The Haunting of Crawley House (The Hauntings Of Kingston Book 1)

by Dorey, Michelle

  “Mummy!” They yelled in unison and ran to her, one on each side, burrowing their faces in her skirt.

  “Mrs. Dowd’s making baked apples and she’s letting us help!” squealed Agnes.

  “And Agnes wiped flour on her nose!” Alice giggled. “She’s baaad and Mrs. Dowd is going to bake her with the apples and bake the saucy right out of her!”

  Melanie couldn’t help but laugh. She looked to Mrs. Dowd who was trying to look stern, but couldn’t quite seem to manage it. She smelled the apples baking in the oven. Like the sweet and cinnamon scent, joy and laughter permeated the kitchen.

  “A cuppa tea, ma’am?” the woman asked. Her words carried a brogue similar to Kevin’s, but heavier. She prepared the pot and put the kettle on.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dowd. That would be wonderful.” She bent over and gave the twins each a hug. Letting them go, she shooed them out of the kitchen for a while to the backyard so she and Mrs. Dowd could speak privately.

  “May we play on the swing, Mummy?” asked Agnes.

  “Yes, but don’t push your sister too high, dear.”

  They raced out the door squealing and laughing.

  The two women looked at each other in silence for a moment.

  Mrs. Dowd sighed and folded her arms. “Well?”

  Melanie sat in one of the kitchen chairs and stared at the tabletop. “No more than four hours on my feet a day.” She looked up at the older woman. “That’s a bad sign, isn’t it?”

  “No, darlin’ ‘tis not. A bad sign is bed rest all day. The worst sign is they admit you to the hospital. I’ve seen both happen.” The kettle began to whistle and she filled the teapot. “Four hours on your feet means you must take care, yes.”

  “But I’ll have the baby?”

  “Most likely,” she added a nod. “I’ve had five of me own without any problems, aye.” She creaked her back. “Lord a’mighty, and my youngest now eighteen!” She crossed over and rested a thick hand on Melanie’s shoulder. “My sister Moira has four children, and had to spend six months in the bed all day for each of them.” She gave Melanie’s shoulder a pat. “So yes, most likely indeed, ma’am.”

  Melanie felt her chin tremble. “Are you telling me truly, Mrs. Dowd?”

  “I am, ma’am.” The woman nodded as Melanie’s eyes filled.

  She dropped her head composing herself while Mrs. Dowd prepared the tea and placed a cup before her. “Thank you, Mrs. Dowd.”

  “Ye’ll be needing all day help now, ma’am. I can’t do it, not all day with the wee ones ye have.”

  She nodded. “Any suggestions?”

  “Aye. Bridey’s here one day a week to do the household laundry. She’s familiar with the home, and the girls like her.”

  “She hates that name, Mrs. Dowd. She prefers Bridget.”

  “She’s Bridey to me, ma’am. And to Mister Crawley. We’re all off the boat, and she’d be best to know her place.” She huffed. “Although ye wouldn’t know it to hear her speak, how she’s worked at trying to get rid of her accent.”

  “Kevin has as well,” Melanie smiled. “I think it’s a charming way of speaking, frankly, unlike the plum in my mouth which was drilled into me.” She giggled. “Three drams of Jamesons though, and he’s an auld sod once more!” She tilted her head side to side like a schoolgirl. “Quite dashing if you ask me!”

  “An English lady calling an Irishman dashing!” Mrs. Dowd shook her head with mock grief. “What is this world coming to?”

  “But you think Bridey can work out?”

  “Aye. I’ll keep an eye on her. I’m here every afternoon to do the cooking anyways. If she’s here all the time, perhaps you can cut back on my hours. I can easily find other homes to fill in the gap.”

  “She can cook?”

  “I’m sure! The eldest daughter in a family of seven? I’m positive! If ye pay her a fair wage, why she’ll jump at the chance.” She turned her head gazing around the kitchen. “A fine house as this, with her own room and central heating? She’ll jump through hoops for the position.”

  Melanie clapped her hands. “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Dowd! I’ll offer her the position when she comes tomorrow! Oh, what a worry off my mind!”

  She would barely live long enough to regret those words.

  Chapter 2

  Bridget Walsh was a block away from the Crawley home. She should have been there by now, but she’d overslept that morning. Her head was still a little fuzzy, despite dipping her face into the cold water in the basin before dressing. Her stomach was still rolling too; all she could get down was a single cuppa.

  Blast that Martin Meara! He knew she had work this mornin’ when he bought her those two jiggers of Jamesons! She smiled to herself though. He had his scheme for her of course. Every man who purchased a lady a drink in the Ladies’ Public Room at the Royal Oak had a plan.

