Brigid the Girl from County Clare Read online

  Urging his mare, Meg, forward he’d positioned himself where he should have been able to see the building. Between the wind and the rain, he’d had trouble keeping the horse steady and his hat on his head, and the pitch-black sky hadn’t helped. He could see a lamp burning in a window but couldn’t be certain he had the right building. Nevertheless, he’d felt comforted by the warm glow and sent a prayer to the heavens that his father would be safe.

  Having satisfied his mother’s wish, he could now turn his attention to Brigid. It had been more luck than judgment that Philip had found her when he did. Even after all this time, he couldn’t bear to think about the possibilities if she hadn’t literally walked out of the murk in front of him and collapsed almost at his feet.

  As soon as he saw her, he urged his horse forward creating a wash that ebbed and flowed against everything it collided with. Screaming her name, he’d leapt from the saddle and hauled her out of the water and into a sitting position, relieved she was still alive.

  “Brigid.” He wasn’t sure she knew who he was. “Brigid.”

  Her eyes had opened briefly, but there was no recognition in them. They closed again. How she’d got there, so far away from the markets, he had no idea.

  In the darkness, the floodwaters streamed past, but they had been relatively safe where they were. He had skirted the worst of it and they were now on the edge, not in the centre, where the warehouse was. Lifting Brigid in his arms like a rag doll, water streaming from her sodden clothes, he forced his way against the relentless wind towards his mount. Dear, faithful Meg. Capable of hauling wagons up and down the steep hills, she was his favourite of the big shire horses. The animal had whickered at his approach. He draped Brigid over the saddle until he regained his seat, then he pulled her upright until her head rested on his shoulder and he could wrap his arm around her to keep her from sliding off.

  “Home, Meg.”

  But it was not to be. Their way was blocked.

  The club had been his saviour that night. He’d found himself trapped in the flood zone east of the central business area with no way through to his home in the western hills. The distance may have been less than two miles in a straight line, but since the Breakfast Creek tributary to the north that fed the Brisbane River had burst its banks, the route was impassable. People had been trapped inside their homes by the speed of the rising floodwater, and bridges and houses were swept away in its path. The railway at Sandgate was submerged, and the force of the current had lifted the tracks. People clung to trees for their lives as police and firefighters valiantly attempted to rescue them. Their only means of transport and communication was by boat.

  Thankful for the sturdiness of the animal he rode, Philip carefully forged a route towards the club. Floodwaters surrounded the building, but since the ground floor was raised above ground level, it seemed a safe enough haven. He’d kicked Meg hard, urging her up the steps to the portico entrance.

  “Sir, sir. You can’t bring your horse up here.” The concierge of The Queensland Club burst through the doors.

  “Shut up, man, and help me.” Philip wasted no time in lowering Brigid into the arms of the uniformed man.

  “What am I supposed to do with the, um, the ... person?” The man looked askance at the muddy, semiconscious body of what looked like a street urchin and almost shuddered with revulsion.

  Philip dismounted and loosened the girth on the saddle and looped the stirrups to give Meg some comfort. “Take her inside, you idiot, before she dies from exposure.”

  “Women are not allowed in the club, sir.” The man radiated defiance and continued to stand where he was.

  “Go on. Get. I’ll decide what’s allowed and what’s not.”

  The muscles of the man’s jaw ballooned with the effort of controlling his temper. “If you would care to open the door, that would be most helpful. Sir.” His surly emphasis was not lost on Philip.

  He patted Meg. “Stay, girl.” Swinging the door wide, he shoved the concierge on the shoulder. “And arrange a blanket and some food for my horse,” Philip called after him.

  “This is The Queensland Club! Not some home for animals and waifs,” answered the affronted man. “And I am not a stable boy.”

  “I don’t care who you are, just do as you are told if you value your job.” Philip’s temper had reached boiling and he didn’t care what sort of scene he was creating, or what impression he was giving. “Now take her up to a suitable room. And see if any of the maids have a spare dress for her. Hurry up.”

