A Distant Shore (32 page)

“You could learn,” John said quietly, “if you desire it.”

Isobel gazed into his now-familiar face, his eyes dark but still glinting with that wry humor she so dearly loved. She squeezed his hands, her heart pounding and yet also feeling wonderfully full.

“I could learn,” she agreed, “and I will. That is, if… if you are asking me to. If you wish me to stay in Burma… with you.”

“I do wish it,” John said and to Isobel’s surprised delight he sank to one knee, his hands still clasped in hers. “Isobel Moore, I have come to know you and love you. Will you do me the greatest honor and pleasure of becoming my wife?”

Isobel blinked back tears as she urged him to his feet. “Yes,” she said, her voice choked with happiness. “Yes, I will.”

And smiling, his arms coming around her, Jack kissed his bride-to-be.

Boston, 1839

Maggie stood by the kitchen door of her aunt’s townhouse, her heart beating hard. Seamus had agreed to meet her here, so that he could finally talk to her aunt and uncle about his intentions.

His intentions! Maggie hugged those wonderful words to herself, and did a little twirl on her tiptoes. After his reluctantly-made confession of love, Seamus had actually, wonderfully asked her to marry him. Subject, of course, to her aunt and uncle’s approval, as well as that of her own parents.

Still Maggie had no doubts. They had come this far… he had admitted he loved her. Surely her aunt wouldn’t fight against that?

“Maggie.” Seamus appeared by the gate that led to the street and Maggie flew to him.

“Aunt Margaret and Uncle Henry are inside, in the drawing room.”

“My boots are muddy,” Seamus said, twisting his cap in his hands, and Maggie just laughed.

“Seamus! You can hardly conduct the kind of conversation you’re to have in the yard here. Wipe your boots by the door, if you’re so worried.”

“I am worried,” he said in a low voice. “You know that. I don’t feel—”

“I know what you don’t feel,” Maggie interjected. “But I also know what you do feel. You do love me?”

“You know I do.”

“Then that is all that matters.”

With a sigh and a smile Seamus drew her to him. “I pray it is so,” he murmured before brushing a kiss across her forehead. “I pray it’s so.”

The cook and two kitchen maids were stunned into silence as Maggie led Seamus across the room and to the hall that led to the front rooms of the house. The drawing room door was slightly ajar, but she knocked anyway.

“Aunt Margaret? Uncle Henry? May I—may we speak with you?”

There was a short silence, and then a rustle of paper. Margaret herself came to the door and opened it, her face tense and pale even before she caught sight of Seamus.

“Of course—” She drew herself up short. “Mr. Flanagan.”

Seamus bobbed his head in answer. “Mrs. Moore.”

“I cannot begin to wonder what you might be doing here,” Margaret said, and she sounded resigned rather than angry. “But I suppose I could hazard a guess. Come in, both of you.”

Maggie came into the well-appointed room, followed by Seamus. Both her aunt and uncle looked unhappy and anxious, and Seamus hadn’t even spoken yet. She supposed, as her aunt had said, his presence here was easily explained.

“I’ve come to speak of your niece,” Seamus began, his Irish brogue more pronounced than ever. “And my intentions towards her.”

“I was not aware that you were sufficiently acquainted with my niece to have any intentions towards her whatsoever,” Margaret said, her tone chilly, and Henry put one hand on her shoulder.

“Margaret—”

Margaret turned to Maggie, her lips pursed. “You have been deceiving me, Maggie, haven’t you? I asked you not to pursue this ridiculous attachment and yet you clearly have done so—”

“I didn’t deceive you,” Maggie protested. “I haven’t met with Seamus outside of the school—”

“And yet you’ve come to know one another well enough that we are all standing here, in this room?” Margaret finished, her tone rising in angry challenge.

“Yes, we have,” Seamus answered quietly. “And I promise you I have done nothing improper. My intentions towards Maggie are honorable. I wish to make her my wife.”

Margaret stared at them both, her face pale and bloodless. The anger seemed to have drained right out of her. “Indeed,” she finally said, and turned away.

“I’m pleased to hear of your intentions, Mr. Flanagan,” Henry said into the awkward silence that had descended upon the room. “For it’s certain we could use some good news about now.”

“Henry—” Margaret turned around, her hands pressed to her face. “Don’t tell her now, not like this—”

Maggie’s bubble of happiness at her uncle’s words seemed to burst right then and there. She stared between them two of them in confusion. “Tell me—?”

