Emily's House

by Amy Belding Brown

  I would have said more if the train whistle hadn’t tattered the peace of the afternoon. I near jumped, which wasn’t like me, for hadn’t I been hearing that awful noise for years now? Truth is, it felt like my insides had broken to pieces, the way a dish shatters when it’s dropped. And right there, on Mary’s porch, my mind flew back to the time Emily took a chipped plate the Squire had been complaining about and smashed it on the flagstones outside the kitchen door. Remembering that left me thinking how quare it was my thoughts so often linked themselves to Emily. We were as different as day and night. But sometimes it felt like I was living inside her life as well as my own.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Judge Lord came in August, bringing his nieces. They took rooms at the Amherst House, and while the Judge was with Emily, the girls hired carriages and went riding over the hills or off to Northampton to shop. I was surprised the Judge gave them the freedom to do whatever they took into their heads, for his court judgments were always stern and sometimes harsh. But I was glad the nieces weren’t underfoot all day, for wherever they went they left a clutter behind them I had to be cleaning.

  The last day of the Judge’s visit I spent cleaning the cooker. I fettled the flues and ventilators, swept out the ashes, blacked and buffed the box and warming oven, and rubbed the brass hinges till they shone. Took me most of the afternoon and left my apron and frock in such a state there was nothing to be done but put on fresh ones. I had my foot on the stairs about to go up when Patrick came in with a spray of flowers in his hand. He held them out to me. “Sure, I’ve been wasting away with missing you, agra,” he said. “ ’Tis killing me, it is. Give me a kiss.” He leaned over the bouquet in a funny way so it looked like his head was stuck in the middle of it.

  I laughed but my heart was thrumming. “You must be daft,” I said. “Even a gombeen knows to leave a girl alone when she’s been blacking a stove.”

  He must have heard what my tongue wasn’t saying, for he dropped the flowers right on the floor and wrapped me up in his arms. And didn’t he kiss me soundly, stove black and all?

  “Now look at you,” I said, pushing him away. “You’re a sight, you are. Looking like a chimney sweep after spring cleaning!”

  “Aye, and if it weren’t for your cheeks being red as berries, we’d be a matched set.” He leaned in to kiss me again.

  It was that minute Emily came into the kitchen with the Judge behind her. The flowers were still on the floor. I picked them up and hurried them to the sink.

  “I’ve just blacked the cooker, miss,” I called over my shoulder. “Haven’t finished cleaning up yet, so mind where you step.”

  Emily moved back and bumped into the Judge, who gave a little grunt. And didn’t she burst out laughing? Clapped her hand over her mouth, but there was no stopping it. That laugh slipped right through her fingers. Next I knew, the Judge was laughing too. There they stood, the pair of them, having a grand hilarity like a couple of schoolgirls.

  “Fair enough, Maggie,” Emily said. “Sure, ’tis your kitchen and that’s the truth of it.” Used my accent, she did, instead of her own, which set the Judge laughing again and herself joining in.

  Her mockery struck me like a stone hitting my chest. Rocked me back from the force of it. I saw Patrick’s eyes go narrow and felt a dark shame flood me. More than once I’d boasted to him of my situation. Told him the Dickinsons were good people for all their quare ways. I’d not mentioned Emily’s love of ridicule.

  Patrick came and touched my shoulder and bent his head near my ear. “They may not be English, but they’re after acting it through and through,” he whispered.

  I gave him a shove toward the door and out he went. God’s truth, I wanted to follow.

  I commenced pumping water with such a fury it soaked my sleeves. As soon as Emily and the Judge left, I ran upstairs to put on a new frock and apron and calm myself. But there was no forgetting the humiliation.

  * * *

  Patrick wasn’t at Mass Sunday but I found him waiting at the corner when I left. He fell in step with me and took my arm as I headed to Kelley Square. His look was gentler and more tender than before, and I wondered if it was because he’d seen Emily mocking me. When Emily ridiculed my accent she wasn’t insulting only myself but all Irish folk.

