Chapter One Reunion Let my voice ring out and over the earth,
Through all the grief and strife,
With a golden joy in a silver mirth:
Thank God for life!
James Thomson
New York City
Late March, 1876
The first time Susanna Fallon saw Riccardo Emmanuel, she wasn't in the least surprised that he was weeping.
He had not seen his son, after all, for years. Not since the accident that had blinded Michael. It was all she could do to hold back her own tears as she watched Michael's father grasp his son by the shoulders, study him, then pull him into a long embrace.
Uncomfortable with the idea of intruding on such an intimate family occasion, Susanna had wanted to stay behind this morning. Despite the love that had blossomed and then deepened between her and Michael Emmanuel over the past months, she still found it hard to think of herself as his fiancee, not his dead wife's sister and his daughter's governess. Only at Michael's insistence had she agreed to come to the city with him to meet his father's ship. And so far she had managed to remain where she wanted to be-in the background.
Around them, all was confusion and commotion. The New York City harbor brought back memories of her own arrival in America: the fear she'd had to struggle against when she'd first stepped off the ship into the midst of the other immigrants milling about the waterfront; the tall buildings along the wharf that had seemed so forbidding; the mix of foreign tongues and English, spoken more sharply and harshly than she was used to; and the ever present runners, most of them Irish themselves, who preyed on their fellow countrymen as they hustled them off to disreputable shanties and dilapidated tenements where unscrupulous landlords would take advantage of them yet again.
Susanna shuddered and, shading her eyes with one hand, looked up at the bright March sky. Although winter still held the city in its tenuous grip, the late morning sun was clear and sharp, the bracing air full of promise that spring was on the way.
Susanna watched as Riccardo Emmanuel released Michael to draw Paul, his nephew, closer and kiss him soundly on both cheeks. Then he bent to sweep four-year-old Caterina up into his sturdy arms, tugging at a long, dark curl as she squealed with delight.
"Bella! Mia bella nipote!"
My beautiful granddaughter.
"But surely this cannot be your baby girl, Michael? Not this bella creatura! Why, she's nearly grown!"
Susanna smiled to see Caterina throw her arms around the neck of the grandfather she had never met, hugging him as if they'd been together forever. Clearly, this relationship held great promise.
Only when Michael called to her did Susanna finally step out and approach. Seeing her, Riccardo Emmanuel set Caterina carefully to her feet, then beckoned Susanna closer.
"Ah," he said softly, with a quick glance at Michael. "She is exactly as you wrote of her, figlio mio."
She had only a second to speculate exactly as to what Michael had written before Riccardo turned to her. After only a slight hesitation, he brought her hand to his lips, his keen blue eyes taking her measure in one quick but thorough sweep. Had it not been for the unmistakable twinkle in his eye, that sharply discerning gaze might have intimidated Susanna. As it was, however, Riccardo Emmanuel seemed more intent on charming her than intimidating her.
He was a big man, Michael's father-nearly a head shorter than his son but of broad, even rotund, girth. Like Michael, he sported a neatly trimmed beard and wore his hair, liberally streaked with silver, somewhat longer than fashion dictated. With his weathered, ruddy skin, he looked like a man who had spent much time in the Tuscan sun.
He was-dashing, Susanna decided. Impeccably tailored, freshly barbered. How had he managed that aboard ship? And where in the world had he found a flower for his lapel?
And then there was his smile. Brilliant. Irresistible.
Susanna liked him immediately.
He lifted his head, still searching her face as he said, in surprisingly good English, "I am delighted to meet you at last, Susanna. We will spend much time getting to know each other, no?"
"I'm looking forward to it, signor Emmanuel."
He shook a finger at her. "No, no! None of that. You are betrothed to my son. You will be my daughter, and so you must call me Papa." He said all this with an ingenuous smile and a certain good-natured presumption.
Well, then. In addition to being dashing, he was also adept at getting his way.
"Very well. Papa," Susanna said, aware that she was being dazzled and enjoying it immensely.
At that point, Michael cleared his throat as if vying for attention.
"We still have to take the ferry upriver, Papa. We should be going. Pauli will see to your luggage, and Susanna and Caterina and I will go with you through the registration."
