Land of a Thousand Dreams (66 page)

42

Gifts of the Heart

He'll meet the soul which comes in love
and deal it joy on joy—
as once He dealt out star and star
to garrison the sky,
to stand there over rains and snows
and deck the dark of night—
so, God will deal the soul, like stars,
delight upon delight.

ROBERT FARREN

Dublin
April

T
he night before the wedding, Sandemon and Annie were still hurrying to complete the last details of the gift which might, at least in part, fulfill a certain dream.

The two of them were hard at work in the stables, their heads bent low over the project. The wolfhound sat nearby, watching their efforts with a skeptical, though polite, expression.

Intent on her part in things, Annie bit her lip almost to bleeding as she held the last part of Sandemon's invention in place to be hard-soldered.

“This…should…do…it,” said Sandemon, easing back from his work at last to appraise the finished product.

Annie also contemplated the results of their efforts, imitating the black man's solemn nod of approval. “A fine job,” she said, glancing at Fergus as if to say,
I told you so.

“Only if it works,” cautioned Sandemon. “It remains yet to test its effectiveness with the
Seanchai,
later tonight.”

On her knees beside their creation, Annie refused to even consider failure. “Of course, it will work, Sand-Man! You
said
it would!”

Raising his head, he nodded distractedly. “We must take it into the house now. Later, I will present it to the
Seanchai
and help him experiment with it.”

Annie would have liked very much to see the
Seanchai
's face when he beheld their creation, but the hour was already growing late—and Sister had given strict orders that she report to her yet tonight for some last minute instructions.

No doubt she intended to “do something” with Annie's hair. Sister tended to become a bit wild-eyed about things like clean hair and clean socks and clean fingernails.

“You must tell me every word the
Seanchai
says when he sees it,” she reminded Sandemon.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Even if it's a total failure and he thinks us demented?”

“If it's a success, he will think we're quite wonderful,” she pointed out.

Helping him to wrap the culmination of two weeks' work in paper and canvas, she changed the subject. “I'd like your opinion on something, Sand-Man.”

Straightening, he wiped his hands on his trousers. “A rare occurrence, surely.”

Annie frowned at him. “This is important. I've been thinking a great deal about it. Now that I am truly the
Seanchai'
s daughter, what do you think I should call him?”

The black man put a hand to his cheek, considering her question. “You're wondering if you should no longer call him
Seanchai,
is that it?”

Annie nodded. “What do you think would please him most?”

“The
Seanchai
knows,” he said after a moment, “that you held a great affection for your birth father, God rest his soul, and, certainly, he does not intend to usurp that affection in any way. I believe he also understands the depth of feeling you hold for him. So, then, it is my opinion that, however you choose to address him, he will be pleased…for the devotion in your eyes, child, names him ‘Father' with every look.”

Annie beamed at him. “You are very wise, Sand-Man.”

He smiled at her, and Annie blurted out, “I'm awfully glad you're a part of our family!”

“Thank you, child,” he said softly, still smiling. “I am greatly blessed to be among you.”

In her bedroom, Sister Louisa inspected her gift with a sharply critical eye, hoping all the while that she had not been presumptuous in the planning. There was no denying the fact that it was somewhat…unusual.

True enough. But, then, so was this wedding. Neither the groom nor the bride could be considered conventional.

Indeed not. She smiled a little, pausing in her appraisal of the gift to remember the upbraiding she had received from the
Seanchai
the night she dared to question the marriage. For one so obviously intimidated by nuns in general, he had certainly put her soundly in her place.

Lest her examination of the gift give way to vanity, she put it away, taking care to conceal it from curious eyes.

At a sudden hard hammering on her door, she realized her caution had been well advised.

“Come in, child.”

“How do you always know it's me, Sister?”

Louisa studied the braids, askew as always, the grease-smudged face, and the eager wolfhound, who, at the moment, looked far more presentable than the child.

“It is I,” she corrected automatically. “And I always know it is
you
because you announce yourself so vigorously.” She glanced again at the dog, who walked in, tail wagging, and immediately plopped down at Louisa's feet.

“He's looking quite handsome,” she observed to them both.

The child grinned and preened. So did the wolfhound.

“I gave him a bath first thing this morning. For the wedding.”

Sister Louisa regarded her with suspicion. “I do hope you're not planning to take the dog into the chapel.”

The wolfhound lifted his head, grinning hopefully as he looked from one to the other.

“Certainly not!” said the child, tossing her braids. “Fergus will be attending the door.”

“By whose consent?”

“Sand-Man and the
Seanchai
both agreed,” declared the child, with obvious delight.

