by Laura Parker
Miss Burke nodded finally. “You will do very well if you study hard and work hard and pay the strictest attention to the other ladies who have had the great good fortune to be under my care a number of years. Your posture needs improvement. Your speech is lacking in the vowels and your hands, well, the less said the better. Miss Crockett is quite brilliant with cremes and softening agents. We shall see, yes, Miss Gilliam, I believe we shall see rapid improvement.”
Less interestedly, she turned to the second girl. There was little to be seen beneath the brim of her bonnet: a round chin, short nose liberally sprinkled with freckles, downcast eyes. “State your name, child.”
“Aisleen Meghan Deirdre Fitzgerald’s me name,” Aisleen answered proudly as she lifted her eyes from the carpet.
“Gracious!” Miss Burke exclaimed at the young girl’s thick accent. “What sort of heathen gibberish does the child speak?”
“’Tis English, I’m thinking,” Aisleen answered, not realizing that she had been spoken of, not to. Miss Burke’s usually serene features puckered, betraying the age lines about her mouth and eyes. “Do not speak until spoken to!”
“But you did speak to me,” Aisleen replied, puzzlement clouding her eyes.
“Impertinent chit!” Miss Burke said, mentally attaching the designation “sly fox” to the girl’s character. “Remove your bonnet.”
Aisleen reached up to do just that, her eyes curiously on the tall woman in black who stood staring down her long nose at her. When she slipped her bonnet off she saw the woman’s mouth form a perfect “O” of surprise and her brows—“Why, miss, you’ve been drawing brows on your forehead with a pencil!”
Miss Burke’s mouth snapped shut and then opened on a torrent of words. “Lower your eyes at once, my girl! At once.”
Aisleen did as she was directed, smothering her curiosity behind lowered lids.
Miss Burke regarded the bent head in wonder. Was there ever another with hair so bright? The tresses positively glowed, even in the gloom of the study. Like a magnet, her hair drew every beam of light and wound it into a fiery halo. Was it possible that it was natural? And the girl’s eyes—there was clear reasoning in those golden depths. Intelligence and self-possession in a servant child, a companion to one of her paying pupils? It would never do. “I see that the Irish have sent us a most difficult task,” she began with a pointed look at one of her assistant teachers who stood near the doorway. “Only the sternest measures will do for her. ’Tis plain enough that a blind man might see it.”
She grabbed a handful of Aisleen’s hair, making her yelp in pain. “Miss Gregory, you must see to it that the false vanity of our sly fox is scrubbed out and the method of the coloring discovered. This is a respectable establishment. We will not tolerate Covent Garden tricks here.”
Ella Gilliam spoke up, her blue eyes as wide as plates. “Aisleen’s hair is real, Miss Burke. I’ve seen her wash it myself. ’Tis good and truly red.”
Miss Burke turned an appraising gaze on the elder girl. So that was the way of it. The spaniel was fond of the fox, was she? That would never do. One fox among the flock, an Irish fox at that, and discipline would be destroyed.
“Miss Gregory, take this Aisl—No, no. Even the name is heathen.” She caught Aisleen by the chin, her nails digging painfully into the girl’s cheeks. “You shall answer to the name Alice from this moment, though I must allow that even that is too fancy a name for one of your station. Miss Gregory, into the washroom with her, and let us pray that a scrubbing does the trick.”
Aisleen met the woman’s pale stare with dry-mouthed fear. “You’ll nae hurt me?”
“I will do what is necessary to remove the taint of Ireland from you, child, whatever methods are demanded. Take the pair of them out, Miss Gregory.”
When the door had closed, leaving her alone, Miss Burke took two turns about her office before she came to a stop. Ella Gilliam would fit in quite well. As for the Irish papist who had been dropped into her midst, well, only time would tell if the girl could be maintained beneath this roof without the sacrifice of discipline.
“Red hair!” she exclaimed in wonder of it. “Horrid! Indecent!” And quite wantonly beautiful.
*
Aisleen lifted another bowl of peeled potatoes onto the table beside Mrs. Greesham and then mopped her damp brow with the back of a hand.
