New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [209]
And suddenly a thought came into her mind. All her childhood, she’d heard the priests speak of angels, and she’d always thought of them like the ones she’d seen in paintings, with placid faces and unlikely wings. But seeing his face now, she thought, no—this must be what an angel is like, full of beauty, and spirit, intelligence and power.
“You should play for a living,” she said to him, when he had finished and returned to earth.
“Oh no,” he said, with a touch of sadness, “you should hear the real pianists.” He smiled kindly. “I have to get back to work now, Mary.”
Ten days later, she and Gretchen had taken a pleasure-boat trip into the harbor, and he had joined them. Whether it was his idea, or Gretchen’s, she didn’t know, but he’d been very easy and friendly, and they’d had a good time.
Some time after that, when Gretchen had casually asked her what she thought of her cousin, Mary had laughed and said, “I’d like to marry him.” But she wished she hadn’t, for Gretchen had frowned and looked at the ground, and Mary had realized the truth. What a fool I am, she’d thought, to be dreaming of such a thing, when I haven’t a cent to my name. A clever young man like that needed a wife with some money.
The trouble was that whenever she met young men after this, they always seemed so crude and coarse by comparison.
And then there’d been the man that Sean proposed.
All in all, she had to say, Sean had behaved well since she joined the Masters. He’d found out all about them in no time—you could be sure of that. “But I’m very impressed, Mary,” he told her. “You landed on your feet there.” And he’d stayed away from their house. “Just so long as I know you’re all right,” he told her. “Of course,” he’d added, with a reassuring smile, “I’ll cut his throat if he harms you.”
He’d been good about her father too. John O’Donnell had gone downhill pretty fast after she left. Sean had stepped in to help, but it wasn’t much use. She’d felt so guilty that she’d wondered whether to give up her job, to try and save him. But Sean had been adamant.
“I’ve seen a dozen like him, Mary,” he told her. “He’ll go the same road, whether you’re there or not.”
He’d sent a boy to her with a note when her father had died six months ago.
The funeral had been conducted with all due ceremony. There was a dusting of snow on the ground, but a surprising number of people turned up. At the burial, Sean had arrived with a small black box which, after a brief consultation with Father Declan the priest, he’d reverently placed on the coffin as it was lowered. Then they all went back to the lodgings, which she’d vigorously cleaned.
“What was the box you placed in the grave?” she’d asked him on the way back.
“The remains of the dog.”
“Of Brian Boru?”
“I dug him up last night.”
“Jaysus, Sean, have you no respect for the dead?” she cried. “It’s probably sacrilege.”
“It’s what our father would have wished,” he said blandly. “I asked Father Declan, and he quite agreed.”
He’d seen to it that there was food, and a fiddler, and plenty to drink. They gave John O’Donnell a rousing old wake.
And that was where he’d introduced her to Paddy Nolan.
Surprisingly, she’d liked him. Surprising because she was naturally suspicious of anyone connected with her brother. Nolan was a quiet man, about thirty, with dark hair and a neatly clipped beard. He was very polite, almost formal toward her, calling