Song of the Silent Harp (35 page)

The woman had soft hazel eyes and a small oval face with a nearly pointed chin. So fine-boned was her frame that she seemed to bend beneath the heavy weight of her hair. But a note of firmness in her voice and the strong line of her jaw belied any hint of frailty.

Smiling, she reached out a hand to the child, who regarded her with a mixture of distrust and awe. “Hello,” said the young woman, withdrawing her hand when the little girl ignored it. “Is this where you live?”

Suspicious eyes burned out of a dirty, bruised face. The little girl, about five years old, was clad only in a filthy sack of a dress. Her body was covered with grime and sores, and Michael knew a moment of rage at the thought of parents who would allow a child to go around in such a state.

“My name is Sara,” said the soft-voiced young woman. “Won't you tell me yours?”

The child studied her for another moment, then answered in a whisper, “Maggie.”

“Maggie,” the woman repeated. “Why, that's a
lovely
name! And is this where you live, Maggie?”

The little girl nodded, staring at the woman across from her. The distrust in her eyes had given way to puzzlement, and as she gaped, she sucked the thumb of a grimy hand.

To Michael's amazement, the young woman dropped down to her knees in front of the child, seemingly mindless of the fact that her fine wool suit would be instantly ruined by the grime covering the floor. “Do you have any sisters or brothers, Maggie?” she asked, touching the child lightly on the forearm.

The little girl jumped back, as if unaccustomed to being touched, at least in so gentle a manner. The young woman immediately dropped her hand away.

“Brothers,” the child finally answered in the same hushed tone. “Me has two brothers.”

Michael noted the thick brogue as southern Ireland, most likely County Kerry. Appraising the child more carefully, he decided she'd be a fair little thing were that wee pinched face scrubbed clean and her long black curls combed free of their tangles.

“Aren't you frightened out here in the dark, Maggie?” the woman asked. “Shouldn't you go inside, with your mother?”

The child hunched her shoulders. “Uh-uh,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Not allowed.”

The young woman—Sara—looked confused for a moment. “You're not allowed to go inside your rooms, Maggie? Why is that?”

“Mum is visiting.”

“I see. Well, couldn't you visit, too?”

Again the child shook her head. “Not allowed. Mr. Tully wouldn't like it.”

Sara's eyes narrowed. “Mr. Tully? That's your mother's guest?”

The little girl stared as if she didn't understand.

“Mr. Tully only visits with your mother?” Sara asked tersely.

When the child bobbed her head stiffly up and down, Michael expected the refined young woman to either blanch or blush. She did neither. Remaining as she was, on her knees, she put a hand to the riot of black hair falling over the little girl's face, smoothing it back from her temple. “Well, Maggie, I can see that you're a very good girl, obeying your mother as you do. I wonder if she would allow you to have a sweet?”

The child's face brightened, though her eyes still held a glint of uncertainty. “A sweet?”

“A peppermint,” Sara said, fumbling inside the pocket of her skirt. “Would you like one?”

The little girl's eyes went from the young woman's face to the piece of candy she held out to her. Finally, she nodded, extending a dirty hand. Sara smiled, pressed the candy into the outstretched hand, then got to her feet.

“I must go now, Maggie,” she said, “but if I may, I'd like to come back soon and visit with you.”

The child stuffed the peppermint into her mouth like a greedy baby bird, then looked up. “Will you bring more sweets, then?”

“I certainly will. Now, you must stay right here, Maggie, close to your own door, until your mother is…is finished with her visit. It's not a good idea for you to go wandering about the building. Will you do that, Maggie?”

The little girl nodded distractedly, her attention wholly absorbed in the peppermint. Michael moved to escort the young woman on down the hall.

“I suppose there are hundreds of others just like her trapped in this dreadful place,” the woman said after a bit.

“Aye, and she's in better shape than most,” Michael bit out. “See here, Mrs.—”

“It's
Miss,
Sergeant Burke. Miss Sara Farmington.”

“Yes, well, Miss Farmington, you told the child you'd be back—”

“And so I shall.”

“I don't mean to offend you, Miss Farmington,” Michael said with an edge in his voice, “but a lady would not dare to enter Five Points without a police escort. And, begging your pardon, these little…junkets into the district take a great deal more of our time than we can actually spare on such—”

“Foolishness?” she finished for him, then stopped, and turned to look into
his face.

Michael was somewhat taken aback by her direct scrutiny. Behind that gentle, unassuming gaze he caught a glimpse of a formidable, iron-clad will. He was also struck by the fact that Miss Sara Farmington reminded him a little of Nora—at least Nora as he remembered her.

