As would be the case in any household, consternation ensued. I was carried back to bed. My parents examined Cecilia and Alex for similar symptoms. Spots were discovered on Cecilia’s back; Alex escaped the contagion. They took his bed down to the parlour, and he remained there for the duration of the outbreak. My father was adamant that his children would not be sent to the infectious wards, and we were treated in our nursery.
Throughout the day our conditions worsened and we were truly wretched. What I recall most was the agony in my throat. It was so raw and sensitive, the slightest gulp was excruciating, as if I swallowed a thistle. Dr Moore arrived, and examined us both beneath the light of several candles, which hurt my sensitive vision. He noted that Cecilia’s eyes were bloodshot, so he applied two leeches, one on each temple, to effect relief. He spoke in low tones to my parents while still in the room.
‘They have both contracted scarlet fever,’ he said, standing before my father. ‘I must recommend that your wife be sent from the house in these circumstances.’
Dr Moore knew that my mother had suffered from respiratory problems throughout her life. But I was pleased when she told the doctor, there and then, that nothing would prevent her from caring for her children.
The doctor implored my father to exert his marital authority, and induce his wife to leave the house. My father looked into her resolute face, then curtly told Dr Moore that she would not be leaving, and that the doctor should instead concentrate on his ministrations. The astute physician bowed his head.
Our mother sat with us night and day and gave herself no rest. She bathed our inflamed skin in warm vinegar, an old remedy, and I can still recall the acrid smell. She administered various draughts, and spoon-fed us thin, tepid broth. It was always torture to swallow any liquid, and it rarely stayed down for long. Mostly she remained to provide comfort, stroking our feverish foreheads and softly singing.
One evening, she sat on the edge of my bed to hug me goodnight. I put my hands around her neck, and could feel a patch of bumpy, roughened skin beside her ear.
I pulled my face back and said, ‘Mama?’
She kept her eyes on mine as she felt beneath her hair, gently moving my hand aside.
She smiled and said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’ Then she kissed my forehead and leaned me back on the pillow. I watched her silhouette as she took the candle to the door. Before she disappeared from view, she brought her hand up to her neck once more.
Her death affected my father deeply. He hung over her body for hours, anguished at her loss, and full of remorse for ignoring the counsel of his physician. His spirit never fully recovered. In the community, at first, he was treated with much sympathy and condolence. But soon he began to neglect his professional duties. He had never been a teetotaller, but now, more often than not, he would finish a wine bottle after dinner. The interest he took in the lives of his children waned, and he became an irritable figure ensconced in his study or chamber, best unprovoked.
An unhappy year passed. Then one morning, Cecilia whispered to me that during the night our father had entered the room she shared with Ruth. He had climbed into Ruth’s bed and remained for an hour. I looked at Cecilia to see if she understood what had occurred. The thought of him creeping through the house dismayed me. The situation only worsened when Ruth was given her own room downstairs. I lay awake at night and cringed at every creak on the floorboards, or click of a latch.
A few months later, all changed again. Ruth left the household. My father was absent on the day we saw her off. I recall her clinging to Cecilia in farewell, a kiss on the cheek for myself and Alex, her overcoat and hat, and her small brassbound trunk sitting on the steps. At the time, I was relieved she was going. But from then on, the house was bereft of any kindly spirit. Our upbringing was placed in the hands of old, forbidding housekeepers.
The trial of Captain Craddock’s killers concluded with a guilty verdict, and the three men were sent to Van Diemen’s Land. In the days following my run-in with the man with the yellow cravat, I checked the newspapers, but there was no article dealing with a missing coal-porter. Either his absence had gone unreported, or it wasn’t deemed newsworthy.
I kept to myself for the best part of a week, staying in the house as much as possible. One morning, I took the opportunity to speak with my father about Helen. While climbing the stairs to his room, I saw one of the hooks still bent in the wood of the stairwell, after all those years, the white paint surrounding it cracked and discoloured. The cargo net had long gone.
