by Derry O'Dowd
Quinn Household Recipes and Remedies Book
* * *
The early morning light bewitched her, adding lustre to her already bountiful, shining hair, turning her dark eyes into fathomless pools, sowing extra roses in her cheeks.
James looked at Catherine as she surveyed the assembled company that sat in his drawing room before they left to attend Mr Handel’s Messiah. She was radiant today.
They were all in their finery, an air of excitement breathed in and out from every person, save Aileen who was staying behind to mind Daniel, but that in itself was treat enough for her; she was just sorry not to be as finely dressed as everyone else in the room.
Peg sat and plucked at the delicate lace on her chest, Carissa was beautiful in her new gown, Catherine’s sister Alice beamed and twinkled, her fingers restless, eager to be off. Edward sat stiffly, glowering now and again in James’s direction. And Catherine, as always, took centre stage and sparkled in body and person.
‘For pity’s sake, let James read to us of our upcoming adventure!’ she said, and clapped her hands for silence.
He shook out the Saturday edition of the Dublin News Letter and read, ‘Yesterday morning, at the Musick Hall, there was a public rehearsal of Messiah, Mr Handel’s new sacred oratorio, which, in the opinion of the best judges, far surpasses anything of that nature which has been performed in this or any other Kingdom.’ He peered over the top of the paper, and seeing their interest continued.
‘The elegant entertainment was conducted in the most regular manner, and to the entire satisfaction of the most crowded and polite assembly. To the benefit of three very important public charities, there will be a grand performance of this oratorio on Tuesday next, 13 April 1742, in the forenoon.’
‘Here, let me read for you from Faulkner’s Dublin Journal,’ said Catherine excitedly, ‘“The Messiah was rehearsed to a most grand, polite and crowded audience.” And what will they write about us fair beauties tomorrow morning, I wonder?’ She shushed the laughs that followed with, ‘“It is requested as a favour that ladies who honour this performance with their presence attend without hoop skirts, as it will greatly increase the charity by making room for more company.” Hmm, I feel inadequately clothed without my hoop frames,’ she said and Carissa blushed at her forthright speech.
James began to read again, ‘The gentlemen are desired to come without their swords, to increase audience accommodation yet further, I would say. For all six hundred tickets are sold and I am sure that more will make their way in to see such a grand event.’
‘Oh, what excitement!’ Catherine was on her feet, ‘We must away or be late! The tickets, James, I believe they are in your care?’
James fanned the tickets out in front of him and they walked to the waiting carriages.
‘Tá tú go háilinn, Carissa. You look beautiful,’ Aileen whispered to her sister, clasping her hand. Carissa threw her sister a grateful look and departed in a swish of silken skirts.
‘Thomas Neal’s Musick Hall, Fishamble Street, sir?’ James nodded assent to their driver and they moved off.
‘I love that you complimented all of us on our attractiveness, but I did not hear any murmur from you about Carissa,’ Catherine admonished James light-heartedly, ‘I think you look quite beautiful today my dear,’ she smiled at her.
‘Why do we worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow in such splendour. Yet the beauty of the lily of Galway far exceeds my words of description,’ said James, and Carissa felt the all-too-familiar blush start to rise again. ‘There is but one and only Carissa, and some day, a young man will steal her heart.’
‘James you tease too much; forgive him, dearest Carissa. I do hope our seating will be commodious and situated well,’ she said, opening her fan and changing the conversation with a wave of cool air to her face.
The music hall was formed in the shape of an ellipse, and divided into the pit, the boxes and the lattices. Its seats were covered in lush scarlet and fringed, while stuffed handrails gave them the form of luxury couches. The ceiling was exquisitely painted, a drop curtain sat over the stage, drawn with an azure sky in a cloudscape from which emerged Apollo’s lyre, and the pilasters were cased with mirrors and nearby figures were painted on white ground relieved with gold. All around, the theatre was festooned with golden cords and tassels.