Michael extended his hand then, reaching for Susanna. When he failed to find her, she moved closer and put a hand to his arm. She glanced at Riccardo Emmanuel and saw that he was watching his son with an expression of great sadness. In that instant, Susanna's gaze met his, and a look of shared love and understanding passed between them.
Then Michael's father squared his shoulders, renewed his smile, and again caught Caterina up into his arms. "So-let us tend to the necessary business and be on our way! I am eager to begin my visit!"
"And we're so happy to have you here, Uncle Riccardo!" Paul told his uncle. "We intend to make your visit so very pleasant you will decide to stay and make your home with us!"
"Ah, is that what you're up to?" said Riccardo Emmanuel, tweaking Caterina's nose. "Then the first thing you must do is to feed me as soon as possible! I thought I would most certainly starve on that ship's swill. I'm sure I've lost far too much weight."
Grinning at Caterina, he thumped his considerable stomach. "Why, I must be a mere shadow of myself by now!"
Caterina giggled and hugged him again.
After completing the registration process, Susanna and Michael led the way to the ferry while Caterina, her grandfather, and Paul followed behind. In their wake came a boy towing a luggage cart piled with Riccardo Emmanuel's trunks.
"So," asked Michael, his hand covering Susanna's on his forearm, "what do you think of my papa?"
"I think he's absolutely wonderful, and I couldn't be happier that he's come." Susanna paused. "Although it seems you may have a serious rival for your daughter's affections."
Michael lifted one eyebrow but smiled. "This is bad for me, I think. I am no competition for my debonair papa."
"Oh, I don't know. You do have a certain charm of your own."
"Grazie," he said dryly. "I must remember to use this to my advantage from now on. Just as soon as I discover what it is."
Susanna squeezed his arm. "You're a sweet man."
"Sweet?" He slowed his pace slightly. "What man wants to be sweet? You might just as well tell me I'm dull, I think."
"Hardly. I understand that Italian men are strong-willed, even stubborn at times. But always interesting. Never dull."
"A generalization," he pointed out, then amended, "though no doubt an accurate one."
"I'm sure that's true."
"It would seem that I am marrying a very diplomatic woman."
"Also true."
He seemed to have forgotten that they weren't alone, slowing his steps even more and nudging a little closer to her.
"Michael," Susanna warned, "your father-"
"-is no doubt pleased to see his son so happy," he said. "This is a happy day for me, cara."
Even in profile, Susanna could see the contentment ordering his strongly molded features. Gone-for good, she hoped-was the tightly drawn look of sorrow that had shadowed his face when she'd first arrived in New York the year before.
"That's what I want for you, Michael. Much happiness."
"Your love has already given me that," he said as they continued walking. "And now, to have my family all together, here-I could not possibly hope for more."
Chapter Two
A Man Without Remorse
Man is caught by what he chases.
~George Chapman
The world occupied by the Women's Clinic and Convales-cence Center was one of squalor and despair.
Prostitutes and thugs roamed the streets of the area freely, looking for their next "clients" or victims. Derelicts of all colors and nationalities-Negro and white, Irish and Slav, Italian and Bohemian-loitered in doorways, tin cups or bottles in hand, as they called out jeers and insults to the vehicle traffic rumbling by. Even now, well before the noon hour, men and women could be seen carousing and fighting, dancing and procuring, openly debasing themselves and their companions. Only the pigs and marauding dogs spilled out into the streets in greater numbers than the forgotten souls on Baxter Street.
Andrew Carmichael was always relieved to put the area behind him. Not so much because of the unfortunates who swarmed the neighborhood-he spent a large part of his life among the outcasts of the city, many of whom were worse off than these degraded residents of Five Points. But the narrow alleys and mud-slick lanes of the entire settlement gave off a miasma of wretchedness and corruption that seemed to cling to a man like a vile web from which he could not extricate himself so long as he was inside the infamous slum.
Today, however, it was worry, not relief, that fueled his hasty departure. Mary Lambert, a woman he had been treating since back in December, needed to be lodged in a facility where she could receive far more concentrated care and attention than the understaffed women's clinic could provide. Although she had come a long way in recovering from her opium habit, Mary was still indigent and homeless, her children lodged in two separ...
