SINCE KATHLEEN’S DEATH, MARY HAD SPENT MUCH OF HER TIME CARing for her sister’s broken-hearted children.
‘You two are my kin,’ she assured young Sarah and Jude. ‘You are my blood, and I promise you that John and I will take care of you. You have a home here with us.’
John had gone to town in search of Joe Casey twice. He had made enquiries everywhere, but no one had seen sight nor sound of Kathleen’s husband. Her brother-in-law seemed to have vanished, unaware of the death of his wife and child.
‘Perhaps he’s gone away to Dublin or Liverpool for work?’ John suggested to Mary.
‘Joe would have told Kathleen if he had found work. He would know how happy that would have made her.’
Mary had written a simple letter to Kathleen’s eldest boy, Michael, who was still employed in the big house in Clonakilty, telling him of his poor mother and Lizzie’s deaths. She assured him that she was caring for his sister and brother.
Her own children found it strange at first to have their two cousins now living with them, but had pity for them and did their best to be kind.
Mary had finished making the shrouds for Honora Barry, but worried that the dressmaker would be annoyed with her. She should have returned them nearly two weeks ago and had used some of the material for Kathleen and Lizzie. Truth to tell, she had not been able to face visiting town since finding her sister dead, but she could no longer put off returning her work, for she needed the payment badly.
She rang the shop bell but there was no sign of the dressmaker. She peered through the window and rapped loudly at the door, calling her name. When there was still no answer, Mary decided she would try the back door, and was just about to knock on it when a maid came out of the next-door building with a bucket of ashes for the bin.
‘If you are looking for Miss Barry she’s not there,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Took sick a few days back. All on her own, she was, when they found her and took her to the fever sheds. Poor woman, she died there the next day.’
Mary stood rooted to the ground, shocked by the news of Honora Barry’s death and the loss not just of her employer but of her friend, who had been both generous and supportive to her since she had first started working for her.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ Mary said, dismayed. ‘She was a good woman, and always kind to me.’
‘Sad, no husband or child or relation to mourn her by all accounts!’
The maid turned her back on Mary and disappeared inside.
A strange instinct made Mary check beneath the loose stone near the back step where the dressmaker used to keep a key. She couldn’t believe that it was still there. Taking it, she let herself in to the empty shop.
She walked through the workroom that housed the cutting table and sewing table where she used to work. The wooden shelves that once were laden with bales of satin, silk, velvet, lace and sprigged cotton were now bare. Two or three unfinished garments hung forlornly and forgotten from the work rail.
Miss Barry had been telling her the truth about her business drying up. She thought back to how busy the shop used to be, with plenty of customers. The needle and thread, and measuring tape and scissors were on the go constantly. Poor woman, Mary thought, to have to watch her business all but disappear. She must have struggled to stay open these past awful two years.
Mary put down her packet on one of the tables and wondered what she was meant to do with the shrouds now. It was likely there was no money to pay her for her work.
Curious, she walked around the empty shop and went upstairs to Honora’s living quarters. She had never crossed the door of her employer’s abode. Its kitchen was small and the dining and drawing room was a simple affair with few luxuries, only a couple of tasselled, pink and green satin cushions on her chairs and a small table with a vase of faded flowers. It certainly was not what she had imagined for the stylish dressmaker. As she continued to look around, she could not help but wonder if some of her employer’s finer items had already been sold or pawned.
Opening the bedroom door, Mary was assailed immediately by the smell of sickness and stale air. She reached to unlatch the window in the simple but pretty room. A large bed lay tousled and bare, with only a blanket, some dirty sheets and a rolled-up bolster on it. Folded away neatly on a chair was a beautiful French lace counterpane and two delicately embroidered pillowslips. A few fine dresses, along with a satin wrap, a cloak and a velvet-lined coat hung in the mahogany wardrobe.
As Mary sat on a carved chair in front of a mirror, she thought of Honora. Despite how little she really possessed, the older woman had always shown great kindness towards her. She had not only given her work but also had insisted on several occasions that Mary take some bread, eggs or salted fish back home to share with her family.
A small, nearly empty glass bottle of perfume sat on the neat dressing table. Unthinking, she opened it and the scent reminded her immediately of Miss Barry. She sprinkled a little around the room before replacing the stopper.
