'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  “Aye, that’s fine, then.” Grace stirred her restorative brew, the smell of warm lemon filling the air with a clean scent. “I’ll be ready to go when you’re done.”

  Wakefield nodded, closed his kit bag, and went to the door. “Which room, Rose?”

  “Two flights up and all the way to the back. On this side.” Rose pointed to the right, coughing.

  Wakefield left and Grace dispensed hot tea, checked to make sure bedcovers were pulled up over vulnerable chests, put fresh bread and butter in the food safe and the rich chicken soup with potatoes on the little coal burner. After that, she changed the baby’s diaper, giving Margaret a chance to wash her face and put on a clean apron, then tidied the room so that it looked less cramped and more homey. By the time she finished packing up her own basket, Wakefield had returned, his face tight with irritation.

  “Well, he let me in, but not for long. They’ve got the same chest congestion. Missus Mulhoney, perhaps you could send Davey up with some of this hot drink Missus Donnelly has prepared. It would ease their discomfort.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Margaret said right away. “We’ll do it, and thank you for looking in on us. It’s eased my mind considerable to know they’ll all get better soon.”

  “I’ll stop in again the end of the week, Missus Mulhoney, but if you need anything before that time just send word to the hospital.”

  Grace said her good-byes then, too, picked up her basket, and followed the doctor out the door. The fresh air invigorated them both after the stuffiness of the damp rooms, and Grace took a deep breath as they turned away from the harbor and headed up toward the plaza.

  “’Twas good of you to see to them like that. And the old fellow upstairs, as well.”

  “Not so old as you might think,” Wakefield disclosed. “He could find work and make a life for himself still, if not for the son.”

  “Bad off, then, is he?”

  Wakefield nodded. “Babbles, drools, shakes, spasms—the whole thing. Contracted brain fever five years ago and steadily declined after that, according to the father. Came out west for the drier climate,” he added, piteously. “How do they get their living, do you know?”

  “Rose says a woman comes every now and again, usually in the early morning, quick like. She asked Mister Smith once, and he said ’twas a charity worker. Sister Joseph thought it must be the mother of the boy or perhaps his sister, hired out or getting along in other ways.”

  “It’s his wife,” Wakefield realized. “When he opened the door, I told him I was from the clinic, and he asked if his wife sent me. I said no, I was Doctor Wakefield come about the child.” The doctor stopped walking. “He turned very pale and asked if something had happened to his wife, that she hadn’t got the child herself. I explained that I didn’t actually know Missus Smith, that I’d been downstairs seeing to the Mulhoneys and had learned that Mister Smith and his son were also unwell.”

  “He must’ve thought his wife sent you to look at the boy, and when he saw she didn’t, was confused. Living alone like he does, with no one but the boy for company, he might be a bit addlepated.”

  “But why would he think something had happened to his wife?” Wakefield puzzled. “Well, anyway, he did allow me to examine the boy—a young man, by the way, twenty years, I’d say, very frail but not terribly ill, though coughing like Rose.” He paused. “When I told him the boy might live another two or even three years, and that he should consider an asylum, he told me to get out! He actually put his hands on me and pushed me toward the door!” Wakefield looked to Grace for confirmation that this was the action of an unbalanced man.

  “Well, he doesn’t know you, Doctor, and perhaps he was afraid you had some sort of power to take the boy,” Grace suggested.

  “I would never do that. It’s a shame, though, and I pity him, sacrificing his life for someone who doesn’t even know anymore the name of the person caring for him.”

  “Save your pity, Doctor,” Grace chided, though not unkindly. “If Mister Smith is the kind of man I think he is, he’d want none of it. He doesn’t care whether or not his son knows him any longer—he knows his son, loves his son, and is protecting the boy from a world that would have him die among strangers instead of in the arms of his father. To Mister Smith, ’tis no sacrifice to tend his child. ’Tis the greatest gift he can make. Do you think it a sacrifice to care for your sister, then?”

  Wakefield shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun off the water. “I am, perhaps, not quite the man Mister Smith must be,” he admitted quietly. “I have given up nothing for my sister. Rather, I have gained through her misfortune.”