Catherine leaned over and spoke in James’s ear, ‘What a wonder; this concert hall befits the Second City of the Empire, don’t you think? Did you know that Laurence Whyte has extolled its virtues in a charming poem? “As Amphion built of old the Theban wall, So Neal has built a sumptuous Musick Hall”.’
‘Perhaps if Mr Whyte wrote on childbirth I may be better read,’ James replied into her ear, and was rewarded with a smart slap on the wrist.
The choirs of boys and men filed slowly on stage, followed by the principal singers, and loud, animated chatter filled the auditorium. Thomas Neal took to the stage and a hush fell over the audience.
‘Dear patrons of the arts,’ he said, arms thrown wide, expansive, effusive in his greeting, ‘welcome to our new Musick Hall, where we wait impatiently in anticipation of Mr Handel’s sacred grand oratorio, Messiah, the anointed one.
‘Soon we shall hear the sublime, the grand, the tender, and the most elevated words adapted from scripture by Mr Charles Jennens and set to music by Mr Handel, music to transport and charm the ravished heart. The four hundred pounds raised by your donations was generously donated by Mr Handel to be equally shared by the Society for Relieving Prisoners, the Charitable Infirmary, and Mercer’s Hospital.
‘The choirs of St Patrick’s and Christchurch Cathedrals, Matthew Dubourg who will lead the orchestra, our soprano Signora Christina Maria Avoglio and contralto Susannah Arne Cibber, will all perform their parts to admiration, acting on the same principle of pious charity, being satisfied only by the applause of you, the public.
‘At the conclusion of the rehearsal on Friday last, Mr Handel remarked to me, “I would be sorry if I only entertained them; I wished to make them better.” Now pray silence, ponder those words and show your attention for Mr Handel.’
Ringing, sustained applause followed for the large man who walked on stage and sat at the harpsichord.
‘His father was a surgeon,’ Catherine said, and James wondered idly if Daniel might one day compose wondrous music.
As the sacred words of the Birth, the Passion and the Aftermath set to such soaring music as to reach the heavens swept over them, Catherine wept tears of joy, while Carissa sobbed in sorrow as she remembered her father’s illness and death. James held their hands in turn, all the while transfixed by the power and the glory of the words and music.
The audience was so entirely overcome by their emotions that when the music eventually died, their drained bodies could hardly rise – but stamp and holler and clap they did, ovation on ovation.
Catherine and James became separated in the crush of rushing bodies as the hall emptied, disgorging its occupants into its entrance and to the street outside. The noise was deafening.
Suddenly James was pushed forward by the surging tide of musical evacuees, and thrust against soft feminine buttocks. He slid his left arm around their owner’s waist in order to steady both himself and her. Carissa turned to face him, moving her body against his. Another push of people saw them trapped against the theatre wall, limb to limb, pressed, pushed so firmly together as to almost melt into each other and become one.
James loosened his right arm to steady them all the more by placing it on the wall. His hand moved along her thigh, then up over her waist, passing slowly, dangerously close to her bosom. As his hand reached the wall above him, James’s chin touched her hair and the fragrance of her perfume wafted through his consciousness. When he bent to apologise for the crush, his lips were tickled by the hair that brushed against his mouth.
She looked up at him, her lips framing the gilded cage of her own lovely mouth, her pink tongue ready to articulate, her c
heeks flushed, her chest aglow with red blotches, a furious pulsation in her neck.
The crowd surged once more, and their embrace continued, but more languorous now, Carissa left with the indelible imprint of his body on hers.
Then all changed once more and their bodies were dragged apart.
Catherine moved away from the sight of James and Carissa as quickly as she could, and put her hand to her forehead as she walked, feeling how damp it was. She had been watching for some time. Today it had all became crystal clear, and the inner voice that had nagged and niggled at her during her visit would be silenced no more. She needed to sit down. She held her stomach. The nausea rose again. She wanted some fresh air and to be away from the press of bodies. She was horribly dizzy and looked around for a gap in the throng in which to make her escape. She thought she might be sick there and then, and her mouth filled with bilious liquid.
