Dawn of the Golden Promise (6 page)

“Prognosis isn't my only concern,” the doctor said, looking directly at him. “What if there's a chance the bullet could be removed?”

Morgan glared at him. “I have been told by three purported experts that removal of the bullet is out of the question, unless I wish to risk ending up as a vegetable—or a corpse.” He expelled a long breath. “You will understand, I trust, that I prefer my present condition to either alternative.”

The doctor leaned toward him. “Of course I understand,” he said, his gaze intent. “But advances have been made in surgery, even as recently as this past year. I have read papers from Paris, from Great Britain—and from the United States—that speak of exciting new procedures.” He hesitated, as if undecided as to whether he should go on until Morgan nodded his assent.

“If there is even the slightest possibility that the paralysis might spread, surely you are bound to investigate all the possibilities.”

Again Morgan felt chilled. He closed his eyes and attempted to suppress the rush that swept through him—fear mixed with a certain excitement.

He could not bring himself to face the idea that he might end up totally paralyzed. To live with useless legs was bad enough. But at least he still lived as a human being. He could still dress himself and feed himself and move about the house with some freedom. Even with his limited mobility, he could still be an active father to his children, a real husband to Finola. He could still call himself a
man.

What if the paralysis should grow worse?

He thought death would be eminently preferable.

But if the bullet could be removed?

He opened his eyes. “So, then—what do you advise?”

Dr. Dunne's expression brightened. “There are two surgeons whose work would seem particularly promising. Do I have your permission to correspond with them in your behalf?”

Morgan moistened his lips, then nodded. “Where are these miracle workers? Surely not in Ireland.”

“One is in London, actually. The other trained in Vienna, but his practice is in the States.”

“I can't say I fancy the idea of an Englishmen with a knife to my back,” Morgan said dryly. “But I suppose it will do no harm to write to the both of them.”

The doctor picked up his case and turned to go, but Morgan stopped him. “We will say nothing of this to my wife for now. You are aware of the difficulties she continues to experience.”

Dr. Dunne nodded, waiting.

“The dreams and attacks of panic grow worse,” Morgan went on, his concern for her renewed by each word. “I will do nothing to trouble her further. Whatever I decide will have to wait until she is stronger.”

The surgeon's expression was skeptical. “I understand, naturally. Nevertheless, I would urge you not to delay. The longer you wait—” He broke off. “About your wife—as I've told you, I feel strongly that time will make all the difference for her condition. Time, and a normal, fulfilling life with you and the children.”

After the doctor left the room, Morgan lay staring up at the ceiling, his arms locked behind his head. He tried not to think about paralysis or new surgeons or what might lie ahead for him. Instead, he turned his thoughts to Finola.

Time
, Dr. Dunne had said. Time, and a normal, fulfilling life: that had been the physician's prescription for Finola's recovery.

But just how normal or fulfilling would life be for Finola if her husband were to end up paralyzed entirely?

Or dead?

If only she had someone besides himself to depend on. On the heels of the thought came the reminder that Finola very well
might
have someone else. Parents. Siblings. Other relatives. If only he knew where to find them.

He had hoped to hear from Cassidy long before now. At first, Frank had kept in touch fairly often, but of late his letters had grown further and further apart. There was no telling where he was these days. Apparently, he had learned nothing of any consequence, else he would have written.

Morgan's stomach churned at the prospect of what Cassidy's search might eventually disclose. There was no knowing, after all, what lay buried in Finola's past.

When she had first appeared at Nelson Hall, she had been mute and without the slightest memory of who she was or where she had come from. All she knew was her given name—and Morgan had occasionally wondered if even that bit of information was dependable. As time went on, very little in the way of remembrance had been granted her, and she seemed to have made peace with the missing pieces of her past. For her sake, Morgan had also tried to look ahead.

Yet, as much as he feared learning the truth about her background, if she had family somewhere who cared about her, who grieved for her absence, it could only be in Finola's best interests to locate them. Not only did she deserve to be reunited with the ones who loved her, but finding her family would also mean she wouldn't be left totally on her own if something should happen to him.

