Fortunate Son (4 page)

— trial transcript, Annesley v. Anglesea, 1743

That same morning, Richard Annesley, the self-proclaimed peer, stood in his nightshirt, observing from his bedroom window, grinning imperiously as the cold floor chilled his feet. Lowering his gaze, he saw little people and their little horses moving along Anglesea Street below, parting the morning fog of Dublin's Temple Bar. The street was named in 1659, in honor of his grandfather who had built Temple Bar—a development of homes, shops, taverns, shipping docks, and even the Parliament Building itself, which towered over it all, pigeons fluttering about its crowning roof. Below that he could see the building's sweeping array of columns, its majestic courtyard. Now that he was Earl he might build a new house, a mansion, a palatial residence. He smirked. Perhaps he would build it alongside the Parliament Building, snug against the law. That would erase all doubts. Then take a wife, some high-browed British bitch, some aristocratic daughter. No. Later. That can wait. Besides there were plenty of fields open now for his plow. He would return to Dunmain House, in County Wexford, the seat of Anglesea power, precisely where he belonged—away from these factors with their spotted hands outstretched, and the blue bloods of the pale, white-gloved, come to inspect both the manner and the ware.

A rustle behind him drew him to turn. Buried in the bed linens slept an English beauty, breathing softly. He watched her. She was a servant, a chambermaid, but not one from his stable of thirty-seven. No, Charity Heath was the ladyservant of Lady Mary Sheffield, his infamous sister-in-law, the banished, outcast wife, the recent widow. Richard had first seen Charity—this slender vixen nestled in his bed—two weeks earlier, from the foyer of Delaney's Clothier on St. James Street. For the past month, his men, Captain Bailyn and Patrick Higgins, had taken turns spying on Mary Sheffield's home from that clothier, watching for James to come slinking back to his mother. When Richard joined them briefly one day, he saw Charity step from Mary's house and climb aboard a small cart. He was captivated in the instant. Yet it was not just her graceful beauty that beguiled him. What intrigued him most was how she might assist his cause. Within the hour he had followed her, introduced himself, and was charming her, snaring her in his web. Bedding her was just a benefit of his ignoble efforts, the spoils of a successful hunt. Now she lay there, her brown hair swirled stormily across his pillows, the blanket rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath. He watched for a moment, smirking, wondering what Mary must think about her servant's overnight absence. Moving to the edge of the bed, he gently shook her arm. “Charity, my sweet, ‘tis morning.” Though the words were kind, they were laden with disapproval. She groaned softly and opened her eyes. “Ye must return soon,” he added.

She whispered. “Do you wish for me to go?”

Her bare shoulders mellowed him. He slid on top of her and nodded. “I'll miss ye.”

“So you'd have me believe.”

“What have ye told Lady Sheffield, of yer going and coming?”

She pushed him off, rolling over, straddling him, the blanket falling from her bare shoulders. “Have I told her of us?”

“I know I can trust ye. I was—”

She squeezed him between her thighs, silencing him. “‘Tis my choice to be here.” She bit him playfully on the nose. “And if your intentions are….” She paused, then smiled mischievously. “If they are as I suspect, soon I'll have no need to return to her service.” Her eyebrows arched to the silent question. To which he gently felt her breasts, then roughly flipped her onto her back, kissing her hard.

A soft knock resonated from across the room. “Lord Anglesea?” the butler inquired, his voice muffled through the thick wood door.

“What is it?” snapped Richard.

“M'lord, Captain Bailyn and Mr. Higgins are downstairs for ye.”

“Put them in the parlor. I'll be there directly.”

“Very well, m'lord.” The butler's footsteps faded away.

Richard huffed. “I must go.” He swung his feet off the bed.

Charity studied him as he dressed. She knew she was beautiful, tall and slim, similar to Mary in many ways. But could she be a gentlewoman, the wife of an Earl? She had served Mary since they were both fifteen, vicariously acquiring the habits and customs of polite society. In fact, Mary had kept her in such good dress that it was not unusual for Charity to be mistaken for gentility. But she wasn't. Her father had placed her in the Duke of Buckingham's service so she could help support her family. When Mary's mother died, Charity was there by Mary's side, supporting her. When the Duke then married Princess Catherine, who was the same age as Mary, the new Duchess took no time to expel Mary from Buckingham Palace. Charity left too, remaining the faithful lady-in-waiting to Mary. She had remained Mary's closest confidante ever since.

