It was a bitter, cold day in February when Brigid got the news that Patrick had been killed in an accident at the sawmill. He’d been overseeing the unloading of lumber from a wagon when a chain hoisting a large trunk snapped, the trunk hitting him in the head, crushing his skull.
Although John Mahoney couldn’t make it in time for his son’s funeral, he did return as quickly as possible to see to the affairs of his family and business. Gracia, suffering from the loss of her son and also a severe bout of arthritis, couldn’t make the trip. John felt he had no choice but to give the running of the sawmill over to Robert Murphy, a capable man who had been Patrick’s foreman, giving him an option to buy him out after five years. To Brigid, he gave five thousand dollars, which he considered to be more than generous, to see to her needs. “And whatever else you’ll be needin’ after this is gone, I’ll be sendin’ to ya. Just keep me informed of your wants. You know that whatever is left after Gracia and I are gone, which could be quite considerable, will be goin’ to your children.”
In the dark days that followed, Brigid was consumed with grief and a brooding anger. She was aware that her in–laws didn’t care for her, but for the life of her, she could never figure out why. Hadn’t she worked like a dog running a proper house for them all? Unlike Patrick, and her family before him, they’d never made the effort to make her feel important or appreciated.
Five thousand dollars won’t be keepin’ me in this house ferever, she thought, not with payin’ fer the help and maintainin’ these grounds. And like a beggar, I’m supposed to ask! It’s meself that’ll be needin’ the money. Now! Not me children. It’ll be a cold day in Hell when I’ll be askin’ fer any of their handouts. And if I know Gracia Mahoney, there won’t be much left fer me children by the time she gets done spendin’ it on that enormous family of hers over there.
That’s when she devised her plan. She’d make her way in the world. She wouldn’t be cast aside like an old boot. She wrote to John and Gracia only once, assuring them she’d not be needing their help. Never responding to Gracia’s pleading letters for news of her grandchildren gave her a sense of vindictive satisfaction.
I’ll be lettin’ them suffer like I’ve had to do, she said to herself.
Emily Herron came back for Patrick’s funeral. Carl Herron had died three years earlier, and she’d gone to live in Toronto to be nearer her three children, who had found nothing in Herron’s Point to keep them there. “If there’s anything I can do, Bridie, anything at all, you just let me know,” she said.
And Brigid remembered.
Brigid loved her home on Superior Avenue. The important people lived there. The ones who counted. But the house at 7 Erie Street would be a much better location for what she had in mind. The Herron house had been up for sale for the past three years, ever since Carl’s death, but there was little demand for such a large, expensive house in a town so small. And anyone who would want one would surely choose to locate on Michigan or Superior Avenue.
She took a train to Toronto. Brigid had no qualms about taking advantage. Not with all of Emily’s millions.
And so, after Brigid told Emily there would also be electricity, plumbing, and central heating needed, which should be taken into consideration—that is, if she decided to take the white elephant off her hands—Emily quickly conceded, and the deal was set. She was more than generous selling the house with all its furnishings for less than the price the house on Superior Avenue brought.
The Herron property at 7 Erie Street took up an entire block, surrounded by a decorative, four–foot, black iron fence that could be entered through the front gate on Erie Street or the back gate on Ontario Street. The outbuildings consisted of a chicken coop, an outhouse, a tool shed, and a small carriage house with second–floor accommodations, which at one time had been occupied by Elmer Stokey, the caretaker, and his wife, Flora, the Herrons’ cook. These buildings were located to the left and back of the house. To the right of the house, there had been a beautiful flower garden surrounding an octagonal gazebo, which had since gone to seed. During the past three years of neglect, all had fallen into disrepair.
The house itself was a large Georgian structure, three stories high, painted white, with long, green–shuttered windows on the first two floors and a row of narrow windows along the third level. A widow’s walk was perched in the middle of a green slate roof.
The grand furnishings throughout the house had been brought in from all parts of the world. Other than her own precious mementos and a few valuable paintings, Emily left them all. With more money than she could use in her lifetime, she was quite settled and content in her fashionable redbrick townhouse in Toronto. Brigid had taken a large burden off her hands.
When the house was built, Carl Herron had insisted on a porch that spanned the front of the house. It was here he spent his later years, sitting in a rocking chair, looking out over the lake, greeting people as they walked by, affording him a means of keeping his finger on the pulse of the town he had built. When he was found dead in his rocking chair at sunset one Saturday in May, his eyes were open, and there was a smile of satisfaction on his face. People took it as a sign he’d gone to his Maker pleased that his dreams and hard work had come to fruition.
After Brigid took over, she put Jack and his friend Stephen Hargrove to work outside, while she and Bernice MacEvers threw open windows and doors to air out the musty smell of abandonment—beating rugs, washing windows, and scrubbing and polishing each of the thirteen large rooms.
Jack and his friend gave the outside of the buildings and the fence a new coat of paint, rejuvenated the garden, and finished up their work by demolishing the outhouse. The second floor had five bedrooms, and the largest bedroom in the back had been divided, so that the plumbing for the bathroom could be installed. All wall lamps and chandeliers had been wired for electricity.
Chickens and a rooster were now established in the hen house. Nellie, their cow, was bedded quite comfortably in the carriage house, grazing on the wide lawn on the side of the house during the day, chewing contentedly as her big brown eyes watched with interest the flurry of activity around her.
Since she was only six, and likely to be in the way, Maggie remained with her friend Rosemarie during the day.
Before this work was ever completed, Brigid had recruited her boarders. With Patrick dead only seven months, she had embarked on a new life. The boarders moved in on September 3, 1896, two days before her thirty–fifth birthday.