'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  “I don’t read nor write so well,” he stated. “I wouldn’t know what to say to her.”

  Grace was careful not to look at him. “If you should ever want to send a letter, Mister Litton, I’d be glad to write it out for you. ’Twould be a private matter between the two of us.”

  Litton nodded slowly as the wagon pulled up in front of the house next to the hospital where Sister Joseph lived with her nursing order. Grace jumped down before he could help her; she lifted the children from the back and agreed upon a time to meet—two hours from now, right here—and they waved as he started the horse up again. She knocked on the front door and asked the nun who opened it if she might see Sister Joseph. The door closed, but then, just as quickly opened again, this time revealing Sister Joseph.

  “Well, and if it isn’t my favorite little Irish family.” The nun beamed. “What’re you doing here on a Thursday afternoon?”

  “We had to stretch our legs, and so we’ve brought you a bit of home.” Grace lifted the towel that covered her basket.

  “Soda bread!” Sister Joseph clapped her hands together.

  “Warm from the oven. And a pot of fresh butter, as well. I thought we might have our tea with you, if you’re willing.”

  “I’m going out.” The sister looked crestfallen. “’Tis my afternoon for seeing to the Mulhoney family, and they count on me coming.”

  “We’ll leave this for you, then.” Grace handed over the loaf and butter pot. “Which way do you go? Maybe we’ll walk a ways with you.”

  Sister Joseph looked down at the children’s expectant faces. “Sure and I’d love to have your company. ’Tis down along the wharves—wait a moment and I’ll just get my things.” She disappeared back into the big house while Grace and the children stood on the front stoop.

  “All right, then?” Grace asked as they waited. “We’ll walk a bit, then stop on our own for tea—what do you say?”

  “Can I have a sticky bun?” Jack licked his lips expectantly.

  “Never ask.” Mary Kate elbowed him. “’Tisn’t polite.”

  “Of course, you may ask,” Grace told them both. “Only first say ‘please’.”

  “Please can I have a sticky bun, please?” Jack tugged at her sleeve.

  “We’ll have to see what’s out today. Might not be sticky buns on Thursday, but I promise we’ll get something nice to eat.”

  Grace rested her hand on his head and gave him a smile, and then Sister Joseph emerged in her great black cloak, a large basket full of foodstuffs over her arm and a string bag full of apples in the other hand.

  “Carry that for me, young Jack—there’s a good boy,” the nun praised, handing over the heavy basket.

  Brother and sister each took one side and carried it between them, following their mother and Sister Joseph down the sidewalk toward the boardinghouses near the wharf.

  “Who are the Mulhoneys, then? Your other favorite Irish family?” Grace teased.

  “Favorite big Irish family.” Sister Joseph laughed. “Originally from County Kerry. Worked as sharecroppers in Kentucky, but Mister Mulhoney cared not for that. Sold up what little they had and brought them all overland, intending to mine, then get a bit of farmland to the north.” She sighed. “Grand plans, but he died two weeks upon getting here. I met Margaret, his wife, in hospital. Thin little thing, with four children, and another coming any day now.”

  “How’re they getting by? On that, you’re bringing them?” Grace took the bag from Sister Joseph, who was huffing a little now.

  “Aye, and what little’s left from selling their possessions—didn’t bring much, I’m sure. Margaret says everything of value went on the other end to buy the wagon and team in the first place. Sure and it wasn’t near enough to take them back to Kentucky, and too late anyway what with her being so far gone and all.” The nun stopped and leaned against the wall of a big stone building, hand to her heart. “Wait a minute while I catch my breath, will you?”

  “Are you all right, then?” Grace saw the beads of sweat across her brow. “Do you want to sit down on the steps here?”

  Sister Joseph shook her head, sipping mouthfuls of air. “Don’t get out enough, I guess,” she confessed sheepishly. “That, and being so very ancient, you know.”

  “You’re not ancient!”

  “Forty-seven at Michaelmas! Been with the Sisters of Mercy over thirty years, I have, and wouldn’t know any other way of living, though it does wear a body out.” She pushed away from the wall. “All right, let’s get on with it.”

