Despite the fact that it was only a little after five o’clock, Sarah felt as if she had been away from home for several days. It was clear that both Scottie and Mary-Anne felt the same.
She had barely turned in between the gate pillars before Scottie was taking the reins and helping her down, while Mary-Anne appeared in a flurry of skirts from the swirling smoke of a new fire, well made up against her arrival, the kettle now down at the first sound of Daisy and the trap.
While Scottie ate his supper and Mary-Anne and Sarah downed large mugs of tea, the events of the day were tumbled out and shared, one thing leading to another, a name, a word, a person, opening up a whole new train of thought.
It wasn’t just that Scottie and Mary-Anne had difficulty in grasping all that had happened, Sarah was having trouble herself. While she was easy enough answering their questions about the house, the stories they’d heard about it compared to what she’d seen and what Sir George had said about paying the half-year rent, she found she was just too tired to give them a full account of everything else as well.
When Mary-Anne saw Sarah droop in her chair and announced that she’d come back up first thing in the morning, Sarah was grateful. What she missed was the look that Mary-Anne gave Scottie that had him on his feet in moments, but she sat back in her chair, closed her eyes and gave thanks when they both said, ‘See you in the morning. Sleep well,’ and she heard them pull the front door closed behind them.
No visitor ever knocked at a closed door unless it was a matter of known illness, for a closed door meant either absence or a need for privacy.
For a long time Sarah simply sat looking into the glowing heart of the fire, cherishing the smell of the applewood logs Billy Halligan had brought her by way of thanks for mending his best jacket so the tear it had suffered was totally invisible.
Time passed and she found herself thinking about John. What would he say if he knew she had acquired a position with Sir George? She could almost see him on the opposite side of the hearth listening to what she told him, nodding his head and agreeing that indeed he was right, sure wasn’t she far more reliable than any young man, and just as well educated, even if she hadn’t been to some expensive school?
But if she still had John, she would have no need and certainly no wish to have any other job than making a life together and running the forge accounts to help them make their living.
She found herself arguing with herself. Of course, John would congratulate her if she was on her own; he would understand she had to pay the rent, he would back her on keeping the forge going, in hoping that Sam Keenan would recover and be able to come back to work as soon as he could. But what John would do was not relevant; the real problem was what she herself felt about this strange change in her fortunes.
She sat for a long time, the fire making her drowsy. Then she found herself alert, replaying the conversation she’d had with Sir George after she’d said yes to the task of looking after his affairs, answering his letters and keeping his accounts.
To begin with, she couldn’t quite keep up with him. When he started laying out his side of the bargain, he offered her a weekly sum that was as much as the takings for a good week at the forge in summer. He made it clear that he needed extra help in the coming month, but in return for extra hours this month she would subsequently have a day off every week until Christmas so that she could pursue her plan to collect finished pieces of clothing and embroidery from home workers for sale in the market in Armagh.
He also made it clear that she would have her meals with the senior staff and receive a share of leftovers with the rest of his staff whenever there was entertainment for a large number of guests.
She’d had trouble at the time, taking it all in, but he was so clear and confident in his offer that he might as well have been reading a set of indentures written out in a clear copperplate in front of him. It all came back to her as she sat by the dying fire, too tired to make it up, but too reluctant to go to bed.
He left out nothing. Daisy would be fed as if she were at home. If circumstances meant Sarah had to stay late, or the weather was severe, one of the outside staff would drive her home in one of the smaller carriages and pick her up again the next morning.
He even mentioned her dresses. Having assured him that what she was wearing was her best dress, he suggested that she needed at least two more to see her through the winter. Whether she chose to make them herself or preferred the house’s dressmaker to make them, he would pay for them. She remembered smiling when he added: ‘As I pay for uniforms for the house staff, I don’t see why you should not have the same consideration. Your appearance is an appropriate part of your work.’
She wondered what he meant by that, but by this time her eyelids were drooping and her eyes prickling with tiredness. She had to remind herself that it was still only Monday, the first Monday in October and she had said she could make a start on Wednesday. In forty-eight hours she would have completed her first day at work, a work which she could never have imagined at any time in the last years.
Her grandmother was right, as she usually was. Time would reveal all. However interesting, taxing or boring, the task she had to perform only time would reveal. The only thing she was sure about at this moment was that Sir George Molyneux, however irritable he might be when provoked by circumstances, was a good, kind man, and from all she had now seen and heard, one whom she would willingly support in his many and various enterprises.
Sarah was up early on Wednesday morning knowing she had bread to bake for Scottie’s evening meal and herself to wash and dress after she’d done all the dusty and dirty morning jobs.
