Connecticut
When Pam Wallace discovered that she was pregnant in the summer of 1927 she went straight to church, threw herself on her knees and thanked God for his divine intervention, for surely such a miracle, longed for and yet so elusive, had come directly from Him. She wept with joy, vowed to show her thanks with acts of charity and kindness (and never say a mean thing about anyone ever again), then hurried home to tell her husband the wonderful news.
Martha didn’t know what all the fuss was about. It was as if something extraordinary had happened. Something otherworldly. Suddenly her mother was treated as if she was so fragile that any sudden movement might break her. She glided about the house slowly, like an invalid, but one enormously satisfied with her sickness. She moved from table to chair, chair to stair, stair to door, making sure that her hand always had somewhere to settle in order to steady herself, just in case she tripped, and everyone did everything for her, telling her over and over again to rest “for the baby.” Larry bought her flowers and jewelry in pretty red boxes, and even her father, Raymond Tobin, visited, armed with gifts, offering reconciliation. The whole house smelled like a florist’s, which excited Martha far more than the thought of a baby because she adored flowers. She hovered over the petals like a bee drunk on nectar, marveling at the vibrant colors and inhaling the sweet perfume. Everyone patted her on the head and told her how lucky she was to be getting a little brother or sister and Martha secretly hoped that the baby would stay inside her mama’s tummy forever, because she was very happy on her own.
The only member of the family who took the news badly, as if it were a personal affront, was Joan, who had relished the fact that Pam’s child was adopted and by consequence “strange.” Now that her sister-in-law was going to give birth to a genuine Wallace, Joan’s competitiveness made her irritable. “I wonder if Martha will be Ma’s favorite grandchild after Pam’s baby is born,” she said to Dorothy as they wandered around a fashionable boutique, browsing the summer dresses.
“I’m afraid I think Martha will be all but ignored once the baby arrives, poor darling,” Dorothy replied. “Ted is a tribal man, for him blood is thicker than everything, and Diana will dote on the new arrival, because to have her own child is what Pam has wanted from the very beginning.”
She has always had everything she wants, Joan thought sourly. How galling that she’s now going to get this. Joan pulled a crimson dress off the rail and stood in front of the long mirror, holding it against her. “I have nothing against Martha. She’s a child and she’s very . . . sweet.” It took some effort to utter the word “sweet.” “I hope it’s a boy. All men want sons and Larry’s no different from anyone else. He’ll be terribly disappointed if it’s a girl.” She cocked her head. “What do you think?”
“That color looks stunning,” Dorothy gushed. “Why don’t you try it on?”
“You don’t think it clashes with my hair? I don’t usually wear red.”
“Oh Joan, you can get away with anything.”
“That is true, of course. You don’t think Pam will see me in it and want one too. Crimson is a better color for her and I don’t want her showing me up.”
“Really, Joan, you are infinitely more stylish than Pam. You know what they say about copying?”
“That it’s the greatest form of flattery.” She sighed. “Well, I’m not flattered, just bored. I’ve endured years of having her echoing my every fashion choice.” She smiled with satisfaction. “At least she’ll be in maternity dresses for the foreseeable future!”
Martha did not feel ignored during her mother’s pregnancy because Pam was careful to include her daughter in every stage of the baby’s growth. She encouraged Martha to put her hand on her belly to feel the baby moving inside. She reassured her that when babies come into the world they bring their own love with them so that there is always plenty to go around. “I won’t love you less because I love this child,” she told her. “I’ll just have double the amount of love.” Although Martha was too young to be conscious of her emotions, she began to feel secure in her mother’s liking. For the first time in her life her mother’s eye was not full of scrutiny and apprehension and the sucking in of her affection faded into an unpleasant memory so that, over the months before the baby was born, Martha ceased to look out for it.
Mrs. Goodwin noticed Martha’s growing confidence. She was like a spring bud that had just begun to open, revealing the delicate pink and white petals inside. The atmosphere in the house became light and soft, like early evening sunshine. Pam was happy all the time. She lay on a daybed in the conservatory reading books and magazines and talking on the telephone to her friends. Ladies came to visit and drank iced tea. They shared the gossip and listened to Pam’s plans for the decoration of the new baby’s nursery. Martha was brought in like a little show pony and the women admired her floral frocks and commented on how much she had grown. Mrs. Goodwin was relieved that the business of Martha’s imaginary friends was forgotten. It seemed that Martha had forgotten them too. She had not mentioned them since seeing the doctor and when she played in the garden on her own she no longer talked to herself or tried to catch invisible things that apparently flew about the flower beds. Fortunately, she didn’t appear to suffer from their absence.