Miss Joyce had left the house on an errand. I knocked on my father’s chamber, and he faintly called for me to enter. Only one shutter was open, but enough afternoon sunshine came through to make the room bright. A fire smouldered in the hearth despite the balmy day. Used bedclothes covered a writing desk in the corner, and beside that, a large terrestrial globe sat squat in its ornately carved stand.
My father lay in his marital bed, propped on several pillows, with folded sheets up to his chest. He suffered from a wasting in his bones, which meant the blood vessels in his skeletal frame were closing off, and he was tormented by arthritic pains throughout his body. Since he had been bedridden for more than a year, he was beset with other complaints: bed sores and rashes, inanition and muscular atrophy. He had never been a powerful man, but now he looked frail and wearied, with silver-yellow hair and an unkempt beard. He seemed to be much advanced in years, but he hadn’t yet turned sixty.
It was rare enough for me to enter, and concern showed in his face.
‘News of Alex?’
Alex had received his commission in the East Kent Regiment the year before. They had been deployed to Afghanistan, to bolster a British force intended to slow the advance of the Russians towards north India, and he’d already sent a couple of letters home describing the alien terrain and desert wastes. The boy who had been inspired by tales of Wellington and Napoleon couldn’t possibly have imagined the geography or politics of that conflict.
I shook my head. ‘There’s been no word since his last letter.’
A bedside locker contained a row of carefully labelled phials. I picked one up, shook the clear liquid, and read the tag, which said, ‘Tincture of Youthwort, one to one hundred thousand, ten drops twice a day’. I eyed my father over the watery tonic.
‘Has the new treatment proved effective?’
‘Please return that to the table. Miss Joyce has them arranged in a particular order.’
I replaced the bottle and pulled a chair to his bedside. He leaned over and ensured the phial was in line with the others.
We sat in silence for a while. Motes descended in the slanting sunlight, falling on the hearth and mantelpiece, and a framed watercolour on the wall above, which had been painted by my mother in her youth. It showed the steeple of a church and haystacks in an adjacent field – a scene from her native Antrim. The last I had seen of her was in that room eight years before: strands of dark hair on her wet face; an angry rash on her neck; a bloody handkerchief; the chamber pot beneath her side of the bed brimming with bile. She smiled at me weakly, and told me I must mind my sister. Then pain crossed her face and she lifted the rag to her mouth. She waved at Ruth to take me from the room, to the sound of her grating coughs.
The front door opened below, heralding the return of Miss Joyce. It was time to broach the subject that had brought me here.
‘How much money do you have?’
He looked over at me, incredulous.
‘You’ll be glad to know that I’ve decided to take more interest in my prospects after college.’ I said I planned to speak with Mr Stokes about the possibility of marrying his daughter, Helen. To do so, I would require a full understanding of our financial position.
He smoothed the bedclothes around his chest. ‘Stokes of Merrion Square?’
‘The very same.’
‘Why would he allow his daughter to marry you?’
‘Because she will tell him that she loves me.’
He laughed, and I was gratified that it resulted in a sharp wince.
‘The consent of Mr Stokes isn’t your concern. What I want to know is what will become of the house?’
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He said that when he was finally relieved of the burden of life, the contents of his will would be known.
‘What does that mean?’
There was a knock on the door. Miss Joyce called in, ‘Mr Delahunt, it’s time to take your tincture of gypsum.’
‘Who will get the house?’
The housekeeper bustled into the room carrying a tray, but stopped when she saw me at the bedside. She looked at my father. ‘Should I come back in a little while?’
He waved for her to come forward. ‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘John was just leaving.’
Helen went to her father and told him she had chosen a husband. At the same time, I wrote Mr Stokes a letter requesting to meet in order to ask for the hand of his daughter. A response arrived by return in Fitzwilliam Street, saying he, his wife and daughter would meet with me in my home the following evening to discuss the proposed marriage.
