‘You will,’ Liam said. ‘I can follow later, if need be.’
‘You may never save the money…’
‘I’ll no’ leave without him, Eiles.’
His sister’s eyes filled with tears as she gave him a brief embrace. ‘God go with you.’ Liam held her tight then drew away to shake Rory’s hand.
‘If I don’t…’
Rory simply nodded, his eyes wet, and Liam turned away to run towards the docks. It was dank underneath and filled with the rot of refuse and the stench of fish remains among the polluted water and seaweed.
‘Kieran,’ he called, straining to see under the boards in the darkness after the brilliant sun of moments before. He moved along, his heart freezing every time he thought he saw something human. There was a discarded stained shirt then a seafarer’s boot; a broken china doll then a ripped sailor’s coat. But no beaten, bloodied man, dead or alive.
The ship sounded its bell and Liam broke into a sweat, despite the cold.
‘Kieran,’ he said brokenly, hope beginning to fade. There would be no new life now and no old life worth living without his elder brother beside him. His closest friend in the world.
‘It’s me, Liam,’ he said pointlessly to the dark, terrible place. Sunlight was slicing where the boards didn’t quite meet, more like blinding walls than comforting rays, and he walked through them with blurring vision as dread took its inevitable hold. ‘Kieran.’
Just then there was a faint moan from further down and Liam turned his head, scarcely believing he’d heard it. But no, there it was again. He trod carelessly now as he pulled his feet through the sludge of the putrid ground, moving even faster as he saw an arm, then legs, then a face.
‘Dear God,’ Liam breathed, his tears running unchecked as he looked at his brother’s swollen countenance, so badly beaten he was barely recognisable. But he was alive. The bell sounded a second time, spurring Liam into fast action as he lifted Kieran and strode as best he could towards the sound.
‘Eileen! Eileen!’
She had all but lost hope as she scanned the docks, immoveable as she stood her vigil at the ship’s prow, a stiff wind drying the tears on her cheeks as soon as they landed. Rosary beads in hand. They were pulling up the gangplanks and Eileen heard the sound like the building of a casket, wooden slabs sealing Kieran’s fate.
‘Eileen!’
Her name was being carried on that wind now and she turned to find its source, gasping at the sight of her two brothers, one straining to carry the other who looked lifeless in his arms.
‘Stop!’ Eileen screamed, running to halt the sailors from dragging up the last planks. Rory rushed by her, thrusting Matthew into her arms and running to help Liam carry Kieran to the ship and get him on board.
‘Oh Kieran, oh dear God, what have they done to you…’ Eileen moaned, kneeling down next to him. His dark hair was matted with blood and his face was mottled in angry welts that warped his handsome features like a grotesque mask. Her earlier fear turned to shock and it stole the air from her lungs as she fought to fill them in great gasps between her tears. ‘What have they done…’ She choked again, gently touching his poor face, her fingers trembling.
Someone had called the ship’s master, Captain Reynolds, and he came over to investigate the scene as the children looked on with large eyes.
‘Get Dr Stewart,’ he ordered. ‘What’s happened here?’
‘He…he must have been robbed,’ Liam said.
‘They’ve certainly made a fine mess of him. Look out there,’ Captain Reynolds said as the doctor arrived and the crowd moved back. He gave him a quick grim-faced examination and looked over at Eileen.
‘You his wife?’
‘No, sir,’ Eileen managed, clearing her throat and fighting for composure. ‘I’m his sister.’
Dr Stewart nodded, nothing in his expression offering any comfort. ‘I don’t need to tell you he’s in a bad way. I’d be surprised if he makes it a day on the seas. Best take him ashore.’
‘No,’ Liam said firmly, ‘he stays with us.’
‘Brother?’ Dr Stewart guessed.
‘Aye, sir. There’s nothing for him back there. Please, Captain,’ he said, desperation seeping through as he looked at the man, ‘we’re his only kin…’
‘Don’t you want to find the culprit who did this?’ Captain Reynolds said.
Liam avoided his gaze. ‘He’s probably long gone by now.’
