Land of a Thousand Dreams (57 page)

Desperately, she searched for just the right words to comfort the girl. “You must never forget, Finola, that you belong to God; you are His beloved. He sees you only in the light of His love, and you are pure and undefiled in His eyes.”

With some difficulty, Louisa forced a note of cheerfulness into her voice. “The white satin, Finola, is perfect for you—truly it is. You will wear it in beauty and in grace. You will be radiant, and the
Seanchai
will be pleased.” Her voice faltered for an instant; then she added, “As will our Lord.”

Annie could not sleep. Countless times her mind danced through the events of the evening, savoring them over and over again, determined to store for a lifetime each moment. And with each recollection, her happiness grew, her excitement swelled, her smile broke wider.

For the second time that night, she scrambled out of bed and plopped down on her knees. On the opposite side of the bed, Fergus stretched and lifted his head just enough to peer over at her.

Apparently he was growing accustomed to seeing her in this position, for he merely gave a great yawn and went back to sleep. Lazy wolfhound!

Repeatedly, Annie gave thanks, praying aloud. Somehow, speaking in a normal tone of voice made it seem more likely that the Lord was right here, in this very room, keeping company with her.

She thanked Him…again…for her adoption, for the approaching wedding, the babe to be born, the new joy that now seemed to be permeating Nelson Hall.

“Oh, and before I go to sleep, Sir—though in truth I do not see how I shall ever sleep this night—but just in case, I want to ask You once more to please bless my mother. The
Seanchai
says it was the loving thing she did, giving me this opportunity.”

Annie stopped, feeling her happiness begin to recede and determined not to let it. “The
Seanchai
doesn't think I know the truth, Lord. He would have me believe that Mum gave me up because she loves me and wants what's best for me. He wouldn't like knowing I understand the true way of things, that I was always just a bother to her and Tully, that she never really wanted me at all.”

She pressed her lips together, determined not to let anything darken this shining night for her. None of it mattered anymore, not a bit. No longer would she waste time feeling sorry for herself and contemplating a bleak future outside Nelson Hall. She was now the…the
legitimate
daughter of Morgan Fitzgerald himself.

Pressing her face into the palms of her hands, she breathed in another deep sigh of happiness. She thought she understood why the
Seanchai
didn't want her to know the truth.

“It's because he really loves me, isn't it, Lord?” she whispered into her hands, smiling. “He truly, truly, truly loves me! And I am going to make him proud, I am! I will be the very best daughter he could imagine.” She paused, thinking. “Although I expect I'll be bothering You even more, from now on, Sir, for as You know, my good intentions are usually better than my behavior.”

Still smiling, Annie touched the brooch that she had fastened to the neck of her nightgown. “Well, I expect I should try to go to sleep now and let You attend to some other prayers. I know You're busy, and You've already done more than enough for me. So…goodnight, Sir. And thank You again.”

Much later, while the household slept, Sandemon, still dressed, paced the bedroom.

He had been restless throughout the last hour, had even found it difficult to concentrate during his prayer time. Then the idea had come, only moments ago, and now it would give him no rest.

It could work, he thought. It
would
work, with careful planning. But the time was short before the wedding, and his hours were already filled with much to do. Still, he required little sleep. He would use the two hours before dawn, when the
Seanchai
slept most deeply.

And, later, he would enlist the help of the child. He smiled. No doubt the
Seanchai
's new daughter would be pleased and eager to combine efforts in the creation of such a very special gift—a wedding gift. They had succeeded in keeping a secret once before, had they not?

Yes, and they would do it again.

Eager to begin, and knowing sleep to be impossible, he decided to go to the stables and take stock of his supplies. After looking in on the sleeping
Seanchai,
he put on his shoes and, closing the door quietly behind him, started down the hall.

On her way to the kitchen, Lucy Hoy tried to avoid the chapel doors, as she always did. Somehow, even the thought of the holy place made her feel dirtier and more vile than ever.

