November 1849
‘This will be a significant occasion for us,’ said Mrs Edgecombe, voice more strained than usual, ‘and it’s important that everyone has a memorable evening.’
Cook and Mrs Hogan muttered and clucked and assured her that the celebration would be flawless.
From the scullery, Bridget could decipher only a sentence here and there, her ability to eavesdrop not helped by Delia’s new-found fondness for talking. From what she could gather, there would be eight guests for Thanksgiving dinner, including a couple from England who were in Boston for a mixture of business and pleasure. Like Mr Edgecombe, the man owned a textile mill.
‘More work for us,’ she whispered to Delia, who insisted on repeating the words in her best sing-song voice.
‘More work, more work,’ she said. ‘More work, more work.’
‘Sssh,’ said Bridget, with her finger in front of her mouth.
‘Sssh,’ echoed Delia, forcing a laugh from Bridget.
‘If you stay quiet for Mammy, you can have a story later.’
‘Sssh, Mammy,’ said the child.
Mrs Edgecombe had continued her practice of lending books to Bridget. Some were political. Others focused on American history or the wonders of distant parts of the world or the glories of nature. More told stories, and these were her favourites. In particular, she loved ghost tales like The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. She also liked making up her own stories to entertain Delia. Often, the two women discussed what they’d been reading, with Mrs Edgecombe confiding that her husband had no interest in books, especially novels.
In the days before Thanksgiving, anxiety was high. Cook reprimanded Bridget for even the most inconsequential mistake while Mrs Hogan took to wringing her hands and asking unanswerable questions. ‘Will the mashed potatoes be sufficiently creamy?’ she would say, or ‘Can we be certain the champagne will be served at the correct temperature?’
The preparations were meticulous. The dinner would begin with beef consommé. This would be followed by turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, turnips, cabbage and creamed corn. Afterwards, the guests could choose from a variety of pies along with custard and jelly. They would drink the finest wines available in Boston. As well as her work in the kitchen, Bridget would assist Lydia with serving the meal. She would wear her best uniform with a starched white apron.
If part of her relished the challenge of such a grand event, a larger part felt queasy. Was there not something distasteful about so much food being served to such a small collection of people? She made the mistake of voicing this thought to Cook, who told her it wasn’t her place to question Thanksgiving.
‘I’m not,’ said Bridget. ‘I’m simply asking why there’s so much fuss over this particular meal.’
‘As I understand it, Mr Edgecombe has introduced a new production method. He’s hoping that if the gentleman from England is sufficiently impressed, the English mills will place orders for his machinery.’
‘He’s expecting to make a lot of money, then?’
‘Heavens, Alice, the questions you ask. But, yes, I think we can assume that substantial sums are at stake.’
Thanksgiving was a piercing cold day, with banks of grey cloud hanging low over the city. From before dawn, Bridget was busy in the kitchen, so busy that by the time the most challenging part of the day arrived, she was fit for bed. The atmosphere was frenetic, the work unrelenting. Cook bustled to and fro while Mrs Hogan checked that everything was exactly as it should be. Armies had gone to war with less preparation.
Bridget was determined not to make a mistake. This was not the night for dropping a hot plate or for pouring sauce onto a lady’s lap. So absorbed was she by the minutiae of the meal that she gave scant attention to the guests, save to notice that they included a young man who was as bloated as his wife was haggard, and a handsome couple whom she decided must be the visitors from England. Both had the firm rosy skin that came with being very young or incredibly rich.
She did try to have a look at the finery. How could she not? In the year she’d spent with the Edgecombes, she’d become increasingly interested in the work that went into Charlotte’s dresses. Tonight, she was wearing a lilac silk gown with a boned bodice and a full skirt while the lady from England was in a cornflower blue dress with gold embroidery around its low neckline. Bridget tried to imagine what such elegant clothes would feel like against the skin.
As the evening passed, and the champagne loosened tongues, the guests’ voices filled the house. Each time Bridget returned to the dining room, the noise had swelled further. The Americans, she noted, were copying the English way of speaking.
‘The weather is frightful.’
‘The soup is exquisite.’
‘The situation in Ireland is lamentable.’
This last line cut through the hubbub, and she strained to hear more. It had been voiced by the large young man.
Mrs Edgecombe agreed. ‘I understand the distress is considerable.’ She turned to the English man. ‘You must have noticed the thousands of Irish exiles here in Boston?’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m afraid the situation in Ireland is vastly more complex than the newspapers here would have one believe. A great many remedies have been tried.’
He pronounced it ‘Ahlund’, as though he didn’t want the word to spend too long in his mouth. As though it was dirty. Desperate as she was to stay and listen, Bridget was also conscious of Mr Edgecombe sending an impatient look in her direction. Lingering was not allowed.
