by Tom Murphy
“Father Gregory,” said the matron, addressing Lily in a gentle but very precise tone, “was reading the paper, Lily, when he saw this item. I am afraid your brother is lost to us, Lily.”
Sister Cathleen handed Lily the paper, neatly folded so that only one feature story was visible. Its black headline would be carved on Lily’s brain for as long as she lived:
TRAGEDY AT SEA! “INDIAN BELLE” SHIPWRECKED OFF CHILE. ALL PASSENGERS & CREW FEARED LOST.
8
A darkness came over Lily’s soul blacker than any night, and with the darkness came despair, for hadn’t her worst fears been confirmed? And while part of her brain knew where she was, her heart was alone in some dark and distant place, beyond the reach of hope, or comforting words, or even God himself.
And now I know what Ma meant when she told me to save my tears, for wasn’t poor Fergy the last one in the world I had left to save them for?
The tears came at last, and sobbing, and though kind Father Gregory came to comfort her, Lily knew that she was forever beyond the comfort of a human touch.
Her feeling for Fergy came and went with the inconsistency and violence of fever, bouncing between Lily’s outrage that he’d left her and her sure knowledge that death was his reward, to a protectiveness in which she recalled his good points and the happy times they’d had and how he always believed his wild promises as he made them and—who knew?—if he’d lived long enough, some of them might even have come true.
Sometimes, late at night, in the echo of her own weeping, Lily thought she could hear the angels weeping too, for surely they must weep for Fergy. For Fergy’s sins. For Fergy’s sister.
And that dark night that had fallen on her soul would not see dawn, for hadn’t everyone she ever loved betrayed her by running away, by making that final grim elopement with Death himself?
She became so unnaturally quiet that Frances got worried for her, and tried any number of ways to coax her back to laughter again, but always in vain.
“God forgive me, Fran,” Lily said after one of these attempts, in the first week of January, “but the juice is gone out of me, that’s for sure. Too young, I was, when me mother went, to think on it. But Fergy’s done for me, Fran, and there’s the truth of it, and nothing can change that, not praying, nor laughing, nor pretending it never happened. I know, for sure and I’ve tried all that, and a hundred times.”
Her friend looked at her. “If it was God’s will, then we must accept it.”
“Must we, now? And what, pray, did Fergy ever do to God, that God must go and sink his ship? Tell me that, Fran, and maybe I’ll accept God’s will.”
“Lil, that is blasphemy!”
“I guess. Don’t seem to make much of a difference, now, do it? Sometimes it seems like there’s just no sense to any of it, Fran, and that’s for sure.”
“It could have been worse, Lil. You could have been with him.”
“If I had a dollar for every time I wished I had been, wouldn’t I be rich as old John Jacob Astor, now?”
“Ah, go on with you! Sure, and you don’t truly wish that.”
“There be times I do, Fran.”
“If you’re at the bottom of the ocean, then you won’t be able to come into my shop with me, and we won’t get rich and have servants and champagne and lovers.”
Lily smiled then. It was a small, quivering, tentative smile, but as it flickered and fixed itself on her pale face, Fran smiled back, encouraging: it had been three weeks now, and this was the first time Fran had seen so much as a hint of a smile on Lily’s face.
“Sure, and it wouldn’t be easy to drink champagne under salt water, now, would it?”
And Lily laughed, and laughed the harder for her friend’s joining in, and if Lily’s laughter had a certain almost hysterical edge to it, well, it was better far than what had come before. They giggled and roared, and Fran thought that finally some of the clouds of grief might be lifting.
The new year started cold and bleak and stayed that way right through March. The plans for the new orphanage at Fifty-first Street and Fifth Avenue pushed ahead, and as the sense of expectation increased, so did Lily’s restlessness. The new place would be for the boys’ division of the orphanage, that was how much they had been growing. The girls would stay behind, in the Prince Street building, which would soon be filled. Even, Lily thought, if Fergus had stayed behind, the separation would have meant that they’d be seeing less and less of each other. Fifty-first Street was another world: practically out in the country. Lily had never been farther north than the new Croton Reservoir at Forty-second Street and Fifth, where Father Gregory had taken them one Sunday to see the wonders of progress, source of all the running water in Manhattan. And even that seemed miles and hours away. Still, there was a bustling in the air as spring came grudgingly in on the howling winds of March, and Lily renewed the promise she had made to herself to be gone from St. Patrick’s orphanage before the year was out. After all, she was fifteen now, and younger girls than she were supporting themselves in shops and in factories and as servants.
