October
God only knows the date
Lady Balfour has sent for me with a note written in her childish hand--
This time do bring the Onion, she says, as ours are Scant this year.
The pig ready to be slaughtered. Keegan merry at the prospect & the Bride on fire to make sausages & head cheese & all the rest. I have not often felt the rich man but the prospect of our own pig filling crocks & smokehouse gives me nearly a swagger as I go about.
Except for the anticipation of the pig, I have felt a weight on me the livelong day. Something pressing at the heart's core. I seem to be waking from a long sleep & realize I have not walked my Land since stepping off its borders with the Surveyor.
I do not know its Badgers & Weasels, its Oaks & Ashes, its Berries & Brambles, nor even its mite of Bogland--not least, I have failed to put the place under watch for Poachers & have no idea what occurs within its neglected borders, though Keegan does what he can. I have not sought different vantage points for pleasurable views nor often observed the Lough in its many changes of mood & spirit. I have but twice lifted a trout from its waters & not once explored the several Islands therein as I once thought to do. The Improvement of this demesne--however modest--coupled with our practice among the people, has greatly wearied me. I feel my mind at times full of mist, but would not confess this anywhere save in these mute pages.
While not surprised I was nonetheless dismayed when Nephew approached me for an advance of monies or other assets against his Inheritance. Though cursed with a morbid flatulence & the tendency to sloth, he is not without sufficient sensibility to make his way in the Lumber Business where he is partner. A hot anger flared in me but I made no rebuke, saying only that my Solicitor would not reckon this timely--which is the Truth.
A keeps a kettle on the Surgery hob & brews me a strong cup each afternoon. Should I demur, she tells me Missus wishes it, & thus I drink it to please them both. I found myself staring today at the top of A's head as she stooped to pick something off the floor. I saw where the hair parted from forehead to crown, a path through a dark wood, her pink scalp a living world unto itself.
My Lord & my God, have mercy upon me.
Mid-October 1862
This week past we saw near eighty patients in the Surgery & twenty-four on rounds. I asked for A's assistance throughout the week, thereby robbing C of her most valuable helper. A is like a daughter, says C who could not conceive in our many years of effort. I note here that A is a fine nurse by nature--I believe this may be her Gift from On High.
We must have more hands about Cathair Mohr & have hired on Jessie, a round lass of nineteen who throws back her head & laughs like any sailor. Tis rumored she is unafraid of work & proficient at scrubboard & iron. She will share A's small room back of the Scullery.
I was looking two days past for Uncle's early English fruit spoons in a repousse pattern that is very handsome. As we were to have fruit compote that evening, I took C's key ring & unlocked the sideboard & found the worn Velveteen box with its small clasp. I opened it & saw the spoons were missing. As C is the only one with access to the board's key, or any key, I assumed she had the spoons in service somewhere but she said she did not.
There are certain things one grasps without head knowledge--tis the gut speaking.
I waited until Keegan was well away from the house & Fiona up to her elbows in dough. If I had seen their room crowded before, it was now so furbished with clutter & disarray that naught but a path, more a tunnel, was open through it.
The stink of the chamber pot was rife. I stepped to the dresser without hesitation, as if led there by instinct & opened the top drawer & there lay the spoons among a scramble of disheveled linens. Though I had gone looking, I was startled by the discovery, could not believe my eyes. My heart pounded like that of any thief. I slipped the spoons into my pocket & took them to C who was rightfully alarmed.
Put them back into the box, I said & let us see how things go. No, she said, let us use them as planned, in plain view. When Fiona served the table, I studied her carefully, not attempting to hide my gaze. I had set the spoons on the board where the compote would be placed. I saw or believed I saw the slightest flinching in her right shoulder as she spied them but when she turned again to the table there was nothing writ on her broad face but nonchalance.
C & I too harried to treat this pestering sore; we are managing to close our eyes to it, believing F would not have the gall to do it again, being so found out. C & A will be making a full inventory of all plate & dinner ware, even to the pots & pans & C will keep the keys with her at all times.
