Chapter 10
May 1824
Montague House
Dublin
With the promise of spring just on the horizon, the Montague family prepared to depart for their country estate in Killiney. Outside, wagons held trunks of clothing, small items of furniture, and linens, ready to make the two-hour journey. Our breakfast had been cold meat, cheese, and bread, the remnants of the larder that could not be packed and transported. Even Mrs. Gallagher’s precious pans had already been loaded and she stood guard with them, among the first servants to depart.
I stood precariously on a small stool, reaching for the curtain rod to determine why the heavy fabric had snagged and the curtains would not close. Lord Montague planned to rent his townhome while the family resided in the country, but had yet to find a suitable tenant, so we were closing the house up as for winter. I wrestled with two hooks that had somehow become entangled. If I were only a bit taller, this wouldn’t be such a struggle.
“Miss Ryan?” Lady Montague called up to me.
I immediately stopped what I was doing and stepped down. “Yes, madam?”
“I would like to have a word with you.” Her voice was stern, devoid of all warmth.
She gestured for me to follow her toward the parlor, which had already been prepared for the move, and my stomach twisted. When Lady Montague wished for privacy, the outcome was never good. Around us, sheets had been placed over every item of furniture, including the chandeliers, to protect them from dust. The curtains were drawn and the shutters locked, making it difficult to see and I had to fight to avoid getting my shoe caught in the fabric covering the floor. Why would she bring me in here? Better yet, why would she speak to me directly at all? Mrs. Donahue handled the household affairs, so if I was in some sort of trouble, wouldn’t she reprimand me?
I stood in the gloomy room, eyes cast downward, but noticing every shaft of light that managed to squeeze in between the slats of the shutters and make its way around the edges of the curtains. It cast menacing shadows on the floor and gave the room an eerie glow as it diffused into darkness in the corners.
“Miss Ryan, I am here to inform you that your services are no longer needed in this house. You will not be joining us at the manor this summer or ever again.”
My head shot up and I had to swallow the incredulous question of “What?” that rang through my head. Did I hear her right? Why was she doing this?
The confusion must have shown on my face, for she answered, “It brings me no joy to do this, for you know as well as I we need more servants in the country, not fewer. But I cannot have you in my employ after what you have done.”
What I had done? I had been a model employee since Margaret disappeared, taking over her duties in the scant weeks remaining before the move. I even ceased to fight back when Lord Montague came to me, the Devil’s urge upon him. Though that happened less now, ever since young Bess was hired to replace Margaret by day and supplant me at night, or so it seemed. Unlike her predecessor, Bess had none of Margaret’s guileless warmth; she possessed a cunning that sharpened her eyes and froze her humanity. She was going to be trouble.
“What am I said to have done?” I asked quietly. She had not addressed me, so I should have remained silent, but what did it matter now?
Lady Montague’s frown grew even tighter. “Oh, you truly have had us all fooled, Miss Ryan. You ask with such innocence I am half-tempted to believe you truly are unaware.” She regarded me closely, squinting her eyes as though she were weighing the options before her. “If you must know, it has come to my attention that you have been engaging in lewd behavior, even going to far as to try to seduce my husband.” At these words she plucked an invisible thread from her sleeve and let it fall to the ground. “Therefore, you are hereby dismissed—without a character.”
I could contain my fury and confusion no longer. “But without a character I will not be able to get another job,” I cried, desperation sweeping over me like a wave. I wanted to run to her, to fall to my knees and clutch at the fabric of her rust-colored traveling gown and beg for mercy.
“Maybe you can put your acting skills to use on the stage,” she retorted.
“Please, madam. I have only a few months left on my contract. You will never see me or hear my name again after that. I promise you. But I have done nothing. You must believe me.”
Her eyes flashed with so much anger it was like a whip to my face. “I mustn’t do anything.” She paused, chest heaving with anger. “Do you think I didn’t know? That story you concocted about being attacked in the market was as transparent as egg whites. I know the signs of a botched abortion when I see one.”
Fleetingly, the question of how a lady such as herself would know such a loathsome thing danced across my mind, but then more practical matters took the lead. “So, you will just leave me here?” My voice cracked as I fought for control. “Where will I go? What will I do?”
