Land of a Thousand Dreams (67 page)

With trembling fingers, Finola slipped the latch on the smoothly polished case. She gasped, putting a hand to her throat when she saw the exquisite treasure within: a finely carved pendant of purest ivory, in the graceful shape of a swan, suspended on a thin, delicate gold chain.

Her eyes filled with quick tears as she traced the outline of the swan with one. finger. “Oh, Morgan! It is quite the loveliest thing I have ever seen!

He smiled into her eyes as if her words gave him great pleasure. “You will wear it, then?”

“Oh, of course, I will wear it! I…may I put it on now?”

“Please,” he said.

When her hands continued to tremble so badly she couldn't release the clasp, he took it from her, wheeling his chair around to her side and slipping the chain over her hair as she dipped her head.

Finola straightened, touching the pendant at her throat.

He was staring at her in the strangest way, his hand on hers, his eyes somewhat glazed. “Even ivory,” he said softly, “seems a poor thing in the light of your loveliness.”

He leaned toward her then, and Finola held her breath. “May I?” he whispered. Finola's heart leaped when he touched his lips to her cheek, so lightly she almost thought she had imagined it.

He backed away immediately, again reaching inside his pocket. “This is meant to accompany the pendant,” he said, pressing a piece of folded paper into her hand. “But I would ask that you not read it until later, after I leave you.” He paused, then added, lightly, “Which I will do now. You must rest, and the West Indies Wonder awaits my presence.”

Finola caught his hand. “Morgan…”

He waited, smiling uncertainly.

“There is something I, too, would say. I…want you to know that I think you are…quite wonderful. And I am more than pleased. I am overwhelmed…to wear your name. And this lovely gift.”

He left her then, wheeling himself quietly from the room with one last glance as he said goodnight.

After he was gone, Finola sat for a moment, fingering the ivory pendant. At last, she opened the paper he had placed in her hand. For a moment she had difficulty making out the words, for she was forced to read through a mist of gathering tears. Finally, she saw that it was a poem…a poem written by one called
The Singer
for one named
The Swan.

It was a wondrous piece of writing, an enchanting prose-poem composed of love and light and promise. When Finola reached the final lines, she was breathless at the beauty of the words, in awe of the power of Morgan's gift…and utterly and overwhelmingly moved, to know that she was to be the wife of such a man….

“Now life's lake is full of loveliness,

The sky filled up with splendor,

And my heart can only measure joy

By overflowing founts….”

43

Wonder upon Wonder

For the stars will sing a love song,
And the angels add their voices,
As the gift of love is granted
To the Singer and the Swan….

MORGAN FITZGERALD (1849)

I
n the vestry off the chapel, Morgan Fitzgerald subjected himself to the strong arms and capable hands of his attendant.

Fidgety as he was in these last moments before the ceremony, he was nevertheless mindful of the ways his brawny black friend had changed his life—and all for the better.

The West Indies Wonder's most recent stroke of genius was finally in place, and well concealed. It had actually taken less than twenty minutes to secure the iron braces over Morgan's legs—a rather impressive record, considering that their initial efforts the night before had engaged more than an hour.

Now he sat fixed in his chair, legs sprawled straight out in front of him, as he watched Sandemon make one last inspection of the crutches—odd-looking contraptions, designed with broad, platform tips, and reinforced with iron rods running the length of the bows.

Although his iron-encased limbs were discreetly covered by his trousers and a lap robe, Morgan was keenly aware of his awkward condition.

“I feel for all the world like a trussed turkey,” he muttered.

The black man glanced at him. “A well-dressed one, at least.”

Not amused, Morgan glared. “You are absolutely certain this will work?”

“There are no absolutes in life,
Seanchai
,” Sandemon answered mildly. “You, of all people, surely know that.” After another moment, he gave a small nod of satisfaction and braced the crutches against the wall of the vestry. “We do know that it worked last night, and very well.” He paused. “If you are unwilling to risk it, there is still time to remove the braces,” he added gently.

