Miss Emily (10 page)

She stops, and we set down the basket. “Mrs. Dickinson is called Emily, too? Well, my goodness, I never knew that.” She shakes her head. “It certainly gives the lie to the name suiting the wearer.”

“I can't imagine what you mean,” I say, but I elbow her in the side, to let her know that her meaning is very clear to me.

We stack the jars of quince and go back up to the kitchen. Ada moves slowly and stops often to take a moment of reverie. I sit at the table and watch her adding sticks to the stove. She squats, feeding twigs one by one, watching them crackle and flame.

“What is it, Ada?”

She sits back on her hunkers. “Miss Emily, how well you know me. I'm glum in myself.”

“It is hard to lose a beloved relative.”

“Well, it's not only that, miss. Father Sullivan says I've to leave my uncle's house in Kelley Square, and my cousin Annie says she can't take me in—with her brood of children there isn't the room. And I feel terrible about leaving Uncle Michael alone anyway. He's turned inside out since Auntie Mary died.”

“And must you obey this Father Sullivan?”

She looks up at me with moon eyes. “Yes, miss. Him
and
Cousin Maggie, who started this whole palaver, as you know.”

“But you will come and live here, Ada. You may occupy Margaret O'Brien's old quarters.”

“Mrs. Dickinson won't agree to that, surely? No doubt she likes having her house back to herself and the family.”

“Don't worry about her, or Father.”

Ada snaps a few more sticks and pushes them into the blaze. “I wasn't looking for that, miss, you know. It never occurred to me.”

“I know, my Emerald Ada. I will speak to my parents, and all will be well.”

“You're awful good to me, Miss Emily,” she says.

“Think nothing of it.”

Ada grins, rubs her hands briskly and looks around to see what work to tackle next.

Miss Ada Walks Out with a Man

M
ISS
E
MILY HELPED ME ARRANGE THINGS IN MY BEDROOM AS IF
I were a valued guest, furnishing me with enough candles for a year and a brass bedside holder with its own snuffer cap. I didn't like to tell her that Uncle Michael had gifted me an oil lamp of Auntie Mary's; the candles would do if I ran out of oil. She heaped rugs and coverlets on my bed.

“Against the drafts. The windows can be whistly in this room. I don't want cold to bother you.” She looked around, satisfied with her help. “Ada, I hope you will be more than comfortable here.”

“I will, miss, I feel settled already.”

Miss Emily pulls people toward her; that's the type she is—she blankets them in her friendship. She and Miss Susan let me hold Martha, the new baby. The gorgeous feel of the little one seemed to fill me up and open me out. I was surprised to find Miss Susan visiting so soon after the confinement, but it seems the pair of them would do anything for each other. Mr. Austin and his wife may be more burdensome to wait on than the other Dickinsons, but they are certainly fond of Miss Emily and always go out of their way for her. And they produce gorgeous children; Little Ned is a star of a child, and Miss Martha is as placid a babe as any mother could hope for. I held her and allowed my mind to conjure thoughts of babies of my own.

I am seated on a stool that Miss Vinnie gave me from her room for my bedroom—“For lacing your boots,” she said. The family have been nothing but kind since I moved here, and the Homestead's bright, familiar rooms seem to welcome me as an old friend. Uncle Michael was upset when I left Kelley Square, and I was, too, but we both knew I had to leave; we couldn't go against Father Sullivan, whatever about Maggie. I miss Uncle's daily company, but there is a privacy in this house that I enjoy. For the first time ever, I am on my own; I do not have the crutch of family to hold me up. And I like the powerful feeling that gives me—it brings a rare contentment.

Boots laced, I go down the front stairs and dip out through the conservatory; I see Daniel Byrne ambling up from the orchard. He stops for a moment, then comes along toward me. I pull my shawl tight around my neck against the cold.

“Hello, Ada,” he says, smiling.

“Daniel. There you are.” He stands before me and shuffles his feet. “Were you down boxing the fox?” I tease. “Should I search your pockets for Dickinson apples?”

“Sure there isn't an apple left below,” he says, grinning. I get a picture of him in my mind, up a tree as a boy, filling his rolled-up shirt with stolen apples and sneaking away somewhere to crunch on them until his stomach groans. Daniel holds up a ragged rug. “I'm going to drape this around the pump, to stop it freezing.”

“That would be a help to me. It's a curse when the water goes to ice.” The low winter sun makes his hair glow. “Well, I'd better be getting on.” I make to go back to the kitchen. “The meat and chestnuts won't roast themselves.”

“Ada, would you be at all interested in going to the circus with
me? The Van Amburgh will be on the common from Friday, and it's meant to be a spectacle.”

“I heard that, all right.”

“Have you heard the song?” He pulls himself up straight and begins to chant:

“‘Van Amburgh is the man, who goes to all the shows,

He goes into the lion's cage, and tells you all he knows;

He sticks his head in the lion's mouth, and keeps it there awhile,

And when he pulls it out again, he greets you with a smile.' ”

I giggle and clap, surprised by his boldness, surprised that he knows such a song at all. Daniel bows.