  “But you’ve never married, have you, Doctor? Nor even courted a woman,” Grace pointed out. “You don’t even entertain that much, and rarely venture out in mixed society. When you do, you suffer the slights of those who would whisper about your sister in their parlors …”

  “I cannot, in all honesty, call that sacrifice,” Wakefield confessed, looking down at her. “Abigail’s affliction has meant that I am free to immerse myself in my profession, to pursue my studies day and night, free to circulate only among those of my choosing, free from the social obligations that, frankly, bore me to death.”

  “Will you never marry? Never make your own home with a wife and children?”

  Wakefield let his eyes linger on the lovely hair that blew around her face, the high color in her cheeks, the expression of lively intelligence he found so inviting.

  “I like the idea of marriage,” he allowed. “But I’m a dull scholar whose passion is rarely aroused by anything other than medical science. And I’m too impatient for polite chitchat. Cut to the heart of the matter—that’s my motto. Doesn’t go over too well with the debutantes.” The doctor started walking again and Grace fell into step beside him. “I would need to find a woman like you, Missus Donnelly, someone to challenge me and keep me sharp, though perhaps just a bit more pliant and adoring,” he teased. “Speaking of the latter, how is your accommodating Captain Reinders?”

  Grace elbowed him none too easily, and he laughed in surprise.

  “That’s a terrible thing to say,” she scolded. “I’m grateful to Peter for giving us enough time to settle in here.”

  “Wedding still on for May?”

  “Aye.” Grace heard the reluctance in her own voice and hoped the doctor hadn’t noticed. “He wants the children and me to sail up the coast with him, have a look at this New Whatcom.”

  “I hear it’s beautiful country up there. Unlike anywhere else.”

  “Liam says ’tis like Ireland in many ways, though he’ll not make a home with us there. He likes the city, does our boy.”

  “You like the city, too,” Wakefield mentioned carefully.

  Grace bit her lip. “Nothing’s been decided yet. Peter’s drawing up house plans and I’ll go to see the land, but I’ve not agreed to moving us yet.”

  “He hopes you will, though.”

  “Aye. He loves it there. Talks about it all the time.” Grace sighed, then caught herself. “But if the children are taken with it, and everyone wants to live there, well, then …”

  “Then you will make the sacrifice for the people you love.”

  Grace said nothing, just kept walking with her head down.

  “You are very much like Sister Joseph,” Wakefield realized. “What is it with you Irish and your eternally bleeding hearts—mother’s milk and ancient stories from the cradle on, is that it?”

  “Aye.” Grace laughed, thinking of her gran. “I could loan you the book we use, if you like.”

  Wakefield tossed his head back and laughed with her. “I suspect I have that very same book myself, though it is perhaps less worn than your copy.” He drew up again, abruptly. “That reminds me—have you loaned out any crockery to the Mulhoneys?”

  Grace thought. “Jam jars and pots for soup, but I always fetch them home again when next we go.” She held up her basket as proof. “Why are you asking?”

  Wakefield sc
ratched his head. “I could’ve sworn the crockery on Mister Smith’s table was ours. A few other things in the room looked familiar, too, so I thought perhaps you’d loaned them to the Mulhoneys, who’d passed them on upstairs.”

  “I might’ve misplaced a piece or two,” Grace supposed, “though I’m careful with it, as it belongs to you. I’m sorry, if I did. I’ll see to its return right away.”

  “No, no. I don’t really care. Just leave it.” Wakefield checked his watch. “I’d better hurry if I’m to make the most of this day, and I’m sure they’ll be waiting for their lunch up at the house. Shall I hail a cabbie for you?”

  “Thank you, sir, no. The walk’ll do me good, and I’m stopping for vegetables on my way back up. See you tonight, then.”

  The doctor tipped his hat and bowed graciously, which always made Grace smile, and then he crossed the street at an angle, causing a delivery wagon to pull up and the driver to shake his fist. Grace laughed and continued on up the hill, stopping to buy produce on the way. When at last she came in the back door to the kitchen, Mister Hewitt and his pupils, having finished their lessons for the morning, were already gathered around the table—Mary Kate and Jack with drawing pencils and paper, their teacher with one of his English novels. Enid stood by the stove, stirring the beans and bacon, head down over the pot, seemingly absorbed in her work.

  “Mam!” The children greeted her enthusiastically, and Mister Hewitt waggled his fingers at her over the top of his book.