The captain looked to hesitate and Eileen stood her full five feet two inches next to Liam, finding courage by his side. ‘I’ll take care of him, Captain. I’ve tended the sick many times before and I can do it again…under your instructions of course, sir,’ she rushed to appease the doctor. ‘Please,’ she said, putting her arms around her young sons, ‘don’t make us leave him behind.’
‘Not only up to you, miss, is it?’ Captain Reynolds returned. ‘God will have a say in this one.’
‘Then I’ll pray for him too.’
She searched the man’s face, hoping for a flicker of compassion, knowing all of their fates lay in his next words.
‘Take him inside,’ he relented and Eileen let go of the breath that was squeezing her chest tight.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Oh thank you, sir.’
He gave her a gruff smile. ‘Just make sure you keep him alive, young lady,’ he said, turning to walk away. ‘Captains never like to be proven wrong.’
‘No, sir,’ she muttered as they lifted Kieran and carried him off, ‘neither do Clancys.’
The sailors lifted the last of the planks and the great ship began to pull away, cutting the water slowly as it sought momentum. It wasn’t the wondrous start they’d all dreamed of but they were all on board and moving towards the open sea, and somewhere within, Eileen felt her determination lift and swell. Their longed- for future had arrived at last and if her first call of duty was to nurse Kieran back to life so he could be a part of that, so be it.
The English had taken many things from the Clancy clan on Irish soil, she reflected, taking one last look at her homeland. But no more. Now they were as free as the elements that would drive them forward and Eileen knew she would find strength in that; enough to let flow from her healing hands into her brother’s broken form. The Whitelys would not have this final piece of vengeance, she vowed with quiet ferocity. And no more Clancy blood would ever be shed at an Englishman’s hand.
Eileen collected her bag and made her way towards the infirmary as the immense white sails unfurled above, stretching their arcs towards the sun. They caught the wind and she felt the ship pull with its power, making her lurch momentarily before she moved on, the water stretching before them like a shimmering blue highway; the waves fanning against the prow in encouraging spray.
The canvas billowed strongly and already she knew she’d forever welcome that sound; a beating drum of promise that would deliver them from any more injustice. And lead them all to freedom in a great southern land.
The Price of an Apple
Five
Liverpool, England, August 1851
The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the hall, marking the time with solemn finality as each minute slipped away, just as life was slipping away from the man beyond the door. Eve Richards stared at the solid wood barrier, wishing the doctor would hurry in his ablutions, trying to hold onto hope even though that precious emotion had slipped away days ago. It had been the same with her mother when Eve was five years old; few people ever survived the last stages of consumption. She’d known her father wouldn’t make it once the blood stained the pillows. It wouldn’t be long now.
Footsteps approached, brisk clicks on the polished floorboards, and Eve knew it was Mrs Matthews, the housekeeper. No-one else would be allowed up here at such a time. Sure enough, as Eve raised her eyes they collided with the bespectacled gaze of the woman who’d become like a mother to her these last twelve and a half years of her life.
‘Where’s your wrap, Evie? You’ll catch your death�
��’ she chastised, then pursed her lips tight at the unintentional slip. ‘Here,’ she said, more gently now as she took her own shawl and wrapped it about Eve’s shoulders. She sat next to her on the bench that lined the wall opposite her father’s room and Eve knew she was searching more carefully for her words now. Not that it would guarantee any subtlety from the woman; Mrs Matthews was renowned for speaking plainly. ‘Dr Hallows knows what he’s doing, child.’
Eve simply nodded, too numb to remark.
‘Mind you, you’d think he’d change his name considering his profession,’ she whispered, giving Eve a small, conspiratorial smile. ‘Hardly a reassurance now, is it? Hallows indeed.’
Eve’s mouth tugged at the corners into a small smile too. Mrs Matthews was likely the only person on earth capable of coaxing such a reaction from her now.
‘I’ve spoken to Sir Humphrey,’ Mrs Matthews told her, patting Eve’s hands with her own work-worn one. ‘I think he’ll allow you to go if that’s what you wish.’ Eve looked down at those familiar fingers, rarely idle, and swollen at the knuckles these days; red where the single wedding band lay. Her husband had passed many years ago but that ring would remain all the days of Mrs Matthews’s life, Eve knew.
