Land of a Thousand Dreams (41 page)

No doubt Lucy Hoy would do her best for Miss Finola. But unless he was mistaken, she was more likely to focus on the evil that had been done. Indeed, she seemed unable to see anything beyond the wickedness of the attacker and the tragedy of the attack itself.

That was understandable, of course. But at some point…soon, please, God…somebody needed to consider the unborn and, sadly, unwanted child.

She was being told now…at this moment…and Morgan felt as if he might as well have been an ocean apart from her.

Even during the long and terrible time of her silence, when she lay removed from them all in what had seemed an endless dream—even then, he had not felt so altogether
separated
from her.

In the solitude of the chapel, he tried to close out the sounds of the household, that he might be alone before God and with his own thoughts. He stayed in the back, in the shadows, staring at the simple wooden crucifix behind the altar.

For a long time, he simply sat in the wheelchair, his eyes locked upon the cross. His heart was too anxious, his thoughts too troubled and confused, to do anything more than simply…be still. Be still and wait, hoping that some glimmer of light, some faint wisdom or insight into the darkness of these days would come to him.

She is to have a child…the child of the animal who raped her and beat her….

As always, the memory of what had happened to Finola slashed at his heart, made him moan aloud.

Wasn't it enough that she had been beaten and abused? Was she now to bear the irrefutable evidence of her horror, a daily reminder of the agony? Why this, now, when she had finally begun to heal?

“Why?”

The sound of his own voice raised in anger amid the hush of the chapel made him glance around guiltily. After a moment, he slumped a little in the chair, closing his eyes.

He was mortal-tired, so exhausted his bones ached. He had not slept throughout the long, dismal night, and all during the morning, his emotions had raged from one storm to another. At first seized with a white-hot anger—a righteous anger, he told himself—he had gone on to utter bewilderment, frustration, and finally raw grief.

Now, however, he was merely tired. Tired and heartsore. Yet he was determined to find a way to keep this thing from destroying Finola.

Morgan massaged his aching temples.
Oh, Lord…Lord, You know the innocent she is. You know what she has been through—the evil and pain inflicted upon her. You know the horror she has endured, only to be assaulted with still another burden.

How is she to survive it all, then? It would be easy enough for her to lose her mind altogether, to simply drift back to wherever she was before….

He opened his eyes. A cold hand of fear clutched the back of his neck. He could not,
would
not, let that happen. For this time, he knew with a chilling certainty, she would not return to him.

He gave a long, heaving sigh, once more turning his eyes on the crucifix at the front of the chapel.

Give me the wisdom to know what to do for her, how to help her. Please, You who are called Merciful, show our Finola Your mercy.

Finally, he again closed his eyes, his mind repeating the plea for mercy like a litany. He sat that way for a long time, slumped wearily in the wheelchair, allowing the cool, quiet peace of the chapel to enfold him.

“A
child?
” Finola pulled herself up in bed, gripping Lucy's hands as if to stop the violent trembling of her body.

“There now,
alannah,
hush…hush. You will hurt yourself! It will be all right…we will make things all right, you will see….”

Finola scarcely heard Lucy's words of reassurance. She was only dimly aware of the room around her: the high, plump mattress that seemed to be swallowing her whole…the gray afternoon light fighting its way through the drapes…the mirror on the opposite wall…the massive chiffonnier….

“A
child
?” she whispered, more to herself than to Lucy. “I am to have a child?” She fell back against the pillows, stunned to the point of numbness.

Once she had dreamed of having a child, of being a mother. She remembered…a long time ago, in another place, she had rocked a rag doll and sung childish little lullabies, pretending it was her very own babe. A boy babe, it had been….

Lucy clasped her shoulder, rousing her from her thoughts with a gentle squeeze. “Finola, do you understand, love? Do you mind what I'm saying?”

Slowly, Finola nodded, looking about the room again to make sure this was no dream. There had been so many dreams of late. Sometimes it was nearly impossible to distinguish the real from the imagined.

This place—Nelson Hall—this was real, she knew, as were its people. The
Seanchai
—Morgan. Lucy. Annie and her big wolfhound. The kindly Sandemon. Sister Louisa. The gently sloping grounds outside, the trees and gardens she could see from her window—all this was real.