Lady Montague stepped to one wall and pulled the tassel handing from the ceiling. A bell sounded.
Bess came bustling in with my old carpetbag in one hand and my bonnet in the other. She smirked at me as she dropped the bag at my feet with a thunk. She handed my bonnet to Lady Montague, who passed it to me in a final gesture of dismissal.
“I had Miss Bannon gather up your things. And lest you think me completely heartless, you will find the wages you are owed inside. That should tide you over long enough to get settled. Goodbye, Miss Ryan.”
She nodded to Bess, who grasped my arm above the elbow and began leading me toward the front door, which was closer than the servant’s entrance. Heads turned as we rushed through the drawing room and foyer.
Before I could even fully understand what was happening, Bess had pushed me over the threshold, the door already propped open. I stumbled, catching myself just before I would have tumbled headlong down the three stairs to the sidewalk below. As I brushed myself off, the quiet assailed me, every person having stopped what they were doing to gawk. Straightening to my full height, I returned their gazes with a smile, tied my bonnet securely, and set off down Fitzwilliam Place as though I had planned this all along.
*****
When I reached Merrion Square Park, I slipped inside and hid behind a hedgerow. Not only did this give me a relatively safe place to count my coins, but it hid me from the judgmental eyes of the wealthy who frequented the park. The last thing I needed was to be robbed of the last of my money by a misguided thief or accused of stealing it and arrested. Then I would be sent to the gaol or the workhouse for sure. I shivered. There was no way I was going back to the workhouse ever again. I’d die on the streets first.
I opened the carpetbag and plunged my hand into the fabric, past my spare uniform, a few other items of clothing, and one pair of boots. My fingers touched a small irregularly shaped pouch of soft leather. I withdrew it to find that, as promised, it contained my wages. I counted up eight and half pounds. Most boarding houses charged around two pence a night, so including food and other necessities, I had enough money for at most three to four months.
That night I secured a room in a cheap boarding house run by an eccentric woman named Mrs. MacGregor. In her establishment, the kitchen was a communal hearth with a single saucepan, a gridiron, and a frying pan we all shared. Tea was served not in fine china or even ceramic, but in glass jars that threatened to burst if the liquid inside was too warm. While the female tenants took turns cooking and gossiping with Mrs. MacGregor, the men lazed around, smoking or reading the newspaper. Those who were illiterate played at dice or cards—both of which Mrs. MacGregor was banned from playing because she had a tendency to cheat.
“I don’t cheat,” she’d insist. “I follow me own rules.”
Though the constant threat of robbery or rape loomed from outsiders, the long-term lodgers quickly built up a tacit trust and my new life took shape. Meals were simple affairs of bacon, herring or sausage, paired with bread and some tea or beer. Sometimes we pooled our resources to make a stew. After our evening meal, we each retired to our own tiny room, barely large enough to hold a palette and chamber pot, and tried to sleep despite our neighbor’s snoring and the scratching of rats in the walls and skittering of roaches across the floors.
From first light until the dinner hour, I answered every ad for a domestic listed in the Times and the Evening Post, but no one would even see me without a character. Tired of having doors slammed in my face, I began to enquire at taverns, shops, and churches if anyone had heard of available work. My fellow lodgers asked around as well, but every lead turned into a dead end.
Within six weeks, unexpected expenses had taken a chunk out of my meager savings. I had known I’d need to buy my own food, but I hadn’t counted on the additional cost of necessities such as crockery, utensils, and soap, not to mention medicine and candles. Soon I was forced to take in clothes for mending, using my valuable candles late into the night to earn enough to keep body and soul united.
Mrs. MacGregor was a surprisingly compassionate proprietress. Even when my rent was late, she always had a good bit of gossip and a warm cup of tea. Despite having a building full of lodgers, I think she was lonely. She often popped in at night to help with the mending or offer me a leftover heel of bread coated in drippings or some cheese. She even occasionally let me work for her, cleaning, running errands, or minding babies or children of clients. It wasn’t steady work, but anything helped.
I dreaded the day I would have to say farewell to Mrs. MacGregor, but the lack of coin in my purse didn’t lie. Soon I’d have to be moving on. I’d miss that strange old woman.