Heart of the Lonely Exile (7 page)

Searching her face, the sergeant lifted one dark brow. “You are a painfully honest young woman, Sara Farmington—
Miss
Farmington,” he corrected quickly.

Inexplicably flustered, Sara glanced away.
“Sara
will do just fine, Sergeant,” she assured him. “I believe we've known each other long enough by now to dispense with the formalities.”

“That being the case,” he countered with a grin, “you might want to know that my name is not
Sergeant,
after all. It's
Michael.”

“Oh…yes. Yes, of course,” Sara stammered, feeling ridiculously young and awkward under his amused scrutiny.

“Nora and the children—they're well?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, they're fine!” Sara said, relieved at the change of subject. “As a matter of fact, Father took them and Evan Whittaker on the ferry to Staten Island this afternoon. I'm sure the children will love it, but frankly I'm afraid Nora wasn't all that excited about being on the water again, so soon after their ocean voyage.”

The sergeant made no reply for a moment. When he finally spoke, Sara wondered at the sharpness in his tone. “Whittaker went with them, you say?”

“Whittaker?” Sara stared at him blankly. “Oh—yes! Yes, Evan went along, too.”

His dark brows dipped lower, his mouth again went hard. “They seem to have become great friends, Nora and Whittaker.” Again, the unpleasant edge in his voice.

“Why…yes, I suppose they have.”

“Not exactly a common thing between the Irish and the British. But, then, according to Nora, Whittaker is not your ordinary Englishman.”

Good heavens, he sounded almost…
jealous!
Jealous of
Evan Whittaker
? For an instant, the idea caught Sara up short.
Could
Nora possibly be interested in the Englishman—romantically interested, that is? It was no secret around the Farmington mansion that Evan was sweet on
Nora
—Ginger clucked her tongue in sympathy for the “poor mon” at least once a day. But with the handsome, virile Michael Burke just waiting in the wings for her to accept his proposal, it had never occurred to any one of them that perhaps Nora's interest might lie elsewhere.

Sara felt a faint stirring of something akin to hope. Just as quickly, she shook it off. Of course Nora didn't care for Evan—
that
way!

And whether she did or not, Sara had no call to go getting wild ideas about Michael Burke! Even if by some remote possibility Nora
should
happen to be out of the picture, why would the police sergeant give an uptown spinster like herself a second glance? New York was filled with younger—and prettier—Irish girls.

The man was an Irish policeman, for goodness' sake! And she
was
Lewis Farmington's daughter, after all. Farmingtons didn't carry on over Irish policemen, even foolish, old-maid Farmingtons like herself!

“Miss Farmington?
Sara
?”

Sara blinked. Michael Burke was staring at her with a decidedly curious expression. “Yes—I'm sorry?”

“I asked how you came? Is Uriah waiting for you?”

“Oh, no—no, I came with the Daltons, actually.”

“Well, then, would you like to walk a bit, until they're ready to leave?”

When Sara hesitated, he put in quickly, “Not in the Points. I was thinking we might start toward Broadway.”

“I—well, I
should
stay and help…the pastor and Kerry may need an extra pair of hands.” Now, why had she said that? She
wanted
to go, wanted to be with him.

He waited, smiling at her in the most disconcerting manner.

“Well, perhaps just a
short
walk,” she said uncertainly, looking up to study the evening sky with feigned interest. “But I'll need to tell the Daltons.”

He nodded, his smile widening.

Sara turned with a jerk and headed toward the Daltons, who were still surrounded by those few evening worshipers reluctant to leave. She was thoroughly disgusted with herself. What
was
there about Michael Burke that threw her into such a dither? He had the most unsettling way of making her feel like a silly, empty-headed schoolgirl!

Watching Sara Farmington and Michael Burke make their way out of Paradise Square, Jess Dalton attempted to carry on a disjointed conversation with his wife. There were frequent interruptions from the worshipers still filing past, but by now he and Kerry had grown skilled at communicating in fragments.

