The Parting Glass

by Gina Marie Guadagnino

  His words cut me then, though I couldn’t quite say why. Certainly I had known, must have known that she loved him, for a well-bred lady like Charlotte Walden doesn’t go fucking her groom unless she’s convinced that it’s love. Perhaps it hadn’t occurred to me until just then that Seanin loved her back.

  “Listen to you,” I said, with all the contempt I could muster. “She’s just a fine bit of stuff to you, and you know it. So cut the tripe and let her be.”

  He should have been angry—I had been trying to make him angry just then—but he shook his head with an expression of vehement earnestness. “It ain’t tripe, Mar. Jesus, I swear it ain’t. I love her. God help me, but I do.”

  “Seanin, you’re my only kin left living,” I whispered in Irish. “Don’t I love you too? And if you should be caught, they would surely hang you, and just as sure I’d die too for the grief of it.”

  “Go on,” he said, much louder and in English.

  “It can’t last, Johnny,” I said, squeezing his hand.

  He squeezed mine back and said softly, “I know it.”

  “Then end it,” I pleaded. “Now.”

  He bit his lip, considering. “No.”

  “Fuck you, Johnny,” I whispered, pulling my hand out of his.

  He grabbed my arm, hissing, “Keep that fucking window open, drink your fucking ale, and say no more about this, Mar.”

  I threw the contents of my mug right in his goddamn face and stalked out into the snow. I spent an hour howling my rage in the alley behind the pub, sobbing until my cheeks were red and blotchy, until snot ran down my face with the tears.

  I hated them both.

  A year had spun by and every Thursday, I blunted my jealousy on Dermot’s ale until it mellowed into misery, and this became my state, waking and sleeping, from which I mourned the love they’d found.

  She who indulges in all the excesses of such a place, is not one whom we should expect to behave well when at home.

  —The Duties of a Lady’s Maid

  Seanin shook me gently awake and we dressed in dark and silence. My head rang, my tongue tasted of cotton and sick. I followed Seanin upstairs to find Dermot had left coffee and eggs and rashers on the potbellied stove for us. As Seanin fixed us plates, I poured the coffee. Seanin tucked in with a fair vigor, but it was ashes in my mouth. By the time Dermot came back in, shaking the slush from his overcoat, Seanin was building up the fire and I was washing the dishes in a basin of melted snow.

  “You’re green again, Maire,” he said by way of welcome. He stomped his boots to clear them of snow, in an unaccountably good mood for an hour before daylight.

  “Ah, go on now,” Seanin said. “ ’Twas her night off.”

  Dermot shook his head at me, tsking in mock chagrin. I said nothing, just handed over our wages for him to lock away into the strongbox he kept in the back room, safer than a bank, and surer for two Irish orphans.

  “Will you have a belt for the road, Mar?” he asked, and, when I looked up, eyes glassy, he chuckled. “Hair of the dog?”

  I managed a narrow grin. “Sure I ain’t so green as all that now. Keep it for me till next week?”

  He slapped me on the back, and I nearly retched again. “Ah, there’s my good lass,” he said, and I wasn’t sure he meant it was good of me to refuse a belt on a workday, or he was glad I wasn’t as distempered as I looked. He pecked me hard on the cheek and said, “Hm, we’ll have roses there yet, or something duskier, I’ll warrant.” I smiled weakly. It was never a good sign when Dermot turned tease. It meant he had something on you.

  We trudged back through the snow in the blue light before dawn.

  Charlotte Walden’s room was dark. Her bed was of a newfangled design without hangings, but once I kindled the fire, I could see well enough to pick my way across the room, gathering clothing as I went. I always inspected the carpet carefully; once, I’d found a wooden button, clearly from Johnny’s shirt, and, after secreting it back to him, had boxed his ears for carelessness. Today, I found no trace, save for a stiffed flannel I grasped with distaste, using the corner of my apron as a barrier.

  From the bed, Charlotte stirred, and I paused, not daring to move, my arms laden with her night rail and her dressing gown. I watched as Charlotte rolled over, her breath a sigh, and settled into the blankets once more. Limbs melting, I fled to my closet, pressing my back against the door. I forced myself to breathe through the throb in my head, forced my shaking hands still. Through the door, I heard Charlotte stir and sit up, the ringing of her silver bell cutting through the lingering effects of my intemperance. I pressed my hand against the coolness of the windowpane, and then to the back of my neck, delaying as long as possible.

