The Parting Glass

by Gina Marie Guadagnino

  “I scarcely know where to begin,” I said. “But you must know I should not have come had this not been a matter of some urgency.”

  Liddie laughed bitterly. “Never mind, I think I can guess. Indeed, I can think of only one thing so urgent that a fortnight’s hesitation might further mar.”

  I drew back. “Then you know what to do?”

  She had set her face into a grim smile. “Of course. I’ve done it a time or two myself.” She looked at me hard. “I hope it was worth it, anyway. Who was he? A footman? The butler? You hardly seem the sort who’ll bend for any of the roughs who hang about the Hibernian.”

  I set down my teacup and rose. “I think perhaps that we are at cross-purposes, Olivia Lawrence. I’m sorry I troubled you so late at night. Perhaps I should have known better than to interrupt when you were busy entertaining.”

  Liddie sat back in her chair, her wrapper falling further open and showing the swell of her breasts beneath. “You needn’t be so high and mighty,” she said with great disdain. “ ‘O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!’ In your condition, you might consider that you’re past a whore shaming you.”

  I shook my head. “I am going now. Good night, Liddie.”

  “Wait,” she said, hesitating. “Wait. Don’t go. I’ll help you. Good lord, Mary, I’m many things, but I’m not heartless.” She looked at me, her face a cipher. I remained silent, and she shrugged at me. “I haven’t got any on me just now, but I will get it for you.”

  I sat back down. “Get what, exactly?”

  “It’s a tea. Pennyroyal and cohosh. Mind you, it won’t be pleasant, but it’s meant to be a great deal better than the other way. I wouldn’t know. The tea has always been enough for me. It’ll cost three dollars.”

  “Three dollars!” I started, but she shook her head.

  “The compliments of the house are over, I’m afraid,” she said. “A castoff never comes cheap. It’ll take me a day or two to get it. Can you come back on your night off?”

  I nodded. “Thank you, Liddie.”

  Her lovely face twisted into a scowl as she drew the wrapper tight across her chest. “Well, I suppose it happens to the best of us.”

  The cool night air rippled through me as I stepped from the warmth and light of Liddie Lawrence’s rooms and back into the gloom of the street. A fog had risen during our brief interview, and, grateful for the protection it gave, I hurried back to Washington Square to sleep for a few brief hours before sunrise.

  The next day I spent worrying over the three dollars, which I could have got from Charlotte easily enough, I suppose. I had never spoken to her of money before; I could not even be sure she knew what my wages were. I could certainly afford to part with three dollars from the generous eighteen I got every month, though some cold part of my heart whispered that Johnny had rather pay than me. In the end, though, embarrassment over the role I had played in their liaison shamed me to silence, and I could not bring myself to ask either of them.

  Charlotte had said nothing to me of averting Johnny’s visit—what, I suppose, was the worst that could come of it now?—and so on Thursday, once I had finished my duties for the night, I hurriedly accepted my wages from Mrs. Harrison, my bread and cheese from Cook, and my cloak from Agnes, who had ironed it earlier in the day. I left four small stones in a perfect square on the floor of the Waldens’ coach, my sign to Johnny that I had not waited but gone on ahead, and slipped out of the mews and on down to Chambers Street.

  Liddie’s rooms were locked and there was no answer when I rapped impatiently at her door. Furious at her, I sat down and was obliged to wait nearly half an hour in the dark hallway before at last she arrived. I heard her sharp, rapid footfalls as she came up the stair, and I scrambled to my feet, cheeks pink with the rage that had built in me as I waited. Yet, of course, I still needed Liddie and the parcel I prayed she had brought me, so when she came over the landing I said nothing.

  She started when she saw me. “Oh,” she cried. “I had not thought you would be so early.”

  “Have you got it?” I asked, and she wrinkled her nose at my businesslike tone.

  “Inside,” she said, gently pushing me away and turning her key. I waited in the doorway as she lit the lamps and disappeared into the bedroom. She returned with a small package wrapped in brown paper. “Have you got the money?” she asked.