When at last the baby girl arrived in the spring of the following year the house was once again filled with flowers and gifts. Grandma Wallace, aware that Martha might be put out by all the attention her new sister was getting, brought Martha an exquisite doll’s house that was the finest thing she had ever been given. It had a sweeping staircase, a grand entrance hall and nine rooms, all decorated with pretty floral wallpapers. Her mother gave her the miniature pieces of furniture, cutlery and crockery and she told Martha that the family of dolls that were to live there was a gift from the baby, who was keen to be a good friend to her sister. Martha believed her and was sure that when she was older she would make a very good friend indeed.
The baby was christened Edith and no expense was spared for this child who was so very precious to her mother. Only Pam’s parents and Larry’s family knew why Pam put the crib by her bed and lay on her side for hours, staring into her daughter’s face. She could see Larry in Edith’s features, her father about the eyes and something of her mother in the feminine pout of her lips. When Larry’s family came to visit she relished pointing out the similarities to them. Especially to Joan, who bristled like a threatened cat and grudgingly handed over the gift she had bought. “She looks just like Larry,” she said, peering into the crib. “I don’t see you in there at all.”
“Neither do I,” said Pam, who didn’t need to see herself in her child for she knew very well who had birthed her.
“The irony is that Martha looks more like you. This child is going to be fair-haired like Larry.”
“She’s a Tobin, Joan, as much as she’s a Wallace.”
Joan sniffed and sat down. “Does it feel different?”
“Does what feel different?”
“Having a child who is biologically yours. Do you love her more?”
Pam was affronted. “That’s a horrible thing to say, Joan.”
“Don’t be oversensitive. It’s natural to love your own child more than an adopted one, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think. I love Martha as much as I love Edith. It makes no difference.” Joan pulled a face that suggested she didn’t believe her. “You may think what you like, Joan. Perhaps you would love your biological child more than your adopted one were you in my position, but I’m not you. Edith has been given to me; I searched the world for Martha.”
“That’s a little exaggerated, even for you, Pam.”
“I longed for Martha and God led me to Ireland. She was meant to belong to me from the moment she came into the world. I could not love her more.”
Joan put up her hands. “All right, don’t get so upset. I was only asking. Really, Pam, you’re so sensitive.”
“I’m not sensitive. Anyone would be offended by what you’re implying.”
“Trust me, it’s what everyone will be thinking. Only I have the courage to say it.”
“Or the lack of tact,” Pam snapped. She watched Joan light a cigarette and lean back in her chair, crossing her legs. She was wearing a stunning crimson dress that clashed with her hair. Pam wondered how she could find out where she had bought it and whether they’d have another one for her.
MRS. GOODWIN DID not doubt that Mrs. Wallace loved her two daughters equally, but right from the very beginning Edith was indulged in a way that Martha had never been. It wasn’t that Edith was more spoiled—both girls had never been denied anything on a material level—it was the way her parents responded to her behavior that was different. While Martha had always had to be mindful of her manners, aware that her every move was scrutinized by a mother so desperate for her daughter to impress and fit in, Edith could behave as she wanted and only Mrs. Goodwin ever pulled her up when she misbehaved. Things for which Martha would have been severely chastised Edith could do with impunity. Nothing she did was ever “wrong” in her parents’ eyes. She could holler and stamp her little foot, sulk, suck her thumb, spill her food, interrupt and make demands and her parents would laugh, wink at each other and make comments that they had never made about Martha: She’s so like Ma, they would say. Or, She’s inherited her stubbornness from Grumps. Mrs. Goodwin noticed, for the difference was stark and it saddened her, for while Martha might be too young to see it, she was certainly not too young to feel it; small children are quick to sense injustice and know things without ever being told. As little Edith grew from a toddler to a child, she was fast becoming insufferable, but her parents seemed not to notice, or chose not to care. She was their flesh and blood and their wonder at the miracle of her conception blinded them to the fact that she was growing up to be a very unpleasant child indeed.
