But he wasn’t sure if that was really a picture of her at all. He felt they should be asking someone who knew her better than him. How the damn hell would he know how high her flaming cheekbones were?
“Would you run and get herself next door and ask her to come and see me?” he said to Aidan who was curled in a kitchen chair with a cup and ball. Aidan didn’t stop flicking, trying to catch the ball, a frown line across his face.
“Aidan!”
Aidan hopped up.
“Yes, Da?”
“Go and get Mrs. D’Arcy next door. Tell her I need a favour.”
“All right, Da.”
The man picked up the sketchbook the artist was holding and started to flick through all the faces himself. Never before had he paid attention to people’s features like this. Low-set eyes, far-apart eyebrows, bridges across noses that were flat, wide and lined.
Mrs. D’Arcy would be able to help with this. She’d have a knack for this sort of thing, and she’d be only too willing to have a chance to play her part. To tell everyone she’d practically drawn the sketch herself.
He sighed.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” he said to the artist. “I think I could do with a break.”
“That’d be fine,” said the artist and he leaned back in his chair, reaching for his case to remove a pencil sharpener. “I know it’s difficult. But we are nearly there. The last few details are what matters.”
“That’s why I’ve sent for herself next door. She seems to have a memory for that sort of thing.”
The man called his daughter to make the tea. His wife was lying down upstairs, also exhausted from the week’s tribulations.
So far, there had been no update on the case, no leads on the woman’s whereabouts.
There had, however, been reams of coverage, with more reporters knocking on their door since the coroner’s verdict yesterday.
He got up and stood tapping his foot, waiting for the kettle to boil, watching the girl go about setting out some biscuits on a plate and cutting some bread.
“Are you busy?” he asked the artist, trying to make conversation.
“Fairly busy. A lot of court work. Actually, I think I’ve a sketch in today’s.”
He took a folded copy of the Freeman’s Journal from his case and opened it out onto the table, turning the pages, scanning for his work.
“There you are,” he said. “He got life imprisonment. Not a very nice case.”
The man walked across the kitchen to look.
“You must live in the courts?” he asked.
“I do seem to spend a disproportionate amount of time there,” he said. “Wasn’t quite how I imagined my future when I was at art school.”
Art school. Imagine going to school to study art. Good Jaysus.
He looked at the picture the sketcher pointed out to him and admired it. The drawing was of an angry-looking man, hunched in the dock. He read the article quickly, about the judge’s summing up of the case and how long the jury had taken to deliver their verdict.
When he was finished, his eyes wandered to the opposite page, to a photograph of an accident where a horse and carriage had been swallowed into a large hole in the street. Onlookers crowded round, trying to assist the passengers trapped in the red brougham carriage.
He considered the poor horse whose eyes were white with fright.
“My God, did you see the accident in Drogheda?” he said to the artist.
“Yes, shocking, isn’t it?”
“Imagine being in there,” he said. “Driving along, then next thing you’ve fallen into a tunnel in the road, huh?”
He read the article, placing it on the table in front of him. He leaned forward.
He brought the paper closer to him, then back again, letting his eyes adjust.
He put the paper on the table and leaned over it, examining it again.
Aidan came in through the back door, with Mrs. D’Arcy shouting a “Hell-ooo!”.
“Mrs. D’Arcy,” said the man, taking a moment to tear his eyes from the page. “C’mere, tell me, look.”
He stabbed the photograph with his forefinger, his fingertip landing on a woman’s head in the crowd, straining to peer at the tumbled-down horse and carriage.
“Who does that remind you of, who does it look like?”
Mrs. D’Arcy inspected the photograph.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “My eyesight isn’t the best these days ... but I suppose ...”
She paused. Then looked at him.
“It’s not ... is it?”
Her eyebrows arched in shock.
“Is it?” she asked.
“I think it is.”
“Aidan! C’mere!” shouted the man at his son who was already back in his chair, tossing his cup and ball.
The boy jumped up and came over to the table to look at the photograph his father and Mrs. D’Arcy were staring at.
“Who’s that?” asked the man.
“It’s the woman who sold us the house,” said the boy.
The man turned to the artist.
“There’s her bloody cheekbones now.”
Chapter 38
William D. Thomas
He paced the marble floor, waiting for the sound of the doctor at the door. Upstairs the wails were coming, fast. The child gasped for air, the only break in between her screams. He went to the hallstand, an ornate piece of furniture with a carved mahogany mirror and leaned on it with both hands. He looked into the mirror and saw there were tears in his eyes.
Anna Genevieve had been crying continuously for almost three hours now. She had exhausted herself at one point and passed out, her short breaths giving them all a sense of relief.
But when she started again, jolting, her body arching as though her insides were twisting, a dark foreboding came over him.
It was the same feeling he got the night she was born.
That something big and tragic and crushing was about to happen.
He was going to lose her.
William closed his eyes, letting the tears blink from his lids, and said a quiet prayer.