  Her plans certainly did not include snogging with a ‘prentice blacksmith on a Thursday night in a dark corner of a public house! So she drained both glasses quickly and immediately took her leave. Thank God she did; the whiskey hit her hard as soon as she got home. If she had stayed ten more minutes, who knows what would have happened?

  The look of shock on his moon face when she said “Thank ye fer the drink, lad; and I’ll be takin’ meself home now,” was priceless. He could have been in one of Charlie Chaplin’s moving pictures, he looked so funny!

  Settling down with the likes of Martin Meara was not in her plans at all; and she would put her plan in motion within a year. She had to. She was already twenty-one and had to get out to Hollywood before she was too old. She had been told too many times she was as lovely, as pretty as any of those famous Hollywood actresses on the covers of her Photoplay magazines. Even Ma had said she had a face that would break hearts. She’d been practicing in her bedroom mirror when she had the privacy, rare as that was in a house of seven children and Ma and Da. She could pout like a waif, smile like a princess and laugh like a flapper girl.

  She’d make a name for herself, she would; as sure as her name was Bridget Walsh.

  But now she was payin’ the price. And a week’s worth of wash facing her. It wasn’t yet eight a.m. and her arms already felt worn out. Bless the Lord ‘twas Friday though. She’d not go out tonight, and had no other homes to look after till Monday.

  Still, the Crawley family was her easiest washing. Only two bairns in the house. All of her other clients had at least four children, and many had a grandparent or two as well, livin’ with them. His money was good for the work—a dollar and a dime for the day.

  Aye, her easiest day, for sure. Even so, ‘twas backbreaking work. The hauling of sheets and pillowcases, britches and shirts, tea towels, dish towels, table napkins by the score! Soaking and scrubbing the underwear stains, collar stains, and armpit stains in every article of clothing was but the beginning.

  Even though they had one of those newfangled, Thor automatic washing machines, ‘twas a beast in its own right. She had to fill and empty its water with buckets. The only thing it did was churn the stinking mess for fifteen minutes. Getting that blasted beast—and electric motors terrified her—while she wrung out the previous load, was a burden. Each and every cycle—wash then two rinses—meant more filling and draining bucket after bucket!

  Not to mention the delicate work to be done on the precious twins’ dresses! And the dresses and blouses and underskirts and chemises of the ‘English Crumpet’, Melanie Crawley!

  And after everything was washed and every stain removed, her work would be but half done! Then the hauling of the wrung-out slop to the lines and hanging everything to dry while the next damn load was being done. And all that work was mere preparation for the blasted ironing!

  She was already exhausted when she turned up the drive to the side entrance.

  She gritted her teeth and corrected herself. The major called it the side entrance. The ‘English crumpet’ called it the servants’ entrance! Only the blessed and highborn were permitted to use the front do
or of her little palace! All shanty Irish to the side door.

  She had been in the employ of the Crawley’s since the major had the home built. God bless Mrs. Dowd for securing her the position, even if the old bat was strict. They paid her well, and when she had been with them for three months, the offers and pleas from other fine homes came pouring in and she had her pick. Everyone who was anyone in Kingston wanted their underwear washed to proper British standards! Working for a woman who was an actual baroness or whatever she was, had its advantages.

  Even if the work was chafing her hands raw.

  She pulled open the side door—yes, the side door, damn it!—entered the mudroom, took off her boots, and hung up her coat and hat. She took a pair of shoes from the carpetbag along with her apron and cap. Properly turned out as the household laundress—her mother could call herself a washerwoman, but not her!—she stood at the bottom of the three steps which led to the kitchen door.

  Through the door she could hear the twins yammering in the kitchen, arguing over their game of jacks above the sound of the bouncing ball. Silly girls—almost five years old and trying to play a game meant for older children. Agnes’ grating voice let out a shrill laugh, and through the door she could hear that battle-ax of a housekeeper, Mrs. Dowd, gently admonish the child. Better she gave her a clitther on her gob, but alas, that was not for the princess daughters of the ‘English crumpet’!

  Oh sweet Jayzus, a cuppa would be a grand thing to take before setting to work! But from the day she started in her position it had been made very clear she was to only enter the household proper when summoned. She’d take her afternoon meal down in the cellar; any tea she would have would have to come from her own lunch bucket.

  She knocked on the door and called out in her sweetest voice, “I’m here, Mrs. Dowd, and I’ll be getting to work now!”

  “Bridey!” the twins cried in unison. She heard them scramble to their feet, flinging the door open a second later.

  Agnes held the door in one hand, in her other she had a fistful of steel jacks. “We’re playing jacks, Bridey, and I’m winning!”

  Bridget held her tongue and stared at the child who returned her gaze with an air of defiance.

