At the start, becoming Alice was a challenge. People in Cohasset would address Bridget by her new name, and she would fail to respond. Or they’d ask a question about her life in Ireland, and she’d take too long to answer. By the time she left Florence Stanhope’s care, however, she’d perfected her act. She was Alice Ann King, widow of Bernard, from Tulla, County Clare. Her daughter was Delia Mary. She’d learnt to shave two years off her age and to say little about her upbringing. Slipping into Alice’s identity became as easy as slipping into the new dresses provided by Mrs Stanhope.
She’d assumed that when she reached Boston she’d be able to revert to her real name. True, her paperwork was in Alice’s name, but she would think of ways around that. She’d underestimated the diligence of Father Garrity, who’d arranged for her to stay with an Irish family. As far as they were concerned, she was Alice.
‘It’s only for a week or two,’ he emphasised. ‘The Russells scarcely have room for their own family. They’re good Catholics, though, and they wouldn’t want to see the two of you on the streets.’
Peggy Russell was a stout woman with a puff of orange hair, a reedy voice and a burning need to warn Bridget that ‘her kind’ weren’t popular in Boston.
‘You shouldn’t expect much sympathy,’ she said. She also maintained that Bridget would find it impossible to get work as a domestic servant. If being Irish was an impediment, being Irish with a baby was too high a barrier for any young woman to scale. ‘No,’ she concluded, ‘the best you can do is find yourself another husband.’
Delia, just past her first birthday and starting to take small, uncertain steps, chose that moment to fall over and bump her head on the hard floor. She let out a high wail, Bridget dashed to her aid, and Peggy folded her arms across her chest in a way that suggested her point had been well made.
As she tried to pacify the child, Bridget wondered again about the wisdom of her decision. What, though, if she’d been honest? Where would Delia be now? Would she have been sent to a home? Or would she have been given to a family who knew nothing about her or where she came from?
The Russells lived in the North End, an area of tenements, lodging houses and warehouses. Its streets teemed with Irish faces, more faces than she had ever seen. They dug trenches and worked in stables and textile mills. They cleaned houses and cared for children. They came from Kerry and Tipperary, Donegal and Armagh. For the first time, Bridget heard how many different Irish accents there were. Someone from Wexford or Louth sounded as unusual to her as someone from Texas or New York.
Along with her husband, Ned, Peggy had been in America for twenty-five years and, in her own eyes at least, was of a different standing from the Irish who’d landed in more recent times. That her family of seven lived in the same ramshackle conditions as the new arrivals didn’t weaken her conviction. She was also blessed with a religious fervour that Bridget had rarely seen in Clooneven. While she railed against sinfulness of all types, her strongest condemnation was reserved for an area known as the Black Sea, which was home to many of Boston’s gaming houses, dance halls and brothels.
‘It’s the women who need to take most of the blame,’ she said. ‘The men can’t help themselves, but the women have neither modesty nor shame. I look at them and say to myself, Is this what we’ve become?’
While never as optimistic as Alice, Bridget hadn’t expected to find hostility in Boston. Her time in Cohasset had bolstered that view. Those weeks had been misleading. In a seaside town, she’d been a novelty, a blameless young widow in need of support. In the city, she reverted to being another unwanted body. Under Peggy’s tutelage, she soon learnt more about her status and about how her own people were to blame.
‘The trouble with the newer Irish,’ said her landlady, ‘is that they’re determined to bring their worst habits with them. They’ll have to realise that begging and pilfering aren’t acceptable here. And as for all those men going to grog shops and saloons, if I had my way, they’d be sent back to Ireland on the next boat. Decent American people aren’t accustomed to public intoxication.’
‘But most people don’t behave like that,’ said Bridget. ‘And considering what they went through at home, is it any surprise that their behaviour has been affected?’
‘They’ve got to leave Ireland behind them. My American friends say it to me. “Peggy,” they say, “Ireland isn’t sending us its best people any more. Why is that?”’
