Land of a Thousand Dreams (6 page)

“By
she,
I expect you mean the NUN,” Morgan said grimly, replacing his pen on its brass stand.

Sandemon gave a nod, and the smile widened. “Sister Louisa, yes. She is waiting in the entryway.”

Morgan gave a deep sigh. “We might just as well have done with it, then.” Convinced now that the black man was indeed prepared to enjoy himself, Morgan glared at him. “I still think it's a mistake, hiring a NUN.”

Sandemon inclined his head. “But you agreed to the wisdom of employing a woman, that her influence could be invaluable, both for the child and for the Academy.”

“Aye, and I still agree that a woman on the premises might be a fine thing for Annie and for the school. That in no way means I think it wise to hire a NUN.”

Sandemon shook his head. “It seems an ideal solution to me. Sister Louisa comes with classroom experience and the calling to a holy life. Surely both will serve as a positive influence for the child.”

Morgan straightened slightly in the wheelchair.
“Sister Louisa
,” he contradicted sullenly, “also comes highly suspect. I can't quite help wondering why the order would be so eager to send her off to a stranger's house outside the city.”

Sandemon pretended not to notice Morgan's testiness. “The sister requested permission to interview, as you know.” He paused. “She indicated God's guidance in the matter, I believe.”

Morgan's only reply was another sour frown. He had nothing against nuns in general. He admired their self-sacrifice, appreciated their life of service, and acknowledged their usefulness to the church. Sandemon need not know the truth: that he tended to stand somewhat in awe of the sisters, indeed could be all too easily cowed by the smallest slip of a woman in a black habit. Nuns were saintly beings, lived holy lives—in general, bore no likeness to most of the women in his past.

In any event, it would not do for Sandemon to suspect that his employer could be terrorized by a nun. He would, no doubt, take great delight in such a discovery.

At the other's not-too-discreet throat-clearing, Morgan straightened. “Show her in,” he said, replacing his spectacles. “Let us see why the sisters were so willing to part company with her.”

While Sandemon went to fetch the applicant, Morgan wheeled the chair to the window. It was a soft morning, veiled with rain and light fog rising from the stream that ran along the west side of the grounds. Leaning forward a little, he stared out the window, mulling over his resolve to hire a woman for Nelson Hall.

Obviously, she would have to be a woman of impeccable reputation and unquestionable morals. No doubt a nun, as Sandemon suggested, might prove an ideal solution. And not simply for Annie, but for their new young friend, Finola, as well.

The thought of the golden-haired beauty brought a smile, then a frown. He was resolved to see Finola out of the brothel where she was living. He would bring her here, to Nelson Hall, where she would be safe, where he could see to her well-being. Perhaps, should she so desire, he could even arrange for her to study within the Academy. She had indicated more than once a desire to advance her education.

Certainly, the girl's muteness was no mark of a dull intellect. To the contrary, her mind seemed a place of shooting stars and bubbling springs, where light was ever stirring and ideas flying.

In the months since he and his household had befriended the mysterious young woman, Morgan had become more than a little fond of her. She was a frequent guest at Nelson Hall, and with each visit he desired to know her better. She was a continual delight to them all, a gift. Indeed, Finola's presence in the sprawling, gloomy halls of the estate was like a spray of sunshine, captured and poured out indoors.

Morgan was intent on finding the key that would eventually unlock the secret of Finola's silence. He had become increasingly convinced that she had once possessed a voice. His experience with his niece, Johanna, who was both deaf and mute, had given him some understanding of the affliction. He was absolutely certain that Finola held the memory of spoken words, as well as the instincts of one who had not always been mute. The ease with which she formed words on her lips as she signed on her hands, the way the muscles in her throat worked as if instinctively—Morgan knew with near certainty that Finola had once spoken.

He knew little else about her. Beyond her name and where she lived, she had revealed virtually nothing about herself, not even her age. That she was Irish went without saying. She knew the old language, readily understood Morgan when he spoke it. She seemed a devout Catholic, comfortable in her relationship with her God. But on those rare occasions when he inquired about her past, she simply gave a helpless shrug, turning on him a look of such bewildered dejection that he felt almost shamed for having troubled her with his questions.

Yet an urgency drove him to see her removed from Healy's Inn. He feared for her safety, living as she did in a known house of prostitution, in the heart of one of Dublin's most disgraceful slums.

The women who had taken her in years ago apparently treated her well, much as a pampered little sister. They dressed her in their own gowns, gave her light household chores to do around the establishment and, in their own careless way, looked after her needs.

But they also taught her to paint her face like theirs and frequently sent her off in the carriage dressed in one of their nearly indecent gowns. The sight of the girl's innocent loveliness marred by the garish cosmetics and gaudy apparel invariably set Morgan's blood to boiling like a fury. It was bad enough, he would rail at Sandemon, that her youthful beauty should be tarnished so cheaply. But couldn't the fools see the jeopardy in which they were placing the girl? A lovely woman, painted and packaged as if she were one of them, living in their midst—it was dangerous beyond imagining!

They professed, of course, to closet Finola from the “clients” who came and went. But there was no way they could protect her entirely, Morgan knew. She was at a continual risk, never completely out of harm's way.

The decision to employ a woman as a classroom instructor and a part-time companion for Annie had been, in truth, only one part of a larger plan. Eventually, Morgan wanted to move Finola here, to Nelson Hall. Certainly, a nun would provide such an arrangement the required respectability. Indeed, the more Morgan considered the idea, the more feasible it seemed.

