by Ann Birch
* * *
Two weeks later, Annie received a second letter. It was from her husband. In the parlour, she found her laudanum, swallowed a dollop, and then opened the missive, expecting to find William’s usual complaints about Anne. In his last letter, he had again mentioned his solution for “ridding ourselves of our mutual Plague.” He had resolved to track his daughter down in England and deliver her to a French convent, “a not uncommon retreat for decayed branches of good families,” so he said.
Without bothering to put on her spectacles, she glanced over the letter, stopping abruptly to squint at one of the lines. No, no, no!
With trembling hands, she reached for her spectacles, thrusting them on without stopping to adjust the frames over her ears. She read the letter again. Yes, it was true. William had heard from George that his niece was sailing on the Albion. When the dreadful tidings of the wreck reached London later, William contacted the ship owners. They sent him a cameo brooch, taken from a dress on a body that had been recovered from the sea. Though the face of the victim was unrecognizable, the dress, they said, was clearly that of a lady from the cabin class.
“It was a brooch I gave to Anne long ago,” her husband wrote. “On the back were the words, ‘To Anne Powell on her birthday from her loving father William Powell.’ It is not possible to describe to you the internal effect of this communication. Horror was my first reaction. Sorrow and regret succeeded and quite overpowered me for a time. I walked the streets of London in a daze. My rest has been much disturbed by painful images.”
Annie’s sobs caused Eliza to call out. “Mama, Mama, what has happened?” She rushed from the hallway into the room.
“Come in, daughter. Read this letter. I am unable to speak further.”
* * *
Later that day, after Annie and Eliza had called Lucy and Cook to join them in prayers for Anne, the two women sat alone in the darkening parlour, rays of the setting sun reflecting from the mirror above the mantel.
For a time, their sobs were the only sounds. Then Eliza said, “We must get news to Mary.”
“Yes, one of us must take the ferry across the lake tomorrow.”
“I shall go, Mama. You must stay here and rest. I shall take Papa’s letter with me.”
“No, you must not take the letter.”
“But it gives details that will spare me from spilling out the whole sad tale in my own voice. Since Mary is in the family way again, I do not want to upset her unduly.”
“You must be brave, Eliza, and tell the story in your own way.” Annie paused for a moment. How am I to point out the total emphasis he places on his own feelings rather than on mine or hers? “Has the wording of your father’s letter not disturbed you?”
Eliza stared at the opposite wall, seemingly unable to face her mother’s gaze. “Yes, Mama. I know what you mean. Say no more.”
* * *
The next morning, Annie stood in the doorway and waved as their coachman prepared to take Eliza to the wharf. Then she retired to her bedchamber, took a few gulps of laudanum, and collapsed onto the bed. One thought alone assailed her. If only I had had enough courage to allow my poor unfortunate daughter to live her life as she wished, I might have averted the calamity that shall forever haunt me.
EPILOGUE
The coast of Ireland, 1822
Oh, the kindness of strangers! I have been here in this simple, thatched cottage of Mr. and Mrs. Murphy for I cannot tell how long. Mr. Murphy rescued me when I washed up onto the beach near the wreck of the Albion. But for the strength and determination of this brave young man, I would be dead. My hosts tell me that for weeks I have wept and moaned and awakened screaming from the nightmares that haunt me.
Mrs. Murphy has just brought me a bowl of broth and wrapped my feet and legs afresh in blankets warmed near the open hearth. Like her husband, she is a sturdy woman, red-faced from the sun and muscled from toiling on their cliffside farm. She is also, I observe, in the late stages of gestation.
For days, I could not stop shivering, and it is only in these last few hours that I feel myself slowly returning to normal. I have heard from the Murphys that there were only eight survivors besides myself. They have been carried off, God knows where. I pray that kind Captain Williams survived, but the Murphys can tell me nothing about the identity of those few survivors. Maud and her son are surely dead. They could not have escaped from the lockdown of their steerage quarters. I weep over and over again when I think of the horror of their last moments. The pain is great.
So here I am, alone with my saviours, feeble yet more determined than ever to start afresh. I vow to rise from near-death into moral and physical renewal. Surely I have been saved for a purpose. I have given myself a false name and when I feel able to cope, I must strike out into a new life.
Where this new life may take me, I am not yet sure. I know there are many young women in this Irish world who need the services of a midwife. Perhaps I shall sojourn here for a time and attempt to pay back the kindness of these people. Certainly, I shall go nowhere until I have assisted Mrs. Murphy in the delivery of her child.
Someday I may continue on my way to Tolpuddle. There, Uncle Henry and Aunt Jane will, I know, keep my secret for as long as I wish. I can be of use to the villagers there, especially to Geoffrey Loveless and the other hapless young men who suffer from the tyrannies of their rich overseers. No longer confined by the tyrannies that have blighted my own life, I must use my freedom in the service of others .
The End
Ann Birch novels also published by BWL Publishing Inc.
Duelling in a New World
Ann Birch is a long-time historical researcher and an award-winning Head of English in several Toronto high schools. She has a Master of Arts degree in CanLit and is currently a fiction writer, editor, lecturer, and workshop facilitator. This is her fourth novel.
