I longed to tell my secret - to have just one person know where my anguish came from.
But I could not. Ruth would not understand. Henry never would. Sarah would never know, that somewhere, out there, she had a brother, living.
I thought about it every day since James had died.
It was wrong to go on living when so much had been taken. I couldn’t face another Christmas without them. I couldn’t face another winter solstice without Daddy, without Oliver and now without James.
I’ve been sitting for a long time, my breath like steam in the air.
I still have those broken feelings that I did then. Empty. I see Sarah’s face and Henry’s. Sweet, sweet Henry. But I have caused him so much pain. I am a penance. A stone around his neck.
And that was how I thought of it. A stone. A rope.
When they told us that James had died, a soldier, for a cause, I knew then. I could not take any more pain. I would not.
It was best to go this way. At my favourite place. At the river, with the rock around my neck, pulling me down to meet my father and my mother and my James. And in time, Oliver would join me too. Wherever he was now.
Henry would forgive me. I was releasing him from his worry for me, from the constant suffering I brought.
I love this river. I love this place.
I see them now. My mother walking with her arms folded across her, on her way to mass. Daddy sailing by in the trap, old Ned pulling him along. And James, playing by the water, like he did when he was a child, skimming stones, laughing, scanning the water for jumping fish.
And in those moments, as the cold hit my face and the brown water rushed round my ears and I felt myself move down, pulled by the stone, deep into the blackness before the water rushed into my mouth and lungs and caused me to choke and not breathe, before then, for a few moments, I felt it.
I was free. Happy. Back in the days where my brothers and I were rolling down the hill at Dowth. Back where my mother made her omelettes and dusted her apron and scolded us for walking grass into the house. Back with Daddy on our walks, through the fields, the dipping sun on our backs, our chit chat murmuring among the bedtime twittering of the birds.
Where Oliver was in my arms, gurgling and laughing. Where my children, Sarah and James, and my husband, my beautiful Henry, were beside me smiling and loving and setting me free.
I was free.
I was finally free.
Chapter Forty-Two
HENRY
As they rode in the dark, the horse’s hooves sparking on the ground, the road silent up ahead, Henry thought about everything he had been through with Molly.
They had overcome so much to be together - he’d always known breaking the engagement to Charity had been the right thing to do and when he met Molly, it became clear why.
She had not found it easy in the early years - marrying into a lifestyle she wasn’t used to, becoming a lady and all the social servitude it brought. She had overcome the melancholy she suffered after the birth of their children - at least in part, but she had never returned to the woman she had been when they met - the spark of joy rarely glimpsed, the way it had shown itself so often in their courtship.
But they had gotten through her dark days and had grown into a more settled existence. Keeping busy was the key. Having projects helped occupy her mind and he could tell after James’s death, when she withdrew from work at the shops and started to spend all her time in bed, or going for long rambling walks by herself, that the sadness would return and it did - with a vengeance.
They came to the end of the road and were about to cross over to take the long driveway back to Brabazon House when they heard a noise, some commotion.
They stopped and listened - it was coming from the river.
‘Come on,’ said Henry and they turned their horses right, thundering down towards the noise along the river bank.
As they approached, Henry thought about where they were headed to - it was the stretch of river he’d often sat at - where he had met Molly all those years ago, before she left for London. Why had he not thought of checking here earlier?
Up ahead they could hear raised voices, panic in the air.
‘What’s going on, do you have her?’ roared Henry as he pulled his horse up to where his stable hand and footman were standing.
Molly lay, white faced on the ground, a rope pulled from her neck. Her hair lay spread around her, matted and black with water. Her eyes were closed.
Henry and Sarah rushed to her, crouching down. Henry cupped her face with his hands.
‘Is she breathing?’ he roared.
‘We’re not sure, sir,’ said the footman. We were checking along the riverbank and we heard something go in. We went straight in after her, but it took us some time to get her out. She was under for a while, sir.’
Henry tilted Molly on to her side, remembering how he’d watched his classmates revive a man who had fallen into the Isis while rowing. He pulled her head back, arching her mouth and opening her airway.
‘Mama,’ said Sarah. ‘Please, Mama.’
The footman and stable hand looked on in silence. Sarah began to cry, her fearful sobs carrying over the rush of the water swollen with winter rain.
Henry put his head down to Molly’s, laying his forehead on the side of her face.
She was wet to touch, cold and clammy.
‘Please, my love,’ he said. ‘Please, darling.’
He shook her vigorously, as though trying to shift the water from her lungs.
Still, she did not respond.
Leaning back Henry looked at her, shaking his head. Then he stooped and shook her again, rattling her shoulders, willing her awake. They stood waiting, for a breath, for a sigh, for a response. But there was nothing, only the sound of the rushing water filling the black, dark night.
Sarah began to wail.
‘Mama!’ she roared. ‘Mama!’
Henry got up and walked to Sarah’s horse, taking down the cloak she had thrown across its back before they left. He went to Molly and laid it on top of her, lifting her gently to wrap the rest of it round her, like a shroud. As he lifted her, cradling her in his arms like a child, tears flowed down his face. He walked away from the river, from the overhanging trees, into the dark, across the road and up the driveway to Brabazon House.