“Do you know, Sergeant Burke,” she said thoughtfully, “you're quite right. I don't believe any of us ever stopped to consider the ramifications of taking you away from your duties.”

Her frown of concern left no doubt as to her sincerity, and Michael suddenly felt awkward. She seemed a true lady, after all; he hadn't meant to insult her. “Don't take offense, Miss Far—”

“Oh, I'm not,” she hastened to reassure him. “Not at all. It's just that you're absolutely right. We simply didn't think. Crime is running rampant in our city, and here we are, expecting the police to play bodyguard so we can go exploring. It's really quite unforgivable. And totally unnecessary.”

“Well, now, you can't be coming into this terrible place by yourself, Miss Farmington. You can see that it's no place for a woman at all, much less a woman alone.”

“Oh, you needn't worry about that!” she said, laughing. “None of us is brave enough to come down here
alone!
But in the future we shall enlist the help of some of the gentlemen from our congregation. They should be more than capable of providing us an escort.”

“Miss Farmington, even the
police
dread coming in here! And we
never
come in unarmed!” Michael was horrified at the thought of some silk-vested deacon attempting to see to the safety of this fine young woman and her friends. “If you
must
come, then it should be only with a police escort. But I cannot help wondering—why are you so determined to come at
all?”

She seemed to enjoy his discomfiture, her eyes twinkling with amusement. But as he watched, her expression abruptly sobered. “Sergeant Burke, we want to help these people—and we believe we can. I know this probably sounds like nothing more than womanly idealism to you, working as you must amid truly deplorable conditions. But we happen to think that, with enough planning and financial backing, we can make a real difference in Five Points. We're prepared to plan for years, if necessary, and to spend a considerable sum of money in order to turn this into a decent place to live.”

Michael shook his head. “It's been talked about before, Miss Farmington, many a time, with no results, none at all. You've seen the poor souls for yourself—their wretchedness. What could you possibly hope to accomplish that would make any difference for them?”

She straightened her shoulders and looked him square in the eye. “What we
will do, Sergeant Burke, is to pray, praise, and proceed.”

Michael stared at her. “Begging your pardon, I—?”

She smiled. “That is the scriptural order of things for God's people when they prepare to conquer a heathen nation. Read your Bible, Officer Burke—oh, I'm sorry, your faith doesn't really encourage that, does it?”

Michael could not contain a slight smile at her flustered expression. “Well, as a matter of fact, Miss Farmington, I am that rare creature, an Irish Protestant who can actually read—and
does
read, especially the Scriptures. I might point out that some of my Catholic friends can also read. And do.”

One eyebrow went up in challenge. “But not the Bible.”

He shrugged. “Some do, some don't. That would not seem to be any of my business.” He gave her a look to remind her it was also none of hers.

“Your rebuke is noted, Sergeant,” she retorted with a dryness that made a grin break across his face.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Michael pacing his stride to her slight limp. When they reached the downstairs landing, the others were waiting to continue the tour, giving Michael no opportunity to apologize to the young woman for his rudeness.

By early afternoon they concluded their tour and led the ladies out of Five Points to their waiting carriages. Turning onto Broadway, Michael pulled in a deep, cleansing breath of fresh air, his first since entering the slum that morning.

He felt a faint edge of disappointment that he'd been unable to talk more with the plucky Sara Farmington. Just as quickly, he was struck by a feeling akin to shame. How could he be seeking the company of another woman when he had only recently committed himself to marriage with Nora? But he immediately justified his attraction to Sara Farmington by deciding it was her vague resemblance to Nora that had piqued his interest in her in the first place.

He spent the rest of the way back to headquarters in prayerful thanks that Morgan had written when he did, asking for help for his family and Nora's. If the lot of them had taken it upon themselves to make the crossing with nobody waiting on this side, they might well have ended up in Five Points, with all the rest of its hopeless victims.

Through Morgan's intervention, Nora and her family would be spared that particular hell. With that thought—and the thought that in only a few weeks he might be a husband again—Michael quickened his step and lifted his face to catch the sun. Giving his nightstick a bit of a twist, he then continued up Broadway with the jaunty, purposeful step of a man whose life has taken on
new purpose and challenge.

30

I know where I'm going,
I know who's going with me,
I know who I love,
But the dear knows who I'll marry….

O
LD
I
RISH
B
ALLAD
(A
NONYMOUS
)

The Green Flag

T
hey had been at sea almost three full days before Nora finally read Michael's letter.

