by Anne Doughty
The Blacksmith’s Wife
ANNE DOUGHTY
For Peter
Friend, editor, husband
29 November 1933 – 26 April 2013
As promised
Contents
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
POSTSCRIPT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BY ANNE DOUGHTY
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
Ardrea, County Armagh
April, 1845
Sarah Hamilton opened her eyes suddenly, the traces of a pleasant dream fleeing like a mouse disappearing down a hole before she could grasp anything about it. She smiled to herself, got quietly out of bed and glanced down at the sleeping figure of her husband whom only a vigorous shake would waken.
She knew by the dim light filtering through the curtains on the small south-facing window that it was early. Still too dim to read the time on the clock on John’s side of their bed, but bright enough for her to tramp barefoot across the wooden floor. She peeped out at the small plantation of trees partly masking the small, humpy green hills that stretched away in all directions from their long, stone-built roadside dwelling; northwards to the low-lying fields and meadows bordering Lough Neagh; south through winding lanes and sloping orchards to the cathedral city of Armagh, their nearest market town.
She never knew why she troubled to move so quietly when John was so hard to wake. He had the gift of sound sleep. Whatever the troubles and frustrations of the day, however taxing and difficult the work in his forge which occupied the furthest end of the two-storey thatched house, he managed, almost childlike, to fall asleep the moment he got into bed, unless, of course, he turned towards her and took her in his arms, the gentleness of his lovemaking a sharp contrast with the strength and power of his body.
Sarah had always loved the early morning. As a child, brought up by her elderly grandmother on the outskirts of Lisnagarvey – a flourishing market town some eight miles from the growing port of Belfast – she had lost both her parents in the summer epidemic of typhoid; only months after her family had moved to Ulster from Yorkshire to take up a new opportunity in a flourishing textile business run by a former neighbour.
Her grandmother and one of her brothers had survived, but her sisters and other brothers had not, so Sarah remained in the care of the old woman. Sarah Lamie, who had lived with Sarah’s family for many years, had always been an early riser and young Sarah was already accustomed to being wakened at an early hour.
‘Sleepy head, still in bed,’ the old woman would say, laughing. ‘God’s given us a new day,’ she would go on, smiling with a joy Sarah had never seen displayed in others of her age.
The cottage, found for them by their former neighbours who had taken her brother Jonathan into their care, was tiny and sparsely furnished, but they wanted for nothing. Her great-grandparents had been among the first Quakers to come to Lisnagarvey from Yorkshire in the 1700s and it was part of their belief that no one should be neglected, neither for their talents, which might not be obvious to anyone, nor for their physical needs. When the potato store went low, someone would appear to refill it and there was always meal, or flour, in the heavy crock behind the kitchen door.
They had no money to speak of; the only income the willing gifts from the handful of parents whose children came each day and made up the small group her grandmother taught to read and write, to keep accounts and to mend the plain clothing that both men and women wore.
Sarah smiled to herself as she remembered the neat undecorated dresses: grey or black, or palest blue with large white collars, always neat and spotlessly clean. She had always longed for colour, for dresses with pretty floral designs, pinks and blues, with frills and decorations, or embroidery, but even after her grandmother died and she lived alone, taking over the old woman’s task of teaching the young, she respected the old woman’s memory by continuing to dress in the Quaker manner. Only in her embroidery and tapestry work, which helped her to be financially independent, did her passion for colour find an outlet.
The light was stronger now and the first pale gleams of sunlight were catching the rag rug she had laboured over in the dark nights of the recent winter. Full of colour, the fragments came from garments torn beyond repair and thrown away by the wealthy, collected up by the women in the workshop in Lurgan run by her brother – scraps of fabric to be shared out and used by those with the skill, patience and imagination to create from such meagre resources.
John had watched her evening after evening totally fascinated by the speed at which she sewed; the tiny needle caught the light of the lamp and the water-filled globe that stood close beside it, enhancing its gleam so she could see more easily for the intricate work.
‘Ah don’t know how ye have the patience for that,’ he said often enough, shaking his head. ‘Them wee stitches – shure I can hardly see them even when I know where to luk.’
‘And what about the patience for making a dozen horseshoes and every pair a match?’ she’d said, laughing. ‘Is it not the same thing?’
He’d nodded and agreed that it was a fair point, but he was not entirely convinced and remained amazed at what he saw as her great skill.
As the light strengthened and pale gleams began to touch the barely leafed trees in the nearest hedgerow, she saw that it had been raining in the night. From the tips of new leaves and on the long thorns of the slowly leafing hawthorns drops of water hung, shimmering in the tiny breeze which had sprung up.
She heard her grandmother’s voice as clearly as if the old woman were standing in the room behind her: ‘See, child, what need have we of jewels? Hasn’t God given us the jewels on the trees?’
