husband prosecuted for criminal offenses.”

Her eyes bugged and she stiffened. “What's this? What do ye mean,
criminal offenses?
We've done nothing wrong!”

“Oh, I think you know what I mean, Mrs. Tully,” said Guinness quietly. “And I think you know that your husband deserves whatever mean hand he is dealt. You will simply be caught up in the wake of things, don't you see? Now, then, while we're still alone, I suggest that you—”

At that moment the door crashed open, and Tully came charging in, drunk completely and wild with rage.

“What are you doing here again?”
he exploded, grabbing Guinness by the lapels of his coat and yanking him around. “
I told you to stay away!”

The drunken man's face was mottled with an ugly crimson. His eyes, not quite focused, blazed with fury.

The woman screamed, but her husband ignored her.

Tully was a big-bellied, heavy-shouldered man, and drunk beyond all reason. Guinness felt an instant of sheer panic as he stared into the man's glazed eyes.

“Frank! No! Don't hurt him! He means to make us rich! He's talking a fortune!”

Still held captive in Tully's grip, Guinness began to talk, fast. “She's right—you'd do well to listen! You're set for life, if you use your head! Besides, what's the girl to you, anyway? Not your own blood, after all!”

Tully didn't drop Guinness all at once, but eased off slightly, looking bewildered. He shot a glance at his wife, who now stepped toward him.

“It's the truth!” she told him. “Wait till you hear!”

“The lass is not for sale!” Tully slurred righteously, with a misdirected wave of his hand. “Not for any price, d'you hear?”

Guinness managed to quote the price again in a more or less steady voice. To his vast relief, Tully dropped his hands away altogether.

“You don't mean it?” the man said thickly.

“I mean it,” Guinness said quickly, sensing victory within reach. “Won't you let me explain what I've just told your wife?”

Tully looked at his wife, who nodded urgently. At last he gave a grunt of assent. Looking round the room, he spied a near-empty gin bottle on a table against the wall, and went for it.

“Perhaps we'll hear what you have to say, lawyer,” he muttered, swaying as he lifted the gin bottle to his mouth. “Speak your piece, then, and be quick about it.”

Frank Cassidy had thought the most logical place to carry out his assignment would be the streets of Dublin City.

Although Fitzgerald had stressed that the girl, Finola, was clearly not
of
the streets, but more than likely had gentry—or at least decent folk—behind her, she had nevertheless emerged from the Liberties, that infamous womb of Dublin's slums.

After five days searching, he had turned up not even a whisper of information. Those that recognized the lass's name appeared to be genuinely ignorant of any knowledge, not only of her past, but of her present whereabouts as well.

Finally, just this morning, a brief chat with a bird-market man on Bride Street had yielded the suggestion that he seek out a gleeman—a street minstrel—called “Christy Whistle.”

“If anyone can put you on to something, it'll be Christy,” his informant had promised. “He knows what's worth knowing, and a good deal that's not.”

So this afternoon Cassidy had again tromped the cobbles to the Liberties, where Christy Whistle was supposed to have digs. He was on Thomas Street when he heard a tin whistle and spied a crowd. Stopping at the fringes of the bystanders, he took a long look at the musician in their midst.

The gleeman was unkempt, dressed in a worn frieze coat and cape, outrageously baggy trousers, and oversized brogues. Despite his looking the ragamuffin, however, he was a fine one with the tin whistle.

Cassidy saw that he also had himself a mouth harp hanging from one pocket and a squeeze box at his feet. Within a matter of minutes, the entertainer managed to play all three instruments and dance a bit of a jig. People threw money to him—a considerable collection, it appeared.

Obviously, the raggedy minstrel was another of the countless imitators of the legendary blind “Zozimus”—one Michael Moran, who, now passed on, had been acknowledged throughout the countryside as the grand patriarch of the ballad mongers. Such had been Moran's reputation that he'd spawned any number of mimics, who not only aped his bizarre apparel and eccentric lifestyle, but went to great lengths to match his musical ability.

