by Rhys Bowen
Eighteen
“You’ll be all right alone with him, will you?” Mrs. McCreedy asked, setting a tea cup down beside me. “I should be getting back to the big house. I don’t like to—I mean it will soon be dawn and I need to make sure those girls are up to light the fires in the bedrooms.”
She gave me a sympathetic smile.
“Thank you. There’s nothing you could do anyway,” I said, “except say a prayer for him.”
“I’ll do that, my dear. I’ll say a rosary. We’ll put him in the hands of Our Lady. She’ll take good care of him.”
I nodded, wishing I had her faith. Presumably she’d said a rosary when her husband was dying of pneumonia and it hadn’t helped. She got as far as the door, then turned back. “Look, I’m sorry I was short with you the other evening,” she said. “When you came about the chicken. I had no idea your man was so poorly. You startled me, you see. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone.”
“I understand,” I said. “You gave me a turn too when I opened that door and saw your face on the other side.”
“I’ve been a bit jumpy these last few days,” she said. “This whole visit didn’t seem natural from the beginning, and then you and your man turning up like that.”
I nodded again, wishing she would go. Frankly I had no desire to sit chatting with her while my husband tossed and turned in his fever.
“And now that the master has been taken from us—well, I’m all of a tizzy. I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.”
“I’m sure it will all turn out just fine.” I put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Whoever inherits the house will want you to stay on.”
She nodded. “Ah, well,” she said at last. “I’d best be going. I’ll send one of the local girls round in the morning to look after you. You’ll not be wanting to cook and clean with your man lying in this state.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m often awake during the night.” She went quietly down the stairs as if trying not to wake a sleeping child and I got the impression that this was a woman whose nerves had been on edge for some time—long before Brian Hannan had announced that he was bringing his family to the cottage for an October stay.
I turned my attention back to Daniel and sponged his forehead. “Can you try to take a drink, my darling,” I whispered and attempted to lift his head. Again he fought me off, thrashing so that he kicked off his covers. Dutifully I replaced them. Another bout of coughing followed, then more rasping breaths. He was fighting for air now.
As I sat on the bed beside him, watching him, other pictures flashed into my mind. I saw myself as a fourteen-year-old standing at my mother’s bed, watching her die. And the Irish patriot Cullen Quinlan dying in my arms as he spirited me to safety after the failed Dublin uprising. And each time that feeling of utter hopelessness, of anger and frustration that I wasn’t God and I couldn’t save them, whatever I tried. Now the thought struck me that I was to be a widow before I even had a chance to learn what it was like to be a wife, before Daniel and I really learned to love and appreciate each other, before there were children …
I had resisted marrying Daniel, even though I knew I loved him, because I wanted to savor my independence for as long as possible—thinking, of course that we had all the time in the world. And now I knew with absolute clarity that I didn’t want to be alone and independent anymore. I didn’t want to struggle and deal with danger. I wanted to be part of a joint life, with someone at my side, someone on my side. I squeezed back tears. I was not going to cry. I had been strong in situations as tough as this and I was not going to give in now.
“You can beat this, Daniel,” I said loudly. The sound echoed around the small room, bouncing back at me from the slanting ceiling. “You’re a strong man. Fight it. Keep fighting, do you hear?”
I looked around and started in terror as a tall figure in black with a skeleton’s face stood in the doorway watching me. My first reaction was that it was Death, come to claim Daniel. But then he said softly, “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but the door was unlocked so I thought I’d let myself in and save you the trouble of coming downstairs.”
He stepped into the circle of lamplight and I saw that it was Father Patrick, dressed formally now in his priests’ robes and wearing a stole. “I came to see if I could be of any comfort,” he said, “and to offer the last rites to your husband.”
“He’s not going to die,” I said fiercely.
“Let us pray that he won’t, but knowing the terrible reputation of the disease would you not want him anointed anyway, just in case, so that his soul goes straight to his maker?”
A battle raged inside me. I had renounced my religion long ago when I had clashed with narrow-minded, judgmental priests, seen the injustice and suffering in the world and all those prayers going unanswered. But Daniel’s Catholicism meant more to him. He had insisted that we marry in a church. And I got the feeling it wasn’t just to please his mother and the family friends. Deep down I felt that he still believed. So could I deny his soul the right to be washed clean of its sins? Could I condemn him to years of purgatory because of my stubbornness?
I took a deep breath. “Very well,” I said. “It’s probably what he would want.”
“I think you’ll find there is a lot of comfort in the sacrament—for the receiver and for those who witness it,” he said and brought out a little silver box, opened it and set out various little vials. Then he made the sign of the cross and commenced to mutter the prayers. The familiar Latin words hung in the air like incantations. I kept expecting Daniel to open his eyes, sit up and say, “What the deuce do you think you’re doing?” but he didn’t. He didn’t react at all when Father Patrick anointed him with the holy oil of the sick. The sacrament was finished. He started to put the vials of oil back in the silver box, then stepped back.
“His soul is now at peace,” he said. “At least we’ve done one good thing for him, haven’t we? It’s always good to know we’ve done everything we can to make up for…” He looked at me with eyes that were incredibly sad. Of course I remembered then that he’d just lost his brother. Brian Hannan’s death had been pushed from my mind in this crisis.