I have of course said nothing to Keegan & do not believe he is implicated--we will bide our time as F is after all a grand cook though slovenly in the kitchen. Further, I find the proximity of their room--to where I now sit to write--a Grievance. Why do I so often act without thinking? There stands the cottage with its greater comforts but The Bride of All the World wishes to be in the big house & with the servants' quarters on the top floor yet unfinished, twas the only room available to satisfy her whim.
I find the master and mistress more often pressed to satisfy the caprice of servants than the other way round.
17 October 1862
We learned yesterday why Jessie is so rotund. She is pregnant into the fifth month.
After a morning of loud weeping and hand-wringing with C, all was again calm. If she had told us, she said, we would not have taken her on. She has no home to go to as her people have disowned her and the child's father has run away to Antrim.
Ruse & subterfuge appear to be the ticket these days at Cathair Mohr, but as much to the point--when she came into the surgery seeking work, why did I not perceive that she was carrying a child? And how did C miss this?
I thought she was overly fond of the table, says C.
That alone should have been a warning, I say.
As to what we shall do in this predicament, C and I merely exchange a look--that is all we have time or energy to offer the other.
Keegan recommends a cousin as the man for overseeing the demesne. But taking his wife into account, I have had enough of Keegan's staffing the place and will go down to my Solicitor who knows town puffs & able countrymen alike.
I took Balfour's daughter a sweet when I called up with my Onion. You must thank the doctor, says Lady Balfour to the girl who is slow-witted as any tot. Balfour stands nearby, looking dour.
We've thanked the doctor well enough and bloody more, says Lady B's grinding little consort. He's built his pile upon the thanks we've given him. Balfour laughs, then, revealing teeth the color of sheep dung.
I hardly remember laughter of my own in recent times--yet this morning was able to enjoy the Medicine of mirth such as I had not done in years.
A reported to the Surgery at seven-thirty wearing a cap she had made. That she has never in her life seen a nurses cap is evident. Her version, albeit white, features a starched central peak banded at the base with bits of yellowing lace.
She goes about her work soberly, lighting the fire she laid last evening, putting the fresh linen on the table, pulling the little step stool out for the patient to clamber up.
Three anxious souls wait beyond the door.
And who is there for us this mornin', sir?' says A, bright as any penny.
Edema, Goiter, & Dyspepsia, say I.
Her laughter is generous & unaffected.
That would be Missus O'Bierne, Missus Teague an' Danny Moore's grandda, she says in her careful English.
Tis pride I am feeling for Aoife O'Leary's quick wit.
Before Edema comes in, however, I know I must say something about the cap--it is in the room with us like a whale & no one speaking of it.
Your cap! I say.
Twill make my work in the Surgery more . . . proper, she says, coloring.
She sees I am tentative. I see she is deciding between disappointment & saving face. At once she removes the cap & goes to the far table & pops it on t
he human skull I keep--tis a wonder to most patients, a fright to others.
The cap is a perfect foil for the vacant eyes and ancient teeth. I start laughing & cannot stop. Tears are soon running down--the Foolishness of my laughter cannot be restrained, it is contagious as any pox for A is also laughing unhindered. I then hear the answering guffaw of Pat Moore beyond the door whereupon I open the door & stick my head out & both women erupt into laughter at the sight of their country physician looking the lunatic.
Something is going out of me--I am a pustule draining poisonous matter. It is the sort of release for which one would pay money.
Laughing yet, I step out & take Missus O'Bierne's crusty ould hand & lead her into the Surgery & there is C, standing white & still at the door from the hall.
At the look of her, we fall instantly silent & she turns & goes--we hear her footsteps along the flagstones.
I do not know the date
Time it is a- flying, as the poet says
I can confess this nowhere but here. Upon standing in the yard this morning & seeing Fiona wring the necks of three hens, I felt vilely ill & faint. And then came the axe & the blood. I who have seen rivers of blood could not bear the sight.
My days of training & practice in Philadelphia seem as far from me as the planets from Earth. After arriving Pa. in 1828, there came the cholera epidemic four years later, with 900 dead.
I remember C imploring Uncle not to leave the house in the evenings--from the cradle both C & I had impressed upon us a fear of night air, to the extent we imagined it as veritably writhing with wicked humours of every type. But away he would go, pulling the broad lapel of his overcoat about his face & setting off in the carriage with his driver, Mercy, a freed slave from Virginia. We knew we may not see him for some days, or he may appear the next morning at breakfast. No one ever showed surprise at his coming & going nor was any mention made of where he had been or might be going. Sukey knew more than the rest of us, but was as remote about Uncle's affairs as he.
