The Blacksmith's Wife

by Anne Doughty

  What comfort there was in the familiar things of every day. How many pots of tea shared with John, with John and Scottie and Ben, with friends and neighbours and welcome customers at the forge. She thought of Paddy McCann and the trap he had repaired, a critical part of her everyday life now. And on Thursday evening, Jonathan had sat by the fire with her for the first time. And now they had what one might call an understanding. If circumstances changed to leave him free then she knew she would marry him.

  What a different life she might have if that were to happen. No fires to make, no stone floors to sweep, no bread to bake, or food to cook. Jonathan was a wealthy man though he chose to live simply enough and to use much of his time – and no doubt part of his fortune – to help those in the greatest need. But would the change in her life matter if she loved the man?

  Marrying John had also changed her life, but they had been so happy together. What was new to her, he’d helped her with: explaining patiently what she didn’t understand, whether it was the rules relating to apprenticeship that meant she had to provide food for Ben and Scottie, or the secret of baking bread on a griddle.

  She had no doubt in her mind that if you loved someone then the tasks could be shared and the problems resolved. Whether it was a country blacksmith or a wealthy manufacturer made little difference when in both cases there was love and trust.

  She sat for a long time, quite glad to be alone, knowing that Mary-Anne was visiting Billy’s elderly parents and that she would see her tomorrow. Now, she could no longer feel lonely. Sad, yes. Missing John’s presence in the life they had made together, yes, but lonely? No.

  To have even one person with whom one could be oneself was richness, to have more than one was true wealth, and she had many friends. And now there was Jonathan. Whatever hardship the future might bring, and there was indeed much to fear as the depth of poverty increased, she nevertheless saw that she was steady in herself and was valued by those with whom she worked. She still had the capacity to laugh. She was truly blessed and must give thanks.

  She stood up and went to the open door. The evening was windless, the light lingering though the nights had already begun to drop down. Jonathan would have a calm crossing. They had never spoken about his journeyings, whether he was a good sailor or not. She knew he had often slept in barns or lofts, when he found himself in places with no inn and no one who could offer him a bed. He accepted what he was offered and was thankful. That was something else that they shared.

  Suddenly weary, she decided it was time she went to bed. It had been a long day. She remembered her morning at work and Annie and her good news. What an age away it seemed, and how little she ever expected to have good news of her own.

  At this moment, she could not think of anyone, other than Mary-Anne, with whom she could share it. Perhaps not even with Mary-Anne. She would have to consider carefully in case it might cause her pain, though she knew that Mary-Anne, in her usual generosity of spirit, would never grudge her any possible happiness. She would have to think about that tomorrow.

  There was no surprise in Scottie’s note when he’d asked for a few days’ leave to help with his grandmother’s burial. Rereading it on a quiet, rather misty Sunday morning, she saw that he planned to come and see her when he had the chance, but he couldn’t come to work, at least not till Uncle Edward arrived to take charge of what had to be done.

  Last night, she’d been so relieved when she read that his uncle was coming over from Scotland. The thought of being part of another wake and funeral, so soon after her days helping Mary-Anne, lay heavy upon her, but as she reread his letter she was reminded of the different and more serious problem she’d set aside when she knew she was too weary to make decisions.

  Scottie explained that his uncle would have to pay for the old lady’s funeral for no provision had been made during his granny’s lifetime. Not entirely surprisingly, as a result, Uncle Edward had told him he would have to come back to live with him in Ayr and find a job nearby. Scottie couldn’t stay in Ireland with rent to pay for the cottage and his uncle said he was no longer able to help with feeding and clothing him for the rest of his apprenticeship. Perhaps if he saved his money, he could complete his apprenticeship at some future date at a nearby forge in Scotland.

  ‘Poor Scottie,’ she said aloud, thinking of how Scottie had changed and developed in the last year. The last thing he’d want to do was go back to Scotland, leaving his friends to go and live with his uncle whom he hardly knew and to set aside his apprenticeship, just when he’d found his feet and his confidence and the strong support of Sam Keenan.

