Wild Geese

by Caroline Pignat

  But Rose spoke the bitter truth of it one night. “No one wants you,” she said, trying to get a rise out of me. “You’re bailed out of hell but barred from heaven. There’s no place for you now, Kit. Who wants a Saint Raphael’s girl? Be it the stink of sin or the scent of saintliness, you’ll get neither love nor lust. You’re a nothing. They should have just left you where they found you in the Clarence Street brothel.”

  I didn’t correct her, for I realized then her harsh words were for herself. She doesn’t scare me anymore. Like Ned Nowlan’s dog back home, she’s all bark, especially when someone’s on her turf. Rose is right about one thing, though: folk avoid us. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt the stares and heard the whispers. Maybe they hate us because we’re Catholic or Irish; maybe they judge us by what sins they think we’ve done or plan on doing; but I say they fear our misfortunes. ’Tis as though our shame were contagious.

  The woman finally blesses herself and takes one last pleading look at Our Lady before leaving. Her candle flickers in its little glass, no different from the other dozens of prayers sputtering around it. The heat of them wafts into my face as I lean over to remove the gutted stubs from darkened cups. Martha and I will use them to make new candles. There must be about a hundred prayers burning before Our Lady. Yet, for all the light and warmth, my eyes are always drawn to those cups in shadow. The ones whose fire is long gone, the ones that hold nothing but cold, hardened leftovers.

  It makes me wonder if anyone heard their melting pleas.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  With chores done, I sneak up to my special place on the bluff across from the cathedral. I love it up here, above the laundresses’ riverbank, above the town’s prejudice and the church’s check. Being up here helps me clear my head. When the dirt and dust of every day clogs my hope, I come up here and take hold of my future. A ratty wee sack half-full of coins.

  Today’s wages fall in, one lucky penny at a time, and my hope grows with each clink. But the good feeling doesn’t last long. The bag is still half-empty. At this rate, Annie will be married by the time I’ve saved enough for us to start our home together.

  I bury the sack back under a flat stone at the hilltop’s edge and, settling myself on the great boulder in the middle of the bluff, stare out at the Ottawa River. ’Tis no ocean, but even so, there’s something calming about watching it leave this town and head downstream, for I know it travels back to where Mam lies in Grosse Isle, and further still, to Da in Ireland. I wish they were here.

  Mam, Da, how can I save Annie? I think, burdened by the lightness of the bag. But I know their answers. They run in my veins.

  Pray about it, Mam’s words echo in my mind.

  You never till a field by turning it over in your mind, Da’s advice follows. Hard work’s the way of it.

  And where did that get them? another voice asks.

  Only this time, I have no answer.

  I face upriver, let the hot breeze take the curls from my sweaty brow. But it doesn’t help. ’Tis as though the devil himself is breathing down upon me. Even the boulder beneath me burns like hell’s hearthstone. Lord, this July weather is dreadful. Day and night the heat smothers me, and Martha says that August gets even hotter.

  My gaze wanders up the river past the falls to the bushy horizon. Jack is up there. Somewhere. Is he finding the adventure he sought? I’ve had time to think about him, and Mick is right. There’s no changing Jack’s mind. He’s found his adventures. He’s living the life he always wanted, even if it kills him. But Mick, poor Mick, he only went because I asked.

  How long before he gives up on Jack and comes to Bytown?

  Even before the question fully forms, I know the answer.

  He isn’t coming.

  ’Twould kill Mick to disappoint me. I know that. If he can’t bring me Jack, he won’t come to me. His promise to me, his love for me, would be the very thing that would keep him from me.

  The pain of it catches my breath, like a stitch in my side, and my pulse pounds in my throat as though I’ve run a mile to this place of truth. My heart beats against my ribs in anger. It knows, has known all this time. If only my foolish head had listened back home, on the New Ross quay, aboard the Erin, or on the shores of Grosse Isle. I suppose I am every bit as stubborn as Jack in my own way. But now, faced with the thought of never seeing Mick again, ’tis finally as clear to me as the cloudless sky.