“Feeling poorly, are ye?” the plump woman questioned.
Aisleen shook her head. In the six months since her arrival at Miss Burke’s Academy, she had learned not to complain to anyone about anything. Kitchen duty was much preferable to scrubbing cisterns or hauling water from the well. Punishments varied according to the transgressions, and at least the kitchen was warm.
The bell over the door jumped agitatedly.
“That’ll be for ye,” Mrs. Greesham said. “Run along. Ye can finish them taters after yer lessons.”
Aisleen untied her apron and carefully folded it twice before laying it aside. When she had wiped her hands and patted her face dry, she left the kitchen by way of the servants’ stairs.
“A shame what they set that girl to do,” Mrs. Greesham grumbled when Aisleen was gone. Miss Burke did not like the child and that being so, her life was less enviable than that of many of the domestics who served the academy.
On the stairs, Aisleen paused to catch her breath. Every indrawn breath made her throat ache. Every step made her feel light-headed. Yet she dared not complain.
She loosened the strings of the bonnet she was made to wear from the moment she rose until she retired at night and pulled it off. Her hair clung in damp curls to her brow. Hurry up, she told herself, but she did not move. Instead, she pressed her cheek to the cool stone of the stairwell and closed her eyes. She did not know why the tears began. She had not shed them in the six months since she waved good-by to her mother in Dublin. Six long, lonely months that seemed like six years, and not a word from home. Had her mother begun to believe her father, that she was the reason for their troubles and that she was wicked and accursed?
She had tried, truly tried to be good, to make Miss Burke like her, and the other girls as well But none of them did.
She did not dress right, or speak right, or even think right. Every word out of her mouth brought new instances of misconduct. If she did not hurry, she would be late, and tardiness was a great sin in Miss Burke’s book.
But her feet would not move, and the effort only made the tears flow faster. She was so tired, so very, very tired. If only she could lie down a moment on the cool stone steps and rest.
*
“You found her where?”
“In the servants’ stairwell, Miss Burke, unconscious. She’s feverish. I fear she’s seriously ill.”
Miss Burke looked down on the pale girl with two bright spots of fever burning on her cheeks. Each rapid breath filled the small room with its rasping sound. Doctors were expensive, and the Gilliams had not given specific directions about their willingness to pay for extras regarding Alice Fitzgerald. “I will send word to Dublin about the girl’s condition. The Gilliams will make the decision about what’s to be done.”
Miss Gregory looked at her employer across the width of the sick girl’s narrow bed. “If it’s contagious or if the child should die before word can be returned…”
She let the sentence hang, but Miss Burke did not need it finished. “Very well, send for the doctor. But I warn you, if she’s brought pestilence into my school I shall have her removed immediately!”
*
Aisleen nearly gave up the effort to breathe, but suffocating was worse. Once she had nearly drowned in the Bandon, and this was very much like it. Her lungs seemed filled with water, leaving no room for air.
“Mama?”
A cool hand found its way between hers, and she gripped it tight. “Mama?”
“No, darling. It’s Miss Gregory,” a soothing voice said close to her ear. “You must sleep, and you will feel better in the morning.”
A
isleen gripped the hand tighter. “I want…to go…home. Please. Please!”
The room dimmed, leaving her in a nether world of painful breathing and racking chills. Why did her mother not come for her? Why did no one come to take her home?
Is that ye, colleen?
Trembling, Aisleen whispered, “Bouchal?”
Aye, came the reply that was no more than the whisper of the wind.
Her eyes opened wide. “You came back!”
“Who, dear? Who came back?” Miss Gregory questioned.
Never gone, lass, and didn’t ye know it!
Aisleen’s lids dropped over her feverish eyes as a smile curved her mouth. “Stay with me.”
I cannae, the voice murmured in regret. I must go. But ye must live, colleen. There’re things ye’ve yet to do. Ye bear the mark of great promise. Never forget me!
“No,” Aisleen murmured. She was not alone after all. She had her memories.
