Authors: Maureen Jennings
“And it’s not just the pantaloons,” he said aloud, punctuating his words with a puff of his pipe. What then? She was pretty enough, but he’d encountered women who were as attractive and he had hardly given them a second thought. Well, to be honest, maybe a second or even a third thought, but nothing like this. He’d just come from intimacy with Enid and like a sly fox his fantasies had slipped away to Miss Slade and the notion of kissing that full mouth. No, that wasn’t accurate either. Yes, he would like to hold and kiss her, he wouldn’t deny that, but there was something else netting his thoughts. He wanted her good opinion. He wanted her to smile that bright smile at him. He wanted those cool grey eyes to look into his with admiration. Murdoch groaned and puffed away some more. What was he, a green boy mooning over the first girl he’d met? He couldn’t remember ever feeling like this about Liza. Their love had been immediate and reciprocal and he’d never doubted that she was his only and complete love. But was he deluding himself? What if she’d lived and they married and then he found himself hankering after somebody else? Was that the kind of man he was? Wanting what he couldn’t have, then losing interest when it was his? Why didn’t he want to marry Enid Jones, a woman he had been pining after for months?
He realized he was biting so hard on the stem of his pipe he was in danger of snapping it off. His and Enid’s difference in religion was a big obstacle but not insurmountable, and he was aware that she had been engaging him less and less in doctrinal discussions lately. If she converted to Catholicism, any priest would agree to the union. Mixed marriages were not unheard of. No, he couldn’t make that an excuse. There were other reasons floating at the back of his mind as to why he couldn’t marry her. What the hell were they? Was he a man incapable of monogamy? He had become engaged to Liza only a few months after they had met and until she died of the typhoid seven months later, he could honestly say he had not been concerned about any other woman he’d encountered no matter how attractive she had been. But that faithfulness had not been put to the test of time. Would it have lasted? There was no answer to that of course except self-knowledge and at this moment he felt a stranger to himself, doubting everything.
Damn, damn. He put his pipe down and swung his legs out of bed. Above the headboard hung a brass crucifix, so familiar he hardly noticed it any more. Now in the dim light, he thought Christ was looking down on him in disappointment. He padded over to his dresser and for the first time in a long while, he took out his rosary. He threaded the beads through his fingers. The wooden beads were smooth and cool to his touch. His mother had given him the rosary when he was six years old on the occasion of his first communion. The crucifix and chain were of silver, the beads olive wood and he knew she had scrimped for months to save enough money to pay for it. He smiled to himself. He had secretly hoped to receive a bag of marbles even though he knew a rosary was the typical gift. Poor Mamma. He never thought about her without pity and the old stirring of anger that she had died so miserably.
He went to the foot of the bed and dropped to his knees. His inclination was to say the Sorrowful Mysteries, but he thought he’d be better served tonight by acclaiming the Glorious Mysteries. He held the silver crucifix and murmured, “I believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven…”
He continued, the rosary a path of prayer that he followed. At the end of the second
decade
, he stopped. What was the point of repeating prayers that seemed empty to him? He was not connecting with God’s presence. Unbidden, memories jumped into his mind: of saying the rosary in the evenings with his mother and Susanna, Bertie joining in with shouts of Happy Christmas, no matter what the season. Harry, his father, was never a part of these sessions, and so the telling of the beads was a moment of happiness, more like a game really, especially when he was younger and he was learning to recite the prayers perfectly. His mother had always been so pleased when he got it right. Susanna soon overtook him though and nothing could match her fervency and accuracy.
Poor Cissie.
All his family had gone now except for Harry, and Murdoch doubted he would ever in his lifetime have fond feelings for his father.
He fingered the small medallion on the rosary, a depiction of Christ holding out his arms to a child. Murdoch thought about Agnes. The priest had told Murdoch at one of his infrequent confessions that he was becoming too worldly and not contemplating the workings of heaven, but he felt powerless to stop the drift away from his faith. Faced daily with Arthur Kitchen’s slow and painful death Murdoch had asked, Where is God’s will in this? Priests didn’t like questions like that and he’d been sent packing with a heavy penance to perform.
