Land of a Thousand Dreams (46 page)

A crimson flush spread over the nun's face. “Your motives are admirable,
Seanchai,
but such a marriage would be a lie before God, not a sacrament!”

“I seem to remember,” Morgan pointed out nastily, “that you've been known to take issue with some of the sacraments.”

“You would be doing the girl a terrible disservice! Binding her to a loveless marriage, a hopeless union—”

The last of Morgan's composure snapped. “It would not be a lie, nor would it be loveless! Not that it's any of your affair—but I happen to
love
Finola…very much.”

His blunt admission stopped her, but only for a moment. The nun, Morgan had learned, was remarkably quick at regaining her composure.

“Still,” she said, her voice shaking, “you would be compromising the sacrament if you wed, knowing there can be no real union—”

A look of horror settled over her sharp features. Had he not been so angry, Morgan might have been amused by her sudden discomfiture.

“I repeat, Sister Louisa, that this is none of your affair. But since it seems you have taken it upon yourself to act as my spiritual advisor, let me assure you that I am altogether capable of a real…
union.
My legs may be paralyzed, but I am still a man.”

She stared at her feet, at the floor, at the window behind him—everywhere but at him. “I'm terribly sorry…I didn't mean—”

“I know what you meant, Sister,” Morgan said heavily. “And you are quite in order to be protective of Finola. But let me explain something: although I am capable of being a husband to her in every way I have no intention of forcing myself on her.”

He sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Finola has been hurt—deeply hurt—and her healing will take time. But I intend to afford her every protection while she is recovering. Both she and the child will have my name, and I will do all within my power to shield her from further humiliation.”

Sister Louisa slanted a glance at him. “But what,” she ventured, “if Finola finds that such a marriage is not enough for her?”

Morgan squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, his gaze boring directly into hers. “I don't have to tell
you,
Sister, that a wedding which is not…consummated…can be annulled by the church. If the time ever comes that Finola desires to be free of me, I will not seek to hold her to her vows. But in the meantime, I intend to be a faithful husband to her—and a father to her child.”

He paused and looked at the nun, who stood speechless before him. “In
my
mind, Sister Louisa, this is
not
simply a ‘marriage of convenience,' nor is it a lie or a sham. I will be a true husband to her, as long as I live—or as long as
she
desires it.”

He cut her protest short with a wave of his hand. “If Finola accepts my proposal, her child will have a name. And Finola will have a home—as well as the financial security that comes with being my wife. Now, then,” he said, pushing himself away from the desk, “if you have no further admonitions for me this night, I believe I will go upstairs.”

Drawing herself up to her full height, the nun looked him in the eye. “I apologize,” she said with apparent sincerity, “if I offended you.”

Morgan sighed. “No offense taken, Sister,” he said wearily. “Goodnight.”

30

Honorable Ambitions

There is always hope for all who will dare and suffer;
Hope for all who surmount the Hill of Exertion, uncaring
Whether their path be brighter or darker,
smoother or rougher;
…There is always hope for those who,
relying with earnest
Souls on God and themselves,
take for their motto, “Labour.”

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803–1849)

New York City
Early March

I
do wish you felt up to g-going today, Nora,” Evan said, allowing her to fuss over his neckcloth at the last minute. “I wouldn't have committed the b-boys to sing at this affair if I'd known you couldn't be there.”

“Don't be foolish, Evan! You were exactly right to agree.” Nora smoothed his stiff white collar once more before sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Besides, even if I'd been feeling perfectly fine, I'm showing enough now that I'd not want to be seen in such a public gathering.”

With a sigh, Evan sat down beside her and took her hand. “I confess,” he said, “that I simply d-do not understand why women in the family way are expected to stay out of sight. It doesn't seem right to me. N-not at all.”

Glancing down over herself, Nora touched her abdomen and smiled. “I expect we make others uncomfortable,” she said. “Especially the menfolk. And the larger we get, the more uncomfortable we make them.”

Silently, Evan recognized that his discomfort had nothing to do with Nora's appearance; it stemmed solely from his concern for her well-being. Aloud, he simply uttered a short acknowledgment of her reasoning.

“Besides,” she went on, “it's not as if none of the family will be there. You'll have Johanna and Daniel John.”

“That's true. It was good of D-Daniel to ask Johanna along.”

