Song of the Silent Harp (25 page)

Surprised, Daniel's eyes shot open. Moved at the look of intense pleading on Thomas's good, plain face, he found himself wondering if Morgan had any idea at all how very much his brother loved him.

Then he thought of Tahg, and quickly added a fervent prayer for his
own
brother. He was convinced that Tahg, more than any of the rest of them this night, would need the merciful intervention and protection of a loving God.

The silence inside the Kavanagh cottage was broken only by the sound of
anxious breathing. Nora had heard the horses ride up, followed by the muffled sound of men's voices. Evan had no time for anything more than a whispered warning to the widow to stay close to her ailing son, advising that it might be good to “hover over him and allow her maternal concern to show, as instinct might indicate.”

Instinct had indicated nothing at all to
him
as yet, and he was uncomfortably close to panic. Glancing across the bed of the barely conscious boy, he met the gaze of Nora Kavanagh. Her morose gray eyes were wide with fear, and her hands had caught the bedding in a death grip. Given the terrors this woman had endured, Evan wouldn't have been at all surprised if she had shattered into a fit of hysteria.

From the first, Nora Kavanagh had struck him as a timid, weary woman whom life had beaten down one time too many. Lovely as she was—for she possessed a winsome beauty that even the ravages of the famine had not been able to destroy completely—she nevertheless bore the appearance of one wholly exhausted, physically and emotionally depleted. Moreover, she gave off a sense of unmitigated despair, much like a cornered animal whose only choices ran to a hunter's gun or a trap.

Evan had not missed the fact that her eyes darkened with suspicion each time she so much as glanced in his direction. There was no telling what she might do. That uncertainty, added to his own impending panic, made Evan wish, at least for an instant, that he had never heard of this wretched village or its inhabitants.

He looked at young Tahg Kavanagh and was immediately ashamed of his own cowardly selfishness. Pity coursed through him as he took in the boy's smudged, sunken eyes, glassy with fever and heavy with weakness. The youth's skin was waxen and pale, except for an angry flush blotting his cheeks.

“What will we do?”

Nora Kavanagh's slightly shrill question made Evan straighten and pull in a deep breath. “I will answer the d-door,” he said, clearing his throat. “You…stay with your son and just…say n-nothing.” He stopped, then added, “I believe I, ah, would perhaps feel somewhat b-better about things if I knew you were p-praying while I'm…talking with these fellows.”

“Mr.Whittaker?”

Evan darted a startled glance at the boy. It was the first time he had heard him speak, and the lad's voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

“I…will pray, too,” young Tahg managed to say, moistening his parched lips. “I can still…pray.”

Unexpectedly, Evan's eyes filled, and he blinked. Nora Kavanagh bent over
her son, bringing her lips close to his ear to whisper an endearment and give his shoulder a gentle squeeze. When she straightened, Evan thought the fear in her eyes might have abated, just a little. “Yes, we can do that much, at least, Mr. Whittaker. Both Tahg and I will be praying.”

Evan was surprised and reassured to see her struggling for—and seemingly gaining—her composure. “Th-thank you, Mrs. Kavanagh. It helps me to know that.”

Just then a furious pounding began at the door. Evan and Nora locked eyes for another instant before she sank down onto the chair beside her son's bed. Gently tugging the boy's hand out from under the bedclothes, she clung to it, saying softly, “We are praying, Mr. Whittaker…we are praying.”

Feeling oddly bolstered, Evan nodded and started for the door, then stopped. Turning, he checked the curtain to be sure both the woman and her son could be seen from the kitchen.

After a hurried stop at Thomas's cabin, Morgan had left the village by the back road. Now he sat his horse, looking down on the village from the crest of the hill one last time.

A deadly quiet covered the hillside, the only sounds being the horse's snorting and the rain dancing off the tree limbs. He could still make out Nora's cottage, though at this distance the horses in front scarcely looked real, more like tiny brush strokes on a painting.

But they were real enough, all right, as were the thugs to whom they belonged.

Morgan was aware of his own labored breathing—not from exertion, but from his burden of dread for Nora and others. Now that he was out of Whittaker's presence, he wondered what had possessed him to set such store by the man. What had he done, leaving Nora and her ailing son to the questionable protection of a frail-looking Englishman who was a stranger to them all? How had the thin, bespectacled Saxon managed to inspire his confidence and capture his trust so quickly? He had left everyone he loved at the mercy of this slight, stammering Britisher who had no reason at all to care one way or the other whether they lived or died.