He got to his feet, stiff from the cold hard floor, and returned the rosary to its velvet bag in the drawer. He heard Arthur cough downstairs and the murmur of Mrs. Kitchen’s voice as she ministered to him. So much for Arthur’s peaceful night.
Murdoch climbed back into bed, rubbing his feet together to warm then. Perhaps it was a blessing that Enid was called back to Wales. He knew he could never be with a woman if he had any doubts at all. It was a dishonourable thing to do. But then what? Would he start to court Miss Slade? He grinned in the darkness. He didn’t know what her religious beliefs were, but they weren’t likely to be anything conventional. And that thought was quite reassuring.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
S
he was in a house crowded with people. They were on shelves along each wall and all of them were dying. They were coughing and crying, calling for water. It was bitterly cold and right through the centre of the room there was a river, filthy and black and moving fast. She was searching for little Patrick, and even above the din she could hear him calling to her from the next room. She walked beside the rushing water, knowing that one false step and she would fall in. She was trying to move as fast as she could, but her limbs were so heavy and cold she could hardly put one foot in front of the other. Then she was at the door. All she had to do was go through and she would be able to get Patrick and they would be safe. But a man was there, sitting on a high stool. He had a stick that he thrust out in front of her. She tried to tell him that she needed to go through to her child, but no words would come out of her mouth. The man paid no attention but began to push her backwards with the stick. She could see the pleasure this gave him. She couldn’t fight him and felt herself falling into the icy river. The foul water flowed up her nostrils and into her mouth and she thought she was going to choke on the stench of it.
Mrs. Crofton’s cries brought Georgina running into the room.
“Hush now, hush. It’s all right. I’m here, hush.”
Mrs. Crofton was gasping for air, her hands clawing at her throat as if she were drowning.
“Ruby, dearest, fetch a damp cloth,” Ruby had been asleep on a cot at the foot of the bed and she got up hurriedly and went to the washstand. Georgina stroked her mother’s face, uttering soothing noises as she did so.
“Here, ma’am,” said Ruby and she handed her a wet towel, which Georgina placed on the back of her mother’s neck. Mrs. Crofton shuddered and tried to shrug it away but her daughter held it on firmly.
“It’ll feel better in a moment, Mama. Ruby, light the candle if you please.”
Slowly, Mrs. Crofton was becoming calmer but her open eyes were wild, the pupils dilated.
“Lie back for a moment, my dear,” said her daughter and she plumped up the cushion for her mother’s head. “There, that’s better. Good pet. See, we’re here. Your own little Ruby and me.”
Unasked, Ruby reached for a glass of water that was on the small table beside the bed and offered it to her mistress, who took a small sip.
Georgina tucked a strand of grey hair under her mother’s night cap. Her touch was tender.
“You were having one of your bad dreams, my pet, but it’s all right now. See, you’re in your own pretty bedroom that you furnished yourself. Look around. There’s your bureau and your little stool that Mrs. Buchanan embroidered, just as they are.”
Mrs. Crofton caught her hand. “Oh Georgina, I had a terrible vision.”
“It was just a dream, Mama…”
“No–not a dream, a vision. I must tell it.”
“Of course, my dear. But first why don’t I send Ruby to make a hot posset. We can all use one, I’m sure.”
“No! It was one of my visions, not like the other dreams. I can tell the difference. I must say it now.”
Georgina stared at her. “Tell it to us then.”
“There was so much suffering and I could do nothing. I knew I would be able to save little Patrick but a man prevented me. Oh such a wicked man.” She sobbed, still in the dreamworld. “I was crying out for help, but no matter how hard I screamed no sound was coming from my throat.” Georgina signalled to Ruby to give her the glass of water and she drank greedily.
“Thank you, dearest girl. Did I call out?”
“Yes, ma’am, you did.”
“It was a vision. You must write it down, Georgina, you must write it down before it leaves me.”
“Very well, Mama. Ruby, will you be so good as to bring me pen and ink and some notebook from the escritoire.”
Ruby hurried to obey and Mrs. Crofton leaned back on her pillow while her daughter took a seat beside the bed, ready to take down what she said. As soon as she began to relate the details of her dream, Mrs. Crofton became distressed again and her Irish lilt was more pronounced.
