New York, America, 1922
Bridie discovered that, beneath Mrs. Grimsby’s hard outer coating, there was a soft and sentimental woman. She knew nothing of the old lady’s past to understand why she had become embittered and unhappy, but she discovered that poetry and stories in the present were the nutcracker that occasionally exposed this vulnerable center. Mrs. Grimsby loved beautiful words. She’d repeat them, rolling them on her tongue like boiled sweets, savoring their taste. She made Bridie read every afternoon on the veranda overlooking the ocean and demanded more stories of Ireland. Mrs. Grimsby loved stories of Castle Deverill best of all. She was fascinated by the ghosts imprisoned by a curse within the castle walls and gripped by Lady Deverill and Kitty’s extraordinary gift of sight. Thus Bridie was forced into the past. The door she had shut with such determination opened a crack and her memories were at once exposed like the secret corners of a darkened room suddenly thrown into light. At night she dreamed of her father, the smell of smoked herring, the sound of the fiddle and the old Irish songs that had accompanied her growing up. Sometimes she dreamed of the Banshee, the tinkers and the awesome black figure of Father Quinn, his eyes burning into her soul in search of sin, and she’d awake with tears rolling down her cheeks and soaking into her pillow.
The smells of the sea in America were nothing like the smells in Ireland and Bridie was grateful for the difference. She didn’t allow herself to pine. America was her home now and her past existed only in her mind. Ireland was so far away—the other side of a world that was too enormous for Bridie to fully comprehend. She didn’t read the newspapers, she didn’t listen to gossip in church and when she did hear snippets of conversation in the drawing room about the civil war she suppressed her curiosity and smothered her sense of dismay. The only contact she had with her country of birth were the regular letters she wrote to her mother and the money she sent home; the only sign of surrender her pillow wet with tears.
Miss Ferrel, Mrs. Gottersman and Mr. Gordon were Bridie’s only companions, although none of them was her friend. Bridie remembered helping her mother in the kitchen of the castle as a child. There had been a strong sense of unity among Lord Deverill’s servants and a genuine affection for the Deverill family. She remembered her mother laughing with the kitchen maids, chiding them as they gossiped but secretly enjoying their spirited banter. She remembered Skiddy, Lord Deverill’s aged valet, and O’Flynn the butler, who had been older than Mr. Gordon. Skiddy had allowed her to help him polish the gold buttons on Lord Deverill’s hunting coat and O’Flynn had once chased her around the kitchen table with a dishcloth, until she had collapsed onto the flagstone floor in a fit of giggles. Those two men had been full of affection and mirth. Mrs. Grimsby’s houses were silent and cold, like tombs, and laughter was never heard anywhere, only the occasional cynical chuckle from Mrs. Grimsby as she considered her greedy family. Bridie thought Mrs. Gottersman was as sour as a lemon, Mr. Gordon as stiff as a stick of celery and Miss Ferrel, though friendly enough, was as formal as a dinner service. They attended to Mrs. Grimsby’s every need and, one after the other, were summoned to her presence for “confidential little chats.” They eyed each other with suspicion. They trusted no one. They lived for that pat on the hand and that “confidential little chat.” Mrs. Grimsby sat on her grand chair like a fat spider contemplating the flies caught in her web. And Bridie observed them all, kept her head down and got on with her job.
In the autumn when they returned to New York Bridie made her first real friend. A plucky girl called Rosetta from Italy. They met at Mass and after a few Sundays smiling tentatively at each other they finally spoke. Rosetta had traveled from Italy on a steamship. Her parents had settled in Brooklyn, where her father had gone into business with other Italians and her mother looked after her siblings and worked from home as a seamstress. Rosetta was a maid in one of the big houses around the corner from the church where the lady of the house was an actress married to a theater producer. She was temperamental, highly strung and spoiled and had lots of lovers, according to Rosetta, who was adept at listening at doors and peeping through keyholes. She reminded Bridie a little of Kitty. As they grew closer Rosetta and Bridie spent their days off together, sitting huddled on benches in Central Park or drinking cups of tea in cafés until, in midwinter, they took the train into Brooklyn and spent the day at Rosetta’s house, eating the best food Bridie had ever tasted. Rosetta made her realize how thirsty she was for friendship and how lonely she had been.