  I’ve never told Mick how I really feel. Perhaps, I’ve never really known it myself. How cruel to realize it now. Now that it might be too late.

  “Kit!”

  I turn to seeing Billy come up the dirt path. “Billy! I hardly recognized you in your new clothes. Look at the state of you, boyo! And a tweed cap, to boot!”

  He turns with a flourish, before taking off his cap and bowing to me. “William Farrell, at your service, miss.” He smiles that devilish grin of his.

  It’s great to see him again. I’d seen him in town a few times. Waved in passing but, lugging Mother Bruyere’s buckets and baskets, I’d been too busy to stop and chat.

  “Where did you get the clothes, Billy? For you didn’t nick those from any market stall,” I say.

  He blushes, remembering that day I got caught. The day he kept on running. But I don’t blame him. I would have done the same and I’ve told him so.

  “You are looking at the assistant to the assistant of the clerk for one Mr. Sparks.” He grins ear to ear.

  “Get away!” I shove him in disbelief.

  “God’s truth, Kit! Oh, you should have seen me. Marched right up to him, so I did, and asked him for an appointment for Mr. William Farrell, Lumber Baron … and he agrees. Says to tell Mr. Farrell to meet him the next afternoon at the British Hotel.”

  “No,” I say. “What happened?”

  Billy grins. “So, he’s there having tea at the British Hotel, sitting at a table with nice white linens and all—”

  “Waiting for Mr. Farrell,” I add.

  He nods. “And my heart is pounding in my chest, so it is. I’ve waited for weeks to meet this man and now’s my chance. Now he’s waiting to meet me. But then I realize, ’tisn’t me he’s waiting on, really. He’s expecting a man, right? And then I know exactly what I’m going to say.” Billy’s face is aglow as he’s telling the story. I can only imagine how he must have looked, walking into that hotel that day in his ragged clothes.

  “I marched right up to his table. ‘Mr. Sparks, sir,’ says I, ‘I am a huge admirer of yours. I know all about you, how you came to Upper Canada and made a name for yourself. You are my inspiration.’ So he pauses, right? His teacup in midair. And the waiter comes over and offers to have me removed, but Mr. Sparks waves him away. He reaches into his pocket and gives me this.” Billy pulls out a shiny silver coin. “And he thanks me for the kind words but tells me he has a very important meeting and that I’ll have to leave.”

  “So what did you say?” I ask, for I can see it all unfolding in my mind’s eye.

  “I asked him if he was waiting for Mr. William Farrell, Lumber Baron. And he nods. And so I tell him—get this, Kit—I say, ‘Well Mr. Sparks, sir, I am Mr. William Farrell, Lumber Baron … at least, I will be … with your help … in about fifteen years or so, but for now, you can call me Billy.’”

  “No!” I burst out laughing. “So what did he do?”

  “He did what you are doing,” Billy says. “He starts laughing and doesn’t stop until there are tears in his eyes. I almost want to run away, but he rests his hand on my shoulder as he catches his breath. ‘Billy-lad,’ says he, ‘that is the best proposal I’ve heard all day. If you have half as much spunk when you’re twice your size, I’ve no doubt you’ll succeed in any endeavor. With or without my help.’ He waves over the waiter and I think he’s going to have me thrown out, but instead he says, ‘John, Mr. Farrell and I will have the steak pies for lunch.’ Next thing I know, there am I having steak pies with Nicholas Sparks in the British Hotel!”

  I shake my head in disbelief.
“Billy, you amaze me, do you know that?”

  “He hired me then and there to run errands for his business.”

  He flips the shiny coin in his hand.

  “That must be your lucky coin,” I say. For all he’s spent, he still has it.

  “No,” he says, putting it back in his pocket. “I’m saving this for the day I’m a baron in a fancy hotel and some young lad asks for my help.”

  I’ve no doubt in my mind that day will come.

  “Besides, Kit,” he adds, “there’s no such thing as a lucky coin. Don’t you know? You make your own luck.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “I didn’t know you worked as a maid,” Sister Phelan says the next morning. She’s looking at me, eyebrow raised like Mam would, sussing out a lie. Given my history of impersonating people, I’m not surprised that even a nun has her doubts about me.

