by Sarah Lark
Harry pulled her through a doorway over which hung a red-painted sign that said “Daisy’s,” nothing more. But it did not take much imagination to picture what went on behind the door.
Kathleen’s horror grew. “But this is, I can’t . . .”
“Miss Daisy won’t bite.” The boy soothed her. “Nor the girls, for that matter. Anyway, they don’t steal from the poor, and they always give me candy. So come on.”
Kathleen entered the dark hallway behind the door, her heart pounding. Harry steered her up a staircase that led to another, narrower corridor along which were several doors. From behind one of the doors came the sound of laughing and chatter. Harry knocked, pushing the door open when no one responded.
“Miss Daisy? There’s a girl here, from the country. Michael Drury, the whiskey distiller . . . she’s his sweetheart. They just nabbed him, and now she doesn’t know where to go.”
Kathleen kept her head lowered, but she peered out anxiously from under her shawl. Her gaze fell on a room full of mirrors, gewgaws, and bric-a-brac. It seemed to be a sort of dressing room. Four or five girls, just barely dressed, were—to Kathleen’s horror—in the middle of transforming into colorful birds of paradise with the help of bright red garter belts and ruffled dresses in flashy colors. One girl was lacing her corset; another was looking in a mirror and putting on her makeup.
Kathleen imagined the road to hell was like this, or similar. But the girls did not seem at all diabolical; rather, they looked quite normal. A few were also not as young as they looked at first glance. Miss Daisy had certainly already passed forty.
“And we’re supposed to hide her? What is this, an inn?” Miss Daisy asked.
“Not hide,” whispered Kathleen. “No one, no one is looking for me. And . . . I didn’t want . . . I . . . I can just go.” She turned around.
The woman laughed. “Oh, and where’ll you go? A young girl, all alone on the street, in this quarter? Out there, the boys will all too gladly take for free what they have to pay for here. I know Michael; he’s an honest one. His whiskey was always the best, especially the last batch.”
Kathleen sighed. So Michael had delivered his moonshine to this establishment as well. How did the women pay for it? She felt something almost like rage arise within her.
The word “whiskey” seemed to make Miss Daisy think of something. She quickly drew a bottle out from under one of the dressing tables, poured a glass, and handed it to Kathleen.
“Here, drink. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I should probably get going,” said Harry.
Miss Daisy smiled at him and pulled some candy from the same hiding place. “Not without some provisions, my boy,” she laughed. “The only man all of us here love,” she explained, turning to Kathleen. “The girls are already fighting over who gets to take his virginity.”
Kathleen blushed again, but Harry grinned at the good-natured madam.
“Not a chance, Miss Daisy. I’m looking for a proper girl like Michael did. That’s what he told me: ‘Harry, look for a good girl.’ Then he mooned over his sweetheart and her beautiful eyes, green like Irish glens, and her golden hair.”
Miss Daisy laughed even louder and pulled the shawl playfully from Kathleen’s head. The shawl fell down to her shoulders, giving a clear view of Kathleen’s hair and face.
Miss Daisy whistled; a few of the girls let out sounds of amazement as well.
“My lands, you,” the madam managed. “A girl comes up from the country and you expect a shy little mouse. But you look like a real princess. He’s kept you well fed, that Michael.”
Miss Daisy looked longer at Kathleen’s body. Kathleen pulled the shawl lower. Her stomach was still rather flat, but her gesture alone led Miss Daisy to draw the right conclusion.
“Oh, my little one. And here I hoped I might convince you to do some work, but you wouldn’t be much use for long. Is Michael the lucky man?”
Kathleen yelled, “Of course it’s Michael! What do you think? I, we, we were going to marry in America. We . . .”
Suddenly Kathleen felt like crying. She sobbed into the whiskey Daisy handed her, and despite her condition, she took the smallest of sips. It was her first-ever taste of whiskey, and it burned her throat like fire. She coughed.
“Well, nothing more is likely to come of that,” said Miss Daisy. “You won’t see him again anytime soon—at least not as a free man. You can visit him in prison if you give the guard a few pence. But by the time they let him out—if they even do—the baby will be grown.”