  “Yes, miss?” I asked, tucking the Irish away as neatly as her dressing gown, and adopting a tonier accent.

  “Good morning, Ballard,” Charlotte Walden murmured.

  “Shall I ring for your tray, miss?” I asked, pulling open the curtains. The wan light of snow flurries sifted into the room.

  “What time is it? Yes, I believe I . . .” The finely pointed chin wavered. “Perhaps a . . . bath first?” Charlotte looked guiltily at the press of white against the window. I raised my eyebrows, but she nodded, resolutely. “Yes. I couldn’t possibly face today without a bath.”

  I rang for water.

  Sponging the creamy skin of Charlotte’s back, I fumed. It was unlike her to be quite this careless. Ordering a bath on a February morning when she’d only just had one two days ago was bound to cause talk belowstairs. Agnes, the scullery girl, was probably complaining to all and sundry, no doubt lamenting to Grace Porter, Mrs. Walden’s pinch-faced maid. Charlotte shivered as she rose, water sheeting down her pale, jutting hips. I folded her into a flannel, pressing the cloth into her skin, feeling the contours of the slim body beneath. I slipped a wrapper over the narrow shoulders, ushered her to the dressing table to run fingers and comb through the shining auburn hair.

  The Waldens were Scots, going back several generations now, but the breeding showed true in Charlotte’s hair. A century and more of genteel downtown addresses and crystal stemware and taffeta and silk melted away to some godforsaken highland crag in the wildness of her deep, ruddy locks. The hours I spent, taming her hair with lavender oil—good, you know, for curls—and brushing it until it shone before knotting up the wildness at last into a decorous coil of braids against the nape of her neck. With nimble fingers, I pinned her tresses into submission before tucking a final ornamental comb into the arrangement.

  There was a timid rap at the door. Charlotte lay propped on the chaise longue in her dressing gown, a blanket tucked about her knees. Millie, the head housemaid, was holding Charlotte’s breakfast tray. She craned her head to see into the room, but I blocked her view with my body and took the tray with an icy “That will do, Millie,” before shutting the door in her face.

  Charlotte ate delicately. Cook had sent up two soft-boiled eggs and a plate of toast. Forbidden by her mother to drink coffee, Charlotte took chocolate instead, gazing out the frosty window as she sipped. Upon Mr. Walden’s death, his daughter had taken to having a tray sent up, rather than sit alone in the empty dining room, an arrangement that, though highly unorthodox, excused Cook; the butler, Mr. Buckley; and myself from the trouble of dressing and feeding Charlotte in style each morning.

  I set her empty tray on the table in the hall and rang for someone to come and take it away while I helped Charlotte into her shift and stays. I presented her with a celadon morning dress, which she accepted with almost no consideration of the matter. Her eyes held a faraway look, and it was plain that her mind was, if not miles away from the room in which she stood, then across the mews in the loft above the carriage house.

  Once I had seen my mistress buttoned and on her way to the parlor, I saw to the bed, dabbing delicately at a telltale stain on the sheet with a damp piece of potato before tossing this last bit evidence into the fire. I sprinkled lavender water to mask whatever traces of the
earthy, horsey smell of my brother might rise from the sheets: a night specter, dispelled with the dawn. Surveying my handiwork with satisfaction, I settled myself into a tufted chair by the fire and began picking a bit of trim off one of her last season’s gowns. I knew I ought to take my work down to the kitchen and put on a show of sociability, but, still feeling indisposed, I could not face the heat and noise and bustle. The snowy blue light from the window and the deep amber glow of the fire suffused the silent room. My eyes blurred, the tiny rows of stitches fading in and out of focus, until at last the pearl-handled sewing knife slipped from my fingers and sleep overtook me.

  Raised voices roused me.

  I stood, the room lurching, sleep crusting my eyes. I blinked, rubbed my face, and was staring stupidly at the fire as Charlotte Walden burst into the room, pink cheeked and furious. She slammed the door, glared at me, and rubbed her eyes indelicately with the back of one hand.

