Monday. Four days without a word. Brigid was definitely concerned.
She’d had time to digest the news Mary Margaret had given her, and she still couldn’t accept the claim that Robert could commit such a horrible act. No, it was that Liam Ryan’s son, Tim. Surely the blame lay squarely at his feet. But at least she was a wee bit calmer about the matter, and Mary Margaret was her daughter, after all. She was probably staying at her friend Rosemarie’s house. Perhaps when she came back for the rest of her things, they would have a long talk and she could suggest she go stay with her grandparents in Ireland. That way the town would not know of her shame. And Brigid would be spared the gossiping tongues.
Tuesday morning, Ray Alberts dropped by to collect Brigid’s insurance premium. He knocked at the back door to announce himself, then let himself in.
When Brigid saw him, she went to get her purse.
Once a month, Ray came in, wearing his usual white shirt and rumpled suit, and sat down at the kitchen table to share a cup of tea, some biscuits, and the town gossip he had gathered from his rounds during the previous month.
Maggie was always in the kitchen because it was ironing day. Brigid knew Maggie was the reason Ray lingered. The three would take a little break, which usually lasted about three quarters of an hour, and then he’d take his leave. Brigid usually enjoyed these little visits, knowing full well why he stayed, but happy to get the latest news.
Maggie was completely oblivious, and Brigid never concerned herself about Ray’s motives. At twenty–seven, he had no inclination to spend his hard–earned money courting a woman. He figured that by the time he was forty, he’d have saved up enough to find a suitable wife. His face was as pinched as the pence in his pocket.
This Tuesday, Brigid told him Maggie wasn’t there, and he knew why.
“It’s a hot one out there,” he said pulling at his frayed white collar and wiping the sweat off his forehead with a graying handkerchief. He looked at Brigid, who had her premium money in hand, and said, “I understand your daughter has been quite ill. I hope she’s feeling better.”
His curiosity about yesterday’s incident had to be satisfied.
Brigid’s stomach churned as she stared at him. “What is your meanin’ of that?” she snapped. Surely the town didn’t know of her condition yet! “The last I saw of her, she was in good health.”
He was surprised at her response and didn’t know if he should pursue the matter. “I was collecting over to Mrs. Orwell’s house yesterday, when I passed Father Charles coming down the front steps. I thought this was rather curious because of her being a Presbyterian and all. Then I thought, maybe she was having a spiritual change of heart or something.”
He paused for a minute as he watched the blood drain from Brigid’s face.
“Yes, yes,” she said.
“Well, Mrs. Orwell was quite beside herself when I commented on seeing Father Charles. Said she had a very sick girl staying with her, and he’d come to tend to her spiritual needs.”
Once again he paused.
“So, why would you be sayin’ she’s me Mary Margaret?”
“Because then I went to the MacNamaras’ for my next collection. Mrs. MacNamara said that her husband, who works with Tim Ryan over at the quarry, told her that Tim was quite exhausted and concerned about his girlfriend’s condition. He’d been spending his nights at her bedside over at Mrs. Orwell’s house. Mrs. MacNamara said she couldn’t for the life of her understand why Maggie Mahoney would be there when she had a perfectly beautiful house of her own with a mam that was quite capable of tending to her. That’s how I know it’s your Maggie.”
Brigid knew that must have been the reason Father Charles had stopped to see her on Monday. If she’d gotten back to him, she wouldn’t have to be listening to this terrible news, standing there like a gaping fool.
Ray realized he’d upset Brigid terribly.
“I do apologize, Mrs. Mahoney. I thought you’d certainly know. I think the world of your Maggie and was really just inquiring about her health. I’m sure she’ll be fine. And whatever the problem between the two of you, I’m also sure it will be worked out.”
Brigid handed him her premium money, and he left her with the beginnings of another migraine. She went to her bedroom, leaving Claire, who had been ironing and privy to the entire conversation.
That evening, Brigid went to visit Father Charles. He wasn’t home.
On Wednesday, Brigid told Claire to pack up all of Mary Margaret’s belongings as soon as she finished the remainder of the ironing.
“Tomorrow, you can drop them off at Mrs. Orwell’s before you go to Stockwell’s for the beef I ordered. Inquire after Mary Margaret, too, but don’t be dawdlin’ there too long.”
Her heart wanted to go and see about her daughter herself. Her pride wouldn’t let her.
Claire, still not knowing the cause of the problem between mother and daughter, came back Thursday before the lunch hour all excited. “Oh, missus, Maggie is going to be just fine. I asked Mrs. Orwell what was ailing Maggie, and could I please talk to her, but she said Maggie was sleeping and needed her rest. She seemed very pleased that Maggie had come through the worst of a very bad pneumonia and said it would take some time for her to gain back her strength. She was also surprised you didn’t know about her condition, because Father Charles said he would let you know. She also said you were welcome to come and visit her at any time.”