It was just an early spring morning like this one that she had first met John. The memory of it still made her smile. It was market day in Lisnagarvey and in the afternoon she had finished her teaching early so she could go and buy threads and fabric from the traders who had laid out their goods in the square surrounding the Town Hall.
The whole place was thronged with people: noisy with men who bargained and then slapped hands, and hawkers who shouted out the virtues of their wares. The pavements were very crowded, but somewhat cleaner than the square itself where calves, sheep and some horses had changed hands in the course of the morning. She never knew quite how it happened, but suddenly she was struck a glancing blow on the side of her head. Not painful, but startling. It was so sudden and surprising enough for her to lose her balance, trip and fall on the edge of the pavement.
The next thing she knew was that a bolt of cloth had dropped down on the pavement beside her and a young man with blue-grey eyes was kneeling beside her, a look of total distress on his tanned face.
‘Ach, dear a dear, are ye hurted?’ he asked anxiously, looking round him as if he might find some resolution at hand to this totally distressing event. ‘The mare moved just as I was unloading th
e bolt,’ he explained, as if that might help him. ‘Are ye all right? Will I call a doctor to come and look at ye?’
He put his hand to her dishevelled hair, moved it back from her face and searched her cheek minutely for any sign of damage.
She had laughed then at the innocence of the man who, in his concern, had touched her as easily and gently as if he were her mother.
‘No, I’m not hurt at all,’ she replied, surprised at the slight shake in her voice. ‘It was more the suddeness of it. Do you often swing bolts around the place?’ she asked, smiling weakly.
‘Ach no,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Sure there’s a knack in it, I’m sure, but I haven’t the right way of it,’ he added, as he helped her to her feet.
‘What about your weaving? Has it come to any harm?’ she asked more steadily, as he retrieved her empty basket from between the feet of some bystanders, who had now paused to watch him from the corners of their eyes.
Paying not the slightest attention to the curious glances of people who passed by, he looked her up and down yet again as he handed the basket back. He’d not spared so much as a glance for the heavy roll of cloth still lying at their feet where it had fallen.
‘Never worry about that,’ he said, picking up the heavy bale as if it were a small parcel. He propped it on its end against the side of his pony and trap. ‘Would you come and drink a cup of something at the tavern? It might help ye.’
‘But what about selling your week’s work?’
‘Ah no, I’m not here to sell it. I’m just delivering it to a draper for m’ brother. He’s the weaver. Shure I can get a wee lad to watch it fer me while we go an’ have somethin’. They say sugar in tea is good for a shock. Did ye iver tell of that?’
‘Yes, I have indeed, but not everyone has sugar.’
‘Aye, yer right, but now say ye’ll walk over to the tavern wi’ me so I can make sure yer all right. It wou’d set m’ mind at rest,’ he added persuasively as he took her arm.
She had gone with him to the tavern and sat in the dark, smoky interior already thick with heat from a roaring log fire, the press of bodies and the smell of cooking food. It was there the draper found them. A good-natured man, he’d seen an unfamiliar pony and trap and an equally familiar-looking bale of cloth. He’d listened to the story the small boy had told him, gave him a threepenny bit, carried the bale to his own cart and come to the tavern to pay his debts.
As soon as he’d pocketed the money for his brother, the young man asked if he could drive her back home to save her the walk.
‘I’m afraid I still have all my messages to do,’ she said quietly. She would never forget the look of disappointment on his face when he had no choice but to let her go.
It was a week later when she once again walked the length of the market square and she realised she’d been watching for him. Now it was her turn to be disappointed for he was nowhere to be seen.
The sun was clear of the trees now and beams of light cast long shadows towards the house. They glinted on the diminishing hayrick that had provided for the mare during the winter months, turning the tousled strands they touched into threads of gold. She smiled to herself when she remembered how it had all been resolved.
After three weeks of hoping she might meet him again by chance, she had told herself firmly to stop being foolish. There were other markets for cloth, and besides he’d been delivering the cloth for his brother, so he wasn’t even a weaver himself. She had no idea how he earned his living. Absorbed in her own thoughts as she made her way along the crowded pavement, she was startled by his ‘Good day, ma’am.’ There he stood beside the pony and trap, waiting in exactly the same spot where he’d had his accident with the bolt of cloth.
As for John, he knew he’d no reason at all for going back to Lisnagarvey, but he still puzzled back and forth in his mind as to what he could do to see her again. He’d only taken the cloth for his brother so there’d be money to put food on the table while he was suffering with his chest. There’d be no bale of cloth to go to market till George was fit to work again. But if he was well enough to be back at his loom, then he’d be well enough to take the cloth himself.
John had to admit it was far too far to travel just for a market. Either Armagh or Richhill market could provide anything he needed for the forge, or for the house. But the thought of going to Lisnagarvey would not leave his mind. By the time he set out, some three weeks later, he knew he was going there simply to look for a tall girl in a pale blue dress with a smile in her eyes that seemed to be there all the time.
‘Are ye lookin’ for jewels on the tree?’
