'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  Grace had witnessed the unhinging of a mind once before in her life, and so she recognized now that Abigail Wakefield had more in common with Bram Donnelly than a weakness for drink.

  Troubled, but determined to get the woman cleaned up and into bed, she finished washing Abigail, then rubbed her with a towel to get the blood moving again. After securing her charge so that she’d not fall out of the chair, Grace quickly opened and closed drawers until a clean nightdress was located, which she then pulled over Abigail’s head and tied at the neck. Finally, a muslin cap was fitted over the woman’s matted hair, and she was helped back into bed.

  “Go to sleep now,” Grace whispered, pulling first the sheet and then the blanket up to Abigail’s chin, smoothing it around her battle-weary body. “I’ll open the window just a bit as the air’s gone bad in here, and you’ll be needing a bath come morning, but all’s well for now.”

  “Where is she?” Abigail murmured even as her eyes began to close. “Where could she be?”

  “I don’t know,” Grace told her again. “But the minute she comes in, I’ll send her to you straightaway.”

  Abigail’s face relaxed then, and she sighed, her lips parted in the hint of a smile. She must have been lovely not too long ago, Grace thought, before whatever demons she faced had sucked the life out of her.

  Afraid that Abigail, in her sleep, would be sick again and choke on it, Grace rolled her over onto her side so that her cheek rested on the very edge of the bed. Satisfied that the poor creature was out of her misery, at least for the length of her sleep, Grace blew out the lamp and left the room. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, Doctor Wakefield came immediately out of the drawing room, closing the doors behind him.

  “The children said you’d gone upstairs. I take it my sister has taken a turn for the worse?” he asked carefully, his face clouded with concern.

  “She’s taken a turn for the bottle, more like,” Grace reported.

  “No, no …” Wakefield shook his head in protest. “It’s the laudanum. Sometimes she gets confused and takes too much, or takes wine on top of it—for her nerves—and—” He stopped as the look on Grace’s face hardened.

  “I’ve seen plenty of drunks in my time, Doctor, and that woman upstairs is as drunk as they come, medicine or no.”

  He stared, and Grace could see that he was trying to formulate some kind of explanation.

  “I’m passing no judgment, sir,” she said before he could speak. “Only don’t go telling me what I know to be true is something else beside. ’Tis no sin to be weak,” she added. “And truly your sister suffers some madness.”

  “Abigail is not mad,” he insisted firmly. “Troubled, perhaps. Yes, I’ll give you that. A drinker, most likely. But not mad.”

  The library doors opened again and Doctor Fairfax poked his head into the hall, male conversation booming out behind him.

  “Wakefield!” he demanded, more than a little drunk. “Where’ve you gone? Oh, hello there, Missus Donnelly.” He waved at her congenially, then frowned at his friend. “Wakefield, where are your manners? Feed and water us at once, sir, or we shall revolt!”

  Wakefield looked baffled for a moment.

  “Refreshments coming right away, Doctor Fairfax,” Grace announced in her most professional servant voice. “I’ve some of that cheese and those biscuits you liked so well last time you were here.”

  “Best news I’ve heard all night. Thank you, Missus Donnelly; you are far more civilized than your illustrious employer.” Fairfax pulled his head back inside and rejoined the others.

  “Thank you,” Wakefield echoed Fairfax’s sentiments gratefully. “Thank you very much, Missus Donnelly.”

  “’Tis my job, sir. Go back to your guests, and I’ll be in with a tray quick as I can. Miss Abigail is sleeping now,” she added quietly, “but I’ll keep an ear out for her.”

  He nodded, relieved, and straightened himself up, raking his hair back into place with his fingers before reentering the library, where he was met with a cheery hurrah.

  Grace hurried into the kitchen and was tying an apron on over her dress when Hopkins came through the back door, cheeks flushed and eyes dark with trepidation, though her tone was aggressively defensive.

  “The master is entertaining? He said nothing about it to me or I never would’ve gone out! Did he wake Miss Abigail?”

