A Glimpse at Happiness

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘And I love you.’

  They kissed briefly then Patrick let her go. She tripped down the steps and smiled up at him as she reached the back door. She turned the metal handle. The knob rattled in its housing but the door didn’t move. Patrick hurried down beside her and tried the handle himself. It released the catch but the door didn’t budge. He rattled it again knowing that it would do no good.

  They both stared at the solid side door for a moment then he kicked the wooden panel, leaving a mark on the paintwork with the studs of his boots. ‘Damn, damn!’

  Josie gave him a disbelieving look. ‘She’s locked me out.’

  He glared at the unmovable door for a few seconds then turned his gaze to her as the full enormity of the situation swept over him.

  Josie was an unmarried woman, her dress torn, her hair unbound, and bolted out of her house at night with a man. Unless he did something immediately, she would be utterly ruined.

  Rosalyn Cooper poured the steaming milk from the small sauce-pan over the coco paste and stirred it vigorously. She had been awoken from a fitful sleep by the thunder. Her husband Henry was away for a few days and as usual she woke at the slightest noise. Although their house was secure enough, with bars at the lower windows and with a high wall around it, Wellclose Square wasn’t the nicest of locations to live in.

  The elegant four-storied houses that lined the square had been built a century earlier by prosperous merchants. Other than the Coopers’ home, and one or two others, the rest of the dwellings in the square were now lodging houses, let by the room to any who had thruppence a week for the rent. Drunken sailors now brawled where liveried carriages had once rolled, while the solid blocked doorsteps once so diligently whitened each day now served as sleeping places for those unable to pay for a bed.

  Of course, it was because Shadwell and Wapping were such destitute areas that the Coopers lived there. Mr Cooper was, after all, the superintendent of the Mission that sat across the square from their house, dedicated to rescuing young women from lives of vice and degradation. But, however worthy this vocation, it didn’t make living in such an impoverished neighbourhood any easier.

  Rosalyn picked up the cup and lamp and was just about to return to bed when the door knocker rapped.

  Her heart thumped in her chest. It was almost eleven o’clock and she wondered who on earth could be calling at that hour. It couldn’t be one of the trollops looking for shelter because they knew to present themselves to the warden on duty at the Mission and not at the house.

  The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs above told her that Potter, their manservant, was on his way. Knowing that he would have a loaded pistol cocked and ready, Rosalyn put down her drink and left the kitchen.

  By the time she’d reached the hallway Potter was already at the door and talking to someone on the step. He turned as he heard her approach.

  ‘It’s for you, Ma’am,’ he said, standing back to let her pass.

  Tugging her nightcap over her hair, Rosalyn stepped forward and gasped as her eyes rested on Josie O’Casey standing on her doorstep with a man beside her.

  Josie wore no coat or bonnet and her unbound hair cascaded in wild abandon over her shoulders. Her thin summer dress was soaking wet, and clung to her, and was muddy around the hem. Instead of looking like the well-to-do young woman she knew, Josie O’Casey looked as if she’d been rolled in the gutter.

  ‘Miss O’Casey?’ Rosalyn was scarcely able to believe that the bedraggled girl standing on her doorstep was the same young woman whom she’d seen walk off arm in arm with her daughter Sophie that very afternoon.

  The young man stepped forward. ‘Mrs Cooper? Apologising Ma’am, but Miss O’Casey has been attacked.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Rosalyn said, handing the lamp to Potter and putting her arms around Josie’s shoulder. ‘My poor girl. Don’t worry, we’ll soon have you home.’ To the man with Josie she said. ‘I am obliged to you for helping Miss O’Casey. Potter will give you something for your trouble, Mr . . .?’

  ‘Nolan,’ he replied firmly. ‘Patrick Nolan.’

  Rosalyn studied him more closely. Nolan? Could that be the man Sophie had talked of, she wondered. Certainly, he had a confident air about him that was at odds with his rough appearance and he held her gaze in too bold a manner for her liking. He was also standing closer to Josie than he ought, and Rosalyn also noticed that Josie’s arms were clutched across her chest to hold her ripped clothing together.

  ‘And Josie can’t go home,’ Patrick added.

  Rosalyn looked from one to the other. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because Mrs Munroe has locked up the house and won’t let me in,’ Josie replied. She and Patrick exchanged a glance then Josie gave her an ingenuous smile. ‘It’s a terrible misunderstanding. While I was distributing food packages today I heard that . . .’

  As Josie recounted the events of the day Rosalyn’s mind whirled into a confusion of panic. It was as clear as the nose on her face that Josie and this Nolan were more to each other than old friends and, although everything Josie was telling her had the ring of truth about it, it placed Rosalyn in an awful dilemma.

