A Bittersweet Garden by Caren J Werlinger

Author:Caren J Werlinger [Werlinger, Caren J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780998217932
Publisher: Corgyn Publishing, LLC
Published: 2019-03-01T07:00:00+00:00

“Rowan, see to the baby, will you?”

Móirín glances over to where the baby is fussing as she lies on a soft pile of blankets.

“Oh, I’ll tend to her,” says Mrs. Smythe, the head housekeeper.

She picks the baby up and takes her to a chair in the corner of the room where Móirín has a table covered with pieces of cloth, cut and ready to be sewn together for a new coat for Mr. Campbell, the butler. On the table is a jar filled with the latest bunch of flowers Rowan picked. The flowers are lovely but, dear God, corralling that girl is harder than shoeing a green horse.

“What unusual eyes for a baby,” Mrs. Smythe says, as the baby stares up at her. “Enough to make you believe she was dropped on your stoop by those fairy-folk.”

Not daring to cross herself for fear of setting off a rant about Papists, Móirín nevertheless uses her thumb to make a tiny cross on her forehead, her lips, and her heart. “Having carried her myself for nine months, I can tell you she’s mine.”

Mrs. Smythe gives the baby a finger to suckle. “How many did you say this one makes?”

Móirín, wishing very hard Mrs. Smythe had somewhere else to be, says, “She’s our sixth.”

“Six! It’s positively indecent how you Irish breed. Civilized people would never do any such thing.”

Móirín notices the frown on Rowan’s face, and nudges her under the table. When Rowan glances in her direction, Móirín gives her a little shake of the head.

She bends back to her work, neat stitches creating smooth seams, as Mrs. Smythe laments her “exile”, as she calls it, to Ireland from the family’s other country house in Yorkshire.

“Of course, they needed someone to bring some order to Ashford, as the Irish peasants were robbing them hand over fist.”

Mrs. Smythe seems oblivious to the angry flush in Móirín’s cheeks or the way Rowan has turned her back as she works on the sleeve cuffs, sewing the way her mam taught her.

When at last the baby has drifted off to sleep, and Mrs. Smythe has left to see to some other things, Rowan looks up.

“Why does she say such things about us, Mam?”

Móirín tries to keep her tone even. “A lot of the English think the way Mrs. Smythe thinks. That we’re no more than an island of ignorant people, breeding like rabbits. They think the famine is our own fault. That’s why they won’t help.”

“But that’s wrong.”

Móirín’s voice cracks and she blinks tears back as she says, “Yes, mo chailín. It’s wrong. One day they’ll realize that.”

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