But there was more to do than she’d expected. She needed a fresh collar for her best dress and found her fingers were all thumbs when she took out her sewing things to secure it with a few stitches. Scottie arrived early for breakfast and asked for cleaning materials, clearly wanting to polish up Daisy’s harness before they went. She spent longer over their bowl of porridge and pot of tea than she normally would for Scottie seemed to be anxious at her being away all day, not only today, but Thursday and Friday as well.
In many ways, it was not surprising that he was anxious, though he’d been managing well in the forge. He’d been completing any tasks that came in where he had the relevant experience, as well as shoeing all the various horses from the breadman’s heavy draught animal to the fine-boned hunters kept by the Cope family. His skill in shoeing seemed to parallel his gift of making horses feel comfortable which he’d had since his very first weeks in the forge, now over five years ago.
But today he seemed remarkably uneasy. It looked as if it was because she was going out all day, when he’d become used to knowing she was only yards away in the house, doing her everyday work or sitting by the fire sewing small garments.
Until now, he’d never seemed troubled if she went into Armagh with the Halligans or walked down to Mary-Anne to collect eggs, or milk, if they were running low, but she’d never been away for a whole long day, like Monday. That, it seemed had really upset him, so Mary-Anne had told her on Tuesday morning. Now it would be four long days in the week and the fifth day would join them in November when they started selling in the market in Armagh.
Given he was not yet in his last year of apprenticeship, there was nothing surprising in him being anxious about being left on his own, but if that really was the problem what could she possibly do to reassure him? It would be a different matter, of course, if Sam Keenan was back at work, but there was no news yet this week of that happening. His wife had said last week that ‘he hadn’t the energy of a good fly’, and Sarah knew from many such stories she’d heard that if he tried to force himself it would be a bad mistake. But that was hardly going to help Scottie.
As they sat drinking their tea, Sarah was only too aware of time moving on and things she still needed to do before she left. Try as she might, she could think of nothing she could say to him that might reassure him in her absence.
‘Which way d’ye go in to the demesne, the front or the back?’ he said suddenly, just as she was beginning to think she must get moving whether she liked it or not.
‘Oh, I think I’ll stick to the back,’ she said smiling. ‘I might bump into a coach if I went the front way. The back way is only carts and gardeners and they’re not in a desperate hurry like the coaches sometimes are. At least so says James Ervine.’
She’d spoken lightly, but she saw the colour drain from his face. ‘What’s wrong, Scottie? What have I said to upset you?’
He shook his head and she saw tears in his eyes. ‘I’ll niver forgit that day I waited on the pillar to see the boss comin’ home and him dead on a door wi’ the Halligans carryin’ him,’ he said, his voice choked by a great sob.
She stood up and put her arms round him. ‘And you think I might go and die on you as well?’ she said gently.
He nodded, tears dripping on to his dusty working trousers and marking them with dark wet spots.
‘Now how could I go and do that when it was you taught me to drive?’
She was amazed at the lightness of her tone and she had no idea where the words had come from, but their effect was magical.
‘Aye and there’s no stone walls that way either, only ditches,’ he said, wiping his eyes, as if the ditches would provide complete protection for her in the event of an accident.
‘And how could I go falling in a ditch in my best dress when it’s the only one I’ve got at the moment?’
She saw him smile and some dark shadow moved away.
‘You’re not anxious about being here on your own till we get Sam Keenan back?’ she asked quietly.
To her great relief, he shook his head, ‘Ach no. People are all right if ye’re honest wi’ them. If I’m not sure I can mend somethin’ I say so. An’ if they ask about Sam I tell them what his wife tole me las’ night: “He’s grand in hisself but he still hasn’t the energy of a good fly.” He was in his bed already whin I called to see him, but shure everyone says it’s jus’ a matter of time, maybe only a week or two. He’s over the worst.’
‘Oh that is good news,’ Sarah said happily. She’d not expected to hear again from Sam’s wife till payday and this fresh news was a further relief. ‘If you’re ever anxious about anything, you know you could go down to the Halligans, don’t you? They’d always help out,’ she said, wanting him to feel easy.
‘Aye. Ah know that,’ he replied promptly, ‘but it was only you I was worried about.’
She did her best to suppress a smile at his unconsidered honesty. ‘Well, if I promise to drive carefully, will you make sure you eat what I leave for you? So that I don’t have to worry about you, now that I’ve Sir George to look after. I’m not even in my work dress yet and it’s nearly time to go,’ she added quickly.
‘Never worry,’ he said, beaming at her as she turned towards the bedroom stairs. ‘I’ll tell Daisy yer a wee bit late. She’ll not let you down.’
Scottie was right. Daisy herself seemed to be delighted to be harnessed up again. She needed little encouragement to set off at a good pace and very little guidance at the sharp turn that took them towards Hockley Lodge and the back entrance. They drew up outside the stables a few minutes before nine o’clock and were greeted by Robert Ross and a tall, blonde youth called William.