“It’s your father, Maggie,” Henry said gently. “We’ve just received a letter from your mother, and I’m afraid it’s not good news. He’d had some kind of trouble with his heart, and the doctor says his chances aren’t very good.”

Chapter Sixteen

Boston, 1839

His chances
. The words rattled around in Maggie’s brain over the course of the next week, as her Uncle Henry arranged passage on a ship to Charlottetown. Her father’s chances, as if life and death were simply a matter of luck, a capricious whim of fate.

But she hadn’t been raised to believe in such things… she believed in Providence, and a hand of destiny that hovered with sovereign knowledge over all things. Not silly, capricious
chance
.

And yet she wondered at her father’s chances as they sailed northward. She was not travelling alone; Margaret, Henry, and little Charlotte had all come, as had Ian, her mother’s brother, and his wife Caroline. And surprising and best of all, Seamus had booked his own passage on the same ship.

“If this is my only opportunity to ask your father for your hand, then I’ll take it,” he said, and tears had filled Maggie’s eyes at both the love shining in his eyes and the realization that if this were his only chance… her father might be going to die.

Standing at the rail as the ship sailed into Charlottetown’s harbor, Maggie was assailed with memories of her father, all of them achingly poignant. The way he called her Maggie girl, the craggy seams of his face splitting into a smile, the way he silently considered a question before making his own measured answer. She had chafed occasionally against his stolid, plodding ways on the farm, but she’d trusted him completely. Loved him utterly. The thought of a world where he wasn’t patiently tending to his tasks seemed a terrible—and terrifying—thing.

Seamus joined her at the rail. He had kept his distance from her on this passage, sensing her need to be with her family. But now she wanted him, and she reached for his hand as Charlottetown’s familiar line of buildings, from the military fort to the lighthouse, came into view.

“Tis a beautiful place,” he said quietly and Maggie swallowed past the thickness in her throat.

“Yes,” she said softly, remembering how just a few short months ago she had wanted to escape this place. “It is.”

It was nearing evening by the time they drove up to the MacDougalls’ homestead in a hired wagon. The island was alive with spring; the horses’ hooves churned up red dust and verdant fields rolled to the horizon, the sparkle of the sea visible as no more than a glimmer where sky met land.

The house seemed uncommonly quiet and even empty as the wagon rolled into the yard. Maggie scrambled down from the board, barely aware of the others behind her.

“Mam? Da?” She hurried up the weathered steps and flung open the door, her heart beating painfully hard. Blinking in the interior gloom, she took a step into the front room.

“Ah, Maggie,
cridhe
. I knew you’d come.” Her mother came from the main bedroom, her hair falling from its pins, her face drawn and haggard.

“Is he—is it too late?” Maggie whispered as her mother enfolded her in an embrace.

“No,
cridhe
. Not too late. Your father is still with us but—” Harriet’s voice broke and she drew a shuddering breath. “God help us, it won’t be long.”

“Oh, Mam.” Maggie pressed her hot face against her mother’s shoulder, tears seeping from under her lids. “I shouldn’t have gone to Boston. If I’d been here, I could have helped—”

“Nonsense, child. There is nothing you nor I nor anyone could have done.” She drew a little away from her, her smile sorrowful, the weight of the world on her shoulders and reflected in her eyes. “Now, Maggie, will you have tears when you greet your father? He wants to see you smile, and remember you happy.”

“Oh, Mam—” Her voice choked, Maggie held her hands up to her tear-streaked face and wiped her cheeks. “I’ll try.”

“Good girl.” Harriet went to greet the others and drawing a deep breath, Maggie turned to the bedroom where she knew her father lay.

The first sight of him made her still right there in the doorway, realization pouring through her afresh. Her father looked like a shadow of the man he’d once been, the man she remembered. His hair was thin and sparse, his face gaunt and pale against the pillow. His eyelids fluttered as Maggie approached and although he couldn’t speak he lifted one hand feebly to bid her greeting.

“Da,” Maggie whispered, and came to sit by his bed. She reached for his hand and gently pressed it against her cheek. “It’s Maggie, Da. I’ve come home.”

He nodded, barely, and Maggie felt his fingers stir against her face. “It’s so good to see you again, Da. I’ve missed you, you know. I thought I’d love Boston, but I discovered I’m more of a farm girl than I thought, or perhaps even wished to be.” She let out a trembling laugh and her father’s worn face creased into a lopsided smile. “But I did find a different kind of love… one I never expected to find.” She heard the door creak open behind her and knew instinctively it was Seamus. “I’ve found a man, Da. A good man, a man I know you’d like and respect. And he wants to marry me.”