Page 36

Chapter 35

‘There he is!’

Gus waved frantically as Jack came into view further down the docks, and Cormac raised his own arm in enthusiastic greeting, elated to see his eldest boy again. Jack picked up his pace, trotting forwards until he was almost running to reach them. They embraced in a three-way hug, beaming. Gus, of course, launched into his patter right away.

‘Ma, Emily and Rory have already boarded the ship with Polly, Jennie and Mr Varley. Just wait until I tell you what happened!’ He drew in a breath – it had taken four months to shake the worst of his February cold, but his voice had mostly settled back to its usual wheezy state. ‘We finally solved the mystery of the flickering light in the fields! Ettie Cobb thought it might be smugglers, but her nan said it could be the spirit of a local farmhand who lost a flock of sheep in a bad storm and kept searching for them until the day he died. I reckoned that was the strongest theory, so Mr Comerford and I lay in wait to see if we could spot the light, and when it appeared I swear to God I felt the air get colder like we were in the presence of a ghost, only guess who it turned out to be?’ He paused dramatically, giving Jack time to adopt a look of avid anticipation. ‘It was one of the tenants, Harry Barnes! He’s been sleepwalking, going back and forth across the fields at night with a lantern!’

‘You don’t say!’ Jack replied.

‘Mr Comerford helped Harry’s wife put a lock on their door so he won’t wander off anymore.’ Gus bounced on his toes. ‘I think it’s still worth investigating the background of the farmhand, though. For all we know, he could be roaming restlessly too, trying to figure out what happened to his poor sheep. I’ll look into it as soon as we get back from Oakleigh.’

‘Good idea,’ Jack said, nodding seriously. ‘It’s definitely worth investigating further.’

Cormac stared at him in astonishment. A small smile was playing at the corner of the lad’s mouth; he was clearly only humouring Gus. When had he stopped believing in ghosts? Had he guessed that Mr Comerford had roped Harry Barnes into performing the role of the sleepwalker? Perhaps Jack’s year away at school had accelerated his maturity beyond what they had anticipated, with the unsought consequence of widening the gap between him and his brother. He seemed to be crossing the threshold into adulthood right before Cormac’s eyes.

But there were other signs of that as well. Jack had been capable enough to travel alone from Scotland at the end of the school term, meeting the family in Liverpool before they sailed to Ireland. He wasn’t shaving yet, and yet a slight thickening of the hairs on his upper lip and jaw line indicated that he couldn’t be far off it. A strange mixture of pride and loss settled in Cormac’s chest.

‘All went well over the final term?’ he asked.

‘Yes. The school will post out the results from my summer examinations, but Mr Cameron said he already had a quick glance and I’ve nothing to be worried about.’

‘Well done, lad,’ Cormac said warmly. ‘And, uh, any cause to mention Jasper?’

‘No,’ Jack said, a touch wearily. ‘You don’t need to keep asking me that.’

‘I just want to be sure—’

‘Everything’s fine, Da,’ Jack interrupted with a somewhat brittle smile. ‘I promise.’

Cormac let it go, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that his son had just lied to him for the first time in his life.

When they boarded the ship, they discovered that Emily and Rory had already gone below deck so that Emily could endure the misery of the sea crossing in the privacy of their cabin; she would have a long night ahead of her. After Jack shared an affectionate reunion with his mother, he and Gus headed off to explore the vessel before twilight set in. There was a sheen in Bridget’s eyes as she watched them go.

‘Whole again,’ she said softly, and Cormac understood exactly what she meant.

They began to stroll along the deck as the ship moved away from the docks. Cormac felt giddy like a child; when they next stood on land, it would be Irish soil and they would be another step closer to Oakleigh and to their wedding day. It was all falling into place: the bishop had granted the dispensation, St Canice’s had been confirmed as the venue, and the staff at Oakleigh were preparing for the upcoming celebration with the joy of those who had been too long deprived of a reason to be happy. This would be a summer to remember.

‘Are you sure the crew loaded Jack’s school trunk?’ Bridget asked.

Cormac nodded. ‘The hackney he hired at the railway station brought it directly to the wharf. I watched them take it aboard myself.’

‘We will have a great deal of luggage to collect when we disembark,’ she remarked.