“I’m so sorry about your brother,” I said. “I can tell that you’re grieving.”
He took a deep breath. “My brother was a good man,” he said. “It was a terrible waste that he had to die now. He could have accomplished many things.” He went to say more, then closed his eyes. “A sad loss for the family.”
I took a deep breath. “I never had a chance to thank you for fetching the doctor, Father. It was good of you to think of us at this sad time, and to bring the sacrament to my husband when you were not able to do the same for your poor brother.”
He nodded. “It was the least I could do.” He placed the last of the sacramental vials back in the box and closed the lid with a sharp little snap.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Daniel. He seemed to be breathing more irregularly now. “Do you believe that the souls of the just go to Heaven? That there is such a place?” I asked.
“Yes I do. I most definitely do,” he said.
“And the souls of the damned go to Hell if you die in mortal sin? You believe in that too?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid that I believe that there is no pardon for the damned.”
“And last rites can make a difference?”
“It is always good to die in a state of grace,” he said. “It’s what we all hope for.”
At least I had done that for Daniel. I sat staring at him, listening to his rasping breath.
“Is there anyone you’d like notified?” Father Patrick asked. “Friends or family? I would be happy to have telegrams sent for you.”
“You’re very kind,” I said. “Yes, I suppose I’d better let his mother know.”
“Then write down for me what you want to say and where it has to go.”
<
br /> I went downstairs to find a piece of paper and noticed the letter to Sid and Gus lying on the hall table. I couldn’t send that to them now. Suddenly I decided that I wanted them to know. I had to send them a telegram too. I wrote: Daniel pneumonia outlook not good. Then I copied down the addresses of his mother and of my neighbors onto a sheet of paper. I wondered if I should send a telegram to police headquarters but I decided there would be time for that later, after—I stopped that thought before it was allowed to take shape.
Father Patrick had come down the stairs behind me. I handed him the piece of paper. He took it without saying a word, then nodded. “His mother lives out in Westchester County, I see. Not too far from my present assignment.”
“You’re in the Hudson Valley? I assumed you were a priest in New York City,” I said.
“I had to leave the city years ago, for my health,” he said. “Since then I’ve been in smaller parishes in rural settings. More to my liking, away from the dirt and noise of the city. I’m currently at St. Brendan’s in Granville. Do you know it?”
I shook my head, wishing he’d stop talking and go away when all I wanted to do was be at Daniel’s bedside.
I held out my hand. “Thank you again,” I said. “You’re most kind. Especially when you’re grieving the death of your brother.”
“It’s my priestly duty,” he said. “At least I try to do that.”
I watched him walk back toward the house. As he went I looked up and thought I saw a light winking in a turret window. I blinked, stared again, but the light had gone and the turret loomed as part of that great shape in the darkness.
I went back to Daniel. He did seem to be sleeping a little more peacefully now and I hoped that somehow he had felt the presence of the sacrament. I perched on the edge of the bed beside him and took his hand. It felt hot and dry, and a memory flashed back to me unbidden of being handed a baked potato fresh from the oven by my mother. His lips looked cracked and I tried again to tip some water through them. He coughed and spluttered as the liquid ran down his throat.
I looked across at the packets of aspirin lying on the dresser. That old doctor had dismissed it as newfangled, but my friend Emily had brought it for me from her pharmacy when I had come down with a bad case of influenza and it had definitely helped. I was going to try, regardless of whatever that doctor had said. I went downstairs and mixed a dose with water. Then I hesitated for a moment before adding a second packet.
I carried it to the bedside. I glanced out of the window. The first rays of dawn were streaked across the Eastern sky. It was almost day. Outside my window a bird began to chirp—tentatively at first and then more confidently. It all seemed so calm and serene and normal, almost as if that bird was mocking me. Was this to be the last day of my present life? That thought flashed through my mind. I looked at the tumbler in my hand.
“I’m not going to let you die, Daniel Sullivan!” I shouted at him. “Do you hear that? I will not let you die.”
I lifted his head, forced his mouth open, and tipped the liquid down his throat. He coughed and retched and fought, then fell back like a dead thing. Immediately afterward I was scared at what I had done. But it was too late. He had swallowed most of it.
“On fire,” he whispered. “I’m on fire.”
Again I didn’t hesitate. I pulled off the bedclothes. I ran to get a wet wash cloth, then I lifted his nightshirt and I began to sponge him down. He moaned, tried to sit up, then collapsed again. He lay so still that I thought for a moment I had killed him. I covered him with the sheet and heard him take a faint breath. At least he was still breathing. I rested my head on the pillow beside him. “I love you,” I whispered. I took his hot hand in mine and closed my eyes.
The next thing I knew a shaft of bright sunlight hit me full in the face. I woke with a start, wondering for a moment where I was and why my neck hurt like billy-o. Then I saw Daniel lying on the bed beside me. His breath was no longer ragged and his face looked peaceful. I touched his hand and it was cool. I sat there, staring at him unblinking. Dead. The word tried to force its way into my head, however hard I tried to push it back. Daniel was dead. He had died while I had slept. I hadn’t even had a chance to say good-bye to him. A great bubble of rage and despair came into my throat.