  They started off again, but at a slower pace, and Grace decided to walk her all the way to the door. They were on the waterfront now, the wind a little sharper, the air more damp than up on the hill; the faces that peered out through grimy windows were also sharper, more wary than those in the boardinghouses just off the plaza. Grace recognized hunger when she saw it.

  “She’s lived frugally,” Sister Joseph continued the story. “But there can’t be much left. The older boy works a job here and there, and there’s a girl same age as your Mary Kate, runs errands for an old fella lives upstairs. Gets two bits for that. She’ll look after the baby once it comes, then Margaret’ll go out to work. Honest work, I hope. In a town full of men, ’tis no easy thing turning down the ready money that’s sure to be offered her, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “I do.” Grace nodded grimly, having met an Irishwoman in the market just last week who’d told her confidentially that miners would gladly pay a dollar just to have a look at her private place. The woman had insisted she’d never done it herself, but knew of others, fallen on hard times, who supported their families quite adequately in that manner; she wanted Grace to know that there were fortunes to be made.

  Grace’s thoughts were interrupted when Sister Joseph abruptly halted the party in front of a battered, mildewed door upon which she rapped.

  “Will you stop in?” the nun asked over her shoulder. “I’m sure Margaret would take comfort in the company of another young woman, and yourself a mother and all, like her.”

  Grace hesitated only a moment. “Aye.” She glanced at the children. “We’ll all come in and say hello to them. Have a wee visit. Hear me, children?”

  Mary Kate and Jack nodded.

  “Ah, there you are,” Sister Joseph said by way of greeting to a very little girl who opened the door. “Will you let us in, Laurie? I’ve brought a friend for your mother, then.”

  The little girl stepped aside to let them pass, and Grace entered a room that got only darker, the window in the front giving them their only natural light. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, Grace saw that it was one room with pallets along one side, a small grate for cooking and heat on the other, a table and stools in the middle, and a rocking chair in the corner. Margaret Mulhoney struggled to rise from the rocking chair, her swollen belly making every move difficult.

  “Please don’t get up,” Grace protested, setting the basket on the table. “I remember well how that feels.”

  The woman sank back into her chair with a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said with effort, then smiled at the nun. “Hello, Sister, good of you to come.”

  “Hope you don’t mind, Margaret, but I thought you might like a bit of company, so I asked Missus Donnelly to stop in.” Sister Joseph began unpacking the basket, setting food on the table.

  As if drawn by a magnet, Margaret’s children came from all corners to gather around her, their eyes lingering on the bread and cheese, the sacks of beans and oats, knob of bacon, apples, and onions. Sister Joseph spoke kindly to them, calling each one by name and introducing them around.

  “Pleased to meet you, Missus Donnelly,” Margaret said, then suddenly winced and closed her eyes, pressing her hands to her belly.

  “Is it kicking at you, then?” Grace pulled a stool over beside Margaret’s rocker and sat down.

  “’Tis nearly my time.” The woman’s eyes filled with tears, which she brushed away before the children could see. “Y
ou know how ’tis.” She managed a weak smile.

  “Oh, aye. Weepy all the time. Or fit to be tied,” Grace added. “Is there anything I can do for you, Missus Mulhoney? Do you have what you need for the baby?”

  “The sisters have given me diapers and such,” Margaret said gratefully. “And Davey—he’s our oldest—he’ll run for Sister Joseph when the time comes.”

  “Might have to carry me back.” Sister Joseph smiled at the tall boy with the grim face. “Seems I’m slowing down some in my old age. Can you do that, Davey? Ride me on your back?”

  “I’ll try, Sister,” he promised soberly. “I’ll try my best.”

  They all laughed, and then the door burst open.

  “Ah, Rose, there you are.” Sister Joseph waved the bread knife at her. “Just in time for tea. Take your coat off and have some bread and butter. This is Missus Donnelly and her children, Mary Kate and Jack.”

  “How do you do?” Rose dipped a shy curtsy, her eyes cutting glances at Mary Kate.

  “Were you out for Mister Smith, then?” The nun handed her a thick slice of bread.