It wasn’t long after Christmas that strange things began to happen in Mrs. Grimsby’s mansion. The first incident was Bridie’s discovery of a thick roll of dollar bills tied up with string beneath her employer’s bed. It was more money than Bridie had ever seen in her life, more money than she thought she’d ever be able to spend, were it to belong to her. She held it in trembling hands and stared at it in wonder. She recalled reading Jack’s note to Kitty and the same guilty feeling arose in her conscience as if the eye of God was upon her and waiting to see what she would do. Without another thought she put the money on Mrs. Grimsby’s bedside table, where she presumed it had initially been before it fell off, and continued tidying the room. The next incident was Bridie’s discovery of a pair of diamond earrings that had somehow found their way into the pocket of one of Mrs. Grimsby’s dresses. Bridie admired the glittering beauty of the valuable gems and again she did what was right and put them on Mrs. Grimsby’s dressing table. The third incident concerned a china figurine on the mantelpiece above the fireplace in the dining room. When she picked it up to clean, the torso came apart from the skirt. Mortified that she might be reprimanded for carelessness, she was going to put it back together again, for the break was very clean and the top would rest nicely on the bottom and no one would be the wiser, but her honesty prevailed and she went to inform her mistress.
“Madam,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. Mrs. Grimsby was in the sun parlor in her usual chair, reading a letter with some difficulty for her eyesight was fading.
“What is it, Bridget?” Bridie held out the two halves of the figurine. Mrs. Grimsby’s face clouded. “Are you coming to confess that you broke it?”
“It was broken when I picked it up, madam,” Bridie told her.
“Was it indeed.” The old lady looked skeptical. “Do you know how valuable that is?”
Bridie felt her cheeks burning with shame. “No, madam, I do not.”
“It’s worth hundreds of dollars. Hundreds. You couldn’t afford to repay the money if you saved your salary for a lifetime. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Bridie knew there was no point proclaiming her innocence. Mrs. Grimsby wouldn’t believe her. “I’m very sorry, madam.” She hung her head.
This seemed to satisfy the old lady. She held out the letter she had been reading. “Do you know what this says?”
“No, madam.”
“My two nieces are coming down from Boston and they’ve asked to stay here. Do you think you can look after all of us?”
Bridie remembered when Lady Elmrod had come to stay at the Hunting Lodge for Miss Elspeth’s wedding and she had had to look after all three sisters at once. “I think I can, madam,” she replied, knowing she was in no position to refuse, having supposedly broken the figurine.
“They’re incredibly tiresome. You see, they think I’m about to die and they want to make sure they are accounted for in my will.” Mrs. Grimsby smiled smugly and sighed. “Let’s see how hard they work.” She chuckled into her chins, which wobbled like aspic.
When Bridie left the room Mr. Gordon was standing there in the shadows, listening. He looked down his imperious nose and shook his head as she passed. Bridie went hot with indignation. No one was more diligent in her duties than her. She watched him enter Mrs. Grimsby’s room and close the door behind him.
When Bridie told Rosetta about the strange incidents, Rosetta was quick to see foul play. “Is there somebody who might be jealous of you in the house?” she asked.
Bridie immediately thought of Miss Ferrel. “Well, there’s a woman who has worked for Mrs. Grimsby for over twelve years. We’re not friends but she’s kind to me.”
“Snake in the grass,” said Rosetta. “I’d be careful if I were you. It sounds to me like she wants to trap you. She was probably hoping you’d steal the money and the earrings. She probably broke the figurine herself.”
Bridie was shocked. “Do you really think so?”