Anna. Don’t take her from me. Please. Let her live. Is this because of the Nanny? I am sorry. I am truly sorry. Please don’t take her from me. She’s all I have left.
ab
They had all stood in the nursery, Mrs. Winchester, Margaret, and William.
The child had a terrible stomach upset, her towellings rotten, her eyelids swollen.
Flustered, Margaret had given her what they’d brought with them, soothing syrup to help her sleep, but it was having little effect. She had asked for eggs, milk and sugar to be mixed in a bowl and a drop of whiskey added. This she spooned into the baby’s mouth, but it all came back up again quickly.
The Hamiltons were seated, practically abandoned, in the dining room, listening to the sharp sighs of Mr. Winchester. Mrs. Winchester was embarrassed at this dreadful breach of courtesy, but could not tear herself away from the sick room.
Margaret was red-faced, the first time William had seen her so out of control.
Babies got sick. They got fevers. They threw up their milk.
But this was something else.
The child was suffering terribly.
“She needs a doctor, William, you must call one,” Margaret said.
And so he was called and they waited.
After William went downstairs to wait for the doctor, mostly because he was finding Anna Genevieve’s cries unbearable, Mrs. Winchester turned to the Nanny.
“Did you prepare the bottle differently?” she said. “Could it be the milk making her sick?”
“It is not, ma’am. I prepared it as I always do. Carefully.”
“Perhaps the travelling today made her ill.”
“Perhaps.”
The baby whimpered in her cot, her cries quietening for a moment.
“Miss Murphy, I must speak you on a certain matter. I realise that you are very stressed and it is very worrying
to see little Anna Genevieve so ill. But you really must remember your place. You addressed Mr. Thomas as ‘William’ earlier. Please remember yourself.”
The Nanny raised her eyes in a glare. Her nostrils flared.
She folded her arms and said in a low voice: “He asked me to call him William.”
“He asked you? You must be mistaken. He’s been very upset over the past weeks. Some of his behaviour has probably been odd. Please refer to him as Mr. Thomas, as is right and proper.”
“I will call him by whatever name I please.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The atmosphere was thick, set with worry over the child, enflamed now by the insolence from the Nanny.
“I said I will call him by whatever name I please. We are engaged, and that is my right.”
Mrs. Winchester was silent. Then she laughed.
“Engaged? Who do you think you are? Such notions. I’ve a good mind, Miss Murphy, to see to it that you are dismissed. Immediately.”
“Go ahead,” she replied. “I was supposed to be coming here on William’s arm, but he wasn’t brave enough to present me. I am William’s fiancée. Why do you think I am wearing this?”
She thrust her hand forward, showing the emerald ring on her wedding finger.
Mrs. Winchester gasped. “That was Anna’s! You thieving, conniving wretch! Take it off at once! How dare you?”
It was the Nanny’s turn to laugh.
The baby began to cry again, starting in a whimper, changing to a moan, then rising to an ear-piercing scream.
The door opened and the doctor walked in, carrying his black bag, a rushing air about him, William hurrying in his wake.
“Right then,” the doctor said. “Let’s take a look.”
He asked for the child’s clothes to be removed. The Nanny moved forward to assist.
“William,” said Mrs. Winchester. “May I have a word?”
“In a minute,” he replied. “I must see what the doctor has to say.”
“It will only take a minute,” she said. “Please, come with me to the hall.”
Frowning, he followed Mrs. Winchester outside. She took him some paces up the corridor.
“The Nanny has just told me some rather alarming news. That you are to be married? Is she hallucinating?” Her face was a mask of puzzlement.
William sighed and his shoulders shrank.
“No. We are to be married.”
“Is this a joke?”
“It is not a joke.”
“You are marrying your nanny?”
Her voice was incredulous.
“Her name is Margaret.”
“She is not a fit mother for that child,” she said, her voice lowered. “How dare you! How dare you do that to my granddaughter. She will be a laughing-stock.”
“This is not the time for this discussion,” he said. “Anna Genevieve is sick. We can discuss this later. But I will not have you talk ill of Margaret. She has been a wonderful mother to Anna Genevieve.”
He turned and walked away from Mrs. Winchester, striding quickly down the corridor.
“The grief had gone to your head!” she shouted after him.
In the nursery the doctor looked a little alarmed.
“She is a very ill baby,” he said. “I suspect severe gastroenteritis, but I am worried it may be cholera.”
“Cholera!” William cried.
“Those formula bottles,” said Mrs. Winchester from behind him. “I told you should have got a wet nurse.”
“Would you shut up?” said William and Mrs. Winchester recoiled.
The doctor laid out two small brown bottles.
“She needs to be kept hydrated. And these should help stop the vomiting and diarrhoea.”
“You must all wash your hands, the nursery should be thoroughly scoured. Boil every drop of water that passes her lips. I would advise emptying the cisterns and ensuring the coverings fit tightly.”
“But nobody else has been ill, doctor,” said Mrs. Winchester defensively.
“The baby is young,” said the doctor. “And susceptible. I would advise all new bottles. If you can’t find anything suitable until tomorrow, ensure all the teats are turned out and thoroughly sterilised.”
