Miss Ferrel, Mrs Gottersman and Mr Gordon were Bridie’s only companions although none of them was her friend. Bridie remembered helping her mother in the kitchen of the castle as a child. There had been a strong sense of unity among Lord Deverill’s servants and a genuine affection for the Deverill family. She remembered her mother laughing with the kitchen maids, chiding them as they gossiped but secretly enjoying their spirited banter. She remembered Skiddy, Lord Deverill’s aged valet, and O’Flynn the butler who had been older than Mr Gordon. Skiddy had allowed her to help him polish the gold buttons on Lord Deverill’s hunting coat and O’Flynn had once chased her around the kitchen table with a dishcloth, until she had collapsed onto the flagstone floor in a fit of giggles. Those two men had been full of affection and mirth. Mrs Grimsby’s houses were silent and cold, like tombs, and laughter was never heard anywhere, only the occasional cynical chuckle from Mrs Grimsby as she considered her greedy family. Bridie thought Mrs Gottersman was as sour as a lemon, Mr Gordon as stiff as a stick of celery and Miss Ferrel, though friendly enough, was as formal as a dinner service. They attended to Mrs Grimsby’s every need and, one after the other, were summoned to her presence for ‘confidential little chats’. They eyed each other with suspicion. They trusted no one. They lived for that pat on the hand and that ‘confidential little chat’. Mrs Grimsby sat on her grand chair like a fat spider contemplating the flies caught in her web. And Bridie observed them all, kept her head down and got on with her job.
In the autumn when they returned to New York Bridie made her first real friend. A plucky girl called Rosetta from Italy. They met at Mass and after a few Sundays smiling tentatively at each other they finally spoke. Rosetta had travelled from Italy on a steamship. Her parents had settled in Brooklyn where her father had gone into business with other Italians and her mother looked after her siblings and worked from home as a seamstress. Rosetta was a maid in one of the big houses round the corner from the church where the lady of the house was an actress married to a theatre producer. She was temperamental, highly strung and spoilt and had lots of lovers, according to Rosetta, who was adept at listening at doors and peeping through keyholes. She reminded Bridie a little of Kitty. As they grew closer they spent their days off together, sitting huddled on benches in Central Park or drinking cups of tea in cafés until, in midwinter, they took the train into Brooklyn and spent the day at Rosetta’s house, eating the best food Bridie had ever tasted. Rosetta made her realize how thirsty she was for friendship and how lonely she had been.
It wasn’t long after Christmas that strange things began to happen in Mrs Grimsby’s mansion. The first incident was Bridie’s discovery of a thick roll of dollar bills tied up with string beneath her employer’s bed. It was more money than Bridie had ever seen in her life, more money than she thought she’d ever be able to spend, were it to belong to her. She held it in trembling hands and stared at it in wonder. She recalled reading Jack’s note to Kitty and the same guilty feeling arose in her conscience as if the eye of God was upon her and waiting to see what she would do. Without another thought she put the money on Mrs Grimsby’s bedside table, where she presumed it had initially been before it fell off, and continued tidying the room. The next incident was Bridie’s discovery of a pair of diamond earrings that had somehow found their way into the pocket of one of Mrs Grimsby’s dresses. Bridie admired the glittering beauty of the valuable gems and again she did what was right and put them on Mrs Grimsby’s dressing table. The third incident concerned a china figurine on the mantelpiece above the fireplace in the dining room. When she picked it up to clean, the torso came apart from the skirt. Mortified that she might be reprimanded for carelessness, she was going to put it back together again, for the break was very clean and the top would rest nicely on the bottom and no one would be the wiser, but her honesty prevailed and she went to inform her mistress.
‘Madam,’ she said, bobbing a curtsy. Mrs Grimsby was in the sun parlour in her usual chair, reading a letter with some difficulty for her eyesight was fading.
‘What is it, Bridget?’ Bridie held out the two halves of the figurine. Mrs Grimsby’s face clouded. ‘Are you coming to confess that you broke it?’
‘It was broken when I picked it up, madam,’ Bridie told her.