  “Yes, he’s entertaining,” Grace stated. “And no, he didn’t wake her. She was well up … and well drunk by the time I got home.”

  “Of course she wasn’t drunk,” Hopkins retorted scornfully. “You Irish. Miss Abigail takes medicine for the headaches, and …”

  Grace held up a hand. “I’ve already been through this with the doctor. Miss Wakefield’s headache remedy has backfired. I got her cleaned up as best I could and into bed. She’ll sleep for now, but she’ll be wanting a bath in the morning, and the room will need a good scrub and airing out.”

  “I don’t take my orders from you. How dare you …? Where is Enid? Why didn’t she attend Miss Abigail?”

  “I’ve no idea where your daughter is,” Grace replied evenly. “And I doubt Doctor Wakefield knows, either, but we could certainly ask him.”

  Red-faced, Hopkins planted her hands on her hips. “My position in this household is absolutely secure, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Grace shrugged. “Perhaps you’ll be wanting to take a little better care of your mistress, then, as she’s looking the worse for it.”

  “Miss Wakefield is my business,” Hopkins warned. “You keep your nose out of it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Not after what I saw tonight. Not with you disappearing whenever you like.”

  Hopkins opened her mouth to reply but was stopped by the sound of the back door opening and closing softly. They both turned as Enid came tiptoeing in; when she saw them waiting, she froze and the color drained from her face.

  “Where have you been, you wretched girl?” Hopkins demanded. “You know better than to leave the mistress alone!”

  Enid swallowed hard. “She was asleep! Sound asleep! I just went out in the moonlight to sit by the pond. Only for a moment, Mother, I swear to you! I was gone but a moment!”

  Far longer than that, Grace thought but said nothing that might add to what would clearly be the girl’s forthcoming misery.

  Hopkins crossed the room in a fury and grabbed Enid by the ear, twisting it as she dragged her daughter after her.

  “She was up!” Hopkins hissed. “And ill! The master’s come in with guests—anything could’ve happened!”

  Enid yelped with pain and tried to apologize.

  “I don’t want to hear it.” Hopkins twisted harder. “You’ll pay for this, you stupid girl, and don’t think you won’t.”

  “That’s enough,” Grace admonished. “Missus Hopkins, go check on your mistress. And, Enid”—she took the girl’s arm and withdrew her from her mother’s grip—“help me lay out these trays for the doctor and his guests. They’ve been waiting long enough.”

  Enid nodded miserably, a hand to the ear that was now bright red. Grace could feel the fury coming off Hopkins in waves, but she ignored it, and the housekeeper finally turned on her heel and left the kitchen by the back staircase.

  “Where were you really, then?” Grace put two wedges of cheese on a dressed platter. “Because I know you weren’t out sitting in the moonlight.”

  Enid fumbled the loaf of dark bread, dropping it onto the cutting board, but she said nothing, just picked up the serrated knife and began to slice, focusing all her attention on the task.

  “If that’s how you want to play it, then fine,” Grace told her. “But we can’t all be out of the house at the same time. If you’re going out, I want to know. Do you understand me, Enid?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Enid’s hand stilled, but she kept her eyes on the bread. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Good. That’s all I’m asking. For now,” she added pointedly. “There—does this look r
ight for that crowd in there?”

  Enid stepped back and nodded at the sight of the two trays with their plates of thin black bread, cheeses, a large piece of smoked salmon, pears and small apples, a bowl of walnuts.

  “Take it in, then,” Grace directed, but at that moment Hopkins returned in her dark dress, white apron, and cap.

  “Follow me, Enid.” Hopkins picked up the first tray. “And do as I do. Keep your eyes lowered and curtsy when spoken to.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Enid picked up the second tray and followed her out of the kitchen.

  Grace built up the fire in the stove and put the kettle on, knowing the doctor would certainly call for coffee or tea. Then she slipped across the narrow hall and into her room to check on the children; both lay quietly in their beds, Jack sound asleep but Mary Kate still awake.