The first day out she had been too devastated, too dazed to think, much less read. The second, she had suffered the assault of a peculiar sort of illness—not seasickness, exactly, at least not like that of the other passengers close by. She had not endured the same painful retching, had not even lost the contents of her stomach. All the same, she'd been ill enough that she could do nothing more than lie weakly on her berth, staring up at the ribs of the moldy ceiling as the bile from her stomach rose and ebbed, filling her mouth with a bitter, nauseating acid.

Today her stomach had stopped its pitching, but she still felt lifeless, enervated and lay in the same benumbed stupor. Only in the vaguest sense was she aware of her surroundings. Her bunk mate, the young woman who had glared at her so fiercely their first day at sea, now lay flat on her back, moaning and weeping in despair between bouts of retching. Katie Frances was curled in a tight ball at the bottom of the bunk, wheezing with every breath she took, while the silent Johanna looked nearly as dazed as Nora felt.

All around them rose the mingled sounds of suffering. Those with the strength to cry out filled the air with a mixed chorus of prayers and curses, pleas for mercy and screams of agony. Babes wailed, grown men raged, and women keened.

Throughout the day, Daniel John had appeared often, at times coaxing her to eat or take water. When she refused, he would go away, only to return later—mostly, she supposed, to satisfy himself that she still lived. Evan Whittaker had come around once or twice, staying only long enough to ask if there was anything he could do for her, shuffling back to his bunk when she quietly assured him she needed nothing.

By evening of the third day, she still had not made the slightest effort to
move further from the bunk than the privy, had not bathed or combed her hair or taken food. Part of her nagged that she had no right to continue in this fashion, that it was thoughtless and selfish to ignore her own family and the orphaned Fitzgerald children; another part dully responded that it no longer mattered.

A terrible, vile stench surrounded her, and she made the effort to pull herself up on the bunk to look around, throwing a hand to her head when it began to spin. Knowing she was weak to the point of collapse, she caught two or three deep breaths, then waited until the danger of fainting had passed.

Finally she was able to haul herself the rest of the way up. Dragging her legs over the side of the berth, she glanced around at her surroundings, appalled at what she saw and smelled.

Alice, her bunk mate, and the two little girls at the foot of the berth were asleep, all three lying in their own messes from being ill. Nora's stomach pitched, and she fought against being sick. She put a hand to her sticky, brittle hair, then to her face, grimacing when she saw the dirt and oil that smudged her palm.

Her throat was sore and painfully dry. Mostly, she felt disheveled and disoriented—and disgusted with herself and the putrid conditions around them. Instinctively, she attempted to smooth her bodice, staying her hand when she touched the envelope close to her heart.

Retrieving Michael's letter from inside her dress, she glanced around, hesitating. She supposed she should make an effort to clean up their berth, but she wasn't at all sure she had the strength. Besides, she had put off reading the letter long enough; the berth could wait.

Her head ached with a dull, nagging throb, and her hands trembled as she opened the envelope, pulled the letter free, and began to read:

Dear Nora Ellen…I hope you will remember your long-ago friend, who still remembers you with much affection….

Evan Whittaker had been brooding for most of the evening. He knew what he wanted to say to Nora Kavanagh, had prayed over it as much as he was able, given his light-headed state. As yet, he had been unable to muster the courage to approach her with his suggestion.

There was always the chance she would take him the wrong way, become offended or even angry. His intention—his
only
intention—was to help, if he could. He could not deny his growing admiration and somewhat unsettling concern for the grieving young widow. She
was
lovely, after all—even in her
frailty and her unhappiness, she was like a rare, delicate wildflower, exquisite and fragile and elusive.

Obviously, she should not be alone. She needed someone to look after her. He had promised Morgan Fitzgerald to care for her and the others as if they were his own. And he would keep that promise if at all possible. Admittedly, it would be no sacrifice on his part to look after Nora Kavanagh; she was the kind of woman who somehow called forth one's manly, protective instincts. In her own unique way, she was really quite wonderful.

In thirty-six years, Evan had never loved a woman, had never had a romance. Always too shy to initiate a relationship—and too set in his ways to respond in the unlikely event that a woman should take the initiative with
him
—he had resigned himself to living his life alone. It was not such a bad life, really: he had his work, his church, his books. He managed. Now that he would be starting a new life in a new country, however, he thought it might be wise to give some consideration to starting over in other ways as well. Where was it written, after all, that he need remain a bachelor for the rest of his years?

