by Derry O'Dowd
‘It would be easier to remember what you did not say,’ replied Peg, noticing the blush that stained Carissa’s pale cheeks.
‘Oh no, tell me, tell me,’ Carissa insisted, hand flying up to cover her mouth lest any more secrets find their way out.
‘Hush, dear, and sleep,’ Peg stroked Carissa’s hair. ‘Sleep and get better and return to us soon.’ And she started to leave the room.
‘Peg?’
‘Yes, my dear?’ and she turned at the doorway to look at Carissa.
‘Nothing. Thank you for making me a fresh bed.’
Peg nodded her head and left the room.
When Carissa next woke, Daniel was standing by her bed, hands full of unkempt blooms he’d picked by himself. She struggled to sit up and kissed him on the forehead, ‘I have missed you, my darling,’ she said and he smiled at her.
Carissa lay back down again and fell asleep as Daniel gently stroked her hair.
‘Did I do it right? Daddy did it like this.’
‘Good boy, Daniel, good boy,’ replied Peg.
21
To stew the neck of veal
Cut the neck into steaks and beat them flat. Season them with ground thyme, nutmeg, salt and pepper and fry them in your pan with cream. Then add into the mix some butter and broth and let them stew gently and stir them.
Quinn Household Recipes and Remedies Book
* * *
‘Another letter. My word,’ Peg arched her eyebrows, ‘there must be something in the air. From Catherine, I’ll wager,’ and she tapped the note on her hand. ‘As you are going to your room, Carissa, would you kindly deliver this epistle of love to James’s study?’
Carissa knocked at the door but then remembered that James had departed in a hurry a short time ago. She entered the room and walked to the tall window that looked out on St Patrick’s Close. It was a beautiful day, and the sun shone brightly. She felt happy.
She looked around the study, which was meticulously neat. Her gaze lighted on keepsakes from Paris, London and Galway, and she touched each one, straightening them afterwards, humming.
The portrait of Marguerite that had travelled with James to Paris sat on one side of the old wooden writing desk. His case studies were stacked in an orderly pile, while letters from Catherine peeked out from their pigeonhole. The quills, inkwells and sand cellar stood to attention on the other side of the desk. In the centre of it lay a single page of paper which had been written on but was unfinished.
Carissa was aware of the waft of perfume from the letter she held in her hand, and her thoughts turned to Catherine. She lived such a fancy life, but was so sweet and kind, especially to little Daniel. And though she was kind to Carissa too, she held James in the palm of her be-ringed hand.
She sighed and placed the letter on the desk beside the sheet. Her eyes fell on the paper, and she couldn’t help herself. She read: ‘My love. When I close my eyes I see your sweet face, and long for your gentle touch.’
Her eyes filled with tears and she could read no more. She was heartbroken. She dropped the sheet and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her, the familiar corridor a soft, indistinct blur as the birds sang outside.
The needle and thread went through the fabric with a satisfying speed. Sewing quieted Carissa’s mind, and it was still in the house, with both Peg and Daniel asleep upstairs. James was out at a call, and she sat in the cosy kitchen with her linen and thoughts, needle going in and out, in and out.
She started as the door opened and James came in. She looked up from her work and saw how tired he looked, but made no move to get up. He smiled at her, and she bent her head to her task once more.
He made his way over to the fireplace and heaped food from a pot kept warm there onto a plate. She heard him sit at the table and eat. She gathered her things and made to leave.
‘Is all well with you, Carissa? You are very quiet,’ he said.
She mumbled her reply, something about going to bed.
He did not hear her. ‘Maybe the hour is too late for my lily of Galway to be up and about?’ he asked playfully.
Still she did not respond and stood by the table, staring at the floor. ‘Carissa?’ he put his hand on her arm and she shrank back until she was against the wall.
He stood and went to her, hand outstretched to touch her face, and she pushed it away. ‘Carissa, what bothers you? Have I upset you?’
She began to sob, and James put his arm around her shoulder, speaking softly to her, asking her what was wrong, comforting her. Carissa began to hit him, small ineffective blows glancing off his chest. She pulled at his coat, hands lashing out like a small endangered animal protecting her territory.
James caught her arms and pulled her close to him, ‘Stop Carissa, stop!’
Then they were struggling, and as James tripped they slid to the ground. He held her tight still and she lay there, mantua and nightdress gathered around her knees, the soft, pale flesh of her legs on show.
He looked down at them and she fell limp and silent. He slowly loosened his hold on her, and he looked into her teary eyes, drops clinging to her lashes. He bent his head to kiss her and was disturbed by a soft cough from the door.
Peg stood there, her face crimson with embarrassment. And as James attempted an explanation about a friendly argument, Carissa darted away and they heard her run upstairs.
He followed her, and her door met his face as she slammed it shut. He knocked softly, beseeching, ‘Carissa. Carissa, please, we must talk.’ He heard her sobs.
‘Go to your study. A letter waits there for you. Go and read how much she loves you!’ she shouted and cried again, loudly, not caring that he heard her.
He turned from her door, shoulders slumped, and made his way to his study, footfalls heavy on the stair treads.