‘I’m not sure what to do,’ Eve said, her voice barely a rasp after hours of silence.
‘Doris is a good woman and Lady Margaret’s children are of a manageable age. You’ll do well to take the position, Evie, although I’ll sorely miss you.’ The admission made the older woman’s eyes fill but she brushed the tears away immediately. A servant’s tears were reserved for only the cruellest of life’s moments. Some would be shed soon enough this day.
‘But Master Robert…’
‘…will do as his father orders,’ Mrs Matthews said brusquely. They were brave words but ultimately they both knew she would have little power over Eve’s future.
‘He…he said…’ Eve began but she was interrupted by the turn of the doorknob and whatever admissions she would have made died on her lips as Dr Hallows appeared. His face was grave, and Eve thought vaguely that he appeared almost spectre-like in the early morning light.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Eve, but he hasn’t long.’
She’d expected it, of course, there was no other outcome from here, but each syllable dragged at her heart and her body felt otherworldly as she moved into the darkened room. The lamp burnt an orange glow across the bed where her father lay, ravaged by months of disease, a bare imprint of the man who was once, in his prime, considered robust. He’d even been approached to take up boxing in his youth but he’d declined, of course. An aspiring butler was a gentleman, not a rogue. Still, he’d told the tale of being forced to defend a young damsel in distress on more than one occasion; a maiden at the markets so pretty a lout had approached her right in the middle of the square, demanding a kiss. Those eager lips were met with her father’s fist instead and the maiden… well, she became a butler’s wife: Mrs Emma-Kate Richards.
Eve sank to the chair alongside him now, delaying the pain of watching his last, laboured breaths by looking across at a sketch someone had once made of her mother instead. Her image sat on her father’s bedside table as it always had, pride of place in its frame; a face much like Eve’s, people said, heart-shaped with large hazel eyes.
There were other items there too: a jug of water no more to be drunk from, bloodstained cloths that Mrs Matthews was already whisking from the room to wash or perhaps throw away. A bowl of porridge, untouched, a wooden comb with a few silvered hairs that still clung. An unfinished novel by Charles Dickens that Eve had been reading to him since his hands had become too weak to hold the tome. Life was passing in this room, every item within it screamed that truth inside the silence, from the starched butler’s uniforms to the polished shoes that would ever remain waiting for their owner to don them. Just traces and shadows now as a body farewelled its soul.
Eve fought against that rare comfort of tears to give the man who was dying her only strength in his last moments. He deserved that much. He deserved far more.
The impeccably dressed, ever-patient, consummate gentleman: Graham Harrison Richards. Butler, widower, father to Eve, his only child.
The last words dropped into her mind as she looked to his face at last. Then the strength she’d hoped to impart began to wilt as she traced every crease; lines that showed the gentleness of his nature marked his forehead, once darting dimples sank into hollow cheeks.
His eyes flickered and she sensed he wanted to speak.
‘Evie,’ he said, barely audible, and she leaned close, clasping his hand against her cheek.
‘I’m here, Papa, I’m here.’
His hand gave hers the slightest of squeezes and her heart ached at the realisation of just how weak he’d become.
‘Emma…Kate…’ he managed.
‘I know, Papa, I know…it’s alright. Go to her now. She’s waiting with a choir of angels for you.’ She hoped that idea would comfort him, about the angels. Evie had been chosen to sing at Liverpool Cathedral once, when she was a girl. Her father had beamed with undisguised pride the entire time. He’d always been proud of everything she did, from learning to read and write by candlelight under his nightly instruction to speaking in his genteel way, unlike the rest of the household servants.
‘Ave…’
‘…Maria,’ she finished for him, trying to smile as she brushed back a wisp of his hair.
‘Sing,’ he said on the faintest of breaths and she tried to do as he asked, softly, brokenly, until the fingers entwined in hers lost their warmth and the shallow rise and fall of his chest stilled, like an ocean losing the tide.