‘Was it indeed.’ The old lady looked sceptical. ‘Do you know how valuable that is?’
Bridie felt her cheeks burning with shame. ‘No, madam, I do not.’
‘It’s worth hundreds of dollars. Hundreds. You couldn’t afford to repay the money if you saved your salary for a lifetime. What do you have to say for yourself?’
Bridie knew there was no point proclaiming her innocence. Mrs Grimsby wouldn’t believe her. ‘I’m very sorry, madam.’ She hung her head.
This seemed to satisfy the old lady. She held out the letter she had been reading. ‘Do you know what this says?’
‘No, madam.’
‘My two nieces are coming down from Boston and they’ve asked to stay here. Do you think you can look after all of us?’
Bridie remembered when Lady Elmrod had come to stay at the Hunting Lodge for Miss Elspeth’s wedding and she had had to look after all three sisters at once. ‘I think I can, madam,’ she replied, knowing she was in no position to refuse, having supposedly broken the figurine.
‘They’re incredibly tiresome. You see, they think I’m about to die and they want to make sure they are accounted for in my will.’ Mrs Grimsby smiled smugly and sighed. ‘Let’s see how hard they work.’ She chuckled into her chins which wobbled like aspic.
When Bridie left the room Mr Gordon was standing there in the shadows, listening. He looked down his imperious nose and shook his head as she passed. Bridie went hot with indignation. No one was more diligent in her duties than her. She watched him enter Mrs Grimsby’s room and close the door behind him.
When Bridie told Rosetta about the strange incidents, Rosetta was quick to see foul play. ‘Is there somebody who might be jealous of you in the house?’ she asked.
Bridie immediately thought of Miss Ferrel. ‘Well, there’s a woman who has worked for Mrs Grimsby for over twelve years. We’re not friends but she’s kind to me.’
‘Snake in the grass,’ said Rosetta. ‘I’d be careful if I were you. It sounds to me like she wants to trap you. She was probably hoping you’d steal the money and the earrings. She probably broke the figurine herself.’
Bridie was shocked. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘Be careful, Bridget. It’s not easy finding work in this city.’
‘Now I think of it she was expecting me to leave within the month. She said no maid had ever lasted longer. But Mrs Grimsby is good to me. She likes me to read to her and to tell her stories of Ireland.’
‘Does she like this other woman to read to her?’
‘No.’
‘Ecco!’ Rosetta exclaimed happily. ‘She’s a jealous snake in the grass! Be careful, Bridget.’
It had never occurred to Bridie that Miss Ferrel might be jealous of her. But it did seem a little odd that suddenly Bridie was finding money and jewellery around the mansion, as if someone was trying to prove her dishonesty. It most certainly wasn’t Mr Gordon, the butler, for he had no access to Mrs Grimsby’s bedroom although he clearly didn’t like her. Miss Ferrel, on the other hand, had access to every room in the mansion, even to Mrs Grimsby’s most personal drawers, for she had seen her pulling out papers from her desk and putting red-velvet jewellery boxes in the safe the morning after Mrs Grimsby had attended a grand ball or the opera. She was Mrs Grimsby’s most trusted companion. It was entirely possible that she didn’t like the intimacy of those afternoons reading in the sun parlour. Bridie wanted to reassure her that Mrs Grimsby had no affection for her whatsoever. She was simply available to read to a bored and lonely old woman.
From that moment on Bridie became suspicious of Miss Ferrel. She checked her bedroom every evening before bed in case Miss Ferrel had slipped something valuable into her drawer or ben
eath her pillow to frame her. She dusted with extra care in case something had been placed dangerously near the edge of a table or a mantelpiece and she was alert to any valuable items lying around, putting them back where they belonged, each time with a sense of satisfaction that she had outwitted Miss Ferrel. Miss Ferrel seemed to notice Bridie’s sudden coolness and tried to be extra friendly, but Bridie didn’t fall for that. She kept her distance and watched the woman with distrust, knowing that her affability was just a front and that in reality she was the enemy.