James sat in his chair, dejected, the letter unopened on his desk. He sighed; he would never understand women as long as he lived.
Mentor and pupil sat facing each other in generously padded armchairs, replete after a fine dinner attended by both men and Stone’s three daughters, Emily, Edith and Eleanor. The surgeon joked that his dearly departed wife had loved the letter of the alphabet so much that she bestowed it lovingly upon the smaller, younger versions of herself.
James had never met Elizabeth Stone, but if her daughters were anything to go by she must have been a real beauty, and all three had inherited her dark hair and eyes, so their father told him proudly.
He was seated beside the eldest daughter, Emily, and when he complimented her on her appearance she blushed, making her even more pretty and appealing in that moment. He smiled before turning his attention back to the plate of veal in front of him.
‘Well James, it appears quite clear to me,’ said Laurence Stone, steepling his fingers, staring at them. ‘In Paris, you discovered that your career can be hazardous; being blamed for poor outcomes at childbirth. In London, the man-midwife is ridiculed and challenged by midwives, and here … well, here your colleagues will pillory you and decry your true worth, and they may appear to obstruct what you would care to achieve on behalf of women, children and their families.’
‘And what is so clear to you?’ James asked quietly.
‘I look to the future and see you work until you drop from tiredness. Your diligence will be rewarded with some unexpected kindnesses. You will be a reformer on behalf of your patients. You will gain the esteem of some colleagues and husbands, and the wrath of others. Amongst all of that, you will be the best man-midwife you can be.’
At the sight of his pupil’s downcast face he smiled to himself, saying, ‘Listen to yourself, James. You heart will know what to do.’ He pulled out his pipe and lit it, and when it was obvious that no comment was forthcoming, he went on. ‘My very good friend, a Jesuit, God be good to his soul, reminded me on one occasion that the ablest, kindest reformer of all times was crucified on a cross at Calvary. But now He sits at the right hand of God. You will know what is right; just make me proud when I
look down at you through the pearly gates.’
‘I pray you will not go there for many years, as I value your wise counsel,’ James smiled at Stone, ‘and thank you as always for helping me to clear my head and sort my thoughts.’
The surgeon smiled at James and nodded his head before turning to watch the smoke twisting its way up to the ceiling. ‘I have no intention of going anywhere just yet, James. Besides, there is much for me yet to do and I have my three girls to look out for.’
‘Gone? Carissa is gone? What do you mean, Peg?’
‘Early this morning. She left this morning,’ Peg’s face was blotchy from the tears that she had shed, and she wrung her hands in distress.
‘When will she return? What about Daniel? What about all of us?’ James sat down heavily, gut churning. ‘Why Peg, why did she leave us?’
‘Affairs of the heart, romance. James–’ Peg was interrupted by sharp knocking at the front door and when she went to answer it found a worried, breathless man standing there.
‘My master needs Dr Quinn. Come quickly, come quickly,’ he pleaded.
James sat back in the opulent carriage while the driver, the man who had just called to his door, drove hard towards their destination. They wheeled rapidly towards the open, ornate gates of a large townhouse and James sat forward in anticipation, hands dangling between his knees.
Physician Ryan sat downcast on the stairs outside the bedroom, the birth chamber of such horrors, and looked down at the doorway through which the dejected surgeon O’Neill had taken his leave a short time ago.
The forceps with which he had tried to effect the delivery had slipped off, and the woman’s perineum, the soft, pliable muscle tissue that lay between the birth channel and the anus, lay torn and bleeding.
O’Neill advised that a man-midwife should be summoned with due haste, apologised that he could do no more and left the scene. The physician sent a prayer heavenward, pleading with God not to take his new love as he had taken his wife.
James was surprised when the careening carriage raced past his expected destination and sped off towards the tradespersons’ area of Dublin, the Liberties, bouncing over the uneven cobblestones. His midwifery bag fell to the floor of the carriage, spilling its contents, and he was forced to bend and scoop his belongings back into the open mouth of the bag.
The physician found easing himself off the step the most difficult thing he had ever done, the weight of his worry bearing down on him, yet he entered the room where she lay, the centre of his world, sweating, face the colour of candle wax, bleeding.
The midwives had covered the young woman, hiding most of the bloody mess. He sat with her, and holding her hand, his past came crashing in on him in anguished waves. A wife carried away to an early death from consumption, children grown into adults, and a large townhouse shared by only himself and his memories. And so his work became his God, until one day this adorable woman came into his life. Less than half his age and she loved him, this hard, unforgiving man that he was.
But she would not grace his home; she felt her social standing would not allow it. And now he was about to lose her; every fibre of his being ached with love for her. Tears brimmed in his eyes.
James was jolted back in his seat as the driver’s foot jammed hard on the brake pedal and shouts of ‘Whoa! Whoa!’ brought the carriage to rest outside the humble home. He jumped from the carriage and reached back in to retrieve his instrument case.
The sound of the carriage arriving drew the midwife to the window. She ran down the stairs, her shouts of, ‘He’s here, thank the good Lord,’ following her descent, and she opened the front door for James. ‘Upstairs, quickly, just follow me.’
