The Legacy

“And what did you do for them?”

“I was a laundress. But I also did sewing for Mrs. Dunleavy and her daughters. I made them gowns and I mended their clothes. I’m very good with a needle and thread and I can operate a sewing machine. My grandmother taught me well. I can make a dress from any fashion plate you might show me. And I do fine embroidery.” She pointed to Lady Porter’s gown. “Like that.”

“Then when you have recovered from your ordeal, you will work for me as a laundress and a seamstress. That way, you can watch your daughter while you work. We will find a room for you above the carriage house where you might be…out of the way.”

Rose stared at Lady Porter, unable to believe her good fortune. “Oh, ma’am, that is far too kind. You’ve already done enough.”

“Nonsense. It becomes more difficult daily to find good help and you’re motivated to work hard. You’ve had an education of sorts, which recommends you as well. And both of us know you would never last another week out on the streets. Now, your wages won’t be much, since we will also be supporting your daughter.”

“I don’t need wages, ma’am. I’ll work for food and a warm place to sleep.”

“We’ll discuss this when you’re well. Now, there is one other thing. And you must be truthful about this. The child. Was she born out of wedlock?”

“Oh, no,” Rose replied. “No, I was married. My husband was—” She paused. If they knew the truth of Jamie’s political activities, the Porters might not be so glad to have the wife of an IRA sympathizer working in their very English household. “He died. Three years ago. It was an accident. He fell while he was helping a friend to repair a roof.” She promised herself to say a rosary for the lie.

“How tragic,” Lady Porter said. “And how long were you on the street?”

“Three months,” Rose said.

“You must have been quite resourceful to have survived that long. That quality will serve you well in this household.” She held out her hand. “Lie back now and finish eating. You need a good night’s sleep. You can see Grace in the morning.”

“Mary Grace,” Rose corrected. “Her name is Mary Grace.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure she’ll be quite happy to see her mother in better health. But she’s sleeping now herself and it wouldn’t do to wake her.”

Lady Porter took Edward’s hand and led him to the door. “Come, let’s leave Rose to rest. We must see if we can convince Malcolm to take our side in this matter before your father returns.”

When Rose was alone, she tried again to stand, holding on to the bedpost for support. She took a few steps, then a few more, feeling her strength beginning to return. She grabbed a small blanket from the end of the bed, and wrapped it around her shoulders, then slipped out of the room.

The hallway was dimly lit and quiet. Her bare feet brushed against the soft wool carpets and she peered in each door, searching for her daughter. When she found what looked to be a nursery, she stepped inside, then realized she wasn’t alone. Lady Porter sat in a rocking chair near the window, Mary Grace in her arms.

“Aren’t you my pretty girl, Lottie,” she cooed. “You’ve come home to me at last. And this time, I’ll never let you go.”

Rose stepped inside the room, ready to correct her. Why was she having such a difficult time remembering Mary Grace’s name? And why did Lady Porter insist that Mary was napping when she wasn’t? But as she watched Lady Porter, Rose began to realize that all was not right with the woman. She continued to talk to the child as if she were much older.

In then end, Rose returned to the hallway, an uneasy feeling settling over her. For now, she’d accept the Porter’s hospitality and her hostess’s odd behavior. She didn’t have any choice. The dangers out on the streets of Dublin were far worse than any danger she and Mary Grace might face inside the walls of Porter Hall.

“GENEVA, THIS IS ABSURD. You cannot bring home an Irish peasant and her brat like they were stray animals. This behavior only proves you still haven’t recovered fully.”

Edward stood in the hallway outside his father’s library, hidden in the shadows as he listened to his parents’ conversation. Though he knew it was wrong, eavesdropping was the only way he ever really discovered what was happening inside Porter Hall. Most of the servants paid him little heed, for they assumed he didn’t comprehend most of what was being discussed by the adults. And Malcolm took great delight in keeping the secrets he’d been privy to.

There was only one thing Edward truly didn’t understand and that’s why he continued to listen. Something was not right with his mother, but no one would say what it was. She’d had to go away after Charlotte had died and though he wasn’t sure exactly how long she’d been gone, it had been a long time. If she was going to be sent away again, this time he wanted to know why.

“What was I to do?” she asked. “Let them both die? That poor child needed my help. At least there was something I could do.”

“They’re Irish. They have their damn free state now. Let them take care of their people the way they always wanted to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geneva said. “She was close to death. How was she supposed to care for that little girl?”