“Be careful, Bridget. It’s not easy finding work in this city.”
“Now that I think of it, she was expecting me to leave within the month. She said no maid had ever lasted longer. But Mrs. Grimsby is good to me. She likes me to read to her and to tell her stories of Ireland.”
“Does she like this other woman to read to her?”
“No.”
“Ecco!” Rosetta exclaimed happily. “She’s a jealous snake in the grass! Be careful, Bridget.”
It had never occurred to Bridie that Miss Ferrel might be jealous of her. But it did seem a little odd that suddenly Bridie was finding money and jewelry around the mansion, as if someone was trying to prove her dishonesty. It most certainly wasn’t Mr. Gordon, the butler, for he had no access to Mrs. Grimsby’s bedroom, although he clearly didn’t like her. Miss Ferrel, on the other hand, had access to every room in the mansion, even to Mrs. Grimsby’s most personal drawers, for she had seen her pulling out papers from her desk and putting red-velvet jewelry boxes in the safe the morning after Mrs. Grimsby had attended a grand ball or the opera. She was Mrs. Grimsby’s most trusted companion. It was entirely possible that she didn’t like the intimacy of those afternoons reading in the sun parlor. Bridie wanted to reassure her that Mrs. Grimsby had no affection for her whatsoever. She was simply available to read to a bored and lonely old woman.
From that moment on Bridie became suspicious of Miss Ferrel. She checked her bedroom every evening before bed in case Miss Ferrel had slipped something valuable into her drawer or beneath her pillow to frame her. She dusted with extra care in case something had been placed dangerously near the edge of a table or a mantelpiece and she was alert to any valuable items lying around, putting them back where they belonged, each time with a sense of satisfaction that she had outwitted Miss Ferrel. Miss Ferrel seemed to notice Bridie’s sudden coolness and tried to be extra friendly, but Bridie didn’t fall for that. She kept her distance and watched the woman with distrust, knowing that her affability was just a front and that in reality she was the enemy.
IN THE SPRING Mrs. Grimsby’s two nieces arrived from Boston. Mrs. Halloway and Mrs. Kesler. They were sisters, both in their early thirties, married with young children they had left behind and barely mentioned. They embraced their aunt with great exclamations of affection. “It’s been too long!” they gushed, complimenting her jewelry and giving her gifts wrapped in exquisite paper and brightly colored silk ribbons. Mrs. Grimsby received them with apparent pleasure, putting the gifts aside to open later—Mrs. Grimsby did not care very much for presents.
She hosted dinner parties for their entertainment and accompanied them to the ballet and the opera. The nieces were both pretty and fashionably dressed and seemingly without a care, like a pair of colorful hummingbirds fluttering about the mansion in their fine feathers. “Oh, everything’s perfectly dandy in Boston,” they told their aunt, recounting their husbands’ business successes and the glamour of their relentlessly sociable lives. They spoke of their illustrious circle of friends, dropping famous names into the conversation and describing the extravagance of the parties they went to.
Bridie thought them gilded and privileged and blessed by God with beauty. Yet as she crept silently around the mansion, unnoticed in the shadows, she heard them discussing the terrible debts they had incurred trying to keep up with their friends and the anxiety their endless struggle gave them. “The old bat is sitting on millions,” said Mrs. Halloway as Bridie passed their room unnoticed.
“She’s as mean as a wolf, Evie,” added her sister. “Mama says she’ll give her money to Paul. Apparently he comes to see her at least three times a week and she adores him.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Halloway snapped. “Paul is Uncle Joe’s son and apparently Aunt can’t abide her brother on account of his gambling. I doubt very much she’ll give Paul or his siblings a penny.”
“What makes you think she’ll give us anything?”
“Because she has no children and Mama is her sister. She has to leave it to somebody. We’re her only family and she has two houses full of treasures, not to mention the money. Mama says she’s as rich as Croesus, whoever he is.”
“She’s looking much too well, wouldn’t you say?”