This encouraging missive was more than I expected, and I set about making the house more presentable for the prospective in-laws. Room by room I removed dust sheets, arranged furniture, scrubbed floors and straightened pictures. It began to look like the house I remembered as a child. Every shutter and window was opened to admit an airy light. I stood on chairs with a broom to remove cobwebs from the plasterwork in the ceilings. I dragged rugs into the yard and draped them over a beam in an outhouse. The trusty poker was used to beat out a decade’s worth of grime, and I marvelled at the swirling clouds of dust that emanated.
I told Miss Joyce of the impending visit, and she helped in the spring-clean, perhaps in the mistaken belief that it would prolong her employment. She scoured the range in the kitchen, removing the build-up of brown grease to expose the original iron surrounding the stoves. I put sheets on all the beds, cleaned out the hearths and hid bric-a-brac away in chests and trunks. In the drawing room, I removed the empty wine bottles corked with knotted wax candles, and placed my college texts in the bookcase. Miss Joyce informed my father that the Stokes family were coming to visit, and for what purpose. A few hours before their arrival, I saw her ascend the stairs towards his chamber with his razor, brush and basin.
Helen’s father was a lean man with a wide gait and slender fingers. His clean-shaven face was lengthened by receding hair at the temples, otherwise brushed forward in a youthful style, and only just beginning to grey. His wife had not aged so gracefully, and she appeared to be several years his senior. Mrs Stokes hailed from Edinburgh, and, despite her best efforts, could not conceal her accent.
When I opened the door, Mr Stokes immediately smiled and extended his hand, which put me at ease. Helen and her mother stood behind on the top step, and I was momentarily disconcerted by their resemblance. It was odd to grip Helen’s fingertips to welcome her formally, and she seemed timid in the presence of her parents. Miss Joyce hovered to collect coats. I asked her to bring up some tea, then invited the guests up to the drawing room.
As we climbed the stairs, Mr Stokes asked after my father, and I said he was as well as could be expected.
‘I’m glad. I’ll call up to his room later, if he’s able for visitors.’
We turned on the first-floor return and continued upwards.
He leaned towards me. ‘You know, when you were young, Catherine and I visited here once or twice for dinner parties.’ He looked around as if certain features would trigger memories. ‘Before your mother died.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
Before we entered the drawing room, he stopped and pointed further up into the stairwell. ‘Unless I’m mistaken,’ he said, ‘there used to be a net spanning those banisters.’
The fire was already lit, adding to the soft light of oil-lamps and candles reflecting in the chandelier. Helen and her mother sat on a sofa facing the mantel. Mr Stokes and I took the armchairs on either side. Miss Joyce entered and placed a tray on a sideboard, and we all sat silently as she served the tea. She had only been able to muster three cups of the same design; I received the odd one out.
It struck me that I should be leading the conversation, so I asked after Arthur, directing the question towards Mrs Stokes. She offered some platitudes about his health and studies. Mr Stokes said that Arthur had taken it into his head to become a field-surgeon. He was planning to complete a course in York Street in the next term, and then attach himself to a regiment.
This allowed me to bring up Alexander’s deployment, and they both showed concern for his well-being. Mrs Stokes seemed to recall my brother fondly. ‘Now, he was a fine boy,’ she said.
The conversation continued in a relaxed fashion. Even Helen began to join in – her observations would usually elicit a smile from her father. But the purpose of the meeting could not be put off, or at least Mr Stokes could no longer ignore the pointed looks from his wife. He placed his cup on the armrest and leaned forward.
‘Perhaps we could speak in private, John.’
I glanced at Helen, whose eyes were downcast.
‘Of course,’ I said, and led him across the hall to the study.
We sat either side of the desk with the lamp between us. His face stood out against the looming shadows of the room behind, and for a moment he looked at me without speaking. He retrieved a pipe and small tin of tobacco from inside his jacket, then crumbled some leaves into the chamber.