They’ll not be seein’ the likes of me now, Brigid thought. They didn’t find it fittin’ ta fetch me when she got sick. I’ve been betrayed completely.
Brigid immediately went to Saint Michael’s to speak to her friend. A very tall, good–looking young man in a black shirt and trousers opened the door.
“And who might you be?” she said curtly.
“Why, I’m Father DeSalle, come to take over Father Scanlon’s duties. I might ask you the same question.”
“Brigid Mahoney. Father Charles’ dearest friend.”
“Oh, where are my manners? Won’t you please come in?” He smiled and stood aside for Brigid to enter.
Brigid brushed past him, looking, expecting to see Father Charles sitting in his old, overstuffed chair.
“And where is himself?” she asked, bewildered.
Father DeSalle’s face grew serious. “I’ll be making the announcement at the Sunday Masses, but since you are so concerned, I’ll tell you that Father Scanlon is seriously ill.”
“That can’t be. I know he’s been slowin’ down lately, but that can’t be.”
“I’m sorry to say he has a heart ailment. From what I understand, he’ll be returning from Toronto sometime next week. But he won’t be capable of doing much for some time. I’m to take over his duties and tend to his needs in the meantime.”
Brigid pinched up her mouth, then said, “If there’s any tendin’ ta be done, it’ll be done by me.”
Somehow Father DeSalle knew not to argue.
Brigid was completely overwrought. Between her daughter and her best friend, her migraines increased. Claire was a blessing to her at this time.
Maggie struggled through a dark tunnel toward a voice that kept calling her name. When she opened her eyes, a kind face smiled at her. It took her a few minutes to recognize Penelope Orwell.
“Oh, my dear, it’s so good to see you awake,” Penelope said. She stroked Maggie’s matted hair and wiped her face with a damp cloth. “Tim will be overjoyed when he comes home tonight. He’s been beside himself with worry.”
Maggie tried to lean up on her elbows and fell back into the pillows. “How long have I been like this?” she asked weakly.
“It’s been almost four days, love. Four long, worrisome days. Father Charles was here to see you this morning. What a sweet man! Then, about ten minutes ago, your fever broke. Now I want you to rest while I go and fetch you some vegetable broth.”
Maggie smiled. “Thank you for caring for...”
She was no longer fighting demons. She was in a peaceful sleep.
Life was no longer a quagmire now that Maggie was beginning to feel better. Tim spent all his free time with her and Penelope. He’d heard about Father Charles at Sunday mass but hesitated to tell Maggie about it until she was a little stronger. Day by day, he could see the color returning to her beautiful face.
The bond between Penelope and Maggie grew stronger as the days passed. Afternoons, they would sit in the garden knitting blankets and little sweaters and booties for the new arrival. Penelope spoke often of the fact that she’d never been blessed with children and how she so looked forward to meeting the child Maggie carried in her. “No matter how it was conceived,” she said, “a child is innocent of wrongdoing.”
Aware of Maggie’s deep emotional pain, she drew her out, and Maggie found it easy to confide in her, an intimacy she had never experienced with her mother. Penelope knew that Maggie would never forget her emotional trauma, but she delicately whittled away at her pain with tactful questioning. With all the wisdom she possessed, she knew she had to prepare her for her marriage to Tim. He was, after all, almost like her own son.
It was two weeks after Maggie got sick that Father Charles returned to his room above the church. Brigid insisted he come and stay with her for the best care, since Father DeSalle would be occupying his space, but Father DeSalle stood firm.
“He can’t have too much fussing right now. What he needs is complete rest. No, it’s best he remain in his own surroundings, where he can stay in touch with his parishioners through me.”
For once, Brigid had no choice but to back down. She really didn’t like this new pastor telling her what she could and couldn’t do. She also knew that if she tended to one, she’d have to feed the other, too. She saw to it that another bed was installed.
Zeb collected Father Charles from the train depot and brought the buckboard around to the back of Saint Michael’s.
Brigid wasn’t prepared for the sight she saw. He had lost weight, his face was drawn and pale, and he wearily made it up the steps, pausing twice to rest. Her heart was heavy.
Tim wanted to see Father Charles the following Sunday after Mass, but Father DeSalle refused to allow any visitors, and parishioners were disappointed. Father DeSalle in turn reported to Father Charles some of the names (there had been so many) of those who had inquired after his welfare.
When Father Charles heard Tim’s name, he said, “Let him come and see me next Sunday.”
He had already learned from Brigid that Maggie was recovering. It had been one of the first questions out of his mouth. Relieved that she was doing fine, he didn’t pursue the subject further—at least not then. But as the days passed and he gained some strength, he began to express his feelings to Brigid on the matter.
Brigid would stiffen. There was no talking to her, and he didn’t have the energy to try. She was his dear friend, but also a source of conflicting emotions.
