“I’ve never seen a mouse here.” She had observed plenty of them at Lear House, particularly in the months following the onset of the blight.
“Have the landlord look for holes. They must be plugged, the mice eradicated.”
She nodded. “That’s fine, but what of my sister?”
His face stiffened, yet still retained the compassion he’d displayed. “I’ll do everything I can, but your sister is in a precarious state. Since traditional methods have failed, I may have to try a new approach—with your permission, of course.” He lifted his bag, which he had placed in front of the bed. “I’m afraid I have nothing here that might help her except willow bark tea, but at this late stage of her pregnancy I don’t think that’s a wise idea.” He paused. “I saw a boy downstairs. He lives here?”
Lucinda nodded.
“Keep him out of this room. Children are more susceptible, and, by their nature, they spread germs.”
“Whatever you can do for my sister,” Lucinda said, her voice wobbling. “I can’t bear the thought of losing . . .”
He took another look at Briana. “I understand. I’ll return tomorrow morning with a serum I hope will help. We should know if it’s successful within twenty-four hours. In the meantime, make her as comfortable as possible.” He bowed.
Lucinda opened the door and walked down with him to the landing. “Thank you again, Doctor.”
He smiled, pulled on his overcoat, and gathered his umbrella. “I’m happy that we met, but I’m sorry it was under unfortunate circumstances. Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.”
“I sincerely hope so,” she said.
As he grasped the door handle, Lucinda stopped him. “I’m sorry, I did mean to ask . . . in England all jobs are based on references and education. Where did you get your degree?”
He appeared unperturbed by her question. “Harvard.” His eyes twinkled with unabashed pride. “Until tomorrow.” He descended the steps and disappeared down the slushy street.
Harvard? Harvard. She had heard the Carlisles mention the university often with delight in their voices. She climbed the stairs thinking that she could do much worse than meet an attractive doctor from Harvard.
* * *
Dr. Scott returned to the Colemans’ before eleven the next morning. What he withdrew from his medical bag frightened Lucinda because she had never seen anything like it. The vial of red liquid had the thickness and color of blood, but it shone purple at the bottom and pink at the top as if it contained three liquids not yet combined.
“How is she today?” he asked.
“Little changed,” Lucinda said. She had hoped to look better for the doctor than she did. There hadn’t been much time for primping while caring for her sister. Perhaps he would excuse her unkempt hair, the plum-colored circles under her eyes, the wrinkles that rumpled her dress. “I was awake much of the night,” she said, and smoothed her hands down the fabric.
“I’m hopeful that won’t be the case tonight and thereafter.” He sat on the bed and then withdrew a strange-looking apparatus.
“What is that?” she asked, awed by the hollow needle and tubing that he held in his hand.
“Is she coherent? Can your sister speak yet or take water?” He shook the capped vial until the liquids combined in a purplish mix, held it up to the light of the window, and then pointed to the needle. “This is something new to medicine, in fact, invented by an Irish doctor recently. I’ve just started working with them. It injects medicine under the skin. As I warned you yesterday, there’s no certainty in what I’m doing, but we have few choices.”
“Please, do what you must.” Still eyeing the needle, Lucinda replied, “Sometimes she comes around, and I get some soup or water down her, but then after a few minutes she goes back to sleep breathing heavily and moaning.”
The doctor shook the vial again. “This comes from the blood of a woman who has exhibited similar symptoms, yet she recovered from her illness. We don’t understand why, but often the fluids of one who has returned to health can aid the sick.” He grabbed the tubing. “I’ll need your assistance. If your sister was aware of her surroundings she could drink the serum—it would taste terrible—but as she is she might choke to death. We can’t take that risk.”
He uncapped the vial, inserted the tubing over its opening, and then attached the needle to the other end. Holding the apparatus so the liquid couldn’t escape the vial, he sat on the bed next to Briana. “Hold her right arm firmly while I administer the serum.”
