Chapter 39
December 1832
Streets of Dublin
Dublin, Ireland
Returning to the streets of Dublin after the epidemic was a bittersweet experience. Even though the sky was gray, the wind bitter, and the ground frozen, Catherine and I spent several days traversing the city. She wanted to see for herself how the epidemic had changed the city and its poorest inhabitants. My heart leapt with joy each time I encountered someone I knew who had survived, but it also broke when I found a home empty or a family shattered from the death of one or more members. I was gutted to learn Mrs. MacGregor had been one of the disease’s victims. I couldn’t imagine never hearing her hearty laugh or deep voice ever again; ministering in the streets wouldn’t be nearly the same without her.
One unexpected and joyful change was that so many of the poor recognized and trusted us now, having been patients in the Townsend Street Hospital themselves or hearing about us from a family member or friend. At least a dozen agreed to return to the House of Mercy with us rather than continue their lives in alleyways and sub-par housing.
The docks were an area normally covered by Frances and Kate, so it was a place I had never visited. The buildings there were mostly wooden, often decaying from the wind and salt from the bay. Women hung out of upper-story windows, calling to men in the streets below, or stood in doorways trying to catch the wandering eyes of passersby, occasionally flashing a breast if they received enough attention. Gangs of children ran wild, kicking balls across the alleys and tormenting shopkeepers simply because they were bored.
Inside one boarding house we found a group of three women all laid low with fever, sleeping on thin straw pallets that stank of decay. Catherine stoked the dying peat fire, trying to bring some light and heat to the dank, cold room. I approached the woman who was laying on her side, facing away from me, and knelt down. Her brow was slick with sweat but she was shivering. I pulled the threadbare blanket at her waist up to her shoulders.
That was enough to rouse her and she struck out, mistaking my gesture for a threat. I had made the exact same instinctual movement dozens of times when I was living in similar conditions.
“I am not here to hurt you,” I said in a low, calming tone. “My name is Grace. I’m here to help.”
At my name, the woman shifted so that she was laying on her back. She scrutinized my face for a long time before saying my name again, “Grace?”
“Yes.”
She struggled to sit up. “I know you.”
I gave her my arm and she used it to pull herself into a seated position. It was then I could see her clearly. I could not believe my eyes. It was as though the last six years had never taken place. Yes, she appeared older; her hair had lost its luster, her face and neck were scarred, and she would never again have the girlish innocence I had so admired, but there was no doubt—God had performed a miracle; she was alive after all.
“Margaret?” Her name came out of my mouth with a mix of wonder and disbelief.
“Yes,” she nodded enthusiastically, then brought a hand to her head as if she regretted the motion.
I hugged her tightly. “I thought you were dead. Praised be Jesus!”
Catherine turned from the fire, where she was heating broth for the women, and looked at me. “Catherine, this is Margaret! Our Margaret!” I cried.
Her eyes widened and she scurried over to us. Kneeling next to us she looked the woman over and declared. “It is. Blessed Jesus, thank you for this miracle.”
Margaret recoiled, clearly not recognizing Catherine in her religious garb. I hugged her tightly to me, as I would a little child. “That is Catherine McAuley, whose house we went to that night. Do you remember her?”
“Surely I must be dead or dreaming—Lord what did I take?” she asked herself. “That woman is a nun.”
“She is and I will be soon, too.”
Margaret blinked several times in rapid succession. “Now I know I am dead. There is no other way Grace Ryan would ever become a nun.” She peered into my face. “Are you sure you are the same Grace?”
I handed her one of the mugs of broth. “A lot has happened.”
While Margaret sipped her broth, Catherine and I tended to the two other women, who had been roused by our exuberant reunion. They were suffering from the same fever as Margaret, but also had severe cases of the pox. They agreed to come back to the House with us, but only because Margaret knew and trusted us.
Catherine hired a carriage to take us back; there was no way these women could walk the distance. As we traveled, Catherine and I gave Margaret a summary of everything that had taken place since we last saw her.
Once we were back at the House of Mercy and all three women were safely tucked into beds in the infirmary, Catherine and I sat with Margaret, anxious to hear what had happened to her.