  “Hello, love,” Grace whispered. “I’ll be a while yet. The doctor has guests in.”

  “Shall I help you, Mam?” Mary Kate rose up on one elbow. “Jack’s dead out, so I could, you know.”

  “Thanks.” Grace smiled at her and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Missus Hopkins and Enid are back now, so I’m fine.”

  “Was Miss Wakefield sick of the drink?”

  Grace looked at her in surprise. “How do you know about that, then?”

  Mary Kate bit her lip and picked at her blanket. “I was looking round the house last week, late like … I know I’m not allowed,” she added quickly, looking up. “Only I wanted to see the library.”

  Books, Grace thought. Must get the child more books.

  “She came in, more on the quiet than I, ate a part of the lunch you’d left on the desk for him—stuffed it all in her mouth!” Mary Kate shook her head, incredulous. “Then she drank down two glasses of the doctor’s whiskey, quick like, before she saw me hiding behind the chair.”

  “Caught you, did she?”

  “Aye.” Mary Kate nodded, ashamed. “Took me by the arm and said you’d be out of a job if I ever came in there again or told anyone what I’d seen.”

  “And where was I, then?”

  “Looking for Jack and Scout down by the pond. Sorry, Mam.” The little girl bowed her head contritely.

  “You know better than to shame us like that.” Grace waited a moment for the words to sink in, then asked, “Did she frighten you, agra?”

  “Aye.” Mary Kate’s eyes were wide in the dim light. “It reminded me of something. The way she grabbed my arm and all, brought her face right into mine, her eyes all wet and the smell coming off her …”

  Your father, Grace thought. “Never mind. Put it out of your head, but don’t cross paths with her again. She’s troubled, that woman, and drink only makes troubles worse.”

  Mary Kate let her head fall back onto the pillow.

  “Go to sleep now.” Grace kissed her cheek and smoothed her soft hair. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Neither Enid nor Missus Hopkins returned to the kitchen, so Grace decided to serve the coffee and tea herself. She carried the heavy tray down the long hall to the drawing room doors, which were ajar; opening one side a bit more with her foot, she entered the room and was met with a blast of heat that immediately flushed her cheeks.

  The men were grouped together in the far end of the room, near the fireplace, and conversation was going strong. Grace quietly made room on the sideboard for the teapot and coffee urn, surreptitiously glancing around to see who was in attendance. She recognized a few of them. There was Doctor Fairfax, of course, who leaned against the mantel with a handsome pipe in his hand. Fairfax came up to the house regularly now and reported that meals at Wakefield Heights were far superior to those at the best restaurants in town; he and Wakefield were great friends and spent hours at the doctor’s desk, poring over plans for the new Marine Hospital and discussing the best way to lure more qualified doctors west in order to force out the hundreds of quacks who still continued to dispense their questionable remedies. Fairfax was in favor of inviting graduates from the new Women’s Medical College in Pennsylvania, but Wakefield was opposed—he had no faith in the skills of these “doctoring ladies” or in the Quaker group who’d established the college. Their conversations always fascinated Grace, who often lingered when she served the men, in order to listen to their opinions.

  The man standing next to Doctor Fairfax tonight was “Honest Harry” Meiggs, complete with enormous cigar and puffed-up cravat. Grace knew from the papers that Meiggs had become a very successful lumber dealer with a wharf and a mill up at North Beach, and was currently trying to buy up all available land around there in anticipation of the continuing growth boom. Wakefield had joked that Meiggs was courting him like a fervent suitor, in the hope that he would join the growing list of speculation partners, and he seemed to tolerate the man in good humor, enjoying a bravado that was alien to his own nature. Grace noticed that Meiggs always gave her the once-over whenever she entered the room but beyond that paid her no mind, which was fine by her—she disliked him instinctively; he reminded her of the land agents she’d known in Ireland with their notions of superiority.