“If they even do?” Kathleen asked, horrified. “Do you think they’ll hang him? My God, they can’t hang him for taking three sacks of grain.”
“He stole too?” sighed Daisy. “Dearie, dearie. But no, they won’t hang him. Just ship him out. Botany Bay, Van Diemen’s Land. Ever heard of ’em, child?”
Kathleen tried at once to nod and shake her head. Naturally she had heard of the colonies. Of Australia, where prisoners were sent as forced labor. But they couldn’t do that to Michael.
“If you get more than seven years, you’ve got it tough,” said Daisy. “And they’ll easily slap him with that. Even if he hadn’t stolen. It’s a shame, and I’m sorry for you. You can stay here if you want. How many months has it been anyway? Still early, isn’t it? You can still get rid of it.”
Kathleen stared at her. Get rid of her child? Was the woman in her right mind?
“I know a woman who does it well, so that girls hardly ever bite the dust. But fine, fine, I get it: there’s no question. You’ll be sorry, child.”
Kathleen started crying again. Now the other girls started gathering around her. One laid a comforting arm around her. Kathleen shuddered at her luridly made-up face, but under all the powder and blush, she saw the features of an older woman who seemed much more motherly than Daisy.
“Now, let the little thing catch her breath first,” the woman soothed. “She doesn’t even know what she wants.”
“Michael,” sobbed Kathleen. “I want Michael, and the baby needs him. They can’t . . .”
“Hush, hush.” The woman rocked her back and forth. “Why don’t we go look for that Michael of yours tomorrow?”
Kathleen looked up at her hopefully. “Look for him? You mean visit him? Where? In . . .”
“In prison, dearie. You can say it. But first we need to find him. It might be that they’re holding him here, or they might take him back to your village. Or to Dublin. But I doubt it, at least not right away. In any case, we’ll ask around. Maybe you’ll get a chance to see him. But no more crying now; it’s not good for the little one in there for Mommy to be sad.”
The woman took one of the greasy cosmetic rags from the table and wiped Kathleen’s tears away. “Anyway, I’m Bridget. No need to stand on ceremony with me. What’s your name?”
“Kathleen,” she whispered. “Mary Kathleen.”
She had never before needed the Mother of God’s help so desperately.
Chapter 5
Kathleen slept in the whores’ dressing room, atop a mountain of worn ruffled dresses that stank of sweat and cheap perfume. Of course, she would have preferred not to touch anything that had surely seen sinful use. She wrapped herself in her shawl and in a blanket Bridget had brought her, which, though it was ragged, smelled clean.
Despite how tired she was, Kathleen woke once or twice when a man laughed or a woman squealed. Their voices sounded increasingly rollicking and drunk as the night wore on.
Yet Bridget seemed wide awake and cheerful and not particularly haggard when she woke Kathleen the next morning. She also looked much more trustworthy than she had the evening before. She had swapped her flashy red dress for a rather banal blue one, and she wore a tidy hat on top of her thick, curly brown hair. If she hadn’t worn a layer of powder to try to conceal the traces of too many nights that had gone too late, she could have been taken for a typical housewife.
“Come on, Mary Kathleen,” she said with a smile. “Sh
all we see what we can do for that Michael of yours?”
Kathleen ran a hand through her hair. She knew it must look terrible. Just like her worn and now dirty and wrinkled dress. How had she ever been able to fall asleep on that pile of laundry? Surely, she smelled of that horrible perfume now.
With a grin, Bridget handed Kathleen a comb. “Take it, dearie. None of us has lice. You may find everything here shocking, but it’s really rather a nice little cathouse. Lord knows there are worse. Not even Daisy is as hardened as she acts.”
“But, but, where are they now?” stammered Kathleen. “All the girls? And the men?”
Bridget laughed. “The customers, thank the Lord, are at home. We don’t let them sleep here. And the girls are in their rooms. Most of them had a long night. Not me; they don’t want me anymore. But Daisy lets me stay on anyway. There’re almost always one or two lads a night too drunk to see how old I am, and I even do it a bit cheaper. Otherwise I do a little cleaning around here and put things in order. Ready, dearie? We should check the jail before they send your love off to Dublin or wherever.”
