Land of a Thousand Dreams (21 page)

It was a bitter thing, that it had taken a night of terror, an unthinkable vicious attack to make him face the truth…that he loved her.
He loved Finola.

Unhappily, his newly recognized love served only to add yet another dimension to the helpless rage in which he was already trapped. He did not know which knife now pierced more deeply into his soul: the imagined horror of the attack, the anguish of knowing how she must have suffered, or the guilt born of thinking he might have prevented her agony, might have spared her this grief, if only he had been a whole man.

The man he used to be might have overcome the obstacles—what was age, after all, or a missing past?—and gone in pursuit of her love, ignoring the consequences. The man he used to be might have claimed her affection, secured her promise, made her his bride.

But the man he was now, at this moment, could not even offer her a measure of comfort if…
please, God…
she managed to survive this nightmare. What possible comfort could he be, what haven could he offer?

What difference could he make?

You could be her friend….

The thought came unbidden, like a whisper from the very recesses of his aching heart.

Aye…that much, at least, he could do. He could be Finola's friend.

And how she would need one! What anguish, what horror, lay ahead if she survived?

At the very least, he could give her shelter, the protection of his household. A home. A family.

A faint, slowly dawning glimmer of hope began to rise in him. Hadn't he told her, and not so long ago, that they were all family, united in God? Finola and himself. Annie. Sandemon. Sister Louisa.

If Finola would allow it, they would be her family from this day on.

As for himself…he would be anything…everything…she needed him to be.

He blinked, straightening in the chair. He felt a sudden and urgent need to be with the family.
His
family.

He rang for Artegal. As soon as the pale footman appeared in the doorway, Morgan demanded the whereabouts of Annie and Sandemon.

“The girl—Miss Annie—is in the chapel, I believe, sir. As for
him”
—the footman's mouth thinned in distaste—“he said something about going to his room to…to do
battle.”

Morgan managed a ghost of a smile. He might have known that's where Sandemon would be. On his knees.

“Go up and tell him to come to the chapel, please, Artegal. Tell him to come at once if he can.”

The footman gave a disapproving sniff and a reluctant nod. “Very well, sir.”

“Tell him,” Morgan added, ignoring the footman's pinched expression, “that the family will do battle together.”

Annie Delaney had heard nothing from the Lord. She had prayed and begged, stayed on her knees for more than an hour now—the longest she had ever prayed in her entire life!

But no answer came. Not even a whisper. Not a single word of explanation or assurance.

Annie felt both anger and fear: anger at God's silence and fear that she would dare to be angry with Him. She supposed it was wicked to feel anger toward God, wicked to let go of such thoughts, for they might fly straight to heaven.

But she had kept them to herself as long as she could. She simply could not understand why God had helped her, a child unwanted, even by her own mother, to escape drunken old Tully and fly free to Dublin City, unharmed. Yet Finola, so good and gentle—a true child of God, loved by
everybody
—had been left on her own, unprotected, to be…savaged in such a terrible way.

Why?
Why had the Lord not rescued
Finola
? Why had He allowed her to be hurt? She might even die!

Annie began to cry harder. She would not think so! She would
not
Finola would not die…
could
not die!

“Please, Lord…please, Sir,” she managed between sobs, “if someone has to die today—and I confess I don't understand why that should be the case—but if it is, Lord, couldn't you just take somebody bad, somebody wicked—instead of Finola? I know you'd probably like to have her company, her being so pretty and as nice and kind as any angel must be! But we need her down here, don't you see? I'm not asking just for myself, Lord—the
Seanchai
does dote on her so. And he's near out of his wits, he's that frightened!”

The thought of the
Seanchai,
the brokenhearted look on his face when he had explained about Finola, brought on still another fit of weeping. Annie swiped at her eyes with her sleeve, blotting tears that simply would not stop falling.

Morgan stopped outside the chapel doors to give the wolfhound a reassuring pat on the head, then wheeled himself inside.

He stopped when he saw Annie. She was on her knees at the altar. As always, her thick black braids were askew, unable to contain the heavy, stubborn hair that Mrs. Ryan daily attempted to force into place.

Her back was turned to Morgan, but he saw the heaving of her narrow shoulders and knew that she was crying.

His own eyes stung at the sight of her grief, but he remained where he was for the moment. It was a rare thing indeed to see Annie weep. She might pout, often scowled, and could wither a strong man with her smile. But seldom…seldom, did Annie weep.