To Bridget, a considerable number of the newcomers seemed too gentle for the streets of Boston. They were country people who, until they’d arrived in the city, had known only the company of others like themselves. Her heart hurt when she came across a lost-looking man or a frightened woman.
Despite Peggy’s sermons, the first time she saw an advertisement that stated Irish people weren’t welcome, she inhaled with shock.
WANTED
A reliable woman to take care of a small boy in Brookline.
Good recommendations as to character and capacity demanded.
Positively No Irish Need Apply.
After that, she saw the notices everywhere. Some outlined the employer’s requirements in more diplomatic terms. Rather than saying that Irish people weren’t welcome, the family emphasised their preference for a Protestant girl. Others were more specific still. The position was for a German Protestant, they said, or a Scotch Protestant.
Nevertheless, Bridget continued to look for work. Leaving Delia with Peggy, she presented herself at door after door. Sometimes, the rejections were polite. More often, they were accompanied by advice. ‘Bostonians are generous,’ one woman said, ‘and we know life has been very cruel to the Irish. That’s why we’ve sent money. But you’re not wanted here.’
Others were scornful. ‘You’re taking food from American mouths,’ a man told her, ‘and you’re lowering standards. You should go back to where you came from.’
She attempted to press her case. She was a hard worker, she said. She could read and write. She was willing to clean and cook and take care of children. After her stay in Cohasset, she was in robust health. Didn’t she deserve a chance?
Every fruitless day lowered her spirits further. She’d return to the Russells’ house where Peggy would narrow her eyes and mutter about young women needing to heed the advice of their elders and betters. To this end, the names of various men were mentioned. Almost without exception, they were the sons of families who’d been in Boston for decades. Decent people. The problem was, Bridget didn’t want to be paired with a man she barely knew. It was only eighteen months since John Joe’s death, and she still sought solace in her memories of him. The thought of being touched by another man, especially one favoured by Peggy, repulsed her.
She regularly thought of how America would have disappointed Alice. This mean-spirited, stone-hearted city wasn’t what they’d hoped for.
As the days became weeks, Bridget’s despair deepened. Peggy’s warnings about limits to the family’s generosity became more frequent. Not only that, she began musing about the differences between Bridget and Delia.
‘She doesn’t look like you. Not a bit,’ she’d say. ‘Her with the big brown eyes and the fair hair, and you with blue eyes and red hair. And that tiny nose. She didn’t get that from you, that’s for sure. She must take after her late father, does she?’
Bridget assured herself that the woman couldn’t know what had happened on the Mary and Elizabeth. Even so, the questions made her anxious. Uninformed as she was about the law in Boston, she had the feeling that, no matter where you went, stealing a dead woman’s baby was a serious crime.
There was another reason she needed to leave the Russells. For as long as she remained, searching for Francie was impossible. Once, shortly after she’d arrived in Boston, she’d thought she’d seen him on Hanover Street. She’d called his name, softly at first, and then with more vigour. ‘Francie! Francie Markham from Boherbreen!’ The man had stared at her as though she was simple-minded before giving a slow shake of the head. She had smiled and apologised. It struck her then that she didn’t know if her brother remained in Boston. He might be a thousand miles away. He might be dead.
There was a nip of frost in the morning air as she made her way to the Edgecombes’ house on Beacon Hill. This was, she feared, a futile journey, but her love of the area had won out. The maze of cobbled streets, the grace of the red-brick houses, the grandeur of the State House, the trim grass and towering trees of the Common: this was the America she’d dreamt of. Every inch was bright and clean. She’d also been lured by the prospect, however slim, of gaining entry to the Edgecombes’ home. Just once, she’d like to see inside one of the city’s most sophisticated houses.
When she arrived at the address, the building in front of her was even more impressive than she’d anticipated. Unlike many houses in the neighbourhood, it had a front garden with thin black railings. Steps ran up to the front door, which was painted the rich green of a duck’s head. A white column stood at either side.
