by Ann Moore
“Well, now, Jack, you’ve never actually met our Liam. Nor Captain Reinders.” Grace squeezed his shoulders. “Only heard tell.”
“But that’s how!” Jack insisted. “The captain brought you over from Ireland, and Liam’s mam died so he’s our brother now, even though he lives with the captain!”
“Well.” Grace kissed him. “That’s about as right as it gets.”
“So I miss them, too.” He leaned his head into theirs. “I love plenty of folk, Mam. I promise.”
Thank God for Jack, Grace thought again as she and Mary Kate laughed and the little boy joined in, glad to have cheered them all up.
“All right, now, you two.” She gave them each a quick hug, then stood up. “Can’t sit here chatting the morning away. Back to work for all of us, and then we’ll have a nice cup of tea and some of that apple pie from last night. What say you, then?”
The children cheered, then resumed their tasks, and Grace made an excuse to slip away for a clean apron. She closed the door to their room behind her, went to the window, and pressed her face against the cool glass. The burden of the past with all its trials did not matter if it meant a better future for her children; they were healthy and bright, the finest companions a person could wish for, and she would have the privilege of knowing them all her life if she raised them well enough now. Grant me the wisdom, Father, she prayed. Help me to do what is best for them in all things.
As if in answer, the clouds above the hill parted and a single shaft of light streamed down to the muddy yard, illuminating for a moment the glistening grass, the moss on the stable roof, the chickens running in their pen, the rippling pond down the back lane. The possibility of starting anew, of doing better, occurred with every fresh moment, and this gave her hope. She returned to the kitchen to check on the children, then decided to get a platter for the ducks from the dining room sideboard, but when she pushed open the door, there stood Abigail Wakefield in bare feet, her skin pale and her hair undone.
“Miss Wakefield!” Grace put her hand to her heart. “You gave me a start. Is there something you’re wanting from the kitchen?”
Abigail regarded her with wary, bloodshot eyes. “Tea,” she ordered hoarsely.
“I’ll bring it straightaway. Is Missus Hopkins not with you, then?”
“On an errand.” Abigail did not look directly at Grace, but over her shoulder. “In town.”
“You should’ve rung for me,” Grace told her. “You’ll catch your death, standing there in the cold.”
“No.” Abigail’s eyes clouded with anxiety, though they remained unfocused. “I’m not ill. I just … want …” She sighed and turned away, moving slowly back down the hall.
“Tea. Aye, miss.”
Grace resisted the urge to take Abigail’s arm and help her up the stairs, so much did she resemble an old woman, but instead returned to the kitchen.
“Jack.” Grace poked her head around the corner to where he still sat on the mudroom steps. “Wipe off your hands and go fill the kettle at the pump, will you, love?”
“Aye, Mam, but where were you?”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Having a word with Miss Wakefield out in the hall.”
Mary Kate turned around to look at her mother, her eyes as wide as Jack’s. “Was she angry, then, Mam? ’Cause she had to come down?”
“Did she yell at you, Mam?” Jack demanded. “’Cause, you know I’ll …”
Grace shushed them both. “She wasn’t angry and she didn’t yell. She’s not a mean person, really, just … sad, I think.”
“Why?” Mary Kate tipped her head to one side.
“Well, I don’t know, exactly. But perhaps we could soften our hearts a bit toward her, what with Christmas coming round and all. What do you think?”
Mary Kate considered it for a moment, then nodded. “I could give her over to God when I pray.” She paused. “But will I have to, you know, speak to her or anything like that? Will you want me to, Mam?”
“No,” Grace agreed. “Best to stay as we are—out of her way.”
“I’ll quit spitting in her teapot,” Jack offered soberly.
“Jack! You never did!”
“Twice,” he admitted, holding up three fingers. “Sorry, Mam.”
“One of these days, boyo, you’ll be in for it.” Grace shook her head, wondering why her inclination was always toward laughter instead of anger over Jack’s antics.
“All right, Mam, all right. Just not right now, as I’m going to help Mister Litton. After I get water,” he added, swaggering out the door like a little man.