His lips twitched, but he elected not to comment on the excess baggage she had decided to bring. ‘I’ll brief Varley—he’ll see to it that none of our belongings get lost in the chaos of unloading.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘Why won’t you see to it yourself?’

He hesitated. ‘I’m hoping to make a slight detour before we travel on from Dublin.’

She contemplated him for a moment. ‘You mean to visit Henrietta.’

‘I do,’ he said, matching the evenness of her tone with his own.

She turned her head away to gaze out over the ship’s gunwale. He waited uneasily for her to decide upon her response, conscious that this conversation had been in the offing for a while.

At length, she looked back at him, her expression pained. ‘The last thing I desire is to create friction between us. Nevertheless, I feel compelled to express my discomfort regarding this situation.’

He didn’t like that she referred to Henrietta as a ‘situation’, but he couldn’t blame her. The circumstances were so very complicated.

‘You can be honest with me,’ he said. ‘And I’ll be the same.’

She sighed and stopped to grasp the gunwale with both of her gloved hands. He halted on her left and faced her so that her countenance was in profile.

‘I realise that I must come across as a jealous lover,’ she said, ‘and I suppose that is what I am. It’s just that it upsets me how much you care for a girl who isn’t our daughter but the daughter of a woman who shared an experience with you that I wish had been mine alone. I know it’s irrational, of course—when that happened, neither of us expected to ever find our way back to each other. And after all, I also shared a bed with another.’

He was glad she pointed that out because otherwise her line of reasoning would have felt rather unjust.

She pursed her lips. ‘But you’ve had many opportunities to leave Henrietta, and her mother, in the past, and yet at sporadic intervals you bring her back into our lives, sometimes against her will. Granted, I went to seek her on one occasion, but only because I knew you would want me to. Why must we revive this connection every time we go to Dublin? It seems like she is an afterthought that only crosses our minds when we are reminded of her by happenstance.’

He swallowed. ‘I appreciate how you might perceive it that way, but she’s not an afterthought to me. I’ve maintained regular correspondence with Mr Dunhill since we discovered Henrietta’s whereabouts at the Theatre Royal, and I’ve been sending intermittent packages to her, even though she can’t—or chooses not to—write back.’

Bridget looked shocked. ‘What have you been sending her? Why didn’t you tell me this?’

‘Sheet music, for the most part,’ he replied, trying and failing to repress his guilt. ‘I didn’t purposely conceal this—in fact, I told Emily about it once. But I suppose I didn’t declare it too loudly either, probably in an effort to avoid this very confrontation.’

‘And why did you want to avoid it?’ she challenged. ‘What did you not wish to admit?’

He winced, knowing that she would have no desire to hear this. Still, he had promised honesty. ‘That, God help me, I do regard her as another daughter. I’ve endeavoured not to, and I understand how it must pain you, but I can’t seem to stifle these feelings.’

Bridget was silent. The scar on her cheek tightened, suggesting that she was clenching her jaw quite hard. He wanted to touch her, but he held himself back.

‘Mr Dunhill has sent me handbills from the theatre’s performances since it reopened after the riot. I’ve experienced an absurd amount of paternal pride in learning that Henrietta has publicly performed some of the songs I gifted her.’ He exhaled dispiritedly. ‘I’m sorry.’

Bridget turned to him. He was prepared for her resentment, perhaps even her anger, but not for the rueful smile that curved her mouth.

‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘You can’t help how big your heart is. It would be like apologising for the colour of your hair or your eyes. You have a capacity for compassion and love that is sometimes hard to fathom. Maybe I’m envious that I must share it with so many others, but I can also recognise that you have enough for us all.’ She paused. ‘I’m convinced that, had he lived, you would have adored James like he was your own son, regardless of who his father was.’

‘Of course I would have,’ he said with absolute sincerity.

‘And the truth is I love you all the more for being such a generous, kind-hearted man—even towards Henrietta, despite the fact that she has not offered you the same affection in return. I think that is often the fate of a parent, to cherish their child more than their child cherishes them. At least, until the child becomes a parent themselves and truly comprehends what it means to love unconditionally.’

He pressed his lips together as her words resonated deeply. ‘I’ve been careful not to place any conditions or expectations on Henrietta. She’s had a difficult life and has every reason to be wary of others, including myself. I’ll give her all I can and continue to be content with whatever she’s willing to give in return.’