  She didn’t know the tall man who kept tugging at a thick lock of brown hair, but when Meiggs addressed him as “McCabe” and asked him about business at the packed and popular saloon he frequented, Grace realized he must be James McCabe, owner of the El Dorado. Now she took a closer look at him, curious to see the man rumored to have set his mistress up as head of a fancy bordello. Grace’s own brief experience with the fallen ladies at Molly O’Brien’s in London meant that she harbored no ill will toward such women, only pity that they should have no other way to live but this. McCabe looked respectable enough, though of course looks were often deceiving, especially in a town of new money, but Grace felt sure that the doctor would not have entertained him at home if the man had proved unfit for good society.

  Next to him was Edward Kemble, editor of the California Star, and Grace reminded herself to try for a quick word with him if time allowed. Kemble had come over on the Brooklyn with Sam Brannan, and Grace wanted to know whether he could help her make inquiries after her brother. She had seen notices in papers, posted by those seeking information on the whereabouts of relatives, and this, she’d decided, was to be her next course of action.

  The last familiar face was William Shew, a favorite of both Doctors Wakefield and Fairfax, and a good friend of Mister Kemble. Shew operated the Daguerreian Saloon, and his images of miners in the field were gaining him fame across the nation, as was his new series about the burgeoning city in the West. He’d shown Grace some of his images and she had dared to share the visions she sometimes had when looking at recorded faces; intrigued, he’d invited her to come to his studio with the offer of making her own image or that of her children. She had agreed and now they were friends, of a sort. He caught her eye now, smiled, and nodded.

  The last two men in the group were without doubt the doctor’s latest acquisitions—two young medical students only days in from the East. Both wore the newest fashionable attire and were smoking cigars, an air of youthful exuberance about them that would fade into humility as they experienced the limits of their medical knowledge. But for now, they were as giddy as young pups, and Grace wasn’t the only one enjoying the energy they brought into the room.

  Quietly inquiring as to their preference for coffee or tea, Grace poured out cups and began handing them around. She took her time—the discussion had just touched on slavery and the state of the South, in light of a new book by Harriet Beecher Stowe, and Grace wanted to hear what the gentlemen thought of it. She’d read a number of editorials referencing Uncle Tom’s Cabin, or Life Among the Lowly and was as fascinated as the rest of the country appeared to be. Though the book was selling like hotcakes, she felt certain that Doctor Wakefield would most likely not be buying a copy, and she looked forward to joining the nearly completed Mercantile Library, though ten dollars to belong and one dollar a month dues seemed a lot; she must do it for Mary Kate, especially, she reminded her
self, and her wage here allowed room for such luxury. It was at times like these she felt intensely the absence of her brother. Not only would he have purchased straightaway a copy of the newest controversial book; he would have read it cover to cover and digested it in such a way that his conversations would have enlightened her own reading. He would have glowed in a room such as this, she thought with a pang of longing.

  “Times are changing, Wakefield.” Kemble’s voice drew Grace’s attention, though it was the doctor he attempted to draw into conversation. “Your beloved South is going to be dragged kicking and screaming into the future, I’m afraid, whether they like it or not.”

  Wakefield lit his own cigar, then shook out the match. “And what kind of future do you envision that to be, Edward?”

  “The future of equality.” Kemble stood up and moved toward the fireplace. “The future of payment for labor instead of payment for human beings.”

  Wakefield nodded, and Grace pretended to fuss with the bread plate, wanting very much to hear his reply.

  “First of all,” the doctor began thoughtfully, “it is not my beloved South. As you well know—most of you, anyway—I am not in favor of slaveholding, but neither am I as ignorant as some who have never lived among the Negroes. One cannot simply set free a people who have been cared for like children all their lives.”

  “Why not?” asked one of the younger doctors. “Why not give them the freedom to live life as they choose?”

  “I happen to agree with Doctor Wakefield,” Meiggs interjected, coming into the circle. “Let’s say, for instance, that you owned a flock of sheep—what would happen if they were suddenly sent out on their own? Could they feed themselves, get their water? Could they defend themselves against predators? They could not.” This last comment he directed toward the young doctor. “They could not survive in a world for which they had not been prepared.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Kemble asked quietly.