Letters From a Patchwork Quilt

by Clare Flynn

  27

  The Confessional

  The Irish church was gloomy and draughty. Eliza waited in the pew, shivering, running the rosary beads through her fingers. She was kneeling away from the rest of the attendees. She wanted to be the last into the confessional box so that she would not be overheard and would feel less hurried by a queue of penitents waiting to unburden their sins.

  The priest had a heavy Irish brogue that for a moment made her breath catch as it so resembled the voice of Father O’Driscoll. Eliza rattled off her sins: the usual catalogue – vanity and regret for her lost looks, impatience with her employer, lack of gratitude, covetousness of a gown she had seen a woman wearing in the street, lack of concentration during holy Mass. Then she gritted her teeth, squeezed her fingernails into her palms and decided to speak the words she was afraid to say.

  ‘Father, I have loved a man for a long time. We were engaged to be married. He was falsely accused of fathering another woman’s child and compelled to marry her against his will. As he did not enter into the marriage freely, does that mean it is valid?’

  ‘Ah, now, there’s a tricky one. And not really one for the confessional. Let me see if there’s anyone else waiting.’ The priest stuck his head out of the curtain, then turned back to her. ‘You’re the last, so why don’t I give you absolution and penance and then we’ll pop next door to the presbytery for a nice cup of tea and I’ll try to answer your question.’

  Ten minutes later they were seated either side of a fireplace in the drawing room of the priest’s house, with the housekeeper dispensing cups of tea.

  ‘So this fella didn’t want to go ahead with a marriage to this other woman, but she was already expecting a child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he said it wasn’t his child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, Miss. It is Miss isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Miss Hewlett.’

  ‘Are you so sure he wasn’t the daddy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Forgive me asking this, but do you know how babies are made?’

  Eliza flushed and twitched at her skirt in annoyance. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure he couldn’t have … you know?’

  ‘I am sure.’

  ‘What were the circumstances of his acquaintance with the woman he married?’

  ‘He lodged in her father’s house.’

  ‘She was under the same roof?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The priest shook his head and rubbed his chin with his hands. ‘Put it this way, Miss Hewlett. If he wasn’t the father of the child and was compelled to marry under duress, the marriage would be invalid ab initio – from the start – and there would be definite grounds for annulment as the marriage would be deemed not to have taken place. Consent is a key requirement of the sacrament of marriage.’

  She squeezed her hands together and leaned forward. ‘So he would be free to marry again?’

  ‘He would be free to marry as the first marriage would not have been a marriage at all. But may I ask another question, Miss Hewlett? How long ago did this forced marriage take place?’

  ‘About two years ago.’

  ‘And the fella had already promised himself to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I have to wonder why he hasn’t done exactly what you’ve just done – as any priest would have told him the same thing.’

  ‘Perhaps he has.’ Eliza felt a little surge of hope and excitement inside her.

  ‘Then why has he not sought you out?’

  She looked down.

  ‘I presume he has the means to do so?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s in England. We were parted as our ship was about to sail. He doesn’t know where in America I am.’

  ‘I see.’

  There was a moment’s silence while they sipped their tea.

  ‘Does this fella know anyone else who’s in contact with you? Has he any way of tracking you down?’

  Eliza put down the teacup and looked away from him, thinking of the Wenlocks. Jack could have found her if he’d tried. ‘Yes, I suppose he has.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry to say it looks like he was perhaps not the innocent man you have presumed. Maybe he was prepared to face up to the consequences of his sins and stand by the woman he had illicit relations with.’

  Eliza stood, gathering her skirts around her. ‘I know he’s innocent. He did not have relations with the woman. I know him. He wouldn’t.’

  The priest sighed and shook his head. ‘How many times have I heard that? Perhaps you’re right, Miss Hewlett. I wish I had your faith in human nature. In that case, the only conclusion I can draw is that he decided to stand by the woman anyway in her hour of need. He made an honourable sacrifice and that implies he went willingly into the contract of marriage. Either way, after two years, it looks unlikely that he has invoked nullity proceedings. I’m very sorry. Look on the bright side, Miss Hewlett. Plenty more fish in the sea. And if not, the church is always looking for young women with a vocation. Have you ever given thought to becoming a nun?’

  Eliza left the presbytery and walked the streets of St Louis for hours, churning the possibilities through her mind. She wandered down to the banks of the Mississippi and looked up at the Eads Bridge, thinking of the times she had stood on the Clifton Bridge with Jack.

  Her Jack would never have seduced Mary Ellen. She was sure of that. But what had the priest said? He’d heard it all before. Maybe Jack’s intentions had been noble but Mary Ellen had visited him in the night. No. Hadn’t he told her about coming upon Mary Ellen with a man in a dark alley, having intercourse against a wall? Jack had been as shocked as she was. He had told her he was a virgin. She believed him. Mary Ellen’s child was not Jack’s. She would stake her life on it.