*
“She’s fallen asleep,” Miss Gregory reported as Miss Burke entered the sickroom. “I think she’s breathing easier.”
“Ella’s fallen ill. That makes seven,” Miss. Burke said. “I’ve learned that the outbreak of scarlet fever is worse in London. Amy Lester is believed to have brought the disease back from her holiday.” She nodded at Aisleen. “I do not wish to see any of God’s creatures suffer, but I believe the doctor’s remedy was a blessing in disguise.”
Miss Gregory glanced at Aisleen’s scarf-wrapped head and wondered again at her employer’s enmity for the child.
*
Aisleen lay back against her pillow in something akin to wonder. Her tiny room, once the sleeping quarters of four girls, was completely her own. The aching throat and itching had subsided a few days earlier, but she had not been allowed to set even a toe out of bed.
Impatient with waiting for her breakfast tray, Aisleen threw back the covers. No one was here to tell her that she could not get dressed; therefore, it must be permissible.
On rubbery legs, she crossed the floor to her cupboard and pulled out her black wool gown. She pulled her nightgown over her head and replaced it with a clean shift and drawers. When she had completed those tasks, she was suddenly bereft of strength, and her legs began to tremble. She caught herself by grabbing the cupboard door, and it swung wider under the pressure of her weight, revealing the mirror that hung inside.
For an instant Aisleen stood staring in mute disbelief at her reflection, and then she was tumbling, tumbling, falling into a deep abyss.
When her rap on the door was not answered, Mrs. Greesham pushed the door open with her elbow and backed in, carrying Aisleen’s tray. The sight that greeted her when she turned around made her drop her tray with a cry.
Aisleen lay sprawled on the floor in a shift. All the girl’s lovely red hair had been shaved off, and her fragile skull was as smooth and pink as a newborn babe’s.
* * *
Aisleen shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Three months had passed since her illness, but she was still very shy before others. Surreptitiously she touched the short curl that had escaped from beneath her cap. She had a head of ringlets now, as bright and curly as before. The fact annoyed Miss Burke, but the woman had not mentioned it except to remind Aisleen to keep her head covered.
“Very good, Jane. You may step down. Next!” Miss Burke called crisply.
Aisleen stepped forward to stand before the class, her chin lifted in defiance of the fear she felt at being singled out before the other girls.
Miss Burke looked up in surprise. “Alice Fitzgerald! I did not expect you to stand forth for the year-end examination. Your illness required you to lose many hours of class work.”
Aisleen took a deep breath. “I have studied for it, ma’am.”
“Have you, indeed? We shall see. Let us begin.”
Half an hour later Miss Burke looked up from her tally of Aisleen’s answers, and a begrudging respect lit her eyes. “You have qualified to advance to next year’s class, Alice. I am quite amazed.”
Aisleen smiled shyly, not certain that any reply was required.
Miss Burke turned to the class of girls. “It is my hope that you will report this girl’s proficiency to your parents as an example of the remarkable work that may take place under my tutelage. Alice came to us a veritable heathen with a detestable brogue. And while we have not yet broken the back of that deplorable habit, we at Burke Academy have been able to instill a modicum of other skills in language, mathematics, and the graces in her. It is my hope that further studies shall advance her to the degree that any of her acquaintances will not blush to be seen in her company.” With this dubious compliment ringing in her ears, Aisleen descended to her seat. She had learned something valuable in the last minutes. The way to win Miss Burke’s approval was to excel in her studies. If she worked very hard at her lessons, perhaps there would be fewer potatoes that needed peeling in future.
Spring 1847
“As you have heard, your father is dead these past two weeks,” Miss Burke continued in an even tone. “The Gilliams were unable to reach us in time for you to be sent home for the funeral, and it is my belief that it is just as well. Your studies would have been interrupted, and you would not have been present to pass your term exams. Do you have any questions?”
Aisleen held the scrawled note from her mother so tightly that it was crimped. “How did he die?”
“Run down by a dray cart in Dublin,” Miss Burke answered, her tone implying what she thought of so ignoble a death. “It is believed that he died instantly. Tragic, of course, but preferable to a lingering death.”
