Crooked Branch (9781101615072)

by Cummins, Jeanine

  IRELAND, JULY 1847

  The blight came slow into the fields. At first they could only smell it, and Ginny knew that calamitous odor like a sinner knows the devil. But the crop looked so verdant and promising under the midsummer sky that she postponed her despair. She put it on the long finger.

  They dug up the earlies, and they were sound, if small. They harvested the turnips as well then, and ate like kings during the first weeks of July, without a whisper of charity from anyone. Seán visited regularly, though Ginny tried to convince him there was no need of that now that she was home with her children. And though she wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, she was glad he ignored her protestations. Dread was seeping in through the back of her mind, its presence growing, like the familiar stench that impressed itself more firmly into her consciousness with each passing day.

  It was the eighteenth of July when they noticed the first visible stripe of brown creeping serpentlike through one corner of the potato field. Maire saw the black spots on the leaves first, and she screamed out for her mother. Ginny remembered the date precisely because they were down on their knees in the field studying the stinking, cancerous sores when Father Brennan appeared over the ridge at the top of the field. Ginny hadn’t been expecting him, and when she rose to greet him, she noted that he had a white envelope in his hand. Her heart skittered, and she felt a shivering weakness in her hips and knees. She grabbed Maire’s hand and helped her daughter to her feet.

  “Go on in, and get your sisters a drop of water,” Ginny said. “See is Raymond up from his kip. I’ll be along to give him a feed shortly.”

  She met Father Brennan halfway across the yard. Her voice was high and tight in her throat. “Did you open it yet, Father?”

  He shook his head. “Sure, it’s not mine to open,” he said, and he handed her the letter. “It’s postmarked New York.”

  She lifted it to her nose, and sniffed it, to see could she catch a hint of Raymond on it, any remainder of him. Or failing that, perhaps a whiff of exotic New York or the Atlantic salt between. She handed it back to Father Brennan.

  “Will we go inside?” he said.

  Ginny glanced toward the open cottage door. Maggie was standing there, but when she caught her mother looking, she scampered back inside.

  “Better not, Father,” Ginny said. “Until I know what it says.”

  “Fair enough. Will I open it?”

  Together they stepped around the larger of Maggie’s cairns, so that they were hidden from view of the cottage. Ginny breathed as steady as she could, and clasped her hands together. She nodded, and all the joints in her body went loose and shuddery.

  “Go on, Father.” She trembled, and he pulled a delicate piece of lined blue paper from the envelope. Some American dollar bills were tucked inside, and they fluttered to the ground, but Ginny let them go. She would pick them up after. She held her hands up below her chin, clutched and twisted her fingers together. She could hardly breathe. Father Brennan cleared his throat and began to read.

  7 April 1847

  Dear Ginny,

  I hope this letter finds you well, and in good spirits, for I fear that the news I have will come as a shock.

  Father Brennan stopped reading long enough to glance up at her, and she could already feel that her face was drained, that life was slipping out of her. Her children were just inside the cottage. The blight was beginning to eat their field. She could smell it, the rot. Father Brennan carried on.

  I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner, to respond to your letters, but I was waiting in hopes that I might have better news. I’ve been trying to track Raymond’s ship, to get some news of his passage, but I could find nothing until a young man came to me at work last week on the docks, and he asked me was I Raymond Doyle’s brother from Knockbooley in Mayo. He said he was on the ship with Raymond coming over, and that conditions on board were dire, that fever broke out when they weren’t two weeks under way. Scores of people died on the passage, Ginny, and this young fella, he said Raymond was very brave, that he hung on mightily. He spoke of his family the whole time, he said, and of his beautiful wife back home in Mayo. This young fella knew all of your names, even the baby one, who ye call Poppy, even though I only ever knew her to be called Pauline.

  He held onto ye until the very last, and I hope that is some small comfort to you in your coming time of grief, Ginny. My brother, your devoted husband Raymond, died three weeks before they made landfall in New York. He was buried at sea. Meagan and I will send what we can, to help ye, until you’re back on your feet. I know it won’t be easy for ye, the way times are, and you on your own with the children. We’re enclosing a few dollars here. Please God we’ll all be together again some day. It would be a beautiful thing to see your face, and to kiss my little nephew and nieces. Meanwhile, kiss them for us, and you’ll be an auntie soon enough yourself. Meagan is expecting our first wee one this summer.

