April 1850, Boston
Bridget
Until she’d disrupted his Thanksgiving dinner and destroyed his business plans, Bridget suspected that Frederick Edgecombe had barely noticed her. She’d been on the periphery of his busy life. With hindsight, that had been a blessing. She feared she was ever-present in Pius Cusack’s thoughts.
At the start, his interest had manifested itself in glances and suggestions, but as the weeks passed, his intentions had become more obvious, his gestures less cautious.
She had been working for Pius and Onnie Cusack since her sudden departure from the Edgecombes. Originally from Ireland, they’d been in Boston since the 1820s and, like Peggy Russell, they had a well-tended disdain for new arrivals.
It had been through Peggy that Bridget had secured the job. Finding herself with neither work nor a home, she’d fallen back on the Russells for help. Her confession had been tortuous, with Peggy determined to wring out every last detail. After a sermon about the folly – no, the absolute idiocy – of Bridget’s actions, she’d announced that she had a solution.
‘The Cusacks live here in the North End,’ she said. ‘We go to the same church. Their last girl left in a hurry, and they need someone new.’ She shook her head. ‘Onnie, God be good to her, has poor health, and she requires a little help around the house.’
‘I see,’ said Bridget, as Delia danced back and forth.
‘Of course, they aren’t as wealthy as the Edgecombes, so they can only afford one servant. It wouldn’t be what you’ve become accustomed to.’ Peggy stopped and met Bridget’s eye. ‘Then again, you’re not in any position to be picky. Oh, and for fear you’re wondering, I’ve elected not to tell them about your unwise behaviour towards your last employer. Every sinner deserves a second chance.’
It was clear that Bridget didn’t have a choice. While ordinarily this would have concerned her, she knew that without a reference, finding work of any sort was going to be difficult. And she needed to work. To her surprise, Charlotte Edgecombe’s parcel had contained not just three books but also a month’s pay. Boston was expensive, however, and the money wouldn’t last long.
Within days, it was obvious that ‘a little help around the house’ was a significant understatement. The Cusacks’ home wasn’t just shabby, it was filthy. The kitchen was encrusted with soot and grease, and the larder provided a refuge for all manner of insects. Thankfully, the workhouse and the ship had given her a high tolerance for foul smells. Onnie spent a lot of time in bed with undefined ailments. Bridget suspected she was hiding from her four children, who were as rude and demanding a bunch as she’d ever met.
If not asking about the exact nature of the work was Bridget’s first mistake, failing to find out why the family’s previous servant had left in such a hurry was a more serious one. Pius Cusack had a tuft of grey hair on the crown of his head, like a crested bird in one of the nature books she’d read in the Edgecombes’ house. His mouth slumped into his jowls, and he was fond of sharing his views on everything from slavery to the rights of women. Loathsome as they were, his political opinions weren’t the problem.
The problem was that he regarded Bridget as his property. She was there to be stroked, pinched or poked in whatever way he saw fit. When she walked down the narrow hall between the kitchen and dining room, he was there, blocking her way, pressing against her. When she climbed the stairs, he was waiting at the top, his hand on her arm, his stale breath in her face. She became skilled at contorting her body to slip his grasp. Frequently, she used Delia as a shield.
The situation was made worse by Delia’s unease. In the Edgecombes’ house, surrounded by kindness, she’d thrived. Here, in a house of ill-humour and distrust, she was a different girl, needy one day, withdrawn the next. Bridget tried to bring some fun to her life. Whatever free time she had was devoted to playing games or going for walks. Unfortunately, walks in this neighbourhood were never going to match Beacon Hill. There, everything had been laid out before them in a vision of plenty. In the North End, too much was grubby and run down and loud. Washing was strung across the alleyways, rats behaved as if they owned the streets, and the threat of disease was never far away.
One evening in late April, when Delia was already in bed, Bridget went to the kitchen to wash the family’s dinner dishes. Although the sky wasn’t fully dark, she decided to light a lamp. She liked to see what she was doing.
The voice came from the far side of the room, causing her to jump. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’
Bridget put the lamp on the table. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cusack. I didn’t see you there. You gave me a fright.’
Slowly, like a fox stalking a mouse, he moved towards her. ‘You’re a strange young woman, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you do. As I see it, Alice, we’ve been generous towards you and your child, and you’ve been less than frank with us.’
How could he know what she’d done? ‘I still don’t understand, I’m afraid.’
‘For someone who claims to be a widow,’ he said, ‘it’s queer how you never talk about your husband.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘What was his name again?’
‘Bernard King from Tulla in County Clare. He died from Famine fever. I told Mrs Cusack all about him.’
She hoped his wife’s name might have a restraining effect, but he barely noticed.
‘Most queer,’ he said, his voice a low rumble. ‘If you ask me, you were never married at all. You were living an improper life in Ireland, and you left to avoid bringing shame on your family. Isn’t that right?’
