Chapter 1
January 1822
Coolock House
Outside of Dublin, Ireland
I stared down at the small writing book resting on the table before me. It was where I kept my meditations on God, faith, and anything else that was troubling my mind. But years ago I had dedicated a small section in the back to those I had lost—it was my memory book, my way of keeping them alive, if only in my heart. There had been so many; first my father, then the priest who was my first confessor. My eyes lingered on the most recent entry, made only two and half years ago. Catherine Callaghan. Now it was time to add another.
It was hard to believe two decades had passed since the Callaghans had welcomed me into their homes and hearts. Over the years, they had become like surrogate parents, instructing and correcting me when needed, but also encouraging my dreams of helping the poor. I cleaned and cooked for them, read to them, and tended to their needs in their final illnesses. In turn, they made it clear I was not just a companion or nurse; they viewed me as a daughter.
The one sticking point between us, however, was religion. Though the worst of the Penal Code had been lifted and Catholics were free to openly practice our faith once again, the Callaghans were staunchly opposed to it. It was a blessing they did not force me to renounce my faith, but Mr. Callaghan, a staunch Protestant, and his wife, Mary—God rest her soul—an ardent Quaker until secretly embracing Holy Mother Church on her deathbed only months ago, barely tolerated my faith at first. They allowed me to attend Mass, say my prayers in private with Aoine, their only Catholic servant, but we couldn’t possess any outward signs of our faith, like crucifixes or rosaries that others might see. “Believe what you will, so long as Christ is at the center of your life, but keep at that Popery and superstition outside of these walls,” Mr. Callaghan had said on my first day here.
Over the years, his rigidness had softened, mellowed certainly by the grace of God, but also perhaps by our many spirited debates about faith and philosophy by the fireside on long winter nights. For all his bluster, Mr. Callaghan was an upstanding man who truly believed in his duty to the poor as a Christian. “To whom much is given much is required,” was one of his favorite verses to quote from the Bible. Ireland may no longer have fiefdoms and serfs, but he took his role as the wealthiest man in the area to heart. Many times I accompanied him around Coolock village as he enquired into the health and welfare of its merchants, families, and especially those who had fallen on hard times. During sickness, drought, or bereavement, packages were loaded into his carriage and left on doorsteps. He had even once funded a young man’s entrance into the military, confiding in us that it was the best opportunity the boy could hope for to rise in the world.
With a sigh, I added William Callaghan’s name to the list. May the Lord have mercy on his soul. With my last employer gone, I had no idea what my future would hold. At forty-two, I didn’t have many options. I was now both too old and too poor to marry, a dream I had given up decades earlier. As a young woman, I would have happily accepted the hand of a man who respected my determination and shared my faith; but such men were a rarity, especially given my family’s deteriorating financial state, constant change of address, and ever-shifting social circles as we sought to stay off the streets and keep body and soul joined.
Yet I could not live alone. Not only was it unseemly, it required means I did not have. Thus far I had depended on the kindness of family and friends, but what would I do when that ran out? My brother and sister were both wed and certainly did not want their spinster sister interrupting their lives. With no husband to protect me, where was I to go? What was I to do?
All I knew was I felt still that ever-present tug at my soul, that deep down yearning to do good. The school I ran on the Coolock House grounds was a good first step, but it was not enough. It was like a thirst I could not quench, an ache that no amount of prayer would relieve. Day after day I begged God to show me the way. I knew with the certainty of my own name that he was calling me to something, that my life had purpose and he had a mission for me. Only I had no idea what it was or how to accomplish it.
In my mind’s eye I kept seeing the faces of those I encountered regularly when in town. The rotation of prostitutes at the quay never ended, but I knew a few on sight. Most were teenaged girls from the countryside or the orphanages or workhouses who had been disowned or turned out and run out of ways to feed themselves. Others were abandoned wives or widows, some former domestics who lacked either experience or character references to find additional work. As sad as their plights were, it was the families who affected me most. Mothers and fathers often begged for a few coins to feed their children or heat their homes. They were the lucky ones, for they were hale and whole enough to make the trek from their little dwellings into the city; hundreds more could not do even that, due to illness, drink, or loss of limb. So many men had been mutilated in the Bloody Rebellion and discarded into the gutters like the contents of a chamber pot.
What could I do in the face of such abject poverty and suffering? I was only one person, and a woman at that. I could not run for office or influence politics like the great Liberator Daniel O’Connell, had no financial means to donate large sums to charity like the wives of the politicians in Merrion Square, and God knew I had no desire to become a nun. I shuddered at the mere thought. Spending my days on my knees in prayer, trapped in a place I neither wanted to be nor could ever flee was akin to a living death.