Lily and Fran both wanted to go as servants together, and then save their money to start a dress-goods or millinery shop. And then, if some fine young man came along, well, who was to say? But first they must find a good position in a respectable Catholic household, and for this they counted on Sister Cathleen.
In her grief over Fergy, Lily had all but forgotten this plan. Now, as she slowly regained a sense of herself and of the future, her determination to go into service was renewed. For surely there was nothing now to keep her at St. Paddy’s. She had long abandoned any idea of becoming a nun, and there was no hope at all for Fergy’s return, if ever there had been.
There was a great to-do when the boys’ division of the orphanage moved to their grand new quarters at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-first Street. The press made much of it, and on the great day itself the bishop and the mayor and all manner of bigwigs were on hand. There was to be a formal procession of carriages all the way from Prince Street to Fifty-first, and when the nuns and priests of St. Paddy’s discovered that no transportation had been provided for the boys, a ripple of rebellion swept through them and they all climbed down from their assigned carriages and marched with the lads, side by side. Lily and Fran watched from their dormer window, and a fine sight it made: the great line of carriages followed by two hundred and more boys flanked by their own nuns and priests, and all of them marching up Mott Street as if to war.
But Lily viewed all this with detachment, as if she were looking at a picture in a book. For in her heart Lily felt that St. Paddy’s was behind her now. Part of her attachment for the place had died with Sister Claudia, and the rest went down with Fergy.
And while Lily did not know just what her future might hold, she did know that what happened to her would not be happening within these sheltering walls, nor within the comforting assurance of the Mother Church.
For, she felt, and felt it to the marrow, if God loves me, He has strange ways of showing it.
Surely she had prayed to God that Fergy might have a safe journey, and where had that gotten her—or Fergy? A hard little nugget of skepticism had been forming in Lily’s mind for some time now, ever since St. Jude sent her a pear instead of Ma’s recovery, and Fergy’s shipwreck was all it took to make Lily doubt everything she had ever heard about religion. Doubting itself was a sin—many were the times she had been told that—but Lily could no more control her doubts than she could stop the rain from falling or bring her brother back to life. And if God wants to punish me, ’tis very clever He’ll have to be, to think of worse things than He’s sent already!
In the second week after the boys moved up to the new orphanage, Lily was summoned to the matron’s office once again.
There was a stranger with Sister Cathleen. The strange lady sat on the one extra chair in the small office, and more than filled it. She was a big, solid woman, older than the matron, comfortably dressed for the warm weather in gray gingham
patterned with small sprigs of flowers, trimmed simply with white ribbon, and a white gingham shawl modestly draped about her ample shoulders. A straw bonnet trimmed in pink sat rather incongruously upon her large graying head, like a butterfly on a rock. Yet her face was the face of a kindly toad, wrinkled but content, and her bright brown eyes danced in her face as she looked intently at Lily. Lily curtsied, first to the matron, then to the stranger.
“Mrs. Groome, this is Lily, Lillian Malone.”
“How do you do, Lily?”
“Well, thank you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Groome’s voice had no airs or graces to it, but Lily felt a warmth there, and honesty. “Matron tells me you think you’d like work as a servant girl. Is that true, Lily?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“And can you sew?”
“I can.”
“And you’re not afraid to work hard?”
“No, ma’am.”
“How old are you, Lily?”
“Fifteen, ma’am.”
Lily knew that she was safe, that this imposing stranger could do her no harm, not here, not while the matron was watching. Yet she was nervous, and could hardly look Mrs. Groome in the eyes. Lily stood, facing her inquisitress, and tried not to tremble.
“Do you believe in Our Lord Jesus Christ, Lily?”
