Dawn of the Golden Promise (29 page)

Basking in utter contentment, he sat in his wheelchair in a clearing near the round tower, watching a Wicklow sunset. Finola, lounging on the grass beside him, leaned against the chair.

He felt inordinately pleased to have been the one to introduce her to the Vale of Glendalough—the Valley of Two Lakes. The isolated mountain setting, so rich in natural beauty and ancient history, had long been special to him. One of the loveliest spots in Ireland, Glendalough was a place where the past, with all its romance and legend, seemed to reign untouched, unmarred by the Island's troubles and tragedy. Even the famine's devastation could almost be forgotten amid the serenity and beauty of this secluded valley.

He had always found a kind of healing here, as though the site itself held restorative powers. Perhaps the ruins of the Seven Churches, those antiquities scattered throughout the valley, were responsible for giving the area a sense of time forgotten. Possibly the mystique of the place centered about Saint Kevin, the sixth-century Celtic mystic who had lived a hermit's existence here. Certainly, those legends played a part in the mood of reverence and sanctuary that seemed to engulf the entire locale.

Or perhaps it was simply the valley's remoteness, its solitude, which Morgan found renewing. Whatever it was, there was nowhere he would rather be at this moment—and no one he would rather share it with than Finola.

If she had ever been here before, she had no memory of it. And because it was all new for her, Morgan almost felt as if he were seeing it for the first time as well, through her eyes.

He sighed a great sigh, and felt her hand tighten on his.

“Are you tiring, Morgan?”

He turned to look at her. With her hair tied back in a blue ribbon and a faint blush of color on her face from their hours in the sun, she looked wonderfully young and healthy.

And happy?

“I have never felt better in my life,
macushla
, and that is the truth.”

She smiled and again pressed his hand. “This was a fine idea you had for us. I will always be glad we came.”

“Truly? I had hoped it would be special for you.”

“Oh, it has been, Morgan. I can't tell you how special! Why, if I weren't eager to get back to our Gabriel and Aine, it would make me sad to think of leaving.”

He nodded, sharing her feelings. Despite missing the children, this trip had been a kind of gift. As brief as it had been, it was in fact their wedding journey at last—their first time to go away by themselves.

Sad to say, he had never had the opportunity to court his wife, never played the suitor, never wooed her. He had been her friend and her husband, her companion, and her lover. But he had never been Romeo to his Juliet, never really pursued her or romanced her.

Circumstances had forced them to forgo the traditional courtship. Because they had moved—leaped, actually—from friendship to marriage, Finola had missed much that other young women took for granted.

Even now, as husband and wife, they found precious little time to be alone. They lived in a large household, and a busy one. Because of his own physical limitations, Morgan needed to have Sandemon nearby most of the time. As for Finola, wee Gabriel shadowed her everywhere. Precious few were the moments she had alone, except for those times when the wee one slept or when she managed to slip away to her prayer closet.

Even Annie tagged after her relentlessly, for Finola seemed to have become to the lass a combination of mother, older sister, and best friend.

Predictably, Finola insisted that she did not mind. “Aine is the sister of my heart, don't you see, Morgan?” she would say. “I delight in her.”

In addition to the immediate family, there were also the scholars drifting in and out of the halls of the academic wing. And Sister Louisa, of course; the incredible nun seemed to be everywhere at once, virtually materializing without warning.

Morgan did not mind for himself. He savored the feeling of family after so many years of the solitary life. To be head of his own household, to be the husband of Finola, to spend his days in the warmth of her love, to fall asleep with her safe in his arms—what more could he ask?

But he did hope to make up for at least a part of what
she
had missed, especially now that he knew the tragedy of her girlhood. He was determined to give her some of the beauty and carefree moments—and, yes, the romance—she had not known.

So he had persuaded her to come away with him, just the two of them. Alone. He had pushed aside his insecurities about traveling without Sandemon, leaving him in charge of Nelson Hall and its inhabitants. Strict orders were given to Annie and to everyone else—including Tierney Burke and his Gypsy cohort—that whoever displeased Sandemon would be in serious trouble when Morgan returned.

With only a coach and a driver, they had set off for a small, remote inn in the valley of Glendalough. For three glorious days, they had soaked up sunshine and mountain breezes, visited the antiquities of the area, talked, laughed, and even dreamed a little.

It was the best time of their marriage, and especially significant now, in these days when the memories of Finola's past seemed to be virtually bursting upon them in a great, final rush of clarity.

Now that most of it was out in the open, now that he had seen the strength with which she had confronted the terrors lurking at the edge of her consciousness, he had finally come to believe that she would be all right. She would not only endure: she would overcome.

There had been a number of bad times since that first night when the memories had begun to emerge, times when he could do nothing but hold her and allow her to weep, shuddering against him like an inconsolable child. Later, there had been anger—a fierce, heated anger. Acting on instinct, he had encouraged her to give it rein, had even allowed her to see his own anger, his outrage.

There had also been times of silence. At these moments he could sense she was remembering something more, experiencing it again in her thoughts, in her feelings, and sometimes, later, in her dreams.