Sister Louisa lifted her eyes heavenward, marveling not for the first time at the foolishness of grown men who really ought to know better.

“What is that?” asked the sharp-eyed child, spying the gift propped up in the corner.

“That,” said Louisa firmly, “is private. Now come here. We really must do
something
with your hair. We'll start with a thorough brushing.”

The child scowled. The wolfhound sighed.

Louisa prevailed.

Finola had expected to feel painfully awkward with Morgan this night, on the eve of their wedding. But after a few moments alone with him, she forgot her own discomfort in an attempt to ease
his.

At least three times since having her things moved earlier in the week, he had inquired if she was comfortable, if she was pleased with her new rooms. Tonight he went through the same explanations once again, as if he could not reassure her often enough that his intentions were entirely honorable.

“Morgan, these rooms are beautiful,” Finola said, again trying to reassure him. “You see? Even Small One has given her approval.”

Morgan glanced toward the massive bed, where the black and white cat, utterly contented, was curled up in the center of the coverlet.

At the sound of her name, Small One opened one eye and looked at Morgan. Then, slowly, she stood up, yawned, stretched languidly, and stalked to the head of the bed, where she made two circles before settling down on the pillow and shutting her eyes again.

Morgan did not seem convinced.

“These were my grandmother's rooms,” he repeated for the fourth time. “I had them freshly decorated just for you.” Once more he pointed out that he meant for her to have the largest and finest bed chamber—and the one with the most expansive view of the grounds. He admitted to wanting her near, especially with the child coming and what with Lucy now having a room of her own, albeit adjacent to Finola's.

“Is she still so terrified of me, by the way?” he asked somewhat gruffly. “The woman fairly quakes every time I enter the room.”

Finola had been standing at the window, gazing out at the moondusted grounds below. She turned, smiling a little at the grudging tone of his voice.

“Perhaps not terrified,” she said. “Perhaps…only mildly panicked.”

He drew a long breath. “I have been kindness itself of late. I don't suppose she's mentioned that.”

Again, Finola was struck by how ill at ease he seemed, despite his obvious attempts to be casual. “In fact, she
has
told me. And she's most grateful. Oh—and she likes her new room very much. She thinks it's quite grand.”

“You've only to say so, you know, if you want her things moved back,” he reminded her. “I just thought that, since you're feeling some stronger now, you might like a bit of privacy.”

She nodded, coming to sit down in the rocking chair opposite him. “This will work out well, I think. Lucy needs some privacy, too. She's had little time to herself, since…”

She let her words drift off, still unable to give voice to the ugliness of what had happened.

As always, he seemed immediately sensitive to her thoughts and quickly moved to change the subject. “I don't suppose you've learned anything more about what went on, to bring about this remarkable change in her.”

Brightening, Finola shook her head. “Only what I've told you. Apparently she and Sandemon talked. She says he ‘showed her the Light.' I do know she is much changed. She reads the Scriptures like a starving soul at a banquet—and she spends much time in the chapel. She loves the chapel.”

Morgan nodded. “The man is truly a wonder,” he said, smiling to himself. “Though a stern taskmaster with me,” he added wryly. “He's waiting for me now—it seems there is something we are to do yet tonight. I did remind him that tomorrow is my wedding day, but he was unmoved. He said he would wait.”

For a time they were both silent. An awkward silence. Now and then he would glance at her, or Finola at him, each quickly looking away when the other smiled.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “I told you that I would present you with the wedding ring tomorrow,” he said stiffly.

Finola nodded, wondering if he was having second thoughts.

“Yes…well, I hope you'll be pleased with it. I had it designed especially for you.”

“I'm sure it is lovely,” Finola said, studying her hands with great concentration.

Again, silence. Then, “Finola?”

She looked up, and he wheeled his chair a bit closer to her. “I…wanted you to have this tonight. It is my wedding gift for you…and there is something I would say.”

Studying his dear, strong face, now taut with uncertainty, Finola watched him withdraw an ivory-colored case from inside his coat.

“I would be pleased if you would wear this…tomorrow…for the ceremony,” he said, handing her the case.

Again he cleared his throat. The brilliant green eyes looked everywhere but at her for a moment, then returned to rest on her face. Holding the still unopened case in her hand, Finola thought she could not bear the tenderness in his gaze.

As always, his voice was gentle when he spoke to her. “I would like you to know, Finola, that I am infinitely grateful to you for agreeing to become my wife.”

Startled, Finola stared at him and would have protested, had he not gone on. “You cannot imagine how proud it makes me that you are willing to wear my name. You are giving me a priceless gift, and I am thankful beyond all words. Please,” he said, gesturing to the case in her hand, “open it.”