Nevertheless, Charity was lonely, having never married, having kept a hope kindled that a society gentleman would save her from a life of servitude. Years passed and no such gentleman came, only a few seedy requests for fanciful affairs which she usually accepted, hoping to massage them into more. Now it was Richard, the Earl of Anglesea. But this was different, she could sense it—he wanted to marry her. Didn't he? He needed a wife. And he was nothing like his hateful, dead brother, Arthur. Though she had disliked Arthur for being such a drunken monster, she had despised him more for never bedding her. God, and Mary too, knew Arthur had had many other women. So how was she that different from them, from Mary? What could Mary give a man that she could not? She was just as much a gentlewoman as Mary ever was, especially considering Mary's own vices. At least she had Richard now. He would elevate her to the same position Mary had held, till late. She smiled, watching him finish. Thank God for that coach on Bridge Street.

“You should get dressed,” he said. The snapping tone was back.

“I will,” she whispered as he left.

Richard hurried down the stairs and burst into the main parlor, finding Captain Bailyn and Patrick Higgins on opposite sides of the room, rising to their feet, hats in their hands.

“Did ye find him?” Richard demanded. “Tell me ye did.”

“Nay, yer lordship,” replied Bailyn. “Not a hair of the bastard.”

“Then ye're clearly not looking!” snarled Richard. “God damn ye both!”

“M'lord,” Higgins began, “we've kept a vigil at his mother's house and—”

“Blood and thunder! I told ye t' forget that. He won't be venturin' there. Not now.” Richard turned and began filling his pipe, then tamped the loose tobacco.

“Aye, m'lord, but—” Higgins began.

“Good then.” Using a tapered candle from the mantle, Richard lit his pipe, then exhaled a thick, aromatic cloud. “Where will ye look today?”

“St. Stephen's. College Green,” Captain Bailyn answered. “Likely places.”

“M'lord,” Higgins interjected. “If James is there, we….” His voice trailed away.

Bailyn grinned wickedly. “Higgs is afraid we can't shoot the lad in a common as easily as we can in an alley. Ach, witnesses ‘n all.”

“‘Tis easy enough,” Richard said. “Take him to the back of St. Stephen's. There are places where even a foxhound wouldn't find the lad's corpse. Where ye dumped the other fellow.”

“Aye, m'lord,” sneered Bailyn. “Man's still bathing in the creek.”

“Sire,” Higgins interrupted, “Regardless of where Bailyn has done such foul deeds before, this lad's body will be searched for. And mind ya, it will be found. A murder charge would see us all hanged.”

Richard shrugged, walking to the fireplace. Looking down at its cold ashes, he puffed his pipe. Blue smoke floated through the room.

Higgins continued, louder, “M'lord, it would be just as dangerous for yar neck.”

Richard remained silent, turning to Captain Bailyn, studying him. “What do ye think?”

Bailyn's mouth curled. “Let's just kill him somewhere else, then burn him.”

“Good Lord!” bellowed Higgins. “There are other means, with much less risk to all of us, m'lord. Have ya not considered to simply transport the lad?”

Bailyn chortled. “Boy-shagger Higgs is afraid he'll miss.” He clapped a hand on Higgins's shoulder. “Don't fret, lassy, I'll hold the bastard while ye run him through!”

“Ya're a horse's arse.” Higgins whipped around. “I won't be part of killin' the lad.”

“Getting a wee bit bold for a highwayman, aren't ye?” Richard sneered, slowly pouring himself a brandy. “Ye don't wish t'be swinging from the Tyburn tree.” Higgins moved to stare out of the window. Richard stepped behind him. “After ye and the honorable Captain Bailyn did such a fine job with my brother, ‘twould be easy to have ye shittin' yerself in the gallows.”

Turning slowly, Higgins looked directly into Richard's eyes. “I didn't know Bailyn was going to kill yar brother. I found him for ya, drunk at the Brazen Head. That was all.”

“Ah, but ye drove the coach!” declared Richard.

“I bloody well did not!” Higgins protested.

“Ah, let's not quibble the details.” Just then, at nearly half-past nine, the carillon bells of Richard's German clock began an unmercifully loud toll of the ten o'clock hour. Higgins took the shattering moment to gather his thoughts and to pull down his anger. He condemned himself to this walking prison the prior autumn, when he made the mistake of attempting to rob the wrong carriage—a handsome coach carrying Richard Annesley. Overpowered by Captain Bailyn and others, Higgins was taken to Kilmainham Jail, outside Dublin, where the gaol-magistrate was Richard's cousin. There he was given a bargain—to save his life he would have to sell his soul. Six months later he was now standing in Richard's parlor staring out into Anglesea Street, and he could see no end to the imprisonment. When the clock's bells finally stopped, he took a deep breath and asked again, “M'lord, let us transport him.”

