Dawn of the Golden Promise (32 page)

She had slept much longer than she intended. Now she felt like a sluggard, slow and heavy.

Suddenly she remembered Gabriel. He was nowhere in sight.

She leaped to her feet, stumbling in her haste.

“Gabriel?”

He loved to hide, her wee son. He delighted in tucking himself in a remote corner—and there were endless such places in Nelson Hall—until someone came to find him. Then he would chortle and stretch out his arms to be picked up.

“Gabriel, where are you? Come to Mama at once.”

Quickly, she checked behind the divan, then the chair.

No Gabriel. Not a sign of him.

How could she have been so irresponsible as to fall asleep and leave him to himself? Her pulse raced as she went to the door that opened onto the garden and stepped out. “Gabriel—you must not hide from Mama! You are being very naughty.”

No answer.

Panic began to crowd in on her—unreasonable fear, she told herself. The babe was either hiding or playing somewhere close-by, that was all. She would find him burrowed behind one of the shrubs, laughing at her.

While he was standing there on the ladder, plotting his alternatives, Mooney caught a glimpse of movement off to the right of the house. He squinted, straining to see.

For a moment he thought someone was moving about in the garden, and he caught his breath, waiting. But all was still, and after a time he turned his attention back to the house.

Where was she?

Impatience jabbed at him, and he decided he had wasted enough time. He could not stay out here forever. He would do whatever he must to end the waiting.

And he would do it tonight.

Finola's hasty search of the garden proved futile. Her heart sped out of control as she hurried back inside, trying to think where to look next.

Aine…

Of course! The girl must have come and taken her little brother off to play.

Or had he awakened and gone to look for
her
?

The idea of her tiny son wandering off on his own brought a stab of real terror to her heart. It was such a big house…the grounds so vast…there were so many things dangerous to a baby like Gabriel, so many ways he could harm himself…

She ran down the hall to the stairway and, gathering her skirts, took the steps two at a time, calling their names as she went.

By the time she reached Aine's room, she was out of breath. But when she found the girl's bedchamber empty, she raced on down the hall to the nursery. Surely she would find them there.

The nursery was silent.

She stood in the middle of the room, staring.
She had to find her son!

She must stay calm.

She would go for Morgan…he would know what to do…

Then she remembered. Both Morgan and Sandemon had planned to go for a ride in the new wagon before dinner. More than likely they were already gone.

Turning, she retraced her steps, calling Morgan's name as she hurried downstairs. Without waiting for an answer, she ran to the front door, flung it open, and tore across the lawn.

Tierney's wagon was gone.

For a moment she hesitated. Bewildered, frightened, she could not think what to do.

Standing there in the deepening shadows of evening, with no sound but the soft keening of the wind through the trees and the slow running of the stream, Finola was suddenly overcome by a feeling of dread. A terrible weight of apprehension came bearing down upon her with relentless force.

She whipped around, staring at the house. The ancient structure, with its endless wings and battlements, its densely shadowed windows, seemed to take on a chillingly ominous appearance, like that of an unfriendly stranger.

Finola shuddered, then deliberately shook off the flash of foreboding. Pulling in a deep, steadying breath, she steeled herself to think rationally, without panic. Gabriel was perfectly safe. Why wouldn't he be, after all? He could not have wandered far. Those little legs, still wobbly, would not take him any distance. He must still be within the confines of his own home and family.

She strongly hoped he was with Aine…
please, Lord, let it be…
so the thing to do was consider where they would have gone, the two of them.

If not the nursery or the garden or Aine's bedchamber, where, then?

The stables…Aine's favorite place…

Of course! How could she have forgotten the stables?

Still breathless, clinging to the fragile threads of her self-control, she forced herself to walk rather than run up the gentle swell of lawn that rose toward the house. But instead of going inside, she went around, through the garden to the back.

For a moment she stopped, staring straight ahead at the wide stone stables set well behind the property, at the rear of the coach house. It would soon be dark. Already the grounds were draped in dense shadows, obscure and strangely threatening beneath the lowering clouds and hovering old trees that lined the property.

When Finola realized she was trembling, she felt an instant of disgust with herself, that after all she had been through she could still be frightened so easily. Then, chiding herself for her foolishness, she stepped out onto the path that led toward the stables.

He saw her the moment she came round the side of the house. At the sight of her he jerked so sharply he almost pitched off the ladder.

Leaning forward, he held his breath.

She was walking toward him, a pale specter, the evening wind ruffling the golden hair and the flowing dress, as the last light slowly drained from the day.

Watching her, Mooney felt his breath choke off. He suddenly recalled to mind with aching clarity the clean scent of her, the silken feel of her skin under his hands, the throbbing of her pulse at the base of her throat.

His hand tightened on the ladder. His heart began to bang violently against his chest as he watched her approach, then pass on by.

She was on her way to the stables.
No doubt in search of the girl and the boy.

His blood churned through him like a fury, surging to great waves of almost blinding force.

He dropped from the ladder and tore across the coach house to the back door, stopping just long enough to watch her enter the stables.

With his eyes still locked on the double doors, he bent to pull his knife from his boot.

He could not have planned it so well. It would be just like before. She would be helpless to stop him.

Then he would rid himself of her for once and for all. She would plague him no more.

He would make the younger one watch; then he'd have her as well. He would kill them both.

A surprise for the cripple.

His gut churned with excitement as he gave the door a push and stepped outside.

24

In haunted glens the meadow-sweet
Flings to the night wind
Her mystic mournful perfume;
The sad spearmint by holy wells
Breathes melancholy balm.

JOHN TODHUNTER (1839–1916)

N
ot for anything would Louisa have admitted that she wished they had taken the carriage to the city.

It was nearly dark, the road seemed uncommonly rough, and her feet cried out for relief. But they were over halfway home by now. Too late for complaining.

Her aching feet and troublesome back put her in agony, but she would not let on to Lucy Hoy what she had only begun to admit to herself: she was no longer young. Only months ago the walk to and from the city had seemed as nothing. She had reveled in the fresh air of the countryside and the accelerated pace of her blood.

Louisa had always maintained that her frequent constitutional kept her feeling fit and rather younger than her age, which was an indisputable fifty-one years. At the moment, however, she did not feel all that fit—and she most certainly felt her age. She reminded herself that she had stood in a classroom almost the entire morning, after which she had gone on to polish the furniture in her bedchamber. That careless upstairs maid seemed to have no use for polish; she would rather get by with a languid swipe of the feather duster.

She ought to have given the wolfhound a bath as well, she thought, watching him trot along beside her. He was looking downright scruffy, though she and young Aine had soaped him end to end only a week past.

As if sensing her intentions, the beast glanced at her out of the corner of his eye—a disconcertingly humanlike eye, Louisa had always thought—and immediately veered off to traipse a ways ahead.

“I don't know about you, Sister,” said Lucy Hoy with undisguised weariness, “but I'm wishing we had taken the carriage. Me poor feet feel as if the squirrels had been gnawing at them. Couldn't we rest for a bit?”

“We will soon be home,” Louisa said, resisting the other's suggestion to rest, much as she would have liked to. Instead, she lifted her chin and made a deliberate effort to pick up her pace, ignoring the protest sent up by her lower back.

“If you would walk with me more often, you'd not find the effort so taxing.” The sanctimonious tone in her own voice revolted her. She was even beginning to
sound
old. A sour old nun, that's what she sounded like.

Lucy Hoy gave her a dubious look but said nothing.

Louisa would have judged the other woman to be years younger than she, but a good deal rounder and of a more phlegmatic disposition. Lucy's idea of physical exercise, no doubt, was half an hour in a rocking chair.