Epilogue
IAN thought he’d go to pieces the night he and Lyssa’s first child was born.
It was storming, a powerful lightning and thunderstorm that shook the earth. One of many things they’d liked about their new country were the magnificent storms, and of course, the baby would choose the occasion of one to make its first appearance in the world.
Fiona and Janet took matters in hand, giving Liam strict orders to keep his uncle occupied. “No matter what, don’t let him enter the birthing room,” Janet had said.
“I won’t,” Liam had promised and was true to his word. He blocked the door with the tenacity of a Beefeater.
The lad had taken to his new surroundings.
Of course, the horses helped. After all, they were in his blood, and where he used to use his speed to serve as lookout for others or to filch an occasional fob chain for himself, he now dreamed of racing.
Irish Fortune had just won his first race, bringing in a good purse.
Ian knew Liam hoped to go along when he took Fortune to New Jersey next month for another race.
Racing in the United States was not as disciplined as in Britain, or the stakes as high, but Ian thought they could do well, and after all, horse breeding was horse breeding. Given a few more wins, Fortune would be in demand.
Ian had even started reading the law again and hoped to soon be called before the Maryland bar. Here, he could practice all aspects of law.
Maeve and Johnny were adjusting well, too. But then children always adapted easily.
For a time, Ian had worried about Fiona and Janet.
They suffered occasional bouts of homesickness although that might soon change.
Their neighbor, a fine young farmer named Mr. Cartwright, had begun courting Fiona, and several gentlemen in the area had asked to pay their respects to Janet.
She said she wasn’t ready yet, but the time was coming.
At that moment, from the other side of the door, Lyssa shouted his name, the sound ending with a soft moan that tore at Ian’s heart.
He stopped his pacing outside her door. They’d just finished the house and it smelled of new lumber and paint. Johnny and Maeve had been sitting on the staircase, waiting with the rest of them. Maeve now rose and ran over to Ian to give him a commiserating hug.
“She doesn’t sound happy with you,” Liam said.
Ian sank down into a chair, pulling Maeve into his lap. “I don’t think she is.”
“She isn’t,” Janet cheerily confirmed as she ran out of the room, having overheard what they’d said. She patted her children on their heads, disappeared a moment into her own room, and then came back carrying clean rags.
“Will she be all right?” Ian asked.
“Once this baby is born,” Janet promised and disappeared back into the room again, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Ian buried his face in his hands just as Lyssa cried out again and again, this time with more urgency. He didn’t think he could stand listening to her in such pain. Dear God, he’d never touch her again, not if it could cause her so much misery.
Liam put a manly hand on his uncle’s shoulder and even Johnny, his expression serious, moved to hook an arm around Ian’s shoulders.
“Don’t you wish this was over?” Maeve asked. She ran her hand along Ian’s jaw and then drew back. “You’re scratchy. Will you scratch the baby?”
Ian rubbed his hand across his face and agreed. He’d shave. That’s what he could do. And mayhap when he was done, the baby would be born.
As it was, he took no more than one step, when he heard the sound of a baby’s cry—and no sound had ever been sweeter.
Finally Janet opened the door and Ian flew through, anxious to see his wife and be reassured she was fine.
In the feathered recesses of the bed he’d built for them with his own hands, Lyssa gave him a tired, satisfied smile. Her curls were every which way and, in spite of her white embroidered nightdress, she looked like she’d been in a fight.
He didn’t think he’d ever seen her more beautiful.
“Did you see him?” Lyssa asked.
“Him?” Ian turned just as Fiona walked over and placed a red-faced, angry-with-the-world infant in his arms.
“Congratulations, brother.”
Liam and Johnny hollered liked wild men and danced around the room. They’d wanted a boy. Maeve didn’t even pout, but pushed forward to see the baby.
Stunned at the wee marvel in his arms, Ian sat on the edge of the bed. Lyssa reached up and pulled him to her side so she could see her baby’s face.
“Isn’t he a miracle?” she whispered, touching his tiny fingers.
“Perfect,” Ian agreed. Holding his son was a revelation…and he discovered that settled deep within him now was the peace that had eluded him since his exile from Dublin.
His life had come full circle.
He glanced up at the crucifix on the bedpost that had been in his family for generations.
Lyssa had placed it there the day he’d finished building the bed.
He still didn’t practice, but it reminded him of his heritage, of his family.
He knew that someday he would make his peace with the Church.
He must. He had to give his son tradition.
Lyssa reached up and ran her fingers lightly across the baby’s downy head. “His name?” she asked.
“Daniel. If you agree,” he added diplomatically. “It was my father’s name. Daniel Dunmore Campion.”
Her smile was all the approval he needed. “Daniel,” she repeated. “A good, strong name. And what would you give me for such a fine baby?” Lyssa whispered, her voice full of pride.
“Your weight in gold,” he answered. “Your weight in gold.”