  I took the three dollars from my reticule and passed them over to her. She handed me the package, looking at me curiously. “You brew it into a tea,” she said. “There is enough there for six doses. You drink two cups a day until your bleeding comes. There’ll be some cramping and some sickness, so you’d best keep the chamber pot nearby. If the blood doesn’t come in three days’ time, well, I got the tea from a woman in Pitt Street who does a neat bit of crochet and lacework, if you take my meaning. She lives at number seventeen, on the third floor. But the tea has always been enough for me.”

  I nodded, not meeting her eye.

  “If you like, I can brew you a cup now, so you’ll see the proper proportions?”

  “No, thank you all the same. Is there anything else?”

  She thought a moment. “You had better tell your mistress you’ve got the flux, or that you have your monthlies, and you’ll need to keep abed. It’ll last as long as your courses usually last. Do be sure you have rags enough, for it’ll be more blood than you’re used to, and very dark colored. Don’t mind it if you see any lumps or clots, that’s meant to happen. Mary! You’ve gone green.”

  She motioned me to a chair and bent over me in concern for a moment before she suddenly reached out and grabbed my breast, squeezing hard. I gasped in pain and slapped her away. She stood up, rubbing her sore hand and grinning ruefully.

  “Now, then,” she said. “What’s your game, Mary Ballard?”

  “What are you on about?” I shrieked. “Christ almighty, that hurt!”

  “You little ass,” she said, sitting opposite me. “I thought it was for you!”

  “It is,” I said stubbornly.

  “You’re a poor fucking liar,” she said, taking a cigarette from her reticule and moving the shade from the Argand lamp to light it. “If you were far enough gone to know it, your teats’d be rock hard and a great deal larger than they usually are. Trust me, for wouldn’t I know? Come now, then. Who’s it for?”

  “Who the fuck’d you think?” I said bitterly.

  Liddie puffed smoke angrily from her nostrils. “Well, he finally stuffed her up then? And here’s you having to sweep up the mess? Ha! That’s fine, then. Just fine.”

  “Oh, be quiet Liddie.” I sighed. “I liked it better when you were angry with me.”

  “You’re a fucking martyr,” Liddie said. “The way you let them treat you like shit.”

  I rose. “I’m grateful to you, Liddie,” I said, and turned to go.

  Liddie leapt from her chair. “No, now, I can’t let you go like that!” She wrapped her arms around me, holding her cigarette at length away from my hair, and kissed my cheek. “Come, Mary, don’t be angry at me. Truly, I am sorry for the way I acted before. A bit jealous, I suppose. How’s that for stupid?”

  I squeezed her back. “It’s all right,” I said. “I didn’t want you to know.”

  “Why ever not? I’ve nothing but compassion for you, you know.”

  I sighed. “That’s just it, Lid. I don’t want your compassion. It was simpler for me to have you be stern.”

  Liddie drew back and regarded me sadly before standing up on her tiptoes to kiss my forehead. “You’re a good woman, Mary Ballard,” she said softly. “You’re a sight too good for all this shit.”

  I smiled as I squeezed her hand, and turned to go.

  Take care, therefore, never to brood over resentment which may, perhaps, be from the first ill-grounded, and which is always inflamed by reflecting upon an injury, real or supposed.

  —The Duties of a Lady’s Maid

  From Liddie’s I took myself directly to the Hibernian, wrappin
g my shawl against the coolness of the night. The cobbles were slick, for a light mist fell, and I picked my way cautiously around puddles as I went. In the chill and the moisture, I could have been back in Donegal Town; only the smells were wrong. There, though the buildings were close and huddling, the scents of horse and sheep, of turf fire and spilled ale, of the sharp salt wind blowing its winding way in from the sea all mingled. Here, as I drew closer to the Five Points, the smell of chamber pots, offal, and the sick-sweet reek of slaughter houses ran together with the dank, brackish smell of the rivers and the bay. The wind was yet chill, its breath running a clean sigh through the miasma of the city.

