Emily's House

by Amy Belding Brown

  “What’s the news in town?” Tom asks.

  Nell starts bustling about, clearing away the empty tea things, putting away the groceries. “All anybody’s talking about is the grippe contagion,” she says. “Nobody knows how it’s spreading but some say the stables in the center of town are the cause of it.”

  Tom humphs and takes out his pipe. “Next thing you know, folks’ll be saying horses are a health menace.”

  Nell shrugs. “What have the pair of you been up to?”

  “Having a wee chat,” Tom says. He leans back in his chair and looks at me. “Seems there’s a buyer for the Homestead.”

  “An outrage, it is, selling the place,” I say. “Mattie D’s got no respect for Miss Emily’s memory. Not a care for what the rest of us might be thinking.”

  “Don’t rile yourself, Margaret,” Tom says. “I’ve said before—she’s likely got a good enough reason.”

  “Oh, she does,” Nell says, pouring herself a cup of tea and sitting in the chair next to me. “She’s been swindled.”

  “Swindled?” I say. It’s a shock, this news. “By who?”

  “Her husband, the captain,” Nell says in a breezy way, as if everybody in town knows. “Apparently he’s robbed her blind. Remember hearing several years ago about that woman from New York who sued him?”

  I nod, though the memory is misty. Tom looks as puzzled as myself.

  “Well, it turns out Captain Bianchi had been spinning a web of lies for years,” Nell goes on. “He used his Dickinson connections to get folks to loan him thousands of dollars. In payment, all he sent were bad checks. He finally ran off to Europe. Came as a terrible blow to Mattie D. But the scandals kept coming and he kept begging for more money and she sent what she could until it ran out. By the time her mother died most of her fortune was gone.”

  I feel a pinch of pity. “Why didn’t I know this?”

  She gives me a surprised look. “I assumed you did. It’s not a secret. It’s been in the papers.”

  Tom slaps his hand down on the table. “I was right, then—she had no choice but to put the Homestead up for sale. She’s had a hard life, she has.”

  Nell nods. “She had that nervous collapse after Miss Vinnie died and that’s why she went abroad—her doctor prescribed it. It was right around that time she met Alexander and he swept her right off her feet. He must have reminded her of the dukes and earls she wrote about in her novels. By the time she learned who he really was, they were married.”

  It’s uncommon when words fail me, but I can’t think of anything to say. An ocean of tender feeling is swirling in my brain. Seems that Mattie D wasn’t stonyhearted when she turned me away. She’d been hoodwinked and robbed by her rogue of a husband and was only after protecting her pride. I know a thing or two about how that feels.

  “She’s always been a good steward of Miss Emily’s work,” Nell says. “Remember that collection of her poems she published a couple of years ago?”

  “I never knew why she called it The Single Hound,” Tom says. “But it’s a noble book and honors her mother along with Miss Emily.”

  I nod. I have the book myself, on the nightstand by my bed, where I can open it when I’m yearning to read Emily’s verses. I remember finding a mention of myself in the preface. An archaic Irish servant were the words Mattie D wrote. I had to look up archaic in the dictionary. Old-fashioned, it means. Out-of-date. It was hurtful at the time. But I suppose there’s a truth to it. And I’ll not be ashamed of keeping the scruples I was raised with.

  One thing is certain—Mattie D’s hard-heartedness doesn’t excuse my own.

  “I think I’ve made an awful mistake,” I say after a minute. “And it’s up to myself to be fixing it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  1879

  Sometimes it seemed I was always going in and out of doors that didn’t belong to me. The only time I didn’t feel so was at St. Bridget’s. I belonged to that place, surely. In truth, I’d given some of my wages to its building ten years back. Stepping through the door made something light and sweet open in my chest—a holy feeling. I always thought Mass was more devotion than obligation. Patrick saw it the other way around.