“What do you make of Sara and her policeman?” he asked in a low voice. Jess had seen the two together on other occasions, chatting after services usually, both looking somewhat stiff and uncomfortable in each other's company.

“What I think is that they're trying awfully hard to ignore their feelings for each other,” Kerry replied, smiling cheerfully as she greeted the Widow Ransom.

Surprised, Jess continued to smile as he said goodnight to Willie
Toothman and his pretty wife, Sally, who was very much in the family way. “So you believe there
are
feelings there?”

“Faith, Jess, only a blind man could not see the sparks flying between those two!” Kerry paused to give poor Vida Ransom a hug. “And why are you looking so amused?” she said after the widow and her daughter went on by.

“I was considering the implications of a millionaire's daughter being paired with an Irish policeman,” Jess murmured. Turning back to the worshipers, he gripped the dry, gnarled hand of Cletus Denvers, intoxicated as usual. Putting a hand to the man's shoulder, he said, “It's good to see you here, Cletus. You'll come back again next Sunday, I hope?”

Kerry looked up at him. “Sara's not all that clever at disguising her feelings, is she?”

Jess shook his head, both in answer to her question and as a greeting to a young woman who refused to meet his eye. Her face was garishly painted, her hair frizzed, but he had noticed her among the crowd on more than one occasion. “Good to have you. Please come again,” he said warmly, shaking her hand. She hurried from the tent, still avoiding his gaze.

Kerry's eyes softened as she watched the woman scurry outside the tent. Keeping her voice low, she said, “Do you suppose the sergeant is aware of Sara's…interest?”

“Not likely,” answered Jess with a tired sigh as his gaze took in several worshipers still milling about the tent. “I believe the sergeant is too busy dealing with his own feelings to notice Sara's.”

“Oh, d'you think so, Jess?”

He didn't miss the hopeful note in her voice.

“I recognize the signs,” he said, solemnly, “having been badly smitten myself a few years back.”

Her sharp little chin snapped up. “You make it sound somewhat like hydrophobia.”

He pretended to consider her retort. “It does carry some of the same symptoms, I suppose.”

“And am I to assume from that remark, then, that you are no longer smitten, Mr. Dalton?”

He grinned at her. “Not at all, Mrs. Dalton. Just like hydrophobia, my condition has no known cure.”

She attempted a severe frown, reminding him, “We were discussing Sergeant Burke and Sara Farmington.”

“You
were discussing Sergeant Burke and Sara Farmington. I was counting the shamrocks in your eyes.”

“You are daft.”

“And it's entirely your doing.”

“We should be getting home,” she said, ignoring the squeeze he gave her hand. “Where has our son taken himself off to, d'you suppose?”

“If he's true to form, we'll find him at the chestnut stand on Mulberry by now.”

“Jess,” Kerry said thoughtfully, “that limp of Sara Farmington's—do you know how she came by it?”

Jess nodded. “Her father told me. She was born with one hip out of alignment. The doctors could do nothing to correct the problem.”

“Another condition with no known cure?”

“Apparently,” he responded. “But I must say, the condition doesn't seem to slow Miss Farmington down very much.”

“I've noticed,” Kerry mused. “And it certainly doesn't seem to affect Michael Burke in the least, either.”

Dalton looked down at his wife with an affectionate grin and raised one eyebrow.

“Jess, I'm wondering—” She stopped, but he heard the slight rolling brogue in her voice that invariably meant she was plotting something.

He cocked his head and waited, intrigued by a stray copper curl that had escaped the confines of her bonnet.

“D'you truly think Sergeant Burke might be interested in Sara?” Without waiting for his reply, she hurried on. “I have an idea—why don't we invite the two of them to go home with us for dessert? There's at least half of Molly's chocolate cake left over—plenty for all of us. Sara will be riding back with us anyway, and you know how I do enjoy her company… and you admire Sergeant Burke, you've said so yourself…it would be an opportunity to spend some time with the two of them, as well as giving
them
an opportunity to be together…”

When she finally stopped, Jess said only, “Mightn't that be awkward?”