“Fat people don’t live long,” said Mrs. Halloway meanly.
“I hope you’re right, because I can’t ask Papa for any more money.”
“You’re not the only one.” Mrs. Halloway sighed heavily. “We only have to humor her for a few more days, then we can go home and wait. It might even be a matter of months.”
“Isn’t it lucky she didn’t have any children?”
“Very,” Mrs. Halloway agreed. “She’s come a long way, considering her mother grew up in the bogs of Ireland.”
“Don’t breathe a word about that. She likes to keep it secret that our grandmother was a bogtrotter.” They both giggled.
“I tell everyone our ancestors arrived on the Mayflower!” said Mrs. Halloway. “You should, too, Tally. Irish immigrants are the lowest!”
Bridie hurried down the corridor and into Mrs. Grimsby’s room to draw the curtains and turn down the bed. Did she hear right? Mrs. Grimsby’s own mother was Irish? Bridie was astonished. Mrs. Grimsby had never mentioned it, but now Bridie knew, she wondered whether her mistress’s curiosity about Bridie’s past had something to do with her desire to learn more about her mother’s roots. She felt sorry for Mrs. Grimsby: all these relations pretending to like her when they really only liked her money. At least Bridie knew that Rosetta liked her for herself.
Shortly, the nieces returned to Boston and Mrs. Grimsby was left with her nephew, Paul Heskin, who continued to visit her regularly, drinking tea in the sun parlor and asking after her health with a little too much interest, Bridie thought.
Since Bridie had become aware of Miss Ferrel’s tactics to diminish her in the eyes of their mistress, no more strange incidents had occurred in the mansion. But Bridie did not allow herself to be lulled into a false sense of security. She needed this job, although the pay was small, and she was determined that Miss Ferrel wouldn’t ruin it for her.
THAT SUMMER THE heat in New York was intense. Mrs. Grimsby closed the mansion earlier than usual and the entire household departed for the Hamptons. However, the journey was tiring and she seemed to labor getting in and out of the car and moving from one place to the other. Bridie and Miss Ferrel helped her together, each taking an arm, but even they struggled with her weight and had to ask the chauffeur to help them. When at last they reached the Hamptons, Mrs. Grimsby took to her bed with Precious and remained there for the entire month of July. Mr. Gordon and Miss Ferrel attempted to see her, but she wasn’t up to her secretive chats, asking only for Bridie to turn her, cover her feet when they peeped out of the sheet and mop her brow when she overheated. Finally in August she ventured onto the veranda to gaze at the sea, and only then did she find peace.
“Read to me,” she said to Bridie one evening as the sun sank behind the Cottage.
“What would you like me to read you?” Bridie asked.
“Yeats. I want you to read me Yeats.”
Bridie went into her bedroom and found the book on her bedside table, where she liked to keep it nowadays. She sat down on the wicker chair and opened the book. “Which poem shall I read, madam?”
“ ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree,’ ” said Mrs. Grimsby. “You know my mother was from Ireland.”
Bridie feigned ignorance. “No, madam, I didn’t.”
“She spoke like you. She had an Irish accent from the South. Soft, lyrical, like a song, it was. Her father taught her to recite poetry. By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon. For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon.” Her clumsy hand grabbed the locket that always hung over her bosom. “She later gave me this. It’s not worth anything, but it’s precious to me.” She heaved a labored sigh. “Read to me, Bridget.” She closed her eyes expectantly.
Precious sat in Bridie’s lap, as she so often did now, and Bridie began to read. “I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine beanrows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade . . .” Halfway through the poem she glanced at Mrs. Grimsby. Her heavy lids were shut and she was breathing gently. A tear glittered like glass in the corner of her eye. Bridie read on. When she had finished she didn’t bother Mrs. Grimsby but chose another poem and continued seamlessly. “When you are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep . . .” Something made Bridie look up from the page. It might have been the cry of a seabird or the slackening of Mrs. Grimsby’s face and the dropping of her hand to her side or the intuitive sense that something had shifted, like the unseen plates below the earth’s surface. A spirit leaving for a better place. She looked at Mrs. Grimsby and knew at once that she had gone.