Suddenly realizing the direction his thoughts had taken, he blinked, then pressed a hand to his mouth in dismay. It might not be
written,
but he had always assumed as much, and now was certainly no time to be thinking about changing his spots. What he must do, above all else, was to make every effort to fulfill his vow to Fitzgerald. He would do his best to look after Nora Kavanagh, ease the journey, help with the children. To anticipate anything more was absurd.

Still, if she came to depend on him, trust him…who could say? Perhaps later…

Nora still sat on the side of the berth, her feet planted heavily on the floor. Stunned, frozen in place by what she had just read, she stared into the shadows.

Her mind could not take it in. Added to everything else, this was simply too much. An offer of marriage from a man she had not seen for more than seventeen years? How else could she respond but with shock and bitterness—a bitterness directed not at Michael Burke, but at Morgan Fitzgerald.

Morgan.
She had seen his clever, conniving hand in it at once. It was all too
clear what he had done. Hadn't he admitted, just before leaving Thomas's cabin, that he, too, had received a letter from Michael? He had played the innocent, like the consummate rogue he was, telling her as little as possible, all the while knowing exactly what he'd been up to. Obviously, he had taken it upon himself, in his proprietary, arrogant way, to try to order her life for her. Why would he do such a thing? Sure, and he must have realized it would humiliate her.

Anger and the pain of betrayal nearly doubled Nora over. She hugged her arms to her breast as if to hold herself together. Choking on unshed tears of fury and humiliation, she drew deep, shuddering breaths to control her trembling.

She had believed he truly cared for her. At the last, she had cherished his outburst of emotion, had clung to it. Had it all been a lie, then, just another attempt to pacify poor little Nora, to keep her from going to pieces on him and making things more difficult?

No.
No, she did not,
could
not, believe that. His heart had been in his eyes, his true heart revealed at last. What she had seen in his face had been real, at least at that moment.

It was obvious what had driven him to do such a daft thing. As always, he simply believed her to be too weak, too helpless to manage on her own. The man had ever believed she needed a keeper; since childhood, he had treated her like a wee, frail thing to be pampered and patronized.

For an instant—only an instant—the thought skirted her mind that perhaps, out of the depths of his caring, he had simply taken it upon himself to ensure her safety and well-being, that he had not meant to be so heavy-handed. But just as quickly came a fresh wave of shame at the position in which he had placed her,
whatever
his motives might have been.

Merciful Lord, what had he told Michael? That they were destitute, starving, in dire need of charity?

Just as we are…

She squeezed her eyes shut against the painful truth, willing herself not to weep. She
hated
being dependent on others, had always despised the shame of it, yet had been forced to endure all too much of it in her life, from her childhood on.

Nora opened her eyes. What if she were wrong? What if Michael meant all he said, that his son was in sore need of mothering, that he himself was in need of a partner to share his life? What if he
did
remember her with affection, after all, and did truly want her as his wife?

Don't be a fool!
Nora's mind argued.
Morgan's stamp is all over this thing! Why would any decent man with a brain in his head go offering to wed a used-up woman he hasn't seen or heard from in years?

Besides, whatever was behind it, did they really think she would consent to marry a man she no longer knew, a man she didn't love? She had rejected Michael once; had he and Morgan forgotten that? If she had not loved him enough to marry him then, when they were close and knew each other well, what in heaven's name led them to believe she would marry him
now,
and the two of them strangers?

She sat up a little straighter, trying to ignore the throbbing at the base of her skull. Glancing down at the pages of the letter strewn across her side of the berth, she grabbed them up in one angry sweep, intending to shred them to pieces.

Startled, Nora jumped as Evan Whittaker moved out of the shadows. Still clutching the letter in one hand, she nodded to him.

“I hope I didn't startle you, Mrs. K-Kavanagh,” he said uncertainly, stopping a few feet away from the berth. “It's…good to see you sitting up at last. I hope you're feeling b-better?”

“Aye, a bit, thank you. But how are
you,
Mr. Whittaker? Is your arm giving you much pain?”

“Some. But nothing I c-can't tolerate.” With his good hand, Whittaker moved a small stool closer to the bunk. “May I?” he said, waiting for her nod of assent before he sat down.

To Nora, the Englishman looked ghastly pale, ill, and more than a little shaky. Pain had lined his smooth forehead and carved deep brackets on either side of his mouth, adding years to his once almost boyish countenance.

“Am I disturbing you?” he asked abruptly, half rising from the stool as his gaze went to the letter in her hand.