  Grace set her basket on the floor by the washtub, then hung up her coat and hat and tied on a fresh apron. After patting her windswept hair into place, she went to the stove to relieve Enid and there noticed the girl’s red-rimmed eyes and pink nose.

  “Is something the matter, then, Enid? Have you been crying?”

  Embarrassed, Enid refused to look up. “No,” she whispered, but a tear slipped down to the end of her nose and hung there for a moment before she wiped it away.

  “You can tell me.” Grace kept her voice low as she took over the cooking. “I’ll not say a word.”

  Enid sniffed and checked over her shoulder before turning to Grace.

  “I’m to be married!” The girl’s eyes were wide with anxiety. “Mother has arranged it. I’m promised to Mister Pennywhistle, who owns the pipe and tobacco shop on the square.”

  Grace stopped stirring. “Do you know him, Enid? Do you want to be married?”

  Enid shook her head, tears overflowing. “We went into his shop once. I thought it was to buy a pipe for my father … from father’s old friend, but it was really for Mister Pennywhistle to have a look at me. He liked me, Mother says.” She wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron. “He wanted to marry me right away, but Mother made him wait until he’d agreed to settle a sum on me. It’s for the money,” she conceded bitterly. “Mother only wants his money.”

  “You’re of age, Enid.” Grace put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You don’t have to marry anyone not of your own choosing. No one can force you into it. You must tell your mother that.”

  “Tell me what?” Hopkins had slid silently into the room, as was her habit. “Enid? Do you have something to say to me?”

  Enid turned and faced her mother with as much courage as Grace had ever seen the girl muster, though her cheeks were pale and her lips trembled.

  “I’m not going to marry Mister Pennywhistle,” Enid announced. “I don’t love him, Mother. I don’t even like him very much.”

  Hopkins’ face turned deep red and her hands balled into white-knuckled fists. She took a step closer to her daughter, menacing eyes locked onto Enid’s trepid ones.

  “Don’t be stupid, girl,” Hopkins hissed. “You’ll not see another chance like this, ever. More women coming here every day now, and soon men like Pennywhistle won’t be giving serving girls like you a second look.”

  “I don’t care.” Enid held her ground, though she looked as if she might faint dead away. “I don’t want to marry him. He’s old.”

  “He’s rich!” Hopkins exploded and then worked to calm herself. “You know why you have to do this, Enid,” she coaxed quietly. “We all have to make sacrifices. Better to have it over and done with. He’ll take good care of you, girl; he’ll take good care of all of us. You know what I mean, Enid. You know we’re all depending upon you.”

  “No!” Enid spun on her heel and dashed through the back kitchen door, out into the yard, running blindly down the path toward the pond.

  Hopkins turned her fury on Grace. “You did this. You’ve poisoned that girl against her own mother, and I’m only looking out for her best interests. I can’t stay here forever, you know!” the housekeeper ranted. “She’ll be on her own! Could’ve been rich—Enid—and cared for! But you’ve ruined that now. You’ve ruined any chance she had for a happy life. You’re the devil’s own, you are.”

  “Here now!” Mister Hewitt came to his senses, slammed down his book, and stood up, his finger leveled at the vicious housekeeper. “You’re out of line, Hopkins. Way out of line. Missus Donnelly has done you no wrong here.”

  Hopkins turned her menace on the tutor. “You don’t fool me, schoolteacher,” she growled. “You’re as corrupt as the rest of this house. Don’t think I haven’t seen you staring up at Miss Wakefield’s window while she dresses, or creeping round the stair, mooning outside her door.”

  Hewitt blushed red to the roots of his dark hair but came around the table with righteous indignation.

  “How dare you, madam? I have spoken to Miss Wakefield on the rare occasion she has appeared, once or twice at her open window, where anyone was free to see us. I have also brought some books to her room, with the intention of easing her troubled spirit.”

  “That’s not all you were hoping to ease,” Hopkins accused meanly. “I’ve seen your notes to her.”

  Hewitt’s mouth fell open, aghast. “Poetry, madam. I copied poetry out for her enjoyment.”

  “It’s not natural, that kind of attraction for a sick woman. You’re an unnatural man who preys on the weak and vulnerable.”

  “I refuse to allow my reputation or that of Miss Wakefield to be maligned,” Hewitt asserted between clenched teeth. “We will set all this before Doctor Wakefield as soon as he returns.”