In the spring Mrs Grimsby’s two nieces arrived from Boston. Mrs Halloway and Mrs Kesler. They were sisters, both in their early thirties, married with young children they had left behind and barely mentioned. They embraced their aunt with great exclamations of affection. ‘It’s been too long!’ they gushed, complimenting her jewellery and the splendour of her home and giving her gifts wrapped in exquisite paper and tied with brightly coloured silk ribbons in elaborate bows. Mrs Grimsby received them with apparent pleasure, putting the gifts aside to open later – Mrs Grimsby did not care very much for presents.
She hosted dinner parties for their entertainment and accompanied them to the ballet and the opera. The nieces were both pretty and fashionably dressed and seemingly without a care, like a pair of colourful humming birds fluttering about the mansion in their fine feathers. ‘Oh, everything’s perfectly dandy in Boston,’ they told their aunt, recounting their husbands’ business successes and the glamour of their relentlessly sociable lives. They spoke of their illustrious circle of friends, dropping famous names into the conversation and describing the extravagance of the parties they went to.
Bridie thought them gilded and privileged and blessed by God with beauty. Yet as she crept silently around the mansion, unnoticed in the shadows, she heard them discussing the terrible debts they had incurred trying to keep up with their friends and the anxiety their endless struggle gave them. ‘The old bat is sitting on millions,’ said Mrs Halloway as Bridie passed their room unnoticed.
‘She’s as mean as a wolf, Evie,’ added her sister. ‘Mama says she’ll give her money to Paul. Apparently he comes to see her at least three times a week and she adores him.’
‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Halloway snapped. ‘Paul is Uncle Joe’s son and apparently Aunt can’t abide her brother on account of his gambling. I doubt very much she’ll give Paul or his siblings a penny.’
‘What makes you think she’ll give us anything?’
‘Because she has no children and Mama is her sister. She has to leave it to somebody. We’re her only family and she has two houses full of treasures not to mention the money. Mama says she’s as rich as Croesus, whoever he is.’
‘She’s looking much too well, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Fat people don’t live long,’ said Mrs Halloway meanly.
‘I hope you’re right, because I can’t ask Papa for any more money.’
‘You’re not the only one.’ Mrs Halloway sighed heavily. ‘We only have to humour her for a few more days then we can go home and wait. It might even be a matter of months.’
‘Isn’t it lucky she didn’t have any children?’
‘Very,’ Mrs Halloway agreed. ‘She’s come a long way, considering her mother grew up in the bogs of Ireland.’
‘Don’t breathe a word about that. She likes to keep it secret that our grandmother was a bog-trotter.’ They both giggled.
‘I tell everyone our ancestors arrived on the Mayflower!’ said Mrs Halloway. ‘You should, too, Tally. Irish immigrants are the lowest!’
Bridie hurried down the corridor and into Mrs Grimsby’s room to draw the curtains and turn down the bed. Did she hear right? Mrs Grimsby’s own mother was Irish? Bridie was astonished. Mrs Grimsby had never mentioned it, but now Bridie knew she wondered whether her mistress’s curiosity about Bridie’s past had something to do with her desire to learn more about her mother’s roots. She felt sorry for Mrs Grimsby: all these relations pretending to like her when they really only liked her money. At least Bridie knew that Rosetta liked her for herself.
Shortly the nieces returned to Boston and Mrs Grimsby was left with her nephew, Paul Heskin, who continued to visit her regularly, drinking tea in the sun parlour and asking after her health with a little too much interest, Bridie thought.
Since Bridie had become aware of Miss Ferrel’s tactics to diminish her in the eyes of their mistress, no more strange incidents had occurred in the mansion. But Bridie did not allow herself to be lulled into a false sense of security. She needed this job, although the pay was small, and she was determined that Miss Ferrel wouldn’t ruin it for her.
