‘Be strong now, Kitty,’ she told herself. ‘He asked you to come, so he did, so pull on the bell cord at the front door as a lady would.’ She smoothed her skirts, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and held her head high as she climbed the polished stone steps to the grand main entrance. She tugged on the bell rope and heard a distant jangling somewhere inside. A moment later, the door was opened by an elderly man in a black suit.
‘Yes?’ he said, looking her up and down and wrinkling his nose.
‘Mr Waterman asked me to come to the house,’ she said, her voice wavering. ‘Is he at home?’
‘What on earth would Mr Waterman want with you?’ said the man. ‘If you’re wanting charity, try round at the kitchen door but I’m not sure you’ll have any luck. If we start doling out food to one then we’d soon have the whole county on our doorstep.’
He began to close the heavy door, but Kitty put out her hand to him. ‘Please, sir, Mr Waterman really did ask me to come, yesterday. Is he in the house? Or I could go to the stables if he’s there? Please, sir, tell him it’s Kitty McCarthy come to see him as he asked.’
The man frowned, then seemed to believe her. ‘Very well. Go to the stable yard and wait. I shall tell the master your name. But I very much doubt he wants to see such a one as you.’
She opened her mouth to say something further but the butler had already closed the door in her face. She sighed, and walked around the house to the stables. She shivered as she glanced up towards the small window of the groom’s lodgings, remembering what had happened the last time she was there. On this occasion there was no one about. The stables were almost empty – just two horses stood munching hay and stamping their feet. One was the huge black one Waterman had been riding yesterday, the one in Michael’s sketch. The door to the tack room hung open, but there was no one inside. She remembered what O’Dowell had said about the groom nursing his dying parents, and wondered if he was still with them. She stood in the centre of the yard, twisting her hands in her skirts, wondering what to do, where to go, how long to wait.
It was only a few minutes before she realised a door on the side of the house had opened, and Thomas Waterman was striding across the yard towards her. She forced herself to hold her head high, although her stomach was turning somersaults. It was lucky it was empty, she thought, or she might have been sick.
‘Kitty McCarthy,’ Waterman said, as he drew near. ‘I thought I told you to come to me yesterday?’
‘You did, sir, and I’m sorry I’m late.’ She tried to curtsey, but her legs felt too weak to hold her and she stumbled slightly.
He put out a hand to steady her. ‘Come inside. You look as though you need to sit down and eat something before you do anything else.’
She nodded. He was right about needing to eat. What the ‘anything else’ he might require of her would be she didn’t dare to think about. She would face it when it came.
He began walking back to the big house, obviously expecting her to follow him, but she hesitated. There would be servants inside – the butler she’d already seen, but there’d also be maids, kitchen staff, footmen. She didn’t know anyone directly who worked at the hall, but she was sure if she was seen there with Waterman the word would get out and the townsfolk would assume the worst. Her reputation would be ruined. The butler was unlikely to gossip or sully his master’s name but the lower servants would have no such scruples. But did it matter? What was a reputation, when the alternative was probable death by starvation for both her and Michael?
Waterman had noticed she was not following. ‘What’s the matter? Scared of entering the house, are you? Very well. I seem to remember the last time you were here I entertained you in one of the grooms’ lodgings. Perhaps that will serve us again, although I shall have to fetch food from the kitchens. Here, go inside and up the stairs and wait for me.’ He held open the door to the groom’s cottage where he had taken her all those years ago.
It took a huge effort of will to go through, passing as she did so close to him, but he made no move to touch her or even to catch her eye, and as soon as she was through the door he let it close and was gone. She let out the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding, and climbed the stairs with effort, on all fours. The room at the top was almost exactly as she remembered it, but dustier as if it had not been used for some time. The narrow bed still stood against the back wall. She sat down upon it. She did not want to, but she felt too weak to stand any longer and there was nowhere else to sit. He had gone to get her some food. She would have to find a way to keep some to take back to Michael, along with the bread and cheese package she still had tucked in her skirts. What food would Waterman bring? Suddenly it was all she could think of. Her mind emptied of why she had come and what he might desire of her, and filled itself with thoughts of the food he might bring, the food she might save to take to Michael . . .
It was only a few minutes before he returned, bearing a tray upon which was a plate of bread spread with butter, a selection of cakes, slices of cold beef, ham and cheese, a jar of chutney, a pot of tea and two cups, a dish of cream. She could not remember when she had last seen so much food, all together, and all for her. Her eyes widened greedily as Waterman placed the tray down upon the small table which stood near the window of the room.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘I shall take a cup of tea, but the rest is for you. Eat whatever you want; we will talk when you have finished.’ He dragged the table carefully over towards the bed so that she could reach it from where she was sitting. He poured two cups of tea, left one on the tray for her, and picked the other up for himself, to sip as he stood beside the window, watching her eat.
She felt self-conscious at first, wanting to cram her mouth full of a bit of everything, relishing the taste of meat and butter in her mouth, and cheese, and those sweet cakes – when had she last had cake? She was careful to leave at least half of everything to take home to Michael – he would feast tonight, and if they were careful there’d be more for tomorrow, and the package of bread and cheese from the goldsmith might yet last them another day.
