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The Parting Glass

Page 21

by Gina Marie Guadagnino


  “Is that the dinner bell?” she asked, seeming grateful for something to say. I nodded, leading the way to the back stairs, gathering the courage to speak, and racking my brain for a topic of conversation.

  “Where’re you from, then?” I asked.

  “Glencolumbkille.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t quite sure where that was—far to the west, clearly, by the rustic note in her voice. We took two landings in perfect silence as I strained for further topics of polite conversation.

  “Was it long?” I asked, at last. “The journey, I mean?”

  “Twelve hours, hoofing it by the shore road. I stopped in Killybegs midday.”

  “What, by yourself?”

  She snorted. “No one to spare taking me, was there? I didn’t mind. I’m used to being by myself.”

  I shivered, thinking of the lonely stretches along the cliffs where Seanin and I would go sometimes with Da in the trap, imagining tramping along them with no sound but the breakers on the rocks below, and the high bleating of the sheep in the pastures above. There were old heathen monuments there, and the ruins of castles, and the wide, arching sky. I much preferred the ringing cobbles and salty, bustling quays of Donegal Town. I confessed, “I’d’ve been scared, going it alone like that.”

  “Are you ever alone, then? Big house like this, all them queer corners and twisting halls?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Here, there’s always someone by. And down in the town—oh, have you been to the town yet?”

  She shook her head. “No, well, yes, Roisin says they brought us once, when we were very young, but I can’t remember it.”

  “In the town, a good, proper town like Donegal, you’re never alone, for there’s always a face you’ve seen before waiting around the corner. Sure, though,” I said, smiling ruefully. “For us, it’s more like a face I’ve seen that Da’s drunk with that remembers us in hippings.”

  “Us?” We had reached the servants’ hall now, and the household staff were arranging themselves along the table, according to station.

  “My brother, Seanin, and me.” I pointed covertly to where Seanin stood, down with the other grooms, conversing with the new stableboy. “Him, just there. Me twin.”

  “Is that your brother then?” she whispered, with a note of admiration. “Aye, I see the likeness.” She peeked at me sidelong, smiling.

  I felt a sudden twinge just then, as she spoke of Seanin: an anxious pain I attributed to the worry of no longer sharing his pallet in the hayloft. No one much cared where I slept when Da was alive, but I had had my courses for two years now, and with my new station, Mrs. Morgan, the housekeeper, said it wasn’t fitting for me to be the only skirt in the stables. That veritable lady was rapping the table for order, and, with her command, the lot of us grew quiet while the butler said grace, and then there was no more opportunity to talk with Nuala.

  It was uncomfortable that first night, lying next to a stranger when I was used to huddling close to Seanin, breathing in scents of hay and sweat and leather and horse coming off him. Nuala smelled of lye soap and lavender, of a delicately musky sweat so different from my brother’s. She slept uneasily, tossing her head about the pillow, where Seanin was still as a stone. From the next bed, Katie’s nose whistled and Rosie’s nose rumbled, and between the noise and the bustle, I scarce slept a wink.

  In the morning, I awoke to find Nuala out of bed before me, stirring the fire. The late September mornings were growing chill, and the warm hearth was gratifying. She looked up from the grate and smiled at me, looking pleased with herself.

  I smiled back. “That’s kind of you.”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “ ’Twas always my task back home.”

  I would learn later that this was Nuala’s cheerful, matter-of-fact way of winning people: hard work, modesty, and the willingness to go above and beyond. She never shirked, Nuala, and, when she was praised for her gumption, she simply smiled and shrugged and went on to do something to further impress, with equal nonchalance. As we scrubbed the marble in the hall, she was like an illustration of “Industry,” her graceful form curved, her face intent on her work, one stray curl edging out from under her cap.

  Eager to live up to both my new role and the new housemaid’s zeal, I threw myself into the work with a vigor to match Nuala’s own. I was determined to impress her as much as anything, and to prove I was her equal. Each day, Nuala and I worked side by side, dusting the mantels, polishing the furniture, sweeping the floors, doing the laundry, and worn to the bone as we collapsed into our shared bed every night, ready for the oblivion of sleep.