James took the scene in at a glance – the father by the window, too scared and anxious to look back into the room, the worried midwives, the pale, sweating woman on the bed, hair stuck to the pillow. He drew back the bedclothes to reveal the bloody mess.
The man came to his side, taking James’s hand roughly, holding it tight as he looked into his eyes. ‘You must save her; she is my world, my life!’
James’s eyes widened in recognition, but he slipped off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work, casting concerned glances at the woman, offering what words of comfort he could as Ryan paced.
Once home later that evening, James opened the door of Daniel’s bedroom to kiss his sleeping son.
The bed had not been slept in, and Daniel was nowhere to be seen. Worry clutched his heart and he rushed around, looking for the boy.
His heart slowed as he went into Carissa’s room and saw Daniel curled up asleep there, thumb in his mouth as was his wont. He lay down beside his son, listening to his regular breathing, and allowed his mind to wander.
The anxiety, the sweat; so much blood today. The tiny baby that was born was slow to cry and would live an uncertain future. The young mother, torn, bloody, bruised would take months to recover. And the father.
Profuse in his thanks, Physician Ryan had embraced James as the tears of joy coursed down his cheeks, before he turned to the woman in the bed, lying there, pale and trembling. ‘Oh well done, my darling, well done!’ he had said and been so tender that James had to turn away. Turn away from the hateful thoughts of the man who loathed man-midwives, had been so quick to leave Marguerite to her fate, the man who had so recently been insufferable, uncaring and puffed up with his own self-importance at the meeting in Trinity College, and see him in a new light.
Early the next morning, Peg passed by Carissa’s door on her way downstairs to wake the house. Glancing in, she saw father and son asleep on the bed, James holding Daniel.
‘We must speak, James, about Carissa,’ she said, over the remains of their breakfast.
‘No, please, I will not allow it,’ he said angrily, and pushed back his chair to leave.
Her hand on his arm stilled him, and she looked up at him and said, ‘Éist a ghrá, listen my love, for I know you better than most. Sit yourself down and just listen.’ And when she was done, he pulled the crumpled letter from his pocket and passed it to Peg.
22
To comfort the heart
Make a water with the flowers of lily of the valley. Put the flowers in a glass jar of fine wine and stop the top. Leave this aside in a cool, dark place for four weeks and pour what mixture remains into a small phial. Take a drop on the tongue when you are in need.
Quinn Household Recipes and Remedies Book
* * *
London, 12 May 1742
My Dearest, Darling James,
Let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time there was a man, and his name was James. Now, he was a kind man, a handsome man, and he spent his days caring for women and their infants.
His life was not perfect; indeed, he had known great heartache. But his darkest times were past, and he had a beautiful young son and loving family.
Into his life came an English woman, and her name was Catherine. The two had a wonderful time, and indeed they loved each other. One day, Catherine crossed the great, stormy Irish Sea to meet her love and his young son, and to have many adventures together.
And they did.
However, James had a young girl who lived in his house and minded his son. Her name was Carissa. And Catherine saw how Carissa loved James. One day, they all went to see a wonderful musical event and Catherine was separated from James.
When she next saw him, he was in an embrace with one that was not her.
Now, Catherine’s heart did not blacken with jealousy, for she knew that Carissa was kind and good, and rather a great sadness took her as she realised that her own story was not to have its happy ending after all.
And she shed many a tear.
But once in the comfort of her home in London she started to feel a little better, and to remember their time with great fondness. She knew that she would always carry the memories close to her heart and take them out to look at them now and again. Then she would smile.
So James, m
y darling James, as you read my letter know that I love you, and because of my love for you I must say, simply, go to her. People will say you could have made a better match, given that she is in your employ, but then people will always say things.
A part of my heart will always be yours, and I know that you and I will remain friends for all time.
My father had suspicious moisture around the eyes when I told him of this letter and he called you a rascal, his own dear word, seldom used, telling just how fond his thoughts are for you, and he wishes you well.
He has no need, however, to return to his old ways and threaten to sell me off to the highest bidder – jokingly and with love and my interests at heart, for sure – for Edward Burlington and I are to be married soon. A good match in his eyes, it pleases my father no end.
My father always called me his Princess, and in fact I am to be the Countess of Drumaline, as Edward’s father passed away quite suddenly and he will inherit all the land and fine manor house that goes with the title of Earl.
Maybe you will find the time to visit us one day, after all we will not be so far from Dublin, and I would very much look forward to such an eventuality.
Always with deepest love and affection, my forever friend, and a kiss for your darling little mariner.
Catherine.
GALWAY, 1742
James Quinn sat up in the saddle and stretched, not noticing the rain that dribbled down from the brim of his hat into the space left between his collar and his neck.
He ached all over.
He leant down and murmured into Daniel’s soft neck, ‘We’re nearly there, son, only a couple of miles left,’ but the boy was asleep.
It had been a weary few days for the man, his son and the horse, and much land had been covered. The skies had been leaden from the start, blackened, relentless and unceasing, it seemed in the task of soaking everything beneath.
