Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Monday, 10 August, 1868

Ellen Grady loosened the frayed neckline of her Mam’s shift and wiped the damp cloth over the hot, mottled skin. Mam twisted in the bed and moaned. In the heat, the stained shift stuck to her gaunt frame. Thin fingers clutched her distended stomach and the twisting grew more agitated. Ellen leaned over as blood began to flow from her Mam’s nose. She struggled to hold her still and wipe away the mess. Mam whimpered, and her movements calmed.

“Is Mary here? Mary?”

If only. With little hope, Ellen had sent her neighbor, Mrs. Flanagan’s boy out several times to the Green Hog pub by the Docks, but Mary had refused. Her half-sister hadn’t come back to Whitechapel when Da died of the same typhoid six months ago and before that hadn’t stepped foot in the lane for six years. Ellen’s eyelids drooped, her head slumped forward. If she could sleep for just a minute.

Mam bucked again. Ellen snapped awake and dropped the cloth. Blood spattered her face. She wiped it with her palm, but Mam’s forearm shot out to push her back. Her heel knocked against the full chamber pot on the floor. She teetered before grabbing the iron bedstead to regain her balance. A cockroach scuttled across the bare boards and she kicked it out of the way.

Mam’s body stiffened then sagged. Her unseeing eyes closed. Ellen picked up the cloth and turned to the washstand. She rinsed the bloody cloth in the bowl before cleaning Mam’s face as best she could. Her mother didn’t stir.

Ellen brushed the damp hair from Mam’s forehead. Rapid shallow breathing but her pale face looked peaceful for the moment. She took Mam’s hand, the skin rough, flaky and so very hot. She stroked the space where Mam had so proudly worn her wedding ring, pawned like everything else of value after Da’s passing.

Mam opened her eyes and gazed at Ellen. “My dear sweet girl.” She half-smiled and Ellen’s throat tightened. “Is Patrick coming, too?”

“Yes, I sent for him but an hour ago.” Since Mam only called for her when delirious, she didn’t mention Mary. Nor did she mention the reason she’d wanted her uncle’s attendance so quickly. She didn’t want to think about that, the empty pit within her growing larger and more frightening as Mam’s illness took its merciless course.

A brisk knock came from downstairs. Ellen hurried down to the small parlor and opened the door. It creaked on its rusty hinges and the sulfurous fog entered with her uncle. Both his hair and face were drenched with sweat. He carried a loosely wrapped paper parcel as well as his leather bag.

“May God be with you, my dearest girl,” he said, as he gave her the package.

Ellen pulled the string holding it together and gazed hungrily at the bread, cheese, and bacon. Underneath, she spotted a couple of candles that were also sorely needed. She looked back at her uncle and thanked him. He peered at her in the half-light, pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his cassock, and wiped her face.

“How is Catherine?” he asked.

All Ellen could do was shake her head. Their eyes met. No more words were needed. Da and six younger siblings now in Heaven made them unnecessary.

Ellen placed the package on the table in front of the open hearth, then quickly followed Father Patrick back up the narrow winding stairs.

He took out the crucifix, a cloth, two candles, and a vial of holy water from his bag and placed them on the top of the dresser.

He lit the candles, but the room with its small window remained dim.

Mam shifted restlessly. She started muttering. Ellen couldn’t catch the words, but for the name of her half-sister.

She edged to the other side of the bed. “Mam keeps asking for Mary, saying she’s sorry. Why would she do that?”

Even in the gloom, Ellen saw her uncle’s face redden. He winced and dropped his gaze as though embarrassed—or guilty—about something. But why would Father Patrick, or Mam, who had only ever done good in this world feel like this?

Her uncle began the first words of the Sacrament.

A scream pierced the air. Mam jerked as though being stabbed and grasped her stomach.

She babbled, her body shook. Ellen couldn’t bear to look at the pain in her sunken eyes.

“We didn’t know, we didn’t know, we didn’t . . . ”

Father Patrick made a hasty sign of the cross on Mam’s forehead.

“Per istam sanctam unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam . . . ”

Bloody diarrhea seeped into the mattress. Ellen ignored the smell. Each word brought her closer to a life without Mam. Misery and fear mingled in her mind. Of the loneliness without her mother, of the poverty she would face. She could sew, but so could thousands of others. There’d been no work for months. She looked over at her uncle. Even though he had his own busy life, surely he wouldn’t let her end up in the workhouse? But she shouldn’t be thinking of such selfish things now. Mam needed her, she might recover, she might . . .

A deep sigh broke from Mam. She struggled to lift her head as though its weight was too much for her. They looked at each other.

“I love you, Ellen.” Mam slumped back against the pallet. Her eyes glazed over. “Tell Mary I’m sorry.” The barest whisper.