  I had never made the walk from Liddie’s to the Hibernian before, and as I hurried past the side streets coming up from downtown, I heard a whistle or two from doorsteps and alleys as I passed. I wrapped my shawl tighter and kept my face straight ahead, paying these dubious compliments no mind. There will always be the rougher sort of man who will think a girl alone is gay, and that he might speak whatever discourtesies he pleases as she goes by. From the shadows, I heard voices calling out to me lewd suggestions of what their owners would like to do if they could get their hands under my skirts. I felt my cheeks burning as I tried to ignore them, bustling along, wishing that my brother was by my side.

  It was well before midnight when I arrived, but I was tired and felt grateful to see warm golden light streaming from the Hibernian’s door. Dermot nodded to me as I entered, and, seeing none of Johnny’s usual companions about, I made straight for him at the bar.

  “You’re a sight earlier than I’ve seen you in a year or more now,” he said, pouring off a mug for me. “Where’s himself now?”

  “Ah, he’ll be along,” I said. “Sure and why should I wait on him always when I’ve you for company, Dermot?”

  He shook his head. “Ah, Mar. You’ve always kept your own counsel, the two of you.”

  I met his eye. “And there’s things then, Dermot O’Brien, that don’t bear repeating, for the truth is there’s no profit by it.”

  “That’s the truth,” he said. “But don’t think I don’t know the look of her that’s in over her head, Mar. You’re a hard one to read, but, aye, that much’s plain. You’ll always have me ear, lass, if ever you find need of it.”

  I laughed, tried not to wince at the forced sound. “Ah, go on, Dermot. You’d not want to hear me complain of maiding in so sweet a cut as you found for me.”

  There was no trace of mirth in his face as he replied, “I’ll not force your counsel, Mar, but you’ll always have me ear.” He turned to the tide of patrons swelling the bar, eager to spend their recently paid wages. I turned to my beer, though Quigley and MacBride arrived soon after and joined me at the bar. MacBride had brought his sister, Annie, a kitchen maid at one of the new estates off the pastureland up by Fourteenth Street, who rarely ventured so far down into the city proper on her nights off. I had met Annie a time or two before, since she had come out from Londonderry last year, and liked her well enough. She was just seventeen and she meant to be head cook someday. I liked her ambition, liked to hear a girl who’d been born on a country estate—same as myself—speak so knowledgably of the five French sauces she was learning to make. It was a relief to hear about Annie MacBride’s simple worries and wonder to myself how sauce could “break” and say a silent prayer of thanksgiving that when, in my line of work, something broke, I could generally mend it with a needle and thread. Or, the thought intruded, a packet of tea. Ruthlessly, I forced myself to stop thinking of Charlotte for just one evening and turned my attention back to Annie, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed with ale.

  When Johnny came in, an hour later, I nodded stiffly at him, drained my mug, and wordlessly maneuvered Annie MacBride to a bench closer to the fire and away from the knot of men who had gathered around our brothers. I could listen to Annie’s cheerful chatter, but the thought of keeping up a pleasant veneer around Johnny at the moment was more than I could countenance. It was cozy in the corner, and I was grateful to be out of the way.

  Annie was practically nodding on my shoulder by the time MacBride came to collect her home. I said farewell, and, noting that Johnny was still otherwise engaged, headed down to our pallet in the cellar. The damp air was chilly and the fire was dying. I built it back up before undressing, settling myself into the warmth of the blankets, staring at the flickering flames until I was overcome by sleep. I never heard Johnny come down the stairs, nor stirred when he got under the covers beside me.

  Your situation as a confidential upper servant, will often bring you into conversation with your employers, and if you have a pleasing and affable manner, they will have you more with them than may perhaps be proper for you.

  —The Duties of a Lady’s Maid

  It took all three days for Liddie’s tea to work. It smelled bitter and foul, an impression confirmed by Charlotte Walden, who shuddered and made faces as she bolted it down. The first two days went by with no change in Charlotte’s state, but on the evening of the third day she was stricken with cramps that set her doubled over and retching. The blood came a day later, dark and clotted as Liddie had predicted, and I grimly mopped her brow as I watched Charlotte cast forth my brother’s child. Charlotte set her teeth and whimpered in pain, shivering with the flux that racked her slender frame. It was the flux that saved her from suspicion, though I feared as I watched her shudder over her chamber pot that it should kill her. Cook sent up basins of the clear broth that were all Charlotte could swallow, and Agnes took down the befouled chamber pots, replacing them with clean ones. I measured out tincture of peppermint with a dropper, mixing it into warm water for Charlotte to sip in between bouts. Feverish and aching, she would allow no one in the room save myself.

