Workhouse Angel

by Holly Green

  ‘Surely not!’

  ‘Oh yes. I made the mistake of inviting her to join my girls in some of their lessons and she was nothing but trouble. She bit my Mary.’

  ‘Bit her?’

  ‘Yes. She went to the same dancing class and at Christmas time there was a kind of ball. You know the sort of thing. All the parents were invited and the children were all dressed up in their best clothes to show off what they had learned. In the middle of supper she suddenly attacked Mary like a little fury and bit her on the cheek.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Well –’ Mrs Pearson gave a small shrug ‘– I suppose I have to accept some blame. Mary must have heard me telling someone that Angelina was not the McBrides’ natural child. They got into an argument, you know how children squabble, and I think Mary said something to that effect. But that is no excuse for attacking her like a wild animal. No wonder they sent her away.’

  ‘Sent her away?’ James leaned forward in his chair. ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘To school somewhere. I’ve no idea where. I’ve had very little to do with the family since the incident. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, just idle curiosity. The parents must be distraught.’

  ‘Well, my husband and I always said they were taking a risk, bringing someone else’s child into their home.’ Mrs Pearson was obviously enjoying the opportunity for a good gossip.

  ‘But wasn’t the child related to them in some way?’ Mrs Brackenridge prompted.

  ‘Connor McBride’s brother’s daughter, so they said.’

  ‘Do you doubt it?’

  ‘I always wondered how such a dark-haired family produced a child like that. Of course, I suppose the mother may have been fair.’

  ‘The brother lived in Ireland, didn’t he?’

  ‘On the family estate. I presume he was the elder brother and inherited the land.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that Angelina was sent back to live with him?’ James asked.

  ‘Sent away to school, was what I was told.’

  ‘Where was the family estate?’ Mrs Brackenridge asked.

  ‘Oh, Marguerite did tell me once. Some unpronounceable Irish name. Let me think. Bally something. George always laughed and said it sounded like a euphemism for a swear word. Ballymagorry, that was it!’

  After a few more exchanges, James excused himself on the grounds that he had arranged to meet a friend.

  At the Adelphi he enquired for Richard Kean and in a few minutes they were settled again in the bar.

  ‘My mother has undertaken some detective work on your behalf,’ James began. He gave Kean the gist of what he had learned and the other man shook his head sadly.

  ‘I hate to think of my little girl behaving like that. What must they have done to her to turn into such a little termagant?’

  ‘It does make you wonder,’ James agreed. ‘But if she’s at a good school now, perhaps the harm can be undone.’

  ‘Maybe. Is there any way of discovering the name of the school?’

  ‘Mrs Pearson didn’t know it. But listen –’ James put down his glass and leaned forward ‘– I think there is one line of enquiry we could pursue. The family is supposed to have land in Ireland, in a place called Ballymagorry. If you could go there, you might be able to find out if there ever was an elder brother whose wife died and left him with a daughter. If the story is true, then Angelina is not your child. If it’s not …’

  ‘Then she still might be.’ Kean’s face brightened, then fell. ‘But I can’t go off to Ireland. I’ve got meetings set up over here, arrangements to view new machinery in all sorts of places. Could you go?’

  ‘I’ve got my job to do, too. But look, it shouldn’t take long to check. If I take the night boat on Friday I could be back in time for work on Monday morning.’

  ‘I don’t like to ask you to give up your weekend.’

  James felt his pulse quicken at the idea of getting out of the office and setting off on such a quest. ‘I don’t mind. I’d enjoy the change. I’ve never been to Ireland.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure … I would meet all your expenses, of course.’

  As it happened, the following day was a Friday. James needed to leave the office early so he thought it best to keep his employer up to date with the progress of his enquiries.

  Weaver’s nose was twitching. ‘McBride, you say? I’ve heard the name before. He has a business importing tea, I think. I can’t remember the exact context but it was in connection with some kind of shady dealing. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the whole story was a fiction. Are you happy to go and make these enquiries, James?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’d be glad to help in any way I can.’

  ‘You’d better get on your way, then. But have a care. I fancy McBride is a bad man to cross.’

  They shook hands and James promised to report back as soon as he had any information. His first action was to go to the library and look up Ballymagorry in an atlas. It took him a while to find it but eventually he located it a few miles south of Londonderry, in the far north of the island. His next stop was the ferry port, where he booked a ticket on the overnight boat to Belfast. That left him just time to go home, pack a case, explain what was happening to his mother and leave instructions with Flossie and Mrs Brown, the cook, to take care of her in his absence. As evening fell, he set off for the port with a sense of excitement he rarely experienced in his well-regulated life.

  Ballymagorry, when he eventually reached it after enduring a rough crossing, changing trains and then hiring a gig, was not what he expected. It was a tiny hamlet of no more than a dozen houses, poor stone-built cottages with peat roofs and small gardens. He got out of the gig and tied the pony to a convenient post and strolled down the single street. Two woman in dark clothes with shawls over their heads cast suspicious glances at him and scuttled away down a side alley. Another one, singing while she hung washing on a line, stopped abruptly and carried her washing basket into the cottage. Three small children sitting on a doorstep stared in silence as he passed. There was a poor-looking shop halfway down the street. An elderly woman with straggling grey hair looked up in alarm as he entered.