Back in the kitchen, a melancholy feeling came over her. She was curious too.
‘Do you know anything more about the English couple?’ she asked Cook.
‘Well,’ said Cook, face shining from heat and exertion, ‘if Johanna Hogan is to be believed, he’s one of the wealthiest men in England. Not only does he have extensive business interests, he also owns a large amount of land.’
‘By any chance, is some of it in Ireland?’
‘Johanna claims it is . . . except she could be wrong.’ Cook raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Let’s be honest, she often is.’
‘What’s his name?’
Cook tutted. ‘What has Lydia been doing? She should have given you all the names. He’s called Henry Frobisher. Sir Henry Frobisher, if you don’t mind. And his wife is Lady Harriet.’
‘No.’ The word had left Bridget’s mouth and was hanging between them before she was able to consider the full implications of what she’d heard.
Cook didn’t seem to notice. ‘Here’s a list of the guests,’ she said, as she removed a slip of paper from the pocket of her apron. ‘You ought to have been shown this earlier.’
Bridget ran her eyes across the names, then allowed the paper to fall from her hand. She shuffled towards the back door. In the garden, she closed her eyes and took one, two, three large breaths. Her heart was so loud, she could feel it everywhere. It was in her throat, her breasts, her fingertips. The last time she’d felt like this had been on the Mary and Elizabeth, when she’d been convinced her life was about to end.
When she opened her eyes again, Cook was standing in the gloom beside her. ‘Was he . . .?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ She moved a step closer. ‘Now, listen to me. The meal is almost over. If you go back in and help with serving the pudding, Lydia will finish the evening on her own.’
‘I can’t. I can’t serve that man.’
‘You can,’ said Cook, her tone firm. ‘It will take ten minutes, that’s all. Ten minutes of your life. You’ve endured far more.’
‘I swear to you I can’t.’
‘You can and you will. The Frobishers aren’t spending the night here, by the way. They’re staying with friends on Chestnut Street. After you’ve brought in the next course, you’ll never have to see them again. Tomorrow, if Mrs E asks any questions, I’ll explain the situation. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ said Bridget, in a tiny whimper of a voice. Short of walking out and never coming back, she couldn’t see that she had a choice.
‘I can understand why you’re upset, but you don’t want to let Mrs Edgecombe down, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Cook, taking her arm.
As Bridget climbed the stairs with an apple pie and a lemon cream pudding, her hands trembled. She reminded herself of Cook’s words. She had been through worse than this. All she had to do was serve the food. Then she would be able to escape.
The dining room was airless, the heat overpowering. The noise, however, had subsided. The guests were full, she assumed. Sated. And yet they would eat more. They could keep on eating for as long as they liked. She placed the dishes on the table and warned herself not to look at Henry Frobisher.
It was a warning she couldn’t heed.
The room appeared to tilt. She was no longer at an ocean’s remove from Boherbreen. She was back among the starving and the delirious. Their cottages had been tumbled. There were grass stains around their mouths, and a smell of death in the air.
Everything was clear and sharp-edged.
A dark anger came over her. Who was this man to sit in a gilded room and claim to know what had happened in her country? How could he claim to understand her townland, a place he owned yet rarely visited? He had inherited the land and its tenants and had never seen them as real people.
The noise receded further. She found herself looking at him. No, staring at him.
‘May I help you?’ he said at last.
‘If you’d cared to help any of my family or neighbours, they wouldn’t be dead.’
Around the table, the smiles withered. One of the women unleashed a nervous whinny.
‘Alice!’ said Mr Edgecombe. ‘You’ll apologise to Sir Henry, and then you’ll leave the room.’ He grimaced. ‘My sincere apologies, Henry. She doesn’t usually behave in this manner. The pressure of the occasion must have affected her.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Edgecombe, but the only person who should apologise is that man.’
Henry Frobisher turned to face her. ‘My dear, I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.’ He glanced back at the table. ‘Is this the best help a family can find in Boston?’ he said, his lips twitching, as though he’d said something amusing. ‘I employ more intelligent mill girls.’
A woman tittered. It was an ugly, hollow sound.
‘I know exactly what I’m talking about,’ said Bridget. ‘I’m talking about your treatment of people in Boherbreen in County Clare. The way you killed men, women and children.’ Someone, Mrs Edgecombe perhaps, gasped. ‘Because, take my word for it, you killed them as surely as if you’d rampaged through their cabins with a knife.’
‘Alice, apologise now,’ said Frederick Edgecombe, his voice quivering with anger.
She ignored him and continued to stare at Frobisher. ‘Do you ever think about the people who died there? Or about the people who worked on your land for a pittance? I helped to dig a ditch through your fields, you know. I was paid twopence a day. Some of the men beside me were so weak they could barely stand. But if they didn’t work, they couldn’t eat.’