The voice was soft and full of sleep. She turned and saw him sitting on the side of the bed rubbing his eyes.
‘Yes, I was, but then I fell to thinking about a man who knocked me clean off my feet,’ she said honestly, as she came and sat beside him.
She could never quite get used to the fact that anything she ever told him, no matter about how long ago it was or how seemingly unimportant it might be, he would remember, sometimes quoting a phrase or a saying back to her, or asking her if he had indeed got the right way of it. Places he’d never been, people he never knew, it was all the same to him; they were parts of her world and she had shared them with him. So he remembered.
‘Are your feet not froz’n on the cauld floor?’ he asked, putting his arm round her. ‘Or did you mind to stan’ on the rug like I told ye?’
‘Yes, they are, and yes, I did,’ she said quickly. ‘But they’ll soon warm up when I’m getting the breakfast. I was just thinking I’d better wake you up for you said you’ve to go into Armagh today. Is it Hillock’s you’re for?’
‘Aye, we need angle iron again, and a lot of small stuff forby,’ he began. ‘But shure we cou’d warm your feet far better in the bed,’ he added, drawing her closer.
‘John, dear, I’d love to come back to bed, but do you remember you said you needed a word with Scottie? He’ll be expecting his bowl of porridge.’
‘Aye,’ he agreed, ‘he doesn’t get much at home in the mornings. The poor old Granny isn’t fit for it,’ he said, looking sad.
‘But there’ll be no Scottie tonight, will there?’ she said, stroking his cheek.
‘Indeed there won’t,’ he replied promptly, pulling her to her feet and into his arms. ‘Don’t tire yourself out now doin’ too much,’ he added, after kissing her vigorously.
‘And what about you coming back tired with carrying all that heavy stuff and going straight back to your own work in the forge?’
‘Never you think o’ that,’ he came back at her with a smile, as she slipped lightly from his arms and left the washstand to him.
She pulled on her working clothes over her shift, a hard-wearing dark skirt and one of her oldest blouses, pushed her feet into her shoes, ran a comb through her long, dark hair and stepped out onto the echoing wooden stairs that dropped steeply into the big kitchen below.
John had damped down the fire at bedtime. Now, she leant over the smoored fire and opened the hot centre, where a curl of blue smoke rose from the hot embers. Carefully, to avoid getting her fingers burnt, she placed small pieces of bone dry turf and sticks amid the glowing embers she’d uncovered. Straightening up from a task that always made her back ache, she brought bowls, plates and mugs from the dresser and began placing them on the scrubbed wooden table.
She turned away from the table the moment she heard the sticks crackle. Pleased with her efforts on the fire, which it had taken her a while to get used to after the tiny fireplace in her old home, she added pieces of coal with the tongs. Very soon there’d be a cheering blaze and she could hang the kettle over the leaping flames. It sat on the hearth, filled and left ready at bedtime.
The porridge she’d prepared herself the previous evening was cooked and ready for the early start. It just needed to be stirred thoroughly, reheated and served up with a jug of fresh milk from the larder on the north-facing wall just outside the back door.
She steppe
d out into the loveliest of April mornings: the sky blue, the air mild, the night’s rain on the tramped earth all around the house drying in the light breeze. She paused and stood looking for the most recent signs of the coming spring. As she turned back into the house she glimpsed a familiar figure climb through a gap in the hawthorn hedge and take a shortcut across the field to where she was standing.
‘You’re in good time, Scottie,’ she said, smiling as the boy, the younger of the two apprentices, came up to her, out of breath from hurrying. Although he was still shy and awkward with most people, he did manage to look at her and nod a greeting.
‘Boss said there’s horses due. He wants a word,’ he explained abruptly, his eyes darting to and fro, resting only briefly on her face.
Fourteen years old and lightly built, Scottie now had only a slight trace of the Galloway accent he’d had when he began his seven years’ apprenticeship with John Hamilton of Ardrea. His uncle, a farmer from near Dumfries, brought him to the adjoining townland of Greenan to live with his grandmother for this purpose.
‘Can ah see to the stirabout fer ye?’ he asked abruptly.
For all his awkwardness, he had always offered to help her. If he caught sight of her going to the well while he was in the forge, he’d ask John, or the journeyman, Sam Keenan, if he could go out and give her a hand with the heavy buckets. He was never refused, for both men knew he worshipped her, giving her the love he’d have given to his own mother if she hadn’t died giving birth to his younger brother.
‘Thank you, Scottie. I think I hear the kettle singing, so I can make the tea now and you can have the crook for the pot,’ she replied, as they went back into the kitchen where the sun was now just high enough to glint through the south-facing window.
She was spooning the stirabout into three bowls when John clumped down the stairs looking very clean, a fragment of shaving soap below one ear. He was wearing his ‘going to market’ suit, older and much worn, unlike the new suit he’d bought for the small gathering in Grange Church almost two years earlier.