Doc Stewart said he didn’t want Charles going up and down the steps, but since the weather had been so favorable, he did want him outside, getting some sunshine.
He was sitting in a chair on the top landing the Sunday Tim came bounding up the steps. The two shook hands, and Tim concealed his shock at seeing such a change in the man.
“So, how’re ya keepin’, Tim, lad?”
“Just fine, Father Charles. And yourself?”
“Well, Doc says ’twill be a while. It’s me heart, they say.”
He looked beyond the railing toward the crest of the hill, then back at Tim. “It’s just grand to be home. And I understand Maggie is doing well. Such a love.”
“She told me to give you her best. Getting stronger every day. Just like you will. Doc MacQuaid says it will be a few weeks before she should get out and about, but she’ll be coming to see you before you know it.”
The pair sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, listening to droning beetles, watching leaves fall silently to earth, drinking in the best that autumn had to offer.
Finally, Tim spoke. “Father, Maggie and I want to get married as soon as possible. I know you’re not up to it yet, but Maggie says she won’t get married unless you perform the ceremony. When do you think that will be?”
Father Charles looked long and solemnly at Tim. “’Tis a good thing you’re wantin’ ta do, lad. Are you sure you’re up ta the doin’ of it? It’s not fer the fact yer feelin’ sorry fer the poor lass?”
That thought had never crossed Tim’s mind. “I love her deeply, Father. And she truly needs me right now, what with her mam being the way she is, and all.”
“I was thinkin’ as much. But I had ta ask.”
Once again, there was silence. Then Father Charles looked at Tim with a wisp of a smile and said, “How does the second Saturday in November sound ta ya? That’ll give time fer recuperatin’ and plenty of time fer the banns ta be announced. That’s about six weeks down the road. I know you’d be wantin’ it done sooner, but things got in the way fer the three of us, and we can’t argue that fact.”
Tim’s face broke out in a big grin. “Father, whatever you say will make Maggie happy. She loves you like her own, you know. And by that time, the two of you will be hale and hearty, I’d say.” He stood to leave and extended his hand. He was shocked by the fragility of the other man’s hand.
Maggie was elated at the news and immediately sat down to write a letter to Rosemarie to ask her to be her maid of honor. It took her another week before she felt strong enough to go tell her mother the news and invite her to the wedding.
Brigid was caught unawares when Maggie came walking in through the pantry door.
“And what would ya be wantin’ with anyone in this house?” she snarled. “Seems you’ve been doin’ just fine down at that Penelope Orwell’s place. Not a word of yer comin’s and goin’s fer three weeks, and now ya just pop in.”
Maggie sighed. “It was you, after all, that asked me to leave, Mam. And I’ve been sick, or I would have been here sooner. But I’m feeling much better now. I came because you’re my mam, I love you, and want to ask you to come to my wedding the second Saturday in November.”
Brigid instinctively wanted to go to her daughter and hug her, happy that she was no longer sick, but her pride held her back. She had been deeply wounded, first by Mary Margaret, who had lied to her, then by Penelope Orwell, who seemed to think she had some claim on her daughter’s life.
“I’ll be thinkin’ on it. But I promise ya nothin’.”
She turned and clipped down the hall to her bedroom—something she’d have done before, had she seen Maggie coming.
A week later, Maggie received a letter from Rosemarie.
Dearest Maggie,
I was so happy to hear from you and thrilled at the good news, both the fact that you’re getting better and that you’re to be married. You can’t know how much I’ve worried about you.
Of course I would be honored to stand for you at your wedding. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to be asked, and I will definitely make sure I get a long weekend away from school so we can spend some time together.
Your loving friend,
Rosemarie
P.S. Mum and Papa said they will be happy to attend your wedding. They’re looking forward to it.
She did not add the fact that her mother had filled her in on the local gossip. Maggie deserved none of it.
Mary Murphy had stepped in to assist the new pastor, Father DeSalle, when Brigid would have no part of him. Mary had heard all the rumors about Maggie after the banns were announced, but she had never been one to pay much mind to gossip of any kind. Many times when Maggie was visiting Rosemarie, Maggie would come next door to visit Mary and talk about the days she had lived in the house, and Mary considered her to be a wonderful young lady. She even hoped that someday her boys would find girls as sweet to bring home as their wives.
It was the day she tried on her navy blue suit with the white braided trim to wear for the wedding that Maggie first felt the life in her move. It was a strange sensation and totally unexpected. Yet she knew that no matter what the circumstances that had brought this life about, she would always love and protect it—and he, or she, would truly belong to her and Tim.
As she viewed herself in the full–length mirror, she realized the suit was slightly snug. Not so much that anyone would notice, but she could feel the jacket pulling on her full breasts, and the skirt waist barely snapped. This in no way deterred her happiness for her approaching wedding day. She loved Tim so much that nothing else mattered.