Kerry's mouth drew to an impatient pout, which he never failed to find delightful. “Why would it be awkward?”

“Well…”

“Because
he's
an Irish policeman and
she's
Sara Farmington?”she challenged shrewdly.

“Certainly not!” He frowned at her. “But according to Sara, the sergeant is almost betrothed to Nora Kavanagh.”

“Almost
is a long way from the real thing,” she huffed. “Especially in this case. It seems to me that Nora Kavanagh is more interested in spending time with Evan Whittaker than Sergeant Burke.”

He stared at her. “It seems that way to you, does it?”

“It does. And that poor Englishman looks at her as if the sun daily rises in her eyes.”

Jess sighed. Hadn't he learned long ago there was no arguing with the Irish? “Your intentions are the best, love, but I honestly think we might be well-advised to wait. Just for a while.”

Knitting her brows together prettily, Kerry considered his words. “Oh, pshaw! But—perhaps you're right. Sara does seem determined that Nora and the sergeant will wed.”

He nodded. “Sara's a determined young woman.”

“But no match for the Irish, should Sergeant Burke have a mind to court her.”

“Which you believe he does.”

“Well…I'm not saying
he's
aware of it just yet. But, yes, yes, I believe he does.”

Laughing, Jess took her arm and started out of the tent. “You are incorrigible, Mrs. Dalton.”

“Just you wait and see, Jess,” she countered smugly. “I have one of my feelings about Sara and the sergeant.”

Having learned that Kerry's “feelings” were not to be taken lightly, Jess wisely remained silent.

7

Like a tide our work should rise,
Each later wave the best;
Today is a king in disguise,
Today is the special test.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY (1844–1890)

O
n Saturday night, Daniel and Tierney had their first real argument.

Their natures being as different as they were, it was only natural would have a falling out every now and then. They had fussed more than once since becoming roommates. But tonight was the first time Daniel had seen Tierney truly riled with him.

He had occasionally glimpsed the blistering, white-hot anger that seemed to lurk deep inside Tierney. It would spark and blaze without warning, never failing to catch Daniel off-guard when it did. Even so, this was the first time he had encountered it on such an intensely personal level.

Had the hour not been late, forcing them to keep their voices low, what began as an argument could have easily turned into an ugly row. And all of it over a part-time job.

It had been a nice enough evening to begin with. At Tierney's urging, Uncle Mike had taken the both of them to a meeting sponsored by some of the city's journalists—a meeting to raise funds for Ireland. There had been a great display of patriotism in the hall, both Irish and American, and Daniel had felt pleased and proud of his connection to both countries.

Later, lying in bed, Tierney on his sagging mattress and Daniel on the makeshift cot Uncle Mike had moved in for him, they rehashed their week.
Only when Tierney raised the subject of Daniel's taking an after-school job at the hotel did the argument catch fire.

Tierney seemed to find it unthinkable that Daniel would not sign on at the hotel in a shake. “Are you daft? What do you mean, you don't think you
want
the job?”

At Daniel's whispered caution, he lowered his voice. But his tone lost none of its harshness as he went on. “I've been pestering Walsh for weeks to find you something better than sweeping up. And now that he's about to make a place for you in the lobby, you don't
want
it?”

Hurt and somewhat surprised by Tierney's sudden flare of anger, Daniel hurried to explain. “It's just that I talked with Dr. Grafton last week, don't you see, and he admitted he needs some help in his office. He's willing to take me on at once.”

The room was dark, but the rude exclamation from Tierney's bed told Daniel his friend was plenty sore, all right. “Doing what? Emptying people's slops?”

Why was it so important to Tierney
where
he worked? Raising himself up on one elbow, Daniel tried to explain. “What the doctor has in mind is that I'd be keeping the office tidy—looking after supplies and the examining room—that sort of thing.” The same flush of excitement he had felt when the physician agreed to try such an arrangement now washed over him again. “He said he might even take me with him on calls from time to time. I wouldn't be allowed to do much, of course, but it would be grand experience for me.”