The notice had made clear that the family required a housemaid who could also serve meals. If she was honest, Bridget knew nothing about either of these tasks. How could someone who’d spent most of her days in a one-room cabin know anything about the intricacies of a grand house or the correct way to serve a lavish meal? She decided this wouldn’t stop her pressing her case.
Every day in Boston taught her something about how people lived their lives – and about how they perceived others. About what was deemed respectable and what was considered backward. One of the lessons she’d absorbed was this: no matter where they lived, the rich were allowed to occupy more space. The poor were expected to take up as little room as possible. She’d also learnt to recognise Irish people. Not by their worn clothes or thin frames, for clothes could be changed and frames could fill out, but rather by their distinctive faces. They had blue-white skin, narrow mouths and a wary, watchful look, as if permanently worried about what would happen next.
The woman who answered the door shared none of these characteristics, but as soon as she spoke, it was clear that she was Irish. Bridget explained why she was there.
‘You’re not the sort of person we’re looking for,’ said the woman, who had large grey eyes, a thin nose and a general air of satisfaction. ‘You don’t have the experience Mrs Edgecombe requires.’
‘I’m a quick learner. If you show me something once, you won’t need to do it again.’
‘I’ve told you. The answer is no.’
Even though this was what she’d expected, Bridget’s eyes watered. ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’d hoped there might be something. It’s a lovely house, the nicest I’ve ever seen.’
The woman softened. ‘I’m from Tipperary, myself,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in America these past fifteen years. And they haven’t always been easy years, let me tell you.’
‘You’re lucky to work somewhere like this, though.’
The woman nodded before introducing herself as Mrs Johanna Hogan. ‘You look like you need to warm up,’ she said. ‘You can spend five minutes in the kitchen. It’s quiet at this hour of the day, and you won’t be disturbing anyone.’
Although she didn’t get to view as much of the house as she would have liked, Bridget was in awe of what she did see. Like Mrs Stanhope’s boarding house, it was clean and quiet, but it was also far more luxurious, with ceilings so high that even a giant could hold up his head. The walls were pale gold, while elaborate rugs covered the polished wooden floors. She felt she should say something about their surroundings but couldn’t find the right words.
The kitchen was larger than her family’s cottage in Boherbreen, and its shelves were stacked with bowls and pans of every size. A variety of unfamiliar implements hung on the walls. Warm light fell through the window. A girl a year or two younger than Bridget was kneading dough. And the smell? Oh, the smell. It was of spices and ham and freshly baked bread and all the good things in the world.
‘I was about to have a cup of tea,’ said Mrs Hogan. ‘Will you join me?’
Surprised by the offer, Bridget almost declined. ‘Yes, please,’ she said eventually.
They sat at one end of the large table, and within a minute or two the girl, whose name was Lydia, produced tea in delicate china cups. The taste, too, was delicate, unlike anything Bridget had come across before.
‘My mother was called Johanna,’ she said to Mrs Hogan. ‘It’s a lovely name.’
The housekeeper peered over the top of her cup. ‘When did she die?’
‘Two years ago. Her anniversary was last month.’ The kitchen’s heat was spreading through Bridget’s body, and she began to relax. ‘My younger brother died a short while afterwards. And then my husband.’
‘I can understand why you left,’ said Mrs Hogan. ‘My own family are all in America, thank God.’ She was about to continue when a tall woman with fair hair entered the room. The woman had perfect posture, as though her head was held up by an invisible string, and she was wearing a deep blue dress with a neat white collar. Plain as the dress was, Bridget could tell it had been very expensive.
The housekeeper got to her feet, a move Bridget quickly followed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, feeling her face colouring. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance. I’ll go, if you’d like.’
‘Stay where you are,’ said the new woman. ‘I’m Charlotte Edgecombe. Lydia, may I have a cup of tea, please?’