‘My wife expects me to refuse your proposal.’ He packed in the tobacco with his thumb. ‘And in reality, I probably should.’
He said mine was only one of three requests for Helen’s hand, and the others promised far more financial security: the Reverend Blacker of Malahide, and Lieutenant May of Merrion Street.
Stokes struck a match, and after a few intakes his head was wreathed in smoke. I took a heavy glass ashtray from a drawer and slid it across the desktop, just as he shook the match out. He threw it in, then swept loose tobacco leaves from the table into a cupped hand, and disposed of them as well.
‘But there are other things I have to consider.’ It was obvious to anyone who knew her that Helen had been happier in the previous few months than she’d been for years. It was as if a weight had lifted from her, and he could see flashes of a spirit he had last seen when she was just a girl. ‘It’s not hard to deduce that you are the cause.’
He looked around the room. ‘Helen told me you stand to inherit this house. It needs some work, but there’s no reason it can’t be made into a happy family home, as it was once before.’ He returned his attention to me. ‘If you attain your degree, you’ll find employment to suit your talents. Your income will be modest enough, but Helen will never want for money.’
Then he laid aside his pipe. ‘There is one consideration that sways my decision most of all.’ Arthur had told him every particular of his brush with the law during the spring. Mr Stokes knew it had been in my power to identify his son as the assailant of the police officer during the scuffle with O’Neill. He said I had shown uncommon character, not to mention loyalty towards his son, by maintaining silence throughout the police investigation, and again in the witness box. ‘You saved my family a great deal of humiliation and I have not forgotten. What’s more, you have never since mentioned the affair.’ The corners of his lips were downturned in solemn approval. ‘Even now, when you have sought my favour.’
He nodded. His daughter would be well served by such integrity. But he warned his wife could not know of this. As far as she knew, Arthur was innocent, and he wished for that impression to remain. He gave a rueful smile. ‘She will oppose this match, but I’m sure you’ll win her over.’ Details would have to be ironed out with some trips to the solicitors, but that would be a formality. He replaced the stem of the pipe in his mouth. ‘Mr Delahunt, you may ask me for my consent.’
When we re-entered the drawing room, Helen looked up expectant
ly, and it occurred to me too late that I should have had a smile on my face. Her flicker of worry was banished by her father, who was on my heels. He beamed as he entered, and said we would soon have to prepare for a wedding. She clasped her hands, brushed past me in order to embrace him. I was about to go and shake hands with Mrs Stokes, but her false smile had set her face in a rictus that was not inviting. Helen turned from her father and hugged my neck. Conscious of her parents, I was unsure where to place my hands, so I patted her back as if consoling a distraught stranger.
Helen’s father said a toast was in order. There was no champagne, but I had a bottle of claret that I was keeping by. I said I’d fetch it from upstairs, and take the opportunity to inform my father of the good news. I asked Miss Joyce to bring some wine glasses and the decanter from the scullery.
In my room, I retrieved the bottle from a press and swept dust from its label, then looked down at the forlorn iron bed in the corner. My father could sleep here from now on. Helen and I would move into the master bedroom. When I went to his chamber, he was sitting up, reading a document close to his face. He looked at me over the rim of half-moon spectacles and said, ‘Well?’
‘Mr Stokes and I have had a very cordial meeting. He gave his blessing for the marriage almost immediately.’
My father allowed his arms to drop down on to his lap, and he raised his brow. ‘In truth?’
I’ve noticed that people only seem to believe me when I’m being dishonest. I held up the wine bottle. ‘We’re about to toast the engagement.’
He shook his head as if still sceptical, but then some of the lines around his eyes softened. ‘I’m happy for you, John. It’s a most advantageous match.’
I thanked him. ‘I was also thinking that when Helen comes to reside here, we’ll need some new living arrangements.’
He lifted an arthritic hand. ‘I’d like to speak to Stokes in private though. Will you show him up before he leaves?’
The Convictions of John Delahunt Page 9