‘Good morning, ma’am. I’ve heered the news about you comin’ to work here an’ it seems Sir George is in much better form than whin you last come. Long may it last,’ he said, raising his eyes heavenwards. ‘Now, William here is going to look after Daisy. Tell me, do you ever ride her?’
Sarah laughed and shook her head.
‘I’m afraid horse riding was not on the curriculum of the wee school I went to. It was Scottie who taught me to drive.’
‘Aye, an’ yer a right han’ at it, if it’s new to you,’ he replied, nodding vigorously. ‘Now I’ve a favour to ask you. Wou’d ye mind if William here got Daisy ready for a saddle and rode her when she’s ready? Sometimes we hafta take letters to local folk and we’ve only a couple o’ the young ladies’ horses we can use. If Daisy wou’d help us out it wou’d be company for her while ye’re at yer work. An’ ye might give it a go yerself when she’s broke in. Though there’ll be no trouble there for she’s used to people and is good-natured forby. What dy’e say? Fer I know I’m keepin’ ye back and I’m sure yer man is waitin’ on ye.’
‘By all means go ahead,’ she said nodding happily. ‘I’m sure Scottie would ride her even if I didn’t. I certainly know she likes company. She really stepped out this morning when she knew where she was going.’
‘Aye, they can tell these things,’ he said, as he fell into step beside her, leaving William and Daisy to their morning’s work. ‘Yer man, Sir George, was powerful pleased when he came to see me about Daisy. That’s how we know’d about yer new job. Ye’ll find everyone knows now. Things go round this house faster than grooms on horseback,’ he said, laughing as he rang the doorbell and waited till Bridget Carey opened the heavy door.
‘Good luck,’ he said, saluting her as Bridget took her arm and drew her inside.
She was grateful that Sir George was nowhere to be seen, so she propped her bag with her own pens and paper, her jotter, rubber, and a comb and mirror, by the side of the desk and studied the towers of papers built with loose sheets. Some packets were tied with tape and others with string, the whole lot covered with a fine film of dust, presumably from the log fire burning merrily in the grate.
She stood and looked at the desk and its burden and wondered where to start. The sunlight was beaming through tall windows, pulling out the rich colour of the carpets. In contrast, far above her head, the smooth white ceiling was decorated with an elaborate plaster centrepiece which matched the architrave running round the whole room. It was full of flowers and intertwining leaves that created a sense of order and pattern in complete contrast with the room below, a room full of disorder, piles of books and overflowing boxes of paper heaped up on chairs and on the floor, making it difficult to move around even though the room itself was so large.
She made up her mind. What must come first was the surface of the desk, for it was clear that letters had been deposited for so long that, like sodden slopes in winter, it would need only a very little more deposited on top to start a landslide.
It was perfectly obvious the letters at the bottom of the piles had arrived before those in the middle, or at the top. She began creating new, less unstable, piles on the floor, a scribbled note from her jotter recording the dates of the arrival of items at the bottom and at the top. Some of the items went back a long way.
She had just revealed half of the handsome leather covering on the surface of the desk and was wondering where the nearest duster might be, when she heard the door open behind her. To her surprise, the person who entered was not Sir George, as she thought it might be, but a thin, pale girl in a black dress with her dark hair almost completely hidden under a crisp white cap. She carried a tray gingerly in both hands. It bore a silver teapot, a pretty china cup and saucer with a motif of garden flowers and a matching plate displaying a pretty arrangement of shortbread biscuits.
‘Your tea, my lady,’ the girl said, bobbing a curtsey, as soon as she had put the tray down on the newly revealed surface of the desk.
For a moment, Sarah was quite overwhelmed by the desire to laugh, but then she saw the painful unease on the girl’s face.
‘I’m not that sort of lady, I’m a servant just as you are,’ she said gently. ‘My name is Sarah Hamilton, what’s yours?’
‘Annie,’ she replied baldly, clearly still defeated by what to call this person in front of her.
‘And have you been at Castle Dillon long, Annie?’ she asked patiently, aware the girl was close to tears, though for what reason she could not guess.
‘Since yesterday.’
‘Then you are a day ahead of me,’ said Sarah, smiling. ‘This is my first day and I don’t know who anyone is, except Sir George and Mrs Carey and Robert the blacksmith.’
‘Mrs Carey said if I diden mine me manners they’d sen’ me back,’ Annie said, her voice wavering.
‘Back where?’ Sarah asked.
‘T’ th’ workhouse.’
The look of devastation on the girl’s face made Sarah think of all the negative things she had ever heard about that institution. What could she possibly say about it?
‘And are your mother and father still there?’ she asked, totally overwhelmed by the sadness and anxiety in the girl’s face.
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’ve no mother an’ no father. I’ve no one belongin’ to me. I’m all on ma lone.’