  The man stood his ground until Blake, the maître d’, approached to see what the noise was about. “Excuse me, sir. Can I be of assistance?”

  “Yes. Tell your man here to take care of my guest – and my horse. Now.”

  He knew his father’s standing there would ensure his orders were followed. There would be hell to pay later, but for now his only concern was Brigid.

  With a nod from the maître d’, and instructions to a fellow porter on duty in the foyer, the man started to mount the stairs with his burden.

  The sound of Philip’s raised voice had roused Brigid. When she opened her eyes to find a strange man carrying her like a baby, she panicked. “Help. Help. Put me down. Where are you taking me? Help!” Pummelling her fists against his chest was the last straw for the porter.

  “With pleasure.” He promptly sat her on the stair, turned on his heel and left. The heels of his shoes clattered on the parquet floor as he disappeared in haste down the corridor.

  “It’s all right, Miss O’Brien. You’re safe,” Philip reassured the girl. “I’ve brought you to my club for shelter from the storm.”

  Alarm sprang into her eyes. “That’s kind of you, but I think I’ll be going now.” Brigid tried to stand but found her legs too weak. “Ah. No. Maybe I’ll sit a while longer.” She wrapped her arms around herself as her teeth started to chatter.

  The maître d’ and the porter were still watching the action as if frozen. “For goodness’ sake,” snapped Philip. “Get her a blanket. Can’t you see she needs help?”

  Stirred into action by Philip’s bad temper, the maître d’ ensured his orders were carried out.

  Settling the blanket around Brigid’s shoulder, he said. “You can’t go anywhere, any way. There is floodwater surrounding us. Don’t you remember?”

  She nodded. “Aye, I do. Thank you for saving me.” She reached for his hand and held it against her face.

  A maid appeared and led Brigid away. Philip had booked a room and ordered a bottle of whisky and some food. Soon after, the maître d’ returned with his order and information.

  “The young miss is sleeping, and I can assure you Mrs Holdaway, the house matron, is taking care of her. Her clothes are beyond repair apparently, so if you could arrange for something suitable to be delivered, it would be appreciated. You realise she can’t stay here once the flood has receded.”

  Philip acknowledged Blake’s comment. “I do. And I will arrange for her to be taken home as soon as it is passable. Is my horse all right?”

  Blake assured him Meg had also been cared for and wished him goodnight.

  Now here he was, a few months later, back at The Queensland Club, and in a state of anxiety akin to the worst he’d experienced that night in January. Only now the misery was his. His father had made him pay for his manners that night – with a written apology to the board of the club and a personal apology to Blake, along with a hefty bribe – before he was allowed to return.

  Yet, after swearing to extradite himself from his father’s authority, he was again accepting his father’s position for his own benefit.

  Philip punched the wall several times in despair, which brought Blake to his door, knocking tactfully. “Is everything all right, sir?”

  “What? Oh, yes. Thank you, Blake,” he replied through the closed door. “Bring me a bottle of whisky, there’s a good chap.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The whisky duly arrived, and Philip set about gettin
g drunk while he tried to pluck up courage to do what he knew he must – leave. Leave his home, the firm, everything, and strike out on his own. Or accept his father’s wishes and abandon his ambitions.

  * * *

  Sunday, 15th May 1887

  So much had happened in the last few months Brigid could hardly believe it – had she not lived it all.

  After the January flood, she had taken sick with a fever. For weeks, Mrs Browne and Mavis had cared for her, but she was left weakened and unable to help in the kitchen or around the house. Instead, she made lace.

  Lying in bed she often heard raised voices coming from below but couldn’t hear the words. Brigid knew Philip was arguing with his father, his mother torn between the two, and she blamed herself for all of it. Shame ate her soul. Father and son would not be arguing like they were, if not for her. She made sure she was nowhere to be seen when either of the men were at home.