  May God provide you peace in your time of sorrow, Ginny. God bless,

  Always your faithful brother,

  Kevin Doyle

  Father Brennan folded the blue paper solemnly, and slipped it back into its envelope. He leaned down to collect up the fluttering dollar bills that had scattered by their feet. He looked up at Ginny and pressed the money into her hand. She took it. She folded it into her pocket. She caught her breath.

  She didn’t know what he expected of her at that moment. She didn’t know what she expected of herself. And to be sure, there were tears, hot and fast, slipping down the fallow field of her face. But she surprised herself and Father Brennan both, nonetheless.

  “Read it again, Father, please,” she said softly.

  It’s hard to describe the shape a grief can take, when there is nothing but sorrow left in the world. It’s difficult to imagine that devastation can be liberating. Perhaps Ginny had known, deep down, for some time, that Ray was dead. She thought that was right, that she had felt his emigrant absence more deeply than an ocean’s crossing. Perhaps her soul had perceived the passing of his. In any case, the hope of him had been like an imbecile yoke, and she hadn’t understood the guilty weight of it until it was lifted from her.

  Father Brennan was standing beside her in the yard, and he was calling out her name, but his voice, it sounded like gravel. And she turned to look out over her fields. Their homeplace. She stared out into the wind, and as she watched, all the colors separated, one from the other, and she could suddenly see the world as it was truly made up, as of tiny, whirring grains of sand. And she thought, how easy it would be, to walk into that decaying corner of the potato field, and simply scoop out all the brown bits. To leave only green behind. How easy it might’ve been, to scrape the wicked fever out of young Michael’s body, and leave him whole and well. How easy it would be even now, to walk farther into that as-yet-untouched portion of the field, to stand beneath the slow summer gloaming, to lift her hands to the sky, and dissolve. To go to her husband. Her two sons. To go to where they were gone.

  “Ginny.” Father Brennan’s hand was on her sleeve, and as she looked down, it snapped into focus, his knuckles as solid as the roots of the blackthorn tree.

  Ginny blinked her eyes very slowly. The wind in the fields whipped the grief clean out of her. The stench of the blight was growing. She felt her chest caved in, in a way that she felt certain was permanent.

  “Are you all right, Ginny?” Father was asking her.

  She laughed.

  • • •

  Ginny lost track of how many days passed between that and the day Alice Spring came to call. She knew that the blight had gathered speed and resolve. Their field was rotting where it stood. The earlies in the pits were beginning to collapse and stink, too. Maire and Ginny were doing what they could to dry them and save them, but their efforts were proving largely useless. It was exactly the same as last year, only Ray was dead and gone. Michael was dead and gone. There was
no cow to sell, no hog or hens. Their resources were exhausted, entirely.

  It was midmorning, and Poppy was singing to baby Raymond. Her baby lullabies sounded so awful eerie now, her unblemished voice all full of sweetness amid the rot. Maire was stood in the doorway looking out when Ginny thought she heard carriage wheels approaching. Maggie pushed past her sister and went out to stand in the yard. She ran up to the ridge to see who was coming. She would chase them down and ask them for money. She was bold like that, Maggie was. She hadn’t learned to give up yet. The carriage wheels slowed as they approached the gate, and Ginny and Maire caught up with Maggie atop the ridge.

  After a moment, behind the rock wall that lined the road, they could see the extravagant purple feather of a hat cavorting merrily along. The feather paused as the head that bore it approached the gate, and Alice Spring’s face came into view. Seán stepped before her and opened the latch on the gate. Ginny turned to Maire.

  “Go in and see to the baby. Make sure he’s shined up for his visitor.”