  Why then had he not sought an annulment? The priest had been clear that there were grounds. According to the Wenlocks he’d gone with Mary Ellen to the north of England – far from the threats and influence of Father O’Driscoll and Mr MacBride. Yet he hadn’t done anything about it. The Wenlocks had received no enquiries from him and heard no news. It was as though he had drawn a line through their courtship, wiped it out and removed all traces, like cleaning chalk off a blackboard.

  As she walked along beside the Mississippi, Eliza examined everything she knew of Jack, challenging all her assumptions about him. She realised she knew little of him, of his background, his family, his life before Bristol. She remembered how he had received the news of his father’s death. His family had buried his father without him. He hadn’t returned to visit his mother. She had been shocked at the time but had brushed away the thought, assuming he wanted to think only of the future. His father had been violent and prone to drunken rages – understandable then that Jack would want no more to do with him. The hurt must have run deep. Yet why punish his mother? Surely he should have gone to pay his respects and support his mother, to be reunited briefly with his siblings? There was something cold and selfish in this decision and how he had refused to talk about it with her. She who had no family at all found it hard to understand how he could shrug off his like a snake sloughing off its skin. Then she reminded herself they had held the funeral without him. He must have felt excluded, hurt, shut out. Oh Jack, my poor, poor Jack.

  She thought back to the day on Clifton Down when he had stood up to those ruffians and defended her. Wasn’t that proof of his inherent goodness, of his strength of character? He had taken blow after blow to protect her, heedless of the way he was outnumbered.

  Yet the priest had planted a doubt and it was burrowing through her brain like the invisible worm inside William Blake’s rose. Poetry. She didn’t want to think about poetry. Jack’s poetry. How so much of it had been about her. She had been overwhelmed with love for him, bowled over by his outpourings of devotion on the page. But now as she thought about it perhaps there was something unhealthy, almost obsessive about his words. From the time they had met he had writte
n about nothing but her. It was all very well being on top of a pedestal – until the man who had placed you there went away and left you up there unable to get down.

  Eliza sat on a bench beside the Mississippi, close to the great iron bridge. Here the river was wide and grey and flowed like a sluggish giant through the low, flat land. So different that other iron bridge, spanning the Severn between high wooded cliffs. A wave of homesickness washed over her. She felt abandoned. Displaced. Alone. Abandoned by Jack. Abandoned by God.

  She knew she would love Jack Brennan until the day she died, but she could not escape the fact that he had made no attempt to contact her. Whatever his reasons, he had turned his back on her. He was never going to come for her. They would never be together. She could only conclude that he hadn’t loved her enough.

  28

  The Decision

  Dr Feigenbaum glanced up at the clock on the wall behind Eliza. ‘Won’t you be late for church, my dear?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not going’ she said.

  ‘Are you unwell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘I won’t be going any more. Ever,’ she said.

  ‘Might I ask why?’

  ‘God has let me down.’

  The doctor shuffled the pages of his newspaper, but said nothing.

  She spoke again, her voice expressionless. ‘I want to have a child.’

  He put down his newspaper.

  ‘I will marry you,’ she said. ‘If you still want me.’

  ‘And your fiancé?’ he asked.

  ‘He has let me down too,’ she said.

  They were married two weeks later. The witnesses were Alphonsus Feigenbaum and Marta. When the doctor told Eliza his brother had agreed to be his groomsman her heart sank.

  ‘Don’t worry, Eliza. I told you he would eventually understand why I want to marry you.’

  ‘You’re sure he’s not going to make a scene?’

  ‘Of course he is not. He knows how much I love you.’

  She looked away. She hated him persisting in his attestations of love. As far as she was concerned the marriage was a contractual arrangement. Her only hope of motherhood. She was worried about Alphonsus being there. She had always ensured she was out of the house or stayed in her room when he visited.

  Her dread was unjustified. When they arrived at the city hall Alphonsus was waiting for them. He bowed his head low over Eliza’s hand, then clasped it between his. ‘I owe you an apology, Miss Hewlett. May I be permitted to address you now as Eliza?’

  She nodded, still nervous.

  ‘I have had time to realise how happy you make my dear brother. He speaks of nothing but you when we meet. He has also explained how hard he worked to persuade you to marry him. I regret what I said when we first met, but trust you will understand that I had only his interests at heart.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Feigenbaum.’

  ‘And you will forgive me for saying that I trust you will not disappoint him?’

  Eliza bit her lip. He had such a strange way of phrasing things. So blunt.

  Dr Feigenbaum, who had been speaking to the clerk, returned and clapped his arm around his brother’s shoulders.

  ‘I hope you are not telling her about all my faults, Alphonsus? I do not want Eliza to change her mind!’