  Once she had recovered, Mrs Browne had taken Brigid under her wing. She was now visiting halls and meeting houses, going to the Industrial Home and the Lady Musgrave Lodge, and attending the Girls’ Friendly Society – even if they were Anglican. She often went on her own, but sometimes she worked alongside Mrs Browne helping to rehome and retrain girls and young women, or showing newcomers around the town, and even providing comfort to those who needed it.

  Brigid’s job had been to teach them to sew, and those who showed some aptitude she taught to embroider and crochet as well. She had so little time to herself these days, she hadn’t been able to write to Sally or keep up with her diary for many months.

  She had written home once since arriving and received a short reply, not that long ago. But the news was sad. Granda Michael had taken sick with lung fever over the winter and had passed on. She was rare grieved to hear the news, and it hurt her even more that she couldn’t talk to Jamie about it. The one bright spot was that the rest of her family were well. The men were working again, even if they were still sharing whatever cottage and space they could find, and the blight had stayed away this year.

  “Brigid,” said Mrs Browne as they walked home at a brisk pace after another round of visits. “I am very pleased with your work of late. You have excelled yourself with the girls. The standard of work is very high, given how little time you’ve had.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Browne. I really enjoy stitching and needlework, and I’m glad I can show the others.”

  “You certainly have a way with them. They all adore you. Now, something else I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. I know you blame yourself for the events that took place in January – but don’t.”

  Surprised by the change of topic to something so personal, Brigid started to object. “But Mrs B ...”

  “Don’t interrupt, please, Brigid. You have to understand. Women too often take the blame for something that is not of their doing. Getting caught in the flood was bad luck and nearly a tragedy, and being found by Philip was good luck. Neither of those situations was under your control. Neither was suffering the fever, and neither is what is currently going on between my husband and son. They are behaving like wild creatures staking out their territory.”

  Brigid bit her lip and waited. She’d never heard Mrs Browne criticise her husband before. Working together as they had, Brigid’s admiration for the lady had grown daily. Her energy was remarkable, even if her manner was sometimes a little too bullish. She could goad people into bending to her will, which sometimes provoked a caustic comment in response, but she still got done whatever she wanted.

  Obviously displeased with something, Mrs Browne said no more until they arrived home. She removed her bonnet and gloves and set them on the hall table.

  “Put away the mercery, dear. Ask Mavis to bring me some tea in the drawing room and when you have completed your other chores, come and see me.”

  “Yes, Mrs Browne. But can you tell me, please, are the threads and things we use for sewing and lace and such what you call mercery?”

  “Yes, my dear. They are. Well done. You are a quick learner. And it’s important to know the proper names for such items. Now off you go.”

  Brigid was reminded what Maggie had once said about the need to learn to speak correctly and know the right words to say to get on in this world.

  An hour later, Brigid knocked discreetly on the drawing room door. “You wanted to see me, Mrs B?” She closed the door behind her and stood in front of her mistress.

  “Ah, Brigid. Yes. There is something important I need to talk to you about.” Beatrice perched on the edge of the wingback chair. She appeared nervous, smoothing her skirts and fiddling with the lace cloth on the side table. “Ah, it’s time ... that is, the time has nearly come for you to leave us.”

  “Leave?” Brigid’s stomach did a back flip.

  “Yes. Your six months’ tenure is nearly over. Next month, you are free to choose what you wish to do next.”

  Beatrice raised her head and watched Brigid as she took in the significance of what she’d been told. She could leave – just like that. Like she and Sally had talked about on the ship.

  “Do I have to?” whispered Brigid. Now the time had come, she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave.

  Mrs Browne ignored the question. “I have great admiration for your skills as a lacemaker, and I believe you would make an excellent dressmaker too. Philip has ideas to use your skills to his advantage in the store; Mr Browne has other ideas. I’m sure Philip will, one day, get around to telling you his plans. Don’t let yourself be caught between the two of them. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Mrs Browne.” Brigid was totally confused. She couldn’t imagine for one moment what use she could be to Mr Browne’s store, or Philip for that matter, other than as a maid.