And yet Morgan had sensed that Whittaker
did
care, and cared a great deal. He shook his head as if to rid himself of the sudden doubts that threatened to stop him in his tracks. He had done all he knew to do, and in truth the Englishman was the only hope they had.

Something stirred within him, and he recognized it reluctantly as fear. He did not frighten easily, for the very fact of his size and its effect on others
had made it easy to assume a certain invulnerability over the years. Without ever meaning to, he had long ago relegated fear to the distant fields of childhood.

But this was different. This present dryness of his mouth and racing of his heart had nothing at all to do with little-boy terrors or childish nightmares. This was the very reality of fear—close-up, tangible fear for the only people in his life he really cared about, the only people in his life who cared, at least a little, about
him.
It was a fear borne of his own helplessness, for when all was said and done he was only a man, even if a bit larger and stronger than most. A man vulnerable, with limitations and weaknesses and all too little hope.

How long has it been since I have prayed?
he wondered abruptly.
Really prayed, with a desperate heart and a longing soul…and enough faith to send my pleas heavenward?

Years. Years of wandering and doubting, years of bitterness, denial, and an unrepentant spirit. Years of ignoring God because he was sure that God had chosen to ignore him.

And yet something inside him was rising up and fighting for a voice, fighting to cry out, to be heard, to make its pain known.

Fighting to pray.

He yanked on the reins so savagely the little mare squealed and reared up, then surged forward as if to free herself of the wild giant on her back.

“Oh, God!
” Morgan roared, his face locked in a fierce grimace of agony as he galloped furiously into the slashing rain.
“God! Do You remember me? After all this time and all my sin, do You even know my name? Does Morgan Fitzgerald still exist for You?

“Do You see me, do You see my people? We are Ireland, God! Do You remember Ireland? Do You?”

21

O brave
young men, my love, my pride, my promise,
'Tis on you my hopes are set.

S
AMUEL
F
ERGUSON
(1810–1886)

E
van turned for one last look at the mother and her son before opening the door. It was a touching scene, he thought, reassured. The woman leaned across the bed, clinging desperately to the boy's hand as if she feared he would be taken from her any moment; the boy lay still and quiet, his eyes closed, his sunken cheeks stained with angry red.

Despite the fact that he knew the boy's eyes were closed because he was praying, Evan felt a chill of eerie premonition trace his spine. There was a
macabre reality about the vignette, the boy's apparent lifelessness, that sent a huge lump surging to his throat.

The mother was weeping. For some reason, the sight of her tears caught him up short, although why that should be, he had no notion; if ever a woman had reason to weep, surely Nora Kavanagh did.

Turning toward the door, he attempted to swallow down his panic and effect a visage of calm.

Lord, use me…free me of my fear and make me…adequate.

Dragging in one enormous steadying breath, he threw the bolt and swung the door open. An armed policeman and Cotter's two brutish bodyguards stood scowling at him. Behind them stood half a dozen or more men, all with crowbars.

Evan stiffened, but granted them not so much as the blink of an eye as he nodded formally. “Gentlemen?”

The bigger of Cotter's toughs stepped up and put a hand on the door frame. “What are
you
doing here?” He was a decidedly unpleasant creature, Evan considered, with his skin deeply pitted from pox scars and a nose so far off center it appeared almost deformed.

Returning the man's contemptuous appraisal, Evan replied, “I was hoping to find Thomas Fitzgerald here.” Evan replied coldly. “I have e-eviction orders to serve on him.”

“Well, sure and you won't find him
here!”
the thug growled with disgust. “The Fitzgerald hut is down the road.”

“I…am quite aware of that,” Evan said coldly. Praying they would not take note of his horse's absence, he hurried to add, “Fitzgerald was not at home. Cotter m-mentioned the families were close, so I thought perhaps I m-might find him here.” He shot a meaningful glance toward the invalid boy and his mother, then shook his head with a sympathy he did not have to pretend. “Helping out with the b-boy, you know.”