Her salvation appeared in the guise of Edward, who noted her pale face with a stab of worry. He pulled her into his arms and helped her outside, pushing anyone who stood in their path away in a none-too-gentlemanly manner.
‘Catherine, are you quite well?’ he asked once they were outside, and seeing his worried face she dissolved into tears. He held her gently and she allowed herself to be shushed by his calm embrace.
‘Edward, I want to go home,’ she spoke into his chest, words small and muffled.
‘To my father’s estate?’
‘No,’ she pushed herself out of his embrace and looked him in the eye. She brushed her tears away almost impatiently. ‘Back to London. Edward, will you come with me?’
‘I would be delighted, Catherine,’ he replied, and as he held her close again he couldn’t help the smile that formed his lips into a curve, or the sense of satisfied delight that swelled within him.
‘Dada, can you hear me up in Heaven? Oh please, Dada, you must help me!’ Carissa laid her head on Daniel’s bed, knees numb from kneeling on the floor by his side, damp sheet in one hand while the other held a cold cloth to the boy’s forehead. She could hear his breath wheezing in and out, and his obvious painful discomfort brought forth a fresh flurry of tears. She sobbed.
‘Please Dada, bring James back so he might see how ill Daniel is. His poor little body is racked with it Dada, look!’
All that dreadful, bleak day, Daniel was overcome with chills and shivering, heat and cold coming in quick succession. She felt so helpless; her soft words and cuddles did nothing for the boy.
Now he lay in a fitful sleep with her at his side. She comforted him as best she could, although he did not notice, crooning gently, soaking his hot skin with cooled water and not a few tears, holding him when he shivered, removing the bedclothes when he burned in the throes of a violent fever, tossing and turning, moaning in distress, crying out.
‘Dada!’ she cried. ‘Please tell Marguerite her son is so terribly sick. Please. She must – you must – be able to do something, please! I am so frightened, I love him so much, don’t let him be taken away.’
That night, Carissa felt the terrors take her. She was by herself, James called out on a case and Peg in bed, deeply asleep having minded Daniel the night before. She did not yet know enough of herbal medicine to help, though Mairin had started to teach her before she came to Dublin, and Carissa made a vow that if Daniel recovered she would learn more so that she would never feel so helpless again.
She trembled, the shadows in the once homely nursery becoming menacing, snarling beasts, trying to get Daniel and steal him from her in their jagged, slavering maws.
In the early morning, Daniel closed his swollen eyes tightly, as the weak sunlight caused him such pain. He cried pitifully with sickness and drank great, thirsty gulps of cold water. Then began the coughing, dry at first, and later with nose streaming; he was sneezing and snuffling and miserable.
She heard the front door open and shouted out for help. James ran upstairs to the nursery and, eyes heavy with tiredness from his night’s work, saw his son and heard her story. Carissa could have wept again for the sorrow and worry she saw in James’s face, but then the learning in him took over and he rushed out of the room, calling over his shoulder that he would return with Physician O’Rourke.
‘Thank you, Dada, thank you, Marguerite,’ Carissa whispered, and took the suffering child’s hands in hers, her thumb moving in slow circles across his hot flesh as he slipped into an uneasy sleep once more.
Physician O’Rourke was charming and kind, but Carissa still kept a watchful eye on Daniel as he was examined, wincing as the child squirmed and cried out in pain when his stomach was pressed.
‘There now, little fellow,’ said O’Rourke, ‘we shall soon have you up and about, and you were very brave when I had to touch your body with my cold hands. My other patients complain, but not you, brave boy.’ He pulled the bedclothes up to Daniel’s chin and patted his hand. ‘James, if we could step outside and have a word.’
James nodded and the men went downstairs to his study as Carissa resumed her place by Daniel’s side.
‘My diagnosis is that Daniel has been struck down with roseola, an eruptive catarrhal fever, generally epidemic, and currently rife in the vicinity. Soon an eruption will be at hand, rendering his face variously spotted, and then descending to the chest, belly and thighs in great coalesced red and brown blotches. We see much of this illness, James, so much that I can write you the problems as they will manifest on a day-by-day calendar.