  But my heart gave a little leap whenever he did show up for Mass. One Sunday in late June I was kneeling in my pew when he surprised me by squeezing in beside me, bold as you please. I crossed myself twice for strength and protection, as he shifted closer and closer again. By the Sanctus, his arm was against mine and his leg was wrinkling my skirts. I was mindful of the musky smell of himself. Sure, my body had a will of its own that paid no heed at all to my soul.

  He took my arm soon as Mass was over and hurried me outside. We were the first ones out the door. Didn’t seem respectful to be rushing off right after Holy Communion, but I didn’t complain. I was liking the way my arm tucked into his. The morning was lovely with the sun shining out of a pure blue sky and the bushes full of flowers. Wasn’t just pleasing to the eye, but to my nose too. The air smelled grand.

  “We’ve got to hurry,” Patrick said, pulling me along.

  Sure, I don’t like being told what to do on my day off. “What’s got into you?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to be late.” He slid his arm free of mine and put it around my shoulder. “I’ve made plans for us this day, love.”

  “What plans?” I was wary but gooseflesh was going up and down my back.

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now, would it?” He was sucking on his teeth to keep from laughing.

  “I’m not always liking your surprises,” I said. “There’s a wild streak in you, Patrick Quinn.” But the truth was, I liked it. His wild side was one of the reasons I couldn’t resist him when he was with me—and why I craved being with him when he wasn’t. “Tell me where you’re taking me or I’ll not be going.” And I stopped, right there in the street.

  “Ah, love, you’re spoiling the fun,” he said. “We’re about to be having a right spraoi.”

  Spraoi. It was a word I hadn’t heard for years. It brought a pang, reminding me of the times Da took our whole family on a lark. Happened at least once a year—climbing Slievenamon or dancing at the Fethard Fair. Walking to Killusty and picnicking by the River Anner.

  But in spite of the tingle in my back and the tear in my eye, I didn’t budge, so Patrick had to confess. Turned out, he’d bought two train tickets to Worcester and we were off to attend an Irish fair. And how could I say no to that?

  * * *

  The fair was at a big brick church not far from the train station— St. John’s, Patrick said it was. “ ’Tis where I went to Mass when I was working here.” He gave me a wink. “Can’t promise you it was often.”

  “You worked in Worcester?” It was one more thing I didn’t know about him.

  “For a few months after the war,” he said. “The factories were only hiring Yankees, so I laid track like every other Irish lad.” He shook his head. “It’s hellish work but it’s filled many an Irish belly, so I was grateful to have it. Then I heard about the good wages at the tunnel, so I left.”

  Not for the first time, I was struck by how Patrick was always leaving one place and going to another. A restless lad, surely. Made me wonder how long before he’d be leaving me too, and a sad feeling came over me. But it didn’t last long, for the fair was a wonder, with the smell of roasting meat in my nose and the music of fiddlers and drummers in my ears. The sun was shining and the women’s frocks were bright and I couldn’t have been thinking sad thoughts if I tried.

  Patrick bought hard-boiled eggs and scones and pork pasties from a woman who looked like my aunt Johanna. We ate our lunch sitting on a patch of grass, watching a juggler and a potato sack race. Later we joined a crowd singing the sweet, sad songs of Thomas Moore. Made me homesick for Ireland, it did. And I wasn’t the only one with tears wetting my face before it was done. />
  After the singing, a priest stood on a platform and talked about a new famine in Ireland and how we should collect money to send our Catholic brothers and sisters across the water. He had a golden tongue and music in his voice. The palaver at the edge of the crowd quieted, till everybody was listening. “Now, I know some of you are ashamed to be seeking charity for our beleaguered homeland,” he cried. “But we lovers of Ireland have set our minds and hearts on freeing her. The land system has been corrupt for generations and it’s squeezing the tenant farmers ever tighter. We’re determined to reform Ireland. She must rule her own affairs!” Patrick and myself stood up and cheered along with everybody else. My own heart was beating hard, and I couldn’t help thinking how Da would have admired such noble words.

  There were more speakers, and when a charity basket was passed around, I put in half my wages from the week before. I was in such a state of excitement I felt no surprise when we came on Maria Doughtery tending a booth. Patrick bought cups of lemonade and the three of us chatted till the sun was low in the sky.

