“We did not want you to be upset, Ma.” Bridget put her hand over her mother’s.
“I know that, darling. Now tell me everything from beginning to end.”
Pa gave the account, with interjections from Bridget. At the end he handed Ma the torn letter from Patrick Ivey. “This is what we found clenched in Horn’s hand.”
Ma held it close to her face so she could decipher it. “Ah, ‘tis that Ivey fellow again! That’s a fret! Well, Mr. O’Connor, you need to be sending Bridget over to Mike Kelly’s to talk to that serving wench. After Mr. Horn’s wake, that is. Our Brig has a firm but gentle way about her and will surely get to the truth.”
“I don’t want our daughter embroiled in this mess,” Pa insisted.
“But she is already!” cried Ma. “And ‘tis more embroiled she’ll become if folk start thinking the poor babe was hers! We must needs be getting to the bottom of it!”
“Ah, but right you are, Mrs. O’Connor,” conceded Pa, squeezing Ma’s hand. “But, as you say, let’s first be burying our good friend Horn, praying God’s mercy upon his soul.”
“Aye. But if Pat Ivey shows himself at the wake tomorrow, Mr. O’Connor, you must question him.”
“I will, I will. Now, let’s all to bed.” Pa closed his Bible and Ma blew out the lamp.
They spent most of the next day at the schoolhouse at the wake of Mr. Gillespie alias Horn. Annie and Lottie ran back and forth from the farmhouse to the schoolhouse with platters of food, pitchers of stout, and pots of tea. John McArdle hovered at Bridget’s side, helping her to greet people, bringing her cups of tea, and encouraging her to sit and rest occasionally. In spite of the general grief of the community, there were light-hearted moments, as relatives and old school mates encountered each other, recalling games of “Eenie Aye Over” and the black rat snakes which seemed to prefer the trees around the schoolhouse to any other location. Everyone had stories to tell about the deceased; about his strictness, which was always tempered with humor and understanding; about his vast knowledge of so many subjects; about his honorable and courteous ways. Bridget and her parents said not a word to anyone about Mr. Horn’s true identity although they agreed it would be alright to tell Annie and Lottie after the obsequies were at an end. There was no sign of Patrick Ivey or of anyone from the Kelly household, although Patrick’s wife Cousin Julia stopped in for a while, looking tired and harried, her once-vivid beauty having almost faded. She apologized for Patrick’s absence.
“Pat hasn’t been well lately, or else he certainly would be here,” she said to Bridget, unconvincingly.
“Of course,” Bridget replied. She tried to put her cousin at ease but Julia seemed nervous and unable to focus on what was going on around her. Soon she insisted upon going home, saying she was worried about the children.
Bridget realized she had not had a single quiet moment in which to say good-bye to Mr. Horn. “I need to pray,” she said to John. He nodded, and cleared a path through the crowd to the bier, escorting her to the prie-dieu. John was indeed a prince among men, she thought. She knelt and meditated quietly. In an hour or so, Father Spratt would be arriving to lead the rosary. For the present, she prayed for her friend who, in spite of personal tragedy, had lived a life of self-sacrifice for others, like a Celtic scholar-saint of old. His absence was already felt; his loss was inestimable. Did any of them truly realize the great man who had lived among them, who had shaped their minds in the wilderness? She wept quietly to herself. Soon Bridget lost track of time; her knees were getting stiff. She reminded herself that others might want to pay their respects. She was about to get up when she heard a voice she had not heard in many years. She froze, not daring to turn around, for she recognized it as the voice of Anthony Flood.
CHAPTER 13
The Scrutiny
July, 1870
“For there is not anything secret that shall not be made manifest, nor hidden, that shall not be known and come abroad.” Luke 8:17
Bridget understood that she could not kneel there forever. She would have to stand up and face Anthony. She did not particularly want to see him. For one thing, her face was flushed and stained from weeping. She was also cognizant of the fact that once she saw him her peaceful, complacent days would be at an end. She did not want to be in love again. “Oh, Mr. Horn, I do not want to be in love,” she whispered to the corpse. With cold determination, she rose and slowly turned around to face Anthony, who was immediately behind her. She peered upward into his face. He had grown taller and handsomer. His face was leaner and nobler; a moustache and the grey around his temples made him look more distinguished. His magnificent blue eyes pierced her soul; she was swept into his gaze and transfixed. It was as if a lifetime had gone by and yet it was as if no time had passed at all. Her hands found his and he held them firmly. They had stepped once more into their own realm.
