Dawn of the Golden Promise (18 page)

“Garonne…”
As she called the Frenchman's name again, her entire frame shuddered in a convulsion that shook the great bed where they lay.

Morgan's arms tightened about her, and tears streamed down his face into his beard. “Finola,
aroon,
” he whispered fiercely. “'Tis Morgan. I am here,
macushla…
I will not let you go.”

“I will not let you go…”

The words pierced into Finola's soul like a hot knife.
Garonne!
Those were
his
words when she began to resist him. “NO!” she screamed.

Still he came after her—this mentor turned monster. And suddenly, as she saw his obscene face looming above her, she remembered it all…everything….

She remembered Henri Garonne, who had taken rooms with the
Morans
in the winter. He had been employed to tutor her, not only in the classical subjects, but in the musical arts as well.

Finola could not have been more pleased. Garonne represented a curiosity, a departure from the dry, monotonous teaching of her previous tutor, the middle-aged Dr. Jennings, who had surprised everyone in Drogheda by marrying the Widow Browne and retiring to the country.

Garonne quickly became a familiar figure in the Moran household. Jocular and quick-witted, he entertained both Finola and her father with his stories of life in Paris. He praised her effusively for her accomplishments, especially in her musical pursuits. She was a wonder and a joy, he would say, patting her hand or squeezing her shoulder.

Finola blossomed under his tutorage, responding readily to his affectionate nature. Both she and her father trusted him completely, until that terrible day beside the lake…

Finola screamed and Morgan released her, his heart pounding. She gazed up at him with a wide, vacant expression, her eyes darting nervously about the room.

“It's all right,
macushla
,
”
Morgan said gently.

Finola jerked her head around and cast a frightened glance at the bedroom door. Morgan's eyes followed hers, and with startling clarity, he understood. “The door is locked,” he reassured her in a quiet voice. “No one can get to you, my Finola. You are safe.”

At the word
safe
, Finola heaved a shuddering sigh and moved toward him again, burrowing her head against his shoulder. “I remember—” she began. Then the tears came once more, and she was unable to speak.

When at last her weeping had subsided, Morgan lifted her face to his and looked into her eyes. What he saw there shook him to the very core: raw terror, and a pain so deep he could not even imagine it. He could not bear to see her so hurt, so devastated. And yet instinctively he knew that they could not go
around
this mountain of pain and heartache. If they did, it would stand between them forever, would stand between Finola and the final healing of her soul and mind. They would have to go
through
this terrible darkness, and pray for light on the other side.

Morgan swallowed hard. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing her suffer still more, but he
must.

“Can you talk about it?” he asked quietly.

Finola nodded—a stiff, childlike motion against his shoulder. She took a few gasping breaths and then began:

“Garonne was my tutor—a Frenchman. He was…I thought he was…a wonderful man. Encouraging, affectionate—” She gave an involuntary shudder. “I was young—only fourteen—and innocent in the ways of the world. If I had known, I could have—” An onrush of tears choked the words back.

Morgan pulled her close, and his own heart squeezed with her pain. “You were but a child,
macushla.
A child, do you hear? You could not have stopped him. He did a terrible thing to you, and it was not your fault.” Finola looked up at him with a pleading, desperate expression. “It was not your fault,” he repeated.

She sank back into his arms. “We were walking by the lake. We often studied outside when the weather was fine, and I loved being down by the water. I had taken along a tin whistle—a gift from Garonne.” A shadow flitted across her face, and she winced slightly.

“I remember I was singing,” she went on in a tight, strangled voice. “Sometimes, when I felt so, I would sing for hours. I was happy. Filled up with summer and music and young girl dreams. I felt light-headed and alive and utterly carefree. It was such a glorious feeling, it was almost painful….”

Morgan nodded. It was a particularly apt description of youth. Her words brought to mind summer days of his own, days when he had literally ached with the sheer joy of the world all around him and the life yet to be lived.

But Finola's youth, at least a great part of it, had been stolen from her—ripped away by a man twice her age.