  He asked me the question I’d been wondering myself—what did Emily see in the Judge?

  “He seems a bit of a shoneen,” he said. “Too full of himself to see his own wickedness.”

  “I’m thinking it’s a family trait,” I said, and I told him about the Judge’s fancy nieces, how they’d taken a dislike to Emily. “They act like she’s no better than a servant. Rude to her face, they are. And the Judge—he doesn’t seem to notice.”

  “Maybe she’s deserving it,” he said. “Tasting her own medicine, she is.”

  “Maybe so,” I said. “But I’m thinking nobody deserves being mocked.”

  “So, tell me about himself,” Patrick said. “How’d he get to be such a puffed-up piece of shite?”

  “Sure, that’s no way to be talking about your betters.” I didn’t say so, but the truth was, I thought he was right.

  “He’s no more my better than a drunken lout lying in the gutter. He’s the lot who sent Dr. McDonough to jail because he was Catholic and wouldn’t kiss the Protestant Bible.”

  This I hadn’t heard, though it didn’t surprise me. From what I’d seen of the Judge he was like every other aristocrat—using money and the law for protecting himself and his own kind.

  “Never mind him,” I said. “He’s back in Salem with his nieces now. And I’m glad for it, surely.”

  “Good for you, lass.” Patrick put his arm around my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I have a surprise for you waiting in my room.”

  I gave him a long look. “Sure, I’m not going in your room, Patrick Quinn.”

  He laughed. “Didn’t expect you were, so I’ll be bringing it to you after dinner.”

  “What is it, then?” I asked.

  He laughed. “That would be telling, now, wouldn’t it?”

  We passed the Homestead on the far side of the street but I didn’t even glance at it. Turned the corner and walked past the depot and went up the steps of Mary’s house arm in arm, like sweethearts. I clean forgot to chide Patrick for not coming to Mass.

  * * *

  After dinner, I sat on the porch steps while Patrick went up to his room. He came out holding a package behind his back. And didn’t he have a big grin on his face?

  “Are you going to give it to me or not?” I said.

  “After you kiss me, I am.” I didn’t think it was possible, but his grin got bigger.

  “Making me pay for it, are you?” I said, but my skin was sparking all over and I was standing up.

  “That I am,” Patrick said, and he kissed me with his hands still behind him.

  “There,” I said, giving him a little push. “Now what have you got?”

  He presented a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Looked for all the world like a book. I gave him a look, for of all the gifts I dreamed Patrick might be giving me, a book was never one of them.

  “Open it,” he said.

  And so I did. It was a book, to be sure. A thick one with a dark green cover and etched on the cover a shiny golden harp that made me think of the giant Dagda’s. The book was just printed, from the look of it. I turned it to read the title on the spine. Knocknagow.

  “It’s lovely,” I said. “I never heard of it, but I’m liking it already.”

  “ ’Tis brand-new,” Patrick said. “Straight from Dublin. Look inside.”

  The title page read Knocknagow; or The Homes of Tipperary by Charles J. Kickham. Under it Patrick had written To my sweet Margaret. Tears came up in my eyes. Patrick offered me his handkerchief, but I pressed my face into his chest instead and welcomed his
arms around me.

  He told me everybody in Ireland was reading Knocknagow, and he could hardly wait to hear what I thought. Charles Kickham was a true Irish patriot, he said, working for freedom and justice. The book was a story about the struggles of regular Irish folk. “Like yourself,” he said.

  I started to tell him I was American, not Irish, but it seemed an old, wearisome song I was singing. And the truth is, I wasn’t sure I believed it anymore.

  * * *

  Patrick walked me back to the Homestead that night, and when we reached the doorstep, I slid into his arms easy as falling. He held me in such a cherishing way, made my knees go soft. “Sure, you’re the cleverest lass I know, young or old,” he whispered. “And you have the brains not to take any nonsense from the Dickinsons. Nor anybody else who makes the mistake of thinking they’re better than you.” He stepped back and took my face between his two hands.