  On the third twitchy night, jerking again in her sleep, she tossed an arm over me, curving her body around mine, and finally lay still, pressing me close to her chest. I lay stiffly at first, afraid to move a hair, but her steady breathing soothed me. I began to relax into the rhythm of her breaths, until I at last took comfort in lying cradled by her, as I was wont to be by Seanin.

  There is a thing that happens when you are often in another’s company. There develops at first a certain sympathy of beings engaged in the same work, sharing the same frustrations at the same odious tasks. A camaraderie forms, and an understanding, as you learn to anticipate one another in your shared duties. I grew to know her moods, to read the significance of her silences, to plumb the deeper meanings in her chatter. I could tell when she was merry, and I could tell when she was restless, and I could tell when she was homesick.

  We began to share our histories with one another, in moments stolen and carved out from the workaday bustle. Out in the back court together, taking turns beating a rug. Or bent together at the pantry table, polishing the silver. Or whispered in the last few moments before we slept. I learned about her sisters, with whom she’d shared a bed their entire lives: proud, imperious Roisin and sweet, timid Briana. Then there was her da, who pottered over his poitín stills and fiddled down the pub. I learned how her mam had gone mad and run off with the babby, Aideen, and how Nuala had hired herself out as a maid of all work at the parish house to help keep the porridge pot full.

  I told her how Da had worked in the stables on the estate ever since he was a lad, and how he met Mam when Old Mrs. Boyle brought her lady’s maid up from Wexford when she married. I told her how Seanin and I came into the world, hand in hand, awash in the blood that took our mother out of it. And I told her of the gelding that kicked Da in the head while he was shoeing it, killing him stone dead in an instant.

  We wept over one another’s tragedies, and comforted one another in sharing the sorrows of our young lives. My entire life, there had been nobody but Seanin to talk to, Seanin to confide in, for there were no other young girls on the estate in service but me. I told Nuala of the games we used to play, the tricks we’d get up to, driving Da to distraction. Living with her sisters, she was unused to the brusque displays of a brother’s affection, and delighted in hearing of the time he trapped me under an overturned keg, or the time he tore my best apron when he lost a wager and dressed up in my clothes.

  Ballyboyle was an isolated place. Situated on an isthmus jutting out from the south of Donegal into the Atlantic, it was only three quarters of an hour’s walk into Donegal Town, though it might have been at the end of the world. The Boyles did not go much out into society, for there was but little society. A Catholic family of an ancient lineage, they would but rarely mix with the Protestant gentry to be found in the county, entertaining only when cousins came up from the south to stay for monthlong holidays on the northern coast. We servants felt their isolation acutely, mingling only with our own kind on nights off or Sunday afternoons if we made the trek into town. In such environs, closenesses and alliances form. You are forced to camaraderie that blends on into intimacy, and you make your own amusements, or you find you have none at all.

  It was with Nuala that I first discovered my talent for putting on voices. We were in the kitchen one day when Mrs. Boyle made her way down the stair, one white arm half-aloft, lifting her skirts out of
the nonexistent dirt of the servants’ quarters. It escapes me now what slight, essential thing she had to say to Cook, but I can still hear her tone: the pealing Dublin lilt, the way she held her clipped consonants in the front of her mouth, like a horse teething its bit. She was the only one on the estate who talked that way, Mr. Boyle’s posh diction still unmistakably Donegal in tone. I knew, of course, that she was laced within an inch of her life—pregnancy had not been kind to her once-lithe figure—but was all the same impressed with the ramrod straightness of her posture, her lofty carriage. She gave her directions over dinner with the same genteel dignity that Father Broderick gave his sermons every Sunday, with equal assurance of her authority, and then left, secure in the knowledge that, her word being law, dinner would meet her expectations.

  Nor can I now recall to mind what expression of exasperation Cook invoked, the mistress now being out of earshot, but, at Nuala’s stifled laughter, I was encouraged to exhibition, rising to stand. Arranging myself where Mrs. Boyle had been, I turned out my toes, straightened my posture, and clasped my hands in perfect imitation of the lady of the house. Nuala tittered at the haughty, affected look I took on, and I arched my brows at her.