At last, and with the food only a quarter gone, her shrunken stomach told her it could take no more. She finished her cup of tea, wiped her mouth with the starched white napkin he had laid at the side of the tray, and looked up at him. ‘Thank you, sir.’
He nodded. ‘You needed that, I could see.’ He put down his cup on the tray, and sat beside her on the bed. She tried not to flinch away from him. Her mind was working fast – if he thought he could have her body as payment for the food, she was in trouble. She wanted much more than a couple of days’ worth of food from him, if she was to submit to him again.
‘You’re still a beautiful woman, Kitty McCarthy. You are too thin, but you have kept your looks. That hair’s a bonus,’ he said, as his eyes roved over her. ‘I went to England for many years after our first, ahem, encounter, with only occasional trips to Ireland. If I had not, I think I should have seen a lot more of you at that time. I should have searched you out.’
She was not sure how to answer him. There was nothing honest she could say that would not anger him, and she did not want him angry. This quiet, gentle, reflective mood he was in was much more tolerable than the arrogant brusqueness he’d shown when he came to her cottage with Smith, and when he came across her on the road-building works. This was not the Waterman she remembered. Perhaps it was the Waterman James O’Dowell had told her about. But still she was on her guard. He might change at any moment.
‘I never forgot you, Kitty,’ he said quietly.
She raised her eyes to his, and was surprised to see a hint of compassion in them.
‘I did you harm. I was young and foolish. I lusted for you. My father had taught me to grasp whatever I wanted with both hands and never take no for an answer. It’s no excuse, but as a foolish young man I extended that advice to mean I should take you as well. Afterwards, when I’d gone away from here and could not forget the defiant look in your eye, I realised
how very wrong I’d been and how much I must have hurt you.’ He paused, as if waiting for her to say something, but she knew not what to say.
‘You did me a very great wrong,’ she whispered, hardly daring to look at him in case her words angered him and made him want to abuse her again
‘I married, in England,’ he went on, as if he had not heard her response. ‘A girl with hair almost as vibrant as yours, skin almost as ivory. A rich young heiress, who loved me, I think, as I loved her.’
She looked at him, startled, for she had only heard unconfirmed rumours that he had taken a wife.
‘It might have worked. She – Lydia – and I would have made a good team in life.’
‘What became of her, sir?’
‘She died, in childbirth. Twins. The babies died too.’ He was quiet and thoughtful as he said this, and she realised that he had suffered also. Not as much as she had, but they both knew what it was to lose a spouse and children.
But she could not bring herself to sympathise with him. She gave a small nod in response, and lowered her head, as a tiny, personal tribute to the unknown woman and her babies who had not had a chance to live.
‘You have lost children too, I understand?’ he asked. ‘Smith informed me.’
She nodded.
‘I am sorry for your loss.’
She looked up at him, and saw genuine remorse in his eyes. Not just sympathy for the loss of her children, whom he had not known and who meant nothing to him, but something else – regret for his past actions, sorrow for what he had done to her. And something else – a longing. For her? For her body?
‘I should not have let Smith raise the rent and take your goat. I have spent too much time in England and let that man do what he liked. I have been meaning to speak to you since that day. How fares your little girl?’
‘She is dead now, too.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said again, with a sigh. ‘You have lost such a lot.’ His eyes fell on her brooch, which was pinned to her shawl. He fingered it, as she held her breath – his hands so close to her breast. ‘A pretty piece. Where did you get this?’
‘Sir, it was my great-aunt’s. She brought me up.’ She realised suddenly that this was her chance. She must seize it, think of Michael and his future, and get what she could from Waterman. He owed it to them both. ‘I-I have been trying to sell it, sir. To raise some money for my only remaining son, so that he can have a future, away from here and away from the hunger.’
He frowned. ‘It is pretty, but it is only copper, and surely worthless.’
‘That is what I am told. But it is all I have to sell.’ That, and her body, she thought, ruefully. She kept her eyes raised to his. She would not beg, but neither would she leave here empty-handed.
On impulse, she remembered she still had in her pocket the sketch Michael had made of Thomas Waterman astride his horse. She pulled it out and unfolded it.
Waterman took it from her, and stood, crossing over to the window to hold the picture in a better light. ‘Why, that is me, on Charger,’ he said. ‘A fine drawing. When did you make this?’
‘Sir, I didn’t. It was my son, Michael. Mr O’Dowell gave him the sketchbook and pencils long ago. He saw you once, in the fields, and drew this, so he did.’
‘Michael. The boy I saw you working with, on the road building?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How old is the lad?’
‘He’s . . . s-seventeen, sir.’ She held her breath.
‘Seventeen, hmm. And you were married to a fellow called McCarthy, who died in my copper mines, were you not? I remember hearing about the accident. I was in England at the time.’
‘I was, sir. He was a good man.’
He nodded, and stared at her. There was an excitement in his eyes. When he spoke again his voice was quavering with emotion. ‘Michael is not McCarthy’s son, is he? He’s mine, isn’t he?’
She remained silent, realising that what he wanted from her now was not her body, had never been her body. He wanted her son.