For a time after Finola's tragedy, with Gemma's place and the life of the streets behind her, she had attempted to overcome her feelings of defilement. She had hoped that this new life, so far removed from the drunken sailors and her wicked past, would eventually bring about a kind of cleansing, even enable her to forget her shameful yesterdays.

Instead, her self-disgust and hatred had grown more intense. This separation from the past, instead of distancing her from her sin, had only seemed to increase her awareness of it. At the same time, the slightest contact with something holy—like the chapel—chilled her blood and made her want to turn and run away.

Yet, inexplicably, she could not seem to approach it without stopping to peer inside. After a moment, she cracked the doors and stood staring into the dark sanctuary, shuddering at the holy hush within. Finally she started to back away, as if some heavy, unseen hand had warded her off.

The woman's back was to him as Sandemon turned the corner and started down the hallway.

He stopped, watching her. With one hand on the chapel door, which was partially open, she stood staring inside.

It was a familiar scene. Any number of times, he had seen her, standing just like this, staring inside the chapel—but always safely outside the doors. Evidently, something about the chapel itself drew her, as if she were fascinated, yet unwilling to enter.

Clearing his throat so as not to startle her, Sandemon said, “You may go in, you know. The chapel is for everyone.”

She whipped around, letting the door swing shut. A hand went to her throat. “No—I—no, I don't want to go in. I was just—curious, is all.”

Sandemon nodded. “Still, remember that it is always available to you as a member of the household.”

She made a weak attempt to jest, her chin trembling as she said, “Sure, the timbers might fall in, were a sinner such as myself to enter.”

Sandemon smiled at her. “I think not. This is a very old house. I'm sure far worse sinners than you have walked through those doors over the years.”

The woman said nothing, but simply stood, looking acutely embarrassed and miserable.

“You are troubled,” Sandemon said. The words came unbidden, and he felt an instant of surprise.

She made no reply, but he had a sense of some overwhelming conflict raging within her. He saw the anxious, evasive glances, the slight tremor of her hands. The woman was in pain.

She was also frightened.

To be pursued by the Ancient of Days, the Holy God, could be a terrifying thing.

He remembered.

Suddenly, she looked at him and blurted out, “They will ask me to leave soon!”

Sandemon frowned, but she hurried on before he could protest. He heard the fear behind the rush of words. “They will! He doesn't approve of me, you know it's true! He will hire a nurse—a regular nurse—for Finola, and then he'll send me packing, you just see if he doesn't! He doesn't think I'm good enough to take care of her—or the child! He looks at me as if I'm—diseased!”

So that was it. She had reached the point where she imagined her own hatred for herself reflected in the actions of others. “The
Seanchai
would never condemn you. He is not that kind of a man. He might have been impatient with you once, for what he thought was a minor negligence. But I explained that I was at fault, and he has never mentioned it since that night.”

She wasn't listening. Shaking her head, she said again, “He will send me away. He will!”

Studying her, Sandemon felt a great pity overwhelm him. “And where would you go?” he asked softly.

Slowly she raised her head and looked at him. “I've only one place to go,” she said dully. “Back to Gemma's.”

A sense of her despair shuddered through Sandemon. “But you would not choose to do so?” he questioned gently. “That is not what you want?”

Slowly, she dragged her gaze back to his, and the agony in those world-weary eyes pierced his heart. “I would rather die,” she said flatly. “When I look back on that time now…it is like a memory of hell.”

Sandemon nodded, understanding all too well. “I know,” he said softly, to himself. “I know.”

Abruptly, her eyes blazed. “You do
not
know! A man of God—what could you know about hell?”

The knife twisted even more deeply. “I am no man of God,” he answered quietly. “I am only a man
saved
by God. And I have my
own
memories of hell, Miss Lucy.”

Her eyes widened, questioning.

The urgency inside Sandemon swelled to a thunderhead, and he knew that it was time. Once again, the time had come to break the silence, to unseal the tomb of the past.

All that was light within his soul seemed to flicker and go out. For one terrible moment, a keening rose up inside his spirit, like the wailing of the damned, and he longed to flee: flee the woman, Nelson Hall, and his memories.