“Do you have any idea what’s going on outside this house, Geneva? Have you any conception what this family has had to face in the past ten years? With the uprising and the civil war, we have been teetering on the edge of ruin. It’s been all around you and you’ve been completely oblivious.”

“I read the papers, Henry. I’m aware of the political climate in Ireland.”

“Well, let me give you a better account of it, just to be certain. We used to have a good life here. A prosperous life, a life that my father blessed us with when we married. I was happy to take over the enterprises in Ireland. But now, we live here in—in exile.”

“That’s not true, Henry.”

“Oh, no? When the troubles started, my brother and father didn’t hesitate to sell anything that might fetch a good price. They left me with the mills and the mines they couldn’t get rid of. Let Henry have them,” he muttered. “He’ll be grateful for that much.”

Edward’s father stood and walked over to the whiskey decanter, then poured himself a drink. He took a long swallow, then turned back to his mother. “Now that this country belongs to the Irish again, our property is worth only what an idiot Irishman might pay for it. We’re trapped here, Geneva, with no way out.”

“The uprising was put down. The civil war is over,” Geneva said. “You employ hundreds of Irish workers who want to work. I can’t see how we’re headed for ruin, Henry.”

“I served in parliament, I helped run this country. And now, suddenly I have no say in how this government treats my interests. That’s decided by the Irish now and their damned Diál Eireann. And with them in charge, this country is doomed to fail.”

“Irish, British, free state, republic, Catholic, Protestant, what does it all matter? We have a home and you have a livelihood. You make a comfortable living. You’re a smart man, you can make what you have a success. The terrible times are ended. We have two sons and we must make the best of it.”

Edward peeked into the library and watched as his father stared into his glass. “The terrible times have only just begun, Geneva,” he muttered. “As long as Ulster is under control of the British, the people in this country will never rest. Another civil war is just around the corner.”

“Then perhaps we should stop thinking of ourselves as English and consider ourselves Irish. We’ve lived here through all the troubles, for nearly fifteen years. Our future is here. This is our home and we are not visitors in this country.”

“You are mad,” Henry muttered.

Geneva shook her head, her voice quivering. “I—I am not mad. You live in your world of comfort and wealth, you employ these people in your mills and mines and take advantage of them every day. But you never look at them, you never see them. They’re good people. They survive on nothing, trying to support their families on pay that isn’t enough for one, much less seven or eight.”

“And you live in the same world with me,” he said, his voice angry and accusing. “My money buys those beautiful gowns you wear and pays for your trips to London and for your spiritualists and fortune tellers.” Edward’s mother gasped. “What? You didn’t think I knew about them? Those charlatans preying on your grief.” He cursed, then sat down behind his desk.

Everyone in the family had changed since Charlotte’s death, Edward thought. Malcolm had become mean and nasty, deliberately inflicting pain on his younger brother whenever he could. His father stayed away from home as much as he could and when he was home he was cold and unapproachable and often drunk. And his mother… Edward drew a ragged breath. Some days she was just like she used to be, happy and lighthearted, laughing at the silly stories he told. And other days, she wouldn’t come out of her room, caught up in the midst of one of her black moods.

“We cannot keep her or her daughter in this house,” he said. “I won’t have it.”

“She’s worked as a domestic before and she claims to be an excellent seamstress.”

“Let’s be candid with each other, shall we, Geneva? You don’t need a seamstress. You want that child.”

Edward watched as his mother’s face grew pale. She slowly rose, her hands clutched in front of her. “Why can’t you do this one thing for me?” she asked in a strangled voice. “Just let me have what I need. I will make my way through this, I promise. But I have to deal with this in my own way.”

“This child is not yours,” he warned. “And if I see you becoming too attached, I will force them out of this house. And if I see any strange behavior from you, then you will return to the hospital until you are able to comport yourself in a proper manner. Is that understood, Geneva?”

His mother nodded. “Yes, Henry.”

“This will not become an obsession, or I will call an end to it.”

“I understand,” she replied.

He picked up a ledger from his desk and opened it, focusing his attention on the columns and rows of numbers. “That is all.”

Geneva circled his desk, then placed a dutiful kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Henry.” With that, she swept out of the room, her head held high, her eyes watery with tears. She didn’t even notice Edward standing outside the door, brushing right by him, her skirts rustling.