Then silence.

Ellen’s eyes bore into Mam as though by not blinking she could keep her alive. She begged God to ease Mam’s suffering, to make her well again.

Father Patrick said the final words of the Sacrament. Mam’s eyes closed. Ellen closed hers, too, as the tears rolled down her cheeks. She clutched her crucifix and prayed.

The church bell tolled three. Ellen and Mrs. Flanagan stood on the cobbles under the precarious lean of the shabby building. Her neighbor cocked her head and peered toward the open door.

“I thought I heard them coming. What’re they doing in there?”

The old woman pushed back her bonnet and dragged thick fingers across her sweaty brow.

“Oh, lummy, I can’t take much more of this heat.” She looked at her hand, frowned and then wiped it on her skirt.

Lost in her thoughts, Ellen said nothing. She turned to avoid a cloud of flies attracted by the pools of sewage in the nearby cesspits. Her neighbor closed her eyes but didn’t move.

Heavy boots and grunting sounded from inside the house. Mrs. Flanagan gazed at her. “A lot of people are going to miss yer ma, Ellen. A real lady, a good, kind lady.”

Ellen nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. Her thoughts turned to Mam’s final journey. Mrs. Flanagan’s lodgers would carry the coffin for burial tomorrow after Mass to the Church of Our Lady of the Rosary, where her uncle was the priest. Ellen dabbed her eyes with a square of crumpled cotton.

“There, there, darling.” Mrs. Flanagan put her arm around her and gave a comforting squeeze. “Oh, my girl, yer getting too thin.”

Ellen dropped her gaze. She’d hardly eaten in weeks. She went through the motions when her hunger threatened to overwhelm her, but without Mam . . .

“And what about Mary? I ain’t seen her once.” Mrs. Flanagan snorted and glanced toward the door. “You’ll excuse me for saying so, Ellen, but she’s not a good Catholic girl, not a good Catholic girl at all. She should’ve been here taking care of your mam, not leaving it all to a slip of a girl like you. What age are you now? Twelve, thirteen?”

“Fifteen.”

“And the last one of yer ma’s left. I’ll wager Mary never showed for the wake either?”

“No, she didn’t.” Ellen’s voice shriveled in the heat. Everyone knew she had not set foot in the lane for years. A mystery to Ellen. After all, Mam had asked Father Patrick to help Mary, just as he had helped Nancy Flanagan, to find good first positions. They’d both been given places at the London home of a couple of French aristocrats, acquaintances of the Bishop of her uncle’s diocese but Mary had run off after a few months. Not only that, when she returned, it was as though the Devil himself had gotten ahold of her. She’d used foul language and insulted Mam, even spat in her face before she left. Never to return.

Missing Mary—her best friend not just her half-sister—she’d asked over the years, but no answer had been forthcoming. Mam had said sorry to Mary so many times in her last hours, which left Ellen only more confused.

Mrs. Flanagan’s words broke her reverie. “Just like her. Selfish.” Her neighbor sniffed. “To think she knows where my Nancy is, but won’t tell me, her own mother. Wicked, she is. Wicked and cruel. Mary should . . . ”

The voice grew strident as the bitter words spewed out. Ellen had heard them all before, but this time, her own grief strengthened her understanding of the old woman’s anguish. She had lost her only daughter, missing for more than seven years. In all that time Mary, who had been in service with Nancy when she disappeared, had not uttered a single word about her best friend’s whereabouts.

Her neighbor’s tirade petered out. Mrs. Flanagan wheezed and patted her bulbous chest. “I’m sorry, Ellen. I shouldna done that. Not today.”

Ellen nodded, then stiffened as a lined face appeared at the doorway. She clutched at her black skirt, once Mam’s, as though it could somehow fortify her.

Mrs. Flanagan bowed her head, and muttered, “About time.”

Two men in cloth caps and ragged waistcoats held the flimsy box on either side, with a third man, older and shorter than the others, bearing the narrow end. There not being enough money for a hearse, they would carry the coffin to the church.

The tears streamed down Ellen’s cheeks. She touched her hand to the rough elm box, leaned forward and kissed the wood. “Goodbye, Mam. Godspeed.”

Through blurred eyes, she watched as the procession made slow but unsteady progress up the lane.

Ellen swallowed and whispered, “Please God, let them get to the church safely.”

“Amen to that,” said Mrs. Flanagan. “If yer all right, my girl, I’ll take my leave now. I’ll come by on the morrow and walk with you to the church.”

Ellen’s eyes remained fixed on the departing group until they reached the end of the alley.

“Thank you, Mrs. Flanagan. “Till tomorrow.”

And under her breath, she whispered another prayer that Mary would show, and they might become close again.