“To the Colonies?” Richard laughed. “Sell him like a slave? Like you?” No response.

“Just let me shoot him, sire,” Captain Bailyn implored.

Richard laughed. “Which one?”

“Either one.” Bailyn grinned. “Higgs first, then the lad. Or the other way round.”

Higgins growled, “We'll put him on the next slave ship from Ringsend. Same as killing him. Ya'll never see him again.”

“And what if I do?” Richard tone was bone-cold.

“Then yar honorable Captain can kill him,” replied Higgins.

“Ney, I won't be needing Bailyn's services for that.” Richard stepped close to Higgins. “Both of ye. Get the lad. Indenture him. Transport him. All that's necessary. But, Mr. Higgins, mind you, if James returns to Ireland, or England, ‘twill be you that kills him. You!” He thumped Higgins's chest. “Ye'll squeeze his eyes out with yer thumbs and bring ‘em to me.”

Higgins turned to the door, grumbling, “‘Tis an ill bird that defiles its own nest.”

“Jacobite dribble. Go!” barked Richard. “Go before Bailyn makes sport of ye with his sword.” Higgins donned his hat, gathered his coat, and left.

Upstairs, Charity Heath was out of bed, half-dressed, sitting on the front edge of a heavy oak chair. She was leaning forward, frozen, listening to the men below. Intently poised. A cat over a rat in the floor.

Four days passed. Now the dark waters of the River Anna Liffey moved through another damp morning. It was Sunday and the array of brass church bells began clanging, rousing their flocks, summoning them. They were calling, like the harking screech of a falcon calls her young to follow, to stretch their fledgling wings, to engage their faith, to cling to hope, trusting the unseen air will hold them. Come to this church! they cried. Come all of you. Come trust that God is here. Come cling to the hope that only we can give you. Come now!

Jemmy was listening, but not moving. He was crouched behind a pillar supporting Ormonde Quay, waiting for Seán, watching the boats plying the river, his stomach growling angrily. He could see light traffic on Essex Bridge above him. Perhaps he should run, he reasoned. This morning. On his thirteenth birthday. The day he was born, so he'd been told, there came a solar eclipse—a day of promise. Or foreboding? He remembered the coldness of the full eclipse three years prior. It had harkened his mother leaving. Today felt the same somehow, an eerie coldness, a darkness, though the bright of day was upon them all. It was a good day to go, to leave Dublin. It would be his gift to himself. But go where? He pictured his mother. Why hadn't she sent for him? What about Fynn and Juggy and Seán? Could he simply leave them? He must. If only. Glancing back at the stream of people and horses crossing the bridge, he noticed a woman riding in a small cart—she was society, with a large, elegant hat atop her head. He recognized her. Something familiar. In that instant he knew her—his mother! He was certain! He scrambled up the steep steps, raced around the bridgehead, turning, tearing through the moving masses of horses, carts, carriages and people. The cart was already off Essex Bridge, moving south. Now he could see two women on the open bench behind the driver. One was his mother, the other one, the one wearing the bonnet, must be Charity. Heart pounding, he broke into a sprint. “Mother! Charity!” he yelled. Neither woman turned.

“Jemmy!” Suddenly there was Seán stepping into his path. Jemmy dodged past him and kept running. “Jemmy! Stop!” screamed Seán. “Da's lookin' for ye!” Jemmy ignored him, running as fast as he could on the crowded road. The cart turned left on Dame Street, directly abreast Dublin Castle. He sprinted blindly, knocking down two men with a sideboard, scattering chickens in the road. Finally, he rounded the corner where he had seen her turn. He slowed, panting. She was gone. Dejected, he walked into College Green and plopped on the pedestal of King William III's statue, the grand man riding high on a noble steed. Within seconds Seán came to him, deflating beside him. They were quiet for a while, just sitting, catching their breaths.

“I'm tired of running after ye,” grumbled Seán.

“I saw her,” said Jemmy.

“Don't think ‘twas yer mum. She—”

“‘Twas!” Jemmy blurted, “I know it!” He shoved Seán off the pedestal.

“All right!” Seán shrugged, standing. “As ye say. Ye win, today. She was yer mum. She was anyone. She was yer fairy godmother.”

Jemmy sprang up, fist clenched. He slammed Seán backwards. “I'll bust your teeth Seán if you say more!. You don't know her.”

Though evenly built with Seán, Jemmy had a bulldog's thickness to his bones. An unexpected strength matched with a simmering temper. But Seán was a better aim, and given the opportunity to fight back with a rock missile, Seán was the usual victor, or at least could keep Jemmy at bay till he stopped foaming. Today was different. Everything was different. So Seán just stood, in no mood to tangle with Jemmy. He stepped back, feigning a sudden interest in the looming statue. “I thought the O'Malleys were gonna pull this English bastard down.”

