Songs of Love and War (55 page)

In the morning she felt recharged after the long voyage across the Atlantic. Rosetta was up and dressed and had already laid out her mistress’s clothes. Bridie left her companion to eat in
the suite and went downstairs to breakfast in the dining room. She wanted to be part of Dublin life. She wanted to see people. The hotel was suitably busy. Stylish ladies and expensively dressed
gentlemen sat at round tables conversing in low voices. The clinking of china teacups on saucers and silver cutlery onto plates gave the room a genteel dignity as waiters and waitresses brought in
mouth-watering dishes and carried out the empty ones. As soon as Bridie appeared the head waiter bade her good morning and escorted her to a table at the window where the sunlight streamed in
through the glass. Outside, the street was full of activity with cars, horses and carriages, and people going about their business, walking up and down the pavements and setting off into the
gardens. No one broke off their conversation to stare at her; there was only the odd admiring glance from both women and men as they took in her fashionable attire, chic haircut and probably the
fact that she was on her own. But she didn’t think she looked out of place. She fitted in. She was one of them.

She smiled at the waiter and ordered a cup of tea and a hearty breakfast. He handed her the
Irish Times
and went off with her order. Bridie glanced at the paper. She didn’t
particularly want to read it but, as she was alone with no one to talk to, she flicked her eyes over the main stories. Then, further into the newspaper, one story caught her attention.
Lord
Deverill of Ballinakelly to sell tragic Castle Deverill
. Bridie read the article in horror, burying her face so deeply in the paper that she didn’t notice the waiter bring her tea and
pour her a cup.

She read how the castle had been burned by the revolutionaries during the Troubles. She learned that Lord Deverill had been killed in the fire and that Lady Deverill only passed away a couple of
weeks ago. She learned that the present Lord Deverill had found the cost of living there too great and had decided to sell and move to London. There was a black-and-white photograph of the castle
ruins and an old picture of Lord and Lady Deverill at the Dublin Horse Show. Bridie gazed into the face of the man she had loved and felt the prickle of tears behind her eyes. He had taken her
innocence but she had let him. She had enjoyed every minute of their encounters. Then she remembered the brutality of his dismissal of her, as if she was an inconvenience, and her heart hardened.
She had given birth to his children. A little girl who had died and a little boy who lived, and he had packed her off to America without even saying goodbye, leaving his son to languish in a
convent, hiding his secret behind the discreet walls of the Church. But Bridie had come back, determined to right this wrong. She was no longer young and naive. She had come to claim what was hers.
Only God had the right to take him from her.

She folded the paper away and sipped her tea. If the castle had been destroyed, her mother would have lost her job. Had she been forced to find employment elsewhere? Or had the money Bridie sent
been enough? What had become of Kitty? Did she still live in the Hunting Lodge? Bridie ate her breakfast in a fever of anxiety. What had become of them all?

After breakfast she and Rosetta set out in a taxi to visit the Convent of Our Lady Queen of Heaven, tucked away in a remote corner of Dublin. The sight of those walls made Bridie’s palms
sweat. She had come here to give birth and she had left without her babies. What had taken place behind those brown walls was unspeakable. She asked Rosetta to remain in the taxi while she went to
enquire about her child. Rosetta watched her pull the knocker on the great door and wondered why she needed to visit a convent and why it had made her so nervous.

The door was opened by a nun in a dark blue habit. Bridie told her why she had come and that she wished to speak to the Mother Superior. The nun looked a little awkward but invited her inside
nonetheless. She followed her down a corridor. The familiar smell of the place, a sort of dampness mixed with detergent and candlewax, made her head swim. She recalled being brought here after her
waters had broken. For a moment she felt the same sense of confusion, the same feeling of alienation, the same
fear,
and she had to concentrate on breathing regularly to stem the rising
nausea in her stomach. She was asked to sit in a waiting room. There was a measly bunch of yellow flowers in a glass on the coffee table and a meagre fireplace, which was empty. Bridie sat on the
hard sofa and knitted her fingers. She kept reminding herself that she was a wealthy woman now. If they wouldn’t give her her baby she’d
buy
him back.

At last an older nun appeared. She smiled kindly in her blue habit. Bridie’s spirits rose at the pleasant expression on the woman’s face and sensed that she’d be only too happy
to return her child. ‘Mrs Lockwood,’ she said, sitting down on the edge of a chair. ‘My name is Sister Agatha. I understand that you have come back for your son.’