The hateful stutter was out of control again. Most likely that accounted for the blistering stares of disdain both ruffians now fastened on him. Still, if the despised affliction worked to divert their attention, perhaps he could bear it with more grace. Obviously, he was nothing more than a lame joke to these burly barbarians, and that just might work to his advantage.

“I say,” he ventured now with affected anxiety, “this Fitzgerald chap…he's not the outlaw his b-brother is, is he?”

The two thugs exchanged looks, then grins. “Ah, no,” said the bigger of the
two, “not a bit. Thomas Fitzgerald is just a slow-witted farmer is all. But,” he added with a sneer, “you'll not want to be close by if his renegade brother turns up, Whittaker! He'd have you for dinner, he would!”

All the men laughed, even the constable. It was just as Evan thought: In their eyes, he was a milksop—somewhat comical, highly contemptible, but utterly harmless. So much the better. He would play his part to the hilt.

Thinking fast, Evan leveled his eyeglasses over his nose. “Ah, good, at least I d-don't have to worry about
him!”
he burst out with feigned relief. “More than likely, he won't b-be b-back in the village before tomorrow.”

The big bully with the pockmarked face abruptly sobered. “What's that you say?” he snapped, his eyes narrowing to mean slits. “What do you know about the outlaw?”

“Well, I d-don't know
anything,”
Evan said guilelessly, “other than what's rumored in the village. Somebody saw this…M-Morgan Fitzgerald ride out of town earlier.” Again Evan dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned toward the men. “Supposedly, he's g-gone to a nearby town for supplies,” he said slyly, “but if he's as sweet on the wo-woman as they say, I'd be inclined to b-believe he's gone to fetch a surgeon for her son. The boy's dying, you know,” he said, pursing his lips and clucking his tongue. “So sad, isn't it?”

“What town? Did they say what town?”

“Town? Oh yes, I b-believe it was, ah, B-Ballina. Yes, that was it. B-Ballina.”

The two men again locked gazes. With an air of conspiracy, Evan motioned them outside the door, then followed. “Do you think that's where the other b-boy is?” he questioned in a hushed tone. “The one you're supposed to, ah, fetch for Cotter? He's certainly n-nowhere around
here.”

The shorter of the two men, who had hair the color of old rust and an incredible number of ginger freckles on his face, jumped on Evan's remark.“The younger brat? He's not here, then?”

“Oh no,” Evan answered, widening his eyes. “I inquired after him, knowing of Cotter's…interest. No, he's not here.”

“Where did the woman say he is?”

Evan made a small dismissing motion with one hand. “Her? Poor soul, she can't t-talk at all, she's simply d-devastated. Her son is dying, you know.” For emphasis, he leveled an icy look of rebuke on the man.

The big man studied him. “You're sure the outlaw is headed for Ballina? That's what you heard?”

“Well, I can't be
certain,”
Evan said haughtily. “All these Irish names sound
alike to me. But, yes, I b-believe that was the place. B-Ballina.”
Oh, Lord, forgive me…I know most of this isn't true, not at all, but I simply don't know what else I can do.

The rusty-haired man turned toward his companion. “He's probably right about the younger boy. The brat's forever tagging after Fitzgerald when he's in the village. If they're together, we could take the both of them at once. That should be worth a dear bonus, wouldn't you say?”

The taller, meaner looking of the two shook his head. “Our orders is to empty this place tonight.”

“Aye, and our orders were first and foremost to deliver the Kavanagh
gorsoon
to Cotter! You know him well enough to know which job will please him most, presenting him with both the boy and that devil Fitzgerald, or tumbling some worthless widow from her cottage.”

Evan saw his chance and pressed it. “Oh, I say, you're n-not thinking of evicting the woman
tonight,
are you?” He reached to straighten his eyeglasses. “Oh, that won't do at all! Why, Sir Roger would have a stroke if he knew we had tossed a widow and her dying son out into the cold! Oh, dear, n-no! I simply won't hear of it.”

The big man glowered at him. “It's not for you to say. It's for Cotter.”

Squaring his shoulders, Evan fixed the man with a freezing glare. “B-Begging your pardon, but George Cotter is only an
employee
of Sir Roger Gilpin. And I,” he bit out precisely, “am Sir Roger's
assistant,
and I'm telling you that you will not evict this woman to-tonight. N-not if you want to continue in the employ of Gilpin estates.”