A few minutes later, he struggled back in, lugging the heavy kettle with two hands. She relieved him of it and put it on the fire, then made him put on a jacket and cap before he went back out to join George, who stood waiting near the garden gate.
“Be good now, and mind Mister Litton.”
“Ah, Mam, I’m always good, aren’t I?” He looked up at her with such complete innocence that again she had to smile.
“As good as you can be, our Jack.” She buttoned up the jacket, then hugged him quickly and let him go.
“Do you want to go out, as well?” she asked Mary Kate, who still sat at the table.
“I’ll help Enid feed the chickens in a bit,” the girl replied, then looked up, puzzled. “Where is Enid?”
Grace shrugged. “With her mother, perhaps,” she said, then leaned forward and whispered dramatically. “Out on another one of their mysterious errands.”
“Maybe Enid has a lover,” Mary Kate whispered back, giggling.
Grace let her mouth fall open in pretended shock. “And what would you be knowing of such things, young lady? And besides, why would she be wanting her mother along?”
“Maybe the lover has a father,” Mary Kate imagined. “And he’s Missus Hopkins’ lover! Maybe they work in a big house, as well, and the four of them meet in the plaza! For a rendezvous!”
Grace laughed. “That’s quite a word for a little Irish miss. What’s it mean, then, and where did you come by it?”
Mary Kate sat up proudly. “’Tis French for ‘a secret meeting,’ and I got it from The Count of Monte Cristo. Doctor Wakefield told me how to say it.”
“Aren’t you a clever girl?” Grace praised. “But I don’t know that I’m so keen on your reading all about lovers and rendezvous and the like. Can you not find yourself a nice story of dogs or rabbits, or girls living quietly in the country?”
“There’s no quiet living in the country, Mam,” Mary Kate reminded her soberly. “You know all that happened to Jane Eyre.”
Again Grace laughed and shook her head. “Never should’ve read that one to you, but ’twas a long, cold winter, the last.” She put her hand fondly on her daughter’s head. “Aye, you remind me of your uncle Sean with your thirst for books. Your father had a good mind, as well. You get it from them.”
“You’re the one reads to me every night and puts books in my hand, talks to me about the stories and all,” Mary Kate pointed out. “You’re the one I want to be as clever as.”
Moved, Grace kissed her cheek, then went to the stove to get the hot water.
“I better get this up to Miss Wakefield. You go on out when you’re ready, then, and mind you put on your warm jacket and hat.”
Mary Kate nodded and finished up her chore while Grace quickly made the tea and, at the last moment, added a small piece of the apple pie to the tray.
Walking carefully, she carried it down the hall and up the narrow back stair, then down the upstairs hall, stopping in front of Miss Wakefield’s door. She set the tray down on the small table and rapped quickly, then opened the door, picked up the tray, and entered the room.
Miss Wakefield had gone back to bed, and the room was stuffy and cheerless, lit only by whatever weak and watery November light slipped through the haphazardly drawn draperies. It was enough light, however, to show up the dust and disarray, and Grace wondered why Abigail did not insist upon it being cleaned more
thoroughly.
“Your tea, miss.” She set the tray on a writing table that sat before one of the long windows. “Shall I pour it out for you?”
Abigail opened her eyes and sighed. “Yes.” She picked up a small ornamental timepiece from her bedside table. “Is this the correct time? Eleven o’clock?”
“’Tis,” Grace confirmed. “Are you feeling better this morning, Miss Wakefield? Could you eat a bite?”
“Hopkins has not returned?”
“Not yet.” Grace poured a splash of milk into the china cup, then added a stream of hot, black tea. She brought this over to Abigail, who took it more gratefully than Grace had expected. “Would you care for a piece of last night’s apple pie with it?”
Abigail looked at the plate, tongue wetting her lips, but she shook her head.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Wakefield, only there’s nothing to you but skin and bones. You can’t ever hope to get well again if you don’t eat.”
“I’m not trying to get well.”