Behind him Sarah walked, pulling Henry’s horse and hers, her sobs piercing the forest that guided them back up the winding lane.
The footman and stable hand hung back to give the family some privacy, before following them too, leading their own horses behind the husband and daughter cortège, carrying the lifeless body of the woman they loved most in the world.
Chapter Forty-Three
MOLLY
I saw him, you know. When I was down there. He came to me. But he wasn’t a boy. He was a man. And he said he was sorry. Over and over again, sorry mama, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.
I told him I was sorry too. I mouthed it under the weight of all that water. As it poured into my lungs. As I got past the spluttering and the choking and it filled me up like a jug.
I tried to reach out to him. I stretched my hand in the water, through the murk, through the dark depths of the swollen river.
I watched him reach for me too, his baby face grown up, his limbs long, muscular.
His fingertips reached, his hand was near mine. And just as we were about to touch, I felt it, the clutch of the stone, on my neck, yanking me and dragging me back, down.
The pain ripped through my skin, the weight pulling me further and further into the depths.
And that was when I went. After I had seen him and the water had gone too far and I had to sleep, for just a moment.
And I knew he was out there, somewhere. Oliver was alive and well and I felt a comfort. A comfort I hadn’t felt since before he was taken, all those years ago.
Chapter Forty-Four
Drogheda Argus, Christmas Edition, 1916
The funeral has tak
en place of Lady Molly Brabazon (nee Thomas) who died suddenly at Curley Hole, Oldbridge, on Tuesday, 19 December 1916. Lady Brabazon is fondly remembered by her husband, Lord Henry Brabazon and her only surviving daughter, Sarah Brabazon; her brothers, Michael and Patrick Thomas and her brother-in-law, Arthur Brabazon.
Lady Brabazon was laid to rest on Thursday, 21 December at Dowth cemetery, a special four o’clock burial the day of her birthday, noted as the sun set on the Winter Solstice, for which Newgrange, Knowth and Dowth passage tombs have world renown.
May she rest in peace.
Chapter Forty-Five
Brabazon House, Co. Meath, Ireland, April 1921
He watched her as she edged closer to the front. Shoulder. Neck. Snout. She was leading by a nose. He roared, the sounds tumbling from his throat, jumping up and down, his boots splatting in the light mud.
Around him came the cries of the crowd who had gathered to watch the race, the highest prize, the biggest turnout for the day. Twenty-five horses started. And Sarah was leading them all.
She had come from behind. Sitting back strong. Moving up and overtaking each horse, one by one. At the turn at the fence, she belted the horse with her crop and crouched lower to its neck.
Henry strained to see her, placing his hand on a man in a cap who was blocking his view. And then he saw them approach, the racing pack, his daughter at the front, her face dark with concentration.
The cries got louder as the finish line came closer. Henry felt as though his head might wrench from his neck with the strain as the horses thundered past, a mass of galloping hooves and flashing coloured shirts.
And in seconds, they had passed the post, Sarah in front by a length, the crowd hopping up and down, caps thrown in the air. He wondered how many had wagered on her, how many had taken the chance on a girl?
Arthur threw his arms around Henry, his usual flamboyance out of control in the moment. But Henry didn’t pull back, instead, he smiled and laughed out loud at the wonder that was his daughter.
They made their way to the top of the track, weaving under the fence to join in with the horsemen, who were grabbing at the racehorses by their bridles and rushing to congratulate Sarah, who was still atop of her mount.
She stood up in the short stirrups when they approached and shot her hand in the air.
‘I did it!’ she said, as Henry came up to the horse and held her hand to help her dismount, with a leap on to the ground.
‘You did it,’ he said and they embraced.
‘Your grandfather would be so proud,’ he murmured into her hair.
Sarah pulled back and looked at her father’s joyous face.
‘So would Mummy,’ she said. ‘I could feel her with me. Like a power.’
* * *
It was Sarah who got him through those silent days. The ones afterwards, when the emptiness of the house rattled him. He wondered, in his melancholy, if this is what it had felt like for Molly, the sadness inside, a pit of despair, nothing easing the physical pain he felt in his bones or the crushing thoughts in his mind.
Sarah had cried too, sometimes breaking down when she found something belonging to her mother. A note scribbled in a book, a handkerchief dotted with her perfume. But she had a strength that restored itself and, in time, she used it to help him. To take him out for long peaceful walks, to let the silence sit between then, gently.
He took comfort in what Molly had left behind. A daughter, with piercing eyes and a quick laugh, a spirit and a strength, a desire to move forward and make the best of the circumstances they had been given.
It was her idea to keep going with the races. To maintain the track, to mend the fences, to entice the sponsors to keep the prize money up and the great horses returning to compete at the Brabazon meet.
He watched her now as well-wishers came up to shake her hand, her riding crop hanging low by the racing britches she was wearing.
She was a woman of her time, a woman who could only be admired. She reminded him so of Molly and sometimes, his own mother too.