  The door opened behind her to admit Mrs. Walden. She took in the room, took in her daughter’s sulk, my flushed face, and said to me, “Leave us, Ballard,” in a tone that brooked no disagreement.

  I fled to the kitchen.

  Cook, Grace Porter, and Mrs. Harrison were sitting around a teapot while Agnes chopped parsnips.

  “Well now,” said Cook, motioning for Agnes to fetch me a cup. “What’s got the missus so crabbed up at our princess?”

  I sat at the kitchen bench and shrugged. “Miss Porter would know better than I.”

  Grace Porter sniffed. She was a weedy thing, of later middle years, and had been Mrs. Walden’s maid since before she was twenty. It was a point of pride for her that, in all her years of faithful service, she had never disturbed Mrs. Walden by having any beaux come calling. She tossed her iron-gray head. “I’m sure I’ve no more idea than yourself, Miss Ballard,” she said, as though I had insulted her. “I was not cloistered in Miss Charlotte’s room. What on earth could she possibly have wanted a bath for on a day like today?”

  “That’s right,” Cook said. “Hasn’t Agnes got enough to do without getting all that water boiled up? We’ve still Saturday’s dinner to plan, to say nothing of tonight.”

  “And me with all them carrots to do,” Agnes whined. “I ain’t half-done with the parsnips.”

  Cook slapped her hand against the table. “And complaining will make it go all the faster, I suppose?”

  “No, Mrs. Freedman, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

  I sighed, doing my best to play the put-upon servant. “Feverish in the night, woke up in such a sweat, you know. Well, nothing would do for her but to bathe.”

  Grace Porter sipped her tea. “I would have sponged her instead.”

  “Now then,” Mrs. Harrison said mildly. “I would not have ever suspected you, Miss Porter, as one inclined to gainsay one’s betters.”

  Grace had dignity enough to blush at that, saying, “Certainly not, Mrs. Harrison.”

  Mrs. Harrison deigned to pour. “No more so Miss Ballard, I daresay.”

  I studied Mrs. Harrison out of the corner of my eye, unsure, as always, what she might think of me. Certainly, I knew she had not been particularly keen to take me on, and I had never felt secure that she was convinced of my character. She gave me plenty of rope, that was certain, but Johnny said it was only to see how much it took for me to hang myself.

  My reverie was broken by Charlotte Walden’s bell. I thanked Cook for the tea and took my time answering the summons. The back stairs seemed steeper today for my aching head, and I paused to catch my breath before stepping through the door that led back into the hall.

  Charlotte’s door was ominously open. It was plain that Mrs. Walden had only recently vacated it. Moving carefully, I took in the wreckage of the room. All in all, it was more mess than destruction. The shepherdess figurine, beloved of Charlotte’s youth, lay in pieces on the floor. Pillows had been flung in disarray, a pot of pomatum overturned on the rug, but still lidded and not yet leaking. My mistress was at her dressing table, dabbing a wet cloth to her puffy face. Her mother had vanished.

  “For pity’s sake, Ballard,” Charlotte said, her voice low and steady. “Get it all out of my sight.” I began collecting pieces in my apron, her eyes boring into my back.

  If you cannot keep your own secrets, why should you suppose that another will be more cautious?

  —The Duties of a Lady’s Maid

  At supper that night in the kitchen, I spilled the pepper pot—our old signal, well worth the withering words from Cook—and saw Johnny nod once out of the corner of my eye. The hours dragged, as I combed out Charlotte’s hair, tucked the brazier at the foot of her bed, and waited for my mistress’s reflection in the dressing table mirror to nod dismissal. I went into my little closet, extinguished the candle, and lay fully dressed on the bed, waiting. The hours ticked by, until, near midnight, I heard the soft tock of an acorn hitting my window. I looked down into the small alley between the row of town houses and the carriage houses, empty, save for the slanting moonlight. But I knew he was there. I wrapped myself in my wool shawl, and slipped on stockinged feet out the back door of my tiny room and down the hall to the kitchen stairs.

  Moving through the Walden house was a simple matter, complicated only by Agnes, who slept by the kitchen hearth in winter. A little gust of cold air as I opened the door made her stir, but no more.