“Anthony,” was all she could say when she found her voice. She realized her hands were trembling violently.
“Bridget,” he replied, tightening his grip.
She realized that tears had begun streaming down her face again. “Mr. Horn d-died,” she stuttered. Now she was shaking all over.
“They told me. I came to see him.” His eyes were moist and his deep voice rich with tears. “And—and to see you.” Releasing one hand but holding fast to the other, they turned and faced Mr. Horn together.
“Much has happened here lately,” she told him.
“Are you engaged?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she said.
“Good.” He took a step closer to her.
“You never wrote to me,” she mentioned.
“I had too much to say.” Anthony’s voice was nearly a whisper.
Then she recalled the presence of John McArdle. She noticed he had discreetly moved a few paces away and was talking to her brother Charlie. “John, you remember Anthony Flood, don’t you?” she inquired.
John gave Anthony a hardy handshake. “I do, indeed. So where have you been all of these years, Anthony? I heard you went to China, eh!”
Anthony laughed. “Not quite that far, John. I only made it as far as the gold fields of British Columbia.”
“Did you now?” queried John. “It was a successful venture, I hope.”
“Not at first. The first few years were difficult. But at last my efforts paid off. I was blessed by Providence, and some business investments have flourished. I am buying some land in Delta and building a hotel.”
“Grand news! Let us know if we can be of any assistance!!” John clapped Anthony on the back. “They need a hotel there. It will keep all those American tourists from camping out on other people’s land.” He noticed that Anthony was still holding Bridget’s hand. “Bridget, Charlie said your mother is asking for you at the house. May I escort you there?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Bridget relinquishing Anthony’s hand and taking John’s proffered arm. “Good-bye, Anthony. I hope to see you again soon!”
“You will.” Anthony gave her a mysterious little smile.
John was quiet as they walked back to the house. As for Bridget, she was too full of emotions to speak. She pictured Anthony in the West, fighting Indians and wild Americans and ferocious animals, while climbing mountains and freezing in blizzards. She was in awe that he was alive and that he had come back to her. Suddenly, John cleared his throat. “Bridget, we have been keeping company for five years now. Mr. Horn’s death should teach us that we never know when death shall strike. Life is short. I think it is time for us to come to some kind of understanding or else we should go our separate ways.”
“You are right, John.” Bridget halted and faced him. “I am fond of you, eh, as if you were my brother. But if it is the love of a wife you are looking for, I am not the woman for you. You are a fine man and a true and honest gentleman and you deserve to have all the love a woman’s heart can give. Alas, my heart is too full of another.”
“Well, then, that’s all that needs to be said.” He took h
er arm and resumed walking to the house. “Let me commend you for your frank response. I love your forthrightness, Bridget.”
“Thank you, John. I take after my mother.”
“So I see.”
They had reached the house. John bowed, kissed her hand, and walked off into the dusk. Bridget went inside and found her mother, who had been watching from the parlor window. “What took you so long? Was that John? Why didn’t you ask him in?”
“He wanted to be on his way, Ma. We have decided not to see each other anymore.”
“What? Why? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, this is too much!”
“I’m sorry, Ma, but I don’t love him!”
“Love! Who cares about that? He is a good man and would make a fine husband. There’s enough to find of love in a good husband, believe me!”
“But Ma, Anthony Flood has come back!”
“Ah, so that’s the crux of the matter. Bridget Gabrielle, you are nigh twenty-seven years old! When I was your age I had seven or eight children! So he’s come back . . . does he have a house for you? Does he have a farm or a business? Has he even asked for your hand?”
“No, Ma.” Bridget was beginning to feel foolish as well as exhausted. “I only just saw him at the wake. And he is a good man. Please, let us speak of this later. What did you need to see me about?”
“She’s here! In the kitchen!”
“Who’s here?”