Jemmy shrugged. He was from a long line of those “English bastards” and they both knew it. But Seán didn't care, and though Jemmy didn't acknowledge it, he could not find the courage to defame the English peerage out loud. It was always there, part of him, yet not. A lingering illness. A smell not to be washed away. His father had been the Sixth Earl of Anglesea—and didn't that make him the Seventh? Or since his shite-uncle Richard claimed it, if he got it back, would that make him the Eighth? He was steeped in the smell of peerage. Even on his mother's side, his grandfather was a Duke, living in Buckingham Palace in London (he had seen a painting of it) and was counselor to kings and queens—even been counsel to this king, King William III, under whose horse's massive marble cock he was now sitting.

Suddenly Seán announced, “Richard's shaggin' yer mum's lady.”

Jemmy glanced up, his eyebrows peaked. “Charity?”

“That's not the worst of it. No.” He sat again and waited for Jemmy to nudge him on.

“Aye?” Jemmy huffed.

“Yer uncle….”

“What of him?”

“He has a mind t' sell ye. T' transport ye t' the Colonies.”

“Who told ye that?”

“A Scot.” Seán gestured to the south. “A coffin maker on Cook. Told me t'warn ye.”

Jemmy nodded, eyes wide. “I must be gone, Seán.”

“Not yet ye don't. There's a barn, a loft in the Frapper Stables that ye—”

“Lads!” Fynn Kennedy called from Dame Street, driving a wagon toward them.

“Shite!” groaned Jemmy, getting to his feet.

“I told ye. He's been lookin' for ye,” said Seán.

Fynn stopped the team. “Come here. Both of ye!” Jemmy trailed Seán to the street. He could see Fynn's eyes darting from one passerby to another. “Climb in,” Fynn ordered. “Keep yer head down, Seámus.”

“Aye, sir,” both boys said together, pulling themselves into the wagon and hunkering below the rails. The horses started moving, bumping the wagon along. Fynn kept them at an even clomp for awhile, along the mile back to Purcell's shop.

“Seán,” Fynn began, “have ye solved my riddle? As I inquired of ye yesterday?”

“What riddle, Da?”

“Faith, lad! Can't ye remember? Lil' Jennie Whiteface has a red nose. The longer she lives, the shorter she grows.” Fynn glanced back at the boys. “So lads, who is she? Eh?”

“A red-beaked warbler?” Seán guessed.

“Ach, Seán, ye're not trying. Birds grow shorter as they age, do they?” Several men walked close to the wagon and Fynn let them pass. “Seámus, what do ye think?” Jemmy didn't answer. “By japers lad! Are ye of the hearin'?”

“Aye, Mr. Kennedy, I hear ye,” Jemmy drolly replied. “But I don't know.”

“Humph! Well, maybe ye'll think on it,” said Fynn, furrowing his brow.

As they stopped in front of the butcher's shop, Juggy rushed out. “Fynn, have ye seen—”

Fynn motioned with his head. “Seán. Seámus. Out with ye.” They scrambled to ground.

“Jemmy? Seán?” She was half-smiling. “Where were ya Jemmy? And on yar birthday! Ya had us worried!”

Jemmy lowered his chin. “I'm sorry. I—”

“Seán,” she interrupted, “lend a hand to Mr. Purcell. I must speak with Jemmy.” Seán hesitated, staring at Jemmy as if looking at the condemned. “Go on! Shoo lad!” Juggy insisted with the brush of her hand. “He'll be along shortly.” After Seán disappeared inside, Juggy took Jemmy's arm and led him to the bench on the shop's stoop. “Will ya sit with me?”

“Aye, ma'am,” replied Jemmy, sitting. But she remained standing. He glanced up, seeing her holding a long object wrapped in brown cloth.

She gestured toward his cheek. “Never forget who gave ya that scar, lad. Understand me?”

“Aye, ma'am,” he replied, confused by its mention.

She moved closer, tears welling in her eyes. “I want ya to have this, in honor of yar day.”

“What is it?” he murmured, taking the object. It was heavy, narrow, about the length of a man's foot. His heart raced as he quickly unwound the dark-brown linen. Then his mouth fell open. Lying across his knees was the most magnificent dirk he had ever seen—gleaming brass hilt, richly oiled sheath. The dagger's pommel was an intricate acorn, the grip widening at the blade, forming a guard etched with ribbons. Grasping the hilt, he drew it from the sheath. The blade was single-edged with a thick spine of inlaid brass. Running two fingers down the leading edge, ever so lightly, he felt the deadly sharpness, then traced an engraving along the blood groove. “
Léargas sa Dorchadas
.” He read the Gaelic aloud, then translated it, “Sight in the Dark.”