Aisleen nodded slowly. Preferable. He was drunk. She did not need anyone to tell her that. The Gilliams had been quite frank in their letters to their daughter, and through Ella she knew that her father had moved to Dublin as soon as Liscarrol had been sold to the Gilliams. Her mother had lost yet another child and been sent to recuperate with relatives in Waterford.
“May I be excused, ma’am?”
Miss Burke nodded “You may have the rest of the day to yourself. But no dawdling come the morrow. The Gilliams have indicated to me that they are well enough pleased with your progress to continue to sponsor you for another term. They feel it is their Christian duty, particularly since your mother is in poor health, to provide for you until you are of an age to earn your own keep. Count yourself lucky, Alice. You might be alone in this world.”
Aisleen stared out of the window of her room. It was past the dinner hour, and she did not doubt that the girls had eaten without her. She did not care.
After three years of waiting and praying and despairing, her mother had written at last, to say that her father was dead.
Dead. Done to death under the wheels of a Dublin dray horse.
Aisleen bit her lip. Why now, after three years of silence, had her mother written to her? Where were all the answers to the dozens of letters she had written over the years?
She opened her hand and allowed the letter to fall to the floor. She had read it over and over until every word of it was imprinted in her brain, and yet it explained very little.
Me dear, darling daughter,
I write ye not for the first time, but I fear that these may be the first words ye’ve received.
’Tis sad I am to say this letter brings terrible news. Yer da, God bless him, is dead. Run over on a Dublin street, he was. The constable says he was killed instantly, the iron shoes of the horses being the murderous things they are.
’Tis me hope that ye’ll be forgiving him his hard heart these last years. And that ye’ll be comin’ home where ye belong.
Yer loving mother
“No,” Aisleen whispered defiantly. She would not go home. Home? She had no home. Her father had sold Liscarrol out from under her in the same stroke with which he had exiled her. She was an orphan in fact now, but in her own mind she had become one three long years ago when her father had betrayed all her hopes for happiness, permanence, and security.
Even her mother was a stranger. The letter had not said so, but it must be true that her father had blocked the letters her mother had written. Another betrayal, another instance of his hatred of her.
“I am alone, no more or less than I have ever been,” she murmured resolutely to the night. For three years she had managed alone, and survived. Only in being strong, in relying on herself alone, had she existed. Nothing had changed with the news she’d been given. If the letter had never reached her, she would not have cared. It brought no sadness or gladness. She felt nothing on learning of her father’s death.
So why did her heart hurt? Whence came this aching rift that threatened her world? She did not want this pain, this sorrow for what might have been if only she were loved. It hurt too much to care, to care when her caring was not returned. She felt torn by tongs, buffeted by desires that could not be met, starved for that which could never be hers.
She bent and picked up the letter and carried it to her chiffonier, where she placed it in a drawer. In the morning, when she had recovered, she would write to her mother, the stranger who had borne her, and be the dutiful daughter. Perhaps, in time, they would become friendly once more. But she would not seek her mother’s love. That way led to pain, this shattering, splintering ache that made her catch her breath sharply.
No! She felt nothing. Nothing!
She tasted blood and realized that she had bitten through her inner lip. The metallic taste of blood was quickly joined by the saltiness of tears as they streamed down her cheeks and into her mouth.
“Da! Da! Why could you not love me?”
September 1850
“A post?” Aisleen repeated. “Here at your school, Miss Burke?”
Miss Burke nodded. “I know that it comes as a shock to you, Miss Fitzgerald, but shocks are not always unpleasant events. You have shown yourself over these last six years to be of sound, if forward, temperament and a reliable, if somewhat passionate, nature. Were you to return to Ireland, I daresay you would find yourself educated quite beyond those of your past acquaintance. You would not find a post worthy of you. As for marriage, well, you must know how little hope there is of obtaining a suitable match, things being what they are. In short, you have few alternatives. Ireland is prostrate from the effects of famine and mismanagement.”