Frobisher squinted at her. ‘Don’t be ludicrous, girl. You’re awfully young to possess such bile. I’ve found that’s one of the problems with girls of your background. You’re not capable of rationality.’
‘I’m not a simpleton. I know how you behaved. You were aware that people were starving to death on your land, yet you did nothing to help them. My mother died. And my brother. And my husband. And when those who’d survived couldn’t afford the rent, you tipped them onto the side of the road and destroyed their houses. They were decent, hardworking people – as fine and as intelligent as anyone at this table – and you allowed them to die like rats in a trap.’
The thin woman began to cry. There were heavy footsteps on the stairs.
‘You have your liberty,’ said Frobisher, with calm precision. ‘There are plenty who would be grateful for that. You were free to leave your backwater and travel to America. Whatever nonsense may have been put in your head, I’m not an ogre. I’m someone who was forced to make difficult decisions. I was paying rates for tenants who contributed nothing.’ He looked around the room, then waved a hand, as if flapping off a wasp. ‘Yes, that’s right. Rather than providing an income, the land was costing me money. I think the gentlemen at this table, businessmen all, will understand the dilemma I faced. If blame must be attributed, let it go to its rightful place: the government and those other fools in Westminster.’
There was a murmur of agreement from one man and a snorting sob from the crying woman. Otherwise the room sat in icy silence.
Bridget’s entire body was shaking. ‘I’m sorry you lost money,’ she said. ‘But you’re alive. My family and neighbours are dead. You’d do well to remember that.’
She heard the door opening behind her and felt a hand on her shoulder. There was nothing to be gained by saying anything further. She followed Cook out of the room.
The tip of Charlotte Edgecombe’s nose was pink, her eyes bloodshot. ‘You know we won’t be able to supply you with a reference?’ she said.
‘I do,’ replied Bridget, who perched at the edge of her chair. She was fragile this morning, her bones sore, her bravery extinguished. ‘I wouldn’t have chosen to embarrass you, but I had to speak.’
Mrs Edgecombe gazed out the parlour window. Not that there was anything to see. The city was cloaked in freezing fog. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You didn’t have to speak. I’m so deeply sorry for everything you’ve been through. You’ve endured more than I could ever imagine, but that doesn’t mean we can forgive your outburst.’
Earlier, a sombre Mrs Hogan had informed Bridget that she would have to leave immediately. Frederick Edgecombe wouldn’t tolerate her under his roof a minute longer than necessary. Because of the circumstances of her departure, she would forfeit her final week’s pay. Mrs Hogan had also revealed that the proposed deal between Mr Edgecombe and Sir Henry Frobisher had been cancelled. Like the Thanksgiving dinner, their business association had ended abruptly.
Bridget would miss this room. She would miss the golden drapes and the walls painted the same light green as a spring leaf. She would miss the warmth of the kitchen and the rivalry between Cook and Mrs Hogan. Most of all, she would miss Charlotte Edgecombe. Her thoughts went back to the day they’d met when she’d decided that Charlotte would never grasp how people in Ireland had suffered. Nothing had changed. As decent and generous as she undoubtedly was, she couldn’t understand that the agony in Clooneven ran through Bridget’s veins.
In the workhouse, Bridget had pledged that if she ever met Henry Frobisher, she would spit in his face. She hadn’t done so, but her words had been enough. Despite the consequences, she had no regrets. Her loyalty to her family would always come first.
‘I don’t expect you to agree with what I did,’ she said. ‘But I’d like to thank you for how kind you’ve been to me and to Delia. Bless her, she’s very fond of you. We’ve had some good times here.’
There was a lengthy pause before Mrs Edgecombe spoke again.
‘Very well,’ she said at last, as she continued to look anywhere but at Bridget’s face. ‘Have you packed your belongings?’
‘I have.’
She produced a small parcel. ‘These are for you. If by any chance you see my husband before you leave, please don’t . . .’
‘I won’t say anything.’
Mrs Edgecombe escorted her downstairs and into the hall, where Delia was waiting. Cook had given the little girl her breakfast, and there was a frill of milk around her mouth.
Bridget crouched down so they were at eye level. ‘Let’s put on your coat,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a journey to make today.’
Delia folded her arms. ‘This my house.’ For confirmation, she looked at Charlotte Edgecombe, who said nothing.
Bridget held out Delia’s coat. ‘We have to leave, my love.’
‘I like here.’
‘I know you do, but you’ll have to trust Mammy. Please?’
Reluctantly, the child agreed to put on her coat.
‘Where will you go?’ asked Mrs Edgecombe, her voice less precise than usual.
‘I don’t know but I’ll think of somewhere. I always do,’ said Bridget, as she picked up their bags and walked into the raw winter morning.