‘That’s as much as you can ask of her,’ said Bridget. ‘And you have not asked too much of me. You have my blessing to go see her when we dock, and in the future too.’

She lifted her hand and grazed the back of her gloved fingers against his cheek.

They didn’t speak of Henrietta again, but the candid exchange – and the relief it brought – made Cormac’s step even lighter when the ship docked in Dublin early the next morning and the family disembarked, setting foot on Irish soil once more. After relaying instructions about the luggage to Mr Varley, and reiterating them to Rory in case the aging valet missed anything, he gave Bridget a swift kiss and hurried away from the docks.

Upon reaching Hawkins Street, he found the Theatre Royal utterly still and silent. That made sense; it wouldn’t stir into life until the next performance that evening. What alarmed him was the great bill plastered to the front door proclaiming an alteration to the listing of performers that month: ‘The Theatre Royal regrets to announce that Angelica, the girl with the voice of an angel, will not appear on stage during June. In her place will be the stunningly talented…’

He didn’t bother to read the rest of it. His insides coiled with apprehension. What had happened to Henrietta?

He tried the door of the theatre, expecting it to be locked, but it opened easily. When he stepped inside, he discovered a stooped woman with a long-handled brush in the lobby, sweeping up discarded handbills, ticket stubs and other bits of detritus left behind by the previous night’s audience. She jumped at his appearance.

‘My apologies for intruding,’ he said at once with a quick bow. ‘I’m looking for Mr Dunhill.’

Even as he said it, he realised that the theatre manager was likely at his home on Frederick Street, given the time of day, but then the woman nodded.

‘He’s up in his office,’ she said in a thick Dublin accent. ‘Although he’s sure to be asleep at this hour.’

‘We have a scheduled appointment,’ Cormac lied smoothly. ‘He’ll be expecting me, so I’ll just head on up.’

She shrugged and went back to her sweeping. He strode across the lobby to the inconspicuous door that led backstage and let himself through it. As he climbed the stairs, he wondered whether Henrietta might be sleeping in her dressing room, but when he reached the door with the nameplate ‘Angelica’, he found it ajar and the dim room within empty. There were no blankets on the cot, while a few roses lay abandoned on the dressing table, their petals faded and withered. The air held no trace of fresh perfume and only a single pair of wings hung from the otherwise bare costume rail.

Misgivings rapidly mounting, he charged along the corridor to Mr Dunhill’s office and didn’t pause before banging on the closed door. He heard a yelp in response and decided he would wait no more than five seconds until he barged right in. If he discovered Henrietta in there with the theatre manager, he would wring the bastard’s neck.

On the fourth second, he perceived muffled footsteps, and on the fifth, the door opened and Mr Dunhill peered out blearily wearing just a shirt and trousers. He squinted and then his eyes sprang wide.

‘M-Mr McGovern?’ he stammered, his round face full of shock. ‘What brings you here, and at this ungodly hour of the morning?’

‘We need to speak. May I come in?’ Cormac demanded in a way that sounded like an order rather than a request. If the man refused him entry, that would all but confirm that something untoward had been going on behind the door.

Mr Dunhill faltered before stepping back. Cormac marched into the office…and found it as empty as Henrietta’s dressing room. By the light of a high, small window, he could make out a rickety desk covered in ledgers, handbills and receipts, with a creased waistcoat and cravat tossed carelessly over them. Next to the desk stood a large cabinet, its open doors revealing haphazard stacks of props, while a low cot lay opposite with rumpled blankets and a flattened pillow. The air had a stuffy, sleep-laden quality to it and, after a discreet glance behind the door, Cormac could tell that there wasn’t a single place where Henrietta could be hiding. Mr Dunhill had definitely been sleeping alone.

Though somewhat abashed, Cormac didn’t show it as he turned to the befuddled theatre manager.

‘I saw the bill on the door of the theatre,’ he said tersely. ‘Why isn’t Hen—Angelica performing this month? What’s happened to her?’

Mr Dunhill’s expression cleared with understanding and became morose. ‘Ah, yes. Most regrettable. The poor girl. She’s not well.’

‘In what way?’ Cormac nearly barked, wishing the man would get to the point.

‘Such unfortunate luck,’ Mr Dunhill said, shaking his head. ‘She’s taken ill with typhus.’