Lucinda knelt by the bed and held Briana’s arm while the doctor tapped the skin for a suitable vein. “Her blood vessels are thin. She’s dehydrated. This may take longer than I like . . . be prepared for some blood.”
He leaned forward, again testing the arm before deciding on a spot. He wiped the tip of the needle with a cloth, elevated the vial so a bit of the serum squirted out, and then stuck the sharp point into Briana. Her sister moaned and shifted in bed, but her resistance was so feeble she could muster only a clenched fist.
“Good.” Dr. Scott raised the vial higher. “Hold on while I squeeze the tubing.” He ran his fingers down its length as the serum drained from the vial. He continued to do so for several minutes until it was empty and only a pink film remained on the glass.
He withdrew the needle and placed the cloth over Briana’s arm. A bright red spot blossomed upon it. He dropped the apparatus into his bag and pressed his hand over the wound. Soon the bleeding stopped.
He rose from the bed and looked down on his patient. “It’s out of our hands. We can only hope and pray that God takes pity on her body.”
Once again, Lucinda found herself overwhelmed. Calling upon God was fine, but what if He decided to call her sister to heaven? The loss would kill her, as well as her father and Rory. She burst into tears.
The doctor drew her close and put his arms around her. Lucinda collapsed against his chest, breathing in the warmth of the man. She drew back, startled by the strange electric power coursing through her body. He withdrew as well.
She wiped her tears and started for the desk. “I’ll get your fee.”
He gathered his bag. “You needn’t. The Carlisles have found it in their hearts to take care of everything. Your gratitude should be shown to them. I will call tomorrow—after a prayer for a positive outcome.”
She started to follow him to the door, but he stopped her. “I can find my way out.” He bowed his head. “Good day.” He descended the stairs and was soon out the door.
Lucinda returned to Briana’s bedside and prayed over her. Oddly, her sister seemed more at peace than she had been in several days.
Cheered by her observation, she rested on her own bed only a few feet away, and soon the warmth and crackle of the fireplace lulled her to sleep.
* * *
Briana awoke during the night with a terrible moan. Her eyes fluttered open, and she jumped with fright, for she was unaware of where she was. Everything in the room was in focus: The dying embers from the fireplace cast an orange light on the ceiling, the windows were glazed with frost. She turned her head to see Lucinda sleeping. It was as if she had awakened from a fevered dream that had lasted years. She shifted her body, and her fingers clutched bedding sopped with sweat. When she touched her forehead, perspiration cooled her fingertips.
“Lucinda?” The name came out in a hoarse gasp. She called it again, but there was no answer. She lifted herself on her elbows and looked across the room. She sensed a familiarity about a house with two windows. They faced west toward the setting sun, but the room was dark now; her bones ached, and her stomach was knotted by cramps. She reached for her belly and found the round swelling. What? A child. Memory came flooding back—Boston, a boarding house, a family. What was their name?
Needing to relieve herself, she swung her legs over the bed. The cold wood smarted against her feet, and she lifted them back to the bed. She blurted out her sister’s name again several times.
Finally, Lucinda stirred an
d then leapt from her bed. “My God,” she exclaimed, “our prayers have been answered.”
Briana’s foggy mind was in no state to talk of prayer. “I need to go to the privy,” she said.
Lucinda leaned over her. “It’s too cold to go outside. I’ll get the chamber pot.”
Briana lay back while her sister fetched the pot from under her bed.
She lifted her night clothes and moved herself onto the cold porcelain as her sister turned away. When she was done, Lucinda cleared the pot and then sat next to her on the bed.
“How long have I been sick?” Briana asked.
“Days—longer than you’ve ever been before.” Lucinda clutched her hand with warm fingers, almost hot to the touch. “I feared the worst, but a kind doctor administered a serum that helped you get over this awful illness.” Tears glistened in her sister’s eyes from the embers’ dying light.
“I remember you writing a letter at the desk. I grew hot with fever, and then everything seems a blur.”
“You hardly spoke . . . but don’t worry about that now. You must rest and get better. The Colemans will be glad to know you’re recovering. Everyone’s been so worried.”