I looked up with a start, my musings interrupted when the door to the receiving room banged open. I quickly closed my book and stashed it the inner pocket of my dress before turning to greet the newcomer.
Mr. Callaghan’s relative, Mr. Richard Powell, was the first face I took in, his jaw clenched, his brown eyes stormy. But before I could form a rebuke for his rude entrance into my home, my gaze flicked to Patricia, my chief maid, whose cheeks were ruddy with exertion.
“Forgive the intrusion, Miss McAuley,” she said, dropping her chin to her chest. “I tried to get them to wait in the foyer while I announced them, but he,” she titled her head toward Mr. Powell, “insisted they were expected.”
They? It was only then that I looked beyond Mr. Powell and Patricia. Behind them stood Marianne Powell, Richard’s wife, her spine ramrod straight, chin tilted up slightly, a haughty expression on her face. Her eyes roamed the room as though she were calculating the value of every item. Hiding behind her voluminous sage skirts were two little girls so alike in curls and dimples, they could be twins.
Returning my gaze to Mr. Powell, I pursed my lips. “Indeed.” I infused my voice with frost. “I was expecting the Powells for the reading of Mr. Callaghan’s will, but not quite so soon. Why, the attorney isn’t even here yet.”
“No sense in putting off the inevitable,” Marianne said.
Ignoring her, I gestured toward the door. “Please, won’t you follow me to the parlor?” There will be more room there once all parties arrive.” As I passed Patricia, I added, “Bring us some tea, won’t you, dear?”
Over the next half hour, people trickled in, mostly family from the McAuley side—distant relations I hadn’t seen in years. The grandfather clock in the corner struck the hour before my brother James arrived, and by then the men had requested whiskey and Mr. Powell sucked on a foul-smelling cigar. Not long after, Patricia showed Mr. Johnston into the room. The gentlemen extinguished their cigars and everyone took seats around the room as the attorney arranged his papers and donned a slim gold pair of spectacles.
After reading through the attestation of Mr. Callaghan’s soundness of mind and judgment, dispensing with the formalities of executors of the will, and addressing certain business matters, the lawyer read the section on the distribution of property, land, and other assets.
“To my kind and affectionate friend Miss Catherine McAuley, who resides with me,” the lawyer glanced up at me, before returning his eyes to the paper, “for her many kindnesses and attentions I give, devise, and bequeath the four several annuities heretofore mentioned on the lives of Ross Thompson, Lord Howth, Christopher Robinson, and Robert M. Fishbourne, with the several policies assurance connected with the same and all benefit and advantage arising therefrom, together with such arrears of said annuities as may be due at my deceased.”
This was not a surprise, as Mr. Callaghan mentioned he would leave me something. But instead of moving on to the next beneficiary, Mr. Johnston continued reading, adding to my inheritance.
“I also leave to the said Catherine McAuley all the grand canal stock or loans which I may have at the time of my death, together with all arrears of interest that may be then due on same. I do hereby appoint the said Catherine McAuley sole residuary legatee of all my estate and effect, real or personal, subject to specific legacies mentioned in my will and I do hereby publish and declare this as and for a codicil to my will and direct it to be taken as such.”
What? Could I have heard correctly? Sole inheritor of Coolock House and its assets? A shrill ringing began in the back of my mind, threatening to overwhelm me. I gripped the table to keep myself upright.
Around me, oblivious to my distress, Mr. and Mrs. Powell, several Callaghan relatives, and my brother shouted, creating a collective roar of indignation that drowned out whatever came next.
“Now see here,” a man declared.
“What? No! It is unfathomable,” Marianne yelled.
“Let me see that paper,” my brother demanded, reaching to pluck it out of the attorney’s hand.
“Please, calm down, everyone,” the lawyer shouted above the din, curling in on himself to protect the document and inching out of William’s reach. “There is more. If you will but let me continue.”
As the congregation of relatives slowly regained their decorum, my heart continued to gallop as though it would leap through my skin and go cantering off down the lane. I sank back into the fine mahogany chair—my chair, I corrected myself, seeing the entire room in a whole new light. No wonder Marianne was anxious to begin appraising the house. The entire room was made of simple, yet fine things: from the hand-made lace sheers that dampened the light to the thick rugs beneath our leather soles. Why or how I had failed to notice them before remained a mystery; the best I could speculate was that I’d never had reason to. This was simply my home. But now it was a grand estate. And I stood to inherit it.
I struggled to take a deep breath, finding instead that my lungs would only fill to half compacity. I excused myself on account of needing some fresh air. I snuck through the still bickering crowd and had nearly made it before Mr. Johnston’s hand came down on my shoulder, not in rebuke but gently, like a concerned uncle.