  He had worked so hard all the time he’d been in the forge. Now that he’d grown several inches and filled out a little he looked much more like a blacksmith, but there was still over a year before he could be classed as a journeyman. What a disaster to have to give up all that he’d achieved.

  She laughed to herself as she laid out her jotter and writing things, even before she’d made her breakfast. So many things in life could be resolved by money. It was true that money by itself would seldom create happiness, but without it the opportunity to be happy was very limited. What Scottie needed was money and, after she’d had some breakfast, she’d set herself the task of finding it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sarah was grateful for the reassurance her calculations provided. Even her half of the very modest commission she and Mary-Anne took from the women who provided the varied garments they sold had accumulated in the year to a useful sum. That was good news, but even better was something she had completely forgotten about. She had to go and check with her bank book to convince herself she was not now misremembering.

  No, she wasn’t imagining it. She was quite sure she had paid the half-yearly rent, but while Sir George had taken what she owed for her current six months’ rent, he had vigorously refused the sum owing since the day she had first come to Castle Dillon. She’d asked him then if she could delay the payment in order to try and get an income to support herself and help her keep the forge going. She had no idea what was going to happen on that day.

  So, she had a year’s tiny weekly earnings made up of the various payments for her own sewing and the six months’ rent she had expected to pay. She added it up and smiled. She could now give Scottie a salary for the work he did distributing fabric from her brother’s factory, collecting finished goods from the women who sewed and taking them their earnings as soon as she’d them made up. Now, he could both look after himself and pay his rent. She’d have more than enough left to give Sam a small pay rise to make up for some extra hours he might need to work during Scottie’s occasional absences to collect or deliver. She would also be able to ensure now that Scottie had some decent clothes for when he was not at work in the forge.

  Suddenly delighted with how unexpectedly easy it had been to find what she needed, she took out her writing materials and began her promised letter to Jonathan. She thought of him now, after his night crossing, travelling by coach from Heysham to the outskirts of York, a long journey she knew even without taking out her battered atlas to work it out in miles.

  Somewhere on the outskirts of that city he would finally arrive home, welcomed by an elderly housekeeper and her son, who worked in the gardens. He so seldom spoke of his home that she wondered if White Hill House was a family residence he’d been obliged to take on when his elderly parents died, or whether perhaps it had sad memories of some kind. Not something to ask him in a letter, or at least not now. But since yesterday, it looked as if there would be time and opportunity for sharing much more than they’d already shared.

  She was absorbed in her letter when she heard a knock at the door. To her amazement, it being Sunday, it was Sam Keenan, looking distressed.

  ‘Sam, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Ach it’s the wee lassie. She’s taken some sort of a fever. M’wife’s trying to keep her cool but we don’ know what to do. I don’t like to ask, but wou’d you lend me the trap or let me ride Daisy? By the ti
me I would walk to the doctor in Armagh sure we might ’ave lost her, she’s that hot you cou’d feel the heat of her wi’out even touchin’ her.’

  ‘Take whichever you want, Sam – I’ll go down to Mary-Anne. She knows more about children than I do and she and I can go over to Selina in her trap. At least we could keep her company till you get back with the doctor. Mary-Anne might know what to do.’

  She picked up her purse from the dresser as she walked to the door with him.

  ‘Sam, it might help if you had the doctor’s fee to hand to him when you see him, it being a Sunday. Take this,’ she said, giving him more than he would need. ‘You may need medicine as well. Now, not a word,’ she added, as he looked for a moment as if he might protest. ‘On second thoughts, take Daisy and the trap in case Halligan’s horse is out at grass and will have to be caught and saddled. You can drop me at the foot of the hill on your way.’

  While Sam was harnessing Daisy, Sarah collected some milk and fresh bread and looked around the kitchen to see if there was anything else that might help. Selina’s children would be properly fed but might not have had any supper. She remembered a half fruit cake in the tin and wrapped it up for the other children. She knew little about these childhood fevers but Mary-Anne was a different story. She was often called upon by people with sudden illness.