  “Indeed, Miss Begley,” I said, forcing my consonants to the front of my mouth and looking down my nose at her. “I find it most indecorous, most indecorous indeed to take on in such a manner, for I can think of nothing humorous in the proper directions for dinner.”

  Nuala howled gratifyingly at this display, and Cook wheeled about, a curse for the meddling Mrs. Boyle dying on her lips as she turned, all color drained from her mien, to face me.

  “Laird above, Maire,” she cried, clasping one hand to her bosom. “And you did give me a turn! I thought it was herself!” She brandished her spoon at me, recovering both her composure and her quick temper. “Christ, lassie,” she said, waving the utensil at me, “and don’t think you’re too grown to be thrashed now for playing tricks like that!”

  I took a step back, oozing dignified affront, and pushed the spoon from where Cook had leveled it at my chest with one disdainful finger. “I do hope, madam, that you do not presume to dictate to me?” I froze momentarily, as though I heard something, and then, allowing my posture to melt a trifle, looked around conspiratorially at my audience. “Ah, I fancied I heard the cooing of my precious Miss Rosalie, but no matter, for Nurse will attend to her darling snotty nose and her dearest soiled bottom!”

  Cook was laughing outright now as well. “Aye, that’s the mistress to her shadow, it is! Where’d you learn the likes of that, you wee hussy?”

  I held a hand theatrically to my temple, looking pained. “Have I not eyes in my head, nor ears as well, that I cannot see clearly in the example of my betters the model on which my own behavior must be formed?” But my mimicry of Mrs. Boyle proved too much, even for me, and I joined my compatriots as we dissolved into gales of laughter. It was only at the sound of boots on the stair that we collected ourselves, hurrying back to our work lest our mockery be discovered.

  Later, as we lounged on the sun-warmed stones, our arms aching from beating the feather ticks, Nuala expressed her admiration for my performance. “I wish I could talk like that,” she said, frank and unassuming in her jealousy. “You sound just like her, you know.”

  I shrugged, affecting modesty and muscling down my considerable pride. “Isn’t so hard. You just push your words up against your teeth-like.”

  She shook her head. “If it’s so simple, why don’t you do it all the time? You sound so posh.”

  I shrugged again, discomfited by the prospect. “Isn’t me, then, is it? I mean, I don’t talk that way natural. You don’t think I sound strained after a bit?”

  “Nay indeed!” Nuala smiled, rising and stretching. “You should do it more. Practice, you know, till it comes quite natural.”

  “Ah, go on,” I said, smiling back and taking her proffered hand. “Where’s the profit in it?”

  “Well,” she said. “I do fancy it.”

  Thereafter, when we were alone, I would amuse Nuala by narrating our more onerous tasks in Mrs. Boyle’s Dublin accent: “Gracious, Miss Begley, is it not beastly scrubbing the flags?” Or “I must say, I have never seen blacking so neatly applied—very game!” Or “Do have the goodness to empty those kitchen slops directly into the pig trough, Miss Begley, for we must ensure our swine are properly fed!” These performances were met with great enthusiasm, and I hitherto took greater note when Mrs. Boyle was speaking in order to perfect my imitation.

  Mere diversion was not Nuala’s sole interest in my newfound ability. Indeed, she worked tirelessly to perfect her own diction and smooth the edges of her accent. Intent on improving her station in life, Nuala aimed to become a lady’s maid. This coveted position at Ballyboyle was currently held by a redoubtable personage by the name of Bathsheba Kirk. Miss Kirk—stern, proper, imported from Edinburgh—associated solely with Mrs. Morgan, the housekeeper, and Miss Timmons, the nurse. Small-boned, with nimble fingers that were always busy in tatting lace or embroidering edging, she was some five or six years older than her mistress, in whose employ she had been since the latter’s coming out. It was said she was half-French, for she spoke that language fluently, and subscribed to two different Parisian fashion magazines. It was also said that she had a shelf devoted entirely to the back numbers of these coveted periodicals, a fact that no one had confirmed, given her private room, until Nuala, with more nerve than I would have given her credit for, approached Miss Kirk and asked to borrow them.