At the sound of a commotion in the hallway, he wheeled around to look.

Just inside the doorway, dwarfed by Sandemon's presence, stood a diminutive woman in a nun's habit. Her carriage was rigid, her chin thrust forward as she came the rest of the way into the room.

Surprised, Morgan saw that the nun had firmly in hand two red-faced, spluttering boys, one on either side. The O'Higgins twins, Barnaby and Barry. Identical in appearance—roaring red hair, like caps of fire, and blue eyes—the two were equally matched in mischief. The school's first two scholars, these. And after only a few weeks of probationary enrollment, they had become the bane of Morgan's existence. When he had envisioned his Academy, they were
not
what he'd had in mind.

Only days after their arrival, the
gorsoons
had managed to fill his inkwell with tea and coat the chalkboards with soap. In short time, Morgan had realized that the father of the two, an acquaintance and fellow Young
Irelander, apparently viewed the new Academy as a detention hall, where the boys might do penance for their sins while being disciplined.

Morgan had already written to Jerome O'Higgins in Cavan, by way of informing him he was not running an establishment for potential young felons, and that he could collect the two wee heathen forthwith. As yet he had received no reply, which didn't surprise him in the least: were such savages his own, he, too, would delay in having them home.

“Seanchai,
I am pleased to present Sister Louisa,” said Sandemon, breaking into the twins' grumbling with a look of dry amusement.

Sandwiched between the O'Higgins twins, the sister was small, even petite, with the ageless smooth skin that seemed endemic to nuns alone. Morgan knew from her records, however, that she was close on fifty.

At first glance she almost appeared to be held captive by the little pagans. Closer observation revealed, however, that it was the rowdy O'Higgins lads who had been apprehended, not the sister. Indeed, the nun had a firm grasp on the tender upper arms of both her charges; and though their flushed faces were wild with anger, they clearly knew they were trapped.

Taken aback by this remarkable scene, Morgan eyed the nun with a combination of awe and trepidation. Her eyes were too large for her face and too dark to reflect the soul behind them. A small, perfectly aligned nose turned up with a certain arrogance, while the woman's chin remained as fixed as a stone.

Morgan met her gaze, squirming under its intensity. For an instant, he felt as trapped as the unfortunate O'Higgins lads. He attempted a smile, felt it crumble under her fierce stare.

After a moment, Sandemon stepped in to redeem the situation. “Allow me to take these two off your hands, Sister. And, please, do forgive such a rude reception.”

“You'll take them nowhere at all until they apologize for their behavior.” Her voice was low, the tone unexpectedly smooth and composed, but her grip on the two troublemakers remained firm.

Morgan spoke for the first time. “Indeed,” he rumbled, fixing his fiercest glare on the two miscreants. “Apologize to the sister. At once!”

Barnaby, whom Morgan distinguished by the wider mask of freckles that banded his nose, pursed his mouth to a pout, saying nothing. His twin, Barry, met Morgan's glare with a fierce scowl of his own.

Sandemon moved to transfer the two to his keeping. The nun bristled. “I
said,
they will apologize before leaving the room.” Again, that peculiar voice—a velvet sheath, ribbed with steel beams.

“You heard the sister, you little monkeys!” Morgan snarled. He would not have his authority undermined by this wisp of a nun. “Say your piece, and say it at once!”

The apologies were muttered, the words indistinct.

“I'm afraid I cannot hear you,” admonished the nun.

After identical scowls, the twins raised their voices and recited their regrets with more clarity, if not with any real enthusiasm.

“It's not for me to decide,” said the nun, looking from Morgan to Sandemon, “but were they my responsibility, I would suggest mucking the stables on a daily basis. It seems a waste not to apply such energy to constructive use. Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “they're quite old enough to help out in the kitchen as well.”

“The
kitchen?”
shrilled the twins with identical outrage.

The nun's dark eyes seemed never to blink. “Indeed,” she said in an entirely level voice. “The kitchen. Perhaps next time you will stop and think before throwing a dead wren into the path of a nun.”

“A
dead wren!”
Morgan exploded, half rising from his wheelchair by the force of his arms.

The nun lifted one dark brow as if to rebuke him for shouting. “I'm sure they'll not be so wicked again, Master Fitzgerald.” After a moment she added, her tone still quiet and altogether controlled, “You'll be wanting my references, I expect. May I sit down, please?”

Sinking back in the wheelchair, Morgan stared at her, then managed a stiff nod.

He waited for Sandemon to haul the O'Higgins terrors, now noticeably subdued, from the library before commencing the interview. During the lull, he had the oddest sensation that he'd somehow skipped a moment in time—that Sister Louisa had been hired, had taken charge, and the rest of them were now in her employ.

The interview was nearing its end, and Morgan knew little more about the nun than he had at the beginning, at least in the way of any personal information.

Her references, on the surface, appeared exemplary. She had instructed in the classroom for nearly two decades, had even developed a specialized course of study for those children whose learning capacities were impaired. Her education was extraordinary, her achievements many and varied. She also, according to her records, excelled in the arts; in particular, she was an accomplished portrait and landscape artist.

Moreover, her deeds among Dublin's impoverished seemed too great to number. Obviously, she was an indefatigable worker, a selfless Christian servant.