“You’ll want to apply to the Realty Company on Main Street,” he says. “They’re handling the Dickinson mansion sale through a New York lawyer.”
“New York?” I say. Seems unlikely. What would a lawyer from New York have to do with the Homestead?
“Indeed.” He gives me a tight smile and stands up quick. And I see the look on him I’ve been seeing my whole life in America—the belief I’m a stupid Irish woman, not worth another minute of his time. The shame is old as I am and drops over me like a shroud. I’d thought I’d be putting that behind when I left domestic service. My knees give a loud creak when I get up and I walk out feeling stiff and old, hoping my hat shades the red of my face.
Hoping I’ll have more luck at the Realty Company.
Chapter Fifteen
1877
Three years after the Squire’s death, I’d almost forgot Patrick Quinn. Things happen in a town to keep you occupied if you’re a servant. The Dickinsons kept a quieter house than most, but they still had their visitors, and the town its scandals. The Lothrop girl ran away from home and took refuge in Reverend Jenkins’ home across Main Street from the Evergreens. Her cruel father was all anybody in Amherst wanted to talked about. Then Austin came down with the ague and lay sick in bed for weeks. The College president died and was laid in his grave not far from the Squire. Mary Scannell, wife to the Dickinsons’ new stableman, died from typhoid, leaving poor Dennis to bring up six little ones on his own. In the fall, Sue took Ned and Mattie and Gib to visit relations in Geneva, New York, and Austin moved into the Homestead for a month. Emily and Vinnie and his mother made a great fuss over him, but it was myself emptying his chamber pot and scrubbing his sheets.
Emily was still grieving her father, talking about what a lonesome place the world was without him, asking quare questions out loud. She’d say, “How is he faring without a body?” and “Doesn’t the snow make his resting place too cold?” She called the grave his house of marl and I had to ask what she meant, for it sounded like some heavenly palace. Turned out marl was her fancy way of saying dirt.
Judge Lord and his wife visited the Homestead at least twice a year. They’d roll up the drive in their grand carriage and everybody from both houses would come out to greet them. They were like kindly relatives, sitting with Mother Dickinson and chatting over dinner about the latest news from Boston and Salem. The Judge favored conversations about politics and literature. Austin and himself would get into lively quarrels, while the others would listen and smile. Evenings he and Emily would read poetry in the parlor. Seemed Emily and himself shared an affection for Shakespeare’s writings and sometimes sat in the library reading plays out loud. I began feeling sorry for Mrs. Lord, wondering what she thought of such goings-on. It made my heart sting, though she never complained. If I’d been Emily’s mam, I’d have chided her for being too familiar with the Judge, but it wasn’t my place, and if Emily guessed my thoughts, she never said so.
* * *
That spring Tom was all stirred up about his daughter Meg because a lad from Palmer was sweet on her. “Word is, he’s been stopping by the Evergreens every day,” Tom said. He was perching on a stool in my washroom, balancing a cup of tea on his knees, while I finished the ironing. It was a fine May afternoon and I was wishing I could be outside in the air, for it was sugary with apple blossoms. “She’ll get herself sacked if she keeps letting him in the door,” he said.
I let him go on a bit. A father’s got a right to keep an eye out for his daughter. In truth, though, I’d met the lad and had no quarrel with him.
“Meg’s a good girl,” I reminded him. “And clever too. She’ll not be shaming you. Besides, she’s a woman grown now and knows her own mind.” I smoothed a pillowcase over the board and picked up my flatiron. “What’s happening in Kelley Square?” I said to change the subject.
Tom sipped his tea. “Been quiet this week,” he said. “Only news is that lad Patrick Quinn’s turned up again. Came on the train two nights ago.”
“Patrick Quinn,” I said as if trying to remember who he was.
“Aye, the Tipperary lad who worked on the Hoosac Tunnel. He came to town just before the Squire died.” Tom emptied his cup and went to the kitchen for more. When he came back he said, “It was just a couple days. No reason you’d remember.”
“I’m guessing I do,” I said. “What’s he here for this time?”