The doctor stayed for an hour and they managed to get some fluids into the baby. Mrs. Winchester summoned the housekeeper to have her disinfect the nursery.
Anna Genevieve quietened and fell into a restless sleep, turning her head, her body shuddering at intervals.
If she made it through the night, she had a chance.
Exhausted, the Nanny stayed with the baby, resting her head against the bars of the cot, watching her sleep.
Mrs. Winchester returned downstairs and when William was satisfied that his daughter was more comfortable, he turned to Margaret.
“Why did you tell her? Tonight, of all nights?”
“What are you ashamed of, William?” she asked, her voice muffled against the bars of the cot.
“I am not ashamed of anything. Not one thing. But tonight, of all nights! I don’t understand your timing.”
“If the water is contaminated here, we should leave in the morning,” she said.
He sighed.
“You are right,” he said. “If the baby is well enough in the morning, we will return home. I am going to show my face downstairs and I will be back to check on her. Try to get some rest yourself.”
He closed the door behind him and walked down the long corridor, dark mahogany doors leading off to the many bedrooms.
He remembered staying here when he was courting Anna. He remembered how they were laid out in their beds, rooms apart, thinking about their whole life ahead of them, longing for their marriage when they could lie together, as one.
Maybe it was a mistake falling for the Nanny. Tonight was a warning sign, from Anna.
Agitated, he went downstairs where the guests had retired to the grand room. He sat in an armchair while a large glass of red wine was poured for him and he took it to his mouth and gulped it, feeling the liquid burn his gullet.
“Something stronger,” he said to the butler. “A double, please.”
Miss Hamilton, her face soft and white, smiled at him. He looked past her, over her shoulder to where Mrs. Winchester was seated, glaring, her face creased in a frown, her disappointment in him raw.
Chapter 39
Mrs. McHugh
Her stomach was full of nerves, butterflies that fluttered, making her feel positively sick.
She’d got the early morning train into Drogheda. She’d rehearsed what she wanted to say, the way she wanted it to come out. To warn Mr. Thomas that the Nanny was not all she seemed to be, that she had strong suspicions the child was at risk. She thought of words she could use, to explain about her brother, about how he was a criminal, about how he’d sent the Nanny to get revenge on her.
For putting her brother in prison.
For taking him off the streets.
Along the quays, the moored sailing ships were being loaded with goods, men shouting and lifting, readying for sail. It was a beautiful morning, calm, the heat of the day getting ready to shimmer on the horizon.
She thought of Mick and the many mornings he had made his way along the quays with his tin lunch box and flask of tea. How she wished she could spot him now, his big shoulders moving, sauntering along by the river, waving to his co-workers, whistling.
When she got to the offices of Thomas Brothers Shipping Company Ltd she took a deep breath and opened the door.
Two clerks looked up as she came into the well-lit office.
“Is Mr. Thomas in?” she asked, scanning for her former employer.
One of the clerks shook his head. “No, ma’am. He is not.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointed.
She had been ready for a battle of sorts, a confrontation, an argument.
“Will he be in soon?”
“Not today, ma’am,” said the clerk, a little unhelpfully.
She thanked the clerks and left, finding herself outside in the light, blinking.
There was nothing for it but to make her way to Number 43.
She walked slowly, the butterflies leaping now, and she had to stop for a moment as the nerves took hold.
She hoped against hope it wouldn’t be the Nanny who answered the door.
Walking up the narrow alleyway that led as a shortcut to Laurence Street, she came out onto the road, the front of Betty’s pub looming in front of her. She blessed herself.
Betty, look over me now, won’t you?
At Number 43 she drew the knocker back, holding her breath as she rat-tat-tatted on the door she had cleaned and polished what must have been a thousand times over the years.
Ethel.
Thank the Lord. Lovely little Ethel.
“Ethel! How are you?”
“Hello,” she replied, a smile breaking out when she saw her. Then, as if remembering, the smile fell and her mouth went sullen.
“I need to speak with Mr. Thomas – is he here?”
“He’s not here,” said Ethel. “He’s gone to Swinford.”
“Swinford?” Blast it anyway. “Is she gone with him, the Nanny?”
“Yes,” said Ethel.
“When are they due to return?”
“In two days’ time, Mrs. McHugh. Is there anything I can help you with?”
Her voice was haughty, not like the kindly Ethel she knew.
“No. I’ll come back when they’re back then.”
“All right,” said Ethel and she closed the door.
She walked away from Number 43, her heart dancing out a rhythm in her chest. Two whole days now before she could talk to Mr. Thomas. What if the child was in danger?
Should she try to make her way out to Swinford Hall? But what if they wouldn’t let her in? A thief on their property?
Her head was light. In the grocer’s on George’s Street she stopped to buy a loaf of bread, something that might ease the queasiness in her stomach.
She picked up a newspaper too. It would be something to distract her, something to take her mind off things while she thought about what she might do.
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