‘For a whole week, the signora would eat nothing. Barely took a sip of water. Lay on her bed like a corpse, not wanting to speak. I tried everything. Tempted her with her favourite morsels. Prayed at her bedside. Begged her to live. “What for, Bridie?” was all she’d say. “What for? What have I left to live for?” It was then I bethought me of a story I’d heard from a woman in the fish market some weeks back – about a man and wife who couldn’t bear a child of their own, but bought one instead from a poor woman who had more children than she could care for. “The good Lord gave you your life for a reason,” I said to the signora. “It’s not yours to throw away. The Lord may have called your poor babe to be with Him in heaven, but there’s plenty more on earth that has no-one to care for them. Why, I know a poor babe just a few weeks old whose mother’s a pauper, not enough food to feed her children. And here’s you with your big house and your empty arms, just longing for a child. It’s a cruel fate that’s robbed you of your little one, but perhaps it’s a kind fate for that other child.”’
Father Ambrose, listening with curiosity to this circuitous tale, is startled by a sudden rumble of thunder and the patter of rain beginning to fall on the roof of the chapel. He leans his ear nearer to the confessional grill to catch Bridie O’Sullivan’s next words.
‘Well, that was where my sins began,’ she continues, ‘for I knew of no such child. But I was sure that somewhere in the great city there were poor babies who needed a mother, and I truly believed I could find one and bring it to her. I was desperate, do you see? Desperate to see a smile back on that beautiful sad face. And sure enough, after I spoke those words, something began to change in the signora’s heart. Not all at once, but over the next few days. She drank a little soup and even left her bed to walk to the window and look out over the garden, and then, perhaps it was four or five days after I’d told that tale about the poor child, she said to me, “Bridie, you know you spoke of a poor babe whose mother cannot care for her? Could you bring me that babe so I could see her face?” Well of course, I couldn’t say no. I thought, if it’s the last thing I do in this life, I’ll bring the signora a little pauper babe, and see the smile on her face as she cares for it.’
She pauses for a moment, seeming to listen as the drumming of the rain grows louder outside. Father Ambrose belatedly recalls there are a couple of the linen altar cloths hung in the garden to dry, that should have been brought in before the rain began.
‘I told the signora that the child lived in the city, and I had to travel to London to fetch her. I said I’d spend a night or two with my cousin who lives near Blackfriars. The signora seemed so grateful, and gave me ten pounds for my trouble. To tell the truth, I was loath to leave her even then, looking so thin and wan and sad, but she seemed to be on the mend, and I thought I would take the chance. It was only as I sat on the boat to Wapping that I saw what a thing I had done. In my despair I had invented a story, and now I had to make that story come true. But where to find a mother so poor that she would willingly give her child to a stranger, even in return for money? The moment I was in London, I began to walk the streets, hunting for a likely child. Oh how I walked! So many miles. So many children’s faces everywhere. Clean faces, grimy faces. Plump healthy faces, pale sickly faces. Tiny infants too. But I was never going to be a child-stealer. I needed to find a woman who might let me take her child.’
Now at last Father Ambrose begins to see where this story is going.
‘It was in St. Paul’s churchyard I saw her,’ says Bridie O’Sullivan. ‘A poor haggard woman, reduced to begging, with twin babies, one in each arm, and another ragged little daughter playing in the gutter as the mother begged for a few coins. Well, here’s the answer to my prayers, I thought. If ever there’s a woman with one mouth too many to feed, it’s her. But I took it cautiously, of course. Little by little. I could hardly come right out and say, would you let me take a child off you, could I now? So I gave her a penny, and started to talk to her about my mistress, and how she loved children and lived all alone in a great house. I had an idea to take the mother and her children all the way to Westcombe, and let her see the signora in that beautiful big house, and understand what a chance it would be for one of her little twins to grow up there. You may say I was mad, of course. Perhaps I was. I think so now. Mad with worry over my dear signora. But the woman – Creamer, she told me her name was – she seemed to listen to me at first. She agreed to walk with me towards Ratcliffe Cross, where I thought I might persuade her to board a boat at the stairs. When we’d gone some way, she even let me carry one of her twins. I remember the warmth of that babe in my arms to this day. It was a long walk, and as we went along, I thought to sit down in an inn along the way and explain more clearly what I planned. But by now – whether the mother had understood me clearly from the start or not I don’t know – she seemed to become warier and more shrewd, and kept asking me again and again how much money my mistress was going to pay to see her baby, and how much money she might pay to have a child stay in her house for a while. I’d tried to explain things to her gradually, d’you see? I said my mistress loved children, but didn’t have any of her own, and that she would just love to see a child’s face in her house every day.’
Bridie O’Sullivan is silent for a moment, as though remembering, and then continues haltingly.