Mary Grady strode to the sash window. After a brief struggle, she raised the frame and took a deep breath. The stink and heat outside more than matched the bedroom but she welcomed the slight breeze. It came at a price. The hubbub from the bar of the Green Hog Public House two stories below shattered the relative quiet.

Mary ignored the noise and returned to the padded stool in front of her dressing table. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She looked good today, she thought, tilting her chin first left, then right. She felt good, too. Much better than Catherine Grady. The bitch was finally dead and today was Catherine the not-so-Great’s funeral. Mary had treated herself and bought a new dress in celebration. She brushed her thick tresses and, lifting one side at a time, fixed each in place with an ornamental comb.

Casting her eyes beyond the looking-glass, Mary admired the new wallpaper. The first of many changes to come. Her room might be the best in the house, but she wasn’t satisfied with it yet. Not a problem. She’d soon worm the money out of the Green Hog’s owner. She and Jack Callahan had been together for a few months now, and he was eating out of her hand like a hungry puppy.

She’d soon be able to reel him in. As much as she might dislike the thought of being considered her husband’s property, a smart marriage was a crucial step toward improving her status and future prosperity. After all, look what marrying ‘below her’ had done to her once ever-so-lovely and delicate stepmother. Seven babies in ten years, all but one gone, to end up old, poor and now dead before her time. Shame.

Then she remembered what she must do. As her eyes dropped to the drawer in front of her, Mary shivered. She immediately berated herself. This was not the time for weakness or guilt. She pulled herself up straight, but a scintilla of uncertainty remained. Catherine was no more. A fortunate turn. Why not forget?

Because she could never escape the past, however much she tried to erase it from her memory. Someone had to pay for all she and Nancy had gone through.

She opened the drawer and after taking out the item she sought, raised her gaze to the mirror. No evidence of the nerves within showed on her face. With a final satisfied glance, she tucked the small package into her pocket and made her way down to the noisy bar. Her spirit rose to see it so busy. Once they married, Jack’s money would be hers for the taking.

She spotted him through the smoky haze and made her way past the long benches filled with drinkers to a small corner table where another man and three pots of beer rested. Bill Callahan, who she’d met last night, didn’t stand but acknowledged her with a wary nod. As Jack rose to pull out the chair for her, his wariness changed to obvious astonishment.

“You’re becoming a sissy boy, Jack Callahan. You’ll be taking up sewing next.”

“Get away, Bill. No chance o’that,” Jack said, laughing.

Bill shook his head and made a loud hawking noise. He aimed successfully at the full spittoon a few feet away.

Mary scowled at Jack’s brother, a lethal combination of physical strength with not much brainpower. His dark hair worn close-shaven emphasized the size and coarseness of his facial features. Although a few years short of thirty, deep lines furrowed the plains of his forehead and cheeks.

“Such an act, Bill, is the sign of a man in love.” She cocked an eye at Jack and winked.

Bill leered at her. “Or lust.”

She sniffed then regretted her action. The pungent fumes of tobacco smoke, stale liquor, and staler bodies stung her nose.

Jack leaned back in his chair and put his hand on Mary’s shoulder. “So, Bill, tell me about this new job. St. Albans is a bit of a way.”

“I’m the Head Attendant at Belle Vue.”

The name made her start.

“What sort of place is it, this Belle Vue?” she asked, keeping any interest out of her voice.

“A lunatic asylum. Opened a bit more than a year ago and full to overflowing already.”

Jack grinned, his gold tooth glistening. “Yeah, but probably more maniacs out here than in there,” he said, eyeing his patrons.

“What’s it like? Same as the last place?”

Bill took a long draught and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Colney Hatch. More or less, but at Belle Vue, the Matron and Superintendent leave me to my own devices. I have an assistant, too. Name of Brown, Lynton Brown. He likes to play rough with the inmates, which is fine by me.”

Jack grinned, “God help ‘em. Suppose lunatics don’t know what’s going on anyway.”

They all downed their drinks in thoughtful silence.

Mary put her mug back on the table. Bill’s news surprised her. She closed her eyes and kept her focus on the present. The past was not a place she cared to visit without good cause.

She rose to her feet. “I’m going out, but should be back before evening.”

Jack gazed at her and winked. “Give your half-sister a kiss of condolence from me.”

His eyes glinted at Mary. She stared him down and kept her voice low and icy. “Not even in jest, my love.”

“Of course not, Mary. You know you’re the only one for me.”

She stepped forward and planted her lips onto his in a parting kiss.

He never said a truer word, whatever he might like to think. With the combination of fourteen-hour workdays and her passionate demands, she made sure sleep was his mistress of choice.