“Garonne led me to a secluded place by a large oak on the bank of the lake,” Finola continued. “I sat beside him next to the tree, and then—”

She broke off suddenly, and Morgan looked down at her. Her eyes were tightly shut, and her whole body tensed, shuddering, as if she were reliving the moment even as she spoke.

“He…he assaulted me!” she burst out. Tears streamed down her face, and her breath came in gasps, but she went on in a rush. “He pushed me down…I remember the tin whistle went flying out of my hand. He tore at my clothes, pressed himself on top of me…I was screaming. It was as if he had been transformed, mutated into someone else—or
something
else—entirely. Not the gentle tutor I had loved and trusted, but a madman, an animal.”

Rage welled up in Morgan. How could anyone—
anyone
—do such a thing? How could any man take advantage of the trust of a young girl…a girl no older than his own Aine—

Annie!
At the thought of his daughter, Morgan's fury crested. He would go mad if any man dared to assault his child as Finola had been assaulted. He would want to kill such a man—yes, he would—strangle him with his own bare hands, as he wanted now to strangle the Frenchman Garonne.

“My father came running,” Finola was saying. “Someone must have heard my screams. Suddenly Garonne stopped, and turned…and there was my father, pointing the gun at him.” She put her hands to her face as if to shut out the sight. “Garonne—panicked, I think. He lunged for my father and knocked him down—”

Sobs choked back the rest of Finola's words. Her whole body shook as she remembered that terrible day. “I was on the ground,” she went on at last. “My clothes…my clothes were ripped. I got up and ran toward Father, but Garonne shoved me away. I fell on the bank of the lake…nearly fell in the water. And then—”

She took a deep breath. “Garonne and Father wrestled for the gun, and then…Garonne
shot my father
! He just stood up, pointed the pistol at Father's head, and fired!

“I was screaming, crying…Garonne turned the gun on me, staring at me, and for a moment I thought he would shoot me, too. Then he ran off, into the woods. I went to Father, but he wasn't breathing…”

Finola looked up at Morgan. His face was hard, set like stone. Was he angry with her? Disappointed? Would he reject her outright, now that he knew the truth…now that
she
knew? Her heart sank, but she would finish…no matter what it cost.

“I think…I think I must have gone mad then,” she whispered. “I ran into the woods…I remember screaming, over and over again…”

She paused for a moment, gasping for breath. Outside, beyond the window, a faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and Finola shivered.

“I don't remember anything else,” she said. “I might have gone on running through the woods—I don't know how long I wandered. It could have been several days. The next thing I remember, I was in Dublin, at Gemma's Place. Lucy found me in the street and took me in. She and the other women at Gemma's looked after me.”

She took a deep breath. “And then, after nearly four years at Gemma's, I found myself here…at Nelson Hall….”

Finola kept her head lowered. She could not look at Morgan, could not bear to know what he was thinking, and yet she
had
to know. At last she raised her eyes slowly to his.

A look of infinite love filled his face. Tears tracked down his cheeks into his beard, and his eyes held an expression of pain and thankfulness. “And for that,
macushla
, I will be forever grateful.” His voice was husky with emotion, and he pulled her even closer. “You are a strong, courageous woman, Finola
aroon
,” he murmured, brushing a kiss over her hair. “And I am a blessed man entirely to have you for my wife.”

Relief flooded through Finola as she saw Morgan smile at her through his tears.

“We have come to the truth at last,” he whispered. “You now know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

Finola leaned against him and savored the warmth of his strong arms around her. At last, she was beginning to feel safe—safe, and free, and loved. And as she drifted to sleep in Morgan's embrace, she heard his voice, as from a great distance: “The worst is over,
macushla…
truly it is.”

And her heart responded,
Please, God, let it be so….

12

Like a spirit land of shadows
They in silence on me gaze,
And I feel my heart is beating
With the pulse of other days;
And I ask what great magician
Conjured forms like these afar?
Echo answers, 'tis the sunshine,
By its alchemist Daguerre.