“Does your man really put his head in the lion's mouth?” I ask.

“I have no clue. Why don't we go along and see?”

“I'll have to ask Mrs. Dickinson about finishing early on Friday.”

“Well, let me know. I'll be around the yard all this week.” Daniel tips his cap and strolls away.

I examine the gait of his long body as he saunters off toward the barn. He is a manly man, no doubt about it. I smile to myself, thinking he must know that I am watching him go, that I am taking him in. I wait until he is inside the barn before I dip back into the house to be welcomed by the kitchen's pleasant heat.

The night is biting. The New England cold is not at all like the cold in Dublin; it is sharper and meaner altogether. Earlier the rags I
washed and pinned froze on the clothesline; they hung, stiff little flags, waving dully, the very opposite of summer bunting. How forlorn the rags looked after all my work to make them usable again.

But it is not washing or work of any kind I want to think of now, ambling up Main Street beside Daniel, in the thick of the throng that makes for the common and Van Amburgh's tent. A drone of voices drifts above the crowd; people seem excited, a little anxious, maybe. I have my Navarino bonnet on and some old kid gloves of Miss Emily's—she said my woolen mittens were too coarse for walking out with a man. I look up at Daniel; he is handsome in that Irish way—he has a bit of a jaw on him, but that is balanced out by good, even features and generous hair. It occurs to me that Mammy would like him, and the thought pleases me.

Mrs. Dickinson gave me a talk this morning, summoning me to her bedroom for all two minutes of it. Her room—if possible— is even sparser than my own, with little more than bed and bureau. I stood a long time waiting for her to speak; I wondered if she expected me to divine what was on her mind.

“Rouge spoils the complexion,” she said at last. “Don't wear any.” She stared at me, and I stared at the tallow of her bedside candle, which was running. I wanted to pinch the wick or blow out the flame, to stem the flow. “Only vulgar women paint themselves,” she said. And then, “You may leave.”

It wasn't in my plan to wear rouge—it makes girls look wanton, I think—but after she spoke to me I felt like going down to Cutler's to buy a pot. Just for pig iron. But I wasn't sure that Daniel would like to see me painted up, so I didn't.

Daniel puts his hand to my back now to guide me into the circus tent. Truth be told, I am wary, though it takes a bit to scare
me. The place is dim, and it stinks of dirty straw and manure. The men are rowdy, shouting to one another; the women are quiet, looking at everything. An Irish lad I recognize from about the town lunges in front of us. He is a tall chap, well made, and he grins a lot.

“There you are, miss,” he says to me.

“Hello.”

“Don't get caught up in that Danny Byrne's capers, miss,” he says. “You'll be sorry.”

“I can mind myself.”

“I'd say you can, all right. Is it the Dickinsons you do for? I thought I saw you around their place.” He offers me his hand. “Patrick Crohan.”

“Ada Concannon.” I hold out my hand, and he squeezes it warmly. “Yes, I work for the Squire and his family.”

Daniel steps forward. “Will you go away out of that, Crohan. Can't you see she's with me? Find a girl for yourself.”

“We're only talking, Byrne.”

“Well, take your talk elsewhere. Come on, Ada.”

“Go on, you go-boy!” Crohan roars, though he is standing right beside us.

“I'll lace you, Crohan, if you don't stop,” Daniel says. Then, to me, “Don't mind him, Ada.” He steers me up the wooden stairs to take our seats.

“I wasn't minding him. He seems all right. Who is he?”

“Nobody,” Daniel says. “Well, I work for his uncle.”

I look back, and Crohan is watching us go; the crowd streams around him. He waves and grins, and I smile at him. Daniel and I sit, and a small orchestra starts a rousing beat. A parade of women troops into the ring; they are half dressed in spangles and
fur, and some of the men whistle and call to them. The women bend their bodies back like bridges and flick their legs over their heads; they turn cartwheels around the floor. They go on and on with this until I am mesmerized by their elastic grace and by the music; their skin gleams in the light. The women have hard faces and hard bodies. The way they dance makes me wonder about their lives—if they ever do ordinary things, like bake bread or scrub steps, or if their whole day is about tumbling, twirling and putting on costumes.

The music hurtles on—the same lively tune over and over— and the women dance out through the curtains. In trots a tiny pony, a child-size fella who is not much bigger than a lamb.

“My God, look at that pony. What a scut,” I say, relieved that the women with their bare, flashing legs have disappeared.

“It's from South America,” Daniel says, and there is a giddiness in his voice. He leans up out of his seat to get a better view. “And it's a horse, Ada. Not a pony at all. A horse!”

He ripples with energy, and I enjoy watching his excitement. The curtain opens, and three more teeny horses trip out into the ring. The circus master cracks a whip, and they run around, tossing their long manes from their eyes.

When the horses leave, a troop of clowns trick-act their way through mishaps involving chairs and buckets and water. My cheeks ache from laughing, and we all pound our feet for more when the clowns bounce and roll through the back curtain.