  “Mummy told us to address her by her proper name, Agnes,” her sister said quietly. “That’s not nice.” Alice turned to face her. “Good morning, Bridget, how are you today?” she said as kindly as she could.

  Flitting her eyes from one child to the other, the thought crossed her head for what had to be the millionth time, how two small girls, mirrors of one another, could be so different? One as gentle as a spring morning and the other as loathsome as any demon.

  “I am very well, Alice, and how are ye?” she said.

  “It’s ‘you’, not ‘ye’ Bridey!” Agnes’ voice chirped, ending in a small laugh.

  Mrs. Dowd had finally lumbered to the doorway. “Off with ye girls, Bridey has work to be doing.” She glanced down, “A wee bit behind your time today, lass?” Her gaze was steady.

  “Yes, Mrs. Dowd. Me own ma needed help with one of the children.” She lowered her eyes as demurely as she could.

  “Don’t be making a habit of it. Off with ye now,” and she closed the door.

  Bridget turned and opened the door leading down to the cellar.

  She sighed. Put in her place by a four-year-old, and Mrs. Dowd let her get away with it.

  ***

  With her stomach rumbling for her supper, she glanced up from the ironing when Mrs. Dowd appeared in the laundry room. She was wearing her coat and hat, purse in hand. She folded her arms and looked Bridget up and down.

  She glanced up from the shirt and back down to it. It was one of the major’s uniform shirts; and like every stitch of clothing that man wore, she was attentive that every crease and seam be perfect. “Is something the matter, Mrs. Dowd?”

  “How much longer till you’re finished, girl?”

  “Not too much.” She lifted the iron and pointed it at one of the baskets in from the line. “One more shirt after this, and my day is over, thank God.” She bent down to her work. “Why so curious, Mrs. Dowd?”

  “I’m leaving for the day, Bridey. The missus will be seeing you in the parlor when you’re done down here.”

  She looked up sharply. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong? She never sees me unless it’s my birthday or Christmastime.” Her pay was always left by her boots at the end of the day.

  “Just make sure you’re as presentable as ye can be, lass. You’re a sweaty wreck right now, and I thought fair warning’s a fair thing.”

  “Mrs. Dowd, what is it? Am I sacked?”

  “No, child.” She shook her head from side to side slowly. “Just be as proper as ye can when ye go on upstairs, alright?” With a nod, she turned to leave.

  “Mrs. Dowd!”

  “‘Tisn’t me tale to tell,” she said over her shoulder and left.

  Burning with curiosity and apprehension, Bridget bustled through the remaining clothing. Oh dear, summoned by the missus with no warning! What on earth was the matter? Raising one arm, she sniffed her armpit and wrinkled her nose.

  Oh dear!

  She nicked one of the washcloths and hand towels from the basket and went to the laundry sink. She slipped out of her apron and blouse. She rubbed soap into the drenched cloth and wiped herself down, patting herself dry with the hand towel.

  She would keep her apron and cap on, that way she wouldn’t have to worry about her hair.

  When she came through the door to the kitchen, she saw the twins playing on the swing outside. When she called out a ‘halooo,’ she was summoned to the front of the house.

  Melanie was seated on the chesterfield and waved her into the room. There was a tea service on the table before Mrs. Crawley. But only a single cup.

  “Please, take a seat, Bridget,” she said, gesturing to a thickly padded gray chair beside the sofa.

  Bridget sat and perched on the front of the cushion just like she saw the fine ladies do in the moving pictures. She tilted her head at Mrs. Crawley. “Ma’am?”

  “I have some news I’d like to share with you, and a proposition.”

  “Ma’am?” She made sure to keep her aching back straight and rested her hands on her lap.

  Melanie’s heart-shaped face blossomed into a smile. “I’m having another baby, Bridget!”

  Bridget let her face show a smile, shielding what she was really thinking. ‘Oh for the love of God! That was her big news? Jayzus, there wasn’t a day gone by in Lowertown where one woman or another didn’t have a bun in the oven!’ With her brightest, happiest voice, she said instead, “How wonderful, ma’am! I’m so happy for you!”

  ***

  An hour later, Bridget entered her childhood home closing the door behind her. She sniffed the air. The smell of old cooking aromas, unwashed bodies and shitty diapers filled her nostrils. It would not be hard to say goodbye to this place. She immediately went upstairs to her bedroom, carrying the two bushel baskets she had managed to wheedle out of the vegetable monger down the street. The chiseler charged her a penny a piece for baskets he would be throwing into the trash!

  Oorna, her twelve-year-old sister was lying in her own bed reading one of Bridget’s older editions of Photoplay. Her dark eyes widened in curiosity when she saw Bridget go to her pasteboard dresser and begin loading clothing into the baskets.

  “What are ye doin’ Sis?”