  Rose clearly wanted to eat immediately, but good manners won out. “Aye, Sister. He needed oats,” she reported dutifully. “Porridge for the boy.”

  “An imbecile,” the nun explained to Grace. “Saw him once when I knocked to look in.” She shook her head sadly. “One of the worst I’ve ever seen, and I told the father of a place for such as them, but he got angry and threw me out! Loves the boy, it seems, and more’s the pity. Best to let them go sometimes, though we’re all God’s creatures, true enough.”

  Margaret’s hands tightened protectively around her belly, and Grace gave her a sympathetic look; she remembered the anxiety that came before birth, the prayers for a healthy baby and the worry that it might not be so.

  “Here’s two bits, Mam.” Still chewing, Rose went over and handed the money to her mother, then rested her hand on the mound for a moment. “I feel her,” she whispered, eyes wide.

  Margaret smiled and caressed her daughter’s face. “Rose is quite sure we’ll be welcoming a wee sister. She’s my little helper, and what would I do without her? Or any of them?” she added, looking at the faces of her children, who watched her with love.

  “’Tis nice they’re company for one another,” Grace replied. “Mary Kate and Jack only have each other up where we are. If you’re of a mind, Missus Mulhoney, we could pay you another call sometime. When the baby’s come, perhaps. I could bring a meal and we could celebrate. I know the sister’s still got a few jigs in her.”

  Sister Joseph laughed and tapped a few slow steps.

  “I’d like that,” Margaret said earnestly. “Very much. We all would.” She took her bread from Sister Joseph and looked at Grace. “Won’t you have something to eat now?”

  “Thank you, but we had a bite right earlier on.” Grace shot Mary Kate and Jack a warning glance; the last thing she wanted was to take food out of the mouths of this struggling family. “And we’d best take ourselves off now, before the hour gets late. But thanks for having us in, and ’twas a pleasure meeting you all.”

  “I’m off, as well,” Sister Joseph announced, wrapping up the loaf and setting it to one side. “But I’ll see you again tomorrow, Margaret, or before, if Davey comes a-knocking.”

  “Thank you, Sister.” Margaret rose now and waddled awkwardly to the door, her fist in the small of her back. She put out her hand. “Nice meeting you, Missus Donnelly, and we’ll see you soon enough. When this one’s howling instead of kicking.” She patted her belly.

  Grace laughed and they shook hands, the children took leave of one another, and then the door closed.

  “Puts me in mind of the rooms in Liverpool,” Grace said as they walked away down the street. “And parts of Dublin. New York was the worst, though. Worse than anything I’d ever seen in my life.”

  “Oh, aye,” the nun agreed. “We were at the mission in Five Points before they shipped us out here. You know, we were poor growing up, but it never seemed as such. Maybe as everyone had nothing, no one of us missed anything.” She paused. “You’d think the wealthier the city, the better cared for its people. Only ’tisn’t so. Every man’s out for himself, and the cruelest poverty’s to be found in the grandest of places.”

  Grace sighed. “There’s so many need help—the Mulhoneys, that old man upstairs and his son, all their neighbors running about half-dressed … where do you start?”

  “With the one in front of you,” Sister Joseph declared. “And if that’s all you can do, so be it. Better to do something about the one than sit and wring your hands over the many. If there’s anything I’ve learned in my years, ’tis that.”

  “Sure and I’ve been the one more times than I can count,” Grace said as much to herself as to her friend. “I’d like to help you with the Mulhoneys, if you don’t mind. I’m being well paid by Doctor Wakefield, and I could share it out ’til she finds work.”

  “Take care of your own family first,” the nun reminded her. “Then see where the Lord leads you. Maybe He’s got other work for you. But I won’t say no on Margaret’s behalf. She’s a good woman and deserving.”

  They turned the corner, the children prancing up ahead, and down the block was the hospital.

  “We’re here already!” Grace was surprised, then concerned as she saw how exhausted the nun appeared. “You should go in and lie down a while now. You’re worn out.”

  “I’m a bit more tired than usual,” the nun admitted as they stopped in front of her building. “But will you not come into the parlor for a cup of tea? Jack never got his sticky buns, did you, boy, with all that running around and do-gooding?” She grinned at him.

