White Hill House,
Mill Road,
Somerton,
York
18th October 1846
My dearest Sarah,
I must confess that I was grateful to be alone in my study after breakfast with neither my good-hearted housekeeper nor her inquisitive son in any way likely to require my attention or guidance while I read your most recent letter. Your description of the situation in Tartaraghan was heartbreaking and when you spoke of the child in swaddling clothes looking like a web of cloth, I have to confess to tears.
That poor woman, who in one year has lost not only her husband, but four children one after the other, is not to be criticised in any way for her lack of hope. I know that we are taught that despair is a sin, but how many of us have ever had to bear such heartbreak?
I feel sure that between you and Sophie Lawson some hope may have been kindled and I pray sincerely she will not be exposed to any of these ministers and priests, who I hear have taken up preaching that the famine is ‘the wrath of God’. I cannot possibly agree with their reading.
If I partially managed to control my tears over the coffin-less child, I certainly did not manage when you gave the woman your modest lunch. I was, however, somewhat cheered when you confessed that Scottie had lectured you firmly and insisted you eat half of his portion. You must remember, my dearest, that if you do not take care of yourself, you will not be able to help others. Apart from my own selfish wishes to know that you are in good health, I must point to all the so-called ‘tiny’ offerings you make – not simply the market stall which helps both seamstresses and purchasers, but the example you set: working yourself, encouraging young people like Scottie, Jamsey and Billy as well as Annie and James at Castle Dillon and not-so-young people like Sam Keenan and Mary-Anne, not forgetting Sir George himself. It is common knowledge he tells everyone that he’d be lost without you.
Like a ripple in a pond, even small acts can spread out in widening circles and touch others, who themselves create new circles.
There are times when I do have to confess to you my feelings of distress, when the help that is needed is lacking for a whole variety of reasons: if there is no active person in an area or if an area is remote, which usually means a lack of roads and any means of transport, and then saddest of all the indifference of some landowners to their tenants, like the gentleman in Belgium whose Christian name Scottie can’t remember.
But I try hard to gather up in my heart the small signs of hope. For example, did you know that the coastguards all around the shores of Ireland have been active in bringing in supplies by boat, especially in the areas I’ve just mentioned? This is something I shall be exploring when I come in December and visit my cousins in Donegal. Parts of that county, however beautiful, are rugged and trackless; approaching from the sea may achieve more than working from the villages accessible by road.
You ask about my own work as a manufacturer. You are quite right, I do owe it to my brothers to make sure I share with them the problems of the textile trade at the moment.
There is no doubt the competition from India in particular has created serious problems, but so far we have been able to maintain our labour force by dropping our prices and diversifying the goods we manufacture. The cheap clothing project, which I insist you inspired, flourishes. Profits are slim, but I am fortunate to have three brothers who are like-minded. Sadly, the fourth one is not, but for the moment he is willing to accept his share of the income and leave all the work of running the mills and factories to the four of us. It is a small price to pay for the freedom to do what we think right.
It is snowing here at the moment and you mention ‘wintry flurries’ in your letters. It is early for such fierce weather and I fear, as you do, that if it continues it will make everything more difficult.
It is six months before we can hope for any rise in temperature. Forgive me if I sometimes catch myself dreaming of walking under the trees on The Mall with you in sunshine or, even more wonderful, being able to walk with you in the gardens here.
Time moves on and I have a client to see in an hour’s time and papers and accounts to consult before he arrives. I see you in my mind’s eye, sitting at that handsome desk that Sir George visits so reluctantly, wearing your warmest dress with even more papers stacked up in front of you than I have now.
I shall write again this evening or tomorrow, by which time I may have news of the planned expedition in December. It will be a small number of people like myself revisiting, in order to reassess the need and the possibilities for meeting it in the nine counties of Ulster.
Take care of yourself, my dear one.
I hold you always in my thoughts and prayers,
Jonathan
The letters that flowed backwards and forwards between Ardrea and White Hill House brought warmth and cheer to both Sarah and Jonathan, but there was nothing anyone could do to mitigate the severity of the weather, as gales followed storms, and snowfall was a regular hazard on Sarah’s journey to work. Even without a covering of snow, the temperature stayed low as November turned to December and the Armagh Guardian reported the first deaths from starvation in Cork and Kerry.
It was so cold in the evenings that front doors were shut for the first time in years, not against unwelcome visitors, but to keep in what warmth a good fire could produce.
Mary-Anne got to her feet the moment she heard her door open.
‘Ach, Sarah, it’s great t’ see you. I know we said we’d meet the nite, but it’s so bitter I wasn’t entirely expectin’ you,’ she said, as she took Sarah’s sewing bag. She helped her unwind her heavy woollen shawl and hung it up near the fire so it would be warm when she had to go home again.
‘I was just readin’ the paper,’ she said, after she’d given her friend a hug, ‘but that wouldn’t do you much good this weather,’ she said sharply, as she sat down again.
‘Anything strange or startling?’ Sarah asked, suddenly thinking of John who had used the phrase, one she had never heard before, until she left Lisnagarvey and came to the forge at Drumilly.
