Dawn of the Golden Promise (16 page)

Morgan studied Jan Martova through narrowed eyes, unsettled by the way the boy was watching Annie. After a moment, he transferred his attention to the girl, who was obviously unaware of her admirer's scrutiny.

Admirer?
The instinctive use of the word made his own appraisal of Annie turn yet more intense.

When had she changed so?

She was growing up, this adopted daughter of his.

Though the face was still a shade too thin, the black-marble eyes too large by far, there was a softness to her features he had not noticed before tonight. It was still a child's face, with a wide mouth and saucy nose, but someday soon, Morgan realized with a jolt, his Aine would be a startlingly beautiful young woman. Already the milk-white complexion had taken on a becoming flush, and the unruly mane of midnight hair seemed to be touched with bronze highlights; highlights which, he was quite certain, had not been there before.

She would not be a tall woman, like Finola, but no doubt what she lacked in height she would make up for in spirit.

Where had the time gone?

As if sensing his gaze on her, the girl turned and grinned at him. Morgan managed only the weakest of smiles in return. He was absurdly relieved to see that the gap between her two front teeth was still there.

Remembering what had set him off to begin with, he returned his attention to Jan Martova. His jaw tightened. Had the object of the Romany's interest been anyone other than his thirteen-year-old daughter, he might have felt a touch of amusement at the furtive glances arcing in her direction. Young Martova had all the recognizable symptoms of hopeless adoration that Morgan recalled from his own youthful experiences with matters of the heart.

But
Annie
?

Unthinkable! She was a child still, for all the promise of approaching womanhood.

As for the Gypsy…

Morgan's mind touched on, then skittered past, the reminder of the youth's Romany blood. He refused to confront his feelings toward the Gypsies in general. If he were to be wholly honest, he would have to admit to at least some degree of prejudice.

Besides, there was more at issue here than a difference in blood or culture. Jan Martova must have passed his twentieth year by now. Despite Morgan's own tendency to think of him as a boy, the Gypsy was in fact a man, albeit a young one. Why, there were
years
between him and Annie!

Just as there were years between himself and Finola…

He jerked as if he had taken a blow. He glanced at Finola, reminding himself that the gap between their ages was different. Finola had not been a mere child when she came to him, but a woman.

Besides,
he
was not a Gypsy.

Again the unpleasant hint of intolerance rose to the surface of his mind. Everyone knew that Gypsy men often took young girls in marriage, or at the least negotiated nuptial contracts with their parents. Even if these arranged marriages were delayed until the prospective brides were older—and Morgan wasn't so sure that was always the case—he found the prospect of a Romany ogling his daughter nothing less than outrageous.

Still young Martova
was
a believer, a Christian. And to his credit, he did seem devout, intent on living a decent life. Morgan had seen no sign of backsliding in the Gypsy.

Abruptly, he chastised himself for his own foolishness.
Whatever was he thinking?
Not only had he fallen into comparing the Gypsy and Annie with himself and Finola—had he taken to evaluating the youth's spiritual condition as well?

Preposterous!

He straightened in the wheelchair. Deliberately, he stared at the Gypsy youth until he caught his eye, then leveled his fiercest glare on him. The boy's dark skin flamed, as if Morgan had found him out, and he quickly looked away.

Across the table, Annie roused herself to attention. She watched as Finola carefully placed the sky-blue shawl, knitted by Sister Louisa from the softest wool, alongside the small woven mat that Lucy had presented for the new prayer closet.

With a deep breath, she stood to hand Finola the portrait, wrapped in plain paper. She saw almost immediately that all her fretting had been for nothing.

After studying the sketch in silence for a moment, Finola turned to her with a brilliant smile and held out her arms. “Such a
wonderful
gift, Aine,” she said, drawing Annie into a vigorous embrace. “I shall treasure it always!”

Pleased beyond words, Annie was content to watch as Finola opened Tierney Burke's gift—an imported silk fan. It occurred to her that he must have spent the better part of his stable wages on such a treasure. Perhaps this would show Sister Louisa, who had once deemed their American guest a “thoughtless, undisciplined
gorsoon
,” that Tierney did have generous instincts after all—when he thought to reveal them.

While Finola was still admiring the fan, Jan Martova approached her chair. “I, too, have a gift for you,” he said quietly. As was his custom when in Finola's presence, he bowed his head in what appeared to be an instinctive gesture of respect.

Clearly surprised, Finola smiled at him as she accepted the gift. Still smiling, she drew back the folds of a brightly colored silk scarf to reveal a small penny whistle.

For a moment she simply sat staring at the tin whistle, almost as if she had never seen such a thing before. Suddenly she seemed to stiffen and go pale. Gasping for breath, she jumped to her feet and shook off the instrument as if a serpent had been tossed into her lap.

Then she screamed—a long, terrible wail that rent the room with anguish. Her eyes rolled back, and she went limp.