The midday heat bore down with exquisite cruelty on Ellen and the dozen or so mourners as they stood, heads bowed, sweating profusely in their heavy, dark clothes. In the small graveyard, the living and the dead jostled uneasily for position.

As her uncle began the words of the interment ceremony, tears trickled down Ellen’s cheeks. She prayed Mam had found peace at last and Mary still might show. With Mam gone, surely they could become close again as they had been before Mary had gone up west. Now all she had left were treasured memories of the times she and Mary used to laugh and sing silly songs with Mam. Or when Nancy, Mary’s best friend, joined them to learn reading and drawing and the times they visited Father Patrick. They’d play hide-and-seek in the church and later listen to his tales of Ireland and leprechauns and pots of gold. Ellen couldn’t believe Mary would ignore the funeral, but it seemed she was wrong.

Father Patrick, his unprotected face pink and shiny, lifted his head as he sprinkled holy water over the coffin. His brow creased. Ellen followed his gaze to the two gravediggers who had been leaning on the stone boundary wall. Both were now on their feet, one shaking his companion’s dusty sleeve and pointing. She and her uncle turned their heads in the direction of the man’s jabbing finger. Ellen’s heart leaped.

Mary!

Then she flinched, for her half-sister stood not like a humble mourner, but with feet apart and hands on hips. As their eyes locked, Mary’s face took on a triumphant expression. Ellen could only stare, her mind a blank as the imposing figure dressed in crimson with a plumed hat atop her fiery red hair, sauntered up the path toward the unwary mourners.

Her uncle stuttered over the next words of the prayer prompting the group to raise their eyes. A synchronized gasp escaped the transfixed figures. Signs of the cross hastily made followed whispered supplications, mostly to the Holy Mother of God. Each mourner shuffled back from the approaching specter as though closeness to such profanity might taint their own carefully nurtured salvation.

Mary stopped at the edge of the burial plot and looked down at the flimsy box. No exhalation of breath disturbed the silent tableau. Ellen prayed under her breath. The venom in Mary’s eyes frightened her. Her garish attire seemed designed for one purpose only: to insult Mam’s memory. At close range, in the harsh daylight, her heavily rouged cheeks and powdered face made her look hard and unnatural, like a carnival grotesque. Her uncle and other mourners wore expressions of puzzled curiosity. Old Mrs. Flanagan looked as if she wanted to strangle Mary.

If only her half-sister realized how much Mam had loved her.

“Evil will always overcome good,” Mary sneered. She glared across the grave as though directing her words to Father Patrick alone. “For those we believe to be good are often the most wicked.”

Her uncle’s face reddened but Ellen could see the mourners only had eyes for Mary. All stood motionless like unwilling players in a game of statues.

Mary reached into the pocket of her dress. She took out something wrapped in a handkerchief and tied with a piece of frayed ribbon. Necks craned forward for a better view.

Mary held out the object in her hand—about the size of an egg, maybe larger. For an instant, Ellen was certain an expression of vulnerability had crossed her features, but when she blinked, only arrogance remained. Mary glared at her uncle.

“Bury this with your sister, priest, as my memento for her afterlife. Wherever that might be.”

She flung the package onto the coffin. “For Nancy,” she whispered.

It landed with a single tap and slid to the center of the casket. No one moved. Mary kicked at a mound of earth by her foot, sending clumps of dirt pattering onto the wood. She turned and swept back down the path.

Her departure was followed with indecent haste by all but Ellen and Father Patrick.

“What is that thing? Should we open it?” her uncle asked.

Ellen gazed at the item on the coffin, puzzling over Mary’s words.

She didn’t know what was in the handkerchief, but instinctively felt whatever it contained was best kept hidden. She voiced her thoughts to him before adding, “That thing seemed to mean a lot to Mary but not in a good way.”

Father Patrick nodded. He beckoned the gravediggers. With uncharacteristic speed, both carried their spades to the graveside and scrutinized the package with ill-disguised interest.

“Let’s get this burial finished quickly. Leave that rubbish where it is.”

The elder stepped forward, his expression of curiosity not yet erased. “Aye, Father. Let’s get the job done.”

He tipped his head at the other gravedigger and they started shoveling dirt onto the coffin.

Her uncle stepped toward her. “Ellen, go home and rest.” He reached out his hand to touch her cheek and said gently, “Mary can’t hurt your Mam any more. God be with you, my child.”

Ellen remained by the grave as the two men completed their task. She wiped the mixture of sweat and tears from her cheeks. Her mind was in turmoil at Mary’s behavior.

What had Mam apologized for? Her uncle would say nothing when she’d asked again. All she knew was that her half-sister had changed after her unexpected return from up west. How she wished she had been able to find out why Mary had run away.

And what had happened to Nancy.