  The gate swung in, and Seán stood aside to hold it open for Mrs. Spring, who gathered up her skirts in both hands and traipsed into the little lane like she was the Queen herself. The brilliant purple of her gown was visible beneath an elegant velvet traveling cloak that she wore buttoned up, despite the clammy warmth of the day. Her golden hair was plaited and wrapped into a tightly calculated chaos. She loosened the folds of her skirt, and the purple fabric swirled around her legs. Maggie’s little face fell open with wonder as she watched. Alice Spring’s smile was dazzling, even at this distance, her teeth white like the pearls strung tightly round her straight, tidy neck.

  “Here, Maggie,” Ginny said, holding out her hand to her daughter. Maggie turned to her, and shied herself in behind her mother’s petticoat while Alice Spring stepped up the sloping lane toward the ridge. Behind her, Seán swung the gate closed, and disappeared into the road behind the wall. Alice Spring began climbing the slope, and as she approached the top of the ridge, she held her gloved hands out to Ginny. Her eyes were blue like a cornflower, lit bright by the outdoor light, the fresh and clear summer sky. It was so strange for Ginny to see Mrs. Spring now, after everything that had happened, all the stunning grief she had endured since her departure from Springhill House. This woman was like an apparition from another life. Ginny nearly felt she couldn’t place her.

  “Ginny!” Mrs. Spring called, gripping Ginny’s hands, while Maggie hid behind her mother. Mrs. Spring kissed Ginny outlandishly on both cheeks, like they were old friends or sisters. “You’re looking well,” she said. “What a beautiful home you have. Such a quaint little cottage. And the land here.” She turned to look out over the fields. The purple taffeta swished dramatically around her. “What a gorgeous view!” She was breathless.

  “Thank you,” Ginny said flatly.

  “It’s all rot,” Maggie said, poking her head out now, and stepping boldly away from her mother to look at Mrs. Spring.

  “Maggie, whisht.”

  “Well, it is, Mammy, can she not see that? It stinks.”

  “Maggie, go inside and check on your brother.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes, and then stamped her feet beneath her, but in a moment she scuttled down the hill and in through the door. Alice Spring turned back to face Ginny.

  “I suppose you heard the big news!” she said.

  “Seán mentioned . . . you’re going to New York?”

  Her smile broadened. She had a shallow dimple in her right cheek that Ginny had never noticed before. The exhilaration suited her. She looked younger than before, like a girl in the first blush of love.

  “Isn’t it exciting?” she said, stepping closer to Ginny, and taking one of her hands again. Her gloves were impossibly soft.

  “I’m delighted for you,” Ginny managed to stammer.

  “New York City!” she said.

  Ginny swallowed.

  “Isn’t that where your husband is?” Mrs. Spring said abruptly then. She stepped in so close that Ginny could smell her, stronger than the acrid tang of the blight in her fields. A powdery honeysuckle with lavender. The sweetness was cloying, like Poppy’s lullabies. “I thought perhaps I could look him up for you, if you have an address? Perhaps he simply hasn’t had the means to contact you. I know you’ve been anxious for word from him.”

  She was staring intently at Ginny’s face, but Ginny couldn’t meet her gaze. Instead, she looked past her visitor, at the shapes of Maggie’s cairn behind her.

  “I was,” Ginny said.

  “Were?” Mrs. Spring prompted.

  “I was. Anxious.”

  “Oh!” She clapped her gloved hands. “So you received word, then? You’ve had a letter?”

  Ginny nodded.

  “Oh.” Her expression faltered. “Oh dear.” She placed one scarlet glove rather delicately across her breast.

  Ginny cleared her throat. “A few days ago, I had a letter from his brother, Kevin, in New York.”

  Mrs. Spring trained her piercing blue eyes on Ginny.

  “He didn’t make the passage,” Ginny said quietly.

  “I don’t understand. What does that mean, he didn’t make the passage?”

  Ginny cleared her throat and tried to answer, but found her voice to be quite faulty in her throat.

  “He died.” She hadn’t intended to whisper it.

  The red glove was in front of Mrs. Spring’s mouth now, and the corners of her eyes turned down. She was very pink in the cheeks, and with the purple of her dress, the pearls, the rich velvet cloak—she was a riot of color there beside the bleakness of the cairn.