  “That’s all right.” Jack was temporarily humbled by his experience at the Mulhoneys’. “I don’t need anything.” He and Mary Kate sat down side by side on the steps, elbows on knees, chins in their hands.

  “We won’t come in, but we’ll wait here for Mister Litton, if you don’t mind,” Grace said. “He’ll be along anytime now.”

  “How’s he getting on up there?” Sister Joseph started up the stair with Grace’s help. “I had hopes for that Hopkins girl, but no, eh?”

  “Not for lack of trying on her part, but she can barely get two words out before he’s mumbling something and taking himself back to the stable. I don’t know what he’s so afraid of!”

  Sister Joseph laughed. “Poor Mister Litton. He doesn’t think himself deserving of any happiness or even that there’s any happiness to be had.”

  “Believe me, Enid would gladly try to change his mind about that,” Grace told her. “But her mother’s got everyone in that house dancing on a string, including the doctor’s sister, I might add.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but she’s got that poor woman paying penance for something!”

  “Well, you know, dear …” Sister Joseph began.

  “Not with Hail Marys and Our Fathers,” Grace clarified. “Miss Wakefield is slowly starving herself to death, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”

  Sister Joseph was still for a moment, thinking. “Atonement, most likely. She inflicts suffering upon herself in order to prove something to God above.”

  “Over a ruined engagement?” Grace wondered. “There must be more to it than that.”

  “Martyrdom can become a way of life. Makes them feel powerful, in a strange sort of way—their own private battle with the Almighty.” She frowned. “’Tis prideful, though, to think that. Didn’t His son suffer enough for all of us, and doesn’t He forgive us in that name?”

  “Maybe you could pay her a visit?” Grace suggested.

  Sister Joseph shook her head. “I offered once to do just that, but the doctor thought it would only trouble her more. They’re not Catholic, you know, not churched much a’tall, really.”

  “Doctor Wakefield sometimes attends the Methodist Episcopal Church over on Powell,” Grace informed her. “The childre
n and I rode along once, though we’ve been going to Grace Cathedral, which is grand, and we’ll visit St. Mary’s once ’tis finished. But Miss Abigail has never been to my way of knowing.”

  “And he has no clergy coming to see her? Bring her the sacraments?”

  “No, but Hopkins reads the Bible to her. I hear them. They pray aloud together, as well.”

  “Better than nothing, I suppose. But hear me now. Don’t go troubling yourself over something you can do nothing about,” the nun admonished. “She’s been a long time in her decline, long before you got there. That Hopkins isn’t interfering with you and the children, is she?” She looked down at the bottom of the stoop, where Mary Kate and Jack were playing a hopping game with stones.

  “Not anymore. We had a few rows, the two of us, and then she pretended to feel sorry over it.” Grace shook her head, still baffled. “But we have plenty to eat and warm beds, and you’d never even know Mary Kate had been ill, she’s so full of life again. That’s all that matters to me.”

  “Well, there you have it. Any word from your captain?”

  “Not yet, but I left a card with that nasty butler, saying where we’d set up house.”

  At that moment, Litton’s wagon rumbled around the corner and made its way down the street, the back piled with neat stacks of boards. He nodded at the children, who shouted their hallos and chased down the sidewalk to where he pulled up the horses.

  “Sister.” Litton doffed his hat and nodded respectfully to the nun.

  “Nice to see you, George,” the nun greeted him cheerily. “Glad to hear all is well. Mind you get this family home in one piece, now!” She turned to Grace and kissed her cheek. “Good-bye, agra. Lovely to see you, and mind you leave off the worrying over what goes on upstairs. Good-bye, dear ones.” She took first one face in her hands and kissed it, and then the other.

  Grace and the children crowded into the front of the wagon, and George called to the horses, urging them to make this last trip up the hill toward home. They were tired, all of them, and silent, lost in their own thoughts all the way through town and up the hill, the rocking of the wagon lulling them into a drowsy ride. When at last the horses pulled up at the back of the house, Mister Litton again cleared his throat and mumbled something that Grace didn’t catch.