She glanced at the abandoned newspaper dropped down beside Mary-Anne’s chair and then, feeling a sudden sadness for a world that had disappeared, not only with John’s death but with everything that had happened in the time since, she turned to look down at the deep red glow of the wood fire. She felt warmer already and the flickering flames and the crackle of wood brought an unexpected comfort for the sadness that had come upon her.
‘Ach sure what are they reportin’ on Cork and Kerry for when there’s plenty o’ death’s roun’ here to report? But the poor people here don’t have the benefit of a fancy post-mortem,’ she went on crossly, as she settled herself again.
‘Shure yer hans are stone cold, Sarah,’ she said abruptly. ‘Like two bits of ice when I helped you with your shawl. Will I make us a drop o’ tea now or wou’d ye rather try to get warm first?’ she asked, looking concerned.
‘No, don’t get up,’ said Sarah quickly, aware that Mary-Anne was upset by what she had just read and was ready to jump to her feet if a mug of tea would help cold hands. ‘I think I’m getting used to the cold now,’ she said reassuringly. ‘I sometimes have to get down from the trap and walk if Daisy is uneasy. She doesn’t mind snow, but if there’s ice she doesn’t want to move … so I have to lead her till she gets used to it.’
‘Ach dear, I diden know that,’ Mary-Anne replied, her voice softening. ‘Don’t tell Scottie for any sakes. He’ll worry himself t’ death if he thinks anythin’ might happen to you.’
Sarah smiled and sniffed appreciatively at the scent of the fresh applewood log which Mary-Anne had just put on the fire. She opened her sewing bag and took out a baby’s dress.
‘So, are you tired of making work clothes or is this good news I haven’t heard yet?’ asked Mary-Anne, sounding more like her normal forthright self.
‘I’m not sure to tell you the truth,’ Sarah replied, with a wry smile. ‘It’s Annie, the housemaid at Castle Dillon. She and James, the youngest footman, have been going together for a year or more, but they were trying to keep it a secret. I’m amazed at how well they’ve managed it, but once Annie stopped looking half-starved I did notice she’d begun to get a little tummy. I’d nearly made up my mind to ask, when she came an’ told me herself that she must be in the family way. D’you know, Mary-Anne, I don’t think she knew how it had happened. She thought it could only happen if you do “what ye mustn’t do that’s wrong.” And when I asked her what she meant by that, she said, “I must never let James come into me,” and she assured me that he hadn’t.’
‘Dear a dear, the poor wee lass, an’ no mother to help her. Whit’ll she do atall?’
‘Well, I’m gathering myself to ask Bridget Carey for advice. She once frightened the life out of poor Annie, told her if she didn’t mind her manners she’d send her back to the workhouse. Do you remember, it was Annie called me “My lady” on her first day at work? And it was my first day as well …’
‘Ach aye, I remember ye tellin’ me that story,’ Mary-Anne said laughing heartily. ‘What age would she be now?’ she went on more soberly.
‘Sixteen and a half now. At least it sounds better than fifteen. She was a good way off sixteen when she came to Castle Dillon.’
‘So what will Bridget Carey do? Throw her out or send her back to the workhouse?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ said Sarah briskly. ‘But I certainly can’t see how to go about it. I’m waiting for inspiration.’
To Sarah’s surprise, she saw Mary-Anne was thinking hard. Usually with her friend there was an instant response, to see her lost in thought was most unusual. Sarah got on with her sewing and waited.
It was two nights later, Wednesday, the night before the second market stall in December, when they met again in Sarah’s sitting room. The small room with its tiny fireplace and mirror over the mantelpiece had seldom been used in the two years of Sarah’s marriage, the kitchen being larger and more welcoming. John insisted that his mother kept it spotless for the minister calling, or the doctor, but that no one else ever set foot in it. Now, it was in use all the time. Occasionally, as before the visit to Tartaraghan, it had held sacks of meal, but now it did have a regular weekly function.
Piles of clothes, collected by Scottie and Jamsey accumulated during the week and on Wednesday evenings Sarah and Mary-Anne priced the garments, sorted them into bundles and tied them up ready to be loaded into the trap early on Thursday morning, before Scottie and Jamsey went to their own work in the forge and on the farm.
Despite their hard work humping and tying bundles, they were both stone cold by the time they’d finished in the unheated room. Sarah had thought about lighting a fire, but she’d been anxious about the state of the unused chimney. Besides, the fireplace was so small she doubted if a fire could produce much heat even at the best of times. They’d agreed that with the likelihood of smoking out the clean clothes, it just wasn’t worth the risk.
They both shivered as they came back into the warmth of the kitchen and Sarah put the kettle down to make tea.
‘You look pale as a ghost, Sarah,’ said Mary-Anne.
‘Well, you needn’t worry about me, for you look just as bad,’ Sarah replied, laughing. ‘We’ll be fine when we’ve had a mug of tea and a bit of cake.’