  There was nothing on the roads and lanes around Greenan and Mary-Anne’s young mare was clearly glad to be out, so they’d spoke of nothing except the youngest child on the short, speedy journey. Sarah reckoned the child must be about fifteen months old and remembered that Sam had once told her she was bonny.

  She was indeed. They arrived to find her with her eyes closed, long eyelashes dark against dimpled cheeks, soft damp curls sticking to her head. The little face itself was beaded with sweat which Selina, torn with anxiety, kept wiping with her handkerchief, holding her as if she would never let her go. The older children stared wide-eyed at their mother from under the kitchen table, where the eldest girl, only seven years old herself, had told them to sit so they wouldn’t be in anyone’s way when Da came back with the doctor.

  Sarah, her eyes filling with tears, looked at Mary-Anne and prayed there was something she could do. She looked around the clean and tidy kitchen, hopeful she could find something she herself could do. Were there any words of comfort to offer to Selina and what about the little girls and their older brother?

  ‘Perhaps, Selina, you’ve an old sheet I could use,’ Mary-Anne said, after one brief look at the child. ‘We need to wet it and wrap it roun’ the wee un, then maybe my friend, Sarah here, could make us a cup of tea. Sarah has brought us some cake. Do any of you like cake?’ she asked, raising her voice and looking down at the children under the table, as she took the child from Selina while she went and got a sheet.

  The three pairs of eyes were taking in every detail of what was going on, as Sarah fetched the water bucket from under the dresser and helped Mary-Anne to soak the sheet and then wring it out. Selina wrapped it round the little one and said she could still feel the heat of the child through it.

  All Sarah could think of was Sam coming back with the doctor, but she let Mary-Anne tell her what to do. She cut cake and talked to the children, who now seemed more interested in the cake than in the baby being wrapped in a wet sheet. Selina was silent but dry-eyed, her face pale with dark circles.

  Time passed slowly. They changed the sheet three times whenever Selina felt it dry below her hands and then they heard the sound they’d all been waiting for: Daisy and the trap.

  Selina stood up, looked through the window and handed the baby to Mary-Anne.

  ‘And no doctor in sight,’ she said to them both, as she went out to tell her husband that their youngest and bonniest was still with them, but still had her eyes tightly closed.

  Some hours later, by which time the children had been put to bed and Sarah was aching from sitting patiently on a hard kitchen chair, Mary-Anne and Selina unwrapped the sheet once again. Sarah got up and she and Mary-Anne soaked it once more, squeezed it out ready to rewrap the inert child, when suddenly the little one began to cry and wave her arms around.

  ‘That’s good news, Selina,’ Mary-Anne said, feeling the small body all over. ‘One more damp sheet and we’ll see how she is.’

  Half an hour later, the sheet still moist, the little one opened her eyes, looked around her, put her thumb in her mouth and promptly fell asleep.

  ‘Put her in her cradle now, Selina, and keep her warm, and don’t worry if she shivers. The fever has broke and she’ll likely mend but she might sleep the clock round. There’s no more any of us can do the night. It’s up to the man above,’ she added, as Sam and Selina crossed both themselves and the child.

  It was not until they were back in Drumilly that Sarah was able to ask Mary-Anne what had happened to little Kathleen. Did she know what it was? Had she met it before when helping mothers before or after giving birth?

  ‘Ach, dear aye. It’s common enough but there’s no big medical name for it bar “fever”. It comes on sudden-like. Most doctors say there’s nothing they can do about it. They do all agree for certain there’s nothing to be done for the first night. If the child gets through that, there’s a chance for them, but a lot of them don’t. That’s why yer man in Armagh said he’d not come till tomorrow, tho’ no doubt he’d take his consultation fee handy enough if he’d come and he’d had a death certificate to sign.’