  “Are you including yourself?” I asked, feeling saucy.

  He laughed. “Ah, Margaret, you’ll be the end of me, you will.”

  “Don’t fret yourself,” I said. “Haven’t I been listening to Maria Doughtery and reading the words of the Parnells? In truth, Mary’s thinking you’re filling my head with Fenian notions.”

  “Is she, now?” Patrick’s fingers were moving on my neck in a mighty distracting way.

  “She is, and I’m thinking she’s right.” I raised my face to his as he bent to kiss me.

  But our lips didn’t meet before the back door opened and there stood Vinnie with a lamp in her hand. I jumped away from Patrick.

  “Thank the Lord you’re home, Maggie!” Her pretty face was all pinched so she looked like one of her cats. “Emily’s in a bad way.”

  “Emily?” My heart banged in my chest. Sure, I think it was understanding Vinnie’s words better than my brain.

  Patrick stepped into the light. “Can I be helping?”

  Vinnie raised the lamp and squinted at him. But it was me she spoke to, her voice shaking. “When I came home from church I found her down in the cellar. Sprawling in the old rocking chair. I feared she was dead.”

  I felt a bit shaky myself.

  “Dr. Bigelow says she had some sort of fit.” She moved back and waved me into the house. I cast a look at Patrick but he was already leaving. “She sleeps and wakes and sleeps again,” Vinnie said.

  I didn’t even take off my shawl before running up the back stairs. It didn’t surprise me Emily had been in the basement. She went down there sometimes when she felt stirred up or overcome. It was cool as a cave and she’d once told me it eased her eyes and her mind. Struck me how she favored both the cupola and the cellar at times. I didn’t dither at her door, just walked straight in and there she was in bed with the sheet drawn up to her chin.

  “Maggie,” she whispered. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

  “Miss Emily.” I smoothed the sheet over her. “Been giving everyone a scare, you have.” I patted her hand lying on top of the blanket. “I’ll be getting you a cup of tea, then.”

  But she caught my hand as I stepped away. “Stay,” she said. “I need to hear one of your Irish tales. Please.”

  I did what she asked. Of course I did. I sat by her bed and held her hand and told her the old stories till she fell asleep. Wasn’t till I left her room did it strike me I hadn’t given a minute’s thought to Patrick since Vinnie opened the door. My thoughts of him had floated away like they were part of a dream.

  Emily stayed in bed for a week, and when she was up and about again, she moved like an old woman careful of her bones. I never saw Emily so frail before and it troubled me. I wasn’t the only one. Vinnie kept a close eye on her whenever she was in the room and fretted when she wasn’t. She had me cook strengthening broths and egg custards, same as I made for Mother Dickinson. If the fussing bothered Emily, she didn’t complain.

  * * *

  The season turned and the snow came down. I read the whole of Knocknagow. It told a tale of Irish pride and showed the goodness of Irish hearts even in the midst of suffering and sorrow. Near every line brought a Tipperary memory. I read it in my room at night before saying my prayers. I read it in the kitchen after the washing up. I read it while waiting for the water to heat. When I finished I was mournful it had ended, and wanted to read it again. For the first time since I set foot in America, I was proud of coming from Ireland and glad I still had my accent.

  Patrick and myself often talked about the book. He told me the author had been part of the rising at Ballingarry and later edited a newspaper till they put him in jail. It was a sorry tale, he said, for he was locked up fourteen years and it ruined the poor man’s health. But in spite of his ordeal, he still had the patriot fire in his heart.

  “Was he a Fenian, then?” I asked, curious.

  “Aye, he was that,” said Patrick. “And proud of it too.”

  I didn’t know what to think about Fenians anymore. Most folks I knew thought them sinful or worse. But I’d been stirred by the speeches in Worcester and Northampton and defended their ideas to Mary and Tom. Knocknagow had opened my heart and I was feeling sympathy for the cause. It’s a quare and wondrous thing, how a book can change the way a person sees the world.