Morgan could not bear to think of her being alone, defenseless, with both Gabriel and Annie to look after. He could ensure her financial security, of course—indeed, he had already seen to it. Most of his grandfather's considerable fortune would be at Finola's disposal in the event of his own death. But he wanted more than wealth for her. Her emotional turmoil still troubled him. She was still vulnerable in that regard. Her reluctance to appear in public, her sometimes irrational caution where the children were concerned, the ongoing nightmares—were these not indications that her wounds had yet to heal?

So in spite of his own misgivings as to what such a discovery might lead to, he continued to pray that Cassidy would somehow come upon the truth about Finola's past. At the same time, he could not help but implore the Almighty to allow nothing…not even the truth…to come between him and his beloved or bring still more grief to her already burdened spirit.

Just then she rapped lightly on his door and stepped inside. As always, the sight of her golden loveliness brought a breath-stealing wave of tenderness and love to his heart.

In spite of his somber thoughts of a moment ago, his smile for her required no effort. “Ah—and I thought the day was cloudy,” he said, extending his hands to her. “But 'tis only that the sun has moved indoors.”

She hesitated, and her inquisitive look turned to amusement. “Don't think to distract me by your blarney, sir,” she said, crossing the room to catch his hands in hers. “I came to hear the surgeon's full report.”

“He says I am an outrageous man.”

She arched a brow. “How very perceptive our Dr. Dunne is.”

“He also says I will continue to require a great deal of affection and attention from my beautiful wife. You may begin.”

“You
are
an outrageous man.”

Her bell-like laugh was delightful. Morgan never missed the slightest opportunity to coax the sound from her. He sometimes thought he could exist on nothing but the warmth of her smile and the music of her laughter.

3

The hope lives on, age after age…

GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL (AE) (1867–1935)

Washington, D.C.

I
n the White House, which steamed with summer heat, President Zachary Taylor drew his last breath. It was an abrupt end to a brief term in office.

The President had fallen ill some days before, at the Independence Day cornerstone ceremony of the Washington Monument. He had served only a year and four months of his term.

His passing left a country enmeshed in a storm of bitter controversy over the issue of slavery. A country in turmoil because of the thousands of immigrants now swarming its shores—immigrants who filled the cities with strange speech, strange clothing, and even stranger customs. A country in conflict over the question of freedom, on which the young nation of America had allegedly been founded.

Freedom for
all
, the founding fathers had proclaimed.

Freedom for a
few
, the new, increasingly ugly voices of power demanded.

The concept of America as a refuge for those fleeing the tyranny and devastation of foreign nations suddenly seemed to be up for debate. To some, this aspect of America's image had always been dubious. To others, it was a sacred and unchallengeable ideal—to hold up the banner of hope to every refugee who stepped onto the shores of the United States.

In those cities whose ports now teemed with immigrants, a few courageous visionaries—themselves descended from immigrants—struggled to keep that banner of hope aloft.

New York City

It was a testament to the influence—and energy—of millionaire shipbuilder Lewis Farmington. Today, less than six months from the time the idea was first conceived and presented to him, Whittaker House would officially open its doors.

Already the city's newest children's home was licensed, at least partially renovated and furnished, and well on its way to being populated with its first young residents.

Farmington was also responsible for the dedication service, at which Pastor Jess Dalton officiated. The ceremony was held outdoors, on the wide front porch of the building. Despite the sweltering heat, an impressive number of philanthropists, clergy, and other notable dignitaries were in attendance.

When the speeches finally concluded and the benediction had been intoned, Evan Whittaker, the new establishment's superintendent, was presented with a sizable donation collected from various churches and private organizations throughout the city.

This, too, had been the doing of Lewis Farmington.

The new superintendent accepted the contribution with his customary British dignity and aplomb. Only the six small boys standing behind him—the first residents of the new children's home—detected the slight shaking of Evan Whittaker's legs.

Those in the crowd who knew him best, however—including his frail but beaming wife—could not help but note the slender Englishman's flush of embarrassment. But although he stuttered rather badly over his speech of acceptance, his final words came as a prayer, clear and unwavering:

“It is my deepest hope that God will make this place a house of refuge, where all His children, regardless of color or creed, may find safe shelter and nurture in His love.”