“There is one more thing, Miss McAuley,” he whispered into my ear. “Mr. Callaghan asked that I give you this once you became aware of the considerable inheritance he left you.”
The lawyer sipped a folded paper into my palm and I instinctually thumbed it father up my sleeve so no one could see it. “He asked that you read it alone, think it over, and then draw your own conclusion.”
“What is it?” I asked in reply.
He shook his head. “I do not know, but whatever it is, it was meant only for your eyes.”
I bobbed a small curtsey to him and looked around to be certain no one else had seen or heard, but Mr. and Mrs. Powell were deep into an argument with the Callaghans, and my relatives were squawking amongst themselves about contesting the will in court, which I had no doubt they would do.
On silent feet perfected over years of coming and going from the Callaghan’s sickbeds, I slipped out the door and into the garden. As soon as it closed behind me, I leaned against the sun-warmed stones and heaved a great sigh. Try as I might to comprehend the last few minutes of my life, my brain stuttered to a complete halt.
Then I remembered the paper tucked up the bell of my left sleeve. Maybe it would yield some insight. Pushing away from the house’s outer wall, I began tracing one of the many paths leading through the gardens. This one began amid the skeletons of herbs like basil, rue, and lavender in the kitchen garden and continued on through what would be in spring more formal flower beds. But now, all was silent, with only the occasional breeze shaking the hibernating plants beneath a light dusting of snow.
I found my favorite fountain, a simple round, three-tiered basin that tinkled like the finest crystal or like icicles splintering after a deep freeze. I sat on its edge and removed the note. Mr. Callaghan’s elegant script greeted me.
My dear Kitty,
If you are reading this, then I have gone home to the Heavenly Father and my dear wife. Do not grieve for me, for you know just as well as I that to be free from this world and its suffering is the greatest reward.
I felt I owed you an explanation for the shock you surely received when my will was read, but it was not something I felt the others needed to know, so I commit this information to you alone. It is your choice whether or not to share it with others. You know I always intended to see you well looked-after upon my death. In its original form, I split the profits from my estate between you and the Powells, just as we had discussed. However, not long ago I overheard the most disturbing discussion between them.
One of the days they came to call, you were away at Mass, and having tired, I asked them to take a turn about the garden while I rested. They obliged, but lingered on the back terrace and had a lengthy discussion about my health, which they did not know I could hear through my open window. That I forgive them for, of course my condition would be of concern to them. But what they said next shocked and saddened me more than I can say. Mr. Powell mentioned that he had word from a reliable source that I was entertaining the idea of making you mistress of Coolock House. (Who would have told him that I cannot guess.) Mrs. Powell laughed quite haughtily and responded that the idea was too absurd to be entertained. He, in turn, agreed, saying I may as well leave the house to my favorite horse.
After a few more moments of such talk, they finally took the footpath toward the orchards, leaving only my hurt and betrayal in their wake. I resolved then and there to amend my will, doing exactly what they thought so outrageous. The more I thought on it, the more I realized the Powells were exactly right; no one else cared about our home so much or would put it to as good of use as you. After committing the decision to God in prayer, I dreamed that you would use the estate for your good works. I summoned my solicitor and had a codicil added to my will the very next day.
That is why, my dear, you are now inheritor of our family home. No words can express my love for you or my appreciation for your companionship all of these years.
With all of my love,
William Callaghan
Vision blurred with tears, I seated myself on one of the stone benches overlooking the frost-bitten canes of last summer’s roses. A second page listed out exactly what I was owed according to the codicil: ready money in the form of bonds and loans in the name of one Frederick Moore of Mountjoy Square, a barrister whom I assumed held this money in trust for Mr. Callaghan; the house itself plus its outbuildings; it contents, including furniture, plate, and linen; and various other property, including the Callaghan carriage, horses, and farming implements, plus annual income. The sum at the bottom of the page was staggering: nearly £30,000. That was a substantial sum for any man to inherit, let alone a woman who was no blood relation, and a spinster at that.
I stared across the fields, listening to the giggles and shouts of some of the local children as they played stick ball; these were the true inheritors of Mr. Callaghan’s munificence. They would reap the rewards in learning, religious education, and skills, and go on to lead respectable lives that would otherwise be out of reach.
I glanced back up at the house, where, through the large glass windows, the Powells were still gesticulating wildly at the poor barrister. There was no doubt this would only be resolved in court, and if needs be, I would reveal Mr. Callaghan’s private correspondence to put an end to it.
A smile crossed my lips. In that very room was the one thing I would insist the Powells take with them as part of their inheritance: an oil painting of Cuchulainn, Mr. Callaghan’s favorite race horse.