‘This cold is desperate bad news,’ Mary-Anne said anxiously, as she drew up close to the fire which Sarah had just made up with small logs and some pieces of coal. ‘I’m afeerd that with no good hot food the cold will do more harm to people than loosin’ the potatoes. What are we goin’ to do at all, Sarah? An’ all those poor people around us wi’ hardly the makins of a fire an’ nothin’ for their supper forby. Is there any hope at all?’
‘A bit, but not a lot,’ Sarah replied as she brought the teapot and mugs from the dresser. ‘They’ve got some boilers going in Tartaraghan now but there’s still arguing going on over relief works. “Presentments” is the big word I had to learn. It means arguing who pays for getting the work started. Then, even after months of arguing and work starts on drainage, or roads, or whatever, some of the men coming forward are so weak with hunger they can’t do a full day’s work, so their money gets docked and they still don’t get enough to eat.’
‘I heerd that the workhouse is full, an’ full of fever as well. Is that right?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ agreed Sarah, as she made the tea and let it stand to brew by the hearth. ‘They were built to hold a thousand people but it’s way over that even with using the attics and some workrooms. They’re trying to get the old cholera hospital going again for the worst cases and fever sheds are going up in the grounds, but it goes from bad to worse. There’s more coming for help every week. Some of the doctors who attend have got fever themselves, but it’s the poor children who are dying in droves. The younger they are, the less chance they have.’
‘So if that wee Annie of yours were sent back to the workhouse there’d not be much chance of her, or the chile, ever comin’ out of it. An’ that poor man, James, did ye say his name was? What’ll he do if he loses her an’ maybe his job as well?’
‘I hope it’ll not come to that. If it looked like that I’d go to Sir George, but he’s still in London and I’m not sure when he’s coming back. The roads are in a bad way with the frost and ice and Lady Emma hates travelling in winter. He’s not very likely to come on his own till after Christmas.’
‘So did ye see yer woman, Mrs Carey? How did that go?’
‘Well, a lot better than I expected and there were a couple of real surprises for me,’ said Sarah directly. ‘It seems that James is the son of the butler, who calls himself Smithers, though Bridget says his name is actually Smith. She says he had an affair with a kitchen maid who had a child and died a few weeks later. Smithers denied all knowledge of the girl and Sir George’s grandfather had the child adopted by one of the women staff in his Dublin house. The little boy went to school with the Molyneux children until he was ten or eleven and then when they all went to public school or boarding school and finishing school, he was left behind to become a servant.’
‘An’ yer man Smithers was his boss, was he? An’ did he still not admit who James was?’
‘No, according to Bridget, who was a kitchen maid herself in those days. James looks like his mother, who was a lovely girl with dark hair and dark eyes, and Smithers never had a good word to say for him. Bridget says he was a willing enough lad and did his best to do his work, but she thinks he had no great interest in being a servant.’
‘You tole me the other nite that Annie thought they’d done no wrong. Will Mrs Carey take any heed of that?’
‘That was my biggest surprise,’ Sarah said, pouring their tea. ‘She actually told me about the village in Clare where she was brought up and told me an expression she often heard. She said: “There’s some girls could pick it up off the grass.” I had to ask her what she meant and she said: “Sure a bit of rough and tumble in the hay field without a full act of intercourse and they’d fall pregnant.” That’s what she said and I know she doesn’t invent things.’
‘An’ she’s quite right too. I’ve heard that same expression and I’ve heard of a servant girl delivering her own child in a lavatory and not even knowing she was that way in the first place.’
‘I’m going to write to Sir George and suggest they are allowed to marry. I’ll tell him that Mrs Carey is reluctant to lose two good workers and that a room can be found for them in the stable building. Between you and me, once Bridget told me he could read and write, I suggested to her we could find him a job keeping stocklists and filing accounts. That actually went down very well with her, there’s a lot of that sort of thing she really dislikes, but it’s part of her job.’
‘Well now, isn’t that a bit of good news to brighten us up, for we’re sure to be froze the morra in Armagh,’ said Mary-Anne. ‘You can also drop a wee hint to Bridget Carey that ye know a wumman who has a room ready if the girl goes into labour. So she won’t be put out at all in her routine. All she needs to do is sen’ her up to me and sure isn’t there carriages galore in them big stables ye were tellin’ me about? Forby Daisy just waitin’ there ready to go home.’
‘But what about Billy and Jamsey, Mary-Anne, you don’t expect them to give up their room, do you?’
‘An’ why not? Sure I said maybe one day they’d need a han’ from their ma with a we’an of their own. Wou’d it not be a good idea to help her to keep her han’ in, doin’ a job they might need?’
Sarah laughed. There was no doubt when Mary-Anne put her mind to something she got there in the end. As she helped her friend wrap up warmly for her walk back up the hill, she remembered the one occasion when Jonathan had visited her, full of anxiety about her well-being, and left some time later saying he would hardly notice the journey back because his heart was so light.
Whatever tomorrow brought, there was joy in knowing that Annie and James now had another friend, and a more reliable one it would be hard to find.