‘The roseola is not dangerous to life, except from an insalubrious constitution in some, the very young, and the very old. Those who are in peril must survive through the ninth day - yet I perceive Daniel as a strong child and my prognosis is good. Be aware that others in this household may fall victim to the illness too.’
‘My heartfelt thanks to you, Patrick. We were very worried for him,’ said James, and he shook the physician’s hand warmly. ‘But what must we do about the fever that accompanies this roseola measles? What about Peruvian Bark, will it help?’
The physician stroked his chin thoughtfully before replying. ‘There is a little doubt, but the bark is most useful for quartan fevers, so Daniel may well benefit from the medication. And tincture solution in alcohol of the Peruvian Bark has long been held in esteem.’
‘But if the stomach is a little tender, as Daniel’s is, what then?’ enquired James.
‘If the stomach is tender, a decoction prepared in water may be used. Here, I will write a fit remedy for you.’
Once he had seen O’Rourke out, James returned to the nursery to tell Carissa. She had fallen asleep clutching Daniel’s hand. He prised their hands apart as gently as he could and carried her to her own bed, telling Peg all that had happened as she held her hand to her mouth and then to her heart before she rushed upstairs from the kitchen to sit with Daniel.
The apothecary worked his magic like an alchemist of old, sweating in the heat of his compounding room. When the red transparent liquor was poured off, a change of colour to yellow came upon the liquid.
Boiling of the bark in fresh water was repeated until the liquor became transparent when it cooled off. The decoctions were strained and mixed together over a gentle fire to the point of evaporation. From the remaining extract, medicine was prepared in the form of a powder, which was then spooned into syrup mixed with water.
Daniel’s fever responded to the medicine but he was miserable for days. Carissa initially refused to leave his side, and only then under strict instruction from James and Peg to get some sleep.
Then, one morning shortly afterwards, Carissa was unable to rise from her bed, and she slipped into a feverish state, raving with the heat mania when the ague bit deeply into her under-slept body. Her forehead was sweaty and her hair stuck to her face. Large dark-brown rings appeared under her eyes.
James sat with her then, spooning the same medicine that had helped Daniel into her mouth, past her cracked, dry lips, but it seemed to have little effect. He held Carissa’s hand while reading his Pharmacopoeia
to see what further medications could ease her.
As the ninth day approached, Carissa slipped deeper into her illness, and Patrick O’Rourke was called to the house once more. He placed his ear on her burning skin. ‘It is in her chest now, James,’ he said, his face betraying how worried he was for her.
That night they sat in vigil around Carissa’s bedside by the light of a lone candle. James looked at her, ravaged by illness, and then at Peg and Daniel, his little face tense with fear. ‘Please take Daniel to his bed and stay with him, Peg,’ he said, and with a last glance at Carissa, Peg took the child’s hand and led him out of the room.
James sank to his knees, put his elbows on her bed and prayed. ‘Please Marguerite, help her. Help her,’ he whispered.
A few days later, James smiled at Carissa, saying, ‘It is a pectoral decoction for your chest with syrup of violets and maidenhair. You must take it four times a day.’
She wrinkled her nose and wanted to spit out the medicine that tasted so foul. He laughed at her, relieved that she was going to be well again, even though it might take some time yet.
‘What is so amusing?’ she glared up at him defiantly, voice cracked from her long illness.
‘We are just glad to have you back with us. I am glad. You really worried us, Carissa.’ He took her hand. ‘Get better soon.’
She sat in a chair by the bed, weak and trembling in a shawl as Peg changed her sweat-soaked linen.
‘I remember so little, Peg. I thought I was in Galway,’ she whispered, as it still hurt to speak.
‘You raved so much when the high fever was upon you,’ said Peg, ‘we were very worried for you.’ She helped Carissa back into bed as gently as she could, tucking the bedclothes around her as she would with Daniel.
‘Did I say anything terrible or tell my secrets?’ Carissa was sick once more at the thought that she might have revealed her true feelings towards James, and she blushed.