For a moment, Sarah thought she heard steps approaching the door. She wondered if someone might appear to scold Annie for idling, but just as she’d had to find something to say to Scottie, she knew she had to do, or say, something to help this poor girl.
Once again, like both Scottie and herself, with only his elderly Granny ‘belongin” to him, was someone else with no sheltering arms to hold them, to enfold them and comfort them when they were in distress. No mother, no father, no sister, no brother, no husband, no wife. As Annie had put it so simply, they were ‘on their lone’.
‘Here,’ she said quickly, ‘put these in your pocket and we’ll see each other tomorrow. Call me “Mrs Hamilton” when anyone else is here. Call me “Sarah” when I’m on my own,’ she added, as she handed over two of the shortbread biscuits from the pretty china plate.
To her great delight, she saw a wisp of a smile as the fingers closed on what was clearly a rare treat. The thin, pale face was transformed for a single moment and in that moment Sarah saw Annie had the makings of a very pretty girl.
Time moved on and Sarah was summoned to lunch by the young man called James she’d met on her last visit. He escorted her to her place beside Mrs Carey at the top of the long table in the servants’ hall. The food was good and plentiful, but Sarah found it hard to enjoy while replying to Bridget Carey’s stream of questions above the noise of the large assembled company. She was so glad to get lunch over that she said a polite ‘No, thank you’ to tea in Mrs Carey’s sitting room on the grounds that she’d not managed a quarter of what needed doing today.
She was grateful for the enfolding quiet of Sir George’s study where the fire had been made up in her absence and someone had left a basket containing wax polish and cleaning materials probably in response to her question to James as to where she could find such things.
She sniffed the polish appreciatively and applied it sparingly to the half of the desk that stood empty and dusty. She was so encouraged by the wonderful effect it had on the leather surface she was sure she got through clearing the second half much faster than the first.
For the moment, she was not opening letters and looking at them unless they’d already been opened in the first place. Her sole concern was to create order, to have piles that were not so high they’d fall over. Sorting them for content, or urgency, she tried not to think about. Some of the envelopes looked very battered and worn as if they’d been around for a long time, but clearly all of them remained unanswered.
What could they be about? she wondered. She knew there were no letters in what she’d sorted from family and friends. These would be marked private and probably would be delivered straight to the family breakfast table, not stacked up in Sir George’s study. So what were all of these?
Finally, overcome by curiosity, she opened a letter that still looked fresh and recent. Despite its very small copperplate, she found the text consistent and legible. The writer began by insisting that it was a true copy of the minutes made this day of our Lord, 13th September 1845 at the request of Sir George Molyneux, Chairman of the said Committee of Governors of the Armagh Workhouse.
Fascinated, she read on and found that one of the topics under discussion was the eleven-year-old who had applied for permission to go and live with a Mr Hamilton. It seemed that Mary-Jane Gray had returned to the house rather than live in the country with the Hamilton family and it was proposed that the shoes and stockings given to Mary-Jane Gray on her going out to service were now to be given to this new applicant.
Sarah paused, wondering if Annie had had such a ‘going out’ present. Then her eye caught a list of punishments. Three young men were to have no supper for a week, two of them to have twenty-four lashes as well.
Distressed by the punishment for not working hard enough, Sarah was reluctant to read any further, but an item about illegitimate children caught her eye. Sadly, she read it and was reminded that Annie was only one of a large number, fifty-three in this report who had no one to protect them apart from the officers of the workhouse whose rules seemed harsh indeed.
The fire was burning low by the time the desk was clear and the piles on the carpet arranged chronologically. Sir George had not appeared and no one she’d spoken to in the course of the day seemed to have the slightest idea where he was. It was almost six o’clock when James appeared once more with two small bundles of post on a silver tray.
‘Mrs Carey said to tell you: “These came yesterday and these today and she knew there was no point sending them round till you’d sorted out the desk.”’
He bowed and placed the two small bundles on the wide stretch of gleaming leather.
‘Shall I ask for your conveyance to be brought to the servants’ door, ma’am?’ he asked, as the clock struck six.
‘No, thank you, James. I’ll walk down to the stables when I’ve checked everything out. I’ll be going shortly,’ she replied, wondering why this young man always made her feel so uneasy.
She stood looking down at the desk. Clearing it had been her long day’s work. She touched the two small bundles, each tied in a bow with string from the kitchen. The earlier one had a white envelope on top.
She removed the string from both packets and picked out an envelope that looked somehow familiar. Suddenly it came to her that the message from The Retreat had arrived in such an envelope, bringing to an end her long wait in the library and her conversation with a Quaker man.
She turned it over but did not open it. She knew right away who it was from. He’d told her he would write to Sir George and he had. A man of his word, as all Quakers had been brought up to be.
‘Jonathan Hancock,’ she said to herself, smiling as she thought back to their meeting on Monday. ‘I wonder what business you have with Sir George Molyneux.’