Tucking a small wisp of hair behind her ear, Nora said, “The boy has always been the one to think of others. And even though Johanna won't be able to hear the music, she'll enjoy an outing. The poor girl spends too much time entirely, cooped up in the house helping me.”

“Johanna loves you very m-much.” Evan pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, then, getting to his feet, helped her up. “It appears to me that she's only too glad to help.” Fingering the buttons on his suit coat nervously, he said, “I suppose we m-must be going, or we'll miss the ferry. That wouldn't d-do at all—not today!”

“Everything will go wonderfully, Evan—I know it will! Just you remember—I'll be praying every moment!”

He kissed her one more time. “I'll be counting on that! I've never d-done anything like this in my life, and I
d-do
want the boys to feel g-good about their performance!” He stopped. “You're
quite
sure you'll be all right, with no one. here b-but Tom?”

Nora laid both hands on his shoulders and smiled into his eyes. “Ach, will you stop your fretting, man, and get on with you! I will be fine, and your boys will be grand! But not if their director doesn't show up because he missed the ferry!”

Michael looked so handsome!

Sara Farmington Burke beamed as her husband concluded his speech from the podium in the ballroom. Convincing him to visit her father's tailor had been almost as much struggle as coaxing him to speak. But the result was a splendid black suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and enhanced his dark hair—and made her the wife of the most dashing man in the room!

Sara felt about to burst with love and pride as she watched her handsome husband woo the crowd—a crowd made up of some of the wealthiest and most influential members of New York's society. The upstairs ballroom, spacious and elegant, gleamed like a jewel, its stained-glass windows ablaze in the afternoon sun. The silver and enamels had been polished to a dazzling sheen, and mosaics and fine paintings splashed the room with myriad colors.

As Michael fielded questions from his listeners, Sara became keenly aware that his appeal to the audience wasn't due solely to his good looks and charm—although certainly he had more than his share of both. No, while there was no denying the fact that he was almost arrogantly good-looking, he obviously had something more, some unidentifiable quality that had caught the interest—and apparent respect—of the crowd on a much deeper level than charm and good looks ever could.

Sara felt guilty in admitting, even to herself, her initial surprise at the crowd's reaction to her husband. She hadn't quite known what to expect; at the back of her mind had lurked the unsettling possibility that she had coerced Michael into doing something that might work against him.

She knew most of these people, knew many of them quite well. She felt sure that the majority of them were good Christian people with a sincere desire to help others. Just as certainly, she knew there were others among them who had come simply out of a perverse sense of curiosity, or merely to socialize. The idea of expending either effort or financial resources to aid the tenement dwellers was the furthest thing from their minds—especially when most of those tenement dwellers happened to be
Irish.

But overall, the coterie had surprised her—and so had Michael. He'd proved himself more than equal to the crowd, indeed had actually ended up in control of it.

Among the men and ladies milling about the podium were some of the stiffest shirts in New York. Yet, apart from a few sour-faced holdouts, Michael seemed to have won the respect of the group.

Darting a look at her father across the room, Sara saw that both he and Simon Dabney, the big, elegantly attired lawyer beside him, seemed to be as intrigued with Michael as everyone else.

“Your son-in-law is rather a surprise,” Simon Dabney observed, not taking his eyes from the Irish policeman at the podium.

“Really? In what way?”

Dabney glanced at Lewis Farmington. “Actually, I'm very impressed with him, Lewis. I'm also a little curious about him. What kind of ambitions does the man have, do you know?”

“Michael?” Farmington's gaze returned to his son-in-law. After a moment, he gave a rather curious smile. “I doubt that you'd understand the ambitions of a man like Michael Burke, Simon. I doubt that very much.”

“I don't suppose you're going to elaborate on that?”

Still smiling, Farmington crossed his arms over his chest. “How many uncompromisingly honest men have you known, Simon? Any at all?”

“Lewis—you insult me,” said Dabney in a cheerful tone of voice, not in the least insulted. “Let's see now—I assume you mean present company excluded—so that would narrow things down considerably.”

Lewis Farmington laughed. “As I thought. You admit the world of politics is populated with less than noble characters.”

“Actually, the New York world of politics is rapidly becoming populated with
Irish
characters—as I'm sure you know. And,” Dabney added with a simulated sigh, “I'm afraid their record for honesty doesn't rate any higher than anyone else's.”