“The Kelly’s maid, Molly Jones. She came by quite upset and wants to talk about Mr. Horn’s death. I think it would be better for you to talk to her because she might freeze up around your Pa.”
Bridget followed her mother to the kitchen. The house was quiet. Pa was still at the wake with Charlie, Annie, and Lottie. On her way she caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. The neat curls piled on top of her head had turned into a frizzy mop. The long ringlets, which she had carefully allowed to hang down her back had gone wild, flowing around her neck and shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed as if she had taken a nip or two, and her eyes wide and glassy. She thought she had a desperate appearance, and was glad it had been dim in the schoolhouse at dusk when Anthony had seen her.
In a chair at the kitchen table sat a plump, worn-looking young woman, not older than twenty-five, dressed in a simple grey dress with a white apron and cap. Her hair pulled back in a knot at the base of her neck. Bridget decided that she might have been pretty if she had not seemed so tired and distressed. She recalled seeing her on market days in Lansdowne and Lyndhurst; she remembered her from Long Point School as well.
“How are you, Molly?” said Bridget, shaking her hand. Her mother went to the far side of the room and pretended to knit.
“Not too well, Miss Bridget,” replied Molly, daubing her face with a crumpled handkerchief. “I want to speak to Squire O’Connor about Mr. Horn’s death. Mrs. O’Connor said he was busy but that I can speak to you instead.”
Bridget sat down in a chair beside Molly. “Of course. What would you like to tell me, Molly?”
Molly lowered her voice after glancing around the kitchen. “The day Mr. Horn died, he came to the Kelly’s house. I opened the door to him and showed him to the parlor. I sent for Mr. Kelly. He was none too pleased to see the schoolmaster. They closed the door but I could hear their voices. Mr. Horn spoke quietly but Mr. Kelly flew into one of his rages. Suddenly, he flung the door opened and called me into the parlor. Mr. Horn asked me ever so gently if I had of late been delivered of a child. So I told him the truth. Yes, I told him that I gave birth over a week ago but the baby died. Mrs. Kelly helped me but the babe was born dead.” She began to bawl.
Bridget patted her arm. “Oh, I am so sorry for you, Molly.”
Molly continued. “Then Mr. Horn asked me if I had left my baby at Squire O’Connor’s sugar shack. Certainly not, I told him. My baby was buried in the Anglican cemetery. Nate and I can’t afford a gravestone but at least our little one had a Christian burial.”
“Is Nate the father of the baby?” inquired Bridget.
“Yes, of course. Nate is my husband.”
“Your husband?”
“Certainly! I ain’t no floozy. We were married secretly because of my parents. They hate Nate. Not many people know we are married, except Mr. and Mrs. Kelly and their daughter Miss Amelia. Nate works in Brockville so I only see him on Sundays.”
“How old is Amelia? Is she the only child left at home?” Bridget asked.
“Miss Amelia is about twenty-one. She is the youngest Kelly daughter. The others are married and gone. She has become an invalid, though, and stays in her room.”
“What is wrong with her?”
“I don’t rightly know,” mused Molly. “‘Tis a strange case. She never leaves her room and no one goes in but Mrs. Kelly, who brings her trays of food. I am not allowed in, not even to empty the chamber pot. Mrs. Kelly does everything. Things have been this way for the last six or seven months.”
“Surely she has seen a doctor? And does Mr. Kelly ever go in?”
“Yes, I think Mr. Kelly has been in to see her once or twice. But I haven’t seen a doctor come to the house, no, not once. The other night I was sure they were going to send for a doctor. I heard Miss Amelia moaning and crying out in pain. I was in my room in the attic and when I came down to see what was wrong, Mrs. Kelly told me to stay in my room and not to leave it until morning. I couldn’t sleep. Then I heard someone go out the back door. I thought it was Mr. Kelly going for the doctor. But no doctor ever came.”
“Strange,” commented Bridget. “So how did Mr. Horn’s visit end?”