But in the midst of it all, he remained hopeful. For at last she had opened her heart to him—her heart and her very soul—drawing him in, letting him share her terror, her pain, her anger, even her nightmares.

He had suffered with her, and in the suffering they had become closer than they had ever been before.

Except in the marriage bed…

He had not attempted to make love to her since the night of her birthday, the night Jan Martova had given her the simple tin whistle that had triggered the return of her memories. He sensed that she was resistant to, perhaps even incapable of physical intimacy just yet.

Not for anything would he risk a setback in her healing process. Somehow he managed to conceal his disappointment and hurt when she flinched at his embrace or merely endured his chaste good-night kisses.

Time
, he again reminded himself. Only time would help to restore her passion, only time would free her from the tyranny, the terrors of her past, and allow her to be at ease in his arms again. Until then, he would treasure the emotional intimacy they enjoyed, if not the physical.

“Morgan? What are you thinking about?”

Her soft voice and the tug on his hand brought him back to his surroundings. With his knuckles, he lightly traced the smooth line of her cheek. “I am thinking,” he said, smiling at her, “how very proud I am of you.”

She tilted her head up still more to study him. “
Proud
of me? Why would you say such a thing?”

Gazing at her for a moment, he felt his heart swell with love. “For many reasons,
macushla.
But especially because you are so brave. Brave enough to face your fears and strong enough to overcome them. You have survived more horror than most of us can even imagine, yet you have not let that horror defeat you or embitter you. You are a beautiful, strong-hearted woman, and, yes, I am quite proud of you.”

Her eyes filled. “I am not brave, Morgan, though you are kind to say so. The truth is, if I have been able to ‘face my fears,' as you believe, it is only because we have faced them together. You are my strength,” she said softly, looking away. “You and our Lord…you are my strength.”

After a moment she turned back to him, her expression grave. “I think there is something you have not shared with
me
, however, and I cannot help but wonder why.”

Now his smile turned questioning. “What are you talking about? I keep nothing from you,
macushla
.”

Her eyes searched his. “Then tell me about the doctor in America,” she said softly.

Anger at James Dunne blazed up in him. “You weren't supposed to know about that yet—”

The words fell between them, ringing with significance. Hadn't he only seconds ago claimed to keep nothing from her?

For a moment Morgan couldn't think what to say. Obviously, she expected an explanation, and she had every right to one.

“It was wrong of James to tell you,” he said shortly.

She studied him. “I think it was wrong of
you
not to tell me, but we will not argue that now. It was an innocent blunder on his part. He meant only to encourage me.

“He was telling me how pleased he was with my progress in recovering from the amnesia,” she went on to explain. “In the course of the conversation, he let it slip that perhaps now he could convince you to see the American surgeon.”

Slightly mollified, but still chagrined to think he had added yet another burden to that which she already bore, Morgan said nothing for a moment.

She moved, just enough to face him more easily, then reached to enfold his hand between both of hers. “Dr. Dunne felt wretched that he had broken your confidence, Morgan, truly he did. I didn't press him for more, because he clearly thought you should tell me yourself.” She paused. “I've been waiting for you to do so ever since.”

The last crescent of the sun was slipping down behind the mountain. Soon the sky's gold and crimson ribbons would darken. Already the air had turned cooler. Morgan lifted his free hand to stroke her hair, then her cheek. Her eyes were almost violet in the sunset, her features expectant—and noticeably apprehensive.

He knew he could no longer put off telling her, but dear heaven, how he wished he could. They needed more time. Time to ensure her own healing, time for him to consider the decision that daily weighed on him like a monolith.

But if James Dunne were right, time was the very thing he could not count on. It might indeed be slipping away from him even now, like the sun sliding down behind the mountain in the west.

The chill that suddenly gripped him had little to do with the night air. He looked at Finola. When he bent to brush a kiss over the top of her head, she surprised him by lifting her face to meet his lips.

The intensity of the kiss left him shaken. She framed his face with her hands, her gaze never wavering. “Let's go inside,” she said quietly. “I want…to be close with you. We can watch the sun go down from our room.”

Then she kissed him again, gently. “Later you can tell me about the doctor in America. We will face your fears together, Morgan, you and I.”

22

What that fate may be hereafter
Is to us a thing unknown…

“A S
OUTHERN
”
FROM
S
AMUEL
B. O
LDHAM COLLECTION
(1848)

B
y the day after their return from Glendalough, Morgan had begun to cast an occasional longing thought back to the peace and quiet they had left behind. Almost from the moment of their arrival, they had been besieged by family and staff with three days of tales to tell, grievances to air, and problems to solve.

Annie was put out because Tierney Burke and Jan Martova would be leaving tomorrow morning on a journey across Ireland, just the two of them. Wee Gabriel had turned into a veritable firestorm of energy and chatter, scurrying after Finola if she so much as crossed from one corner of the room to the other. On the adult level, Sandemon had found one of the root cellars flooded and suspected mice in the west wing, while Sister Louisa seemed to have been counting the hours until she could advise Morgan of the heathen O'Higgins twins' latest mischief—something to do with beetle husks in the cook's flour barrel.