Kathleen arranged her hair the best she could and pulled her shawl over her head again. This proved wise, for it was bitterly cold when she stepped onto the street alongside her new friend.
“Your love will be freezing in his cell.” Bridget sighed in sympathy. “Do you have any money?”
Kathleen did not know how she should answer. On the one hand, Harry had warned her about mentioning her purse, but on the other hand, Bridget did not seem like a thief.
“I only ask because the officers can be bought,” Bridget explained when she noticed Kathleen’s reticence. “A cell here in Wicklow can either be hell or a decent enough place. But if you want a fire and something proper to eat, you have to pay. It’s like a hotel. You have to pay for a visit too. But that’s cheap. I can give you the penny for it.”
Kathleen felt a wave of fondness and shame. This woman she did not know at all really meant to give away her hard-earned money. And Kathleen had looked down on her and distrusted her.
“That’s not necessary! I have money,” Kathleen quickly explained. “But, but thank you. And you, you, I don’t think you’re going to hell,” she blurted.
Bridget roared with laughter. “Child, I’ve been there already. In and out again. More often than you can imagine. If the Lord God or the devil wants to top that, he’s going to have to work pretty damn hard.”
Kathleen tried to smile, but she was horrified. Bridget seemed such a good woman—but she blasphemed against God and challenged the devil.
Bridget led Kathleen through the little harbor town’s less impoverished areas. The notorious Wicklow Jail was on the south side of town, next to the courthouse.
Kathleen was tired and frozen when they arrived.
“Look there: our new jail, barely ten years old. The old building was about to collapse, so they finally tore it down. Now, it’s fully modern. They don’t beat the prisoners so much anymore, just put them on the treadmill. It’s more humane, they say. Only the new dungeon is supposed to be as ghastly as the old.”
Kathleen did not quite understand what Bridget was saying, but the unadorned facade of the building, surrounded by high stone walls, filled her with dread.
Bridget headed determinedly toward the small guardhouse and pluckily requested entrance. The gatekeeper seemed to know her.
“Well, well, Bridie. ’Nother admirer of your gals locked up? Or your own true love?” he teased her.
Bridget smirked. “Now, now, sir. I’ve never more than smiled at a redcoat. If I were to have a rogue, then it would be one with something in his own purse.”
The man laughed good-naturedly, then let them inside. Kathleen followed Bridget down a sad hallway into the main building, where Bridget joked with the guard they encountered. He became serious, however, when she mentioned Michael’s name.
“That rascal from the county? The distiller?”
“Michael’s not a distiller,” Kathleen objected.
Bridget quickly motioned to Kathleen to be quiet. She arched her eyebrows at the guard. “The girl’s not herself,” she added briefly.
After that, the man paid no more attention to Kathleen, forging ahead with Bridget instead.
“That fellow’s a hard nut to crack, Bridie. They beat the tar out of him last night already. The soldiers were angry because he resisted arrest. Gave ’em trouble. They had to drag him the whole way here; he didn’t take one step himself. And the boy can hold his tongue! Not a word so far, despite all the beatings. Naturally, they wanted to know where that nest of distillers is. They found whiskey in several taverns, but it’s more important to find the still.”
“He doesn’t know.” Kathleen tried again.
Now she had the man’s attention. “So you’re part of it too, girl, that it?” he asked suspiciously. “Helped ’em make the booze, did you?”
“Oh, nonsense. The lass doesn’t know a thing,” Bridget declared. “Just came up from her village on the Vartry where the boy had been courting her by the book. And now she’s out of sorts. She’s a proper lass, sir. You ought to let her see her love, free of charge. I’m sure she’d have a good influence on the lad.”
The guard laughed. “You’ll use any trick, Bridie. But honestly, I don’t give a damn if the boy talks or not. He’s got his ticket to Van Diemen’s Land in his pocket, either way—or to wherever they’re sending the prisoners now. Botany Bay is supposed to be closed, I hear. So, whether the girl wants to pray with him or exchange a few quick kisses, it’ll cost a penny.”