She prided herself on being nearly grown, and on being strong. She hated it when she was caught unawares, being a child.

But now Annie was crying, sobbing at the altar, weeping like a stricken child whose heart was broken. And yet, Morgan saw that, between sobs, the lass was praying.

Praying, no doubt, to her newly found Savior for the life of her newly found friend.

Annie, wee fey Annie of the sturdy heart and stubborn will, did love Finola, and now was grieving—and pleading—at the altar of the Lord.

She did not seem to hear his approach. She made no move to resist as Morgan wheeled himself down the aisle and reached for her. She looked up, scrambling to her feet and into his arms. He settled her securely on his lap and cuddled her head against his shoulder.

He thought his own heart would break as she shuddered in his arms.

“Seanchai…
oh,
Seanchai…
I don't understand!”
was all she could manage between wracking sobs.

Squeezing bis eyes shut, Morgan held her small, thin frame close. Murmuring softly in the Irish, he tried to console her. Even as he comforted, he drew a kind of strength from the child, this child he loved as his own.

Annie had suffered the torment of violence, too. She knew all too well the terror, the pain, of being beaten and abused. Perhaps she, better than any one of them, could understand and share the horror of Finola's nightmare.

As her sobs gradually subsided, Annie rubbed at her eyes with the palm of her hand. “Why didn't God rescue Finola,
Seanchai?”
she asked, her voice choked with unshed tears. “Why didn't He help her?”

Like a bitter echo of his own challenge to the Lord, Annie's question hovered between them. “Some things we are not meant to understand, child,” Morgan choked out. He went on rocking her in his arms as if she were naught but a babe.

Another tremor seized the narrow shoulders. After a moment, she pulled back just enough to look at him. “I don't understand why I got away, but Finola didn't,” she said, her dark eyes searing his skin.

Morgan realized then that she was remembering her drunken stepfather's last assault on her, the attack that had sent her fleeing her home, seeking shelter in the narrow streets of Belfast.

“Why,” she said again, “didn't God help Finola escape, instead of allowing her to be so badly hurt?”

Morgan drew a long, shuddering breath. “Ah, Annie,
alannah,
I do not know. I do not know. Your questions are my own, and I have no answers. For some questions, I'm afraid, there simply are no answers.”

Behind them, soft footsteps drew near. Two large hands—dark hands and strong—clasped Morgan's shoulder, then the child's.

Sandemon stood behind the wheelchair, touching them, drawing them into a circle of three. “You speak the truth,
Seanchai,”
the black man said quietly. His own voice seemed choked with emotion as he went on. “For some questions, there may not always be an answer. But, always…always, there is Jesus.”

Louisa found the three in the chapel. The child was in the
Seanchai'
s lap, the black man at their side, when she entered.

As one, they turned to watch her approach.

“What word?” the
Seanchai
blurted out.

“The surgeon is about to leave. He wants to speak with you.”

The big man in the wheelchair made no reply. He seemed to be holding his breath, reluctant to learn whatever the physician might have to tell him.

Finally, he managed a word. “Finola?”

Louisa had not understood before that moment. Morgan Fitzgerald was a man of impressive self-control. Even stricken with grief or dread, he kept his own counsel. His eyes revealed no secrets, though at this instant a glimpse could be gained of a mighty heart under siege. Yet the way he said the girl's name, breathed it, like a prayer, his intent green gaze pleading, told Louisa what she had not recognized before. He loved the broken girl with the silent scream.

She must not let him wait a moment longer. “Finola will live.”

He sagged with relief in front of them all. He simply went limp, with the child in his arms. Ducking his great head like a penitent restored, he moved his lips in what was obviously a prayer.

The child's thin little arms went around his neck, and when she murmured something in Irish to him, he nodded.

Sandemon's eyes locked with Louisa's in a question.

She shook her head as if to say she had no answers. They would wait on God.

The
Seanchai
lifted his head. “May I go to her now?”

Instinctively, Louisa again looked to Sandemon before turning back to her employer. “I think not,” she said carefully. “Not just yet.”

His gaze never left her face. “Why?”

Louisa hesitated. There was nothing, of course, but to tell him the truth. Still, she did her best to soften it. “The girl is just beginning to rouse. She's confused, naturally—disoriented. Her mind is wandering.” She paused, drew a steadying breath. “She is still very agitated—very disturbed. Even the sight of the surgeon seems to panic her.”