But here was Springhill House, staunch and impeccable, perfectly symmetrical, with its three rows of shiny glass windows, five across. Here was salvation. At its center was a cheerful red door with a gleaming scalloped fanlight above it. Buds of spring ivy were beginning to steal across the facade, but they were neatly trimmed back from the windows and doors. The house wasn’t massive, but it was opulent. She ventured cautiously out onto the tidy circular drive, and then detoured to the side of the house, guessing at where the stables might be. To this side, she heard voices and laughter coming from an open gate. She peeked through and saw the stables and a number of outbuildings. She could smell the gathered horses, manure, and hay. She struck back to her path, and followed it behind the house, where the gardens dropped into manicured tiers. She marveled at the perfection of the spreading lawns, dotted with primordial trees and bright little pools of flowers. A high wall separated the bottom tier of the pretty pleasure gardens from the fields and pastures beyond. Inside the wall, men were working in busy clusters, some trimming hedges, others down on their knees picking weeds and stones. Someone was lime-washing that bottom wall. Every man here looked strong and well fed, handsome. Several of Springhill House’s chimneys were smoking against the sky, and the heady smell of hot food permeated everything. It was like Ginny had stepped into another country, or no—it was still Ireland. Rather, it was like she’d stepped into another year, before famine and the English had pillaged the land.
She screwed up her courage, turned her back to the elaborate gardens, and pulled firmly on the large iron handle of the doorbell at the small green door. After a few minutes, a young girl of about sixteen opened it, and stared at her without speaking.
“I’m looking to speak to the housekeeper, please.”
The girl looked Ginny up and down, and then nodded, ushered her silently into a dark corridor, and then into a large dining room at the back.
“About the position, is it?” the girl finally spoke.
“For chambermaid, yes,” Ginny replied.
“Wait here.”
The room was splendid and quiet, with tall glass windows and central French doors that opened out onto the shadowy top lawn. The walls were painted a pale blue, with plaster angels looking down from the scooped cornices. Ginny untied the bonnet from under her chin and pulled it off her head, set it on the chair behind her. A gilded mirror hung from one wall, and she stood up to examine her reflection.
She hardly recognized herself. Her black hair was thinning and the luster was gone out of it completely. She smoothed it back, her scalp still hot from the closeness of the bonnet on her long walk here. Her neck looked ropy and weak, and dark circles ringed her bright blue eyes. The skin of her eyelids was papery, fragile. She touched her cheeks, shocked by the dry looseness of the skin beneath her fingers. She thought of that woman on the ground outside the gate, and her whole body shuddered with recognition. She’d been watching her children wilt and wither, even Maggie, who looked so much like her. But she just hadn’t noted the change, how severe it was, in her own self.
She turned quickly from the mirror, and sank back into the chair, holding her bonnet on her knee. Even through the thick velvet cushion, she could feel her bones protruding beneath her. She shifted uncomfortably.
After a few minutes, a door swung open in the back corner of the room, and a woman, the housekeeper, appeared with a laden tea tray. As the door swung shut, Ginny saw the deep gap of a darkened staircase behind. The newcomer sat down across from Ginny, poured out two cups of tea, and handed one to Ginny on a smart little saucer. Ginny studied the woman’s clipped fingernails and tidy gray hair, and tried to keep her glance from lingering on the tray, which had a selection of scones and biscuits and fresh fruit. She took a sip from her tea instead, and tried to sit up without squirming.
“I’m Miss Farrell,” the woman said, and then she paused to take a sip of her tea. “I suppose you heard we’re shorthanded?”
“I did.”
“And have you a letter of reference?”
Ginny frowned, peeked accidentally at the tea tray.
“Don’t be shy, dear,” Miss Farrell said, gesturing toward the tray. “Help yourself. It’s no sin to be hungry in these days—you look like you could use a nibble.” She smiled, took a small, gold-rimmed plate from the tray, and handed it to Ginny. “Go on.”