‘I love you,’ she whispered but his soul had departed and all that was left to do was relinquish those tears at last; it was time now. And so she gave them to that room, to all the traces and shadows, knowing from this day forward she would no longer be a butler’s daughter.
No longer protected. No longer a child.
The sky was the colour of lemon flesh at the horizon with heavy clouds drifting above in a thick, slate blanket. Nearby the priest was droning on in Latin but Eve wasn’t really listening. She was thinking about that colour and the times her parents took her down to the seaside at Blackpool to learn how to swim when she was young. She’d been allowed to eat fish and chips and enjoy a drink people called ‘lemonade’. She wished she could taste it again sometime; it was like nothing she’d ever tried, both sour and sweet at the same time, and with wondrous bubbles that had tickled her nose.
‘…in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…’
A clump of cold earth was thrust into her hand and Eve looked at it dully.
‘Toss it in, love,’ Mrs Matthews whispered in her ear and she did so, feeling disconnected to the whole affair as it landed with a thud on the coffin. She held no faith in funerals improving anyone’s chances of going to heaven, placing far more stock on how a life had been lived as to whether or not you ‘graduated’ as a soul. Her father had been a religious man but more importantly a good one, and he would be with her mother now, of that Eve had no doubt. It was her own mortal soul that was potentially in peril.
The gravedigger began to pile on more earth and Eve watched the wood disappear, her throat tight with grief.
‘He was the best of men,’ Mrs Matthews said, holding her arm about Eve’s waist, ‘and your mother was one of the kindest women I ever knew, bless her soul. They’ll never leave you really, I promise.’ Eve nodded, wondering at the truth of such a notion. Heaven and earth had always seemed very separate places to her.
The crowd of people slowly began to disperse and Eve realised it was all over as she turned to walk back towards the cart with Mrs Matthews, bracing herself against the wind.
‘Miss Eve,’ boomed a voice and she paused to face her employer, Sir Humphrey Arlington, and his fur-clad wife, Lady Sophia. ‘May we convey our deepest sympathies, my dear. Richards was a marvellous butler. I daresay I will never see the likes of him aga
in in my household.’
‘No, sir. Thank you, sir,’ Eve responded, knowing that was true. Quite a few of Sir Humphrey’s friends had tried to poach her father for themselves but he had remained, characteristically loyal to his original master all of his days.
Lady Sophia nodded at Eve, engaged for a change, before moving on with her husband. She was ‘a strange fish’, as Mrs Matthews liked to say, cold and uninterested in anything or anyone save her prize cavaliers who were already yapping from the carriage, impatient. Still, it meant something that she had come today, Eve supposed, in fact many of the Arlingtons’ friends had come in all their finery, and her father certainly deserved such recognition.
Watching them depart her breath caught sharply as another voice came from behind.
‘My condolences, Miss Eve.’ She turned and knew she was blushing, although whether from nerves or fear it was hard to determine. Master Robert, Sir Humphrey’s youngest son, stood before her, his hat in his hand and his dark eyes sincere beneath thick strands of brown hair. They were whipping about wildly in the breeze and Eve chose to be distracted by that rather than hold his gaze. ‘He will be much missed by us all.’
‘Thank you, Master Robert.’
‘I thought perhaps today you might enjoy the warmth of the carriage,’ he offered, gesturing ahead.
Mrs Matthews was rigid with disapproval but Eve could hardly refuse such an honour so she walked with him down the path and allowed his assistance up the steps, trying not to flinch at his touch.
‘Thank you,’ she said, settling her skirts then gripping her gloved fingers tight.
He was studying her, even more intently than usual, and Eve could feel the heat in her cheeks as she waited to hear what he would say.
‘It suits you,’ he finally declared. ‘Black, I mean.’
‘I wouldn’t imagine mourning dress could suit anyone, sir.’
He shrugged. ‘It does you.’
The carriage struggled along the cobblestone streets as they left the cemetery near the cathedral and traversed across the city for home. Eve tried to appear composed, although he was unnerving her with that stare. And surely telling a woman she looked well in mourning was bordering on unchivalrous. What would Mrs Matthews have to say about that?
In a Great Southern Land Page 4