He strode across the room and seized her by the shoulders, shaking her. ‘I must know it – is he my son? I suspected it when I saw him at the worksite – that is why I told you to come here, to find the truth. You will tell me!’
She turned her head away.
‘Tell me!’ He growled the words.
She flinched and pulled herself away from him. He took a step back and shook his head, as if considering a new tactic. When he spoke again his voice was once more sad and thoughtful.
‘I lost my two sons when Lydia died. It was a terrible time. You know yourself how it feels to lose a child. I told myself I could not go through such agony again. All that hope for the future, all that potential in those tiny beings, all dashed away within minutes of their birth. It was a cruel blow, indeed. And now I learn I have another son living, one already grown, past the dangers of infanthood. The only child I will ever have, for I will never marry and risk facing such loss again. So you see, you must confirm that I am his father!’
She looked him in the eye, and saw a middle-aged man disappointed with life. No wife, no heirs. No joy, for all his wealth and status. And now he saw the possibility of a son, a fine young man. A relationship with such a son could make him happy after his losses and disappointments.
But Waterman deserved no such happiness. She pitied him for the loss of his wife and babies, but it did not change the fact that he had grievously misused her, and she could never forgive him that.
‘Patrick McCarthy was his father,’ she said, quietly. It was not a lie. Patrick had acted as father to Michael – taken him in as his own, provided for him, played with him, nurtured him and taught him. Loved him, as much as he had loved his own children.
He sighed deeply. ‘It is what I deserve, I suppose. To be denied my son, for what I did to you. I thought I had suffered enough, losing Lydia and the twins. It seems the good Lord thinks otherwise.’ He had turned away, and was speaking almost to himself, as though he had forgotten she was in the room. He picked up the drawing again and studied it. ‘It is a fine likeness.’ He was silent for a moment, as though considering, and he looked from the picture to her face, a half-dozen times.
‘I’ll not see him suffer, whether he acknowledges me or not,’ he muttered. Then he turned back to Kitty. ‘How much?’
‘Sir?’
‘How much do you need, to give your son his future? I assume you want to send him to America. That seems to be where all Irish men and women aspire to be.’
She named the price of passage on the Columbus. A part of her screamed out to add to it – to get more from him, the price of a second passage, or enough to keep her own body and soul together during these dark times. But the stronger part of her – her pride – would never take charity for herself from him. Only for Michael, his son, though she would never admit it to him, even if he had guessed the truth.
He nodded. ‘I shall buy this sketch from you, for that amount. Send our son away, and wish him luck. Tell him, also, that if ever he comes back to Ireland, he should call on me if he requires any assistance.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I would never turn him away.’
She felt tears rush to her eyes, and blinked and swallowed to try to stop them falling. She would not let him see her weakness. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, in a voice as steady as she could manage.
‘Wait here. I will go back to the house to fetch a basket for the remaining food, and the money.’ He turned and left the room before she could respond.
Kitty’s mind was in turmoil as she sat alone in the cold, damp room, awaiting his return. Less than an hour ago she had sat here, expecting to be given a little bread and cheese and then to have to give herself up to him, and beg for money in return. Instead, she’d eaten a feast, heard what almost amounted to an apology for what he’d done to her. Not only that, he’d agreed to pay for Michael’s ticket, and had offered assistance in the future. Thomas Waterman – Michael’s saviour – who would ever have thought that
would happen?
A moment later, he was back, with a basket in which to pack the rest of the food (and she noted, there were other wrapped parcels, presumably of more food, already lying in the bottom of it), and an envelope containing banknotes for her. She hesitated momentarily before accepting the money. She had not taken his money at fifteen. It was hard to do so now, even though it was what she had come here for.
‘Take it, woman!’ he said. ‘There’s enough there to cover the cost of the passage, and a little more. Buy your son the ticket. Send him away with a few coins in his pocket. He deserves a chance in life.’ He sighed. ‘And you, Kitty McCarthy, don’t suffer yourself. Come back to me for food, money, shelter or anything you need, but only when you are prepared to admit to me the truth and allow me to acknowledge my son. Otherwise, stay away.’
He held out the envelope and basket. She took them, and prepared to leave. But at the door she turned back to him.
‘Sir, there is more you could do. Not for me, for I will take nothing from you, but for your workers. So many are starving and dying, and yet you have so much. Does it not pain you, when you could do so much to help them? You could save many lives, sir, if only you were willing.’
He looked taken aback that she had spoken to him like this. He opened his mouth to reply but before he could she left the room and descended the narrow stairs as quickly as she could. He’d shown kindness and compassion to her for Michael’s sake, that was for sure, but she would never come back for more. And she would sooner die than give him Michael, his son.
CHAPTER 17
Maria
I’d been so lucky not having morning sickness at all, but on the day after the hurling match and my walk to Ballymor House I felt decidedly iffy when I got up. I’ll be all right after a cup of tea and some breakfast, I told myself, so I dressed quickly and went downstairs to find Aoife. She was busy vacuuming the bar, but switched off as soon as she saw me.
‘All right there, Maria? Will I make you the full Irish today?’
The Girl from Ballymor Page 16