  Josie O’Casey’s stepfather might be lauded in high places for his contribution to public health and services to the poor, but her mother once took in washing and sang in public houses. Although Josie was a very likable and caring girl, Rosalyn couldn’t help but worry about whether her background made her a fitting companion for her daughter Sophie. She had privately chided herself several times for her lack of charity and strove to overcome her doubts, but with her husband in knotty negotiations over their elder daughter Amelia’s engagement to a Harcourt, Rosalyn couldn’t afford to have the family’s name linked with even a breath of scandal. Seeing the tender smile and glances that passed between Josie and Patrick Nolan, and hearing that Josie had been turned out from her home by Dr Munroe’s mother, the words disgrace and dishonour screamed in Rosalyn Cooper’s head.

  Josie’s voice cut through her unsettling thoughts. ‘I tried to explain to Mrs Munroe that I had been attacked but she wouldn’t listen.’ An expression of hurt and anger crossed her face. ‘She was just horrid, and said some dreadful things about Patrick. I was so hurt I ran out of the house. I was gone for no more than five minutes but when I went back Mrs Munroe had bolted the doors. I thought I might stay with you until she became more reasonable.’

  Rosalyn had been introduced to Mrs Munroe at the recent Widows and Orphans’ Benevolent Society tea and while she would not describe Robert Munroe’s mother as a warm individual, she was clearly a woman of high morals. Although her conscience told her she should take Josie in, Rosalyn reminded herself that there was a great deal more at stake.

  She squared her shoulders and looked Josie straight in the eye. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ she said. Josie’s jaw dropped and the colour left her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry Josie, but if Mrs Munroe felt it necessary to exclude you from your own home then I cannot give you shelter in mine. I have my own daughters’ reputations to consider. I hope you understand.’

  Patrick placed his hand on the half closed front door. ‘Do you understand what you’re doing to Josie by turning her from your door?’ he asked, his gaze running accusingly over her face.

  Of course she did. If she refused to offer Josie refuge the young woman would live without protection and could fall prey to any manner of evil. Rosalyn thought of her two daughters asleep upstairs. If they were to find themselves set upon in such a manner she hoped someone would offer them assistance. She opened the door.

  ‘After a good night’s sleep you and Mrs Munroe will be able to iron out this misunderstanding I am sure,’ she said smiling at Josie.

  Patrick’s shoulders relaxed and his face lost its anxious expression. ‘I’m right grateful, Mrs Cooper,’ he said. He gave Josie a warm smile which she returned. ‘Poor Miss O’Casey has been through enough today, what with Brian’s death and being attacked by Charlie Tugman, the last th
ing she—’

  ‘Charlie Tugman!’ Rosalyn exclaimed in a horrified tone.

  Josie gave her a nervous look. ‘I told you. He and Harry caught me on Patrick’s boat as I was looking for him. Patrick fought them off and pitched Charlie over the side, after which . . .’

  Rosalyn’s mind careered off to the image of her poor Henry lying on his own doorstep beaten and bleeding after being set upon by Charlie Tugman. Terrified thoughts added momentum to her racing heart as her imagination moved from Henry being injured to the nightmare of his being killed. Her vision blurred for a second and her stomach knotted.

  If anything happened to Henry, the Trust would require her to quit her home. She would be forced to go to her brother and his penny-pinching wife in Suffolk and live off their largesse. That would be the end of any hope of a well-connected marriage for Amelia, and for Sophie too for that matter.

  ‘I’m sorry, Josie, but you’ll have to find somewhere else to stay.’ She made to close the door but Patrick wedged his boot in.

  ‘It was no fault of Josie’s that Charlie set upon her,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘If you turn her away you will be as accountable as Mrs Munroe for her ruination.’

  Rosalyn’s conscience tried to stay her hand but she overruled it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered as she leant on the door.

  Patrick’s boot remained. He leant towards her and compassion replaced the anger in his eyes. ‘I understand your alarm at the mention of the Tugmans, but I beg you, for the love of Mary, don’t let your fear add to Josie’s desperate situation.’

  Rosalyn stared into Patrick’s imploring face for a moment then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as a lead weight settled in the pit of her stomach. ‘I truly am.’ She glanced at his foot.

  Fury blazed from Patrick’s eyes then he stepped back and put a protective arm around Josie’s shoulder.

  ‘Come away, sweetheart,’ he said softly, as he drew her to him and guided her down the steps.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rosalyn said to their retreating figures, and felt a lump in her throat and tears springing to her eyes.

  Patrick turned and gave her a look of utter contempt and then he and Josie walked across the square, their reflections elongated on the wet road.

  Rosalyn closed the door and quickly went upstairs. She paused outside her daughters’ room and then went to her own. She closed the door and leant with her back against it. She stared blindly ahead as her soul accused her of being callous, despicable and loathsome to have turned Josie from her door and she didn’t argue. But what else could she have done? She had to protect her family. Tears streamed down her cheeks, then very faintly and far away, echoing somewhere in Rosalyn’s head, she could heard Ma Tugman’s spiteful laugh.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Patrick pushed open the door to number twenty Walburgh Street and stood back so Josie could enter. As she passed him their eyes met. In the dim light of the hallway, his face wore a furious expression.

  Shaking the water from her hair, Josie continued down towards the scullery. There was a click of a handle and the door to the front room where Kate and Annie slept opened behind them.