‘When I look back at it now, I almost think she might have sold her child, if I’d only kept my nerve. Maybe the sum of money I mentioned wasn’t enough, or maybe we’d been talking at cross purposes all along, for she started glancing at me suspiciously, and saying, “How do I know I can trust you? Where are you taking me?” We passed an officer of the watch in the Commercial Road, and the mother stared at him, as though she might be about to call out and tell him what I had been saying, and suddenly I became so afraid. The woman turned away for a moment to attend to her other daughter, and in that moment – may God forgive me – I fled. I ran down an alleyway with that babe still in my arms, and didn’t stop running until I reached a road – I can’t remember which one now – and hailed a passing cab to take me to Wapping Stairs and found a boatman willing to go to Greenwich.’
She gives a deep sigh, and pauses for a moment in her tale.
‘In my heart I knew I’d done wrong, but at first it all seemed to be for the best. The change that came over the signora’s face when she saw that babe was a sight to behold! I told her the mother had given the child up willingly, because she couldn’t care for her. Worse, Father, I told the signora that I had given the ten pounds to the mother to help her care for her other children. I’d done no such thing, of course, but I put the money away in the chest in my room, thinking that I would somehow use it to make things right. The money kept preying on my mind. Apart from that, in those first days, everything seemed perfect. The babe was such a delightful little thing, plump and healthy. The signora still had her milk, and fed the child at her breast, almost as if she had forgotten that it was not her own child. But that money kept troubling me, so one day, perhaps a month or so after I’d brought the child to Westcombe, I went in search of the mother. She’d told me that she lived in a court off Cowheel Alley in Golden Lane. I was too afraid to face the woman again, of course, after what I’d done, but I had some idea I might put the money under her door, or in some other place where she could find it, and that might ease my conscience. But when I got to Cowheel Alley, I asked an old dame if she knew where Mrs Creamer lived, and she replied, “Oh, you must be looking for that woman whose child was kidnapped. She lives in the corner of Swan Court. We’ve had so many people asking after her. A terrible case. The officers all over the city are giving out hand bills to try catch the child-stealer.” Well, then I truly knew what a thing I’d done, and I was so afraid I just fled the scene and came straight back to Greenwich. I put the money back in my trunk, and promised myself I’d keep it for little Grace – that is what we’d named the babe, but you’ll know that, of course, since you baptised her. I thought I’d keep the money fo
r little Grace when she was bigger.
‘Such a dear child she was. No-one asked questions, because the signora and I, we lived very quietly, and people knew that the signora had been big with the Captain’s child. She was a very quiet little child. Always happy, it seemed. Well, you saw her yourself, Father, so you’ll know. She learnt to speak, and seemed to love some words. Would say them to herself over and over. Or sometimes make up her own little nonsense words. But she didn’t speak much, and very rarely cried. Seemed to be away in her own little dream world much of the time. It’s an odd thing, Father. She was always such a quiet little thing, and yet, now she’s gone, the house seems so empty without her. Well, we were happy together, the three of us. All might have been well, but then the signora fell ill, and I was at my wits’ end what to do. It was the signora who said, “You must find little Grazia’s mother. If I were to die, she is the one who must decide what is to happen to the child.” She never knew the truth, you see, the signora. She thought the mother had willingly given me her infant in return for ten pounds. To the end, she believed that Mrs Creamer knew our names and where we lived, and she wondered aloud sometimes why the mother never sent to ask after her own child.’
So this, thinks Father Ambrose, explains the strange words that Francesca Farrell spoke, about the child having gone to be with her family.
‘Well, I was at such a loss to know what to do, Father. I didn’t know how I would care for the child by myself if the signora died. So when it seemed as though the end might be near, I took little Grace with me and went to Golden Lane. All the way there I was wracking my brains to think what to do when we arrived. I didn’t have the courage to seek out the mother and speak to her frankly, you see. I thought perhaps I might leave the child standing on their doorstep, and watch to see what happened, to see if the family would recognize their own lost child. God help me! What was I thinking of? Anyway, it was years since I’d been to that place, and when I saw it again, it was so dirty and poor and rat-infested, I thought, how can I leave our little Grace to live here?
‘My head was whirling with fear and confusion. I thought I’d check first to see whether the family was still living in that place off Cowheel Alley, for if they’d gone, I could return to the signora and say in all honesty that I’d looked for the mother and failed to find her. I left the child by the entrance to the alleyway for a few moments, and found the house where the Creamer woman lived, and looked through the windows to see if they were still there. Well, there was someone living there, to be sure, though I couldn’t tell who. There seemed to be no-one at home, for the fire was not lit in the grate, but there were plates and dishes on the table. Then I went back to the spot where I’d left the child. But, Father, she had gone! Vanished into thin air! There’d been children playing nearby, but they’d gone too. Now I was in panic and terror. I ran down the street, calling her name. I peered in the alleyways. I asked passersby if they’d seen a little girl wandering lost in the street. Then a couple of costermongers told me they’d seen two little girls running down the street together, hand in hand – two little girls who looked just like each other, but one with longer hair than the other. When I described our Grace, they nodded and said, “That must be one of them.” Glory be, I thought, she’s found her twin! I fooled myself, of course. I thought it was all for the best. She’s found her twin, and the twin will take her back to her own family. That’s what I wanted to believe, and by then I was in such a fever to get back to the poor sick signora and be at her bedside… I told her the child was safely back with her own family, and she believed me and was glad. You saw for yourself how that dear lady died, with a sweet smile on her face. You never saw a more blessed end.’