“Thank you,” Ginny replied. She took a scone from the tray and broke it open, slathered it with butter. It was still warm, and she forced herself to leave it on the plate for a moment, so as not to betray too much hunger. “I didn’t bring my reference, but I can get it,” she said. “I didn’t want to waste time stopping for it on the way, in case someone else got here before me, and the position was filled.”
She felt a hot blush on her cheeks as she fibbed. In truth, she’d stopped in at the church, and Father Brennan had told her she was mad in the head. He’d told her to hang on, that she’d no business going out to work and leaving her children alone. He’d promised she would hear from Raymond soon, that a packet of money would come from America.
“Soon isn’t soon enough, Father,” she’d pleaded. “My children are starving now. They won’t last the week out.”
But Father Brennan had shaken his head, sealed his lips in a frown that was so stern she had nearly given up. She had nearly turned around and marched home empty-handed. She had nearly given her babies over to the will of God. So maybe it was the will of God, then, that pointed her stubborn feet onto the road to Springhill House instead, reference or no.
As she walked, she had planned it all so carefully, what she would say, what she wouldn’t say, how she would manage without a referral. But now that she was here, she was sure she reeked of desperation. She could smell it on her own skin, on her breath. She was sure this woman could see the images of her hungry babies imprinted on her, on the insides of her eyelids. She saw their faces every time she blinked.
“All right, then. Tell me about your previous situation,” Miss Farrell prompted.
Ginny bit into the scone so she’d have time to think while she chewed. But she found that she couldn’t think at all, at that moment, because she had scone and butter in her mouth, and she was overcome by the raw, natural relief of food, followed immediately, of course, by the guilt, that she was sitting in this fine house, eating off a gold-rimmed plate, while her children were starving just a few miles away. She watched the housekeeper’s bright blue eyes boring into her, and she couldn’t think at all. She swallowed the bite, and her stomach gave a trembly, indebted heave.
“Were you working elsewhere?” Miss Farrell tried again. “Nearby?”
Ginny set the scone down on her plate. “I’ve been out of work for some time.”
“Never mind that—just tell me about your previous situation. What house were you in?”
She had already planned this out; she had chosen a town a safe distance away, but she was so nervous. She could feel the bite of scone sticking in her throat. She swigged her tea to wash it down.
“Bingham House?” she finally answered. “In Castlebar?”
“Oh?” Miss Farrell’s face looked suspicious—she had to be careful. “And what was your position there?”
Ginny cleared her throat. “Nursery maid,” she answered, with forced conviction. “I was nursery maid to the youngest.”
“How many children were there, in the family?”
She felt she was being tested now, that Miss Farrell knew these answers already. If she got this wrong, the jig was up. She had to guess.
“Four,” she answered decisively. “Three girls and a boy.” She tried to hold the teacup steady, but her hands were shaking something mighty.
Miss Farrell leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Relax,” she said. “You’re awful nervous altogether.”
Ginny tried to smile. “Sorry, missus,” she said, and she took a deep breath.<
br />
“Call me Roisin, dear, I’m nobody’s missus.” She smiled, and Ginny felt entirely washed with relief.
“Roisin, then,” she said, lifting the half-gone scone from her plate to take another bite. Two bites. She gobbled them down.
“Why did you leave Bingham House?”
She took one more bite while she practiced her prepared answer in her mind. “The family went back to London,” she said, after she swallowed.
Roisin nodded. “As many are, in these times, I suppose.”
Ginny pressed the last bite of scone onto her tongue, and took another draft of tea. Her stomach was beginning to feel unwell. There had been too much food today, too much richness after so many days of want.
“Well, you do know it’s a junior position; it’s not really chambermaid. I mean that’s the title, but really it’s a bit of everything. There’s only three staff in the house, not including Mr. Murdoch. Well, two now that Anne’s gone, only Katie and myself,” Roisin was saying, but her voice was beginning to sound warped. Ginny tried hard to concentrate. “There’re no children in this family, and limited indoor staff, despite the size of the estate. Most of the work is in the gardens. The man of the house is in London—it’s only Mrs. Spring here, so we all chip in, whatever needs doing. It’s very informal, this house.”