“Oh, yes!”
“And you know the fires of hell are waiting for them as disobey His Commandments, as revealed by Christ’s Vicar on Earth, His Holiness the Pope in Rome?”
“I do.”
“And do you understand, Lily, that if ye should come to work for us, and you’re caught in any wickedness, or disobedience, you’ll be turned out into the street with nary so much as a crust of bread, nor a reference?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lily thought of the infamous Maureen Nesbit, caught in the ultimate wickedness of unwedded pregnancy, right here in St. Paddy’s, and turned out into the streets to her fate. Mrs. Groome was obviously every bit as stern and religious as St. Paddy’s itself. Lily looked at the polished floorboards and wondered if Mrs. Groome ever laughed.
Sister Cathleen’s was the next voice Lily heard. “That will be all for now, Lily, thank you.”
Lily blushed, and made her curtsies, and fled. She knew she’d failed! Whatever the formidable Mrs. Groome was looking for, Lily Malone was surely lacking. She walked down the long hallway in a kind of trance, wondering where she’d gone wrong, wondering what other kinds of answers might have been expected of her, and how to do better the next time.
Fran was waiting in the dormitory. “How was it? Who was it?”
“Scared the very divil out of me, she did, Fran, with all her questions, and do I believe in God, and what’s going to happen to me if I’m wicked.”
“Sounds grim.”
“Grimmer than three Sister Hildas put together. She didn’t look all that bad, but, glory, she sure and lit into me.”
“Well, you don’t have to go there if you don’t want to, that’s for sure.”
Lily looked at her friend, and wondered how Fran would have reacted to Mrs. Groome’s questions.
“It definitely ain’t,” said Lily with new and hard-won wisdom, “going to be all beer and skittles, going into service.”
“Never thought it would be, Lil. Still and all, it’s a step. It’s getting us out of here. One move closer to our shop.”
“I guess so.” Lily giggled. “You wouldn’t be wantin’ to reconsider your vocation, now, would ye, Miss O’Farrelley?”
“I guess she truly did scare you, didn’t she? But no. Not until it’s a case of desperation, Lil.”
“Time will tell.” Lily took up her sewing and wondered how soon she’d hear from the matron, and whether Matron would be angry with her for such a disgraceful performance.
Lily didn’t have long to wait. Within an hour one of the new girls came running up with the dread summons.
There was no Mrs. Groome in Matron’s office. Lily felt relief flow through her like hot chocolate on a cold day.
“Well, Lily, tell me what you thought of Mrs. Groome.”
If I say she scared the daylights out of me, sure and I’ll never get the situation. If I lie, I may go straight to hell.
“She seemed…very stern, Sister.”
“Did she, now? But I’ve known Verity Groome for nearly twenty years now, Lily, and I can assure you there isn’t a kinder—or more efficient—housekeeper in all New York. Works for the John Wallingford family, and that’s about as fine as you can get.”
Lily stood there, her eyes firmly fixed on the top of Sister Cathleen’s desk. She’d never heard of the Wallingford family, but what did that count for?
“Naturally,” Matron went on, “I’d told Mrs. Groome about you, Lily, and she was very favorably impressed. There’s a place for you in the Wallingford household, should you like to take it.”
Lily looked up quickly. It can’t be true. To have prayed, and have the prayer answered, and such a small prayer, not like the ones I’d prayed for Ma, for Fergy.
“Would there be a place for Frances, Sister?”
“I’m afraid not, not at the moment anyway. However, Mrs. Groome has promised to consider your friend, should a place come open. It’s a fine big house, Lily, on Fifth Avenue, too, at Sixteenth Street. They’ve three coaches and a couple of traps, and who knows how many horses. Not to mention eight in help, and that doesn’t count the gardeners or the stablehands. Solid people they are, Lily, the lot of them.”
“What would I do there?”
“You’d start as a tweeny, meaning between-stairs maid. That’s as opposed to upstairs maid or kitchen maid, don’t you see? So you’d do a bit of almost everything, and some sewing and mending too. Mrs. Groome was very interested in what Sister Mary Agnes had to say about you in that regard.”