“The foul water was up my nostrils and in my mouth so I thought I was going to choke on the stench of it.”
“Breathe in for a moment, Mama,” said Georgina soothingly. “See, there is no stench here. There is only the pleasant lavender cologne that Mrs. Buchanan sprinkles on the sheets and perhaps Ruby has the smell of baking bread in her hair.”
Mrs. Crofton was not to be consoled.
“You know whenever little Patrick appears to me in a dream it is a warning that we will hear of a death within the week. Don’t you remember, last summer, he came to me and we heard that your uncle Callum had died? Surely you remember me telling you my dream?”
“Of course I do, my pet, but Uncle Callum was very ill. His death was not unexpected.”
Mrs. Crofton ignored her. “This dream is a warning to us, Georgina.”
“If this is a warning, my pet, what should we take from it?”
“Somebody is in grave danger. Death is approaching. Kiss me, my dear one. And you too, Ruby. Oh kiss me so I know that you are quick and not dead.”
Dutifully, her daughter did so and Ruby managed a timid peck on her mistress’s cold hand.
“Oh it was dreadful. Such fear and sorrow coming from your poor dead brother and I could not help him and I knew that stinking river would take me.”
“The people on shelves sound like the passengers in their bunks,” said Georgina. “And the stinking river running through the room is the bilge of the ship. You are dreaming of the crossing again.”
“Oh Gina, don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not at all, Mama, but we know how terrible the voyage here was. How many times have you dreamed of it? More than we can count.”
Mrs. Crofton was almost weeping. “No matter that it has the look of my memory, this was a premonition. It must be respected. That man in my dream was as wicked as the devil himself. He was evil, I tell you. I could see his delight as he forced me into the river. He was enjoying my suffering and that he had the power to keep me from my poor little boy. He was happy others were in such need and he was not.”
“That sounds very like any one of the English peers who let our people starve,” said Georgina.
Her mother shuddered. “It is true. There was the same cold indifference and I, alas, I was as helpless as I was then.”
Ruby moved closer to Georgina and they were quiet for a moment, watching Mrs. Crofton as she looked into the horror that never left her. She said with great weariness, “This is no mere dream. I have not lost the true gift, the sight. We are being sent a warning of tragedy. There is danger all around us and wickedness. We must beware.”
“And we will be, Mama.”
Georgina looked over at Ruby, who was pale and wide-eyed. “Remember how Mama was telling you last month about the Great Hunger when the potato blight destroyed the harvest?”
Ruby managed to nod.
“Her nightmares still visit her, alas.”
Mrs. Crofton had closed her eyes and already seemed to be drifting off to sleep. Georgina put the ink pot, pen, and paper on the side table. She said softly to Ruby, “The entire village where Mama lived was starving to death. Her own family was decimated. The landlord finally paid their passage to Canada. No, child, this was not an act of kindness. He wanted to get rid of them so he could claim their paltry sliver of land. There were others in the same plight, of course, and the boats were so overcrowded it is a wonder they could sail at all.”
Mrs. Crofton moved her head restlessly and Georgina waited until she settled down. Ruby was hardly breathing and even though her bare feet were icy cold by now, she dared not move. She wanted Miss Georgina to continue with her tale because she loved to be spoken to in that special way, but she could hardly believe that her mistress had suffered from the same poverty that she herself understood all too well.
Georgina sat back in the chair. “Mama was the only remaining child, and her father, my dear grandfather, died before they even got to the port. Her mother had no choice but to continue. The conditions on board the ship were almost too terrible for us to contemplate. The ship owners took on as many passengers as they could for the money…”
Ruby couldn’t bear it and she burst out. “But the captains, ma’am. Didn’t they refuse? Captains are the kings of their ships, you told me so yourself.”
Georgina sighed. “Perhaps one did, perhaps even two, but we have no record of them. All we know is that many, many people died on the journey over. Typhoid fever swept through the hold where the poorest people had been crammed and stuffed like so much baggage. There was no one to take care of the sick and the dying and Mama’s mother, my dear grandmother, died. For two days, Ruby, for two long days, nobody came down to tend to those who were ill. Mama, who was a mere child, much younger than you are now, was forced to lie beside the corpse of her own mother.”