Juggy was now beside him. “‘Twas my father's.” She dabbed her eyes with a cloth and took a deep breath. “I want ya to have it. Please take it. But do be careful with it.”

“Thank ye,” he said, carefully resheathing it. “‘Tis a marvelous thing.”

“Aye. As ya are t'me.” She placed a hand on his knee. Tears returning, she looked away. “I must go in,” she said, standing. ‘Happy birthday, son. Ya'll keep it safe?”

“Aye. I will,” he said, standing with her. “Thank you.” He watched her go.

Juggy hurried inside Purcell's, through a rack of hanging hare, past a customer thumping pork sides, and then silently by John Purcell and Seán slicing herring near the back. She sat on the stairs leading to the living quarters above and closed her eyes. She prayed Jemmy would be safe. When Fynn came, wrapping her in his big arms, she leaned into him and opened her eyes. Through the open storefront, she could see Jemmy on the bench near the street, studying the dirk. To her, Jemmy was everything. The son she never had.

“Do ya think his scar will go away?” she asked softly.

“No,” Fynn replied.

“I wish something could be done,” she murmured. “That boy has such a beautiful face.” As a Scottish orphan, Juggy, Joan Mackercher, had survived by toiling in the fields and sweltering kitchens of strangers. At sixteen, with her youthful beauty in full blossom, she traveled to York in the service of her betters. There, John Sheffield, the First Duke of Buckingham, noticed her, abruptly declaring Buckingham Palace in need of another linen maid. And so Juggy, then Joan Landy, served the Duke until May of 1706, when the Duke's only child, Mary, was married off to Arthur Annesley, the Sixth Earl of Anglesea. At that time the Duke remarried, and his new wife quickly unburdened her new husband of the temptations of an attractive and young female staff. Thus Juggy (along with Mary's lady-in-waiting, Charity Heath) was carted to the southern coast of Ireland, joining the Annesley staff at Dunmain, near the towns of Waterford and New Ross. Among Arthur's most notable servants was Fynn Kennedy, his stablemaster. Fynn's wife, Margaret, became fast friends with Juggy, helping her settle into her new Irish home. They had giggled and wept together, worked side by side, shared intimate secrets.

Within a year, Lady Anglesea became pregnant. About that time, Margaret's and Juggy's bellies also began swelling. Juggy heard the women whispering about her unmarried condition. The men leered, calling her Juggy, claiming to have “shagged the Scottish wench.” She ignored them. Having endured such banalities for most of her years, these were no different. And so that winter Mary was carrying Jemmy, Margaret was pregnant with Seán, and Juggy was to have an illegitimate baby boy, whom she would name Daniel, in honor of her brother.

Though Juggy rarely saw her brother, Daniel Mackercher, she loved him intensely. They had been separated when she was ten, seven years after their parents and six other siblings died in a wave of typhus that had rushed through the Scottish Highlands. She had only seen him twice since, once in Dublin, once in New Ross, and both visits had been wonderful. After serving in the Scottish military, Daniel trained as a barrister and had recently offered his sister employment in Edinburgh—an offer she might have accepted had he asked during her dark years at Dunmain. But now she was pledged to Fynn. She belonged in Ireland, with him. Wherever life would take them. All the same, nothing thrilled her more than a letter from Daniel. Each time, no matter what she was doing, she would find Fynn, sit in a quiet place with her eyes closed, listening to Daniel's soothing, transporting words.

When Juggy gave birth to the baby, Daniel, few around Dunmain House took notice, except when nursing kept Juggy from her household duties. The attention remained on the upcoming birth of the Anglesea heir. And thus it was with little mourning that Juggy's three-week-old baby became ill and died. Juggy was destroyed. Only the Kennedys comforted her, cared for her. Then on April 25, 1715, blanketed by a celebrated eclipse, Mary gave birth to young Master James Annesley. At the grand celebration, Arthur stood imperiously and announced Juggy would wet nurse the young heir as fate had so blessed her with “bursting breasts from the recent loss of her child.” Within days a coach road was built from Dunmain House to Juggy's little cottage, allowing Her Ladyship to comfortably travel the half-mile to visit her infant boy. Meanwhile a glass window was installed, the thatched roof repaired, and a magnificent carved bed brought for the child-heir. As Juggy's smelly hay bed remained, along with her flimsy chair and table, she was directed to only nurse the child by the fire, near his bed.