Tierney let out a muffled sound of disgust. “And what will the doctor be paying you for this fine position?”

Daniel felt more than a little foolish when he realized he hadn't actually discussed salary with the doctor. “We—we haven't exactly settled on that just yet. But I'm sure it will be more than fair. Dr. Grafton seems a fine man, Tierney, and a truly excellent physician. He was grand with Katie.”

“Not grand enough to save her life.”

Daniel's jaw clenched with resentment. “It was too late for Katie,” he muttered hoarsely. “She had been ill for years. What more could any doctor have done? I still say I can learn a great deal from him.”

Tierney's bed creaked as he jolted upright. In the dark, Daniel could not see his friend's face, but he had no trouble imagining the other boy's dark scowl. “Patrick Walsh gives his people more than a generous wage!
You can't tell me that old sawbones will even come close to paying you what you'd make at the hotel!”

Daniel's hurt turned to anger. “Don't call him that!” Pushing himself up, he swung his feet over the side of the bed. “As for the money, that's not the most important thing for me. 'Tis the experience I'm after. That, and a job that—counts for something.”

A long silence hung between them. Stung by Tierney's sullen refusal to even try to understand, Daniel groped for patience. “Tierney, you know it's all I've ever thought to do,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I've wanted to be a doctor my whole life long.”

Tierney's reply was a sharp grunt of disgust.

Dragging in a deep breath, Daniel went on. “I thought you understood. I'd rather make less money and have the experience. For later.”

For a time, Tierney made no reply. When he finally answered, Daniel heard the exasperation in his voice. “Aye, for later. But this is for
now
.” He paused. “Walsh would be offering you a rare chance,” he went on, his tone less harsh now. “You've seen how it is for us in New York: the decent jobs are for everyone else but the Irish!”

Daniel could not argue the fact. In the newspaper ads, on the signs posted in windows, the hostile warning blazed:
NO IRISH NEED APPLY.

It was almost a foregone conclusion that the Irish immigrant would find a closed door on any job worthy of mention. When one of the more fortunate ones managed to find a place with decent wages, he grabbed at it, knowing the opportunity might never come twice.

Still, Daniel felt the position with Dr. Grafton
was
a good job for him—an ideal job, considering his plans for the future.

“You're going to need money for your schooling, I should think.” Tierney's tone was still grudging, but no longer angry. “You could tuck a lot more away working for Patrick Walsh than with any old doctor.”

Daniel wanted his friend's understanding, but he wanted an end to the bad feelings between them even more. “I imagine that's true,” he admitted. “What I'll do is, before I decide either way, I'll talk to Dr. Grafton and find out about the wages. I won't work for nothing, that's certain.”

Tierney muttered, “I should hope not,” then rolled onto his back. “I'm only trying to help you, you know.”

“I
do
know!” Daniel quickly assured him. “And I'm grateful, truly I am.
But the thing is, just as you want to do what matters to
you,
I need to do what matters to
me.
You understand that, sure?”

“I understand that what matters to me is money,” Tierney shot back. “And you're going to need your share of it, too, Danny-boy. At least until you're a stoved-up old sawbones getting rich off all the society stiffs.”

Daniel shook his head at the other boy's foolishness, smiling a little. “That's how it will be, do you think?”

“No doubt about it! You'll have an exciting life, boyo—taking warts off the thumbs of bankers and bleeding the blue blood of foolish old maids like Sara Farmington.”

Daniel stiffened. “Sara Farmington isn't an old maid—and she's not a bit foolish, either!”

Tierney made an ugly retort that bordered on profanity. His crudeness both angered and wounded Daniel. Sometimes it seemed that Tierney held nothing sacred—nothing, that is, except for Ireland.

“The Farmingtons have been great friends to us,” said Daniel, his voice tight with resentment.

“The Farmingtons feel
sorry
for you,” Tierney snapped. “You're nothing to them at all but another cause, can't you see that? A ‘good work'—that's what you are.”