  The clerk ushered them into the office and in two or three minutes the whole thing was over. So quick. So easy. Eliza swallowed and forced a smile onto her face but felt as though she had just signed her life away.

  Afterwards they gathered in the drawing room to drink a glass of champagne, then Alphonsus left the two of them to eat supper together as usual.

  Dr Feigenbaum chewed in silence and Eliza played with the food on her plate, trying to disguise her nervousness. When Marta had cleared the table and they retired to the drawing room, she was conscious of his eyes watching her as she sewed the patchwork quilt she was making. Uncomfortable, she looked up and met his eyes and he looked away, picking up a volume from the table beside him and pretending to read.

  ‘You would do better if you had your reading spectacles on, Doctor,’ Eliza said, knowing that without them he was almost completely word blind.

  He didn’t comment that she had referred to him by his professional title rather than using his name as he had asked her to do after the ceremony.

  He coughed, got out of the chair and went back into the dining room to find the glasses he had left on top of his folded newspaper. He came back, sat down and picked up his book, but after a few seconds put it down again, rose and stood in front of the grate where, unnecessarily, he began to stab at the healthily burning fire with a poker, sending sparks flying into the hearth. He replaced the poker and paced slowly up and down in front of the fireplace, pausing to adjust the framed photographs of his dead German relatives, moving each one pointlessly a fraction to the left, then edging it back again into its original position.

  Eliza bent her head over her sewing. His nervousness intensified her own. She stabbed her finger with the needle and watched as the tiny drop of blood appeared on the surface of her skin. She sucked her finger, knowing she should put aside her quilting and stem the bleeding properly, but she was afraid to move, to get up, in case it prompted him to speak to her.

  After a few minutes, seeing that she had managed to make a blood stain on the cotton fabric, she muttered under her breath in annoyance and put her work into the sewing basket. ‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ she said.

  The doctor jumped as though stung, then coughed and took off his spectacles and began to polish them with the handkerchief he kept in his pocket for the purpose. ‘I will follow shortly,’ he answered. ‘Just as soon as I’ve wound the clocks and checked my appointments for tomorrow.’

  Eliza knew he was dissembling. He had no appointments. He rarely left the house apart from his morning constitutional through Lafayette Park. But she was grateful. She would have been mortified at going up to bed together. She could not imagine how it would feel to get undressed in the same room as him, to sit at the dressing table and brush her hair out while he watched her. This way she could prepare for bed in private and await him there, though that would mean she would have to watch him undress instead.

  Entering his bedroom for the first time, she saw with relief that there were a pair of damask-covered screens at each corner of the room opposite the bed. Frau Bauer had placed a large bowl of lilacs on the dressing table and Eliza’s hairbrush and hand mirror were waiting for her beside it. She undressed quickly, washed, took off the mask of Pozzoni’s make-up, slipped on her nightgown, applied her night cream, brushed her hair, and climbed up into the enormous bed, pulling the covers around her. The candlelight cast shadows across the ceiling and she wondered whether she should put the candle out. But Dr Feigenbaum might think she was asleep, or even that she had returned to her small single bedroom. She lay there agonising over the embarrassment of it all and wishing he were a more forceful and confident man, or that they were closer in age and might be able to laugh about their mutual shyness. Wishing was a dangerous path to follow – that could lead her to imagine she were lying here waiting for Jack Brennan and she didn’t want to think about that. No, just focus on getting through tonight. On doing what must be done. On what it would lead to – the baby she was now desperate to conceive.

  Eliza lay motionless for what seemed like an age, watching the shadow-play from her candle on the ceiling, mentally tracing imaginary lines between the plaster ceiling rose and the corners of the room, dissecting the space into geometrical shapes. Dr Feigenbaum’s uneven step sounded on the stairs and after a discreet warning cough, the bedroom door creaked open and she snuffed out her candle. He padded across the room and went behind one of the screens. She listened as he fumbled his way out of his clothing and into his nightgown, his body casting a new shadow across the ceiling. Eventually he moved back across the room, placed his candle on the night stand and climbed into the bed. She saw him h
esitate for a moment, then he extinguished the candle and the room was bathed in a comforting darkness.

  They lay there in silence for a few moments, both of them on their backs, side by side with a gap between them, each unconsciously modulating their breathing to the other’s. Eliza wanted to giggle – she felt like an entombed mummy or one of those marbled husband and wife pairings from an old English church.

  At last Dr Feigenbaum spoke, his voice disembodied in the darkness. ‘May I hold you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, glad that she was unable to see his face.

  He edged closer and she did the same until she felt his hip against hers. He moved onto his side and reached across her, laying one arm over her stomach. They lay there, unmoving, for what seemed like an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than a minute or two, then she spoke, conscious of the loudness of her voice in the empty room.

  ‘Have you done this before?’

  ‘Once,’ he said, ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No.’

  His arm tightened slightly around her waist and she felt the warmth of his breath on her neck.