  Sure, I was as reluctant to go as Patrick when we headed back to the station in the soft blue twilight.

  * * *

  I spent most of the next day in the washroom, mangling a tubful of sheets and frocks, expecting Patrick to walk in any minute. Imagined him sweeping me into his arms and kissing me till I couldn’t breathe. But instead of Patrick, it was Emily who walked in. I’d been scrubbing a stain from her hem for the best part of twenty minutes, but no matter how hard I rubbed, it wouldn’t come clean. In she came, looking fresh as daisies in her white wrapper, just as I was dipping her frock in a pan of bluing for the third time. I wiped the sweat off my face and tried to tame my tongue but I was cross at Emily and disappointed with Patrick and had neither wit nor will to keep my mouth shut.

  “Will you tell me one thing, then?” I said. “Why, for the love of God, are all your frocks white? You’re not a nun, after all.”

  Emily’s eyes went round and she took a step back. I could see from the way her face shut she didn’t want to answer—maybe didn’t even have an answer to give—and I was sorry I spoke. But I knew better than most that words spoken can’t be unheard.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” I said, scrubbing harder. I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. I tried to gentle my voice. “It’s just that white is the color of death where I come from. I know it’s not like that here in America, but it troubles me.”

  “Death?” she said in a choked voice. The startled look was on her still, but joined now by something that chilled my blood. After a minute she said, “I guess you’d have to call it a fancy. It makes me feel myself.” She murmured something else I couldn’t make out and left the washroom.

  I hung the laundry and started peeling potatoes and carrots for dinner. By noon I knew for certain Patrick wasn’t coming.

  In the afternoon Meg came by to gossip about Austin and Sue. She said they’d had another screaming bout the night before. All about Sue’s wasteful spending. “Those parties of hers are wicked,” Meg said. “She invites all the fancy ladies in town and they smoke cigarettes and tell sinful stories the whole night long. They keep me up till the wee hours waiting on them. Then I have to do the washing up after they’re done.”

  “Sure, I’m sorry to hear it,” I said. I was aching to talk about my day at the fair with Patrick, but my niece’s head was full of doings at the Evergreens and she didn’t stay for a second cup of tea.

  Later, putting away dishes in the pantry, I saw the spice tin had been moved to the windowsill. It was where I stored paper scraps of Emily’s writing I found in her pockets on laundry day. I’d never looked at them close, but I was feeling out of sorts. There was only a pinch of guilt troubling me when I plucked off the lid and took out one of the scraps. Emily’s handwriting was small and broken; most of the letters stood alone, not joined with lines and loops like mine. It took some time reading and even when I figured out most of the words, I couldn’t unravel the sense of it. There was a cube of the rainbow and the arc of a lover’s conjecture and the quare word eludes. It was as if she took chance ideas and stuck them together willy-nilly to make a word bouquet. It was pleasing to my ear but bewildered my mind.

  Then I thought of the pretty glass drops and boxes hanging on threads in Emily’s room. They sometimes caught the afternoon light and cast it on the wall over her bed. The first time I saw the little rainbows scattered among the wallpaper roses, I squeaked with the surprise of it. She showed me how the glass dangles caught the sun and made a fan of colors.

  “A tiny box of rainbows!” I’d said. “How clever!” The way Emily smiled straight into my eyes made me feel like I was shining myself.

  I dropped the scrap back in the tin and shut the lid tight. Through the pantry window I saw the wind blowing in low clouds from the north. Like curtains those clouds were, with the sun winking in and out between them. It looked like rain. I grabbed the laundry basket and hurried outside. I unpinned the sheets quick as I could and brought them in to fold for Tuesday’s ironing.

  I was making gravy when Emily came down the back stairs. I’d not been able to stop puzzling over her poem. I was stuck on the line about the lover’s conjecture—it took me back to thinking about Patrick and the confused feelings knocking around my heart. When she stepped into the kitchen I blurted out what was in my head—a confusion of arcs and conjectures and rainbows.