Grace was surprised. “Well, there’re quicker ways of going than starving yourself, you know. Your medicine there.” She indicated the blue laudanum bottle sitting in its little saucer on the bedside table beside a glass of water. “I’d say that’s more than enough to do the job.”
Now it was Abigail’s turn to look surprised. “You can’t possibly understand,” she said finally.
“You’re right. I saw more starvation in Ireland than I ever care to see again—why would a person do that to themselves on purpose, do you suppose?”
“I …” Abigail looked confused. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. You’re no one to me.”
“True enough. But maybe I’d leave you alone about your meals, if I knew what you were doing here. Quit sending the tray up, and all. Make it easier for you.”
Abigail shook her head. “I don’t want it to be easier.”
Grace waited, but when no other explanation was forthcoming, she spoke again.
“So, I’m to keep making up your meals and you’ll eat only enough to keep yourself alive until the next day, and we’ll keep on doing this for … what? Another year, at the most, and then you won’t be around to deprive yourself of anything.” She paused. “Sounds to me as if you’re paying penance, Miss Wakefield, and that’s very Catholic of you and all, but—”
“Hopkins is not Catholic,” Abigail interrupted.
“Ah.” Grace nodded. “I thought she might have something to do with it. I don’t know what she’s convinced you of, miss, but I’m here to tell you that you cannot make up for anything you did yesterday by starving yourself today.”
Abigail closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips into her temples.
“The headaches are from lack of nourishment,” Grace informed her. “Drink, laudanum, and no food. You can’t think straight on that. Eat this one thing,” she enticed, holding out the plate. “And see if you don’t feel a wee bit better.”
“I don’t want to feel better!” Abigail’s eyes opened and she slapped the plate out of Grace’s hand. “Get away from me, Satan. I won’t be tempted by you.”
Shocked, Grace knelt down and cleaned up the pie, the broken bits of plate. When she stood up again, Abigail was spooning a generous dose of laudanum into her mouth. Eyes on Grace, she swallowed, put the spoon down, and leaned back against her pillows. Within moments, her eyelids closed to half-mast and her mouth sagged open.
Grace put the mess of food and china back on the tray, then glanced back at Abigail, who seemed to have entered a twilight state. The room was overly warm and close, the smell of sickness and decay cloying. Grace went to the window and pulled back the heavy cloth, then the sheers behind, pushing the material all the way to either side and tying it off. Glancing at Abigail once more, she surreptitiously lifted the sash just enough to allow for an exchange of air. The outside breeze was crisp and damp and immediately alleviated the stuffiness of the room; Grace took a deep breath. It was a dark day and would only get darker, so she lit the lamp on the writing table; with the hem of her apron, she wiped off the dusty, water-ringed table and straightened up the books and papers that lay thereon. Ink had splattered on the blotter and the pen drawer was ajar; it stuck when she tried to push it back in, then closed with a loud snap.
“What are you doing?” Abigail demanded, suddenly sitting bolt upright. “Get away from there. I didn’t tell you to do that.”
Grace felt herself blush, and her heart was pounding wildly.
“Yes, miss,” she stammered. “I’m sorry. I only wanted to set it right,” she said more firmly, having collected herself. “’Tis dusty in here, ma’am. And none too clean.”
“You’re not the housekeeper.” Abigail’s voice was slurred and her eyes began to glaze over again. “Where’s Hopkins?”
“Gone to town, you said.”
Abigail struggled to keep her eyes open. “Want to see her,” she murmured. “I do.”
“Here I am.” Hopkins stood by the open door, and Grace had the distinct feeling that she’d been listening in the hall long before she announced her presence. “It took longer than expected, miss, but here I am now. You may return to your kitchen, Missus Donnelly,” she added, narrowing her eyes.
Grace looked from one woman to the other, then picked up the tray and left without saying anything to either one. Behind the closed door, voices rose behind her, and though she couldn’t hear what they were saying, she could tell that it was Hopkins who was increasingly angry while Miss Wakefield’s anger was almost immediately dissolved into pathetic pleas and crying. She shook her head, not knowing what to make of it, then retreated to her kitchen, where Enid sat at the table, staring at nothing, hands clasped in front of her.