This one was good. Cassidy turned to an old-timer standing next to him and asked, “Is he a Dublin lad, then, d'you know?”

The old man didn't bother to glance at Cassidy, but simply jabbed a finger in the minstrel's direction as he replied. “Indeed, Christy is one of our own, don't ye know? Raised in Faddle Alley, just like Zozimus. And as near like him in skill as any I've seen.”

Pleased to have found his man so easily, Cassidy stood watching, enjoying the show. The itinerant gleemen had always fascinated him, what with their traveling lifestyle, their scorn for ownership and ties, their fierce independence. Except for the winters, which they usually waited out in the city, they spent most of their days on the road, making their way up and down the countryside, taking in the fairs and all the towns along the way.

Closely related to the Traveling People—the Tinkers—and the
Seanchais
from olden times, the gleemen were known not only to be the preservers of the old music and traditions, but bearers of news and gossip as well, relaying what they knew in each town they traveled.

Like the revered and esteemed storyteller—the
Seanchai
—who was welcomed with honor in any village he chose to visit, the itinerant musician could also count on a generous measure of hospitality during his wanderings. The people seemed drawn to these blithe spirits, with their outrageous and often capricious manners, honoring their talents and respecting their ways.

Cassidy had long thought Morgan Fitzgerald to be a fascinating combination of both the wandering troubadour and venerable
Seanchai
—the name by which he was often called about the country. At least he
had
been, he reminded himself sourly, when he'd still had the use of his legs to carry him.

The thought of his friend's misfortune jarred Cassidy back to his surroundings and the reason he had come to Dublin in the first place. If there was information to be had about this girl Morgan was so taken with, he would find it. This, at least, was one thing he could do for the man who had befriended him when he needed a friend most.

Eyeing the street musician, who looked about to take a breather from his entertainment, Cassidy began to thread his way through the onlookers to speak with Christy Whistle.

25

The Dawn of Darkest Fears

Why is it effects are
Greater than their causes?
Why should causes often
Differ from effects?
Why should what is lovely
Fill the world with harness?
And the most deceived be
She who least suspects?

OLIVER ST. JOHN GOGARTY (1878–1957)

I
n the dark hour before daybreak, Finola awakened, violently ill again.

Lucy held her head as she heaved, then sponged her face with a cool cloth. All the while she comforted her, she wrestled with the problem of whom to call.

They would have to send for the doctor, no matter the early hour. The queasiness had come upon the girl, off and on, for days now. She was growing too weak, too faint by far, and it must not, could not, go on.

Just when it seemed she might be gaining a bit of strength, walking about, sitting up for her meals, she had taken this unexpected turn for the worst.

In the beginning, Lucy had tried not to make too much of it. Even to herself, she insisted it might only be the result of a cold, or the increased variety in her diet.

The nun had noticed, of course; there was no hiding anything from that one. Up until the past two days, however, they had refrained from telling the Fitzgerald how often the sickness came upon the girl, and how severe it was when it came.

That had been Finola's doing. She had tried her utmost to convince them all that this was no more than an unsettled stomach, that it would soon pass. Lucy knew what she was about; no doubt the girl was feeling shamed by the trouble she had brought upon the Fitzgerald household and meant to avoid any further imposition. She was too much the innocent to recognize that the man was hopelessly besotted with her, that nothing she could do would ever prove an imposition.

In any event, there could be no more delay. They must send for the doctor, and the sooner the better.

Leading Finola to believe she was going for more towels, Lucy hurried from the room. But whom to awaken? The nun, she supposed, although she dreaded the thought. The religious treated her well enough, but Lucy was no fool. No doubt her very presence offended the sister. More than likely, the woman crossed herself at the very mention of Lucy's name.

No, she would rather deal with the black man. Although she had always been a bit afraid of the dark sailors from the foreign ships, this Sandemon did not strike her as someone to dread. Big as he was, he had a kindness, a gentleness, about him. He seemed a man to respect, but not to fear.