That summer the heat in New York was intense. Mrs Grimsby closed the mansion earlier than usual and the entire household departed for the Hamptons. However, the journey was tiring and she seemed to labour getting in and out of the car and moving from one place to the other. Bridie and Miss Ferrel helped her together, each taking an arm, but even they struggled with her weight and had to ask the chauffeur to help them. When at last they reached the Hamptons, Mrs Grimsby took to her bed with Precious and remained there for the entire month of July. Mr Gordon and Miss Ferrel attempted to see her, but she wasn’t up to her secretive chats, asking only for Bridie to turn her, cover her feet when they peeped out of the sheet and mop her brow when she over-heated. Finally in August she ventured onto the veranda to gaze at the sea, and only then did she find peace.
‘Read to me,’ she said to Bridie one evening as the sun sank behind the Cottage.
‘What would you like me to read you?’ Bridie asked.
‘Yeats. I want you to read me Yeats.’
Bridie went into her bedroom and found the book on her bedside table where she liked to keep it nowadays. She sat down on the wicker chair and opened the book. ‘Which poem shall I read, madam?’
‘“The Lake Isle of Innisfree”,’ said Mrs Grimsby. ‘You know my mother was from Ireland.’
Bridie feigned ignorance. ‘No, madam, I didn’t.’
‘She spoke like you. She had an Irish accent from the South. Soft, lyrical, like a song, it was. Her father taught her to recite poetry. “By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon. For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon.” ’ Her clumsy hand grabbed the locket which always hung over her bosom. ‘She later gave me this. It’s not worth anything, but it’s precious to me.’ She heaved a laboured sigh. ‘Read to me, Bridget.’ She closed her eyes expectantly.
Precious sat in Bridie’s lap, as she so often did now, and Bridie began to read. ‘I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine beanrows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade . . .’ Halfway through the poem she glanced at Mrs Grimsby. Her heavy lids were shut and she was breathing gently. A tear glittered like glass in the corner of her eye. Bridie read on. When she had finished she didn’t bother Mrs Grimsby but chose another poem and continued seamlessly. ‘When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep . . .’ Something made Bridie look up from the page. It might have been the cry of a sea bird or the slackening of Mrs Grimsby’s face and the dropping of her hand to her side or the intuitive sense that something had shifted, like the unseen plates below the earth’s surface. A spirit leaving for a better place. She looked at Mrs Grimsby and knew at once that she had gone.
Slowly Bridie stood up and crossed herself. Her heart flooded with sorrow. It was both unexpected and deep. Suddenly she felt very alone, like a raft cut adrift to float on the sea, rudderless and vulnerable to storms and high waves. Mrs Grimsby was all she had and now she had no one.
She called for Miss Ferrel, who came running. The older woman felt her mistress’s pulse and shook her head. ‘She’s dead,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘She’s finally let go. May she rest in peace. May God forgive her sins.’ Precious had
curled up in the old lady’s lap. Mr Gordon appeared in the doorway like a spectre and bowed his head, but Bridie saw no trace of sorrow in his features. Bridie left them alone and went to the beach to walk up the sand. It was the first free moment she had enjoyed since they had arrived the month before, but there was no pleasure in it now. What was to become of her? Would the inheritor of Mrs Grimsby’s homes continue her employment or would she be released from her duties and left to find another job?
When she returned to the Cottage Mrs Grimsby’s body had been taken away. Her chair was vacant. The Cottage seemed big and cold and very empty. Miss Ferrel told Bridie that she had informed the family. ‘They’ll come like vultures now and take everything she had,’ said Miss Ferrel bitterly. She sat on the steps of the veranda and hugged her knees.
‘What will become of us?’ Bridie asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Ferrel. ‘I should think they’ll want to keep you on. As for me, I’m not so sure. Everyone needs a maid. I’m harder to place.’ Miss Ferrel smiled at Bridie. ‘She was very fond of you, you know. All that reading she asked you to do.’
‘I think she liked my accent.’
‘It touched her, for sure. Her mother was Irish.’
‘I know. She told me only today.’
‘She was ashamed of being of Irish descent. She never talked about it. I don’t think she had ever opened that book of Yeats’s poetry before you arrived. Alice used to read her other writers, but not Yeats. You stirred something in her, Bridget, if I may call you that.’ She smiled. ‘I’d like to think we’re friends.’
Bridie was confused. ‘I thought you didn’t like me.’
Songs of Love and War Page 32