Ginny tried to breathe deeply through her mouth, but suddenly the meaty, floury odors of the house filled her up like a tidal wash, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. She stood up and lurched across the room toward the French doors.
She managed to get to the door and force it open, before she vomited on the flagstone just beyond the threshold. The housekeeper was behind her in the doorway now. Ginny could feel a hand on the small of her back.
“There there, now, you’re all right,” Roisin was saying.
Outside, Ginny stood up and placed one hand against the thick gray outer wall of the house. It was gritty beneath her fingers. She felt herself tremble, and she closed her eyes for another deep, fresh breath. They were both quiet for a moment, and in the distance, Ginny could hear the singsong call of sheep. She tried to remember the last time she’d heard the baa of a sheep. It was before Raymond had gone, anyway. They’d all been slaughtered for food since. For months now, the countryside had been silent of its animal voices, but not here. The famine hadn’t reached Springhill. She pulled a sticky stray hair from her lips.
“I’m sorry,” Ginny said again. “I haven’t eaten. All I’ve had is a bite of bread this two days. I think the butter was too rich for me.”
She placed a hand on her small belly and waited for another shudder to pass. She bit the insides of her cheeks.
Roisin stood back and observed. “Just the butter?” she asked. The two women locked eyes. “You’re sure that’s all it was?”
Ginny licked her lips and stared out across the gardens and the fields beyond. She could see the Sheeffry Hills in the distance. “Of course,” she whispered, brushing the loosened hair from her sweaty forehead, and tucking it behind her ears.
Roisin was staring at Ginny, at the small swell of her stomach where her hand was resting. She tried to fluff out her petticoats, but Roisin reached over and placed a hand on Ginny’s bent elbow.
“I hope you’re not fooling yourself, dear, because you’re certainly not fooling me.”
Ginny could feel her jaw beginning to tremble. Her shoulders dropped, and she tipped her head back against the wall behind her. She leaned all her weight on that wall, felt its pebbly roughness through the gauzy fabric of her shirtwaist. Her blouse was so worn that the wall scratched at her bony shoulder blades, beneath.
“You have to help me,” Ginny said. “Please. I’m willing to work. I’m not asking for a handout. I’ll do anything. I’m desperate.”
“You’re having a baby?” Roisin asked.
Ginny tried to shake her head, but she couldn’t.
“It’s all right, girl, but you have to face it,” Roisin was saying. “You won’t get anywhere pretending it’s not happening.”
Ginny could feel the color draining from her face, her only chance to save her children slipping away.
“You’re having a baby,” Roisin repeated, more insistently this time.
Ginny’s shoulders shook. “I am,” she finally admitted.
“And where is your husband?”
“America.”
“And how far gone are you?”
“I’m not sure.” She trembled. “He left in September, so over halfway gone, anyway.” She rocked forward, planting her hands onto her knees. She thought she might retch again.
“Well, you’re hardly showing at all,” Roisin said.
“There hasn’t been enough food.”
“Here, it’ll be all right, you’ll hear from that husband of yours in no time. Come back in and sit down.”
Ginny shook her head. “I can’t wait for him. I can’t wait any longer,” she said, rubbing her head at the temples to try and stop the thudding. She stood up straight again. “I have to do something, before I lose this child. I have to try, please. I can work. I need the work.”
The housekeeper folded her hands in a gesture of prayer and brought them to her lips. “God above, I wish I could, woman,” she said. “If it were up to me, the job would be yours, but Mrs. Spring . . .”
“Mrs. Spring would insist that you stay.” There was a new voice now, interrupting, as Alice Spring herself emerged into the garden.