  “For Lord Fraser,” I continue. “He owned our village and many others nearby. I worked at the Big House for a few years before the famine.”

  “We’ve had such a hard time keeping up with the laundry. Are you sure you don’t want to—”

  I shake my head a little too fervently. My days of washing rags and railings are over. Like Billy says, we make our own luck.

  “We could always use help visiting the sick and the poor.” She empties her basket for the girls’ morning breakfast. Less and less is in it these days. “In these past few weeks, you know, half our sisters have fallen ill with typhus; Father Molloy and poor Martha are down with it.”

  Another good reason to stop washing infested rags.

  I know she needs my help. Waves of Irish continue to break on the banks of the canal. More and more orphans appear on the boarding house doorstep. I don’t know where they’re going to put them all.

  “The Ladies of Charity have been so good with donations like these.” She gestures at the meager pile on the table. “They visit the poor and sick, but as the disease spreads, more and more people stay away for fear of catching it themselves.”

  I can’t say I blame them. Had I the money, Annie and I would be long gone, too.

  Sister Phelan looks at me expectantly. I know what she wants to hear. But I’m no Lady of Charity.

  “Sister Phelan,” I say. “The sooner I get real work and real wages, the sooner I’ll be able to get out of here. To start a life for myself and for Annie.” I pause. “Isn’t that what Saint Raphael’s is all about? Helping me help myself?”

  She opens her mouth to speak but changes her mind. Sighing, she pats my hand. “Leave it with me, Kathleen. The Lord will provide.”

  Surprisingly, Sister Phelan gets me a job the next week working for Mr. Miller, of all people. She said someone referred me to him, though I can’t think who. Luckily, he doesn’t recognize me from that day outside Mr. Sparks’s home. It doesn’t take long for me to get into the routine of things. I know how and when he likes his tea or his whiskey. Both of them piping hot with sugar, served at any time of day, for he always has meetings of one sort or another going on.

  Tea made and tray in hand, I head to the drawing room. Mr. Miller meets me in the hallway and tells me to go ahead and serve his guest. The man sits with his back to me in a wing chair by the fireplace. I don’t bother looking, for he’s just another suit, the same as all the others Mr. Miller meets. I’m not even sure what kind of business Mr. Miller runs, to be honest.

  “Tea, sir?” I set the tray on the table.

  “Well, well,” he says, his Irish accent smothered in smugness. “If it isn’t Kathleen Byrne.”

  I know the man before I see him, but it doesn’t lessen the shock of laying my eyes on none other than Henry Lynch. There he sits, legs crossed, in a fine dark suit, smoking a cigarette. He’s found me after all.

  I glance at the door.

  “Don’t bother running.” He takes a long drag, reddening the tip, turning it to ash. “I already know where you live. Saint Raphael House, isn’t it? The home for wayward girls?” I swallow, but my dry throat snags.

  He flicks ash onto the carpet, heedless of where it lands. “Funny,” he continues. “I never thought of you as a magdalene. Still ...”

  His eyes sweep up my body in a way that makes me blush. Cigarette smoke halos his red hair, slicked back with wax. He’s like the devil himself, sitting there in his dark suit with firelight flickering in his eyes.

  “I’m not going back to Wicklow Jail,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “I don’t care about your inheritance.”

  He laughs. “So Tom told you, did he? Well, you needn’t worry about going back to jail, Kathleen.”

  I frown, unsure of what he’s saying.

  Am I free? Is he letting me go?

  “Only two things will guarantee I get what’s coming to me,” he explains. “One, I turn you in myself and claim the bounty. And there’s no way I’m crossing that ocean to go back to Ireland. Or two, I make sure no one else turns you in and claims the bounty. That would cost me my entire inheritance, and I can’t have that.” He smiles. “So, you see, I really have no choice.” He stands and walks toward me.

  I back up against the table, making the teacups rattle in their saucers. My heart pounds in my throat as he slowly approaches, but I’m frozen on the spot like a mouse between cat’s paws. I want to scream and run, but I stand and watch him come, step by step, until his jacket presses against my apron and I can smell nothing but the stale smoke on his breath. His eyes hold mine. I cannot even look away. Then with a tiny smile, he reaches past me for a pastry.