“No!” I shouted. “No. No.”
Daniel’s eyes flickered slowly open. “What’s all this racket about?” he murmured in a husky voice.
Nineteen
For a moment I thought my eyes were deceiving me. Then his eyes focused on me and he smiled with recognition.
“Daniel. You’re alive.” I threw myself on him and covered his cheek and forehead with kisses.
“What have I done to deserve such a display of affection?” he asked, bringing the words out with difficulty as if it was a big effort to talk.
“You nearly died, you idiot,” I said. “I’ve been up with you all night. The doctor was here and he had pretty much given up hope. And the priest gave you the last rites.”
“That’s funny. I seem to remember hearing Latin and I kept telling myself that I was late for church and I’d get into trouble. I believe I thought I was still an altar boy.” He turned away and stared up at the ceiling. “I had all kinds of bad dreams. People trying to kill me. Monsters trying to swallow me alive.”
“I know. You were hallucinating. You kept thrashing around and kicking the covers off.”
“I was too hot.”
“I know you were. That doctor told me to keep you covered so that you’d sweat out the disease, but I couldn’t stand to see you as hot as that. I took the covers off and sponged you down.”
“Typical Molly, doing exactly what she was told not to.” He gave me a tired smile and closed his eyes again.
“I was scared that I’d killed you,” I said. “I was so scared, Daniel. I thought you were going to die.” And a great hiccupping sob escaped from my throat.
He reached up and stroked my cheek. “There, there,” he said. “Don’t cry. I’m still here and everything’s going to be just fine.”
“Yes,” I said, unable to stop the tears now. “Everything will be just fine. I’ll go and make us both a cup of tea.”
Daniel had just fallen asleep again when there was a tap at my front door and Mrs. Flannery was standing there. “We’ve just come back from church, so I thought I ought to stop by and see how you were doing,” she said and she came into the front hall without being invited.
“Oh, church. Is it Sunday?”
She nodded. “A terrible business. They go so quickly with pneumonia, don’t they? But at least my brother gave him the last rites, and that’s a comfort, isn’t it?”
“Mrs. Flannery, he’s fine. That is, he’s not fine yet, but he’s much better. The fever broke. He’s breathing almost normally again.”
Her face lit up. “Well, that’s a miracle, isn’t it? I’m so happy for you, my dear. Mrs. McCreedy was going to send over one of the local girls to help you out but I’ll be happy to cook you a good breakfast. What would you say to ham and eggs and maybe some flapjacks? Perhaps your man could take a lightly boiled egg?”
I was going to turn her down but then I realized how drained I felt. “If you’re sure you don’t mind,” I said.
She took off her hat, hanging it on the peg. “Nonsense. I’ve been used to hard work all my life,” she said. “It doesn’t come easily to me to have servants fussing around and me not lifting a finger. Why I cooked and cleaned for the six of us when our parents died and I was just eleven years old. Brian went out to work at twelve to support us all but I had to become the mother.”
“I had to do the same thing,” I said. “My mother died and I had to stop my schooling to look after my little brothers.”
“Did you now? At least it makes us stronger people, doesn’t it? More able to handle trouble and tragedy.” She went through into the kitchen.
“It was good of you to come,” I said.
“To tell the truth I was glad to get away
for a bit. I can’t take the atmosphere in that house. Suspicion and innuendo and snapping at each other. What’s more, they’re already arguing over where poor Brian’s to be buried. Joseph wants him to have a grand funeral with all the trappings in New York. He says Brian would have wanted it, being a public figure and all. But Irene thinks he’d want to be buried here, beside his beloved granddaughter. She says he loved this place and he was happy here for the first time in his life.”
“So who will win?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. I suppose it will come down to who is his heir. And Brian may well have left instructions for his final resting place. He was the sort of man who liked to organize everything. For all I know he may have a funeral plot all picked out, and even the hymns they’re to sing in St. Patrick’s.”
“You can still have a memorial service for him at St. Patrick’s even if he’s buried here, can’t you?” I suggested.
“I don’t see why not. The boys at Tammany Hall put on a grand funeral for their members. They’d go to town for Brian.”
“I’m sure they would.”
She bustled around my kitchen, knowing with the instinct of one who has cooked and cleaned all her life where to find things. “I told them all this bickering over the funeral is premature, seeing that the police won’t release the body to us yet.”
“No, I suppose you’ll have to wait until after the autopsy results are known.”
She took a knife and started slicing bread, holding it to her breast and cutting it toward her as my mother had always done. Frankly I had always been scared that she’d slice into herself but she never had. And Mrs. Flannery looked as if she knew what she was doing as well.
“A terrible business, isn’t it? I can’t stop thinking about him. If ever there was a man full of life, it was Brian. Full of energy, always had one grand scheme or another.”
“A great tragedy,” I said.
“A great tragedy or a great crime,” she said. “I can scarcely believe that someone deliberately tried to kill him, but that’s what that policeman seems to think, doesn’t he? I mean, who would do such a thing?”