He gives me a fierce look-I could crack him with the whip for his bloody insolence.
I draw the carriage as close to the door as I am able & see Caitlin & Aoife waiting inside the hall. C’s face is drawn with suffering. Aoife is wearing the thin dress she wore when she came to us. The Bride of the World stands further back, looking as contemptuous as her husband. I am judged & will be judged, by a household gone from sweet temper to sour suspicion.
There is nothing in her young face to betray her feelings, she who so naturally displays feeling of every agreeable kind. I harden my heart against the torment which we all feel so keenly, enough to break us if we but let it.
I stand down & offer my hand as any civilized being would do & she takes it & climbs barefoot into the carriage & I hoist up her stool & the one bag with her two frocks & the shoes from her father’s last-she will not take more, not even the coat I had made for her in Dublin.
There are no useless parting words cried from the hall, no masking chatter.
We drive for some time without speaking-she clutches the stool in her lap, as for comfort.
I never touched you, I say.
You never did, no.
She is different today, even her dark hair is done up in a way I have not seen. I had all along thought her to be a lass, but she is a woman today with a woman’s face set toward the eye of the storm.
I am wicked, I say.
You are not wicked, she says. You are good.
I feel the tears on my face.
My father will be angry with me for failing.
Twas I who failed. You must never think you failed.
Something I done… did, she says, I don’t know what.
You did nothing wrong. You were of the greatest help to us. We could hardly have made it without you.
I thought of her lighting the lamps in the evening, the clear, clean bell of the globe shining, the flame finding its being in the trimmed wick.
I should like to go to school & become a Physician, she says.
I am astonished & pleased, but the Truth must be told.
A woman can’t become a Physician, I say.
She turns her head & looks at me for the first time. Her green eyes blaze. That is wicked, she says.
Yes.
She is right, of course. There is so much I would tell her, but none of it will do.
I believe in you, I say at last. There is a terrible longing to speak her name &I know at that moment I will never speak it again.
Aoife, I say.
My God, my God, I cry, silent as a stone.
What’s she done to put ye off, that back she comes as spoiled goods?
Aoife has gone inside & I am standing in a misting rain with O’Leary the Shoemaker, chickens pecking about our feet.
She has done nothing wrong, I say. She is a fine worker & considerate of all.
Was she a liar, then, or a thief? I’ll give her a flaying she’ll not forget.
Please understand-she has done nothing wrong. I nearly shout these words. She has been the best of helpers, even assisting us in the Surgery. This is a grave loss to our household.
O’Leary’s wife stands in the doorway, a beaten look about her. The sisters gather in the yard, one holding a baby & shielding it with her apron from the rain.
Then why in God’s name are ye bringin’ her back to make a laughin’ stock of the O’Learys? His voice is rising, his face red as a poker. Has your man Keegan been at her?
My God, no! For God’s sake, we cared for her like our own daughter, she comes back to you better than she went for all she’s learned of housekeeping & proper English.
I despise this pompous remark, as if I were trying to sell him an improved hair comb.
Twas a gentleman’s agreement we had, says he. Twas a livin’ for our family that ye had her sarvice in your fine house. These days there’s naught but a tap here an’ a heel there. You claim she works hard & don’t lie nor steal, yet back she comes like a lame horse. Tis only right ye declare th’ reason for bringin’ her back-Name her offense, or God strike ye blind!
There is no reason I can cite aloud to any man, & especially an hysterical Irish farmer. I hand him the envelope, heavy with coins. He hesitates before he takes it, as if by restraint he might gain pride in negotiating this monstrous affair. He weighs the payload in his hand, looking me in the eye.
There will be more where that came from, I say, sick to death. I will look for her a place hereabout.
There is no place hereabout but Balfour’s & I would not fob her off to a stump of maggots such as that.
Indeed, I say. I shall look further abroad.
I turn to go, for the rain is getting up & scattering chickens & sisters inside.
Could ye have a look at th’ Missus before ye take leave, then, doctor? He pronounces the word doctor with violent distaste.
What’s the trouble I say.
From th’ last babby, he says, as angry as if I had caused the wound to his wife.
I take my bag from the carriage & drenched as any cur pass into the cabin where those crowding the doorway move apart, taciturn & dubious. Aoife is sitting by the cold hearth on the little stool, sobbing, her head in her hands.
Tis a strange thing I do. I stop on the way home at Rose McFee.
Still damp as plaster, I remove my hat & duck under her sill to the one room.
She is seated at the fire in one of her two chairs & is smoking a pipe. I seen ye go by with th’ lass, she says.
Rose, I say. As God is my witness, I never touched her.
Aye, she says. I believe ye.
I am judged, I say, for what I did not do nor ever would do.
She gestures to the other chair at the hearth & I sit.
Ye couldn’t have kept her, then?
No.
The missus.
Yes. And myself frightened by something wicked in me that I never knew before, I say. I am enfeebled, as if my very blood were being let into a bucket.
Rose, I say, what shall I do?
I am asking a toothless crone who cannot read nor write to tell me how to go forward, I am that weak & stupefied.
Keep doin’ what ye’ve been doin’-healin’ th’ sick & payin’ y’r dues to God above an’ nobody else.
A small thing, her fire with its little heart & heat, but nonetheless I am grateful.
30 November 1863
A stinging cold
C is at her dressing table in nightclothes & a shawl-I sit on the bench at the foot of her bed, wondering why I have come. Her hairbrush cleaves streaks of gray mingled with the old familiar chestnut. I have a moment’s quick desire to go to her & perform the nightly liturgy of brushing, but I do nothing.
If you should die & I am left behind… she says, speaking to me in the mirror.
My heart has the dull feeling at this.
Cathair Mohr would be left to Padraigin, she says.
Yes, I say, again feeling regret at this reckless decision & further regret for having not rectified it in some way.
And I would be put out, she says.
Even two years ago, we had thought to live forever. Not so, now. How much I have learned.
Perhaps not, I think not-if you wished to stay on.
If Padraigin were the master of Cathair Mohr, she says, I would not wish to stay on.
You know you will have funds to keep you, I say. You might take a flat in Dublin or go to your sister in Roscommon.
The few times I have considered such a future, I think of her in Roscommon, in her older sister’s cottage with its large garden & many geese & a window seat where she might read & be happy.
She lays the brush on the table & is quiet for a time. I wish to put my arms about her & protect her from such thoughts as these, but I hold myself away.
She bows her head into her hands & covers her face as if shutting out the world.
The boy, the lad, I say. He wants to become a Surgeon.
She doesn’t speak.
His father, I say, will drink himself to death before it’s over, according to Padraigin’s wife.