“Enid! Have I not said you mustn’t go off like that? I don’t mind looking in on the mistress, but you’re to tell me. Else, I’ll have a word with the doctor, and before the day is out.”
The young woman’s eyes cleared and she looked up at Grace. “Please don’t do that, Missus Donnelly. It won’t happen again. Today was … well, Mother had an errand for Miss Wakefield and I was needed … in another place … for something.”
Grace sat down across from her and looked her firmly in the eye. “You’re a very bad liar, Enid,” she said quietly, “which speaks well of your character. I don’t know what’s going on around here, but that woman upstairs is in a bad way and ’tisn’t only nerves did that.”
Enid’s eyes went wide, and then she looked down.
“Where were you, Enid?”
“To church.” She hesitated. “And then to see—”
“Enid!” Hopkins stood in the doorway, her face red with anger. “Get back to work at once, girl! Right now!”
Enid jumped to her feet and rushed from the kitchen, her mother glaring as she pushed past. When the door had closed, Hopkins came well into the room, hands at her sides balled into fat fists.
“You don’t know the half of how things lie around here, missus, so don’t go upsetting the balance,” she menaced. “Keep to your kitchen and you’ll keep your job. Trouble that poor woman upstairs and you’ll get trouble yourself.”
“I’ll keep to wherever I like,” Grace said calmly, standing up. “You can bully your daughter and Miss Wakefield, but you’ll not bully me.” She paused for good effect. “What kind of religion is it, Missus Hopkins, says God demands endless suffering for the sins of your past?”
Hopkins clenched her jaw. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Here’s what we’re going to do now,” Grace informed her. “That woman upstairs is going to start eating again.”
Hopkins shook her head. “I have nothing to do with that. She’s addle-minded; you’ve seen it yourself. And she drinks—I admit that. Now you know the truth. You think I have some power over her. That I force her to starve.” She lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “But she’d be dead if not for me. I’m doing the best I can by the poor demented creature, God pity her.�
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You’re a better liar than Enid, Grace thought, but I don’t believe a word of it.
“If you can’t get her to eat, then I’m taking over her care.” Grace held up her hand to stop the housekeeper’s protest. “Once Doctor Wakefield sees the state she’s in, he’ll know something must be done.”
Hopkins’ face reddened with suppressed fury, but she nodded reluctantly, and when she spoke again, the forced contrition in her voice made Grace even more wary than before.
“You’re right.” The housekeeper looked pained as if the burden had been too much for her. “Something must be done or she’ll waste away to nothing. I’ve been to church about it this very morning. But the mistress doesn’t like you, Missus Donnelly. And she can’t bear your children. Your presence only makes things worse. You must promise not to disturb her in the future.”
“Then don’t leave her alone without telling me,” Grace countered. “And while you’re up there, you might clean that room—it smells to high Heaven. The whole house is wanting for a good spit and polish; you might try giving Enid a hand once in a while.”
The mask slipped, and Hopkins’ eyes glinted with her true brittle anger, but just as quickly she resumed her act of contrition.
“Miss Abigail has demanded so much of my time,” the housekeeper simpered. “Poor Enid has had to bear the brunt of the work, and you know how inept she is. And now, what with the doctor entertaining more, well … I can see we’ve fallen behind.”
“To say the least.” Grace wasn’t giving her an inch. “But Christmas is coming now, so I want you to see about cheering the place up a bit. Mary Kate and I’ll give you a hand now and then if you’re so hard-pressed, though it seems Miss Wakefield sleeps much of the time.”
“She does,” Hopkins allowed. “Though it’s a fitful sleep and I hate to leave her unattended.”
“Which is why you left her alone this morning?”
“I only go out when she insists. Only when she insists.”
“Then leave Enid with her, and tell me,” Grace said. “That’s how we’re going to run this household from now on. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a meal to prepare.”