Mrs. Goodwin tried hard to redress the balance when Mrs. Wallace was not at home. Every time Edith, now nearly three years old, took something of Martha’s, she made her give it back. She was told to sit up straight, to eat with her mouth closed, not to answer back, interrupt or be rude. When she refused to share she was told she would be punished if she didn’t. But Mrs. Goodwin’s punishments were never severe. She’d make Edith sit on a chair in the corner or send her to her room. However, nothing seemed to correct the child’s behavior because she believed herself above the laws that governed her nanny’s domain. She knew she could get away with anything when her mother was around—and she was right. Mrs. Goodwin tried to keep the girls in the nursery, but Edith would escape and run through the house in search of her mama, howling her eyes out and screaming at the top of her lungs. Pam would blanch, gather her daughter into her arms and soothe her with promises and bribes and, every time she did so, Edith’s belief in her preeminence grew a little stronger. Mrs. Goodwin felt a sense of helplessness. There was no doubt in the nanny’s mind whom she loved the most.
If Martha noticed that her sister was treated differently, she made no comment. Now that she was no longer on her own she wanted very badly to find a friend in her sibling. She relished having the company of another child. Since she was six years older, she took pleasure in teaching Edith how to draw and paint and play the piano and violin. She taught her about flowers, butterflies and birds and never tired of playing games. As Edith grew she became more difficult but Martha was patient and always let her choose which character she wanted to enact and which game she wanted to play. Mrs. Goodwin tried to encourage Martha to be firm with her, not to allow her to always take the lead, but Martha was too gentle and kind and Edith’s forceful character triumphed every time.
Then one afternoon at their grandmother’s house, Diana Wallace took Pam aside. “My darling, don’t you think Edith is becoming a little out of control?”
Pam was immediately affronted. Criticizing Edith was akin to criticizing her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied.
“Martha is so beautifully mannered and well behaved, but Edith is . . .” She hesitated. “Well, to be quite frank, she’s wild.” Pam didn’t know what to say. In her eyes Edith was perfect. “Darling, I’m not blaming you. I’m simply suggesting that perhaps Mrs. Goodwin is not doing her job properly. If you don’t enforce discipline when she’s young, you’ll create a monstrous adult. I fear Edith is growing up without boundaries. Bad manners are very unattractive.”
Pam was hurt. “She’s got character, that’s all,” she protested.
“Too much character, Pam,” Diana replied sternly. “If she can’t learn to behave you will have to leave her at home. Children who don’t mind their manners should not be exposed to polite society.”
Now she had Pam’s attention. Having been so proud of her angelic-looking child, who was a true Tobin-Wallace, Pam worried that she wasn’t fit to be seen. She was pretty, of that there was no dispute. Her heart-shaped face and cornflower-blue eyes were certainly engaging and her fair hair was long and silky like the mane of a unicorn. Her skin was as white as milk and as smooth as satin and her smile, on the rare occasions that she gave one, was enchanting. But Pam was astute enough to know that if her manners were distasteful she might as well be ugly on the outside as well.
“I will discipline her,” she told her mother-in-law resolutely. “She’s young and she’s smart. She’ll learn quickly.”
“Perhaps you need a tougher nanny,” Diana Wallace suggested. “Mrs. Goodwin is getting on, after all.” But Pam had no intention of putting her precious child in the hands of someone she didn’t know—and Mrs. Goodwin, who had come to America with them from London, was quite strict enough.
But in spite of Pam’s intentions Edith still managed to have her way in everything. Having told Mrs. Goodwin to be firm, Pam then berated her for being too firm. Edith, although small, was an arch manipulator. She knew how to win over her mother. She was well aware of the effect her tears had and if she pushed out her bottom lip at the same time it was even more dramatic. Her mother couldn’t bear her sorrow, not for a minute. As for her father, he came home late, sometimes too late to put her to bed. But on weekends she would curl up on his lap and there she was safe from Mrs. Goodwin’s discipline and her grandmother’s disapproving stare, because he loved her just the way she was.
