Sons of an Ancient Glory by BJ Hoff Page B

moment against the dull ache that had set in along his temples.
    â€œMorgan?”
    He looked up to see Finola standing just inside the doorway. As always, his heart warmed at the sight of her. Straightening in the chair, he motioned for her to enter. “Did you grow tired of the sewing?”
    She shook her head, giving a shy smile as she came the rest of the way into the room. “Actually, I came…to see about you,” she answered, her voice soft. “Are you thinking of your nephew tonight, Morgan?”
    He nodded. It was almost unnerving, the way she always seemed so in tune with his thoughts. “Aye, I am. I cannot seem to think of much else. Except for the whereabouts of Michael’s son, that is. I’m growing more than a little concerned for the boy.”
    He wheeled himself out from behind the desk, stopping to draw the heavy, rose-colored drapes against the darkness. “Come, sit with me,” he said, gesturing toward the fireplace, “although I know I’m poor company.”
    He watched her settle herself carefully into the large fireside chair. He loved the way Finola moved. In spite of the fact that she was growing heavy with child, her every movement, every gesture, was as graceful as a waterfall.
    Her flaxen hair fell in a heavy braid over her shoulder. In her honey-colored gown, her fair skin glowing in the firelight, she appeared golden and fragile and exquisitely lovely.
    â€œThere has been no word, then, about Tierney Burke?”
    â€œNone,” Morgan said, dragging his eyes away from her and looking into the fire. “Perhaps I should have expected the ship sooner. One of the importer’s clerks told Sandemon it was a new vessel, one of the Farmington packets—and a great deal faster than most of its predecessors.”
    â€œSure, nothing would have happened to the boy? You did say he was close on seventeen.”
    Morgan lifted his hands in a gesture of puzzlement. “How can we know? And there’s the rub. Where do we even begin to look? The lad could be
anywhere
by now!” He stopped, giving a heavy sigh. “I do not seem to be having much success as a guardian.”
    â€œWhatever do you mean? Why, you’re
wonderful
with Annie!”
    He looked at her, then turned back to the fire. “I cannot seem to stop thinking of the last time I saw Little Tom and the rest of my family…the night I set them aboard the ship for America.”
    Squeezing his eyes shut against the wrenching image, he said nothing for a moment. These past few days had brought back so many painful memories he had tried to put safely away: seeing Thomas, his brother, shot down before his eyes, slain in his attempt to save Morgan’s life…the terrified eyes of the children as they were hurried, half-carried aboard ship…Nora’s anguish…the loss of her eldest son before the ship ever left the harbor.…
    â€œI can still remember the boy’s arms about my neck when he said goodbye…
so
thin, those little arms…he didn’t want to let go.…”
    When he realized he had spoken aloud, he started, glancing quickly at Finola, who was studying him with undisguised sympathy.
    â€œYour little nephew?” she asked softly.
    Morgan nodded, hugging his arms to his chest. “He was scarcely more than a babe then…not even three years yet. He and the little girls were so frightened, with all the uproar on the docks—I’ve told you most of it.…”
    She leaned forward, touching his hand but saying nothing.
    â€œI thought—I was convinced—that I was sending them off to a better life, a land of hope.…”
    He shook his head, tormented by the still-vivid memory of wee Tom’s enormous green eyes—the “Fitzgerald eyes,” Thomas had always called them. He remembered the fear and bewilderment in that startled gaze when the tyke had first understood that his daddy was dead and