‘Yes, I have,’ said Bridie, trying to hear the woman speak over the thumping of her heart.

‘You were Bridie Doyle, were you not?’

‘Yes.’

‘I remember your son. A bonny baby he was.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I remember the little girl, God save her soul.’ Sister Agatha sighed. ‘I wish I could help you, but I cannot. You see, your child isn’t here.’

The world spun away from Bridie. She had never anticipated that her baby would have
gone.
‘Where is he?’

‘He’s gone to a very happy home. We always take the utmost care to place our children with the very best families.’

Bridie put her fingers to her mouth to stifle a moan. She stared at the nun, not knowing what to say. She shook her head. ‘No . . . no . . . he can’t have gone!’

‘Even if I knew where he was,’ Sister Agatha continued, ‘I wouldn’t be able to tell you. That family adopted your baby in good faith. It wouldn’t be right to give
away their details. You have to let him go, Mrs Lockwood.’

‘But I can’t,’ Bridie croaked. ‘He’s my son.’ In a flash she saw the little face in swaddling as if he were before her now. She could smell the vanilla scent
of his skin. She could almost touch it. ‘Oh Lord Jaysus, what have I done?’

Sister Agatha stood up. ‘Please take your time, Mrs Lockwood. I’m sorry for your distress.’ She had clearly witnessed this scene many times before and was unmoved by it. Bridie
put her hand to her forehead and cried. Her whole body shook as she realized she would never see her baby again.

A moment later Sister Agatha returned with a glass of water. ‘There is no hurry to leave. If you would like to visit the chapel, you are most welcome. Sister Margaret will show you where
to go and see you out.’

‘May I at least visit my daughter’s grave?’ Bridie asked.

Sister Agatha’s lips thinned into a hard line. ‘There is no grave, Mrs Lockwood. But you are welcome to pray for her soul in the chapel.’

Bridie sat on the sofa until her breath grew ragged and her grief was reduced to the odd hiccup. She realized that Sister Margaret was waiting in the doorway.

‘I’d like to visit the chapel,’ she said, standing up. At least she could pray for her daughter’s soul.

‘Please, follow me,’ said Sister Margaret. Bridie trailed her through the building to a courtyard where the nuns grew their own vegetables. It was a damp, miserable place and Bridie
hurried on, not wishing to spend more time than necessary in this unforgiving place.

The chapel was warm, with a high, vaulted ceiling and two graceful colonnades of arches on either side. Candles burned, giving the place an inviting glow, and the air smelt pleasantly of
incense. Bridie walked down the aisle, crossing herself in front of the altar, before making her way to the table where she could light a candle of her own. Swallowing back her sorrow she lit two,
closing her eyes and sending up a silent prayer to God. ‘Please help me, Lord. Please look after the little one who died and help me find the one who lived. As God is my witness, I will not
rest until I find my baby. I will not give up. With the help of your angels I will bring my baby home.’

She stood a moment staring at the richly coloured paintings of Mary and the Saints depicted on the walls. Then her eyes settled on a surprisingly lavish gold cross, encrusted with precious gems
that sparkled in the candlelight, hanging in glorious splendour behind the altar. It was magnificent, luxurious even, and quite out of place in that simple chapel. She wiped her wet face with the
back of her hand and wondered how the nuns had come by it. Then she went to the front pew, knelt down on the cushion and said the Lord’s Prayer. When she was finished she asked Sister
Margaret to show her out. There was nothing left for her here but painful memories and disappointment.

Sister Margaret showed her to the door. As she opened it, she threw a furtive glance down the corridor then put her hand on Bridie’s arm. ‘I know what happened to your son,’
she whispered urgently.

Bridie grabbed her. ‘What? What happened to him?’

‘A man came and took him.’

‘What man? Who?’

‘His name was Michael, that much I heard.’

Bridie felt her heart surge with gratitude and hope. ‘Michael? Michael Doyle?’

‘I don’t know. He was big, burly, black curls . . .’

‘Yes, that’s my brother.’ Bridie smiled through her tears. ‘Oh thank you, Sister Margaret. I won’t forget your kindness. May the Good Lord shower you with a
thousand blessings.’

‘No need, Mrs Lockwood. I’m just happy that I was able to help you.’