  ‘Is that you, Pat?’ Kate’s voice echoed down the passage.

  Patrick’s hand rested on Josie’s shoulders to keep her in front of him, with her back against his chest, shielding her from his sister’s view. She let her head tilt back onto his collarbone as the warmth from his body spread over her.

  ‘Aye,’ he called.

  Josie closed her eyes, enjoying the reverberation of his deep voice in her own body.

  ‘I’m going around to Mattie’s, to sit with her for the night,’ she called. ‘Mr Hoffman’s let me have the morning off for Brian’s Mass so I’ll see you at the Mission?’

  ‘That you will,’ he called back.

  ‘Gus said he’ll be down at the Prospect if you’re in need of a drink later,’ she called out, just before closing the door behind her.

  Patrick led Josie to the fire, then took a wick from the mantelshelf to light the candle on the table. She only had to reach out and she would have been able to trace her fingers along the muscles of his upper arms.

  He turned back to her. ‘You’ll have to stay here and we’ll think of something else in the morning. You can have my bed and I’ll sleep down here. Annie and Mickey are at Mattie’s with Mam, so no one will know you’ve spent the night.’

  Josie shrugged off his jacket and let her hands fall by her side. Patrick’s gaze flickered briefly down to the front of her gown.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Patrick,’ she replied, her eyes resting on the top two buttons of his shirt, which were unfastened. ‘I’m not going anywhere because I am staying with you.’

  He raked his hand through his hair. ‘What do you think Dr Munroe will say when he hears that? And your mother! They are likely to take the same view of you leaving their home as Mrs Cooper.’

  A small ripple of uneasiness ran through her. ‘I won’t say Mam will dance a jig when she hears,’ she said, trying not to dwell on what her mother would say. ‘But I wrote to her and told her how I felt. I am hoping that she and Pa will have some sympathy. After all, they were in a similar situation twelve years ago,’ Josie pushed the unhappy thought of being cut off from her family aside. ‘But if not, then so be it.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I can’t allow you to throw everything away just because of that bitter old woman. I’ll sleep here and we’ll go back in the morning.’

  Josie gave him a sad smile. ‘It will do no good. I will have slept under your roof and that will cast me as a woman of low morals in everyone’s eyes.’

  ‘But surely . . . if you told them why—’

  ‘I could try, but no one would accept the explanation.’ She went over to him and placed her hands on his chest. ‘It seems the choice about if and when we would ever be together has been made for us.’

  A tortured look crossed Patrick’s face. ‘But Josie, there must be some way. Something we can do to put this right.’

  She shook her head. They gazed at each other for a moment then Patrick’s hand slid around her waist and he kissed her.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered, pressing his forehead onto hers. ‘I want to come home to you at the end of the day, I want to hold you as I sleep and find you beside me when I open my eyes.’ He kissed her slowly. ‘I want you to be my wife, Josie, and for you to have my children - but not like this.’

  ‘I know, my love. I know, but life doesn’t always play out the way we plan,’ she replied, her voice low. She kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘Now, Patrick, let us begin our life together even if it is not how we would have chosen to start it.’

  The fight was over. Picking up the lamp and taking her hand, he led her silently through the house and up the stairs. He opened the door and she brushed past him and in to his room.

  She gazed around at the small items he’d collected over the years, the large pink shell he’d found on a Tahitian beach, a carved mask he’d bought for a rub of tobacco in Bombay. Then her eyes rested on the cast iron bed with the patchwork counterpane, wedged against the wall.

  Shutting the door quietly behind him, Patrick slipped his arm around her and turned her towards him. He studied her for a moment then pressed his lips on hers. Her mouth opened under his instantly but he held back, conscious of her innocence. Her hands ran over his shoulders and chest and he pulled his shirt open so he could feel her fingertips on his bare skin, thankful the summer heat had made him leave off his three-buttoned vest. Her hands explored tentatively and sent his senses reeling.

  ‘God, Josie,’ he whispered in her ear as he pressed his lips to her neck.

  She tilted her head back as he inched the fabric away from her shoulder then slid her hands onto his chest and pushed him away. He stood back and watched in the soft glow of the lamplight as her hands went to the remaining buttons at the front of her bodice.

  ‘I’ll turn around?’ he said.

  ‘You don�
�t have to,’ she replied, pulling at the ribbon.

  He stood mesmerised, watching as she revealed her chemise and corset. Then, with her eyes still averted she slipped the torn bodice from her shoulder and let it fall to the rag rug she stood on. Finally, she untied the laces of her skirt.

  Patrick’s heart crashed in his chest but he forced himself to remain where he was, reminding himself that this was her first time.

  Don’t rush at her, he told himself, as her skirt and petticoats followed the upper part of her gown to the floor.

  She stepped out of the billowing fabric, kicked off her shoes and stood before him. His eyes ran slowly over her, taking in every curve and dip of her figure and then his gaze locked on hers.

  He reached for her then, feeling the softness of her breasts against his chest. She trembled in his arms, and he kissed her forehead gently.