Kathleen fished a coin out of her pocket. Earlier she’d hidden the bursting purse under her dress. She took a breath.
“Bridget here says you might be able to do something else for Michael, sir?” she asked quietly. “A better cell, better food?”
The guard shrugged. “He’s got to come out of the dungeon first, miss. As long as they’re having fun with him down there, there’s not much I can do. And if he stays this stubborn, that could be till the trial. But after that he’ll be here a few months—the ships won’t leave till March. The sea’s too rough in winter. I can probably make his stay better till then.”
“Just bring him here for now,” Bridget said. “Or does the lass need to go into the dungeon?”
The guard nodded, shrugging his shoulders. “The fellow’s chained up down there. But now’s a good time. The other guards are eating breakfast, and they like to wash it down with a little whiskey. Well, follow me, girl.”
Trembling, Kathleen followed the man through drafty halls and down stairs into the vaulted cellar. Every step produced a ghastly echo. She did not say a word, nor did the guard. Only once did another guard pass them, herding a troop of ragged-looking prisoners. The men did not dare look up, though they stole side glances to get a look at Kathleen.
“Here we are.”
The hall leading past the dungeon cells was lit only meagerly by miserable oil lamps. In the cells themselves, near total darkness reigned. Each prisoner only had a single candle to light his chamber. Kathleen squinted in the dark when she was allowed to enter.
“Wait a second,” the man grumbled. He brought one of the lanterns from the hall into the cell. “Here, since it’s you. Your beloved ought to be able to see you, at least. Just costs a halfpenny more.”
“Only if you leave the lantern here until it burns out.”
Kathleen did not know how it happened. She would never have believed she could summon the courage to say something like that. But just the first quick glimpse of Michael’s body stretched out on a heap of straw made her shudder. She had to fight for him. She was all he had.
“Since it’s you?” Michael’s low voice asked suspiciously once the guard had gone. “What did you do to get them to let you in here, Kathie?”
Kathleen had already sat down beside him on the straw. She could hardly wait to put her arms around him and kiss him. But now she glared at him.
“What do you thi
nk, Michael Drury? That I behave like a girl of easy virtue just because everyone now thinks me the sweetheart of a criminal?”
“Kathleen.” Michael sat up. “Forgive me, Kathleen. It was . . . It’s been a long night.”
He tried to sit up and lean against the wall, but she saw that his shirt stuck to his back and that the blood had soaked though the fabric. And now she noticed the chains on Michael’s arms and legs.
“They whipped you?” she asked.
Michael shook his head. “Forget it, Kathleen. Let’s not talk about it. I can only say I’m sorry. Good Lord, the last thing I wanted was to hurt you or your reputation. I wanted to marry you, Kathleen. Start a new life, raise our child together. And don’t call me a criminal, Kathie. I didn’t hurt anybody, never got in a fight, never betrayed anyone. I’m an honorable man.”
Kathleen laughed weakly. “When you’re not stealing grain or selling moonshine.”
“Isn’t it our right as the Irish to make our own whiskey on our land? Shouldn’t we eat the grain—or drink something made from it—that we’ve sown and harvested ourselves? If Ireland belonged to the Irish, there’d be no famine. No, Kathleen, I’m not ashamed. Nor should you be ashamed of me.”
Michael looked straight into her eyes. Kathleen almost felt afraid. He had never spoken so seriously to her before.
“They’re going to send me away, Kathleen,” Michael said. “I can’t marry you and make you an honest woman. Although to me you’re more than honest, Mary Kathleen—you’re holy. And you’ll raise our child with dignity. I trust you.” He kissed her forehead as if to seal their bond.
She nodded mutely.
“What about the money, Kathleen? Do you have it?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” she answered quietly. “What am I to do now?”
“Come closer.”
She moved toward him and though he was chained, he caressed her as best he could. His touch was as gentle and comforting as ever, but it gave her no answer.