Cormac gaped, his alarm rising further. ‘Is her life in danger?’

‘I don’t believe so, although it’s made her very sick and weak. The rash and fever have been quite severe, and of course the coughing has extinguished her singing voice, although I do hope that will only be temporary.’

Cormac gritted his teeth. ‘How did she catch it?’

Mr Dunhill rubbed sleep from his eyes. ‘It’s rampant in the city at present with the flood of refugees from the countryside. I suspect the costumier may have passed it on when she came to measure Angelica for new wings, as I heard afterwards that she’d also been struck down with it. I’m lucky it didn’t spread to the rest of the performers or my theatre would have been ruined. Again.’ His gaze darkened.

‘Where is she?’ Cormac demanded. ‘I want to see her.’

Mr Dunhill looked horrified. ‘Mr McGovern, no, I cannot allow that! Only imagine if you caught it off her—that would be disastrous.’

That made Cormac pause. The last thing he wanted was to transmit the disease to any of his family; he could easily envision the havoc it would wreak on Gus’s lungs in particular.

‘Tell me where she is, at least,’ he said, his tone clipped.

‘She’s at Frederick Street. My wife is taking good care of her. We sent our daughters to stay with her sister, and she has barred the door to prevent anyone from going in or out. Hence why I am currently sleeping in my office.’ Mr Dunhill raised his arms in a helpless gesture. ‘The show must go on.’

Cormac chewed the inside of his cheek. ‘And you’re certain she’s not at great risk?’

‘I truly hope not—the long-term loss in ticket sales would be shattering.’ At Cormac’s glare, Mr Dunhill hastened on, ‘But naturally my angel’s health is the most important priority. We are all praying for her swift recovery.’

Cormac kept his expression stony. ‘Don’t push her back onto the stage too soon. Give her enough time to recuperate fully.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Mr Dunhill said quickly.

Cormac ran a hand over his jaw, which was bristly after the overnight crossing. ‘Is there any help I can provide to aid her convalescence? Do you require money for medicine?’

Mr Dunhill hesitated. ‘That’s very generous of you. However, the doctor said all we can do is let the fever run its course. She just needs to rest.’

He sent a hopeful glance towards the door, but Cormac crossed his arms.

‘Why didn’t you notify me about this? You’re aware of my concern for her welfare—you ought to have written as soon as she fell ill.’

‘I’m almost certain I wrote you a letter,’ Mr Dunhill said with a frown, starting to rummage around the debris on his desk. He unearthed a crumpled page from beneath a mound of receipts. ‘Ah, here it is,’ he said with a wince.

Looking over the man’s shoulder, Cormac could see that the page contained only the words ‘Dear Mr McGovern’.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Mr Dunhill bleated. ‘It must have slipped my mind. It’s been a stressful time, you understand.’

Cormac suspected he was referring to the toll that Henrietta’s absence had incurred on his theatre, rather than his distress over the girl’s wellbeing. He took the page from Mr Dunhill’s unresisting fingers, fished a pencil out from among a pile of handbills and wrote on it.

‘This is the address where I’ll be staying in Carlow for the time being. Please ensure you write to me if her condition worsens by any degree. I’ll travel back up to Dublin next month in the hope that she’ll be well enough to receive visitors by then.’

He would wait until after the wedding, just to be cautious. Bridget had been remarkably understanding about Henrietta, but there were limits to even her patience – postponing their wedding because he had contracted typhus from Henrietta would surely test them to breaking point.

After receiving fervent assurances from Mr Dunhill that he would write to Carlow with any significant news, Cormac left the office and made his way back down to the lobby where the stooped woman and the rubbish on the floor had disappeared. He emerged from the silent theatre onto the footpath and immediately advanced in the direction of Frederick Street. When he located Mr Dunhill’s house, the address of which he knew from their correspondence, he halted on the opposite side of the street and observed the tall, narrow building. Like the theatre, there was no sign of movement, and its lower windows were tightly shuttered. He pictured Henrietta curled up on a bed within, twisting in the throes of her fever, and his fingers itched to stroke her hair back from her face and tuck the blankets more closely around her, no matter if his only reward would be another rebuff.

‘Feel better soon, a éan ceoil ,’ he murmured.

His songbird.