“Looking for work,” Tom said. “The tunnel’s done now. Ellen’s rented him the attic room while he’s searching.”
“So he’s staying on awhile, then?” I tried to sound like I didn’t care one way or the other.
“I’m guessing it depends on where he finds a job,” Tom said. “He’s a restless lad. The wandering sort who won’t stay put long.”
“Maybe I’ll be seeing him Sunday,” I said.
“Maybe you will,” Tom said. “I’d best be going. Mary’s after me to fix the door to the shed.”
“Give her my love,” I told him as he went out the door.
Tom had a knack for sizing up folks. He was likely right about Patrick’s roaming. I had a restless side of my own, so I’d not be faulting a lad for what came natural. But I couldn’t keep myself from hoping he’d be at Kelley Square come Sunday afternoon.
“Eejit!” I yelped, for I’d scorched the hem of the pillowcase when I wasn’t paying attention. It was a bad omen and I was out of sorts the rest of the day—twitching between vexation and excitement.
Nobody noticed except Emily. She made a jest of it—said I’d been spending too much time fussing over the new Cochin hen Austin had added to the flock. I’d have to stop feeding her buttermilk, Emily said, or she’d soon be fatter than the pig. Sure, the hen was a beauty, though she didn’t lay well. But her feathers were soft as velvet and there was no chicken with a sweeter temper. A person could do worse than learn manners from a Cochin.
* * *
I didn’t see Patrick that Sunday, nor the one after. But the next Tuesday I happened on him in town. I was coming out of Cutler’s Store and there he was walking toward me, bold as life. I went up to him with my basket on my arm.
“If it isn’t Patrick Quinn himself,” I said. My face was likely pink as Emily’s roses.
He gave me the kind of smile made me know he couldn’t put a name to myself. “I’m maid to the Dickinsons,” I said. “Margaret Maher.” And I held out my hand for him to shake.
He took it. “Sure now, how could I be forgetting such a pretty face?” And didn’t he bend down and kiss my hand? Made my skin tingle all the way up my arm.
We stood talking about this and that. I told him about the Squire’s dying and his funeral—the biggest Amherst had seen in years. I asked how he was settling in at Kelley Square.
“Sure, I have a grand view of the railroad tracks.” He winked and laughed, and I laughed with him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fiona McGhee walking by and glancing our way. In truth, I liked being seen with a handsome lad.
Patrick said he’d found a job with a carpentry crew building a mansion in Northampton. Sounded to me like it would keep him near Amherst for a while. I was just telling him how Henry Paige had had to move his fish market out of Gunn’s Hotel because of the stink, when the hat factory lunch whistle blew.
“Sure, I’d best be off,” I said. “Will I be seeing you next Sunday after Mass, then?”
“I’m thinking you might,” said Patrick, and winked again. And wasn’t my step light as angels all the way home?
* * *
I soon learned Patrick rarely went to Mass, more’s the pity. And often as not he’d be gone off somewhere Sunday afternoons, so I’d not see him at Kelley Square either. The truth of it is I never knew from one week to the next when we’d meet.
The times we did, though, they were lovely, to be sure. Sometimes I’d sit next to him at Sunday dinner and we’d flirt. When he laughed at something I sai
d, the pleasure ran all the way down to my toes. It cheered me, seeing him—I thought it a bit of good luck to be starting the week. But we were never alone long enough to have an interesting chat like we did the rainy day we met. I still remembered things he’d said, and what I’d said back, and how his teasing had made the air crackle in the kitchen.
Sure, I wasn’t the only girl keeping an eye on himself. Betsey Doyle and Katie Murray who worked for Mr. Hills, and Peggy Lynch from up on Irish Hill made no secret of doting on him. He was a charmer and that’s the truth of it. Friendly to everybody and handsome besides. Ellen said it was a wonder he didn’t have a pretty young wife and a house full of children. He was always flirting with one girl or another, but nobody steady. It was plain as a pikestaff he wasn’t looking to marry.