Slowly Bridie stood up and crossed herself. Her heart flooded with sorrow. It was both unexpected and deep. Suddenly she felt very alone, like a raft cut adrift to float on the sea, rudderless and vulnerable to storms and high waves. Mrs. Grimsby was all she had and now she had no one.
She called for Miss Ferrel, who came running. The older woman felt her mistress’s pulse and shook her head. “She’s dead,” she said in a quiet voice. “She’s finally let go. May she rest in peace. May God forgive her sins.” Precious had curled up in the old lady’s lap. Mr. Gordon appeared in the doorway like a specter and bowed his head, but Bridie saw no trace of sorrow in his features. Bridie left them alone and went to the beach to walk up the sand. It was the first free moment she had enjoyed since they had arrived the month before, but there was no pleasure in it now. What was to become of her? Would the inheritor of Mrs. Grimsby’s homes continue her employment or would she be released from her duties and left to find another job?
When she returned to the Cottage Mrs. Grimsby’s body had been taken away. Her chair was vacant. The Cottage seemed big and cold and very empty. Miss Ferrel told Bridie that she had informed the family. “They’ll come like vultures now and take everything she had,” said Miss Ferrel bitterly. She sat on the steps of the veranda and hugged her knees.
“What will become of us?” Bridie asked.
“I don’t know,” said Miss Ferrel. “I should think they’ll want to keep you on. As for me, I’m not so sure. Everyone needs a maid. I’m harder to place.” Miss Ferrel smiled at Bridie. “She was very fond of you, you know. All that reading she asked you to do.”
“I think she liked my accent.”
“It touched her, for sure. Her mother was Irish.”
“I know. She told me only today.”
“She was ashamed of being of Irish descent. She never talked about it. I don’t think she had ever opened that book of Yeats’s poetry before you arrived. Alice used to read her other writers, but not Yeats. You stirred something in her, Bridget, if I may call you that.” She smiled. “I’d like to think we’re friends.”
Bridie was confused. “I thought you didn’t like me.”
Miss Ferrel frowned. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
Bridie stiffened. “I thought you resented me. You had worked for her for twelve years and I arrived and she asked me to read—”
“You think I was jealous of you?”
Bridie shrugged. “You left money under the bed to trap me, did you not?”
Miss Ferrel was baffled. “What money?”
“And the earrings . . .”
“Earrings? What are you saying, Bridget?”
“You were trying to show her that I was dishonest.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bridie began to feel uncomfortable. “The thousands of dollars I found under her bed and a pair of diamond earrings I discovered in the pocket of one of her dresses? Who else but you left those things there?”
“I swear it wasn’t me, Bridget.”
“Then who was it?”
“Mr. Gordon?” said Miss Ferrel slowly. “Could it have been Mr. Gordon?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he was jealous. He was closer to her than anyone, even me.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it,” said Bridie. “She’s gone.”
“No, it doesn’t matter,” Miss Ferrel agreed, looking pensive. She said nothing about the money she had found on Mrs. Grimsby’s floor—and kept.
ONCE BACK IN New York it wasn’t long before Mrs. Grimsby’s nieces arrived with their mother, just as Miss Ferrel had predicted, and walked around the mansion arguing over which paintings, ornaments and pieces of furniture should go to whom. “That table will look charming in my dining room,” said Mrs. Halloway. “I must have the chairs too.”
“But I’d like the chairs,” said Mrs. Kesler, sticking out her bottom lip and appealing to their mother.
“The chairs must go with the table, Tally. I’m afraid you’ll have to choose something else. Why don’t you have her bed? It’s a mighty fine bed.”
Mrs. Kesler screwed up her nose. “I don’t want her bed. She’s lain in it. That great big whale of a woman. It probably sags in the middle.”