Bridget imagined picking up the lamp and throwing it at him. ‘No. That’s completely wrong. I don’t think you understand what the situation in Ireland has been like these past few years.’
‘I understand plenty. You’re a poor liar, you know that? The miracle is that more don’t see through you.’
‘I promise you, you’re mistaken, Mr Cusack. My husband is dead, and so are my parents.’ Whether she was speaking as Bridget or Alice, this was true, and she said the words with as much force as she could.
He took another step towards her. The floor creaked. He smelt of sweat and rotting food. ‘If that’s so, why have you been making enquiries about a man named Francie Markham? Answer me that.’
Although taken aback to hear Francie’s name, she wasn’t concerned. She resurrected the explanation she’d perfected the year before. ‘He was the brother of a woman I met on the Mary and Elizabeth. She intended to find him when she got here, but she drowned. I don’t know if he’s aware of what happened to her. She was a good woman, and I’d like to tell him that.’
Pius took a further half-step and placed a hand on her shoulder. The triumph in his face only deepened its ugliness. Even in the poor light, she could see the purple patches around his nose, the thick veins in his temple, the brown streaks on his teeth, the dandruff on his shoulders. Would it be easier, she thought, if he had a more appealing face? No, she decided, even if he was the most handsome man in Boston, she would find him repulsive.
‘I think you’re lying,’ he said. ‘I think Francie Markham’s the child’s father. He ran away from you, and you’re desperate to find him.’
‘That’s foolish talk,’ she said, unable to keep the anger from her voice. She wasn’t sure how much of this he believed and how much he’d concocted to amuse himself. Either way, it meant trouble.
‘You ought to watch how you speak,’ he said. ‘You’re a servant in this house and you’d do well to remember it.’ His hand gripped her shoulder more tightly. ‘If what I say isn’t true, why did your last employer put you out on the street? I’ve heard you were working on Beacon Hill.’ He adopted a mocking tone for the words Beacon Hill. ‘And they threw you out like a bucket of slop.’
Again, she said, ‘You’re wrong.’
Again, he ignored her denial. His hand moved towards her breast. ‘That’s not all,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you with a shell. I’ve watched you take it out of your pocket and look at it like it was made of pure gold. It must mean something to you.’
The thought of him spying on her was unsettling. ‘It reminds me of home,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Reminds you of home? I grew up in County Limerick, and I’m familiar enough with County Clare to know that Tulla’s nowhere near the sea. Who gave you the shell? Was it Francie? Was that all he had? You gave yourself away cheaply, didn’t you?’
‘This is silly,’ she said, sounding calmer than she felt. ‘Now please take your hand away. I’ve got work to do. Mrs Cusack might come to check on me.’
‘She’s asleep,’ he said, as he grasped then began pummelling her breast, ‘as well you know.’ He squeezed hard, unleashing a spurt of pain.
‘Ow!’ she shouted, the sound escaping before she could stop it. She hoped no one outside the room had heard.
He released his hand then pushed her aside. She stumbled and fell against the table.
‘There’s something bad about you,’ he said, as he left the room. ‘Something deceitful. You might pretend otherwise, but you’re no better than the whores selling themselves on the street.’
Given what had happened to the Mary and Elizabeth, and given her father’s tragic death, it seemed strange that Bridget still took pleasure from watching the ocean. Perhaps it was the crispness of the air. Perhaps it was the seabirds or the tangle of different voices or the wide, wide sky. Whatever the attraction, whenever she got the opportunity, she went to the harbour. Not that it could compare to the Atlantic’s other shore. The water here was greasy and coated with debris. Sometimes, she closed her eyes and imagined she could see Clooneven: the curve of pale sand, the high jagged cliffs where she had walked with John Joe and, most of all, the diamond shine of the sea.
Away from the darkness of the Cusacks’ house, Delia became more animated. She pointed at ships or shouted a cheery hello at passers-by. She hopped and skipped and behaved like a small girl should. Bridget thought of the Edgecombes’ home. In trying to honour her original family, she’d hurt the only family she had now. She’d let Delia down.
She’d decided that no matter how much Pius Cusack hurt her she would have to stay. The only alternative was the street. Once, she’d been convinced that if she stood up to men with power, like Captain Talbot on the Mary and Elizabeth, or Maurice Curry in Boherbreen, there was a chance she would be treated fairly. Her encounter with Henry Frobisher had disproved this. Pius Cusack was the same. In his eyes, she was inferior and always would be. Many in the community would share that view. He was a respected father of four, a prominent Catholic, a man with a reputation for probity. She had washed up with the rest of the undesirables. She had no money, no husband and no history. He could behave as he had the night before ‒ he could do worse, and no one would come to her aid.