  “You know,” he says, biting into it as he leans over. His crumbs rain upon me. “I never knew what Tom saw in you. But I’m guessing there’s more to you than meets the eye.” He brushes a crumb off my chest with his finger. “Much more.”

  I swat his hand away, more from instinct than courage.

  “I’ve been watching you, and you’re a survivor, Kathleen, just like me,” he says, looking into my eyes.

  “I’m nothing like you!”

  “No?” He grins and tilts his head. “Tell me. Did you forgive Tom for burning your house?”

  I open my mouth to explain, but I have no words.

  He laughs but there’s no joy in it. “You just left him to die on Grosse Isle, didn’t you? We both did. We abandoned Tom to save ourselves.” He bites into the pastry again. “We’re not so different.”

  That can’t be true. It can’t be. But my sinking stomach tells me it is.

  “We’ll make a pact.” He takes my hand in his. “You will work for me and I’ll pay you well. Bring me Miller’s files.”

  “You want me to steal?” I say, trying to yank my hand away, but the vice of fingers closes tight.

  “Come, now.” His smile is like a daddy-longlegs on my skin. “Who better than a Wicklow Jail inmate like yourself?” He pauses. “I wonder if Mr. Miller knows he’s hired a thief, a dirty criminal. Did you tell him you’re wanted for trying to kill your previous employer?” His logic closes about me, draws me to his will like a fishnet. No matter how my mind wriggles and flips, there’s no breaking free of him.

  “And if I say no,” I whisper, “you’ll tell Mr. Miller about me. I’ll lose my job.”

  “Foolish girl. Who do you think got you this job? Sister Phelan?” He sneers. “I own you. Your job, your life are mine to offer … or to end.” He squeezes my hand, and my fingertips throb in time with my racing heart.

  My thoughts scurry to find a way out. “All this time,” I say with false courage, “you’ve been watching me. You could have had me arrested.”

  “Or murdered.” He doesn’t blink. I know he means it.

  “B-but you didn’t,” I say, as the realization hits me. “You didn’t.”

  Something shifts in his eyes.

  He needs me. As long as he needs my help, I’m safe. My job is safe.

  “I’ll pay you double Miller’s wage,” he offers.

  With twice the money, Annie and I will be free of them all even sooner.

 
“Deal?” he says, as though he reads my mind.

  I swallow and nod as my aching fingers grasp his hand in return.

  A pact with Henry Lynch. I’m in league with the devil, but what choice have I?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I sit on a wooden chair on the other side of Mother Bruyere’s desk and wait. Sister Phelan said Mother Bruyere needed to speak to me about something important. I wonder if it is about Mr. Miller.

  Her desk is a mess of letters. God knows when she finds the time to write to all those officials, to do all the business of running the hospital, convent, and orphanage. The drippy stub in the candleholder on the edge of the table tells me she must work well into the night.

  The spread of typhus is an epidemic now. Immigrants, Bytowners, priests, nuns, hundreds have it. Many have died. Officials shut down the canal at the start of August. No one is allowed in or out, for word has it that typhus has spread from Grosse Isle to towns all along the Saint Lawrence. Sister Phelan tells me that the long-awaited statue of St. Joseph has finally arrived, and the whole congregation is gathering at Notre Dame Cathedral for the novena. They meet every day to pray for St. Joseph’s intercession. As if prayers will make any difference. She invited me to join them yesterday. I told her I had to work. What I didn’t tell her, is for whom.

  I’ve been meeting Henry Lynch under Sappers Bridge each day for the last few weeks to give him the papers I find on Mr. Miller’s desk. I can’t read, so I’ve no idea what he finds so exciting about them, but whatever is in the letters and ledgers seems to make him happy. He’s paying me well. I’ve doubled my wages now. I tell myself ’tisn’t stealing, not really, for after Henry reads them, I sneak them back into Mr. Miller’s office. What harm is there in that? Come winter, I’ll be able to take Annie out of here and this will all be over.