“The last time I saw you, you were safe at Catherine’s home,” I said. “How did you go from there to prostituting yourself on the docks?
“My story isn’t all that different than yours or so many others, I’m afraid. Catherine didn’t have room for me in Coolock House, so she took me all over Dublin trying to find a place that could offer me safe harbor, but everyone turned us away. It was getting dark, so Catherine bought me a night an inn and we agreed to meet up the following morning.”
“A decision I will forever regret,” Catherine said.
“What’s done is done,” Margaret said. “That night, one of the servants from Lord Montague’s estate tracked me down at the inn and told me I needed to return to the estate quickly. He said Grace was bleeding and asking for me.”
“I was bleeding, but not in the way he made it sound. Lord Montague laid into me when he figured out I helped you escape.”
“Oh Grace, I’m so sorry you were hurt because of me.”
I waved her away. “Go on.”
“When I got back to the house, Lord Montague was waiting for me in the garden. I don’t remember much of what he said, only that he wanted to show me the consequences of trying to run away. He hit me several times and eventually I passed out.”
I stilled, a memory surfacing of a loud crack, one I initially mistook for thunder. “Did he hit you with his cane, by chance?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
I thought back. “I’m not sure. The whole night is hazy. I remember Mrs. Donahue trying to convince me I really was attacked by robbers in the market. But I know it was Lord Montague who beat me.”
“She was probably saying what he told her to so you wouldn’t be suspicious,” Margaret said. “Where was I? Oh. The next thing I knew I woke up in a small shanty on the bay. A fisherman found me on Sandymount Strand. He said it looked like I had been in the water for a while before I washed ashore. Called me his own selkie, he did.”
“So, Lord Montague left you for dead?”
Margaret shrugged. “Him or one of his men. I lived with the fisherman and his family until I was healed enough to be on my way. He offered to take me back to Howth and I let him. What I had no way of knowing was that while I was working for Lord Montague, my da died and my ma answered an ad promising work in America. No one ever heard from her again.
“So now I was alone, with no prospects and no reference, just like you, Grace. I worked in service in Howth for as long as I could, but people were moving away. Once I had a few characters, I tried to find work at the country manors, but the competition was so strong and no one cared about references from a small town. Three years on and I was back to where I started.
“I hopped a cart into Dublin and spent some time at the workhouse before realizing if I stayed there, I’d be there my whole life. By then I was hearing rumors about Catherine and the house she was building.”
“My dear girl, why didn’t you come to me? I could have helped you.” Catherine’s eyes were brimming with tears.
“I know that now, but back then I didn’t think you’d want me. You see, my heart had grown bitter toward you. In my way of thinking, if you couldn’t spare a spot on the carpet or even on your lawn for one night, why would you take me now?”
Catherine began to sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I looked for you, searched for months.”
Margaret said nothing, seemingly lost in thought. After a moment she shook herself and continued.
“Not knowing what else to do, I went back to the shanty to see if the fisherman was still there and he was, only he was all alone—his eldest had joined the Royal Marines, his middle son was lost to the sea in a boating accident, and his wife and child had died. I offered to cook and clean and keep his home while he was away at sea and he agreed. As these things usually go, we fell in love and were wed. Married to him three years I was before a storm blew up, tossed the waves upon the shore, and flattened our home. My husband was killed and I nearly was.”
“I remember that storm, don’t you, Grace? So many women lost everything that we had triple capacity for months. It nearly ruined us,” Catherine said.
“It did ruin me. For the fourth time in seven years, I was homeless. But this time I was in pain from an injury I received during the storm, and tired—so tired—that I no longer cared what happened to me. I took up with the first man who offered to buy me gin, and then I met Lucy and Faith.” She gestured to the two women snoring softly behind us. “They knew men who had or could get any form of vice you desired. Honestly, if you hadn’t found me today, I would likely have been dead in a matter of weeks.”
I sat back, contemplating how our lives had changed so drastically, yet here we were, back together again.
“God had to have had a reason for bringing us back together,” I said, more to myself than to Catherine or Margaret.
“He always does,” Catherine answered.