Like all Catholic girls, I knew it was a blessing for a woman to marry and have babbies. I’d watched Mam and my aunts laugh as they dandled little ones on their knees. I’d seen Mary rock her wee ones and found comfort in rocking them myself. I’d liked coddling Clarinda Boltwood’s children, and doling out sweets to Mattie and Ned and little Gib. The pleasures were plain enough. But troubles came with marrying. Some men were mean when they’d had the drink. And some were mean without it. I’d known women to flee with their children so they’d not get mangled or stabbed. Secrets and whisperings and shame brought down more families than I could count. And it was mostly the men who did the beating and the women who were the beaten.
Some days I felt downcast about being single, but mostly I was content. It’s a sorry waste of time to be moaning after what you don’t have.
* * *
The first big snow of winter that year came a week after Thanksgiving with flakes floating down like Faeries falling from the hawthorn trees. When I went to the barn to milk the cow and feed the chickens, Vinnie’s cats came with me and didn’t we make pretty prints? But all our tracks were filled by the time I was done. It snowed all day and all night but the next morning the sky was clear and blue as Factory Hollow Pond on a summer day. The sun was blinding on all that white, the snow so deep it came halfway to my knees. Lads brought out the big town rollers and pushed them up and down the lanes to flatten the snow so horses and sleighs could pass. By afternoon the street was a lively place with folks wrapped in wool and furs and gathering to chat.
I boiled beef and potatoes for dinner, served with a bowl of summer peaches Emily had canned. Emily fed Mother Dickinson, Vinnie went off in the sleigh to visit a friend in Sunderland, and I did the washing up. After, I took a few minutes to look out the front parlor window and watch folks in the lane. Sure, it looked like everybody was having a grand time.
Emily came into the room and stood beside me. “It’s like alabaster wool, isn’t it?” she said. “Soft as fleece.”
“The snow?” I said, but I saw what she was meaning—how the snow hid all the bumps and edges of things, like a down quilt. “Sure, it does have a comforting look to it.”
“Beautiful yet without mercy. Like the Angel of Death.” It was almost a whisper.
Her words sent a shiver down my back. Seemed a foolish thing to be saying, a way of bringing down troubles, surely. “Whist! You’ll be provoking the Faeries.” I said it playful-like, though I was serious enough.
Emily smiled and put her hand on my shoulder. “There’s nothing to fear today,” she said. “It’s a festival out there. You must take the afternoon off, Maggie. Go be with your friends and enjoy this fine day. We’ve no need of your services before supper tonight. And Vinnie will be late for that, in all likelihood.”
God’s truth, I didn’t wait for her to be changing her mind.
Indeed, it was like a festival—everybody was in a mood for celebrating. Folks laughing and talking, children racing up and down, dogs barking, the tang of woodsmoke in the air. I was standing in the street chatting with Molly Ryan when folks started coming up from Kelley Square—Nell and Kate bundled in red scarves and hats, laughing and tossing snow in the air and chasing each other.
“Looking for lads to flirt with, surely,” I said to Molly.
She laughed and went on with her tale of the Lowells’ rooster escaping its coop and freezing solid to the rooftop overnight. I spied James and Ellen over her shoulder. And who was with them but Patrick Quinn? He was pulling a sled with my nephews Jamie and Willie tucked up warm as toast under a fat wool blanket.
Patrick came up to Molly and myself. “We’re off to Irish Hill now for coasting,” he said, “and Willie says his auntie Margaret must come along.” He nodded to Molly. “And yourself as well.”
Molly shook her head. “Ah, I wish I could. But I’ve a pile of ironing big as myself to be doing.” And off she went.
“We’re going to have great fun,” Jamie cried. Willie was wiggling, making the sled rock back and forth. “You must come, Aunt Margaret!”
“There, now,” said Patrick to me. “ ’Tis plain you have no choice in the matter.” And with himself smiling into my eyes, how could I say no? Sure, there wasn’t a dithering thought in my head, though I’d not been coasting before in my life. So off we went to the hill, where it seemed the whole town was gathering. A long hill, it was, running down to the street between two rows of rickety houses. Patrick pulled the sled, and I walked along beside, jaunty as you please.