  ‘Excuse me. I’m looking for a Mr McBride. Can you tell me where I might find him?’

  The woman stared at him for a moment in silence, then said something in a language he did not understand.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t understand what you said. Do you speak English?’

  The woman turned her head aside and spat onto the sawdust that covered the floor. Then she fixed James with a basilisk stare and said nothing. After a brief hesitation, he turned and left the shop. This mission was clearly going to be more difficult than he had imagined.

  At the far end of the street was the only building that rose above the general impression of abject poverty, the church. It occurred to James that the tombstones in the churchyard might provide some information. He let himself in through the lychgate and looked around. It was obvious that many of the tombstones were very old and he thought that the information he was seeking would most likely be found in some of the more recent ones. He worked his way round to the back of the church, where the stones seemed to be newer, and began to study each one in turn. Not one of them carried the name McBride.

  ‘Is it something particular you are looking for?’

  The question brought him round sharply and he found himself facing a priest, his black soutane covered against the perpetual drizzle by a waterproof cape. James moved forward and held out his hand.

  ‘Good day, Father. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise there was anyone here.’

  ‘I only just arrived.’ The priest indicated a pony and trap waiting by the gate. ‘I look after two parishes and my home is in the other one. Can I help you?’

  James reached into his pocket for his card case. ‘My name is James Breckenridge. I’m clerk to a firm of solicitors in Liverpool. I’m trying to trace any member of the McBride family.’


  ‘McBride?’ The priest frowned. ‘To my knowledge there is no one of that name in this parish.’

  ‘No one? But I understood the family owned a substantial estate here.’

  ‘An estate? No. All this land belongs to the Earl of Antrim. I am afraid you have been misinformed.’

  ‘So it seems,’ James said. ‘I am here on behalf of a Mr Connor McBride. It’s a question of an inheritance.’ (The white lie was justified under the circumstances, he decided.)

  ‘Connor McBride, you say? There was a family named O’Connor in the village a while back. Old man Patrick O’Connor kept the village store. But he died several years ago.’

  ‘Did he have children?’

  ‘Oh yes. There were three girls, all married and gone from here long ago, and a son, Finn. A wild boy, I’m afraid. Did you say the people you are acting for are in Liverpool?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The priest lifted his eyes to the clouds. ‘Why are we standing here in the rain? Shall we go into the church? At least it’s dry in there, though it won’t be soon unless I can get the roof fixed.’

  Inside, the priest genuflected to the altar and then turned to James. ‘Now, where were we?’

  ‘You were asking if the people I am enquiring for are in Liverpool.’

  ‘Ah yes. The reason I ask is that Finn O’Connor was sent to Liverpool to get him out of the way.’

  ‘Was he in trouble?’

  ‘Not so much him as the young girl he was going out with, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘He had got her pregnant.’

  ‘Not to mince words, yes.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Let me see. It must be ten, eleven years ago. Is that significant?’

  ‘I thought it might be, but no, it’s too long ago. There is a child involved in the matter, but she is only eight or nine, at the most. Do you know what happened to the young woman?’

  ‘She was sent to the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy. They took it as their mission to give shelter to girls like that until they gave birth.’

  ‘And then? What happened to the children?’

  ‘Given up for adoption usually. But if I remember rightly that would not apply to the girl we are speaking of. I heard that she lost the child.’

  ‘Would she have stayed in the convent?’

  ‘No. She came home and the family moved away to hide their shame. I don’t know where they went.’

  ‘Do you remember her name?’

  ‘It was Margaret, I think. Yes, Maggie. Maggie O’Dowd.’

  ‘And Finn, what became of him?’

  ‘Well, he never showed his face round here again. But I did hear he was in India.’

  ‘India?’

  ‘The cousin he was sent to live with was something in the tea trade, I believe.’

  ‘Was he! The Connor McBride I am asking about is in the tea trade.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s your man, then.’

  James nodded, thinking hard. ‘It sounds like it, but it still doesn’t solve my problem. The child who is the subject of my enquiry was supposedly born here, the daughter of Connor McBride’s brother. The child’s mother died and she was then adopted by Connor and his wife.’

  ‘Well, if she was born in the parish she will have been baptised here. We could look in the register of baptisms if you like.’

  ‘Oh, yes. That sounds like a good idea. Can we do that?’

  The priest led him into the vestry and took a large, leather bound volume from a cupboard.

  ‘When did you say the girl was born?’

  ‘It must have been 1859, I think.’

  The priest turned the pages. ‘There are not many names to look through. The population of this village was never large, but is has shrunk over the last twenty years. The famine, you know. Ah, here we are. There were only five children christened in fifty-nine. Three were boys, one was a wee girl who only survived a couple of weeks, as I recall, and the fifth was Katie Donovan, who still lives here in the village.

  ‘Well, that seems conclusive,’ James said, feeling a tremor of triumph. ‘Angelina was not born in Ballymagorry.’