The priest’s mind goes back to the scene at Mrs Farrell’s bedside. The sound of her ragged breathing, and the wind rattling the windows as he anointed her forehead with consecrated oil. He thinks for a moment that Bridie O’Sullivan is at the end of her story, but then the woman continues.
‘Well, after her death I was busy for a while with the funeral and all. I thought about little Grace every day, of course. I missed her sorely. But I believed it was all for the best. Such a fool I am! But then the signora’s will was read, and I couldn’t believe my ears. I knew she had family in Italy, though she’d rarely had contact with them, and of course I believed she would leave all her money to them. But no. She had left it all to me. Every penny! And the house as well. But with a note in the will that said, I bequeath this to my companion Mrs Bridget O’Sullivan, knowing that she will take care of the ones we love. Well, of course I knew what that meant at once. She wanted me to provide for little Grace. So two months or more after she’d died, I went back to Golden Lane with twenty pounds in sovereigns in my purse. I was a coward to the last. I didn’t dare to face the mother even then, but thought I might leave the money with a note in a spot where she would find it. But when I found that house in Swan Court, it was empty and boarded up. I went to the house next door to ask after Mrs Creamer and her family, and the woman who lived there said …’
Here her voice falters, and when she speaks again the soft, steady tone has dissolved into gasps of sobbing.
‘She said they’d gone, and the mother was dead … “And what of the little twin girls?” I ask … And she says … she says …’
The priest waits patiently.
‘She says they’re both dead too,’ gasps Bridie O’Sullivan. ‘God have mercy! What did I do? I couldn’t bring myself to ask how they’d all died. I just fled that accursed alleyway, and every day since then, when I wake or when I try to pray, only four words come into my head. What have I done? What have I done? Sometimes I think I should go to the law and confess my crime, and be hanged for the murderess that I am … But I am a coward. I am a coward still. I cannot bring myself to do it.’
There is a long silence, broken only by the gasping breaths of the penitent. The rain seems to have stopped now, and the retreating thunder rumbles distantly somewhere beyond the horizon. The priest closes his eyes, until little by little words come to him.
‘My daughter,’ he says, ‘you have indeed committed a grave sin. Not the crime of murder, for you were not responsible for those deaths. Nor even a sin born of greed or malice, but one born of foolishness and fear. Your sin is grave, but however great your sin, if you truly repent, our Saviour will surely redeem you. For your penance, you are to attend Mass every day for a year to pray for the soul of your dead mistress, and for the souls of that poor mother and her dead children.
‘Sometimes in life we do wrongs that can never be righted. The sin you have committed is one of those. You say that you think of going to the law and confessing to stealing that child. But what good would that do now? The victim and her children are dead. You might be punished, but that would not bring them back to life, or undo the wrongs that you have done. But, although you can never right this wrong, you can make good come from evil.’
Here he puts as much conviction into his voice as he can. ‘Take the money your mistress left to you,’ he says. ‘Sell the house. Go back to your hometown, and spend every pound you can to care for poor children there. There are certainly many hundreds of waifs and orphans in Wicklow who are in need of care. It is too late to save Mrs Creamer and her children. But it is not too late to save many others.’
He ponders for a moment, for the secrets of the confessional always weigh on his heart.
‘Whether you ever tell your story to another is a matter for you alone to decide. But even if your sin remains a secret between yourself and God, He is compassionate, and will forgive you if you perform your penance. You can yet save many children who are in desperate need of care. If you do that, if you devote all the days that are left to you to that task, then God in his boundless mercy will surely forgive you.’
And he raises his hand in blessing and says the words of absolution, ‘Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ echoes
Bridie O’Sullivan. ‘Amen, and thank you, Father.’
She rises to leave the confessional, but as she does, she turns back to him and speaks in a low but distinct voice. ‘I am a coward, Father,’ she says, ‘I do not believe I will ever have the courage to tell this story again. I will perform my penance, and I pray that God in his infinite mercy may indeed forgive me. But, Father,’ he can barely hear her parting words, ‘Father, I shall never forgive myself.’
Adah’s Story
October 1822
The Cabbage Patch
‘DO YOU NEVER GET lost in this place?’ asks Adah.
‘Yes, often enough,’ replies Miss Day. ‘But if you keep on going for long enough, you always come back to the point where you started.’
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