She was stunning in a bold blue gown that she gathered up in one hand so it wouldn’t drape into Ginny’s vomit as she passed. As Alice Spring stepped between them, the two women both straightened their posture, and Ginny tried not to gape at the clean display of splendor. The price of that dress would’ve fed her family until the next harvest. That one gown could have saved them from hunger. Ginny had never seen anything so fine up close. It was embroidered along every seam with a delicate vine of violets. The color was vivid, saturated.
Alice Spring was beautiful, a linear and austere kind of beauty that might have been ordinary in London, but was almost exotic here in the west of Ireland. Her jaw, her nose, even her eyelashes, were impeccably straight. The stem of her neck was a perfect perpendicular to the angle of her shoulders. Her waist didn’t nip in, to the hourglass most women aspired to, and neither did it bulge outward, the way that happens after the accommodation of growing babies. Her figure was flat and smooth, like the simple lines of Springhill House. Even her hair hung in thick golden ropes that didn’t curve or tangle in the breeze. The feminine shapes of Ireland framed her; behind her, out beyond that lowest garden wall, the rowdy land swooped and bulged with raucous colors. The sunless Irish sky was bloated and churning above her. In the foreground, Alice Spring was precise, immaculate.
She stood with her back to the others now, and cocked one hand up to shield her eyes while she surveyed her sprawling parklands. Her waist and her rib cage were tidy inside her corset, and the bustle tumbled out theatrically behind her. Roisin looked flabbergasted, her mouth standing open. She was speechless.
“Did I hear you’re with child?” Alice Spring said brightly, twirling around to face Ginny.
Mrs. Spring had the strangest smile on her face. Ginny had heard stories of Alice Spring’s eccentricities ever since her arrival from London four summers ago—everyone for three parishes around had heard those stories. But hearing rumors was an entirely different business from staring them in the face. Ginny tried to stand away from the wall, but found she still needed the extra bit of support. She leaned back.
“Yes, mum,” she said. “But it won’t interfere with my ability to work.”
Ginny tried to ignore the absurdity of the scene. She tried to pretend that the three of them weren’t standing around a puddle of her vomit discussing her employment prospects.
“Of course it will, you silly girl,” Mrs. Spring respond
ed. “But that’s to be expected, in your condition. We can work around it. I’m terribly fond of babies.”
Ginny nodded, but wasn’t sure how to respond. The housekeeper was still standing with her mouth open. Mrs. Spring strode out a few paces, then turned back again.
“Are you from this parish?” she asked.
“A neighboring one, Knockbooley,” Ginny answered. “This side of Westport.”
“And have you family? Aside from your absentee husband?”
Again, Ginny wasn’t sure how to reply. Her parents and Raymond’s were dead, and she was in the unusual position of having no siblings. Raymond’s only living brother was in New York. But did she mean children? Ginny hardly dared to breathe. Alice Spring was watching her like a chicken hawk. Ginny nodded again, almost imperceptibly.
“Visiting them will be out of the question,” Mrs. Spring said, and Ginny tried not to grimace. “We’re quite isolated here. I don’t like to mix with the outside. Fever! The fever is everywhere,” she whispered, clutching Ginny’s arm queerly for a moment.
Ginny looked down at the woman’s fine gloves gripping her sleeve. The sour smell of vomit clung in the air.
“Yes, mum,” Ginny stammered.
“Roisin will show you around. She’ll instruct you in your duties,” Mrs. Spring said, and then, turning to Roisin, added, “Close your mouth, you’re like a lighthouse.”
The housekeeper snapped her mouth shut.
“I think I’ll go for a promenade, get some fresh air,” Mrs. Spring said then, clasping her hands behind her back, allowing her blue skirts to billow beneath her like a sea.
Ginny held her breath. For the first time in weeks, she felt a faint thrill of hope, a reprieve. She might save her children. She still couldn’t believe what was happening, the strangeness of it. She was afraid she would awaken from this, to find her babies moaning of hunger. Or worse, to find them not moaning at all.
“Thank you, mum,” she said, bowing her head. “Thank you. I’ll work. You’ll be so glad of me.”
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