Annie leaped from her chair. At the same time the
Seanchai
flung out his arm in an attempt to hold Finola as she swayed. But it was Tierney Burke, still standing near Finola's chair, who caught her just before she crumpled to the floor.

10

Woe to us, woe! the thunders have spoken…
Through the cleft thundercloud the weird coursers are rushing—
Their hoofs will strike deep in the hearts they are crushing…

LADY WILDE (1824–1896)
“S
PERANZA
”—
FROM
T
HE
N
ATION
, 1849

F
or a moment Morgan couldn't take in what had happened. He froze as he saw Tierney sweep Finola into his arms, not an instant too late. His eyes darted to the tin whistle flung onto the floor, the bright silk scarf discarded nearby.

Finally the sight of Finola, limp as a rag doll in Tierney's arms, roused him, and he whipped the wheelchair out from behind the table. “Over there,” he said. He motioned Tierney to the rug in front of the hearth, and followed him to the fireplace.

The moment the boy lowered Finola gently to the floor, both Sandemon and Sister Louisa knelt beside her. “A dead faint,” Sister said, looking up at Morgan. “I'd best get the smelling salts.”

Morgan blinked, his mind scrambling to understand what had happened. “Lay a fire, if you will,” he said to Sandemon, without taking his eyes from Finola. “The room is cold.”

“Seanchai?”

The soft entreaty from behind him made Morgan turn and stare. The Gypsy stood in the shadows near the sideboard. His dark eyes were troubled, his hands clenched. “Is it…something I did? She loves the music so, I thought only to give…I meant no harm…”

He let his words drift off, unfinished.

Morgan stared at him. For an instant, he felt his anger at the Gypsy boil up and threaten to explode. The feeling was irrational, he knew. Whatever had triggered Finola's bewildering behavior, obviously it had not been prompted by any malice on the part of Jan Martova. The Romany's confusion and misery were written all over his face.

“No blame is due you,” he managed to concede. “Who can say what brought this on?”

Yet it was obvious that the penny whistle had in some way triggered the fainting spell. Morgan's mind raced.
What had Frank said? Something about a tin whistle being found by the lake, near the body of Finola's father…

Suddenly the rest of Cassidy's words came with dreadful clarity:
“The Kelly lad said she often walked along the lake, playing the penny whistle. Seems the music teacher—the Frenchman—gave it to her…”

Morgan felt a tremor of dread. The rain that had been falling throughout the evening now flung itself in wild torrents against the house. The wind was up, wailing and gusting through the dense fortress of trees all about the estate. Chilled, he crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed his shoulders as he studied Finola's still form.

He watched as Sister Louisa returned with the smelling salts and dropped down to administer them. Finola stirred slightly, moaning, then murmured something too soft to understand.

Morgan leaned forward. “What did she say?”

Sandemon had returned to kneel between Morgan and the prostrate Finola. Without turning, he shook his head. “A name, perhaps? I'm not sure.”

Again Finola twisted in resistance to the smelling salts. She whimpered as if in pain, her head thrashing from side to side.

Sister Louisa withdrew the stimulant, but Finola continued to writhe and utter soft sounds of protest.

Her moaning grew louder.
“Father! Oh, no, Father!”
She flailed her arms, crying out as if in agony.
“Garonne!”

Garonne…

The word struck Morgan like a hammer blow.
A French name…the music teacher had been a Frenchman…

Suddenly, Finola gasped. Her eyes came open, and horror filled her gaze. The scream that ripped from her throat made Morgan draw back, startled.

“Father! No. Father—No!”

She looked to be in the throes of some sort of attack. Morgan stared at her, his muscles locked in anguish. He leaned forward, meaning to touch her, then drew his hand back.

Softly, he called her name, then again. “Finola…Finola,
macushla. '
Tis all right. All is well. You are safe, Finola.” Bracing one hand on the kneeling Sandemon's shoulders, he continued to lean toward Finola, calling her name quietly but firmly.

Slowly she turned her gaze on him, her features frozen in what appeared to be mortal terror. She began to tremble, slightly at first, then more violently. “
Garonne
…” she choked out.

“No, 'tis Morgan,
macushla.
Only Morgan.”

A glazed look of confusion washed over her features. Morgan waited, saying nothing. Finally, he saw the trembling subside a little. She struggled to sit up, and Sandemon hurried to help her. Immediately she reached for Morgan.

“Shh, now,
macushla
,” he murmured, taking both her hands in his. He sensed that she was badly disoriented and would be distressed by all the attention turned upon her.

“Help us upstairs,” he said to Sandemon, his voice low. “We would be alone.”

With a nod, Sandemon lifted Finola gently into his arms and carried her from the room.

Behind them, Morgan stopped only long enough to press Annie's hand and look into the girl's frightened eyes.

“
Seanchai?
What is it? Is Finola all right?”