  By the fourth day of purging, Mrs. Walden wished to call for the physician. Looking in briefly at her daughter, who lay moaning on the bed, she motioned me to follow her into the hall.

  “Her symptoms, Ballard,” Augusta Walden said, her voice sharp as ever, not quite matching her eyes, bright with worry. “Are they worsening? You have been a most attentive nurse, but I wonder now if I ought to send for Dr. Carlyle.”

  I considered this, chewing my lip in concern. Liddie had said that the castoff would take as long as Charlotte’s courses typically took, and Charlotte was often abed for a week. Surely the doctor would know right away what was amiss? But what if something truly was amiss and the flux that accompanied the purge was weakening her even more than she let on? The weight of responsibility rendered me dumb, and Augusta Walden stared at me in my nervous silence, gripping her hands together so tightly her knuckles went white. I licked my dry lips and at last came to a decision.

  “Let us see how she fares tonight, mum,” I said. “If she is not better in the morning, then should you send.”

  She nodded crisply and turned away. I crept back into Charlotte’s room to keep my grim vigil.

  I barely slept that night, helping her to the chamber pot when it was needful, bathing her face when she lay still. By dawn, though, her fever had broke, and by midmorning the flux was ebbing. When evening came, it seemed the worst of Charlotte’s malady at last was over, and I came to realize what terror had gripped me only when I began to feel it subside. As I tucked her into bed that night, her skin cool, her cramps subsiding, I gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving. We are safe, we are safe, we are safe.

  The first night after Charlotte’s illness subsided that I was able to join the rest of the household staff at supper, Johnny knocked over the pepper pot. Hours later, I stood in the dark of my little closet, debating with myself whether I would go or no. I was still dressed but still undecided when I heard the tock of Johnny’s acorn against the glass, and with weary feet I slipped down the back stair to him. The house was dark, and, as the weather warmed, Agnes would be sleeping in the laundry, so I passed easily through the kitchen and out the door.

  Even in the half-light of the moon, Johnny’s face was lined with worry. His eyes were sun
ken, shadowed. He gripped my arm and pulled me into the shelter of the stable’s eaves.

  “Well?” he asked hoarsely.

  I made a face. “She’ll live.”

  “Christ, Mar—” he began, but I cut him off, pulling my arm from his grasp.

  “Fuck, Johnny,” I hissed. “Did you keep me out of bed for this?”

  “Mar,” he whispered brokenly, gripping my shoulders. “I was half-dead my own self with worry. There was talk belowstairs—”

  I went stiff. “What kind of talk?”

  He licked his lips and looked nervously toward the empty mews. “Cholera.” I nearly laughed aloud in relief, and he dug his fingers into my shoulders, shaking me. “In God’s name, what’s the matter with you, Mar?” I laughed helplessly, and he shook me harder.

  “Take your hands off me,” I said, struggling against him. “Christ, what a fool. It wasn’t cholera. She’s resting easy now, Johnny.”

  He eased his hands from my shoulders, taking a great, shuddering breath. “When can I see her?”

  I snorted. “Always thinking with your prick, aren’t you? Used to have a sight more sense. You can see her when she’s well enough to see you, and until then you stay the fuck away from her.”

  “Damn you, Mar,” he said. “What’ve you got to be so stern for? I don’t want to hurt her.”

  “Keep your voice down, you damn fool. It’s a sight too late to fret about hurting her now, isn’t it?”

  He drew back from me. “When did I ever hurt her? Mar, did she say I did?”

  I stared at him, his eyes wide in his hangdog face, and I shook my head. “She didn’t,” I said evenly, “say anything.”

  His face went slack with relief; he reached for my hand but I pulled away. “I’m tired, Johnny,” I said. “I’ve been up nursing her for three nights now, barely slept a wink myself, living in fear of losing her. Let me go to bed.”