“You can buy a new mattress,” her sister suggested with a smirk.
“With the money I’m going to inherit, Evie, I can buy twenty new mattresses!” Mrs. Kesler exclaimed, cheering up. “All right, you can have the chairs, Evie, and I’ll have the bed, without the mattress. I want the Persian rugs. All of them.”
“Isn’t that a little greedy?” their mother asked.
“Evie doesn’t need them. She already has beautiful rugs. She got the chairs. I’m choosing the rugs. I’ll have those rugs, do you hear!”
Bridie left the room. She couldn’t bear to listen to the women fighting over Mrs. Grimsby’s possessions when they hadn’t even buried her yet. When the women had previously come to New York they had been united in their plot to endear themselves to their aunt; now they were squabbling like crows over carrion. If Mrs. Grimsby had known how disrespectful and avaricious they were going to be she might have considered burning down her houses so they got nothing.
“Of course they can’t take anything until the will is read,” Miss Ferrel told Bridie later when the three women had gone. They had departed in silence, furious with each other. “You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if she has left everything to charity.”
“Indeed and that would serve them right,” Bridie agreed. “They don’t deserve a dollar of her money.”
“They don’t even deserve Precious,” Miss Ferrel added. “Those women will kick her out onto the street.”
“A job’s a job, but I don’t think I’d like to work for them,” said Bridie. “I never thought I’d miss Mrs. Grimsby.”
Miss Ferrel raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “You’re an odd girl, Bridget,” she said.
Bridie and Miss Ferrel remained at the mansion for a week. They heard nothing from the family so they continued to do their jobs as normal, even though Mrs. Grimsby was no longer there. Bridie kept the place dusted and Miss Ferrel went through her desk and tidied her papers. When she had done that she took all the books down from the shelves and rearranged them in alphabetical order just to keep busy.
Then, at the end of the week, Mr. Williams drew up outside the mansion in a shiny car. He stepped out in a pristine suit and hat and rang the bell. Miss Ferrel answered and showed him into the hall. He asked to see Miss Doyle. He had something important to say to her.
He put his briefcase down on Mrs. Grimsby’s desk in the study and smiled at Bridie. “Good morning, Miss Doyle. As you know, I’m Mrs. Grimsby’s attorney, Beaumont Williams. I’m sorry for your loss.” Once the pleasantries were out of the way, he sat down and put on his spectacles in a businesslike fashion. “Now, you might be aware that the reading of the will took place yesterday in the presence of Mrs. Grimsby’s family.” She dropped her gaze into her lap where her fingers fidgeted nervously. “It came as quite a surprise to the family when they were told that Mrs. Grimsby has left her entire estate to you, Miss Doyle.”
“Excuse me, sir?” Bridie had gone white with shock.
Mr. Williams’s eyes twinkled in amusement. He was clearly enjoying this. “Let me speak plainly, Miss Doyle. Mrs. Grimsby changed her will only a few months ago. She said this would be one hell of a surprise for her family, who had never given her an ounce of affection until the very end. If I recall correctly, she said, ‘Miss Doyle has been more loyal to me than anyone I have ever known, in truth she is the only member of my staff to prove her honesty, therefore it gives me enormous pleasure to reward her with everything I own. But it gives me even more pleasure to deny my family an inheritance they don’t deserve.’ ” He opened his briefcase with short, nimble fingers. “Now, let me show you the paperwork. It is a considerable fortune by anyone’s standards.” He grinned at her with satisfaction. “She was very specific about two things, however. She requested that you cherish her book of Yeats’s poetry, and this.” He pulled out the gold locket on the chain that the old lady had always worn and handed it to Bridie. She held it a moment in her trembling hand. “Don’t be frightened to open it, Miss Doyle,” said Mr. Williams encouragingly. As her eyes blurred with tears she clicked it open. Inside was a green shamrock set behind glass.