“Well, after I told him my story, I noticed Mr. Horn glance at some papers on Mrs. Kelly’s secretaire in the parlor. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, picking up a letter and reading it to himself. Mr. Kelly shouted: ‘Give me that!’ and he tried to grab the letter but tore it in two. Hr. Horn snatched away the piece he had and ran out the door. Mr. Kelly began to chase him but he could not because of his bad leg so he called his big dog Rufus to go after Mr. Horn. Mr. Horn ran awfully fast for a man of his age but he must have dropped dead in the woods. Mr. Kelly was afraid of what he had done and has not stirred from the house since. I came because Mr. Horn was a kind man and I thought that the Squire, being the magistrate as well as his friend, should know what happened.”
“He will surely be much obliged to you, Molly. Has anything else happened at the Kelly’s that you think he should know about.”
“Only that Mr. and Mrs. Kelly had a huge fight afterwards. They were in their room with the door closed so I could not hear exactly what they were saying, only that it ended with Mrs. Kelly sobbing. I also heard Miss Amelia waling and weeping. ‘Tis a sad household, believe you me.”
“I will tell all of this to Squire O’Connor, Molly. Thank you very much. Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you, Miss. Nate is meeting me up the road, near Lyndhurst. I had best be going.”
After Molly departed, Ma emerged from her corner with her bundle of knitting still in her hands. “If you want to know what I think . . .” She was interrupted by the entrance of Pa through the kitchen door.
“Think about what?” he asked.
“Tell him who was just here, Brig,” Ma ordered.
Bridget told Pa Molly’s version of the events leading up to Mr. Horn’s death. “So, wife, what do you think,” Pa asked Ma when Bridget had finished.
“I’m thinking that it was Pat Ivey who meddled with the Kelly girl, which made her parents lock her away when they saw a child was coming. And then Mike Kelly himself must have done away with it, although that is farther than I ever thought even he would go.”
“Or perhaps Mrs. Kelly or her daughter did away with it,” suggested Pa.
“Oh! Go on away with ye! As if any woman, especially any mother, could kill a wee babe.”
Pa did not reply. He sat down in a chair and lit his pipe. After smoking quietly for a while, he said, “We do not know for certain whether the maid was speaking the whole truth
. After the funeral tomorrow, we will pay a call on Mr. and Mrs. Kelly.”
CHAPTER 14
The Wages of Sin
July,1870
“Weeping, she hath wept in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks: there is none to comfort her among all them that were dear to her.” —Lamentations 1: 2
The next morning, Bridget had tucked her hair into a snood with a handful of hairpins to keep it intact. As they were putting on their best black dresses, Lottie declared that Bridget closely resembled Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, whose picture they had seen in a recent article in the Kingston gazette. At any other time, Bridget would have thrilled at such a compliment, even one coming from a little sister, but that morning many things weighed heavily on her mind.
Before they could climb into the wagon, a buggy pulled up in front of the house, driven by Anthony Flood. It seems he had spoken to Pa at the wake and received permission to drive Bridget to the funeral. And then she was sitting beside him in the most sleek, elegant buggy she had ever seen. Bridget had forgotten how easy Anthony was to talk to and they chatted together as if no time had passed at all. He told her some of his adventures out West. She gave him a detailed account of her sister Mary’s wedding. She did not mention the murder, remembering how Pa had urged discretion.
The church of St. Philip Neri in Toledo was packed to the gills for Mr. Horn’s funeral Mass. All of her sisters and brothers were present with their families, except for Mary and Ellen who lived too far away. After the Mass and burial, there was a great dinner in back of the Church. Everyone had brought food and some people had brought benches. Others spread blankets on the ground. While she was helping her mother serve a cold chicken to the younger girls, she noticed that Pa, Charlie and Anthony were on the far side of the lawn speaking to someone; she was surprised to see that it was Patrick Ivey. What was he doing there? He was a handsome knave if there ever was one, with coal black hair and cerulean eyes and a brawny build. Heavy drinking had not ruined his good looks in the least. Ivey was clearly angry and from his expression she could tell he was saying something nasty to her father. Bridget jumped to her feet and ran over to them ready to smash Ivey’s self-satisfied face. Her father stopped her before she had a chance to punch him. Ivey flung himself away, muttering under his breath. Pa led her towards the buggies and wagons. Anthony and Charlie followed.
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