Colemans. Of course. The fog was beginning to lift, the room, the house coming into focus. “Can you bring me a glass of water?”
“Of course. I’ll get it.” Lucinda grabbed her coat, for the path to the kitchen would take her outside through the alley.
She drifted off only to awaken to Lucinda’s soft touch on her shoulder. Her sister stood over her, water cup in hand, like a guardian angel who would nurse her back to health.
* * *
The recovery was slow, but Briana soon was able to walk a few steps, converse, and eat meals, which Mrs. Coleman delivered to her room. She met Dr. Scott the morning after the fever broke and was impressed with his manner and his devoted attention to Lucinda. Before leaving, after a promise to continue his visits, he referred to Briana as “his miracle.” The next day, Lucinda returned to work at the Carlisles’ with a pledge to give many thanks to her employers.
Each day Briana grew stronger, and on Christmas she was able to join her sister, Quinlin, and the Colemans in celebrating the holiday. Declan had paid for a large turkey, and all of them feasted on the meat, squash, and potatoes prepared for the occasion. She had always loved the taste of potatoes and the various ways she could cook them in Ireland, but this year the sight of them turned her stomach and brought up bitter memories. She picked at her helping and then spooned them to the boy. How hard it was to be happy on this day when all she could think of was her husband and father! Were they cold and starving? She’d received no letters and had no communication with anyone who might know them. What if they were—?
She blanked out the thought and concentrated on getting well for her baby. The time was coming soon and she wanted to be prepared, both physically and emotionally. Worry could wait until after her child was born. In the meantime, she needed to eat and rest.
Mr. Peters paid a surprise visit on Christmas Day, which cheered her. Her employer dropped off a present for Quinlin—a large tin soldier—and told Briana that he wanted her to take several months off after the birth of her child. Another job would be waiting at the building trades office if she chose to come back. “And I hope you do,” he added.
* * *
“Push,” Dr. Scott prodded. He spread her legs apart until she thought she would split open.
Nothing much mattered, because her body shuddered with pain, as if she had been lowered into a fire pit. None of the preparations seemed to matter: The ointments, the salves, the compresses on her head were of little use against the agony banding her belly like hot iron. The room she had lived in for weeks faded in a white haze.
Lucinda sat bedside, facing her, and clutched her hand in an unrelenting grip.
“Breathe,” the doctor ordered, and expanded his own lungs with air. “It shouldn’t be long now.” He stuck his head under the sheet that covered her legs. “I can see the baby’s head. Keep pushing. Steady . . . steady.”
She gulped air and pushed again. A fiery pain shot in a line from her belly to her brain and then something snapped, and after one excruciating moment her legs trembled and then relaxed, quivering upon the bed.
A baby’s sharp cry split the air, and the doctor yelped with joy.
Delirium swept over her as her body sank into the mattress.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor announced after emerging from under the sheet. He wrapped the baby in a towel and handed her to Lucinda. Briana reached out for her child, and Lucinda obliged her wishes before carrying the baby to the washbasin to bathe her.
The doctor sat next to Briana. “She’s a beauty.”
At 2:32 in the afternoon of Tuesday, January 5, 1847, under the care of Dr. Jonathan Scott, Shona Caulfield was delivered into the world. The baby weighed less than the doctor would have liked, but otherwise he pronounced the girl in good health.
After the bath, Briana held the little one in her arms as the birth was announced to those waiting outside the door. Mrs. Coleman cheered, and a timid smile broke out on Quinlin, who had been dismayed that he might be thrown out of the house because of the new arrival. Briana had assured him that no such measure would be taken because she had grown to love him, along with the memory of his mother.
The baby had fine red hair and blue eyes like her father. Still, she retained characteristics of her mother, long of limb with a delicate nose and cheekbones. The girl lay against her mother’s breast, warm and contented, as the birch logs blazed in the fireplace. Spits of snow filled the air, but Briana didn’t care. Her daughter was born in America, and it was a blessing. She had now fulfilled her promise to Rory to keep the baby safe from harm. Briana cradled Shona close as the others left her in peace with her child.