  Outside, the snow soaked right through my stockings, freezing my feet straightaway, but my path to the carriage house went unnoticed. In the doorway under the eaves, Seanin was waiting.

  He looked troubled, as well he might. “Well?”

  “She rowed with the missus this morning. Pillows flung, stuff broken. A right tantrum. I think she knows.”

  “What, the missus?”

  I nodded.

  “How could she?”

  “Herself ordered up a bath this morning.”

  He snorted. “Ah, go on. ’Tis just a bath.”

  “Aye, and she had one earlier this week. It looks queer.”

  Seanin blew on his fingers, chuckling. “You kept me out of bed over a fucking bath? Ah, Mar, you’re getting soft as shite.”

  I shoved him. “This ain’t a game. This is life or fucking death. I think you should skip this week. Just to be safe.”

  “Ah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  I stiffened. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Seanin looked away. “Nothing.”

  I grabbed his arm. “No. What did you mean?”

  “Nothing, I said.” He took me in, shivering, my shoeless feet, and gathered me into his arms. “Ah, Mar, look at you, a mhuirnín. Go back to bed. You’ll catch your death out here. Look, I’ll be careful, I swear.”

  “I don’t like it.” I rested my head on his shoulder. “Johnny, it’d break my heart if they should discover you. Will you not have a care?”

  “Go on,” he said with a smile. He took my hand and squeezed it. “They could’ve been rowing about any old thing. I know you’re afeared. And you’re a good lass to give me warning. I mean it, I’m grateful. I shouldn’t’ve spoken harsh to you. I’ve no wish to be caught, Mar, truly, but there’s no cause to stand out in the cold and make yourself ill over it. I know my business well enough.”

  I shrugged, reluctant to let go his hand. “You promise you’ll be careful?”

  “I do. Go on, now. Back to bed.”

  He kissed my forehead, and I went silently back into the house.

  * * *

  It was Thursday again, and as Seanin handed me down from the Waldens’ carriage, I resolved to keep my head and my temper. I tucked my hand into Seanin’s arm, and we made our way down Broadway in high spirits, singing scraps of songs our father had sung off-key when he thought he was alone with the horses. We were still laughing when we arrived at the door of the Hibernian, breathless and merry.

  There were rarely other women at the Hibernian, and those who wandered in were mainly stargazers. Now and again, it was possible to find a group like the
merry foursome clustered tonight in one of the bay windows: two working lads and a pair of lassies they admired, come to woo in all the privacy the din and clatter of a public house could offer. Consequently, there had been, my first evening at the Hibernian, a smattering of comments, insinuating whispers, and, as I hung back in the corner by the hearth, a man with a leer who put hands upon my person in a most unwelcome manner. I shrieked, tossing my ale into the offending party’s face, bringing the now-empty mug down on his pate in fury. The man shook his head, momentarily stunned, then snarled, lunging at me. Seanin was by my side in an instant, interposing himself between my would-be assailant and me. There was a flurry of fists, a clamor of voices, as one man and then another joined the resulting brawl, and I would have thrown myself into the melee to aid my brother had Dermot not snatched me back by the waist and pulled me from harm’s way as I howled in rage.

  The fight was over nearly before it began, at any rate. Seanin had held his own, and, with the help of a few of the brawlers who had taken his part, tossed the offending party out the public house’s door before declaring loudly that anyone else in the Hibernian who cared to address his sister would be wise to address themselves to him first.

  I had questioned Dermot on the queerness of this American custom later as I dabbed at Seanin’s split eyebrow before attempting to stitch him up; at home, it had not been uncommon to see in the pubs fond husbands with their wives, or knots of girls come in after their shifts in the shops or dairies to sip a pint and make eyes at the errand boys and farriers’ apprentices in the hopes of getting a husband. There would be new mothers there, drinking porter with babbies at the teat, and weary widows, come down for their drop of whiskey. Dermot’s own mother ran our local back in Donegal Town, and it’d have been a daring lad indeed to tell her she ought to do otherwise.

  But though the clientele was Irish, the unspoken rules of the New World prevailed, and no respectable woman would have come into the Hibernian on her own, a notion that made me laugh.