She had put away the ugliness and pain, relegated it to the dream world. She would not think of it again, that terrible dream. The man who hurt her…

Had there been only one? Sometimes she thought there were two… she would not remember him. He was not real. None of the evil was real, not any longer.

But a
child?
A child made it real! Now she could not be certain what was a dream and what was not.

“So it was real, then?” she said aloud.

Still bending over her, Lucy held her hand, smoothed her hair. But she made no reply. Even when Finola tugged at her hand, drawing her closer, she remained silent.

“His
child!” The words tore from Finola's throat like a cry of raw pain.

Not looking at her, Lucy gave a short nod. “Aye,
his.”
She fairly hissed the words, her eyes burning with undisguised hatred. “Spawn of the devil!”

Finola went limp. She tugged her hand away from Lucy, hugging her arms to herself like a shield.

So it had been no dream, after all. The brutal man…the pain…the terror…the ugliness…

It had all been real. She would bear a child. A child who would make it impossible to forget.

“Finola, it will be all right. Listen to me now—
listen
to me!” Lucy braced both hands on either side of Finola's shoulders, forcing her to meet her eyes. “You need not have this child! That much at least, we can spare you!”

Still hugging her arms to herself, Finola stared at her, unable to think of anything but the child.

“There are ways,” Lucy went on. “The girls at Gemma's—many's the time they got rid of a sailor's unwanted seed. I did it myself, once. Do you understand, Finola?
You need not bear this child!”

Understanding filtered through the maze of Finola's mind. She had heard whispers among the women, bitter, coarse words, angry murmurs…quickly silenced when they realized she was near.

She searched Lucy's eyes, listening in spite of herself.

“There are midwives—wise women—in the Liberties. And surgeons, too. We'll get the black man to fetch one of them here. You need not trouble yourself,
alannah.
I will see to this for you.”

Finola began to tremble again. Avoiding Lucy's eyes, she looked desperately around the room, as if she could somehow escape the truth. “Finola?”

Reluctantly, Finola turned her gaze back to Lucy.

“Don't think about it now, child. Just you rest for a bit. We'll fix you some warm milk and get you a sleeping draught. Later, after you're more yourself, we'll talk. Later.”

Long after Lucy left the room, Finola continued to stare at the closed door. She felt as if a horse had kicked her in the heart. A hot flood of tears welled in her eyes, and, caught up in a sudden seizure of hopelessness, she wept uncontrollably for a time.

This was not the way a woman should have a child, this was not what she had dreamed of. A child should have a good mother who loved it, with all her heart. There should be a home, a husband—to be father to the child. Bright days. Music and laughter within the rooms. And love. Much love. Things should be…right. Exactly right.

It should not be like this. Without love, without family—a child born out of cruelty and terror, conceived in sin!

Spawn of the devil,
Lucy had called it.

A choking sob ripped from her, a wail of hopelessness. Her dreams had turned to a hideous, ugly nightmare!

After a long time, she lay, depleted, weakly attempting to combat the violent swells of nausea rising up in her.

Somehow she found the strength to face the truth, that the ugliness she had thought a nightmare was all too real. All of it. The terror…the ugliness…the pain…the child—all real. There was no denying it. The vicious shards of reality stabbed at her mind and heart, tearing her to pieces.

God help her…it was too real…too unbearably, horribly real….

But Lucy had said she need not bear the child. There were ways, she said…there were ways….

Could she do that? Destroy a child? A child growing inside her?

A guilt so fierce it took her breath slammed against her heart, frightening her with the enormity of what she was considering.

What Lucy had suggested was surely the worst kind of sin! Would it not be murder? The priests said life was sacred…God-given…
all
life, they said, was precious, even that of the unborn.

Could she actually do such a thing, such a wrong, sinful thing?

For an instant she attempted to pray, but allowed the words to fall from her lips, unfinished.

God would not hear such a prayer. She could not speak to Him of the nightmare, the evil things that had been done, her sinful thoughts about the child—she did not dare to bring such vile things before a holy God!