In the quiet, she looked down at her daughter’s face and then out the window at the thin, flat clouds. In the spring, she would travel with Shona to Ireland to bring her father and Rory back to America. Her daughter had been born, and it was clear what she needed to do. Shona’s father deserved to see his child and his wife. She and her baby would survive the famine.
CHAPTER 22
Rory wished Brian Walsh could write a letter to his daughters, but the task was like asking a child to plow a field. His father-in-law grew worse by the month, often wandering about Lear House in his nightclothes, or even undressed, seemingly unaware of where he was. Rory couldn’t write well himself, so, against his better judgment, he relied on the poet, who had taken up residence, to be his scribe.
The depressing winter carried on after a bleak Christmas with more snow than he could ever remember. It swirled high upon the manor walls, coating them with a thick layer of white. Sunlight was rare, as clouds swept in from the Atlantic blanketing Carrowteige in thick layers of fog and, sometimes, freezing rain.
Rory found it necessary to open the library shutters during the day to let in light, lest they all go mad from the dark. The insipid winter illumination was the only distraction from the gloom they experienced daily. The miserable weather had one noticeable advantage: It kept others away from Lear House.
On the rare days of decent weather, Rory traveled to Glencastle and then to Belmullet to post letters, avoiding Carrowteige when possible. This tactic was of some cost to the pony, who occasionally struggled through forearm-high snow. Many times he dismounted from the poor animal until he was able to find a trail tamped down by other riders. The two remaining ponies barely subsisted on leftover cooked meal and the sprouts of heath grass Rory could gather. The other animals had disappeared during the time Rory spent with Orange.
Daniel Quinn and Brian remained at Lear House—a less-than-ideal situation but one that was necessary, for his father-in-law and, to some extent, the poet were in no condition to help him procure food. Quinn, attired in Sir Thomas’s clothes, embarked on walks for hours after sunset, at times in the worst weather, and Rory often hoped that he might take an accidental plun
ge off the western cliffs. Quinn was another mouth to feed. But always, a few hours before bed, the bedraggled poet would show up grumbling about the state of man and the inclement weather. Quinn showed an increasingly morose and moody side as Brian regressed into childhood.
On one of his trips to Glencastle, Rory visited Orange at the sod farmhouse where he was staying. The big man shook his hand heartily and offered him a mug of poteen. Rory welcomed the chance to have a drink with sane and pleasant company. They sat around the warm turf fire.
“You’ve come for more of your share?” Orange asked.
Rory raised his mug, signaling his assent.
Orange patted his left shoulder. “You saved my life. I have extra meal for you, as I promised, and a reward.” He pulled three pounds from his pocket and handed it to Rory. “Use it wisely, for the well is running dry.” Orange pointed to the single window where the sun’s feeble rays streaked into the house. “Did you know the relief projects are running in this bitter weather? Women and children are taking over for dead husbands. They get half-pence a day for freezing their toes off while breaking rocks for new roads. Then they drop dead by the side of the road and are buried in a snowbank. They’ll thaw out in the spring.” He half laughed and downed some of the liquor. “The works can take their coins and shove them up their ass. They’ll transport me out of Ireland before I’ll give them my body and soul.”
“I can’t work,” Rory said. “My father-in-law is going mad . . . and Daniel Quinn has made his home at Lear House. I’ve my hands full.”
Orange pulled his pipe from his pocket, stuffed the bowl with a plug of tobacco, and lit up. “So Quinn is staying at Lear House. I’d watch out for that one. He may be as crazy as your father-in-law—maybe dangerous, depending on your liking.”
“What do you mean?” Rory asked, knowing what the man implied.
“I heard stories told by English sailors at Westport.” He puffed on the pipe, sending balls of smoke into the air. “Some say Quinn shot an Englishman and the only thing that stopped him from killing him was his poor aim. More’s the pity.”
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