Mrs Edgecombe offered her hand. Bridget, feeling uncharacteristically timid, took it. The skin was as soft as she had expected. By contrast, her own hands were rough, the legacy of both hard physical labour and the shipwreck.
Mrs Hogan, who appeared at ease in her employer’s company, outlined why Bridget was there and what she’d been telling her. ‘While Alice isn’t suitable for the current position,’ she said, ‘I felt she would benefit from five minutes in the warmth.’
‘Goodness,’ said Mrs Edgecombe, her face tight with concern. ‘I’ve read about the situation in Ireland. It sounds frightful. And, of course, we’re all aware of the numbers arriving here in recent months. What I find impossible to fathom is how entire families could die. There must have been some assistance, surely.’
Bridget could have spent the day explaining how the landlords, politicians and relief schemes had allowed them to starve. At the end of it all, however, she feared the elegant woman on the other side of the table wouldn’t understand. She was from a different world. A world of smooth linens and silk dresses and perfumed tea. A world where the important people were on your side and didn’t view you as disposable. The simplest option was to tell her own story. Well, not her actual story, but a version that brought together her old and new identities. When she reached the part about also having a young daughter, she nearly called her Norah. But her own name was Alice now, and Alice’s daughter was called Delia.
Charlotte Edgecombe told Bridget that, while she’d read about the Mary and Elizabeth, she hadn’t expected any of the survivors to remain in America. ‘But here you are,’ she added.
‘Yes, here I am.’
She finished her tale with reluctance, not because she took any pleasure from talking about her struggles, but because she knew the time had come to leave.
‘Where are you living?’ asked Mrs Edgecombe, as she placed her cup on the saucer.
‘In the North End with a family called Russell,’ Bridget replied, before describing the situation there.
‘And is that where Delia is at the moment?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you excuse us for a minute, please, Alice?’ she said. ‘I want to have a word with Mrs Hogan. And you too, Lydia We can talk in the parlour.’
Bridget suspected that Mrs Edgecombe would give her money. While money was always welcome, she didn’t want charity. She wanted to work. She wanted somewhere to belong.
After five minutes or so, the two older women came back and sat down again.
‘I believe I may have a solution,’ said Mrs Edgecombe. ‘As Mrs Hogan has pointed out, you don’t have the necessary experience for the position we advertised. However, Lydia has been with us for some time and is ready to step up and assume more responsibility. This means that we need a kitchen maid who can also take on other chores around the house. The space we have for servants isn’t as large as I would like, but it’s adequate.’ She paused and smiled, revealing small, bone-white teeth. ‘I’m being impulsive here, but would you be interested in the kitchen maid’s position, Alice?’
Bridget replied immediately. ‘Oh, yes, Mrs Edgecombe. Yes.’ Then, she chastised herself. What about Delia? She hadn’t mentioned Delia.
‘Very well. I shall leave Mrs Hogan to sort out the arrangements. Cook will be here presently, and you’ll have to take most of your instructions from her.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bridget. ‘I should have asked about my daughter. I can’t—’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Edgecombe. ‘I should have made it plain that Delia must come with you. While it’s unusual for one of our staff to bring a young child with them, in this case we shall have to make an exception. You say she’s a very well-behaved little girl, so I’m sure she can stay in the kitchen with you. You’ll have to confer with Mrs Hogan and the others.’
Two days later, Bridget said goodbye to the Russells. Toting Delia and the small bag of possessions given to them in Cohasset, she returned to the Edgecombes’ house on Mount Vernon Street. Mrs Hogan showed them to their room, which was in the attic. Compared to the splendour downstairs, the furnishings were Spartan. There was a bed, a chair, a washstand but no carpet or decoration. In one corner, there was a bell, which would sound when she was required downstairs.
Bridget was a little confused about how her new arrangement would work, a little nervous about being part of such a grand house. Most of all, though, she was excited. Finally, she felt as if a door had opened on the wonders of America.