Daniel swallowed. “That's not so. Miss Sara and my mother have become true friends.”

“Grow up, Danny-boy! People like the Farmingtons don't make friends with Irish immigrants! Miss Sara and all her bustling about in the slums—the old man and his charity—that's their way of salving their consciences. That's all you are as well, and you'd be wise to face it!”

Daniel sensed he should be angry at Tierney's charges. Yet hadn't he questioned the Farmingtons' motives himself, and more than once? Hadn't a nagging whisper of doubt crept into his thoughts about their benefactors, causing him to wonder if the Kavanaghs and the Fitzgeralds might not represent still another “project” to Miss Sara and her father?

“You've seen for yourself how kind Miss Sara is,” he challenged Tierney, trying to ignore his own faltering conviction. “And not just to Mother, at that. What about her concern for Johanna? Engaging a tutor for her, making the rounds of the doctors, with her—how can you even think she's not sincere?”

“And who wouldn't be good to Johanna?” Tierney shot back. “Still, it's
all part of their do-gooder notions, I'm telling you. You just don't want to see it, is all.”

Tierney's flinty irreverence never extended to Johanna Fitzgerald, Daniel noticed. Whether it was her inability to hear or speak, or just her shy, genuine sweetness, Johanna invariably evoked a softening, even a gentleness in Tierney that seemed at odds with his usual cynicism.

When Tierney spoke again, the last remaining trace of anger was gone from his voice. “There's a girl at school—she died just last week of the same thing that made Johanna as she is. The scarlet fever. She wasn't but thirteen.”

After a solemn moment between them, Tierney did one of his quicksilver changes in mood. “Ah, well, when the illustrious Dr. Kavanagh here hangs out his shingle, we'll have an end to that sort of thing, don't you know? No doubt, he'll have a cure for everything from bunions to baldness.”

Relieved to hear the teasing note return to the other's voice, Daniel hesitated only a moment before picking up his pillow and tossing it at Tierney's head. Immediately Tierney flung his own in return, and soon the feathers were flying.

A gruff warning from Uncle Mike in the next room put an end to their fun, but not before the pillow fight accomplished what Daniel had hoped for: the return of Tierney's raucous good humor.

Later, while Tierney slept, Daniel lay awake in the darkness of the room. In the street below a dog barked, then another, followed by a loud clang of rubbish containers and a drunken shout. After a moment there was the sound of laughter and shuffling feet.

Tired of tossing, and uncomfortably warm in the closeness of the room, Daniel finally gave up on sleep. Quietly, he got out of bed and tiptoed across the floor. Glancing back once at Tierney's sleeping form, he then crept out the window onto the narrow strip of roofing Uncle Mike jokingly referred to as “the balcony.”

The balcony at night was one of Daniel's favorite places. Up here, behind the low railing that rimmed the roof, he could get away from the worst of the street smells and the people. On an especially quiet night, he
could almost pretend he was back in Killala, sitting on the hillside, looking down on the village of his birth.

Still troubled, he plopped down, leaning against the wall and hugging his knees. He hated the fact that he and Tierney had argued. Despite the differences in their temperament, they had become best friends, and every dispute they had was like a thorn piercing his heart.

It was true they had little in common. While Daniel was content to sit quietly and strum the harp, Tierney would rather let off steam in bare-knuckle boxing. Daniel took to public school like a starving man at a banquet; Tierney detested it, doing only what he must to get by and keep Uncle Mike at bay. Indeed, it seemed his only interest in school was having fun with the other lads that followed him about, dogging his steps, imitating his every move.

Tierney was a natural-born leader, and that was the truth. For himself, Daniel much preferred the companionship of one or two close friends. He liked people well enough, but craved quiet times more. Tierney, on the other hand, seemed to thrive on being the center of attention.

Small wonder,
Daniel thought with a faint smile. When Tierney spoke, others listened. He had only to make the smallest suggestion, and it seemed the other boys could not carry out the idea fast enough. And when he showed his temper or displeasure, the others wasted no time at all in working themselves back into his good graces.