Considering his private behaviour, the way Pius flaunted his religious beliefs was hard to bear. In her time in Boston, Bridget had become fascinated by how others saw Catholics. As far as the established Bostonians were concerned, her religion reeked of superstition. It was all holy water and idolatry, incense and genuflection. Some went further, declaring it a threat to the fabric of the city. Although she was sceptical about the meek inheriting the earth, and although she took no orders from either Bishop Fitzpatrick in Boston or Pope Pius in Rome, this hostility pushed her towards her faith rather than away from it. Occasionally, she found herself dropping into the church to say a quiet prayer. She enjoyed the silence, the paintings of familiar saints and the lingering spicy smell.
She would have liked to claim her prayers were untainted by personal requests, but that wouldn’t be true. While the holy souls in Purgatory received a cursory mention, she was more likely to pray for herself and Delia. There were days when she felt hollowed out by loneliness, when she ached for someone to love. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life on her own. Although she didn’t expect God to find her a husband, there was no harm in asking.
She also asked for help. According to her faith, she should forgive, and while she knew she would never forgive Henry Frobisher, her continuing resentment of Mary Ellen and Thomas was weighing her down. She prayed for the grace and strength to forgive them.
She prayed, too, for Norah. Two years had passed since she’d seen her daughter. Twenty-four long months. More than seven hundred days. By now, the little girl’s personality would be more fully formed. She’d be her own small person. She would probably have her own friends.
Despite their separation, Bridget’s love remained constant. Please take care of her, she prayed. Please give her the happiness she deserves.
She was strolling by the water, Delia toddling along beside her, when she heard a man’s voice calling, ‘Bridget.’ She didn’t look around. No one here knew her by that name. The man persisted. When she didn’t react, he tried a different approach.
‘Bridget Moloney,’ he shouted, ‘Mrs Bridget Moloney.’
She turned to see a thin man in a loose work shirt, black trousers and heavy boots. Because the light was behind him, it took a few moments to make out his face.
‘It’s Martin McDonagh,’ he said. ‘Do you not remember me from the ship? You were good to my son, Anthony. He died from the fever. Do you not remember?’
‘I do,’ she said at last. This was the man who’d stepped forward when Captain Talbot had struck her. The man with whom she’d watched the light under the sea. She knew he’d survived. They’d told her so in Cohasset. They’d also said that his wife and remaining children had drowned.
He shifted slightly, and she saw him more clearly. His light blue eyes, the colour she’d come to associate with Connemara people, switched their focus to Delia. In turn, the child tipped back her head and peered up at him.
‘Her not Bridget,’ she said, squinting into the light. ‘Her my mammy.’
Martin didn’t seem to hear. ‘I assumed you were dead,’ he said. ‘I heard the list of survivors, and you weren’t among them. Your friend was, and her baby too. Did they find you afterwards? Is that what happened? Maybe I’d already left for Deer Island by the time they discovered you. Or maybe they took you somewhere else. Was that why your name wasn’t on the list?’ He clasped his forehead then peered again at Delia. ‘I’m confused.’
It would be wrong to say that Bridget had been waiting for this day. She’d been in America for almost two years, and she’d assumed that if anyone was going to unearth her secret, they’d have done so by now. Here, with the spring sunlight splintering around her, and Martin McDonagh’s questioning face in front of her, she decided she had no choice. She would have to tell him.
‘I survived,’ she said, ‘but my name didn’t.’
They found a quiet place to sit, and she explained how she’d become Alice. She told him about Cohasset and Beacon Hill, about Charlotte Edgecombe and Henry Frobisher. She even told him about Pius Cusack. For the most part, they spoke in Irish, a language in which he was more comfortable, and which Delia didn’t understand. She couldn’t risk the child who’d become her daughter hearing the truth.
When she’d finished, she was nervous. Considerate as Martin was, he might be disgusted by her deceit. He might find a policeman and report her.
Instead, he said simply, ‘You did the right thing.’
Then he told her about his life in America. He had considered going home to Claddaghduff, he said, but for what? He would find nothing there, only questions and hardship. And so, after his quarantine period on Deer Island had come to an end, he’d looked for work and somewhere to live.
The early months were cruel, the first winter almost unbearably so. He was unsettled by grief. Unbalanced. He despised himself for being alive when the rest of the family were dead. His work as a docker helped. It was a hard grind, relentless and physically demanding. He worked every hour he could. The other men, many of them Irish, laughed at him. There was no badness in their mockery, so he didn’t mind. When he wasn’t working, he slept.
He didn’t drink but could see why some would seek comfort in alcohol. Why they would gamble and fight. He still prayed that one day life would be easier. He went to Mass too. He didn’t, however, have faith that his prayers would be answered.
‘I’ve never told this to anyone before,’ he said. ‘Unless someone’s had the same experience, how can they know what it’s like to lose everything?’
‘I understand,’ she said.