The two men exchanged long looks. “I think we ought to go directly on to Ballina,” said the freckle-faced man. “We're wasting time here.”

“We may do that,” agreed the other, “but if his honor doesn't mind, we will first have us a look inside.” The man's eyes were hard with an unreadable glint.

Evan could almost feel the perspiration fighting to break out along his forehead. Did he see malice lurking behind those small gray eyes? Had he, in his haste and his nervousness, given himself away somehow?

Please, Lord, get them out of here quickly…please…

“Why, of c-course,” he stammered, stepping aside to allow them entrance. “You'll want to dry out a bit before going on, I'm sure.”

The big man motioned to the others in the yard that they should wait, then followed his rusty-haired cohort inside the cottage. They stopped in the middle of the kitchen, their gazes sweeping their surroundings until they spied the woman and the boy within the alcove.

Evan shot her a look, but it went unheeded. It was also unnecessary, he saw
at once. Nora Kavanagh was clearly up to what was expected of her. Her eyes were fastened on her son as she wept copious tears, shaking her head over and over in gesture of desolation. She dragged her eyes away from Tahg only once to glance at the men standing in her kitchen, immediately breaking into loud sobs as if the very sight of them had triggered a fresh outburst of grief.

“As I said,” Evan murmured discreetly, “the b-boy is in a terrible way. He'll be gone before n-nightfall, I should imagine.” With a flash of inspiration, he added, “I say, you Irish
do
t-take on in this sort of thing, don't you? She's b-been wailing like that ever since I got here.”

With obvious resentment, the freckle-faced man shot him an angry glare. “You think it be unnatural to grieve over a dying lad? Your own, at that?”

Feigning indignation, Evan bristled. “Certainly n-not! But you
do
have so many, after all. I suppose I didn't expect…well, you know…”

The other man twisted his lip in disgust. “Aye, I do know.” Turning to his tall, broad-shouldered partner, he snapped, “Come on, then. It's Ballina for us.”

The big man with the bad skin studied the mother and her son for what seemed to Evan an interminable time before giving a short nod. “Aye, we're off, then. But mind,” he said, scowling at Evan, “if Thomas Fitzgerald shows up here, you question him good. If he has word of his brother and the boy being anywhere else but Ballina, send a message by the bailiff. We'll leave him in the village, just in case. Or would you rather he stay here, should there be trouble with Fitzgerald?”

Evan's mind raced. “Why should there be t-trouble? I'm simply going to serve his papers and be off. He has until tomorrow to leave; I'm certainly not g-going to wait around here until morning. No,” he said firmly, “there's no need for anyone to stay. If Fitzgerald d-doesn't show up before long, I'm going back to Cotter's house, where it's warm.”

Both men gave him one more long look, then stalked impatiently out of the cottage. Evan waited until the entire dastardly crew was safely out of the yard and back on the road before shoving the door closed and bolting it. He leaned against it for a moment, his eyes squeezed shut.

Forgive me, Lord, for lying as I did. I just couldn't think of another way.

After a moment, he opened his eyes to find Nora Kavanagh still weeping. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the room, going to stand at the curtained alcove. “You were splendid, Mrs. K-Kavanagh,” he said with total sincerity. “You are a very b-brave woman.”

She glanced up, staring at him almost as if she had only then become aware of his presence. Tears continued to spill over her cheeks, but she said
nothing.

The boy finally broke the silence. “And you…are a very brave man, Mr. Whittaker. My mother and I…we both thank you.”

Feeling too awkward to reply, Evan glanced away. “Well, now,” he said briskly, “if you'll just tell me what to do, I shall help you with your packing, Mrs. K-Kavanagh. I suppose we should get b-busy with it, since Fitzgerald said he would be returning soon.”

The woeful look she turned on him made Evan long to comfort her. Clearly, the poor woman was only a step this side of utter collapse. But once more she rallied and, pulling herself up off the chair, brushed her lips across the boy's cheek. “Aye,” she said wearily, leaving her bedside vigil, “let us have done with it, then.”

Evan had never seen such raw, exposed pain in another human being's eyes as he encountered when Nora Kavanagh passed by him to enter the kitchen.