  “But how . . .”

  “There was fever on the ship. Many died on the passage. He wasn’t the only one. Many died.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Spring’s voice was clear and loose. “I’m so sorry.” But her compassion felt artificial. Ginny stared at the bobbing feather on her visitor’s hat.

  “Here, come inside anyway,” Ginny said, turning from her. “We haven’t much to offer you, but Raymond will be happy to see you.”

  Ginny heard the heavy taffeta rustle as Mrs. Spring stepped down the slope behind her, and into the cottage. Maire had stoked the fire, and Maggie and Poppy were sitting with their backs to it, where they could see Mrs. Spring when she entered. Poppy’s eyes grew wide as she took in all the finery. Ginny tried to imagine what this lady must look like to her daughter, an exotic bird or opulent cake. And then, as quickly, she wondered how her life, this cottage, must appear to Mrs. Spring. She looked around her modest home, one of the nicest tenant homes in the whole of the parish. But it was smaller than the kitchen at Springhill House, smaller than Mrs. Spring’s bedchamber even. Still, it was clean and warm, Ginny’s children bright and beautiful despite everything. Maire was sitting on the stool with Raymond on her knee and the little book of verse opened in front of him. She was pointing out the various pictures to him, but Raymond only squirmed and kicked his feet.

  “Look, there he is!” Mrs. Spring sang. Her voice was like a trumpet in the cottage, her accent shrill. Maggie looked pale, and winced at the sound of her. Ginny went to Maggie quickly, and placed a hand on her little forehead. She felt warm.

  “Maggie, come away from the fire there, love,” she said. “Come and sit beside the door for a few minutes, get some air.” Maggie stood to her feet and went to lean against the doorway.

  Maire stood up and swung Raymond on her hip. “You can sit down there, missus,” she said, pointing to the stool.

  Mrs. Spring looked at the seat distastefully, but then caught herself, and forced a smile. “Thank you,” she said, as she made a great show of seating herself and arranging her skirts around her. When she was comfortable, she removed her hat and gloves, and then opened her arms to the baby.

  “Come to Auntie Alice!” she called.

  Maire glanced at Ginny, who nodded. M
aire stepped across the room, and deposited Raymond carefully into Mrs. Spring’s waiting arms. Mrs. Spring stared down at the baby, and the light in her eyes grew brighter. She rocked him lightly on the stool.

  “Dear little Raymond,” she said, her voice finally quieting to fit the room, “how I’ve missed you.”

  Raymond cooed, and his little hand flew out from his swaddle and locked onto her finger. He gripped her.

  “Oh!” she laughed. “Look at him, Ginny! My, he’s grown so big since I saw him last. So strong. You’re a proper little gentleman now, you are.”

  Maire looked at her mother uneasily, but Ginny twisted past her and retrieved a cup of water to offer their guest. She needn’t have bothered.

  “Thank you anyway,” Mrs. Spring said, “I’m afraid I can’t stop for long. Jarvie wants to make Galway by nightfall.”

  It was so strange the way she called Seán jarvie. Ginny wondered if she even knew his Christian name. Roisin said that Mrs. Spring had called her cook for the first three months of her employment. But Alice Spring had called her Ginny from the very start, from that first moment in the garden, outside the French doors. How much had changed since that day. That day felt like someone else’s life.

  “I only came to take my leave.” Mrs. Spring was talking dreamily, more to baby Raymond than to Ginny. “I couldn’t go off to New York without saying good-bye.”

  She leaned down and touched her nose to Raymond’s. It was such a tender and intimate gesture that it shocked Ginny from her reverie. Something in her stood up. The hair on her arms prickled, and she waited for Raymond to fuss. He would be hungry soon. But he only stared gummily up at Mrs. Spring, their eyes locked onto each other. Poppy watched in awe. Maire went to stand in the doorway with Maggie, who flumped in against her big sister. Maire stroked her hair. The quiet in the cottage was an uneasy one. They all watched Mrs. Spring with Raymond, and when she rocked up and away from him, Ginny could see, in the firelight, that the woman’s face was wet with tears.