He looked at the house in the background, the grey facade glinting under the light summer sun.
* * *
They barely heard the doorbell among the din. A record belted from a gramophone in the corner, warming up the crowd before the band would lift their instruments and fill the atmosphere with their music.
Sarah had washed and changed into a simple dress. Its dropped waist suited her boyish figure and she loved her new short bob, which took little time to dry and which Ruth now delighted in styling after she got over the shock of seeing her mistress’s tresses disappeared.
Sarah knew that some of the guests did not approve of her racing and were very much aggrieved that she had won the cup today. Because of this, she ensured that she greeted and made conversation with every one of the disapprovers. It delighted her to see them squirm. She was speaking to a man with white sideburns covering the entirety of his jaws, his expression barely containing his disdain for ‘lady riders’, when Ruth tapped Sarah on the shoulder and asked to speak with her.
‘Your father wishes to see you in his study,’ she said.
Sarah noted the worry in her assistant’s eyes and wondered if her father was unwell. What on earth was he doing in his study just as the ball was about to start?
She followed Ruth out into the hall and when she opened the study door, she was surprised to see a man, seated in front of her father.
Her father looked pale, an expression on his face that she couldn’t quite read.
Henry asked her to sit and she sat herself down on a chair opposite the sandy haired man.
‘Sarah,’ said her father, ‘If what this young man is telling us is true, then I need you to prepare yourself for a shock.’
Sarah darted her eyes to the man and took in his face, trying to gauge what sort of news he was bringing to their house, on this happy occasion. She followed his hands which were nestled in his nap, clutching a worn looking envelope. She turned her eyes back to her father.
‘What is it, Daddy, what’s wrong?’
Henry gestured to the man, indicating to the man to give Sarah the envelope.
The man leaned over and held out his hand, the paper quivering in his shaking hand. There was something so familiar about him. As if she’d seen him before.
‘What is this?’ she said, looking to her father.
‘Open it,’ he said, quietly, his voice strained.
She opened the envelope and took the contents out - three yellowed cuttings from a newspaper and a white page, handwritten and marked St Anthony’s Mothers and Baby’s Home, London. Behind it was another piece of paper, folded.
‘What is this?’ she said, looking to her father,
Sarah scanned the headline on the article – ‘YOUNG IRISH MOTHER APPEALS FOR MISSING BABY’ - before turning her eyes back to the man’s face.
‘It’s about your mum,’ he said. He had an English accent. He was dressed simply in a shirt and jacket, his clothes pressed, his face clean shaven.
She unfolded the piece of paper. It was creased and crinkled as though it had been read a thousand times. [L4]
Her eyes glanced over the page - I lost my baby - my baby was taken - his name is Oliver - did anyone hand in a boy of this age? It was addressed to the same home marked on the white piece of paper and it was signed Molly Thomas with a bracketed line saying - (may go by the name of Cotton.)
‘I don’t understand,’ said Sarah, looking at her father and back to the man. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Oliver,’ he said pointing at himself. ‘Robert, my new name is Robert. Your mother had me before she married your father. But I was raised by someone else. It’s taken me till now to find you, to track your mum down. I’m devastated that she’s gone.’
Tears glistened in his eyes.
Sarah stood.
‘This can’t be true,’ she said, to her father.
Henry shook his head.
‘Sarah, look at the writing.�
�
She looked at the letter, close up, squinting at the letters and the signature. There was no mistaking Molly’s distinctive scrawl, the curl of the letters on her name. The colour drained from her cheeks. Sarah looked at Robert and then back to her father.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.
‘We could start with hello,’ said Robert, holding out his hand to shake hers. ‘I’m ever so pleased to meet you.’
Epilogue
Ireland 3,200 BC
And when it was time, when the day had come and the sun had moved high enough to reach the temple, they gathered in the morning, in the darkness, in silence.
They felt the sun’s rays fill the chamber, crushing the dark, touching their skin and sending light into their very souls.
And now it was that the spirits were alive.
There was much dancing that day, around the fires and the smoke, with the eating of the flesh and the drinking of the liquid that warmed their blood and throats.
When evening came, dropping in like a cloak, surrounding the hills and the valley and the river babbling black, they gathered again, at Dowth, to enter the chamber to see the Gods send their sun once more before it set.
When it entered the tomb and they fell again and felt the dead arise and go, having been alive and with them that day, they felt a sadness, at another winter solstice over, at their sacrifice complete.
The young were told that this was a special place, that this was where the dead lived and came alive, each year in the temples where the sun shone.
That babies born on this day were the most special of all, that they carried a spirit with them, a power, from the depths of the temple, from the body of the stones.
It was lucky to be born on the solstice, for great strength did it bring.
A spirit and a power and a strength sent by the Gods themselves.
THE END
Acknowledgements
Vanessa Fox O’Loughlin was one of the first people I contacted when I decided to take writing seriously. An assessment I undertook with her while writing this book ultimately shook the novel out of me. She is a positive force within the creative and publishing world. Seek her out.
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