  “You decide what you want from life. You’re a clever little thing. Use those skills to better yourself, and don’t let anyone dictate what that should be. Meanwhile, if you are happy to stay on, I am happy for you to remain – for now. Only one day, you must move on.”

  Brigid’s eyes watered. “Oh thank you, Mrs B. Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

  Beatrice stood and took Brigid’s hands in her own. “My dear, I have grown fond of you, and I will be sorry to lose you. But you have much to offer – far more than being a housemaid. I want you to take this time to search within yourself for what you’d like to achieve. When you’ve made up your mind, will you let me help you accomplish those dreams? If only to thwart those silly men of mine.”

  “Do you really think I could make something of myself as a needlewoman?”

  “Yes, I do. But you will have to get away from here to do it. You may go now. Think about it, and we’ll talk further.”

  Oh, Dear Lord, Brigid prayed as she took her leave of Mrs Browne. Whatever do You want from me?

  Since the night of the flood when she started talking to God, she’d found greater comfort in talking than in writing her diary. She also found it easier to talk when she was working around the house or out on errands. Not always out loud, of course – people might think she was a little lost in the head if she was seen talking to herself in the street – but in her mind, or sometimes a low mutter – like when she was out in the garden collecting vegetables, or when she was doing the dishes. But right now, she needed to talk out loud. She headed for the big trees at the back of the garden.

  “You’re testing me something sore, You are, God. I’ve never had to do this much t’inking or make so many decisions in my whole life.”

  Her thoughts had to be put into words; she was too confused and too agitated to make sense of anything otherwise.

  “If I make the wrong choice, will I be forever doomed to be what I don’t want to be? What if I choose to leave and I can’t get anyone else to believe in me? What happens to me then? Dear God. I know I’ve asked You for a sign before, and You sent me one. I know You did. You guided my feet so I’d be rescued from the flood. You also showed me how to be with people and to share the skills You gave me. But God, can I a
sk Ye to help me again? Show me the way. Send me a sign that tells me what you have destined for me.”

  “Who’s that you’re talking to, Miss Brigid?” Coming from behind her, Philip’s voice was light-hearted and teasing.

  Brigid jumped as she turned around, a small squeal escaping her lips. “Oh, dear Lord. It’s you.” Brigid put her hand to her mouth. She’d asked for guidance once before only to have Philip rescue her. Now here he was again, moments after she’d asked for another sign.

  “Tut-tut. I hardly think that’s the way to greet a friend. We are friends, are we not? Despite our current positions.”

  “I can’t say as we are, Master Philip. In truth, I think we could have been once, but things have changed, they have.” Brigid’s back was hard up against the tree trunk and she had no way of getting past Philip without pushing him aside.

  “You’ve been avoiding me. I know you have.” He moved closer to her, a tentative smile pulling at one cheek. “I’ve not seen you much since the flood.”

  “I’ve been busy, sir. With your mother, helping people and teaching sewing and that.”

  “So I heard.” He turned away from her then and stared through the branches of the tree into nothingness.

  Something about the tone of his voice stirred Brigid. He sounded depleted in some way, the tenor of which she recognised from home when the pratie crop had failed: the sound of broken dreams and tapped out lives.

  Concern got the better of her and she had to ask, “Are you keeping well?”

  He turned back to face her then with another attempt at a smile. “Oh, I’m well enough. Just at a bit of a loose end really.”

  “Surely not. There is so much cleaning up to do after the flood, and so many poor souls in need of encouragement. Mrs Browne is fair rushed off her feet. Mr Browne must sorely need you in the store.”

  “Oh, Brigid. You are a delight. And so innocent.”

  She didn’t quite understand what he meant. Innocent of what?