Sure, it was a glorious afternoon. Up and down the hill we went, taking turns on the sled, first Patrick and then myself riding with the young lads. Standing on top I could see the whole of Amherst. Halfway through the afternoon Mary and Tom showed up with another sled. Only my brothers being with us would have made me happier. We grown ones shared Tom’s sled, doubling up and laughing and shrieking down the slope—Patrick and Tom, myself and Mary, Ellen and James. But wasn’t I surprised when, late in the afternoon, Patrick pulled me down to sit in front of him without so much as a word of asking?
It was a wild and thrilling ride, with Patrick so close I could feel his warmth right through my cloak. His two arms wrapped around my waist with his long legs beside mine. The sun was in my eyes and the wind whipping my face when we hit a rut and the sled went flying off the track. Patrick yelled, “Hang on tight!” and I grabbed his knees, for there was nothing else to hold. Back and forth we went, veering this way and that as Patrick tried to steer. But it was no use—we were plowing our own new path down that hill. We swerved round a shed and came near crashing into a wall. Then we hit a ridge and our sled tipped on its side and buried itself in a drift, tossing us off, with myself still wrapped in Patrick’s arms.
My cloak was twisted around my waist, and one of Patrick’s legs caught in my skirts, but neither of us moved at first, both just lying there, laughing in the snow. I was still trying to catch my breath when Patrick freed his leg and got up.
He stood there with his hands on his hips, grinning down at me. “Sure, you have the pinkest cheeks in Amherst, Margaret Maher. As pretty as a picture, you are.” And he smacked his lips like he’d just downed a pint.
My heart thumped hard. “Late is what I am,” I said, sitting up quick and pulling down my skirts to cover my legs. Patrick grabbed my hands and pulled me up. Then, to my surprise, he kissed my cheek.
I burst out laughing. “Is it flirting with me you are now, Patrick Quinn?”
“That I am,” he said. “And it won’t be the last time. So you best be ready.” Then off he went, laughing, to dig the sled out of the snow.
“Do you think I have nothing better to do than listen to your boasting?” I called after him, for I couldn’t be saying what I was feeling. In truth, I was well and truly flustered by his attentions. I’d been sweet on him for months but was scared to let my heart run free and think he might be sweet on me too.
Yet here he was calling me girleen and giving me kisses. It set my brain spinning, to be sure.
God’s truth, I was cheerful that night. I made a late supper for Emily and Vinnie and fed Mother Dickinson myself
before helping her into her nightgown and tucking her up in bed. I stoked the fire in the dining room so Emily could knit while Vinnie lay back on the sofa with Tabby on her lap and read out loud from a novel. It was a pleasing picture, to be sure, and it made me feel content as that purring cat.
I brought them hot chocolate and slices of gingerbread and some for myself too. I sat at the table, thinking of Patrick and paying no attention at all to Vinnie’s reading. The warm fire and chocolate soon made my eyes too heavy to stay open and I nodded off. It was Emily tapped me on the shoulder and said I ought to get myself off to bed. Sure, I was dragging as I finished the washing up and banked the fires.
But before I went upstairs I stood a minute at the back door, looking out at the yard, all blue and lilac-colored under the half-moon. Seemed to me the hard corners of the world were all smoothed away and only beauty and peace endured.
Chapter Sixteen
Patrick wasn’t at Mass the next Sunday and Tom said he’d gone off to Northampton again. I was disappointed, to be sure. At Kelley Square I played checkers with Jamie and Katie. Nell had a pair of skates and was begging me to buy a pair myself, for the ice on Factory Hollow Pond would soon be solid. When I told her I didn’t know how to skate, she promised to teach me. Set me thinking what fun it would be to go skating with Patrick and wondering when I’d be seeing him again.
Mary was weary, for she’d been out the night before helping a new babby into the world. I made her sit while I wet the tea and chopped cabbage and onions for supper. And because I couldn’t stop thinking of it, I started talking about the lovely time we’d all had on Irish Hill.
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