Morgan gripped the arms of the wheelchair. He had already decided it would be worth the risk. “We will proceed,” he said with far more confidence than he felt. “What is the worst that can happen, after all?”

A rare look of uncertainty crossed the black man's face, driving Morgan's own doubts to a new high. Clenching his jaw, he waved a dismissing hand. “Ah, well…the chapel floor is of rugged construction,” he cracked, managing a sickly grin. “At the worst, I will make a great crash.”

Sandemon chuckled. “Like thunder from heaven.”

Unwilling to consider the possibilities too closely, Morgan moved to change the subject. “Who knows about all this?”

His companion turned and looked at him. “You told me to use my discretion. I thought it best if most of the household knew, so early this morning I mentioned the surprise to Artegal.” The ghost of a wry smile curved his lips. “Always a sure way to spread news. Still, it seemed best. Otherwise, by tomorrow the city would be rife with rumors that wonders and miracles are occurring at Nelson Hall.”

“I am not sure the rumors would be greatly exaggerated,” Morgan said softly. “Since you came to me, my friend, I have seen definite signs of Divine intervention at Nelson Hall.”

The black man looked at him. “Still,” he said, lifting one eyebrow, “I think it wise that the people know today's wonder to be…undergirded, at least in part, by human effort.”

Morgan looked at him, then burst out laughing. “Well put, and no doubt you're right. I'd as soon not have pilgrims traipsing through the rooms of Nelson Hall in search of a miracle.”

Leaning forward, he examined his legs once more. “You left instructions that no one enters the chapel until the doors are opened?”

Sandemon nodded. “The wolfhound is standing sentry over the doors. Sister Louisa is also to come down early.”

“Mm. Yes…well, for my part, I'd rather go up against a wolfhound any day than a nun.”

“Especially
our
nun,” Sandemon remarked.

“Indeed.”

On her way down the stairs, Sister Louisa could see that the doors of the chapel had already been opened. With no one in sight, she assumed that most of the household had been seated by now.

Soft harp music came drifting out the open doors, and the mixed fragrance from lavish sprays of flowers reached even the stairway.

Hurrying the rest of the way downstairs, she started toward the chapel, stopping short at the incredible sight that greeted her.

Decked out in a stiff white shirtfront—obviously hand-made by someone whose stitches were large and shamefully clumsy—the wolfhound sat just outside the chapel doors. He seemed enormously pleased with himself, as, no doubt, was his sponsor, the
Seanchai
's daughter.

Louisa shot a glance heavenward, heaved a resigned sigh, then bent to give the wolfhound a quick pat of approval. He grinned happily as if to say he was having himself the fine time of it.

Returning to the landing, Louisa stood, hands clasped at her waist to stop their nervous trembling, as she waited for a glimpse of the bride and her young attendant in the upstairs hallway.

Inside the chapel, there was a rustling among those awaiting the commencement of the ceremony.

Eyes widened and necks craned as the
Seanchai
himself entered the chapel from the vestry, the West Indies black man right behind the wheelchair, carrying a pair of oversized crutches.

The
Seanchai
was resplendent in a fawn-colored suit and bronze silk ascot, his full head of hair brushed to a blazing copper sheen.

Interest piqued even more as the black man handed the
Seanchai
the crutches, then returned to stand behind him.

There was a collective intake of breath as, gripping the master under his arms, the black man slowly…very slowly, and with obvious care…raised him from the wheelchair to his feet.

Once he was upright, with Sandemon still supporting his weight, the
Seanchai
braced the crutches under each arm. His eyes still locked on the black man, he leaned slightly forward to balance his weight, then gave a nod.

A hush fell over the chapel as Sandemon slowly released his hands and took a step backward.

There was a long silence, then a collective sigh of relief. Some wept and made the sign of the cross. Others gaped at the master's height, nearly forgotten after so long a time in the wheelchair.

All thrilled to see the smile that swept his strong features as he turned his face toward the doorway of the chapel.

Morgan flinched, nearly losing his balance, when a blast from the organ heralded the approach of the bride.