So Sister Mary Agnes had been asked. Mrs. Groome must be serious after all. Eight in help! A grand mansion on Fifth Avenue!
“And they’d be paying me a wage?”
Sister Cathleen laughed. “But of course, my dear! There’s no slavery in New York, Lily, not in the year of our Lord 1852. It won’t be much of a wage, not at first, only two dollars each month, fifty cents a week, but you must remember this: it includes a good warm roof over your head and plenty to eat. The Wallingfords’ cook is French, Lily, imagine that! Famous she is, too: even I have heard of that Louise Dulac.”
“When might I be starting, Sister?”
“Lily, my dear,” said Sister Cathleen softly, “you do realize that you don’t have to go unless you want to? We would love to have you stay with us and help with the younger children.”
And one day become a nun. Lily had thought about this and little else since Fergy’s ship went down, and she knew in her most secret heart that she could never completely trust the Church again.
“Thank you, Sister, for you have been very kind. But I must go.”
“I see, Lily, and I wish you luck. We all do. Well, then, first we must make you some new clothes to wear, for only those who wait on the table wear uniforms in the Wallingford mansion. I’d say two weeks ought to be sufficient, if we tell Mrs. Groome today. And you’re pleased with all this, Lily?”
“Oh, yes! Thank you, Sister: it sounds fine.”
“Then, dear, remember that we love you, and come to visit us, and should things not work out for you, you may always find a home right here at St. Patrick’s.”
“Thank you again.”
Lily ran down the hallway on the wings of her luck, bursting to tell Fran. Fran! I’ll be leaving Fran, as Fergy left me! Only, not without her knowing. And not for good and forever. Maybe there’ll be a place soon for Fran. But Lily’s joy had faded as she walked slowly into the dormitory where Fran would be waiting.
“What happened?” Fran’s voice had more than questions in it: it held joy and fear and hope, all crazily mixed.
“I got it.”
There was a pause then, during which Fran didn’t ask,
and Lily was too apprehensive to volunteer the obvious. That Lily had gotten the job and there was no place for Fran.
“I guess,” said Fran quietly, “that you are surely obliged to take it, Lil, what with Matron going out of her way for you, and all.”
“I guess I am.”
There was no joy in it anymore. Lily looked at her friend, who was sitting dejectedly on the edge of her bed. How often had they sat just here, each on their adjoining beds, doing their sewing chores all the long afternoon, and gossiping and larking and dreaming such dreams for the future? And who would she joke with now, in that big house on Fifth Avenue, and who would share her dreams?
“Matron said,” began Lily with false cheer, “that there might be a place for you soon. In my house, I mean. That the housekeeper promised to let her know. She wouldn’t lie, Fran.”
“No, I’m sure she wouldn’t. Is it a grand house, Lil?”
“Ever so grand! There’s coaches, and eight in help—I’ll be the ninth—and right up on Fifth Avenue it is, Fran, with all the swells…” Lily stopped then, because she had looked up from her sewing and discovered that her friend was crying.
Lily put down her needle and went to Fran, sat next to her on the small bed, and took the other girl in her arms.
“Get on with ye, Frances O’Farrelley! How in the divil are we going to get that shop if you take to carryin’ on like this?”
But the sobbing went on and on. Lily had never heard Fran cry, not even when Fergy’s boat went down, nor even when Sister Claudia hung herself.
“Oh, Lil,” said Fran between sobs, “what in God’s name will become of me? I’ll be…alone!”
“Divil you will. How far away is Fifth Avenue, anyway? Why, you’ll be the next one, Fran, Matron good as said so. Or in a house nearby, for that’s where all the rich live now. We can still have our talks, and fun, and go out larking. You’ll see.”
Slowly, but only very slowly, Fran’s sobs died away and she wiped her eyes on a scrap of linen from her sewing bag.
“A fine sight I must be,” said Fran, sniffling. “Tis glad I am that no one’s interviewing me this day. And I’m sorry, Lil, for carrying on so at your good luck, for who in the world deserves it if not you? It’s just that I wish…”