  It was an absurd request. One did not simply ask Miss Kirk for things any more than one juggled full pint glasses, and I fully expected the attempt to be equally disastrous. It was therefore with a measure of awe that I later regarded Nuala, who, poring over back numbers of La Belle Assemblée, recounted that Miss Kirk had been extremely gracious in the loan, and had promised to teach Nuala the broderie anglaise Mrs. Boyle favored on her pantalets. It soon became our custom to inspect minutely the pages of these magazines before bed, Nuala quizzing me mercilessly on the lengths of trains for court occasions that neither of us would ever attend, and debating the merits of different types of fur to line a pelisse.

  Nuala was indeed adept at ingratiating herself with the diverse members of the estate. The same ease with which she had approached Miss Kirk was evident in her exchanges with the grooms. Naturally, my having introduced her to Seanin, she accompanied me on my many trips to the stables. Perched primly atop the neatly stacked bales of hay, she conversed freely, acknowledging Seanin’s teasing as the form of acceptance it was.

  On Thursday nights, she began to join Seanin and myself on our outings down to Colleen O’Brien’s pub in town, where the three of us would chat merrily. When Seanin went to refill our mugs, I would take on the accents of those around us to amuse her, mimicking Colleen’s rolling lilt, or the listing Galway patter that sailors up from the bay spoke, dissolving into laughter when Seanin returned. On the way home, she would drop back, lagging as we walked in the ditch along the ring road back to Ballyboyle, until I lagged too to keep pace with her. We would link arms in the dark, the stars bright above in the crisp winter air, the moon’s watery reflection in the waves just offshore, and the smell of salt and turf fire carried on the wind. We would hum scraps of old tunes, and giggle, sometimes, at nothing, but march on without speaking. Seanin would call back to us, teasing us for being so slow, and we would catch hands, racing up to him. Then we would crawl into bed, and I would wait, lying stiff and still beside Nuala, who’d take me in her arms as soon as she was asleep.

  Months spun by this way. By now, I knew from all the stories we had shared that she sought me in her sleep as she was wont to seek her sisters. But one night even this was not enough to soothe her, and I woke to feel her silent, shuddering sobs against my back. I rolled over, taking her hands in mine. I brushed the tears from her cheeks, stroking her hair.

  “What ails you?” I whispered. From the other bed came Katie’s and Rosie’s
mingled snores.

  She whispered back, “It all seems so far away here.”

  “What does?”

  “Home. Sometimes I feel so alone here.”

  I caressed her cheek. “But I’m here. I’m here, Nuala.”

  Nuala sighed, shook her head, and, pressing herself against me, kissed me hard on the mouth. She wrapped her arms about my neck, her kisses urgent and desperate, and something within me suddenly fell into place as I realized I wanted her. I had never felt that sense of wanting before, never known—quite—that craving and that need. But Nuala’s kisses wakened something in me. Her hands, now sliding down my legs to draw up my nightdress, felt right, and that I should be stricken with a slick tightening between my legs was natural to me. She was drawing up her own nightdress now, then pressing her skin to mine, one knee slipping between my legs, and I ground myself into her, kissing her hungrily. She guided my fingers down past the wiry tangle of hair and into her soft, wet folds. I felt moved by a force larger than myself, knowing with sudden surety what to do, and we swayed as one in the bed, a silent frenzy of hands and lips and—finally—release. It was release more than pleasure, that first time. A giving way into each other. There were still tears on Nuala’s face. I licked tenderly at the salt. She wrapped her arms around me, pillowing her head on my bosom, and, thus embraced, we fell asleep.

  We said nothing in the morning. Our hands brushed as we passed one another buckets, and the touch sent shivers through me. We hardly spoke a word all day—what could be said under the yoke of so many duties, under so many watchful eyes? But whenever our eyes met, a current ran through me, and that night, as soon as we were assured the other maids were sleeping, we fell upon one another greedily. I savored the taste of her on my lips, and slept deeply in her arms.

 

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