  “What are you talking about?” she said. Then, “Have you been reading my verses?”

  “Only one, miss,” I said, quick as a bird flitting off a branch. “Caught my eye, it did. The one about the rainbow cube.”

  I thought she was going to be cross. But all she did was nod. “I’d forgotten. Did I leave it in my pocket?”

  “You did. I laid it in the spice tin with the others. Saw it just now when I was putting away the china.” I was rattling on for no reason but to fill the room with sound. To make my voice lift the curtain between us. When she tilted her head, I stopped.

  “And you thought I’d written it for you?” she asked.

  I put down my spoon. “Not for me, no. But remember we talked about the glass dangles in your room? Shaped like boxes and cubes, you know? So I wondered if what I said made you write it. But I don’t understand about the lover—” I stopped again, for I couldn’t find my way to the end of the thought.

  “Dangles?” she said, and then she laughed. “Oh, you mean the prisms! Yes, I remember. It’s actually meant to be a mathematical verse of sorts. I was having a little fun.”

  I felt a bit collapsed. I liked thinking I gave her the idea.

  She was looking at me like I was a book she was reading. Then she said, “Perhaps I do have you to thank for the poem’s genesis. I get my ideas from so many places—it’s like sifting air.”

  I blinked. “What does it mean, then? The poem? The part about the lover?”

  “Ah, the lover’s conjecture. Of course—you’re thinking of your beau.” She got the spice tin from the pantry and brought it into the kitchen. “I suppose I was thinking of him too, in a way. It could as well be Patrick as anyone. There’s always mystery when it comes to love, don’t you think?” She opened the tin and turned it over so the scraps fluttered down on the table. They lay in a jumble of shapes and soft colors. I was glad I’d shut the windows so a chance wind couldn’t blow them all over the kitchen. “Poems are about anyone,” Emily said. “Or everyone. At least the good ones are.”

  So the poem was about everybody. And finding my own story in it gave me a bit of pride. I watched her pick up a scrap and read it to herself. “The muse assaults me at odd times, Maggie. So I must be ready. That’s why I always carry my pencil.” She swept the scraps into her hand and put them in her pocket. Looked like I’d likely be saving them from the laundry again next week. She popped the lid back on the tin and smiled at me. “It’s good of you to rescue them. I think I shall anoint you
Steward of the Verses.” She put her hand on my head, like a priest giving a blessing, and tried to look solemn, though her mouth was tugging up at the corners. “Now it’s your duty, Maggie, to preserve and defend them. They are my entire estate.”

  I knew she was jesting, but something in her words touched me. There was a coin of truth in them, bright as a silver dollar. That’s always how it was with Emily.

  * * *

  When I got to Kelley Square Thursday afternoon, Mary was on the porch, sorting through a bag of old clothes. “Jamie’s outgrown every single hand-me-down I’ve got,” she said, inspecting a ragged pair of boys’ trousers. “And I’ve patched these till there’s nothing left but lint.”

  “Time to be making new,” I said, knowing she took satisfaction in her needle.

  “Aye, if he’d hold still long enough for the measuring.” She dropped the trousers into her ragbag. “You’re bursting to tell me something,” she said. “I can see it in your face. Spit it out, lass.”

  And so I did, filling her ears with what I’d seen and heard at the fair. The more I talked, the more excited I got about the cause of Irish freedom. It wasn’t till I ran out of breath did I notice Mary was frowning.

  “Sounds to me like Patrick’s been leading you down the primrose path,” she said.

  Now I was the one frowning. “Sure, I don’t take your meaning. ’Tis fighting to free our brothers and sisters from English oppression I’m talking about.”

  “Wisha! You sound like a Fenian,” she said. “You can’t believe such blather, surely.”

  “And why not? I’m asking,” I said. “Maybe it’s yourself should be believing it too.”

  She shook her head and the look on her face made me feel small, like a girl again. That was the trouble having a sister so much older. I loved her but she tried my patience.