Edith grew jealous of her sister’s place in Grandma’s heart. Diana Wallace made no secret of the fact that Martha was special to her. Joan and Dorothy could push their children forward as much as they liked, but when Diana settled her gaze on Martha it was apparent for all to see that she reserved her most tender looks for her. Edith was not used to being marginalized—she very much felt at the center of her parents’ affection—and, as a consequence, her behavior around her grandmother only deteriorated further. Martha had every reason to be jealous of Edith but envy was not in her nature, and, in spite of their differences, Martha made every concession to be her friend.
Instead of admiring her older sister as younger siblings do, Edith was jealous of Martha. Her mother had conditioned her to believe that she was special and this only served to encourage her to resent any attention that Martha was given, from their grandmother or otherwise. Edith was only a child and her small acts of sabotage and rebellion were as ripples on the water by the feet of a gnat, but as she grew older her feet would grow bigger and the ripples would turn to great splashes of destruction.
ADELINE WAS NO longer in Martha’s awareness. The child had shut her out and by the force of her will Adeline’s image had receded and her voice grown distant until she was only a sensation, like a gust of wind or a ray of sunshine, which Martha chose not to feel. Yet Adeline did not desert her; Martha was a Deverill. The blood of her kin and the waters of Ireland ran in her veins. Deep in the heart of her heart Martha knew who she was. She knew where she came from. Only she had forgotten. One day, Adeline was certain, the mists of oblivion would lift and she would reconcile the longings in her soul with the land she had lost. Ireland would call to her and she would return home.
In the meantime her grandmother watched her with a keen and concerned eye. Martha loved nature, just as Adeline did, and as much as she attempted to interest her sister in the flora and fauna in the garden Edith had no sensibility for beauty. Her father bought his daughters ponies but Edith was frightened to mount. She screamed and she wriggled and she refused to be put in the saddle. But Martha found a part of herself she had left behind on the hills of Ballinakelly and felt at home with her feet in the stirrups and her hands on the reins and the feeling of the wind raking its fingers through her hair. She had no idea that her biological father had been one of the finest huntsmen in County Cork but Adeline did, and she smiled with pride as this child exhibited the Deverill spirit that was hidden in her core. Pam feared she would fall off, but Martha had never felt as safe as she did in the saddle and everyone marveled at her courage and her daring and at the speed with which she learned to master her pony.
On the outside Martha was a product of her adoptive mother. Like Pam she was dressed with polish and like Pam her movements were self-conscious and deliberate. Too much grooming had robbed her of any spontaneity and vivaciousness. She was studied, polite, gracious and always a little apprehensive. Caution was not a Deverill trait—perhaps it was a Doyle characteristic, but Adeline did not remember Bridie Doyle. However, when Martha was among nature, the magic in the trees and flowers, the twittering of birds and the buzzing of bees released something within her. She felt joy, unrestrained and profound, and Adeline knew that where Edith would only ever be aware of the superficial veneer of things, Martha was aware of the deeper mysteries inherent in the natural wonders of the world. That she had inherited from her.
“MARTHA, COME INSIDE,” Mrs. Goodwin shouted from the window. “It’s time for your bath.” Martha, who was lying on the lawn, reading a book of poetry, sighed regretfully.
“Can’t I stay out for a little longer?” she asked. “Please.”
Mrs. Goodwin smiled indulgently. She looked at her watch. “Very well then,” she replied. “But you must come in fifteen minutes.”
“I promise.” Martha rolled onto her back and gazed up at the sky. The sun was setting behind the trees and she could see it blazing like a golden ball melting into the earth. Above, the clouds were pink feathers drifting slowly on a sea of blue. She crossed her feet and put her hands behind her head and watched the pink turn to a dusty shade of indigo. The air was warm, midges hovered in clouds of gray, roosting birds sung noisily from the branches and the breeze brought with it the faint but distinct smell of the ocean. She frowned at the image that passed fleetingly through her mind, so quickly she almost missed it. She saw a coastline with high cliffs and rocks and great waves crashing against the shore. She didn’t know where it had come from but it was as if a memory had been unleashed within her. Before she could dwell on it a moment longer it had dissolved, like foam, and above her the twinkling of the first star shone brightly. Reluctantly she pushed herself up and wandered inside.
Adeline watched her go. “Ireland is calling you home, my child,” she said, but her voice was a whisper that was lost on the wind. “Ireland is where you belong and where you shall one day be. Love binds you to it and will eventually carry you there. I have all the time in the world to see that it is done.”