  ‘Could you be wrong about the year?’

  ‘I suppose it could be eighteen sixty.’

  But a brief glance at the record for that year showed no entry that could possibly refer to Angelina. James straightened up and held out his hand to the priest.

  ‘I’m most grateful for your help, father. Thank you.’

  ‘Will you come back home with me for a little refreshment?’ the priest offered.

  ‘Thank you, but no. I’ve got a long journey to get back to Liverpool and I think it will be best if I start straight away.’

  ‘Well, I’ve parishioners to see in the village. Do you have transport?’

  ‘I left a gig at the far end of the street – if it’s still there.’

  ‘Oh, it will be.’

  The two men walked up the road together until the priest stopped. ‘This is where I leave you.’

  They shook hands again and James went on to where the pony was grazing contentedly at the side of the road. He untied it, climbed into the gig and flicked his whip over the pony’s back. He was eager to get back to Liverpool and convey his news to Richard Kean.

  Eleven

  Liverpool

  May 23rd 1868

  My dearest May,

  A remarkable thing happened here the other day, something that will particularly interest you. A man walked into the office and told us that he was looking for his daughter, whom he had abandoned as a baby outside the gates of the workhouse. Now I have your interest! Not, I hasten to say, that I was in any doubt about that before. Your first reaction, I’m sure, will be to censure him for such an unfeeling act, and it was my first instinct, too. But when he related the circumstances I could only sympathise. I will not go into all the details. Suffice it to say that he had fallen on hard times but was given the chance of a new job in South Africa, and on the very day before he was due to leave his wife died giving birth to their second child, which also died, and leaving him with a baby daughter. He had no time to make any other arrangements before his ship sailed, so he left her outside the workhouse.

  His name is Richard Kean. He has done well in Africa and has now returned a wealthy man to find his daughter. However, when he applied to the workhouse they told him she had been adopted, but refused to say by whom. I immediately thought of your encounter with the child you called Angel and suggested we might make enquiries in that direction. My mother recalled the name of the woman who said Angel was her daughter – Marguerite McBride. I’m sure you remember it only too well. I expect you know, too, that Angel was supposed to be the child of Mr McBride’s brother, born in Ireland.

  Well, I have turned detective! I have been to Ireland, to the village the McBrides were supposed to come from, and there is no sign whatever of anyone of that name, and no record of the baptism of a child who might be Angel. In short, I believe that you were right all along. She is the baby you cared for in the workhouse, but the McBrides want to hide that fact and have made up this story. (Incidentally, I don’t think their name is really McBride. I seems likely that he is one Finn O’Connor, sent from the village in disgrace for getting a local girl into trouble. That child, however, did not survive.)

  The thing now is to prove that Angel, or Angelina as she is now known, is Richard Kean’s missing daughter. He has a little sketch done by his wife and the resemblance to the child I remember seeing is strong. Do you, by any chance, have a drawing of Angel? Or can you suggest any other details that might confirm her identity?

  We have one major difficulty in progressing further. Richard feels sure that if he could only see Angelina he would know if she is his child – incidentally, he calls her Amy. But it seems the McBrides have sent her away to school and no one knows where. However, I presume she will come home for the holidays, so we may have to wait until then before we can proceed.

  Now to matters closer
to home. My mother weakens a little every day, but her mind is active and the drugs the doctors prescribe seem to keep the pain at bay. It is hard, watching her decline, but the enquiry into Angelina’s identity seems to have caught her fancy and given her something to think about other than her own condition, so it has a double benefit.

  I am well and studying hard for my exams – though I have to admit this business has come as a welcome distraction. But I must knuckle down again now.

  Write as soon as you can, and give me any useful information you may have. I know you will rejoice if we can reunite Angel/Angelina/Amy with her real father. He is a nice chap and desperate to make good the wrong he did her.

  I pray that you are still in good health and have not had any further encounters with snakes! Take care of yourself, my darling girl.

  Your ever loving,

  James

  Twelve

  ‘Your conduct has been completely unacceptable. There is no place for you here. I shall write to your father and ask him to come and fetch you.’ Mother Mary Benedicta’s face was stern and pale.

  ‘But I only sang!’ Angelina stared up at her in bewilderment. ‘And I sang well, didn’t I? Didn’t I?’

  ‘You committed an act of flagrant disobedience.’ Mother Mary Andrew, by contrast, was flushed with an emotion that looked very much like triumph. ‘You have never been interested in anything but your own self-aggrandisement. You are a spoilt, wilful child. The school will be better off without you.’

  Angelina looked up at her through her tears. ‘But I thought God wanted the best. I did it for Him.’

  ‘What God requires, of all of us,’ Reverend Mother said quietly, ‘is that we have humble and contrite hearts. You have no right to say that you are the best. That is for others to decide. Your part is to obey those set in authority over you, whatever you may think of their decisions. You have given an example of the very opposite of the virtues we are trying to inculcate into our girls and I cannot allow that to pass without severe sanctions.’

  ‘Then take away a conduct mark, give me a punishment, only please, please don’t send me home!’