Bridie hurried out to the taxi, where Rosetta was waiting for her and beginning to grow anxious. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked as Bridie climbed in beside her.

‘Everything is just grand,’ Bridie replied. ‘We will go back to the hotel. There are a few things I need to see to. When I’m done we will leave for
Ballinakelly.’

‘Ballinakelly?’

‘Yes, Rosetta. I’m going home.’

Bridie returned to the hotel and tore out the article from the
Irish Times
about Lord Deverill selling the castle. She had enough money to buy that castle ten times over, she mused. She
could rebuild it; restore it to its former glory.
That
would show them all, it would. Show them that she would never allow anyone to treat her the way Lord Deverill had treated her. Never
allow anyone to call her a tinker again. She’d be mistress of a grand castle with a grand history and it would be
her
descendants who would live on in it and share the stories of the
illustrious Deverill past. And one day, many years into the future, it would be
her
family name that people would talk about.

‘I’d like to send a telegram to Mr Beaumont Williams in New York,’ she told the receptionist.

Leaving her luggage in the suite, she took the train to Cork, remembering the journey to Dublin when she had sat in third class with a small bag, a growing belly and a heart full of anxiety. Now
she was comfortable in first class. Everyone was polite to her. No one could do enough to please her. The difference money made to a person’s life was immeasurable.

From Cork she took a hackney cab to Ballinakelly, under an hour’s drive away. As she neared her home town her heart began to race. The terrain grew familiar. Those bumpy roads, those rocky
hills, the heather and gorse, grey-stone walls, bushy hedges and fields full of woolly sheep all whispered to her, their voices calling her home.

At last she saw the white farmhouse, nestled in the crook of the hill beside the barns where Michael and Sean kept the horse and farming equipment. The field was full of cows, grazing on the
long grass. Behind the hills the sky was a pale, watery blue embellished with cotton-wool clouds. It looked just the same. Bridie’s heart stalled. ‘This is where I grew up,’ she
told Rosetta.

‘It’s so pretty,’ said the maid. ‘And so green.’

Bridie laughed. ‘That’s because it rains all the time.’

The car drove down the stony track and stopped outside the house. Bridie paid the driver and carried her bag to the door. She didn’t bother to knock, but pushed it open. There, sitting in
her usual chair by the hearth, was Old Mrs Nagle. When the grandmother saw Bridie she looked at her blankly. ‘It’s me, Nanna. Bridie.’ Rosetta stood behind her, wondering why she
called herself Bridie and not Bridget.

Old Mrs Nagle squinted. ‘Bridie?’ she asked. Then her voice quivered. ‘Bridie?
Our
Bridie?’

‘Oh Nanna, I’m your Bridie all right. I’ve come home.’ She knelt on the floor beside her grandmother and wrapped her arms around her. She felt as small and frail as a
little mouse.

‘Well, don’t you look grand,’ said Old Mrs Nagle. ‘You’ve done well in America, thank the Lord.’

At that moment Mrs Doyle hurried into the room. ‘That’s not Bridie?’ she exclaimed, her eyes welling with tears.

‘Mam!’ Bridie forgot that she was a woman of wealth. She forgot that she was Mrs Lockwood with her fine clothes and expensive shoes. She was Bridie Doyle again, running into the arms
of her mother.

‘Well, would you look at you!’ Mrs Doyle’s voice broke. She took her daughter’s face in her hands and stared into her features, searching for her lost child.

‘I’m rich, Mam. I can buy you anything you want. Anything at all!’

‘God save us from wealth, Bridie Doyle. Money only brings misery. Only hard work and a love of God bring any kind of happiness.’ She looked at Bridie, but her daughter was too
distracted to notice the pain in her mother’s eyes. ‘Have you come home, Bridie?’

‘Where’s Michael?’ Bridie asked, longing to see her son. Old Mrs Nagle bowed her head. Mrs Doyle put her hand to her mouth. Bridie looked from one to the other.

‘Michael is at Mount Melleray in Waterford, Bridie,’ said her mother in a quiet voice.

‘Where?’ Bridie sank into a chair.

‘Father Quinn sent him to the Abbey to cure him of the drink, God save us.’

Old Mrs Nagle crossed herself. ‘He’s in the Lord’s care, Bridie. The Devil can’t touch him now.’