  She paused and looked at Sarah who was listening attentively. ‘It just depends on the chile,’ she began, ‘if they’re poorly, or skinny, or jus’ not well fed, then they’ve no great chance, but that wee one was as bonny as Sam told you. He’s a good father is Sam and Selina thinks the world of them all. She tole me she was an only chile herself, and neglected forby. So she’s never goin’ to do that, is she?’

  Sarah was so tired the next morning that she wondered how she would ever get through the day. Scottie didn’t appear for breakfast but she wrote him a short note to reassure him that he didn’t have to go back to Scotland unless he wanted to. She left his bowl of porridge over a saucepan of hot water in case he was just late. Though possibly he simply couldn’t come if his uncle had arrived.

  Sam Keenan arrived as she was putting her note on the table under a fresh pot of jam so Scottie would be sure to notice it. Sam was wreathed in smiles.

  ‘Sure the wee one ate her breakfast with the rest of them but she fell asleep agin the minit Selina put the spoon down. Wou’d you mine if I walked down to Mrs Halligan to tell her the good news? Ah don’t know what we’d have done lass night wi’ out ye’s.’

  ‘Sure, Sam, she’ll be so glad to see you. Go ahead. I won’t be ready to go to work for a while. I need to bake bread for tonight in case Scottie comes for his meal and I have to change my clothes,’ she said, smiling, as she brushed ash off her skirt – the one she wore in the mornings till the fire was restored, the hearth swept and the coal bucket filled.

  ‘Aye,’ he replied, with a great beaming smile, his joy spilling out all around her. ‘There’s the quare difference in yer work clothes an’ mine, but yours wouldn’t do well in the forge with the soot and dust, an’ mine wou’den do well with the nice desk an’ all those clean pieces of paper!’

  Sarah was grateful there was still no word of the Molyneux family’s return to Castle Dillon. She could manage her work perfectly well, but she was grateful not to have to answer questions or give an account of a document over which she’d had to puzzle.

  She’d long ago got used to the way in which the gentry filled up the pages with courteous expressions of gratitude or good wishes for Sir George’s health, but she still found it just as tedious to have to extract the actual content of the letter, as it was to decipher the swirls and curlicues of the writer’s man of business.

  She often thought of Jonathan’s clear copperplate and his direct way of speaking. Perhaps it was no surprise that there were now many successful Quaker businesses with a reputation for honest tradi
ng and an approach to their success that meant many less favoured individuals benefitted from their efforts.

  It was only on Wednesday, after a second good night’s sleep that Sarah begin to feel more like herself. She managed a smile and friendly words for both Annie and James when they appeared separately with her morning tea and the day’s letters, and then she went and shared the lunch break with Bridget Carey, as she often did, instead of asking for her meal on a tray which she’d been so glad to do on the previous days.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Sarah. There’s not many I can talk to here, as you well know,’ Bridget said, welcoming her into the housekeeper’s room, the most spotless room Sarah had ever encountered. It was full of old, lovingly polished pieces of furniture, each piece with a story of who had given it to her, or how she’d rescued it from an attic, or even a bonfire.

  ‘Have you seen yesterday’s local paper yet?’ Bridget asked, pointing to the neatly folded Armagh Guardian in the magazine rack beside her own chair.

  ‘I glanced at it last night,’ Sarah replied, laughing, ‘but to tell you the truth I was so tired I had only looked at the front page when I decided I needed to get to bed.’

  ‘Aye, and there wouldn’t have been anything on that page to encourage sweet dreams,’ Bridget commented sharply. ‘Did you read the letters from Limerick and Kerry and the post-mortems on the two poor men that died from starvation? If the government don’t do something to help, they’ll soon be dying by the thousand. Sure there’s no food left. The people have no potatoes and no money for meal,’ she went on bitterly. ‘We don’t know how well off we are up here. I was born in Clare and things there are going from bad to worse. There are very few resident landlords to organise any help, not like our Sir George, just a few priests speaking out. But what money do priests have to give away?’