A sense of guilt engulfed her. She felt she had let Honora Barry down, just as she had Kathleen. If only she had returned the shrouds when she was meant to, she would have seen her employer was sick. Perhaps she could have fetched the doctor, or helped her in some fashion.
Back downstairs, Mary remembered the money drawer in the back room of the shop from which Miss Barry had paid her once or twice. Bent down, she reached around and found the narrow drawer. Her hand closed in on a few brass and silver coins.
She counted out her wage fairly, unsure of what to do with the rest of the money. Should she just leave it there, where likely the next person to enter the shop – be they beggar or thief – would come upon it? Then her fingers touched some paper, a rent book and an envelope with a sheet of paper, which contained a note in Honora’s hand. ‘For Mrs Mary Sullivan’, it read, and detailed the money due to her.
Tears pricked Mary’s eyes as she realized that she had not been forgotten. Across the back of the paper was an additional note, scribbled in larger, looped writing: ‘In the event of my demise, I bequeath to my employee, Mrs Mary Sullivan of Creagh, all of my remaining personal possessions to dispose of as she wishes.’
Mary read it and re-read it, over and over again. This good woman in her hour of sickness had made a special point of remembering her.
She took a while to compose herself, considering what she should do. The note made it clear that Honora had left her few possessions to her, but what if a distant relative of the dressmaker appeared, or her landlord made a demand for rent? She wished that she could go home to consult with John, but worried that on her return to the shop she would find the place boarded up and empty, which is what happened to so many vacant buildings in the town to prevent trespassers and beggars from entering the premises.
Honora knew well the desperation of Mary’s circumstances and her family, and so Mary decided she would follow the wishes of her employer. Returning to the bedroom, she gathered up the heavy lace counterpane carefully along with the embroidered linen pillowslips. She was torn about selling the dressmaker’s personal things but it was what the good woman had wanted, her last wishes. She also took the satin cushions and bundled them all together. She would go to Maguire’s pawnbroker, who took furniture and household goods only, to see what they would fetch.
There were only two people ahead of her. Most people in town had sold off their valuables and possessions a long time ago.
Julia Maguire raised her head suspiciously at the likes of Mary having such fine items to sell. She fingered the French lace, admiring its beauty.
‘My employer, Miss Barry the dressmaker, sent me with them,’ Mary lied, hoping that the news of Honora’s death was not yet known through the town.
The other woman smiled. ‘I have done business with her previously, but today can only offer her two pounds for the lace and a guinea for all the cushions and bed linen.’
Mary hesitated, for she knew well that they were both worth a lot more. She was, however, in no position to argue the case and accepted the payment.
On her return to the dressmaking shop, Mary searched the shelves and living quarters for any remaining items to sell. The little furniture was likely the landlord’s so she dared not touch that. Her heart lifted when she found a teapot and some cutlery, which might fetch a pretty price. There were also a few items of clothing of Honora’s which might sell too.
As she continued her search, she found a packet of needles of all sizes and Honora’s large fabric scissors, along with a tray of spools of coloured thread and a pincushion. Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered the sight of the dressmaker busy at work, her head bent and concentration on her face. She would keep these items in memory of Honora.
This time she took her collection of items to Hegarty’s. Denis Hegarty ran his fingers over the stylish satin dresses, warm woollen coat and fine leather boots.
Mary held her breath and prayed that he would not question her about them, but with two women and well-dressed gentlemen behind her, all pushing and demanding attention, he concluded their business quickly and gave her two pounds for everything.
She returned to the shop one last time to lock it up. Silence hung around her as she replaced the key under the stone and took the shrouds with her.
She called to the dispensary and explained the situation. She asked if they knew anyone who would be willing to buy them from her. The apothecary himself told her immediately that he would happily take all five of them, and paid her generously sixpence for each one. She couldn’t quite believe her luck.
Using that money, she purchased a few items of food before setting off home.
On the long walk to Creagh, Mary’s heart sat heavy in her chest at the death of her friend. The realization that there would be no more work for her hit her hard. However, the knowledge that she had a few pounds in her purse provided her with a sense of comfort, for which she would always be grateful.
Mary was determined that Honora’s gift to her be set aside for a special purpose, used only to protect and save her family.