  “You’ll find yourself turned out and no character reference given,” Hopkins asserted. “You’ll be ruined.”

  “No!” Mary Kate and Jack found their voices.

  “Or maybe not.” Hopkins reconsidered, in a tone of voice that was unsettling for its eerie patience. “As long as his sister is kept quiet and out of his way, the doctor doesn’t much care what she’s about. I have proof of that.” She grimaced, and everyone in the room shivered to see it. “The only reason you’re here, Mister Hewitt, is to keep those Irish brats out of the way while he carries on with their mother. Enjoy yourself this morning, did you, Missus Donnelly? Earn a little pocket money for your wedding?”

  “That’s quite enough!” Hewitt moved forward, but it was Grace who grabbed Hopkins by the shoulders, turned the woman around, and slapped her face as hard as she could, knocking the stunned housekeeper to the ground.

  “Don’t you ever insult me or my children again,” Grace warned fiercely. “Get up. Get up now, and get out.”

  “Do as she says.” George Litton stepped into the room.

  Hopkins staggered to her feet, hand pressed against the red mark across her cheek. “I’ll get out,” she said. “All the way out. And when that sorry wretch upstairs takes her own life, you’ll have to answer to the doctor about why she did it.”

  Hewitt paled.

  “She’ll not do anything of the kind,” Grace retorted. “She’ll be well once you’re gone.”

  “That’s what you think.” Hopkins smirked. “As for Enid—I wash my hands of that girl. She’s your problem now, groundskeeper. Do what you will with her.”

  Confusion flitted across Litton’s face, but then he nodded soberly. “So be it.”

  “So be it,”
Hopkins repeated, backing out of the room as if they might attack her otherwise. At the door, she turned and bolted, and they could hear the sound of her shoes on the stair.

  The children jumped up from the table and rushed to their mother, locking their arms around her waist.

  “’Tis over now.” Grace patted them reassuringly. “Sorry for all that, but don’t be troubled. She’s a wicked woman and we’re well rid of her.”

  “What about Miss Wakefield?” Mary Kate asked quietly.

  Grace bit her lip. “I’d best see to her until Hopkins has left the house. Don’t want her to be more upset than need be. Mister Hewitt”—she turned to him—“will you take the children out into the yard for a bit? And will you find Enid, Mister Litton, and tell her that her mother’s leaving the place?”

  The men nodded in unison and left with the children. Grace took the boiling soup off the stove, set it to one side, and drew a deep breath to collect herself before going up to Abigail’s room. After pushing her hair back into place and smoothing her apron, Grace climbed the stairs, then went down the hall; she was about to go in when Hopkins appeared.

  “I’ll see her first,” the housekeeper announced.

  “No.” Grace kept her hand firmly on the door latch. “You’re not to see her anymore. I’ll tell her you’ve gone.”

  Hopkins considered this, then smiled coolly. “Give her this message, then, as she’ll be asking you for it—tell her what’s done is done and can’t be undone. Eden is lost forever.”

  “What in Heaven’s name do you mean by that?” Grace left the door and moved toward Hopkins.

  “Just tell her,” the housekeeper laughed, backing down the hall. “Tell her and see what happens.” And then she turned and disappeared down the servants’ stair.

  Good riddance, Grace thought with a sigh of relief, though she entered Abigail’s room with trepidation, Hopkins’ cryptic message echoing in her ears. She was relieved to see that Abigail still slept, the heavy curtains having muffled all sounds of the world beyond her four walls. Grace decided not to awaken her, to wait until Doctor Wakefield had returned, before telling her that Hopkins was no longer in the house. Although she felt in her very soul that Abigail would begin to revive once the stifling presence of the housekeeper faded, Grace worried that the immediate effect would be far more dramatic. Certainly, she was not about to pass on Hopkins’ parting message—“What’s done is done and can’t be undone,” and something about the Garden of Eden being lost; it was wicked, Grace was sure, and meant to push an already troubled woman over the edge, meant to ensure the suicide Hopkins had warned them would happen. Enid would sleep in this room tonight, Grace decided, or Grace herself if Enid was too distraught. No matter what, they would not leave Abigail unattended once she knew that Agnes Hopkins was gone away. Grace was now responsible for the fragile soul that slept upon that bed, a woman unaware that the course of her life had suddenly fallen into very different hands.