And the riots--they were ever at the Riots in Pa., Negroes & Irish fighting for the same jobs, the same housing & wages--300 constables called in to quell the bloody fracases at South Street above Seventh.
Riots in '35 followed by an outbreak of typhus, & in 1849, cholera again with a death toll of 1,000.
Tis making Ireland look the safe place, said Uncle.
I remember this tonight upon the brink of Winter, & think how little prejudice was turned against Uncle for his Irish blood, & how I flourished in his shadow. 'He's not like the rest of your lot,' was said to me on several occasions. It was the first time I felt the menace of something I now erase from memory once for all.
J is a good worker & has quickly made herself useful--we cannot turn her out & so will have a babby in the house come spring. God knows if it is not one thing, tis a dozen more--C again with the headache & the Passiflora no comfort. I hardly know what is to be done.
4 November
I have come face to face with the darkness in myself--has it always been there & I have chosen to look away? Or has it come upon me solely because of the ravening hunger I must deny? I am stalked like prey.
10 November?
Last night was black & starless & no candle nor firelight in her chamber. Yet there seemed a Phosphoresence in the room.
I had brought up a Compress of ice & took it to the chaise where she lay inert as any corpse. I stooped to apply the compress to her forehead, but something in her spirit rebuked me.
What is it, my love? I ask.
I am not your love, she says.
It was as if someone else had spoken.
This house is your love. The Irish poor are your love. I am your occasional nurse.
The remark was beyond my comprehension.
I thought we shared this dream, I said at last.
I did share it, she said. I did wish to come here, I did wish to live in the little cottage with its dirt floor & red hens & I did wish to come at last to this house & enter into your private dream. But now tis like the fairies have stolen you & I am gone from your heart. I have searched for my place there, the old place I have called Home these many years but the door is closed & I fear it shall soon be locked.
I felt all the known world slipping from me. Suddenly I could no longer stand & I sat in the chair beside the chaise.
Do you want the Oil, I say, my voice nearly gone.
You touch me with the Oil but your hands no longer know me.
We are often weary, I say. It is the long hours & the many obligations . . .
I ken your needs before you know them yourself, she says. But you remember little of mine. When I speak to you, you do not hear--your mind has hidden from me. I once saw myself in your eyes but I am never there these many months.
I gave you this house, I say, for it is all I know to say.
You gave this house to the people, we but live & work here. You gave this house to Ireland as a banner for hope & courage.
I am trembling like an old man. The mist is rising in me.
You are unfair, I say.
I am a woman, she says.
The compress ices my fingers, but I can not put it to her forehead. It is a Benediction that can not yet be offered. I lay the compress on the stone sill of the window & cross myself & make a petition. The Phosphorescence continues--for a very long time I sit frozen, my breast tormented nearly beyond endurance. I know of course what I must do.
I lean close to reckon whether she is sleeping now & hear her ragged breathing--she is awake. I say her name & she stirs.
I must take something from you, I say. I hardly recognize my voice. But I vow to give you myself in return.
She turns on the chaise & in the darkness I see the milky white of her eyes opened to me.
As God is my witness, I say, I never touched her.
After a time her cold hand takes mine & we hold to each other, drawing the little warmth into ourselves.
He inserted his bookmark next to Cynthia's, sobered. He and his sleeping wife were now at the same hard place in the life of Fintan O'Donnell. He closed the journal and went into the bathroom and removed the robe.
Twenty-eight
The email sailed in under the door as he dressed for dinner.
He passed the email to her and waited.
There! Laughter unhindered. He would hug Emma Newland's neck when he got home. As for what he'd say about the absence of a $300 vase, shipping not included, he would cross that bridge when he got to it.
'Will you be all right, then?' he asked. She was watching an Irish game show from her wing chair, obediently elevating the Historic Ankle.
'Go and be as the butterfly,' she said, waving him off.
He stepped out to the hall, closed the door behind him, opened it again. 'No fair reading the journal ahead of me, Kav'na.'