  * * *

  The weeks untwined as weeks do. Children were born and old folks died. There were scandals and pleasures. The son of the College president shot himself. A traveling menagerie came to town and there was a grand parade. Reminded me of Emily and myself watching the circus stealing away in the middle of the night. Austin came down with the ague and lay in bed for weeks. Meg was the one dosing him with quinine and broths.

  In April, the hat factory burned, the flames so close to Kelley Square they cracked three windows. The Hills brothers built a new factory. It went up fast—a grand building, spread over a whole block and topped with chimneys so tall I could see them on the far side of town. Mary complained the brick walls vexed her, made her feel closed in and trapped. She began talking of Tipperary and its fields and bogs so much she made herself lonesome with the longing. Surprised me, for she’d always said she never wanted to go back. I told her about Knocknagow and how it warmed me and made me want to walk up Slievenamon with Michael one more time. She sighed and said she wished she knew how to read. So I promised to read it to her, a few pages every Sunday after Mass.

  Emily recovered and was happy as I’d seen her. That spring and summer the Judge came so often Tom jested he was likely going to be moving from Salem to Amherst.

  On Independence Day Patrick and myself walked out to the fairgrounds and strolled on the racetrack. “Like a couple of grand racehorses we are,” Patrick said.

  I laughed, liking the way he tucked my arm into his. “More like a couple of plow horses, I’m thinking. Plodding along.”

  “Now, lass, I’m not the plodding kind myself. And I’m thinking you’re not either.” He let go my arm and danced around to the front of me. I didn’t stop, so he had to walk backward, but he was laughing and giving me a wink. A regular charmer, he was. “You’re needing a new adventure, love. And I’m just the lad to be giving you one.”

  I stopped walking. “An adventure,” I said. For some reason, his words put the thought of California in my head again, after so many years. I set my hands on my hips. “And what adventure would you be suggesting now?”

  He slipped his hands around my waist. “Come with me to Brooklyn.”

  That surprised me, to be sure. “Brooklyn? In New York? Why would I be wanting to go there?”

  “It’s a city, full of shops and parks and houses and good Irish folk. And I’m guessing you know about the bridge they’re building. ’Tis a wonder of the world.” His grin was near as wide as his face and the warm splay of his fingers through my shirtwaist was giving me dithers.

  “I’ve heard of it,” I say. I didn’t want to sound too eager. But in truth, the idea of spending a day the
re was exciting.

  “There are good prospects in Brooklyn,” he said. “For a working lad such as myself.”

  The breath went out of me like air from a pricked balloon—all at once and in a rush. A score of thoughts ran through my mind, like rabbits in a meadow scattering before hunters.

  “What prospects?” I said. A shade slipped across his face and settled around his eyes. Sure, I’d seen that look before—when he’d been away for days and didn’t want to tell me where he’d gone.

  “Tell me true,” I said, pushing away from him. I could see he was planning on telling a lie.

  He looked straight into my eyes and changed his mind. “There’s a factory looking to hire lads like myself. The wages are too good to pass up.”

  “A factory? Why would you want to be working in a factory?” I tried to imagine Patrick toiling all day at a dusty factory bench. It didn’t sound like a thing he’d be doing for long.

  “Manufacturing,” he said. “Look, a lad’s recruiting me. Says I have the skills they’re looking for.”

  “Carpenter skills?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer, but his hand was on my waist again, moving around to the small of my back. It was distracting, surely. “Say you’ll come with me, acushla.” He was always using sweet words with me, but I wondered if I really was his darling.

  “Is it proposing you are, then?” I said, my voice scratching along my tongue so it didn’t sound like my own.

  “Now, what else would I be doing?” He leaned in to kiss me.

  I couldn’t tell if he was teasing or true. “I’m thinking you might be looking for myself to be your maid,” I said. “To do your cooking and cleaning so you won’t be having to.”